“Put your knife away,” he said to Hiske, then spun on his heel and went back to his office.
Four days later, as he departed on another voyage, he gave me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. “Be good for your cousin,” he ordered and, after bestowing his blessing, rested his hand against my hair a fraction longer, pulling a stray tendril with his fingers. As soon as I was aware of it, the gesture ceased and I wondered if I’d imagined it.
Cousin Hiske had been particularly vindictive after he left, so I knew I had not.
Reaching down to my hips, my hair was an unruly curtain. I pulled the comb through it, the drying sheet falling from my shoulders and onto the bed. For just a moment, cursed by the self-admiration Hiske perceived, I felt like a goddess, one of Adam’s dryads or a naiad. My breasts burst through my hair, the nipples taut from the cold air that turned my flesh into that of a goose. I ignored the drafts, staring at my pale legs and thighs, at the coiled, coarser hair at their juncture—a sinner’s body, Hiske had said, warning me to disguise it. “No good will ever come of possessing a body like that,” she’d say.
Putting down the comb, I wondered if she was right. Mother had the same physical shape, and look where that had led. Beautiful, the object of men’s desires, she’d made a good marriage and then destroyed it by succumbing to lust. Pleasure and happiness—my mother had, for the last years of her life, been denied both. Nothing could convince me that Father had enjoyed much of either, not for a long, long time. Had Mother ever loved Father? What about Lord Rainford? I couldn’t imagine anyone loving him—not even Mother. So what had driven her into his bed?
Was I to ever know love? Oh, I’d had fancies, Betrix and I had shared many a girlish daydream, and I knew some of the young men in town (and older ones) looked at me with more than passing interest, but that wasn’t love. Nor was it likely to lead to offers of wedlock. As Hiske and Master Makejoy said, not only was I more than old enough to enter a first marriage, I’d no prospects. Did that include being loved? While I understood that love and marriage didn’t necessarily follow, I harbored hope. Or was I to be denied that too?
With a long sigh at how melancholy my thoughts had become, I roused and dressed quickly, tying back my hair. I didn’t have time to feel sorry for myself. I’d work to do, people dependent upon me and the fulfillment of my plans. Forcing a smile to my lips, I went to the nursery to see how Louisa was faring, before finally, with the twins in tow, making my way downstairs for supper.
* * *
Three days later, with the brewhouse almost ready, Adam and I went to see the local miller, a jolly-faced fellow called Perkyn Miller. I’d known Master Perkyn for as long as I remembered. His wife had died of fever a few years earlier, leaving him to raise their daughter, Olive, on his own. Olive was a gentle, perpetually happy soul who, though she possessed the body of a grown woman, had a mind trapped forever in the nursery.
On our arrival, Olive, who was very tall and well-rounded, with pale blue eyes and honey-colored hair that was never combed or dressed, bolted out of the mill, three little spaniels cavorting at her heels. Flinging her arms around me, she planted a wet kiss on my cheek, before doing the same to Adam. The dogs leaped upon us, refusing to calm until they received attention.
“My Lady Anneke, Master Adam!” Olive’s sweet face was shining. “It’s been a long, long time since you’ve visited Olive.” She looped her arms through ours and dragged us forward. “Papa! Look who Olive found! My Lady Anneke and Master Adam.”
Accustomed to Olive and her ways, we smiled at Master Perkyn as he appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a towel. “Olive, I’ve told you, you need to be saying Mistress Sheldrake—”
“It’s all right, Master Perkyn, really,” I assured him. Ever since Olive’s mother had told her a story about a dragon and a princess with long auburn hair, Olive had decided I was the heroine in a fairy tale. I didn’t mind. Olive had nicknames for most of the townsfolk—some less generous than others. She referred to Cousin Hiske as “the chicken neck”; there was nothing we could do to deter her either.
Drawing us inside, Master Perkyn poured some small ale and invited us to sit.
Olive latched herself to my side, her head on my shoulder.
“I just want to say, Mistress Sheldrake, I’m very sorry for your loss,” began Master Perkyn, staring at me earnestly. “Your father was a man who . . . who wasn’t inclined to go the ways of others. He trod his own path.” He looked down at his drink, searching for more to say. Honesty prevailed and he gave me a small, sympathetic smile instead.
“Thank you,” I said.
“My mother died once,” said Olive sadly.
“I know,” I replied softly. “Mine too.”
“We heard what your cousin did,” said Master Perkyn. “Shameful, that was.”
My eyebrows rose.
Master Perkyn cleared his throat. “Excuse me liberties, Mistress Sheldrake, but the whole town knows. Not much escapes notice, as you can imagine and, with Mistress Jabben being a foreigner and marrying that Master Makejoy, well, it was the talk for many a day. As was you not calling the sheriff. There was a few wished you had and then some.” He took a gulp of his ale. “Let’s just say, I don’t think she should show her face around here for a while.”
Olive started making little clucking noises and bobbing her head. I had to repress a smile.
“It hadn’t occurred to me others would know . . .” I appealed to Adam. I didn’t really want to discuss it; Hiske’s actions still upset me.
Sitting up straight, Adam cleared his throat. “Look, Perkyn, the reason we’re here is that Mistress Sheldrake’s reopening the brewhouse at Holcroft House, only this time with the intention to make larger quantities of ale for sale in town. I’ve spoken to Master Bondfield, and he’s able to give us a regular supply of barley, but we also need someone to grind the grain once it’s malted and dried. Do you think you can help?”
I had to force my hands to remain still.
Perkyn Miller lowered his beaker to the crude table. “Do the monks out St. Jude’s know ’bout your plans?”
I shook my head. “Apart from a few people in town, no one does—” I saw the look on Master Perkyn’s face and remembered Hiske. “Oh . . . which is the same as saying everyone.”
Master Perkyn gave a sympathetic half-smile and nodded. “’Fraid so, Mistress Sheldrake. Even me. But I just wonder how the monks will feel ’bout it considering they’ve practically tied up the business in Elmham Lenn and, if rumors be true, Bishop’s Lynn, Cromer, and beyond. They’re not inclined to welcome competition.”
“Competition? As much as I would like to be, I’m hardly that. If they sell their ale so widely, why would they worry about a small business like mine?”
Master Perkyn exchanged a concerned look with Adam. “You don’t know much ’bout the abbot, do you?”
“Abbot Hubbard?” I took a sip of the ale. Master Perkyn made his own. Though it was a small ale, from a second press, it was still rich, foamy, and quite dark. “Not really. Just . . . rumors . . .”
“You don’t want to get on the wrong side of him, mistress,” said Master Perkyn.