With good humor that owed nothing to false bravado, Adam slapped his hands together. “Let’s be about it then,” he said.
Setting Will to clean the mash tun and the barrels, Adam left to organize their repair with Master Cooper, commission a chimney sweep and the other trades we’d need, as well as purchase supplies of coal and collect enough wood to get the brewery in working order again. Hauling pails of hot water from the kitchen, Iris and I set to cleaning out the kiln and stove. Outfitting the twins in leggings and shirts that had seen better days, Louisa led Betje and Karel to attack the cobwebs before sweeping and scrubbing both the brewery floor and the malthouse. It wasn’t long before Betje and Karel looked more like coal merchants than trader’s children.
Breaking before sext sounded, we sat on the garden walls outside and savored fresh-baked bread, wedges of cheese, and crisp apples, as well as some cold rabbit. We were joined by Jasper Cooper, who, after replacing the rotten wood on two barrels, much to my delight, gave a good report on the state of the mash tun. Adam passed around a jug of small ale and mazers and, from the grimaces on everyone’s faces as they drank, I knew the beverage had come from the friary.
“How the ale-conners let Abbot Hubbard sell this pig swill is beyond me,” said Master Jasper before he remembered the company he was in. “Forgive me, Mistress Sheldrake,” he said. “But it riles me that they pay the same tax as the folks in town and churn out what I wouldn’t give my dogs to drink.”
“You’re not the only one dissatisfied, Jasper,” said Adam, placing his mazer on the ground. “The good news is, as soon as Mistress Sheldrake has her brew ready, you won’t have to tolerate the abbot’s ale any longer.”
“I’ll look forward to that,” said Master Jasper, raising his beaker toward me. “There’s many of us will. It’s not much to ask, surely? All we want is food in our gullets, something decent to wet the throat, and a warm place to rest our weary heads at night.” With a wink, he drained his vessel, shaking his head and pursing his lips as he finished. “Proudfellow always said you and your ma, I mean, Mistress Cathaline, didn’t just make ale, you made magic. I’m looking forward to tasting me some of that.” With a loud belch and a quick apology, Master Jasper went as red as a beet.
We all laughed and my spirits, which had flagged a little as, despite our hours of work, very little impression was made on the brewhouse, were lifted. I liked the idea that, together, Mother and I “made magic.” The good Lord knew, I needed some of that now.
Laboring throughout the afternoon we stopped only when the light was so dim, shadows engulfed the interior. By then, not only had Master Jasper ensured the mash tun was ready for use, the copper had been brushed out, scrubbed, and was shining. Will, the twins, and Louisa had thoroughly swept the drying floor in the malthouse, and the barrels, which had been rolled out into the yard, were cleaned, checked for leaks, the new wood sealed then brought back inside and stood next to the troughs. Instead of looking like remnants of a forgotten past, they were poised to be filled.
My fingers kneaded the small of my back as I examined the fruits of our work. I was more than pleased. It was with great cheer tempered only by the exhaustion of a good day’s work that we retreated to the kitchen. The smells drifting through the open door had been tantalizing us all afternoon. Blanche not only ensured there was warm water in which we could wash, but she’d excelled herself by roasting a capon, fish, and potatoes, and she’d bought some almond-paste sweetmeats from the market as a treat. She’d also baked apples infused with cloves and some cinnamon, steeping them in almond milk. My mouth watered and my stomach clenched in hunger. From the wide eyes and moist lips of the others, I knew I wasn’t the only one. Shooing us away with orders to tidy ourselves, Blanche finished preparing our feast.
Louisa took control of the twins while I ascended to the bedroom to use the waiting water. Crossing through the hall, I noted that while it was no longer decorated with tapestries and scattered with benches, the chair from my father’s study had been placed by the blazing hearth and a tattered cushion I couldn’t recall left on the seat. In place of the usual stools, Blanche and Saskia had lugged in some tree stumps. Topped with patched pillows, they gave the hall a rather jovial, informal air and I was deeply touched by their efforts. Upstairs, apart from the rug and a couple of wall hangings, the solar was bare. Only a few objects remained. I resolved then and there to take these downstairs to adorn the hall. The solar would remain unused for the time being.
Pulling off my tunic and kirtle and throwing them to one side, I stood before the crackling fire and removed my underclothes, dipped the washing cloth in the hot water, rubbed the soap into it, and scrubbed myself from head to foot. The water turned dark quickly.
Wrapped in a drying sheet, I sank onto the bed and began to undo my hair, disentangling the plaits and letting it flow over my shoulders. I reached for a comb and teased it through the thick strands. Lord Rainford had commented on my hair, how different it was to my mother’s. Many people did. Whereas Tobias, I’d always believed, inherited Father’s dark curls and the twins Mother’s flaxen hair, I was the paintbox in which the colors had been mixed—at least, that’s what Mother always told me. When I’d been tormented by other children for my autumnal hair, even cursed as unlucky, Mother would tell me that only special children were graced with such a color. That Blessed Mary too had possessed fiery hair, akin to dragon’s breath, and she’d been beloved by Jesus. I’d always thought she meant the Virgin Mary—until Hiske set me straight.
Not long after Cousin Hiske arrived, she’d taken offense at my tresses, what she claimed was my vanity, and threatened to cut them. Distressed that she would consider such a thing and give the other children yet another reason to mock me, I’d pleaded with her, saying that she couldn’t cut hair that was like the Virgin’s.
“Like the Virgin’s?” she’d scorned. “Who told you such nonsense?”
“Why . . . Moeder told me.” My bottom lip started to tremble. I’d not yet learned to hide from Hiske the power her words had to hurt me.
Hiske had thrown back her head, opened her lipless mouth, and laughed. Cowering, my hair gripped in one hand, I’d waited for her to finish.
“The Virgin? You stupid child! The Virgin’s hair is as untainted as yours is stained by sin. Hers is golden, like the twins’, like your silly mother’s. Nee, Cathaline meant the whore Mary. The one who was to be stoned.” Hiske dried her eyes and then appraised me. She pulled her eating knife from the folds of her tunic and came toward me. “Your hair is nothing but a reminder of women’s wanton ways. It needs to come off. It’s shameful.”
I cried out, and the sound drew my father from his study and up the stairs. Thank the Lord, it was one of the few times he’d been home. By then, the servants had gathered too. Hiske explained her intention, confident she would have Father’s support. I began to weep. God forgive my conceitedness, I imagined strands of hair falling around my ankles and the mortification of facing the townsfolk.
Father folded his arms across his chest and regarded me. As the seconds passed in silence, I raised my tear-stained face. His expression was one I’d not seen before. Even trying to recall it now, it was inscrutable. Not quite distaste, not quite sorrow.