by Eric Flint
Henry turned the Wedgwood creamware china cup in his hand, looking intently at the green oak leaf pattern spiraled around the outside rim between thin borders of gold.
Jane kicked the door with her heel and it slammed into its frame, the small metal latch clicking a fraction of a second later.
"Mail order." She snatched the cup away.
1635, outside the church
"Mistress Llaammbbbbert, are you in thereeee?" a rough male voice shouted from the back of the crowd.
Lizzy fought her way out the double west door of the church, making sure to close it behind her. The crowd of women rushed forward, packed tighter than a queue of housewives waiting to get into the pit in a Southwark theatre to see the hero of the latest halfpenny play.
Lizzy scowled at the women, each with a supporting group of two of three friends huddled together.
"No, no—we're not ready for you yet."
An impatient lot, these unmarried spinsters from the surrounding parishes, waiting to add their token to the wheel before it was hoisted aloft. A disappointed groan rose from the crowd, and some bad-tempered mutterings mixed in to leaven the mix.
"Get out of the way! Let. Me. Through."
It was unclear to Lizzy if her childhood navigating around county fairs with her sisters or her later experience shopping in the streets of London were more useful. Whatever, some strategic use of sharp elbows and the toe of her left boot got her out of the ruck.
"Mistress Lambert?" the call repeated.
The twice-weekly parcel wagon from London was also waiting in the church yard. Collier and Collier, Dry Goods, London to Southampton, and a picture of a gaggle of geese with sacks on their backs was painted on the sides of the wagon.
A young male figure was just disappearing around the corner to the small porch on the south side, struggling with an armful of parcels. "Yes, Mister Collier?" Lizzy looked up at the bald pate of the older man digging through the contents in the back. He would be pulling together another batch of parcels for the village, and would have his apprentice drop them off onto the bench seats on each side of the south door porch.
"Mistress Lambert, I'm glad I've caught you—I've the supplies you wanted for the house."
"Good news, Mister C. We've new visitors to be fed. Just take them up to the house. The porter will see to the fees as usual." Lizzy looked around, "Charles?" Where is that boy? "Charles!"
"Aunt Elizabeth, Aunt Elizabeth! Ollie's been playing, there's another doggie around there."
"Well, that's nice, Charles." Not really listening, Lizzy smiled at the sight of the boy running and holding onto the collar and lead of the panting hound.
"Mistress Lambert, I wanted to ask if can you be so kind to let your friend, Mistress Christie, know her parcel has arrived from London?" The wagoner stroked his left earlobe.
Lizzy gathered Charlie to her left hand, looked at Mister Collier, and raised her eyebrows in thanks, and nodded slightly. "I'll let her know as soon as I can."
"Who's Mistress Christie, Aunt Elizabeth?"
"Just an old friend, Charles. Now hush and be quiet for a minute."
What a quandary! Normally she'd be at the house when Mr. Collier tipped her the wink, and would find an opportune moment to steal away to the church.
Lizzy smiled to herself. The resolution was right in front of them both.
"Charles? Would you and Ollie like a ride in the wagon?" Lizzy looked at the boy, teasing somewhat. "This might be your last chance. Tomorrow, when you're a lord, it might not be proper."
"Can I? Mr. Collier, can I?"
The wagoner smiled, enjoying the pleasure in the boy, knowing from experience that attitude would be trained out over the next few years.
"Put the hound in the back, m'lad, and I'll tie him safe. You come up the front with me."
"Are you sure?"
"We'll be fine, ma'am! It's only a quarter of a mile."
The apprentice appeared around the side of the church, a lanky lad in clothes far too large for his frame, walking lazily back to the wagon.
"Davey! Davey Falknor, if you're done lolling about? Get a move on—we're taking the boy up to the house. Get the hound in the back."
His apprentice with the long hair and bad complexion started fussing the dog and taking the lead.
"Any more?"
"Oh, don't you worry, m'lad. I'm sure Mistress Lambert here can drop the last two off on her way."
He handed the housekeeper the small packages over the side of the wagon, one wrapped in newsprint, the other a small cloth bag, both with labels attached. The child had already hopped up onto the front of the wagon, eager and waiting for it to leave, the pink dress now smeared with axle grease across the front.
Mr Collier smiled. Let the child have his last day of fun.
Now that she'd offloaded Charles safely for an hour or two, Lizzy tried not to run around to the south door. She found the decorum required from her assumed position was a royal pain in the rear end at times. The parcels for other villagers were spread on the oak benches, both with writing and pictures on the labels. A parcel for the Fletcher family showed an arrow. Something else that must be for Queenie Godden had a large bee on a brown tag.
Lizzy glanced around for a book-sized brown parcel, and its label, Mistress A. Christie, Basing, SH, England, like the others before. Diverting her subscription from the Mystery Book Club had been simple. Many received their books anonymously via something called The Clearing House somewhere in Hamburg, and an address change was a piece of cake to arrange.
For the subject matter of her subscription however, she was tiring slightly of reading of Miss Jane Marple's exploits in St. Mary Mead. The sheer number of murders in a sleepy English village was becoming a tad unbelievable, and it was a wonder that anyone of significance was left to write about that had not yet been bludgeoned, stabbed, drowned, or shot. Lizzy had become more intrigued, however. She had been trying to work out which village around Basingstoke the author might have used as the basis of her stories.
The next in the Marple series was supposed to be a little different. The advertised title 4:50 from Paddington didn't leave any clues as to the storyline.
There it is! At the far end of the left bench, nearest the church door.
As she reached for her parcel a growl started below.
Grrrrrr . . .
Lizzy withdrew her hand. She tried again.
GRRRrrrrrrrrRRrrRRR!
Lizzy drew back again. Carefully she knelt down.
One of those Welsh yard hounds. What is it doing here?
A small stocky body, small legs, triangular pointy ears, and a short bob tail. Normally farm dogs, in the West Counties near the Welsh borders, this breed was also used for theft protection and as children's nannies; set one in your bedroom whilst you're out, and a nasty reputation to savage a stranger who enters did the rest.
Lizzy rose again to her feet, and tried something new. Reaching behind her with her left hand in plain sight, she touched one of the parcels on the bench behind.
Nothing.
And with her right hand, again, the bench behind her in sight of the dog.
Again nothing.
She tried for her own package again.
GrRRrrrrRR.
God rot it—it's claimed the bench and my parcel. Oh, in Kat's Name . . . Lizzy edged carefully past the dog, into the church proper through the small south door. A sign on a stand right in front "Penitents," a Winchester pilgrimage seal, and a picture of a man on his knees praying pointed to the left. St. Michael's chapel was roped off from the rest of the church in turmoil.
"Excuse me? Anyone? Has someone left a hound outside?"
1811
"So how are you getting on?" Henry nodded at the pile of paper on the floor and the few sheets on the table covered in crossings-out.
Jane blew a long, long breath. "It might be the best thing I've ever written. But it's not finished, nowhere near. Do you want me to make some tea?"
&nb
sp; "Mother! Mother, can you make Jenny some more tea?" Henry bawled across the room and through the drawing room door. "And can I have some cider?"
"It's not even midday and you drink too much, Henry. What would Eliza say?"
"Jenny." Henry wriggled uncomfortably in the old sofa. "Sis, come here and sit down." he fished behind his back at the cushions. "Let me get to the . . . " He handed back the pen " . . . point. Egerton's agreed in principle to one hundred and fifty pounds."
Jane blew silently through her teeth, winded, collapsing slowly into her own chair. Money and no book, no book and no money . . .
"He's desperate. We've got him over a barrel. Jane, you're an overnight success and the mystery is feeding demand for another book from 'A Lady' soon, very soon. Our publisher wants a first draft by Easter."
The door opened sharply and Cassandra poked her head around the side. "Jane, mother wants to know where the tea pot has gone."
"In the buttery, Cassandra. I was going to use the old tea to start some more wine."
"And Henry, cloudy or mulled? If you want mulled, it will take ten or fifteen minutes to warm up."
"Cloudy, please, Cassie."
"And do you want your friend to come through yet?"
"What?" Jane was thrown by the change in topic.
"Do you want your London friend to come in yet, Henry? He's eating all my bread rolls."
"In a minute, Cassie. Leave him there for a bit. I'll call when I need him."
"Right." Cassandra peered at her brother. The skeptical look on her sister's face told Jane that Cassie didn't trust their brother much either.
Her older sister smiled, pointed a finger at them both. "I'll go and see if he's left any rolls for your tea. Now remember, you two, no throwing. You break it, you pay for it." The infamous plate-throwing argument in Bath. The rest of the family would never let them forget the early casualties to mother's first service of Wedgwood.
Cassie moved the Z-shaped three-part clotheshorse away from the fire, clothes and all, lifting by the center bar. Jane put the cup back on the saucer. "Cassie, where are you taking the night things? They're still wet . . . "
The door snicked shut again, accompanied by Cassandra's giggle and a fading, "Just clearing away."
Jane turned back to her brother, biting her lip, not giving Henry the satisfaction of asking who's the man in the kitchen. "Where were we?"
"Easter. Easter next. A complete manuscript would be nice—anytime between Lent and Ascension?"
Jane used the handle of her pen to tuck some more stray hairs back into the bun. "No—I just don't see it Henry. Not a chance in merry hell, and hell might need to freeze over first!"
"Hmmm. I thought so."
Henry was looking unusually pleased with himself.
"Pass over my bag, would you?"
Smug even.
Jane hadn't liked the changes she had seen during this summer while staying in London with Henry and Eliza, finishing off the final revisions of S&S for her editor. The new lifestyle as a successful banker, the large house in Sloane Street and the entertaining required to sustain his growing position in society, was turning her brother into an arrogant, self-important, profligate, overdressed dandy who thought he knew everything, and didn't stint telling everyone just so. "Poor baby! Lost the use of your own arms? I'm not your wife." Jane humped the heavy bag onto the floor between them. "Or your servant."
1635
Lizzy skipped around the heaps of offerings strewn over the floor of St. Michael's chapel, which ran half the length of the south isle of the church: coat buttons, torn company pendants, regimental flags, caps, helmets, jerkins, overcoats, pikes, mail gloves, swords, horse stirrups and the odd saddle.
She didn't bother calling for the curate who was supposed to be keeping the mess in some kind of order. There was all kinds of bad blood going on in the local diocese, and he'd been co-opted for other duties in the much larger St. Margaret's down the road in Basingstoke five days a week.
The English armies were slowly returning from fighting the Swedes, and other groups of English mercenaries were either coming back or heading out to Europe. With a steady stream of fighting men making penance, or seeking forgiveness or favors from Our Lord, a soldier's chapel did well as they made their way on foot to and from Winchester through the village.
Always a practical sort, Lizzy mused to herself, With what must be in the moneybox and selling this lot off, there might be enough here to fix the roof in the spring.
A single, kneeling figure was staring at the small altar, muttering and sobbing intently in prayer. The glint of a sheathed sword lying prone on the flagstones to one side, and the clothes—Lizzy somehow thought them new—on the tallish man; dark, unremarkable, warm . . . just right for a pilgrimage in mud season. She paused, not wishing to intrude further on anyone's communion with Our Lord or His Saints.
The afternoon sun streamed through the arched west windows, shining on the cross made from a sword. It was on the altar, imbedded in a wooden base, and adorned and decorated with splashes of silver and gold flames. The ancient black and gold statue of St. Michael that she remembered from her childhood with its stern expression and outstretched flaming sword was gone now. Lizzy thought the chapel somehow now more open, fuller of light.
The Puritans had had their way at last; altar statues were removed before they were smashed as Papish, and the brightly-painted church walls were now covered up by cheap lime wash. Our Lady of Basing had also been relocated, but only as far as the family chapel in the new house.
There was a fair amount of female noise from the rest of the church, screened off from the chapel by hazel and cloth screens. She could see the soldier was unmoved by the shouting and distractions.
Lizzy poked her head between two screens. "Queenie?" she whispered.
"Mistress Lambert, what are you doing in there?"
"The parcels are here. Queenie, does anyone here own a Welsh hound?"
Queenie stared at Lizzy, harrumphed, turned to the rest of the church with hand on hips and bawled, the harridan voice echoing around the church roof, "Girls! Girls—does anyone around here have two farthings to rub together to feed and keep a hound in their cottage?"
The church's rafters exploded in a cackle of wry female laughter that would have done proud in a London production of The Tragedy of Macbeth.
"Ask Alice Pink, she's the bitch around here," a cruel wag echoed down the nave.
Small, round, and powerful, Alice the Alewife, the mother of the house's new parlormaid, slapped the off-blond neighbor with the smart mouth, knocking the woman to the floor.
Silly question. Lizzy should have known better, and closed the screens leaving the village women to their brawl.
"He's mine," the soldier said, speaking gruffly and striding to the south door. Lizzy's eyes were blinded by the sunlight and could only see an outline of the tall man, sword in one hand, a pair of heavy boots in the other.
"Sir, I'm sorry for disturbing . . . "
The small door slammed shut.
" . . . your prayers."
Embarrassed, Lizzy stared at the closed oak door for a full minute. She could just hear her Grandmother Lambert's chiding tone and disapproval from years before, "Think, child, before you talk! Stop worrying about things you can't change, and dashing and sticking your nose into others you should leave well alone."
Time to pay the piper, Lizzy.
However she found the kneeling stool in front of the altar was already occupied; a small green man down on one knee holding some kind of musket ready to fire.
"This is Our Lady's house, you two take it outside." Queenie Godden was still trying to get the fight sorted, through the sounds of slaps, the screeches of hair pulling and oooff of body blows.
Lizzy picked up the figure, expecting it to be made from lead and surprised by how light it was. What's it made from?
Carefully placing the offering next to the cross, Lizzy went back to the stool to pray to the saint in t
he man's place.
St Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle,
"I'm gonna kill you Alice Pink!" came a shout over the screens
Defend us against the wickedness . . .
"Yeah—you and who's army, Lilly Underwood?"
. . . and snares of the Devil.
Lizzy smiled. For a change it was nice to hear someone else's problems, rather than being totally wrapped up in her own. She kept on with her prayer.
May God rebuke them . . .
****
A quarter hour later, Lizzy left the church with a small smile on her face, a package in hand with a book to be read by candlelight between first and second sleep for the rest of the week, and a decision made.
Later the same day
With the usual last minute disasters to overcome in the kitchens, Lizzy had missed the first two courses. The stelle, star-shaped pasta in mushroom and cheese sauce, would be along shortly as a small intermezzo to the meal, and she wanted to get settled.
The cooking was done in a series of smaller buildings at the far end of Centre Court, well away from the rest of the house in event of fire.
"Fifteen minutes. Tell Cook you have fifteen minutes left to next serving," she shouted at a page and two waiters running down the corridor in the opposite direction.
Striding vigorously along the picture gallery, rolling her sleeves down her arms, Lizzy waved her arms, puffing the sleeves up with air, and straightening the lace.
Dead woman's clothes—just you watch, Jane.
Unpinning and untying the kirtle over the silk dress, Lizzy threw the over-apron at a chair in the picture gallery, then fished from a pocket the mourning cross made of Whitby jet decorated with translucent moonstones.
Decided on her new course, she tied the yellow ribbon around her neck, finishing the ensemble that proclaimed her new status as a widow in her mourning year. At least that might give her twelve months of peace. Wouldn't stop the courting and attention, but she had ancient traditions not to give any answer behind her.
" . . . horoscopes," a deep Cheshire accent rolled around the dining room as the footman opened the door.
Lizzy entered just as the marquis laughed heartily.