Grace lifted her chin high and stood up straight as Bett made some final adjustments to the cream dress festooned with embroidered blossoms. Her grandmother was chattering as she fitted the bodice. ‘They say King Charles’s Portuguese wife, Queen Catherine, can’t produce an heir; I’ve heard tell that she’s been with child four times and four times she’s lost the baby or it has been stillborn. That’s ill news.’
‘So who will be King after Charles?’
Bett screwed up her face, tight as a walnut, showing disapproval. ‘His brother, James, Duke of York could be next in line. It won’t go well, I’m sure of it, with him being a Catholic. I’m glad we live here in the South West, Gracie – I wouldn’t want to live in London. There’s always trouble of some sort brewing there, and they say it’s full of wagtails and kencrackers – women and men who are not fair company for the likes of decent folk like us.’
‘But London’s where the King lives,’ Grace said, smoothing the cream linen with her fingers. ‘Surely he doesn’t surround himself with trollops and thieves…’ She put a hand to her mouth.
‘Let God be their judge. In London, they’ve had plagues, fires, three wars against the Dutch people, and they say you can’t get a fresh carrot or a broad bean there. No, we live in the best place, Gracie, you mark my words. There, you’re all done.’ Bett stood back to survey her handiwork. ‘Pretty as a picture, I’d say.’
Grace sighed. ‘So, now I am ready for bringing in May today on the village green.’
‘Indeed, and you must dance alongside all the other maids of the parish. But you will be the fairest of all, I’m sure. And let’s hope you catch the eye of some proper gentleman.’
Grace shook her head. ‘We have spoken of this…’
‘We have…’ Bett took her hand and led her to sit down at the table, where two mugs of mulled cider had been filled. Bett moistened her lips eagerly. ‘But you have no mother now, Gracie, and so it befalls me to say this to you in her place. Your father is a good man, but he is made old by work and I have outlasted my years now. You do not want to be left alone when we have both departed this world. You want the comfort of a man to care for and protect you. You should have the joy of little ones clambering about your skirts.’
Grace put a hand to her cheeks, feeling them glow. ‘I have never thought of such things. I have always imagined that I would stay with father.’
‘Will Cotter has agues in his bones and a cough in his chest… I fear he will not last another winter.’ Bett shook her head. ‘We need to think of your future.’
Grace felt tears spring to her eyes. She reached for her mug but could not drink: the thought of life without her beloved father, without her grandmother too, was beyond her imagination.
Bett frowned. ‘You are an innocent, my child. There are things in this world that you know nothing of…’
‘Like being a wife, a mother?’
‘Oh, those things come readily to a woman. No, I am talking of the wide world outside this village. Have you ever heard the tale of an old widow woman called Elizabeth Stile?’
‘I can’t say that I have…’
‘You’d have been just a child. It was all the talk here for a while, some sixteen years ago. She was held in Taunton assizes, accused of witchcraft. The MP and justice of the peace over in Taunton, Robert Hunt, who died a few years past, had been on the lookout across Somerset for witches and he tried her in his courts. Everyone said she was a nasty piece of work. She bewitched a young girl, made her have fits of coughing every day until her lungs were shreds. Robert Hunt found a mark on Elizabeth Stile that looked like a morsel of beef. That marked her as a true witch. She died in the jail, and good riddance, I say. Women like that are to be avoided, Gracie. Even men have been accused of evil deeds and witchcraft. Around the same time, they hanged a man called Julian Cox – he bewitched a young woman, took her health away until there was nothing left of her but a single sigh.’
Grace shivered. ‘What has that to do with me?’
‘A young woman on her own is prey to such wicked creatures.’ Bett shook her head. ‘You need a husband to take care of you.’ She took a deep draught of mulled cider. ‘Now go on with you, my girl – get yourself over to the village green and enjoy the dancing and the music of the pipes and tabors. And perhaps today a certain young man’s eye will settle upon you…’
Grace pointed to a garland she had brought in her basket. ‘I have made my own coronet of blossom from my blackthorn tree.’
Bett approached, her eyes shining, and led her to the doorway, where she placed the garland on her granddaughter’s head. She repeated lines from an old poem in a low voice:
‘Here’s not a budding boy, or girl, this day,
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.’
Grace smiled, performing a pretty curtsey, then she was on her way through the low door and off towards the village green.
Bett watched her granddaughter go, her wrinkled hand an open palm against her heart. Grace was inexperienced, in many ways a child still. Bett whispered, ‘God keep ye from wanton sport at the hands of wicked men, my little Gracie, and find yourself a good man to dance with. You want no tosspot, no angler, no pudding-headed fellow. Find yourself a proper man, one who will have you yoked and bedded and joyful in his arms. If you can be as happy as me and my John, or Will and my Anne, God rest her, you’ll be truly blessed.’
The village green was crammed with dancers circling the maypole, mostly young women wearing light-coloured dresses, their hair festooned with floral garlands. As Grace approached, she recognised Alice and Nancy Bryant. They were kicking out their skirts, colourful ribbons clutched in their fists. When they noticed Grace, they stopped, whispering to each other, then they rushed over.
Alice, the prettier of the two sisters, round-faced, rosy and dimpled, began to examine Grace’s dress, touching the fabric with long fingers. ‘Oh, look at these pretty flowers. How did you embroider all of them? It must have taken an age.’
‘I suppose you have little else to do at Slaugh Cottage, other than looking after your father?’ Nancy narrowed intensely blue eyes.
‘But now is the time for us all to make merry.’ Alice seized Grace’s hands. ‘Come and dance with us.’
Grace felt herself being tugged forwards.
Alice was laughing, her long hair tumbling across her shoulders, as she joined the throng. ‘Everyone is here, Grace, even our little sister, Jennet. She and my mother made her a dress and she wove her own garland out of petals.’
‘She is only fifteen,’ Nancy said dismissively, an expression of scorn on her face as she whirled in the dance. ‘We don’t want her here with us.’
‘She may distract us from our task of finding a handsome partner.’ Alice’s eyes shone. ‘Today is the first day of spring, and with it comes fun, revelry and love.’
‘Oh, I hope I can dance with someone today.’ Nancy rolled her eyes dreamily. ‘I have someone in mind, a man who labours on the farm, whose name begins with G…’
Grace danced on; she was light on her feet, moving nimbly, a ribbon between her fingers. Alice and Nancy laughed giddily, and their joyful mood was infectious. Grace found herself lifted on the breezy tune from the pipes and the beat of the tabor. Then she became aware that a group of men were observing her and, in the centre, wearing a crisp white shirt, tight breeches and a broad-brimmed hat was Nathaniel Harper. Grace looked away; she could tell from their demeanour that the men were discussing the young women. Their heads were together and, by the volume of their voices, they were merry, having drunk an ale or two in The Royal Oak.
Alice and Nancy had noticed the men too and they were both suddenly more carefree, dancing with abandon, their heads back, laughing loudly. Grace felt her cheeks tingle and she was unsure whether to leave the dance or whether to continue, to pretend she had not seen the group of jovial men.
Then Nathaniel was next to her; he pulled Alice into his grasp and she was shrieking with joy. Grace thought she sounded like a happy chicken, but she pushed the unkind thought from her head. She overheard Nathaniel declare, ‘Today, Alice, I intend to dance with the loveliest young women in Ashcomb.’
A young thick-set man had caught hold of Nancy and they were whirling round together in step, her eyes never leaving his face. The music continued to play and Grace danced alone, her mind spinning as quickly as the ground around her. Then Nathaniel shifted deftly from Alice to Grace, taking her in his arms. She inhaled the smell of him, sweet hops and something else, a warm heady scent, as he pulled her to him.
He said, ‘Do not deny me this dance, Grace,’ and swept her away in a tight embrace, his strong arms holding her so firmly that she couldn’t help but move in time with him. They swayed closely, their eyes locked, Grace almost afraid to breathe. Then she felt a hand tugging at her sleeve and their dancing stopped abruptly.
She gazed at young Jennet Bryant, the sister of Alice and Nancy, a garland askew on her tousled head, frowning. ‘Grace Cotter?’
‘I am…’
‘Mistress White says you are to go to her cottage immediately. She says there is a task you must do with her at once. She says you are not to tarry.’
Grace hesitated; she was still in Nathaniel’s arms and he would not let her loose. His dark blue eyes met hers and he pulled her to his chest. ‘Grace – do not leave – stay here with me.’
‘I must go – my grandmother calls me…’
‘I beg you to stay awhile. I do not want to dance with anyone else…’
Reluctantly, Grace slid from his grip and hurried away towards her grandmother’s cob cottage, lifting her skirts, not looking back. She felt Nathaniel’s eyes on her as she rushed across the village green, the music still bubbling in her ears. Then, almost at her grandmother’s house, she paused, turning to look. She could see him in the centre of the throng dancing with Alice Bryant.
Grace scurried through her grandmother’s open door to find Bett, a filled basket in hand, a bonnet on her head.
‘Come, child – put on your kerchief and cap and follow me. We must go.’
‘But I was dancing…’
‘Then you must put that aside until another day. We have been sent for. We must go to Kitty Stokes’ house, who lives near the church with her husband, Edmund.’
‘Is the baby coming now?’
‘It is, and we must help her. It is a first birth and I cannot work alone. Kitty is small and her husband is a tall man. I fear the baby will not come easily. It is time for you to learn about these things, Gracie. You are of an age now.’
Grace followed Bett as they rushed along the path; the light sound of the music and the steady drum beat carried on the wind from the village green and, briefly, Grace wished she could be back there dancing in the arms of Nathaniel. But her thoughts moved quickly to poor Kitty Stokes in the throes of birth. Grace was keen to help her grandmother, who was surging ahead despite her advanced years, her breath puffing from her mouth. Grace thought about her grandmother’s request for help and she was filled with sadness: it was Bett’s unspoken intention to teach Grace all she knew so that Grace would continue to help all birthing mothers after her death.
‘I will teach you all I know.’ Bett seemed to hear Grace’s thoughts. ‘Are you afeared of what you will see?’
‘I am,’ Grace answered honestly, glancing at Bett’s basket and the implements in there which she couldn’t name but she would surely learn to use over time.
‘Gracie, you must keep everything clean as you can. And I have oil of sweet almonds for rubbing on Kitty’s body to calm her. If it is needed, I will use an eagle-stone to hasten labour…’
‘What will I do?’
Bett made a soft sound. ‘You will watch what I do and assist me. I will ask you to cut the navel string. Pray God we can deliver Kitty safely of this child.’
‘Were you afraid, Grandmother, when you birthed my mother?’
‘Of course – all women fear that they will die during birthing. I bore three babies, Gracie – Anne was the only child of mine to survive – I lost two more, a girl and a boy, before she came to me. But it is the natural thing for women to have children and to redeem the sin of Eve.’ Bett caught her breath; they were almost at the church. ‘Most women are afraid of lying-in at first, for themselves and also for the child. Many women will have six or seven children, but less than half of their babies will survive to become men and women.’
Grace stared, round-eyed. They had arrived at St Bartholomew’s church and stood in front of a row of cottages opposite. Grace immediately knew which one belonged to Edmund and Kitty Stokes. She could hear a woman’s voice from inside, at first as loud as a lowing heifer, then came a sound that was not human, an agonised throaty yell. A young man appeared at the door, his eyes staring wildly, his hair dishevelled. He called out to Bett, ‘This way, Mistress White. And come quickly, please, for I fear for my Kitty’s life.’