The entire cottage was suddenly dark: the only light came from the little flickering candles that threw tall shifting shadows against the walls. Claire came blundering in, breathing hard.
‘There was a flash and all the lights went out.’
Selena wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders, despite feeling decidedly jumpy. ‘What happened?’
‘I plugged the coffee maker in and there was a bright flash, then the whole room was plunged into total blackout. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face.’ Claire was shaking.
‘Oh, it’s a really intense dark here in the countryside…’ Laura’s voice was a soothing whisper. ‘These old cottages are so isolated: there’s not much light outside.’
‘I expect it’s just the trip switch that flipped,’ Rob said matter-of-factly.
‘Yes – do you have a torch?’ Laura asked. ‘Where’s the fuse box?’
‘It’s above the front door – in the hall.’ Selena thought for a moment. ‘I think I’ve seen a torch on the floor there, in a box of tools.’
The four of them trooped into the hall in a line, one behind the other, fumbling in the grainy blackness. Selena’s fingers found a small torch and she aimed the beam at the fuse box, while Rob, the only one tall enough to reach, pushed a switch upwards and the lights were immediately restored.
Back in the kitchen, they discovered the fault: the coffee machine had blown a fuse and would no longer work.
‘I have instant?’ Selena suggested hopefully. ‘Or tea?’
‘Tea would be lovely,’ Laura replied.
‘Instant coffee for me,’ Claire said. ‘I’m in need of a stiff brandy, to tell you the truth.’
‘Coffee for me, please,’ Rob added.
‘We can take it into the conservatory if you like – I’ll just move my paintings.’
‘Oh, yes please, Selena.’ Laura clasped her hands. ‘I just love that conservatory – it’s so warm and bright.’
‘It’s the nicest room – I have to sleep in that spare bedroom…’ Claire’s mouth turned down. ‘It has such an eerie atmosphere in there. So cold…’
Selena frowned: that word, eerie, again. ‘We can swap rooms if you like…’
‘Oh, no sorry, Selena – I shouldn’t have said that – you have to live here.’ Claire was all smiles. ‘I’ll be fine – seriously, I’ll sleep like a top if I have a large brandy with my coffee.’
‘Brandy for everyone?’ Selena asked.
‘I wouldn’t say no: I’m partial to a small one after such a lovely meal,’ Rob said.
‘I’m on driving duty, so not for me…’ Laura mumbled as she picked up the tray of mugs.
Claire pounced on a box of chocolates and Selena found a bottle of cognac and glasses.
‘Let’s go into the warmest room in the house and chill out,’ Claire said eagerly.
‘Good idea,’ Selena smiled and followed them towards the conservatory. She was still on edge, thinking about the shape she had glimpsed outside by the well, a slim young woman, her arms raised high. She was sure she hadn’t imagined it: the long dress, a grey shadow in the moonlight.
Selena shook her head, trying to banish the thoughts, and joined her friends on the sofa in the corner. They were already chattering happily. She gazed through the huge window into the back garden towards the fields. Outside, everything was a jumble of shifting dark shapes.
June 1682 was a hot month, each day suffused with intense sunshine. The toil in the fields during the week was long and hard, but at weekends there were celebrations involving most of the villagers in Ashcomb. Two summer weddings took place, two sisters with very different ceremonies. On the sixth, Nancy Bryant exchanged rings in a fallow field with farm labourer, George Shears, a thick-set man who wore his brother’s best patched breeches; the bride flounced joyfully to meet her groom in a pretty brown dress, which had been kept in good condition since her mother wore it for her own ceremony over twenty-five years before. The groom had already guzzled several ales in The Royal Oak and was in a merry mood, and the whole village attended, dancing to the pipe and tabor before many of the menfolk disappeared into the inn again to raise a mug of ale or two to the happy couple.
Bett White had commented to Grace that she thought George Shears was ‘a bacon-faced man and a tickle pitcher, who would lead poor Nancy a merry dance’ as he was already spending most of his meagre earnings in The Royal Oak. She reminded Grace that wedlock meant that a woman would be under the rod of her husband and if poor Nancy Bryant was unlucky enough to find a man who would beat her and treat her ill, as many others would, then that was her lot and she must bear it for the rest of her days.
But at the end of the month, on the twenty-seventh, Nathaniel Harper’s marriage to Alice Bryant was a grander affair. The bride wore a white gown, her rosy cheeks dimpled, smiling as she stood at the altar in St Bartholomew’s church. Joseph Harper had spared no expense for his only son’s wedding: even Harriet, in a new bonnet, had smiled and told everyone around her that Alice would provide them with at least six grandchildren, and the farm would grow and prosper under Nathaniel’s instruction. She’d likened their union to that of Puritan leader, Oliver Cromwell, and his wife, Elizabeth: it would be a marriage of duty, prudence and hard work, although Alice’s expression as she gazed at Nathaniel was one of besotted adoration.
Grace and Bett waited outside the church in the throng of villagers to throw wheat at the head of the bride, so that she would thrive and have many children. Grace gazed around at the smiling faces; the cheering was loud in her ears, and the happy bride and groom had eyes only for each other. She desperately wished she could have stayed at home. The sun shone overhead as the couple emerged, Alice all smiles, Nathaniel more serious, the expression of a man already considering his responsibilities, as they were showered with grain and cheered. Grace, a posy of lavender stalks and daisies in her other hand flung the wheat, which landed softly at the bride’s feet, and then turned away, full of sadness, as the couple embraced. She glanced at Bett, who was shouting and waving along with everyone else in Ashcomb. Grace slunk towards the churchyard, tracing familiar steps through the identical graves to a small hump in the ground, surrounded by other mounds of a similar size.
Grace knelt next to the grave, placing the posy on the green turf; she bowed her head, closed her eyes and whispered a small prayer. Then she whispered, ‘May you rest in His everlasting peace, dear Mother.’ She was still awhile, thinking. The sunlight was bright, the strong rays warm on her back. Grace felt too hot, a little dizzy in her scrubbed cream linen dress and a bonnet and kerchief. Images of the happy couple, rosy-faced Alice and Nathaniel, his brow creased with an air of maturity and respectability, swayed before her eyes: she could still hear the merry cheering and the tune of a pipe and drum.
‘I truly do wish them the best in their marriage,’ A sob caught in her throat. ‘Oh, if only you were here.’ A tear trickled down her cheek. ‘If you could help me – each day I am sick to my stomach and I cannot speak of it to my poor father. Even now, he is at home in his chair; although this is a day of sunshine and much joy, he would rather be at the hearth warming his bones. And I… Oh, Mother, I am an unfortunate…’ Grace paused: someone was standing behind her. She could feel the presence of someone close by, watching.
She turned round to see Bett White, her arms folded, considering her granddaughter’s expression carefully as one who knew letters might study a book.
‘Grandmother…’ Grace’s cheeks were pink. ‘I was talking to my mother… I often come here to unfold the secrets of my heart…’
‘You do not need to explain, child.’ Bett’s voice was kind. She stretched out a hand. ‘Come home with me now. Let us share a cup and have some food. I think we have much to say to one another.’
Grace eyed her grandmother nervously. ‘What will we speak of?’
Bett offered a smile, a wrinkling of the skin around her eyes. ‘When women meet to jaw together, often more is made than just the noise of chatter. Besides, I am hungry.’
Back at the small cob-walled cottage, they sat at the table.
Bett leaned over, placing her hand on Grace’s.
‘How is your father?’
‘He rests at home. He was weary today and did not want to come to Alice’s wedding. I have left him some bread and meat, and some ale.’
‘Have you eaten today, Gracie?’
Grace shook her head. ‘I have not been hungry, Grandmother.’
‘You are becoming thinner…’
Grace seemed surprised: Bett examined her closely, the tired eyes, the glazed stare, the softness of her chin.
She sighed. ‘You are thinner in the body, but fatter in the face, I think…’
Grace folded her hands in her lap. ‘I have no one to speak to, Grandmother. But I have an imbalance of humours, a melancholy on me that will not pass.’
‘Is this because of Master Nathaniel?’
‘I must put him from my mind. He is married to Alice now.’
‘Indeed, you must forsake all thoughts of him…’ Bett said thoughtfully, giving her granddaughter an appraising stare. Then she inhaled sharply. ‘Gracie, have you been taking a hot mixture of laurel, madder, pepper, sage and savin? You know why I say this to you. It is a potion that many a maid will take when she has the need to rid herself of—’
‘No, not that…’ Grace looked up, bashful, her eyes round. Her voice was soft. ‘I have been swallowing an infusion of rue.’
‘Rue can be dangerous, taken in quantity. But did it work?’
‘I thought, at first, that it was the rue made me ill, but now I think it is not. I am sick most mornings and I cannot eat.’
Bett lifted Grace’s hands in hers; her eyes gleamed, intense. ‘What passed between you and the farmer’s son?’
‘I have not spoken of it to anyone, Grandmother.’
‘You must speak of it now – there is but me here, and I think I can help you.’
Grace looked into her grandmother’s gaze and saw only kindness and sympathy there. She was longing to confide in her. She took a shuddering breath. ‘I misjudged Nathaniel. I believed he loved me… but now I have been undone.’
Bett nodded, her voice soothing. ‘I can see it in you, the changes are clear to those of us who notice such things. When did it happen?’
‘After the May Day dance – after we had delivered Kitty Stokes of her baby. He walked home with me and then he would not go.’
‘You have taken rue as a remedy, but it has not worked; so, you have had no flux for two moons now, am I correct?’
‘It is so.’ Grace moved her head once; her eyes were full of tears. ‘There is nothing more I can do.’
‘Then we must abide with the consequences and make do and mend,’ Bett said firmly. ‘The winter months will come and you will have to let out your dresses, they cannot be laced tightly. But we need to keep this a secret from Farmer Harper as long as we can, for you must work. It will be cold in November and December, so you can cover yourself with a warm shawl, then perhaps Mistress Harriet will not notice your condition and you may still milk the cows after the baby quickens in Michaelmas; you may even continue unnoticed at Yuletide. I think the baby will come in February, in late winter. Pray God that I am still here on this earth to deliver you.’
Grace’s hands shook. ‘Grandmother, please forgive me, I have done much wrong…’
Bett placed a soft hand beneath her granddaughter’s chin. ‘No, not you, my Gracie – it is you who have been wronged, and you have no mother at home to warn you of these things.’ Her brow creased with anger. ‘Oh, it makes me vexed.’
‘But what will become of me – and the child?’
‘Have you spoken to Nathaniel Harper?’
‘I dare not, Grandmother. And he will not look my way; he is yoked to Alice Bryant now and if he is asked, he may say the child is not his.’
‘Oh, Gracie.’ A sigh shuddered through Bett’s small frame. ‘We will do what we can. Meanwhile, we will have to think of how we can keep you strong. I will make you some tea from ginger to take home with you, to drink each morn, and then, in August, some raspberry leaf, which will make you ready for the lying-in.’
‘I will be shunned by others… I will be despised…’
‘Gracie, do not think of these things – we will find a way by ourselves. There are simples, charms that I can help you make, the old ways are with us even now to keep you safe, and the child too. We can use the spindle and sew, use our time well to make clothes for the child. I will help – and together we will pass through this time of difficulty.’ Bett squeezed Grace’s fingers. ‘Maybe we can even make it a time of joy.’
Grace met her eyes. ‘I will try my best. But what of my father? How shall I tell him? He will be disappointed with what I have brought upon him – he will be troubled that there will be another mouth to feed…’ Tears welled in her eyes; her throat became constricted and Grace let out a sob, followed by another, then she pushed her face into her hands and wept softly.
‘Peace.’ Bett moved from her seat and cradled Grace’s head in her arms. ‘Peace now. Don’t concern yourself with Will. If need be, I will explain. Between us, we will find a way – we will discover love and joy where there is now sadness and despair. God help me, Gracie, I give you my word on that.’