Lady Day, the twenty-fifth, came and went, and the cottage was freshly brushed and tidied. Grace and Will ate gingerbread in front of the hearth; it was well-spiced and delicious, exactly as Anne would have baked herself. Then, on the following Sunday, Grace watched Nathaniel Harper throughout the service in St Bartholomew’s church, smart in his Sunday clothes, standing in a front pew between his mother and father. He did not seem to notice her, but Grace marvelled at his lusty voice rising above all the others as he sang the hymns, and she examined the slope of his shoulders as he sat motionless, his hands clasped, while the rector spoke his long sermon and her father dozed next to her. On Grace’s other side, Bett was silent as she observed her granddaughter through the corner of her eyes, the slight movement of Grace’s mouth as she gazed around the church, as her eyes flickered and rested on the farmer’s young son.
The month of April arrived, with brighter days, the sun tentative and warming. The tiny white blossom on the blackthorn tree outside Slaugh Cottage held firm in the breeze, pretty as a cluster of pearls. Grace worked hard each day: there was plenty of weeding to be done in the fields. Then, after work, she prepared her father’s meals and washed his clothes; the ploughing often continued on until late in the evening and Will was weary most nights. He would take himself off to his bed early and Grace would slip outside to listen to the deep gurgle of the water in the echoing well, and she would whisper the secrets of her heart.
Then, one Friday at the end of April, Grace was called from her weeding to help the milkmaids in the strawed-down barn, and she scurried across the field, looking forward to the chance to rest her aching back. When she arrived, she was greeted by Alice and Nancy Bryant, two sisters who were around her age, already busy milking two docile cows. Nancy glanced across the barn as she heard Grace’s footfall. ‘It’s good you’re here, Grace. Mistress Harriet wants the curds for buttering and the whey to drink, and we cannot work quickly enough. She’s in a bad humour today.’
Grace took a wooden stool and sat quietly, placing a pail beneath a brown and white heifer. She rested a reassuring palm on the cow’s flank and spoke in a gentle voice. ‘So, it’s plenty of warm milk I need from you today, Mistress Cow, if you’d oblige.’ She rubbed her hands hard, warming them, wiping them on her apron, and then wrapped her fingers around the teats. ‘Let down your milk for me, please,’ she murmured, and quickly there was the sound of liquid squirting into the pail. Grace rested her cheek against the cow’s side, closed her eyes and breathed softly as the cow gave a low sound of contentment.
Alice Bryant, round-faced, rosy and dimpled, sat upright. ‘How do you do it, Grace? The cows yield their milk readily for you.’
Grace smiled: the sisters usually chattered non-stop and the cows were too often ignored and handled roughly with cold hands.
Nancy, her face lean, her chin sharp, with an intensely blue stare, agreed. ‘Grace has a special way with the animals. She talks to them so soft, and they do her bidding.’
‘And is it the same with menfolk, Grace?’ Alice asked.
Grace said nothing, bowing her head as the creamy milk splashed into the pail.
Alice smiled. ‘I wish I could charm the man of my dreams. I can’t even coax this cow to please me. I’ve laboured all day with one bad-tempered beast after another and my pails fill too slowly. Mistress Harriet is already angry with me.’
‘Old Mother Harper is a triptaker – she finds fault where there is none,’ Nancy said bitterly.
Alice agreed. ‘And she hates us milkmaids – she is afraid that one of us will smile too sweetly at her son and he will smile back. He is very cheerful with the village maids – I am sure he is looking to choose a wife.’
‘And there are few who would refuse him,’ Nancy said. ‘Nathaniel Harper is a good catch for any woman.’
Grace was not listening. As she was milking, her cheek touched the warm hide, breathing the cow’s thick smell, encouraging her to relax too.
Alice smiled. ‘So, Grace, can you charm the men as you do the animals?’
Nancy laughed. ‘Grace, you must teach us your ways. There’s many a young man in the parish who might take heed of a—’
‘Why is there so much talking here?’ An angry voice preceded the lean woman who marched into the barn, clad in a linen dress, kerchief and tidy bonnet. ‘I pay you to milk the cows, not to loiter, Nancy Bryant. If you’re going to chitter-chatter all day, then it’s best you get yourself off home. And you too, Alice.’
Alice’s creamy skin flushed pink with embarrassment. ‘Oh, please forgive me, Mistress Harriet…’
‘We were trying to coax the cows to give more milk, as Grace does – we weren’t chattering…’
‘Hush your mouth, Nancy.’ Harriet Harper walked around, inspecting the pails. ‘Grace, your pail is already full. Now leave this cow be, and bring in another.’
‘I will turn her out into the field,’ Grace said, but her fingers were stroking the cow’s flanks. She whispered thanks to the cow and began to untie her.
Harriet was flushed and angry. ‘She fills a pail in the time that you two take to fill half. Now make yourselves busy, both of you.’
‘Yes, Mistress,’ Nancy mumbled and Alice put her head down as if she was already working harder, both milkmaids gritting their teeth and pulling hard on the teats to prove that they were engrossed in filling their pails.
Grace moved her pail to one side and led the cow away towards the field. As she walked away, her boots soft in the mud, she heard Nancy Bryant grumbling about how the mistress would expect them to collect a lot more milk now Grace was working her magic with the cows. Grace’s eyes flickered closed and she sighed. It was not her fault that she understood animals so readily: they recognised in an instant that she would be calm and patient with them.
When she reached the field, she glanced towards the hedgerow and noticed a cluster of pennywort, the pretty round leaves growing low to the ground. She would return later and pick an apron full: it was a beneficial herb for her father, with his stiffening joints, and it had many other uses: it was good for the heart, for the passing of water and it worked against melancholy. Besides, it tasted sweet raw and flavoursome in a stew pot.
Grace patted the cow, releasing her with a soft word and stared back towards the milking barn. She would work a little longer today, perhaps milk a dozen more cows, then it would be time for her to return to Slaugh Cottage. She had some mutton put by in the larder for a stew tonight and her father would be pleased to come home from ploughing to a fire roaring in the hearth.
She glanced across the field to where their cottage was nestled: from the vantage point of the farm, she could see the blackthorn tree against the side of the house, the taller trees a distance away, by the wooden gate. The well was visible in the corner and, opposite, her little plot of vegetables, herbs and flowers.
Grace turned towards the edge of the field, where a cow was moving towards her already, udders swinging heavily. Grace smiled and held out a hand.
Selena gazed briefly towards a field of cows and smiled as she drove the Škoda Fabia through twisting roads across the Blackdown Hills towards the village of Ashcombe, the satnav suggesting that she was less than a mile away. The roads narrowed, slicing through farmland and she hoped she wouldn’t meet a piece of farm machinery coming towards her as she would have to reverse. There were fields either side full of pigs, sheep; a herd of cows stared out as she passed a barred gate, then she drove up a hill, took a left turn at a crossroads and the road became a lane with grass growing up the middle.
The satnav told her she had arrived and she gazed to the right, where a large white farmhouse gleamed from the top of a hill, then she saw, to the left, a pretty cottage nestled back from the road in its own garden. Selena recognised the front of Sloe Cottage from the photos on the website. She pulled in to a gravel drive and switched off the engine, leaning back in her seat, gazing at the white and stone-fronted cottage that would be her home for the next few months. The front garden was neat; primroses and bluebells were in bloom and an apple tree was about to flower. To the left was a quaint stone well and a spindly tree was in blossom outside the window.
Selena picked up her phone and checked the numbers of two missed calls: she was sure one was from Veronica, and she was determined that she wouldn’t answer her again. She reminded herself to block the number. The second call had been from Claire, so Selena pressed a button to call her back.
‘I’ve arrived,’ Selena made her voice sound cheery; she had promised Claire that her time in rural Somerset would be about moving forwards, about recuperation and painting, not about being isolated and spending time regretting her relationship with David.
Claire sounded equally happy. ‘I’m in the gallery and I’ve just sold another of your paintings, the one of the Horseshoe Pass. So, you’d better get cracking on some more – they are shifting like hot cakes.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Selena said. ‘It seems really peaceful and calm here. There are plenty of gorgeous views.’
‘What’s the cottage like?’ Claire asked, full of interest. ‘I need to know what my bedroom is like – I’ll be down in a few weeks for the weekend and you can take me to the local village pub. Oh, a rural retreat – I’m so excited.’
‘I haven’t been inside yet,’ Selena replied. ‘But I’ll let you know.’
‘Was it an easy drive down?’
‘It took me four and a half hours, driving slowly, so you’d get down here in less than four.’ Selena noticed the front door open and a woman appeared, waving an arm in her direction. ‘Claire, I think that’s Mrs Russell now – she’s just come out of the cottage.’
‘I expect she’s been giving the place a quick once-over,’ Claire said.
‘I’ll text you later – and send some photos.’ Selena gesticulated towards the woman in the doorway, a light movement of her fingers. ‘I’d better go.’
‘I’m so excited – good luck,’ Claire replied, then there was a click and she had gone.
Selena slid out of the car and moved towards the small, pleasant-faced woman who appeared to be in her sixties, wearing jeans and a light jacket, who was waiting for her.
‘You must be Selena – I’m Lesley.’ The woman held out a hand. Her hair was dark, streaked with grey, and she had a warm smile and cool fingers. ‘You’re a bit early.’
‘The roads weren’t too busy,’ Selena said by way of apology. ‘But I’m so excited to be here now.’
‘Come on in – and welcome. I’ll show you around Sloe Cottage.’ Lesley Russell stood in the porch and held the door open. ‘And we’re just across the road in the farmhouse, if you need anything.’ She pointed to the white house at the top of the hill. ‘It will be nice to have a neighbour. Did you say you were an artist?’
‘Yes.’ Selena followed her into the hall. The air had suddenly become chilly and there was very little light. The floor was uneven and the walls were a mixture of grey stones and dark wood. She looked around. ‘This hall must be very old.’
‘The front part of the cottage is original, seventeenth century.’ Lesley waved a hand to propel them both forwards. ‘Come on into the living room.’
Lesley led Selena into a square room with white walls and a large bay window, an alcove set into the corner. A fire was burning behind the glass doors of a wood-burning stove and a warm amber glow filled the hearth.
‘I lit a fire for you.’ Lesley indicated a pile of logs in a basket. ‘You’ll probably need the heating on throughout the summer. This room never seems to get very warm, especially since the windows aren’t double glazed in here, but the wood burner gives it a lovely homely feel.’
‘What can I smell?’ Selena sniffed the air. ‘Is that lavender?’
Lesley shook her head. ‘It’s too early for lavender, although there’s some in the garden. Maybe the last tenant had a scented candle?’
Selena shivered. Her fingers were cold; despite the bright spring sunlight outside, the air held a stubborn chill. She stood closer to the stove and rubbed her palms together. ‘This feels very homely and comfortable.’
‘There is an original bread oven at the back too,’ Lesley told her. ‘Although it’s not a working oven now. And over there in the corner, where there’s an alcove in the wall, that used to be a stairway to the upstairs bedrooms. Of course, that’s been gone a long time.’
‘It all looks wonderful,’ Selena gazed at the soft mustard-coloured sofa in front of the fire, the light wooden dining table in the corner. ‘I’ll enjoy spending time in here.’
Lesley met her eyes. ‘Most people who stay here seem to prefer to be in the extension – it’s warmer and more modern. Come and see the kitchen and then we’ll go upstairs. I suggest you sleep in the master bedroom – that area of the house was added much later, in the nineteenth century. This old part is quite dark, but you’ll love the bright extended kitchen – it’s the heart of the home – and the oak conservatory was added recently. It’ll be a perfect place for your painting.’
‘It will,’ Selena agreed, but Lesley had already left the room and was on her way towards the kitchen, chattering about the lobby that led there, how there was a useful pantry for dried goods and cans, how it had been a small back room for storage many years ago.
Selena turned to follow, but her eyes were held by a movement outside the window. The blackthorn branch twitched, rattling the windowpane, a movement on the wind, pressing creamy blossom against the glass. Selena pulled herself away and followed Lesley through the lobby into the kitchen.