Two days later I was obliged to muse over them again when a note arrived from Master Makejoy offering to negotiate an apprenticeship for Karel as a clerk with a Master Muire. Master Muire was a law clerk who had an excellent reputation and worked with the Justice of the Peace, which meant the likelihood of him one day securing that role for himself was very high indeed. Looking at the neat script, the care taken with the writing, the offer itself, my immediate instinct to burn it was checked. Master Makejoy meant only kindness, and it was evident from the terms and conditions he outlined that he was serious. I wondered if his wife knew. Was he trying to make amends for the damage Hiske’s vicious tongue had caused?
An apprentice clerk may not have been what Mother or Father intended for him, nor I, but it was not something I could readily cast aside, not anymore. Karel was quick and clever, and as Master Muire’s apprentice, he could not only remain living at Holcroft House, but the possibility of a sound career in London was not out of reach either.
Pondering what to do, the following day saw another letter from Sir Leander arrive. It had come all the way from Venice. Lingering over Leander’s long missive, I laughed at his description of the boats the Venetians used—long, sleek craft called gondolas. In great detail he described Tobias’s efforts to stand in one like a native. From Tobias, there was not a word. He’d not yet forgiven me. Saddened, Sir Leander’s letters went some way to compensating and I grew to anticipate these missives that arrived almost weekly. That Sir Leander made the effort to write touched me deeply, stirring feelings I pretended didn’t exist. A tale of how Tobias managed, after bartering at a market, to walk away not with bolts of cloth as he’d intended but two pet monkeys, had me falling about in helpless giggles, wondering how the animals would settle into sea life and whether I’d ever see them.
Alone in the office, I held his letter under my nose. The paper smelled of other places, other times. Imagining Sir Leander sitting at a table aboard ship or in a foreign inn, the paper laid before him, drawing the candle near, dipping his quill, his face a study in the flickering light, I closed my eyes to contemplate the picture. I saw his broad shoulders, the dark, disorderly hair, and his leg stretched out to one side to alleviate discomfort. His cane was resting against the edge of the table, a mere handspan away, his scabbard unbuckled and lying on the other side of the tabletop. His shirt was open at the neck, his coat discarded. I wondered if he thought of me reading his words as he wrote, choosing what to relay and what to omit, knowing I would want to learn of Tobias but including the information in a way that was sensitive to our siblings dispute. Settling back in the chair, I became conscious of the beat of my heart, how the mere idea of Sir Leander made it quicken so. What was this I felt? Dare I name it? It was affection, no more . . . no less either . . . I laughed at myself and quickly quashed the other memories that surfaced when I indulged this daydream—his firm, warm lips capturing mine, the scour of his unshaven cheek against my flesh, the way the tip of his tongue explored my lips and teeth as I opened them to receive more . . .
Sitting up, eyes open, I admonished myself, using the paper to fan away the heat flooding my cheeks and making my bodice suddenly very tight. Resting the paper against my bosom, allowing the uneven edges to stroke the exposed skin, I began to compose a reply in my head, thinking how to respond to Sir Leander’s questions, but what to include to amuse him as well. I would relay his brother’s visit (how unalike they were!), Westel’s odd behavior, and my growing disquiet for certes. I would also tell him of our success with the Hanse in Elmham Lenn and in Flanders and Germany. I decided I would also ask his advice on Karel’s future. My purpose, I confess, was twofold. In announcing Master Makejoy’s offer and expressing my doubts, Sir Leander would be able to either reassure me or, as I hoped, counter with a better offer for my little brother.
A response would take a while, so in the meantime, I wrote to Master Makejoy as well, asking him to give me some time to consider his most generous offer. A gracious reply arrived the following day, inviting me to take all the time I needed.
And so I did. May segued into June and preparations for midsummer began in earnest. Beyond the town gates, farmers sheared sheep and kept anxious eyes upon the weather. They weren’t the only ones. For a few years now, unseasonal rain had ruined crops and driven up prices. The days grew longer; our little hatchlings developed into strutting chickens and the piglets doubled in size every week. So, it seemed, did the twins, but, while the brewery kept me busy, I refused to make a decision about Karel, indulging both him and Betje, allowing them to spend at least this summer together before the world of work tore them apart.
The twins were not the only ones changing, nor were they the only members of the house to preoccupy me. Ever since Saskia and I spoke of Westel, I noticed differences in him. Gone was the ebullient man who strolled into the yard seeking work last year. In his place was someone I often caught gazing into space or praying almost obsessively under his breath. His quick smile and eagerness to please were no longer so apparent, though they surfaced occasionally. Nonetheless, his work was always done and without complaint. Whereas once he sought tasks even on his day off, ever since Will died he would leave the premises every Sunday, satchel slung over his shoulder, cap upon those pale locks, and not return until curfew. I knew from Father Clement that he often attended more than one service at St. Bartholomew’s, but where he chose to spend the rest of the day, I did not know. I imagined him wandering through the woods or down to the harbor, seeking the solitude the shared space of Holcroft House mostly denied him.
As the weeks went by, he grew quieter, more intense. We all grieved for Will in our own way, but Westel, who had found the body, appeared to have been unhinged. Not even the passage of time could appease his sorrow.
I didn’t know what to do about it and decided to seek the advice of Sir Leander, who I was becoming increasingly reliant upon as a sounding board for my troubles. I wrote to him that night.
* * *
The church cat surprised us one day after an absence of a few weeks by introducing us to her litter of kittens. Scrappy bundles of fur, the children went into paroxysms of ecstasy when they saw them, calling me from the brewhouse to meet the little creatures.
“Can we keep one?” asked Betje, her eyes wide and hopeful.
“Each?” begged Karel, clutching a tiny ginger life to his cheek.
How could this lad be ready for work?
“You’ll have to ask Father Clement,” I said, surrendering to the twins’ pleas rather than my better judgment. They tore off to find the priest, Louisa chasing after them.
I watched them disappear through the gate, shaking my head.
“I like cats.”
“Westel.” I swung around. I hadn’t heard him approach.
Nodding toward the rest of the kittens, their mother trailing after those the twins had taken, Westel wiped his hands on his apron. “Aye, they’re creatures who serve no one, not really. They only appear to.”
“What an odd thing to say.” I frowned, noting that his eyes seemed colorless, like the puddles of rain that collected on the roadway or clouds that presaged a storm. I gave a half-laugh and the day seemed to dim. “Cats are like most of us,” I added. “Happy to be fed, have a roof over their heads, and someone to pay them attention.”