‘She’s a strange wanton, lad, for sure. She lacks the natural modesty of a serving maid and there’s rebellion in her countenance.’ Holless sneered. ‘You’ll not want to know her further, my boy. She is trouble for certain – and there are other ways of knowing what she knows,’ he said, reaching for Denzil’s forearm and clutching it briefly. Denzil gave the slightest of shrugs which loosened the grip and a shadow passed over Holless’ sallow visage.
‘Mayhap. Not that it is for you to decide. Bring her to me anyway. We have encountered no other with her potential and you know the Taxane’s description. If she is the woman he described, she will provide us with information, and at the very least, she will be hostage to our demands. Besides, she has remarkably fine teeth,’ he said to the spurned serving man and Holless, his head inclined in obedience, turned and left the room, his face hidden.
Florence had taken matters in to her own hands and begun the process of reinventing herself in order to attract the attention of Denzil Moorcroft. She hoped that she and Nat could mend the rift but while he was gone, she would use the time to discover what she could. She certainly didn’t need his permission. Rather than spend her life regretting who she no longer was, she had taken stock of what she possessed. She had youth, strength and health and a very expensive education. All of these were in her favour, but it was the lessons she’d learned here, in the past few months, which shaped her new being, and the first was that these were dangerous times for a woman of no significance at all. Unlike the women native to this time, she knew what was to come; what women would become and she began to see herself as a pioneer. There was risk in the strategy. She would have to be very careful in how she presented herself. She must be virtuous and sincere. She really didn’t want Moorcroft to get the wrong idea having seen what happened to those girls who thought that it was the path to riches. It was ugly.
She had to know if Moorcroft knew anything about these watchers – about the trees - and if that meant some deception, it was worth it. She believed that she’d been led here for a reason. Nat’s notion of Oxford was a pipe dream and the chances of finding anyone who knew about the trees, slight. She thought about explaining her plan to Nat but was unsure that he’d understand – or approve. She thought that she was done with needing his approval. Anyway, he was gone for a while and she had the opportunity. Now was her chance to change their path. Florence would use every ounce of her intelligence to put herself in Denzil’s way.
It was difficult to intercept Denzil Moorcroft; he valued his privacy and she was largely confined to the kitchen. She’d heard rumours that he had a study in the cellars of the house, where he spent a considerable amount of time and she thought it a good thing that he was a man of letters - he may even need a trustworthy clerk. That was promising.
She was now allowed to set the morning fires in some of the main rooms of the house. When she walked up the stone stairs and entered the vast hallway, she almost cried with the familiarity of it. It was like walking into her dreams. The great hall, its ceiling and the windows were utterly unchanged to the home she’d known. The difference was in the amount of wood panelling that abounded in this time. If she’d ever wondered about the prevalence of wood as being at the centre of English building, this house dispelled those thoughts. They were darkened with age and smoke but they had a rich, well-polished patina to them that served as a back-drop to some of the hangings and pottery that were set against them, none of which she remembered.
If the panels were functional, then the ornaments shouted wealth. Blue and white pottery platters and vases with hordes of polished silver, adorned the deep surfaces of the tables and side-boards, with the brightest of silks draped at each window. Florence had been instructed to touch nothing but she couldn’t resist running her finger tips across the oak panels. Her hand tingled. Such forays up into the house, were rare opportunities to been seen by Master Moorcroft. She had no hopes of being spoken to but hoped that he might notice her.
Naturally, she was never allowed to set the fire in his bedroom which was Holless’ duty. So, she knelt at the hearth of the fire in the great hall, having tucked her skirts beneath her rear to show it to best effect. She reached sinuously across the grating to clear out the ashes and brush the residue away, before she set the kindling for the new fire. Never had serving girl worked so seductively she smiled to herself – but of course they had, she realised. It wasn’t something that she felt proud of but she would use whatever means she could until she could impress the man with her intelligence. She heard the irony even as she justified it. She knew, of course, that Denzil sat at the far end of the hall poring over some large map or document spread over a table and couldn’t tell if she was being watched but it felt like it and she was hopeful. She chose to exit the gallery by the nearest door to him, again curtseying as she left, not expecting any acknowledgment. Florence puffed out her cheeks with the effort of it all. Her survival at stake; anything was acceptable. Unbidden, the thought that Nat would have laughed at her, gave her comfort. He should return within the day and she needed to have made some progress by then.
It was the previous day, when she’d been attending to the fire in the library, when she’d seen the sheets of paper on the vast block of mahogany that was the Master’s desk and she took the risk of stealing two of them; these were valuable pieces. There was no pencil, of course and pen and ink were out of the question. She folded the paper and slipped it into her bodice where it crinkled for the rest of the day thinking about what to write?
Florence Bramley. Her thoughts.
I have found a haven in Montebray Hall. I thank the good Lord for his mercies in seeing me safe here but I do wonder if I shall ever see my own home again.
The Master of the hall is kindly, godly gentlemen and I am grateful for his care of this lowly maid.
I have found a simple joy of the roses in Master Moorcroft’s garden where I gather fallen petals to my bosom to savour their perfume for a little longer and to remind me of scents of home. May I know the joy of repaying the kindness of this house should I ever be restored to my own state.
She drew a small, inept sketch of a rose bud with her stick of charcoal, to illustrate her notation. Too much, she wondered? Now, where to leave it? She’d decided on Denzil’s small library – by the fire, of course. It was a multi-pronged attack. If the note wasn’t found, she’d need to attract his attention in other ways.
She had noticed that Moorcroft was fond of strolling around his rose garden in the early evening and so she became Cook’s devoted apprentice, collecting herbs which often disguised the slightly rancid flavour of the meat, from the adjacent plot, at coincidental times. Cook trusted her to collect what she needed and Florence would make her way to the garden if she saw a flash of Denzil’s fine silks amidst the roses. Looking at the quality of his clothes, she realised how squalid she looked. She doubted that she would catch his eye.
Prudence raised an eyebrow when she asked to borrow a needle and thread and after watching her for a few moments, trying to thread it, mouth open, gasped, ‘You have never sewn before!’
‘My mother died before . . .’
‘But an aunt, a sister?’ It was such an appalling gap in a girl’s domestic education.
‘Only my father and he never . . .’ Pru looked utterly disbelievingly at her but showed her how to thread the needle and create some basic stitches.
Florence notched it up as yet another skill acquired. It was quite relaxing, sitting by the small attic window until the light faded. Pru showed her how to darn worn patches and pull together fabric which had been torn. ‘How do you think that I might . . . shape the cloth a little, Pru? It feels like I am wearing a flour sack.’
Pru gave her a sly grin, ‘Shaping, is it? Perhaps showing a little more of the virtues of a maid for a certain fellow to appreciate? A wain named Nat maybe?’ she conspired.
Florence blushed. Yes, Nat – or Master Moorcroft? Pru showed her how to taper the bodice with darts and to d
raw in the waist. All of it meticulously hand-stitched – Pru’s work very distinctive from Florence’s. When they’d finished, Pru appraised her, declaring her much improved.
With Cook’s excellent food and sound sleep, Florence Brock had begun to restore herself. There were roses in her cheeks, her clothes showed the promise of her shape and were clean and mended.
She’d arranged to be in the herb garden, knowing that Denzil was just across the neat box hedge. With her eyes modestly down, she hummed softly, gracefully nipping the herb shoots into her upturned apron. Keeping him well within her peripheral vision, she made herself notice a few fallen rose petals on the top of the box hedge, picked them up with delight and held them to her nose inhaling, lifting her face with her eyes closed, transported in apparent delight. She held them there and started - appropriately - when Denzil, who had silently closed in, spoke to her.
‘They have the most exquisite perfume do they not?’ Florence opened her eyes as wide as she could and then lowered her lashes, wishing that she could blush to order and hoping that the small beetle that had entered her nostril wouldn’t make her sneeze. She didn’t speak but curtseyed low and waited as Denzil sauntered away. First rung on the ladder. Bloody beetle! She thought she’d swallowed it.
24
A Restoration
Holless’ sudden appearance in the kitchen, ruined its respite for everyone and sent a chill through
the air. With curled lips, he told her to wash her face and hands and brush down the excesses of feather and muck from her skirts, to be ready in one minute. The splatters of game blood were not easily hidden but Cook, casting a knowing glance at her, thrust a clean apron towards her.
Oh, she’d much rather it would have been another ‘chance’ encounter in the rose garden, she might have prettied herself up for that. Oh, well. Seize the day!
Holless set off at a long-legged pace and she had to manage the rough fabric skirts as best she could as she skittered behind him. The clogs didn’t help as she attempted to land lightly on the treads of the enormous oak staircase which turned twice before it reached the landing where the reception rooms were. There were no corridors, one room opened into another so that Florence emerged from the dark interior into the windowed room whose rich colours shone like jewels out of the darkness. She had come to understand how much she missed colour; it was the domain of the wealthy.
The sitting room itself was disconcertingly familiar with its panels and tapestries except that all of it was much fresher now without the wear and tear of hundreds of years. The scent of bees’ wax polish and sweet rushes on the floor, were heightened by the sunlight’s warmth magnified through the diamond windows. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the spot where sun beams illuminated two carver chairs and a small side table with a decanter of blood red wine. The sun was low and the windows were open to the warm night air of an early English summer and its fragrant garden scents.
Denzil Moorcroft stood by the window with his back to her. ‘I do not subscribe to the notion of the evil of night vapours, you see. Superstition, don’t you think, and summer’s lease hath . . . Well, let us say that the English summer is short but sweet and must needs be savoured. I like my windows flung open. Do you think I shall succumb, Florence?’ His mellifluous voice floated to her from near to the window. He was so still that she’d not seen him. ‘Join me.’
She gave a half glance behind her and saw that Holless had gone. Reminding herself that this was according to plan, she stepped towards the fine gentleman holding a glass of wine in his hand. As the sunbeams caught it, she saw one of those wonderful goblets with a triangular bowl and a twisted barley stem. Worth a small fortune then and now! The taste of decent wine! She daren’t let herself remember that. Already, she found herself salivating involuntarily. As if to tempt her, Denzil took a sip and after an audible swallow of that rich liquid, he spoke again.
‘Pardon my manners . . . Mistress . . .’ he coaxed gently. There was no one else that he could be referring to.
‘Florence, sir,’ she lifted her head, still nervously twisting her hands together.
‘Mistress Florence. Please?’ he gestured her forwards and within moments he’d moved from the window, filled her a glass and stepped close to her.
She sighed with the genuinely unaccustomed joy of being spoken to kindly, with respect. ‘Thank you,’ she muttered softly, reaching out for the polished glass. Its sweet liquid swirled in her mouth and she swallowed with delight. ‘Wonderful!’ She exclaimed before she could regret it.
‘Nay, not so full of wonder. It is nought but a simple Flanders vintage but my vintner tells me that it is an honest price and ‘tis well fermented. I think that he flatters it – and me!’ Denzil threw her an open smile full of questions but his voice was pleasantly conversational.
‘It’s lovely. It’s been ages . . . ’ Florence had the sense to hold her tongue and lower her face towards the glass which she was holding in both hands. She needed to stop herself babbling. What did he want? It was late in the day, he’d given her wine, she really hoped that it was not a bad omen. The careful plan suddenly seemed a little less clever.
His tone changed, ‘And now, Mistress Florence,’ he smiled. ‘I think that we must address the nub of the matter.’ He spoke in even tones as he placed his glass on a dresser near to the window and drew folded papers from beneath the platter which Florence recognised as her carefully mislaid notes. He saw her alarm at the sight of them but she’d let them slip to the floor in the right place it seemed.
‘I see from your blush that you recognise these.’
‘Sir, forgive me! I did take the leaves believing that you would not miss them but I see now that it was my foolish pride that tempted me to such an ungrateful act. I wanted only to record a few thoughts,’ she said quietly, looking suitably ashamed.
‘You have nothing to be forgiven for. It is I who should ask your pardon. These notes have alerted me to what should have been obvious from the moment you entered our home. I think, lady, you have led another life.’ Florence looked up startled, eyes wide. ‘I speak plainly to you, and do not mean to offend but I suggest that no simple serving wench ever learned to appreciate a fine wine or to blend spices such as graced my dinner tonight, from an English cook’s hand. Did I detect spices of the East with the rather tough mutton?’
She allowed herself to smile a little, ‘Aye, Sir. Curry leaf it is called. I had the acquaintance of a foreign gentlewoman who showed me its use, and last week a tinker called who carried the spice. Cook was very good in taking it from him and using it at my suggestion. She knows that you have a taste for exotic flavours.’ She hoped that she managed to sound authentic. Actually, she’d been very surprised how quickly Cook had taken to the spice.
‘I did not know its name but its flavour is well remembered from my travels. You must keep this secret. I think that it is unknown in many English houses yet and will be seen as another Popish quirk of mine if revealed.’ He winked conspiratorially at her. ‘The all-seeing Lord knows that the folk of these parts already wonder if I have fallen from the straight and somewhat constrained path of the Godly!’ He chuckled. ‘Hot spice is not good for the spirit, it seems, and hints at a pact with the devil.’ He was laughing with his words, joking with her. ‘Bland and tasteless food is more conducive to sanctity it seems! We must be careful … Florence, not to attract any undue attention.’
Florence thought that he was still talking about the curry powder and managed a small, knowing smile. Best to keep quiet for a moment or two. Let him lead this conversation.
‘I think you must forgive me for I am about to reveal your true nature,’ and he paused to purse his lips at her.
She blanched suddenly very afraid that more than she intended would be discovered. Nat seemed very far away.
‘I have taken the liberty of reading your delightful notes and they insinuate to me that you have been brought to humble straits by these tumultuous times of ours. No. Lady, allow me to
posit my theory.’
Florence hoped that she was exuding just the right amount of embarrassment and that she was disguising her terror. She really would have liked the colour to have drained from her but she was too healthy for that. It seemed that the ‘discovery’ of her notes had interested Denzil Moorcroft as she’d hoped. She’d been right about Holless taking every snippet of information to him. Phew! Still safe then. She had to be very careful indeed here. Options began to unfold themselves to her.
‘Sir . . .’ she faltered. ‘I was foolish to believe that a gentleman of your breeding could be deceived and I am indeed discovered and . . . shamed. These are strange times when brother is turned against brother and fathers against daughters. One cannot know the true inclinations of those whom one encounters,’ she whispered, beginning to swallow her words. ‘Yes, Sir, I have fallen victim to the evil of these times.’ She hoped that it sounded vague enough.
Denzil had taken her arm and seated her in the chair adjacent to his. He encouraged her to sip a little more of her wine in order to restore her but he didn’t speak, as though he expected her to elaborate. She didn’t. ‘Mistress, you must be reassured. You have found a friend in this house. I wish only to leaven your plight and restore you to your due dignity.’ There was a clattering in the next room - his chamber, which sounded like a fire being raked. Holless making his presence known.
The shadow of irritation passed across his face as the sound interrupted him. ‘Please,’ he gestured towards the door, ‘will you walk with me into the coolness of the garden where there are fewer ears for servants’ gossips? The dew is rising, I’m afraid and may dampen . . . Ah, forgive me,’ he saw her rough shod clogs and not delicate slippers. ‘We shall correct such an error. Please.’
Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 24