Adam glanced at the figures. The frown that drew his brows together disappeared and his eyes sparkled. “Let’s just say, Mistress Anneke, the Lord’s blessed us with a fine Christmas.”
I threw my arms around him and planted a kiss on his cheek. “We’re in profit?”
“That we are.” He laughed. “Just. Sales are slowly rising, but we’re still a way off meeting costs once wages are paid and we subtract any lease monies. The good news is, we’ve almost doubled what we were making from last month. That’s what Makejoy noted.” Closing the book, a finger rested on the cover. He sighed. “It’s a good result. Mayhap you might rethink the alehouse?”
Folding my arms under my breasts, I frowned. “Adam, we’ve discussed this. I’m going ahead. After all, it’s not like I have a reputation to protect—just ask Cousin Hiske.”
Adam took my chin in his hand and peered at me earnestly. “Anytime Makejoy appears, his wife’s words trail after him, don’t they?”
I lowered my gaze. “I’m most cross with myself that I allow them to bother me still . . .”
“Don’t let that harridan disturb you so, Mistress Anneke,” said Adam, aware of my thoughts. “Your mother and, may God assoil him, your father, would be proud of you, alehouse or naught. You’ve made something from nothing and achieved what many of us, including me, thought you could not.”
“What’s that, Adam?”
“Kept us together, and for that, Mistress Anneke, I’ll be forever grateful.” His hand fell away. “Only . . .” He looked aside, releasing me at the same time.
“What?” I asked softly.
“Be careful, Mistress Anneke.” He bit his lower lip. “We’re so worried about the friary, we forget those much closer can cause a different sort of harm. There are people in town prepared to believe the worst, ready to accept lies even when the truth is standing before them.”
I knew what was being said about me throughout Elmham Lenn. My intention to open an alehouse had reached the farthest parts of town, attracting the kind of talk I’d been warned to expect. Anticipating it was not the same as experiencing it, and I found the cruel assumptions of those who’d once regarded me very differently hurt deeply. Whispers followed me at the market like an unwelcome shadow. The servants heard a great deal as well, friendly warnings, jibes, and unkind observations from hawkers and other servants as well, and while they were at pains never to repeat anything lest it cause me injury, I would hear them discussing it.
That Hiske was behind a great deal of the rumormongering was certain. The woman took pride in drawing attention to my shortcomings and let all who came into her sphere know about them.
“Aye, well . . .” I stroked the ledger’s cover, my fingertip resting on the calfskin. “I don’t know what to do about it, Adam. Worse, I don’t think there’s anything I can do. There are always going to be detractors, especially when we’re talking about ale and alehouses. On top of everything, I’m an unmarried woman who has chosen not to seek a union, or take up the position of companion”—I grunted—“with my cousin, but to tie herself to a business that’s perceived as less than worthy—more so, because I’m female.” Adam opened his mouth to argue, but I lay a hand on top of his. “It’s all right. You warned me of this and you were right. My choices mean I’ll always attract this sort of gossip. I have to learn to live with it.” I applied pressure to his hand. “You know what makes it easier to bear? You. You, the twins, Saskia, Blanche, and everyone else.” The sweep of my arm encompassed the entire house. “You know the truth. You know me. And that’s all that matters.”
It has to be.
Adam’s eyes looked glassy in the firelight. “That we do. And I thank the Lord for it. Every day.”
Ignoring the tear that trickled down Adam’s cheek, I blinked back my own. I was blessed. Despite what Hiske said, what the townsfolk wanted to think, I knew differently. In my heart, in my soul—and God did too. Surely, that’s all that counted? Westel believed that; I must as well, despite Brother Osbert’s threats. Let Him be my judge, not some wretched idle women or greedy monks.
“Come then”—I gave Adam’s hand a final squeeze—“let’s go and tell Saskia and Blanche the good news.”
“About the profits?” Adam was most perplexed I’d discuss these openly.
“About Tobias. Let them know there’ll be an extra mouth to feed.”
Dragging him forward, I doused the cresset lamp and extinguished the candles on the way out. “Come along, I can’t dally, I’ve beer to make.”
“Two mouths,” he added as we entered the hall.
“What?” Using the doorframe as a pivot, I spun around. “What did you say?”
“You can’t forget Sir Leander,” said Adam.
I held his gaze a moment longer, before walking slowly down the passage to the kitchen, the spring gone from my step.
Adam was right. As much as I might try. Damn him, I could not.
Twenty-Three
Holcroft House
Christmas Day
The year of Our Lord 1405 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV
The day that followed was one of great joy and perplexity. After attending mass at St. Bartholomew’s and making sure the tenant farmers received their allotted fish, meat, and vegetables for their table, we spent the rest of the morning preparing for our Christmastide feast, one which we would all, including Father Clement and Captain Stoyan, share. For years, Father Clement had joined our family in celebrating Christ’s birth and I didn’t want this year to be any different.
At midday, we left Blanche in the kitchen and walked into town to St. Stephen’s to hear Abbot Hubbard give the mass. The church was so full many had to stand in the snow outside. Westel and Will ran ahead and reserved us places, so we were able to squeeze our way through the crowd and between the columns toward the area allocated to wealthier townsfolk. Curt nods and frowns greeted our arrival, followed by murmurs of disapproval and some louder-than-necessary sniffs. My cheeks grew hot and Betje’s grip on my hand tightened. Not far ahead of us, I saw Betrix with her parents. The mayor stood with a gentleman I recognized as Master Underwood, Lord Rainford’s seneschal. Lord Rainford was spending Christmas with the king at Westminster.
As the abbot ascended the pulpit, the crowd grew quiet. The chandeliers smoked, as did the censors swinging from the rafters, dusting us all with their opaque scent, though it was not enough to completely mask the other odors so many people huddled together produced. Above me, the stone pillars disappeared into the vaulted ceiling, and I imagined colonies of cherubs sitting in the corners, chuckling at the humans compressed so tightly together to worship their Father on this bitterly cold day. Muffled coughs and a wave of movement that pushed me forward brought my thoughts back to earth. Behind me someone sneezed. A child giggled and was quickly hushed. In front of the parishioners, the altar glowed in the flickering lights of candles and cresset lamps: golden goblets, crosses, the bejeweled container carrying the host, and the huge open Bible sat upon the white linen. The deacons and other brothers from St. Jude’s and surrounding parishes took up their positions. Among them were Brothers Osbert and Marcus, their benign spiritual roles belying my previous encounters with them. Outside, the snow fell steadily; the uneven gray light coming through the stained glass refracted into tiny, precious rainbows of color, which fell upon the heads of those around me.