I didn’t confide in anyone about my fight with Tobias. To tell the truth, as Christmastide drew to a close and we celebrated the Feast of Epiphany with prayer and carousing, I was embarrassed and saddened beyond measure. Then I would remember Tobias’s words. It was tantamount to betrayal. Most of all, I felt utter indignation that he saw fit to forbid me.
While the twins were oblivious to the schism, Adam, Saskia, and Blanche at least knew exactly what had gone on. They didn’t say anything; they didn’t need to—their respectful silence, the additional attention paid to the meals sent to me in the brewery or the way they drew their stools closer at night in the hall spoke of how they felt. I basked in their support, knowing that the alehouse would be the saving of Holcroft House.
Westel was more than usually attentive in the days following the argument. So much so, I became convinced he must have been privy to the words exchanged. This proved to be right when, in an innocent comment, Karel revealed that Westel had followed Tobias out of the hall on St. Stephen’s night.
“He was supposed to be fetching Tobias’s cloak, but he was gone so long, we thought you must have kept him in the office.”
I didn’t explain that I’d neither kept Westel nor been aware of his presence. That little piece of information went a long way to explaining the willing way Westel went about his tasks and more. In what used to be the shopfront and which was slowly transforming into my alehouse, Westel would entertain me by describing the customers we’d have, their manner, their dress, and inventing ways in which they’d laud our ale. He gave me hope, just when I thought there was so little as the pressures of furnishing the alehouse, promoting its forthcoming opening, not to mention increasing the amount of ale and now beer we produced, were taking their toll. Without Westel, Awel, and Delyth, and the quiet cooperation of the twins and the servants, I never would have accomplished it.
I was grateful to them all—but most especially Westel.
* * *
Our original intention to open on Twelfth Night was delayed by over a month. Instead, on a bitterly cold Saturday, just on the ides of February, I announced the Cathaline Alehouse open for business. The name was my choice—I knew it would arouse Tobias’s ire and possibly that of my patron, Lord Rainford, but I wanted to honor my mother. I drew strength from her name.
The morning of our opening, I emerged from the brewery as the sun began to peep through the leaden mist. The smell of moisture clung to everything; the tang of salt was there too, if you dared breathe the cold air deeply enough. Crossing through the snow to the kitchen, my heart contracted as, once again, I missed my hounds. Chickens and pigs did not arouse the same degree of affection, and though the slender church cat would wend its way along the wall, sometimes jumping down to weave between my legs, she belonged to Father Clement.
Spying my approach, the twins raced outside, took my hands and pulled me into the warmth of the kitchen. Inside, Blanche and Iris were preparing small loaves of bread to serve in the alehouse while a huge pottage bubbled away on the stove. The smell was comforting, as were the children’s bodies, pressed close to mine we sat on the bench and drank some almond milk.
Blanche and Iris chatted. They were anxious and excited about the alehouse opening. Adam and Saskia had gone to the market to fetch some last-minute supplies; Louisa was busy in the scullery, pressing tablecloths and attending to the dress I was determined to wear that afternoon to greet my first customers, while Will was laying a fire so the room would be warm. I’d left Westel and the Parry sisters in the brewhouse. I admit to enjoying the guilty pleasure of a pause in my otherwise busy day.
“Can we come to the alehouse too?” asked Betje, leaning over the table with a wet finger, daubing the salt that had spilled on the table and bringing it to her mouth. It was satisfying to me that she defined the alehouse as a separate space that required permission to enter. I’d worked hard to maintain the division between commercial and domestic parts of the building as we’d always done.
“Oh, please say aye, Anneke!” begged Karel, widening those big blue eyes.
Ruffling his curls, I shook my head. “I’m afraid my answer today is the same as it’s been every other day you’ve asked that question.”
“Nay, my darlings, you cannot,” said Betje in a perfect imitation of my voice, grinning at me.
I threw back my head and laughed and the others joined in. Karel jumped off the bench and began to strut around the kitchen, giving orders to imaginary staff, adopting my walk and stance with remarkable accuracy.
“I do not look like that,” I objected, as he placed one hand on his hip and shook a finger.
“You do,” said Betje, applauding her brother.
I was about to join the mummery, when Will entered waving a letter.
“Mistress Sheldrake. This just arrived.”
I didn’t recognize the handwriting or the frank. “Thank you, Will.”
“Open it,” said Karel, clambering back up next to me.
“Read it to us,” said Betje, looping her arm through mine, making it difficult for me to break the seal. It was very good quality paper, the ebony ink pronounced against the creamy surface.
“Right Honorable Mistress Sheldrake.”
“Who’s it from?” chimed Karel.
My eyes dropped to the signature at the bottom. My stomach fluttered. It was from Leander Rainford. My cheeks began to pinken.
“Sir Leander,” I said quietly.
Beside me, Blanche and Iris stopped talking. My heart thundering, I slowly rose to my feet. Why would Tobias’s master write to me? I scanned the contents quickly.
I commend myself to you and trust this missive finds you well. I pray you do not think this presumptuous, but I wanted to reassure you about Tobias.
My veins turned to ice. Oh dear God, what’s happened?
“What is it, Anneke? What’s wrong?” asked Betje, crawling along the bench to reach me. She touched my cheek. I pressed her hand against my face. It was warm, solid.
“Nothing, nothing,” I lied and kept reading Sir Leander’s bold, tidy script:
Though Tobias has not been forthcoming about the manner in which he departed Holcroft House the night of St. Stephen’s, I gather there has been a disturbance in your good relations and I wanted to express my sorrow and hope that my unforgivable behavior on first making your acquaintance, never mind the deplorable liberties I took on Christmas Day, have not been in any way responsible.
I burrowed my cheek into Betje’s hand, a small smile tugging the corners of my mouth. If only Sir Leander knew . . .
I further pray that one day, you will find it in your heart to forgive me.
Looking up from the letter, I pulled Betje’s hand away and kissed her palm warmly.
“What’s that for?” She extracted her hand and wiped it on her dress.
“No reason,” I said, and tugged her plait before continuing with the letter.
Above all, I wanted to reassure you that I will continue to look to Tobias’s health and well-being as I have always done so that you need not cast your mind in our direction but focus on what needs be done at Holcroft House.
There were a few lines about the ports they would be calling upon and the weather they were anticipating before he signed off.