by Ann Turnbull
“Your friends will help you. And if we set off early tomorrow we should arrive in good time.”
“Where are we now?”
“Just north of Oxford.” He rummaged for his book of maps, and found the page. “It’s not marked, but about here, I think.”
She smiled. “You get much pleasure as well as instruction from that book.”
“I do.”
“I too had a book I loved: a book of herbs and remedies that my father wrote over the years. It was the only thing of his I owned.”
“And you lost it?”
“Yes. After the battle. It was in my pack, on the wagon. I lost my best gown too – a fine blue wool that Mistress Christian gave me.”
“I remember it,” he said.
“But – how?”
“You were wearing it when I led my men to Weston Hall.”
She looked at him in surprise. She’d had no idea he had taken so much note of her that day, but the realization pleased her.
“No doubt you thought me a bold, uncivil girl,” she said, “despite my fine gown.”
He regarded her gravely. “I thought you bold, yes – valiant – in defence of your lady. I admired you.”
“Admired me?”
She wanted him to say more, but they were interrupted by the girl shouting from below that Alice could fetch Elen now. She left him and went down, then carefully carried the almost-sleeping baby back up the ladder to the loft.
Jeremiah had made himself a bed in the straw and was already lying down. He had left his blanket for Alice. She was so tired that she slept in her clothes, not even bothering to remove her stays. And Elen, despite Alice’s disapproval of the slatternly girl, slept until the early hours of the morning, when she woke Alice with a resounding wail.
In the grey light before dawn Alice took the child down again. The girl lay snoring – like a sow, Alice thought crossly – and had to be prodded and pushed into wakefulness. She stayed and watched the girl in case she fell asleep and left Elen hungry. Back in the loft, she removed the baby’s wrappings. Elen was dirty and sore, and the woman had not left them any water for washing. Alice took a linen cloth and used some of the beer from her leather flask to clean the baby. By the time she began swaddling her again Elen was thoroughly awake and crying. Alice rocked her in her arms, her own head drooping with tiredness, and longed for some relief from the burden she had taken on.
At last she put the child down, asleep. By now it was light, and birds were rustling and twittering in the thatch. She crawled under her blanket, and looked across at Jeremiah, who had not stirred throughout. He lay facing her, breathing steadily, his face defenceless in sleep. They were so close that their breath mingled.
I want to kiss him, she thought. I’d like to wake him with a kiss.
But she lay still. And soon he opened his eyes and looked into hers, and she saw the realization of where he was come back to him.
“Alice,” he said, and smiled.
“I was watching you sleep.”
Could he see from her face what she had been thinking? Did he have the same wish? For a moment she thought he did – but then he drew away and sat up, saying, “How is the child? Has that surly wench’s milk turned her into a monster?”
“Don’t tease me!”
“Why not? I always tease my sisters.”
“I’m not your sister.”
“No,” he said. “You are not.”
He rose quickly, and began gathering up his possessions. “No water for washing.” He looked around, disgruntled.
“I washed Elen’s bottom with beer.”
He started to laugh. “You did what?”
“Well, there was nothing else to hand! It was only small beer…”
That made him laugh more. “A waste of good beer!” he said, and ducked his head under the low ceiling and went downstairs to ask for water. When it came, he told her, “You wash first. I’ll use your water.” He grinned and jerked his head towards Elen. “She goes last!”
Alice giggled. “I won’t be changing her again. Not till we get to Weston Hall.”
At the thought of Weston Hall her light-hearted mood left her. She’d wanted to go back there; it had seemed almost like home to her. But now it meant parting from Jem. He had deliberately turned his back and was reading his Bible. She washed briefly, splashing her face, then untied the neck ribbon of her shift to reach a bit further. Anything more could wait till their journey was over.
They were out early, Elen asleep in the sling, rocked by the now familiar movement. It was a clear day, and these were roads Jeremiah knew. In the afternoon they found themselves on the road from Oxford to Faringdon, and then Alice saw the inn – the King’s Arms at Copsey – and the turning that led through the woods to Weston Hall.
She felt a sudden misgiving. Would they have her back? As before, she was arriving uninvited, in need of help. And what would they think of her bringing with her the man who had caused them so much pain in the spring?
The woods were in full leaf now, the violets gone, and in their place the verges were thick with elderflower and wild roses. In the distance she glimpsed the warm golden stone of the house. A peaceful scene – but as they approached she heard the unmistakable sound of a musket being cocked.
Oh God! she thought. The house is taken! And fear washed through her.
Jeremiah dismounted and raised his hands as a man stepped out of the tree cover with his weapon at the ready. Another appeared behind him.
“I come as a friend – alone,” said Jeremiah.
The musket shook in the defender’s hands. Alice saw then that he was Tobias Fairthorne, and the other was Tom Pether.
“Tobias! It’s me, Alice!” she cried, and at the same moment, Tom recognized her and called out her name.
They both lowered their weapons, though they watched Jeremiah nervously.
“I am here only as escort,” he said, and with their permission he reached up and lifted Alice down. “Tell your mistress I have brought Alice Newcombe back.”
Elen absorbed all the attention at first. Anne Florey was sent running to the home farm to fetch a woman they knew of who would be able to feed her. Mistress Florey brought a soft woollen shawl and prepared a makeshift cradle. Bess asked, “May I hold her?” And Alice was only too willing to surrender Elen for a while to the care of others.
Christian came in from the dairy, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked more like a maidservant than a lady. At sight of her Alice was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. “Oh, Mistress Christian!” she exclaimed. “I’m so glad to see you!”
And Christian, looking equally shaken, seized Alice’s hands. “We heard such news of the king’s defeat at Naseby, and the women killed! And I feared—” She stopped and stared at Jeremiah, and Alice wondered whether she recognized him.
“Sergeant Banks brought me here,” she said, “with my friend’s child. I had nowhere else to go. I’d like – oh, I hope! – to come back and work for you, if Lady Weston agrees. Will you have me, Mistress Christian? I need to find work, to pay for the care of Nia’s baby.”
“Your friend is dead?”
“Yes. Killed in the field by the Parliament troops.”
“Oh, Alice, I’m sorry. It was a wicked deed. We read about it in the newsbooks.” She turned to Jeremiah. “Nevertheless I must thank you, Sergeant Banks, for bringing Alice back to us. Mistress Florey, give the travellers some food; and Tom, see that the sergeant’s horse is fed and groomed. I’ll go and tell Lady Weston.”
Alice and Jeremiah were given bread, cheese, cold venison and beer, and they sat at the kitchen table eating while everyone else ran around after the baby and marvelled at her survival. Jeremiah was hungry, and at first he concentrated on the food. Afterwards it seemed to Alice that he could not make up his mind what to say or do. He would look at her, and then away, then back at her again. And Alice, who did not want to part from him, could think of nothing to say either. She could see that the servants
were wary of him – this Parliamentarian dragoon, an enemy, in their midst – and she saw them casting glances at the two of them and knew everyone was wondering what their relationship might be. Embarrassed by their scrutiny, she gazed around the kitchen and saw signs of damage she had not noticed at first: initials gouged into the big work table, a broken chair, the rim of the bread crock chipped and a great crack running down its length.
She was relieved when Christian returned, looking pleased.
“Lady Weston will speak to you later, Alice. She is much reduced in spirits these days. The war has dealt her cruel blows. But she bade me tell you that you are welcome to stay if you will turn your hand to whatever work is needed.”
“I will, indeed,” Alice promised.
The woman from the farm arrived soon after to feed the baby; and at the same moment, Jeremiah rose and thanked Mistress Florey for the food and said he must be on his way.
“I’ll go and see to my horse,” he said.
Alice jumped up. It was so sudden, this parting! She was not ready for it. She stammered, “Oh! I must thank you, sir … my gratitude for all your help…” Her words sounded to her ridiculously formal. They could not express what she felt.
But Jeremiah replied equally formally that he was glad all had turned out well. He left for the stables; and Alice was obliged to greet the woman, who was a dairymaid at the farm and had lost a child, and who settled down at once to feed Elen. Alice talked to the dairymaid for a while, but her mind was all on Jeremiah. Would he wait for her? How long would it take him to saddle up?
As soon as she could, she excused herself and left. She ran to the stables, desperate with anxiety that he might be gone already. But he was still there, talking to old Tobias, who withdrew at sight of her.
She saw Jeremiah’s face light up, and felt her heart leap in response. So he did want to see her; she had not been too bold in running after him.
But she stopped short. “Jem! I…” She could not say what she felt.
And he said nothing, but stepped forward and took her in his arms and kissed her. She kissed him back, and felt his arms grip tighter and hold her hard against him. They clung together. His stubbly beard scratched her face, and a buckle on some strap he wore pressed painfully against her chest, but she didn’t care. She would not let go, because she knew that when she did he would ride away from this place and she might never see him again.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come out,” he said at last. “I couldn’t talk to you in there, with all those people. You’ll be safe here, won’t you? It’s what you wanted?”
“I’ll be safe. But you? Will you go to Taunton now?”
He nodded. “I’ll head that way, and see what news I can find.”
“Oh, Jem, take care!” The thought of him travelling alone filled her with dread. She remembered the deserters they had met on the road. The war was everywhere: any hedge might hide an ambush; any village might hold angry inhabitants looking for a scapegoat. A lone soldier was always at risk.
“Don’t fear,” he said. “I’ll write to you when I can. And I’ll come back, I promise, if … if I may?”
“Of course you may!” she said. She saw the relief in his eyes.
“You know my regiment and company, don’t you? And you know my mother lives in Hertford, in Fore Street. Send word to me if you should move away from here, if anything should happen. Alice” – his voice cracked – “don’t let me lose you.”
She nodded, unable to speak.
They hugged each other hard, and kissed again; and then he mounted his horse, and she stood and watched him ride down the road until he was gone from her sight.
Twenty-five
“Has this child been baptized?” asked Lady Weston.
And when Alice said no, Elen had not, she insisted that it be done that very week.
Alice wondered what Nia’s wish would have been. Many people were against infant baptism. She was certain that little Prudence Barford had not been baptized, and that Jem’s family would be against the practice. But Elen was hers now, if anyone’s, and she had no objection; indeed, she liked the idea of bringing the child into the family of God in the Weston family chapel.
Of more immediate concern, however, was the need to find a wet nurse. The dairymaid at the farm, who had no living child of her own, was not willing. Christian made enquiries in the village and found a more suitable woman, Jane Edginton, the wife of a baker, respected and liked in the community. She had several children and could take Elen to live with her until she was weaned, in about a year.
A year. It seemed such a long time ahead, and the care of this child such a big task to have taken on. Lady Weston made it clear to Alice that she thought it unnecessary.
“The baby is the child of peasants,” she said. “She cannot aspire to anything more than servitude. When she is weaned you should take her to an orphanage. There is one of good repute in Oxford. She will be well cared for and put out to work as a maidservant at twelve or thirteen, when she is old enough to earn her own living.”
Mistress Florey agreed. “Don’t shackle yourself with a child, wench. Folk will say she’s yours. You’re young, and without her you might pass for a maiden.”
But Alice knew she would never let Elen go to an orphanage. And Jem – the only man whose opinion she cared about – already knew she was not a maiden.
Because the child had been brought to her house, Lady Weston felt a responsibility for her soul, and she took charge of the baptism. The ceremony was held in the family chapel, now cleared of rubble and roughly repaired. The broken windows were still boarded up, but the altar was back behind its rail, and candlelight softened the damage to the walls.
Alice, as the baby’s adoptive mother, carried her in. She was proud of Elen’s appearance, having used some lace that Christian had given her to embellish one of the plain baby gowns she had made at Sibbertoft. Elen waved her tiny limbs and darted bright glances around, until the priest sprinkled cold holy water on her and made her scream. Her godfather was Richard Edginton, her godmothers Jane Edginton and Bess, whose name was Elizabeth Akers. The child was entered in the register simply as Elen, adopted daughter of Alice Newcombe.
Alice visited Elen at least twice a week at the Edgintons’ house in the village. Christian had chosen well. Jane Edginton was calm and capable, and Alice knew that her temperament would pass to Elen. The Edgintons were kindly people, and their own three children – John, Kate and the baby, Mary – were well cared for. Jane helped her husband in the shop, and the smells of baking bread, of cinnamon and honey, surrounded Elen at all times; as did a fine powdering of flour, which could be seen on her clothes and hair. Alice thought it was the flour dust that made Elen’s hair appear lighter, but Jane said no: the very dark newborn hair had rubbed off and been replaced by a fuzz of chestnut brown. Nia’s colour, Alice remembered.
The baby was Alice’s, and no one forgot it. Whenever she called, Jane would say, “Here’s your mam come to see you!” and give the child to Alice to hold. But Alice was now free of the day-to-day care of Elen, and that was a huge relief. She was able to work and not be constantly concerned about the baby. She soon found there was much to be done. The kitchen maid Joan had left, and Lady Weston had not replaced her. Tom was to go as gamekeeper’s boy to a neighbouring estate; and Mistress Denham had also gone, and Christian had taken over her duties as housekeeper. It was clear that all was not well at Weston Hall. Christian told Alice that the house had been pillaged twice since Alice had left in May: once by Fairfax’s men and earlier by their own side, men from the king’s army, who took all the remaining horses except Amor, ate all the stock of meat and cheese, and sat in the kitchen drinking great quantities of wine and beer, quarrelling among themselves, and taking pot-shots at the pans and ladles on the walls. They had also invaded the home farm and tied up the farmer and threatened him with hanging till he revealed where he had hidden his savings. His wife had been so terrified that she lost her wits, and it
was feared she might never be entirely well again.
But this was not all the trouble that had come upon the family. Lady Weston’s daughter Grace Bramford was there, with her three children, and Alice was shocked when she saw her. Lady Grace had lost weight; she was pale and there were shadows under her eyes. Even the little boys seemed subdued.
Alice soon heard the story. Bramford Hall, where Grace lived with her husband and children, had been garrisoned for the king, and came under siege by Parliament. Those defending the house were greatly outnumbered by the rebels, and when the enemy asked for the house to be given up to Parliament, Colonel Bramford surrendered. There was no dishonour, Christian insisted to Alice, in surrendering under such circumstances – but the colonel’s superior officers thought otherwise. They believed that he had been influenced by fear for his wife and young family, and so had given up the house too readily when he might have fought on. He was brought to trial, sentenced to death for cowardice, and shot.
“Lady Grace is overcome with grief,” said Christian. “I fear for her if she will not rally. She says her life is ruined: she is homeless, her husband lost to her, and her sons will always have the shame of their father’s execution staining their honour. It has brought down her mother’s spirits, as you might imagine.” She shook her head. “Lady Weston has many troubles. She is not long returned from London, visiting her husband in prison. She found him in poor health and ill-attended. Now she is writing letters to the authorities and to Parliamentarian gentlemen, former friends of the family, in hope of getting him released.”
Alice felt all the more grateful that Lady Weston had been willing to take her in at such a time. But Christian said Lady Weston would always keep a promise, and she had promised Alice a place here if she needed it. Christian had also convinced Lady Weston that Alice would be useful, with Joan and the former housekeeper gone.
“But we won’t be making sweet waters for banquets,” she said. “Our work will be in running the house and preparing remedies.” She sighed. “Lord knows, the news is bad enough!”