Selena wasn’t thinking about the eerie atmosphere in Sloe Cottage on Sunday morning as she sat across the kitchen table from Nick Russell over a pot of Earl Grey tea and a plate piled with croissants. She was enjoying herself too much. Nick had a map on the table and was pointing out areas of outstanding natural beauty that they might visit to take photos for her paintings.
She leaned back in her seat. ‘So, we can visit Hemyock or the Iron Age forts, or we could go to Staple Hill? Which has the best scenery for painting?’
Nick placed a finger on a spot on the map. ‘Let’s go to Staple Hill. The views from there are incredible – it’s the highest point of the Blackdowns. The 800-metre circular walk won’t take us long, so, if you like, we can drive on to somewhere else afterwards.’
‘And end up at The Royal Oak?’ Selena grinned encouragingly, touching her malachite pendant.
‘Why not? I think we’ll deserve it,’ Nick said. ‘There’s a marshy place just beyond Staple Hill called Deadman which might become a really dramatic painting. It’s well known by locals for the willow trees and the St John’s wort that grows there.’
‘I’m sure Joely uses it – I must ask her.’ Selena met his eyes. ‘You must love this part of the world.’
‘Of course – I grew up here; I went to school in Taunton.’ Nick was thoughtful. ‘Then after uni and spending a few years working in Bristol, I came back again and found a job in Exeter.’
‘What do you do there?’
‘I work in the English department of the university – I teach literature, stuff from the medieval period to the present day.’
He grinned and Selena was reminded that she’d assumed he was a heating engineer when they’d first met. She liked the fact that he’d never mentioned her mistake. David had always enjoyed repeatedly reminding her of her flaws. She realised she was smiling. ‘It sounds wonderful.’
‘I like it – it was a really good move for me.’
‘How long have you been there?’
‘Three years. I moved on from Bristol after…’ Nick ruffled his hair. ‘I decided to come back after my girlfriend and I split up. We’d been together a long time and it was the right thing for me to move away.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Selena put a hand to her mouth. ‘I didn’t mean to pry – it sounded like twenty questions…’
‘Not at all.’ He stretched out his legs beneath the table. Selena decided that it would be easy to spend the whole day in his company and not set foot outside the cottage. But she was looking forward to being outdoors. She pushed back her chair.
‘Well, I suppose breakfast is all done now – should we get going?’
‘If you like.’ Nick didn’t move. ‘I just wondered if I could have a quick look at your paintings again. I’m fascinated by them, so many contrasting pieces.’
‘Of course.’ Selena pushed back her chair. ‘They are all in the conservatory.’
Nick stood at her shoulder as Selena showed him the painting of the woman milking a cow beneath stormy skies. As he gazed from behind, she was reminded of the nerve-wrenching sensation she had felt as she’d painted it, the presence of someone watching. Nick exhaled.
‘Well, that’s certainly very dramatic.’ He thought for a moment. ‘There’s something of the victim in the milkmaid, isn’t there, her head bowed, acquiescent. Then there’s the brooding weather, as if there are consequences for her that are bound to happen and she’s in the centre of it all, tossed on life’s turbulent storm.’
‘Wow,’ Selena said. ‘You’ve summed it up perfectly. You should be an art critic.’
Nick grinned. ‘I suppose analysing poems and novels isn’t that different to discussing art – we all look for symbols to interpret and to guide what we think.’ He stood back. ‘It’s wonderful. Can I see some more?’ His gaze fell on a painting standing against the far wall. ‘What’s that one?’
‘Oh, I’m not sure about this one at all – it started out as a picture of the old well in the daytime and then suddenly the moonlight took over.’ Selena lifted the painting and placed it on the easel, moving the picture of the cow to the side. ‘It’s a bit of a departure from my usual style. I’m not sure if it will sell.’
‘Someone will find it captivating – it has a hypnotic quality.’ Nick indicated the shadowy figure beneath the moon. ‘What is this? A woman…’
‘Yes…’ Selena gazed at her own work, trying to explain her thoughts. ‘It’s the garden at night and the person is outside, where she feels most at home.’
Nick gave a soft laugh. ‘Do you know what I see when I look at this?’
Selena shook her head. ‘Not me, I hope.’
‘No… but I think this is a companion painting to the one we just looked at, the milkmaid and the cow. I think that’s her, the same woman, but here she’s not subservient. This time she’s in her own territory, she’s strong and in charge.’
‘Goodness,’ Selena shivered. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. It’s made me go cold; you know the sensation people have when they say someone has walked on their grave.’
Nick wrapped an arm around her. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to unnerve you.’ He took the comforting arm away too soon. ‘Maybe we should go. A nice drive, a couple of interesting walks and then we can come back to The Royal Oak for lunch.’
‘That would be great,’ Selena said. ‘I’ll just get my coat and we’ll be off.’
She was thankful to turn her back on the paintings and move back into the warm kitchen. Her skin had turned to ice, just as if it had been touched by cold fingers.
Grace’s fingers were frozen as she sat on her stool in the barn, milking another cow. She quivered inside the sheepskin cloak wrapped around her shoulders, stamping her feet to bring her toes back to life.
Jennet nodded her head. ‘It’s proper yule weather, I’d say. This cow’s paps feel like icicles.’
‘Yuletide’s no special time for me,’ Margaret grumbled. ‘There’s still the washing to do and the mending. There will be no joy in our house – the young ones are gutfoundered, yowling or fighting over crusts. My poor mother doesn’t know how she will feed the children – we can hardly feed the fire in the hearth.’
‘You should get wed, Margaret.’ Jennet tugged harder at the cow’s teats. ‘That’s what I’m going to do. Find yourself a husband who works hard and will take care of you.’
Margaret looked up. ‘You change like the wind,’ she mumbled. ‘You told me you’d rather be dead than wed.’
‘The wind blows more gently now,’ Jennet said slyly. ‘I have a new suitor. And I am turned sixteen years. It is time for me to think about being a bride. And he is a handsome man, and strong, and kind. He is eight years older than I, and he will take good care of me so that I won’t need to come milking each day.’
‘Who is he?’
‘You know him, Margaret. He is called Ned Shears. He is Nancy’s husband’s brother and he works here, at Hill Top Farm. He lives with my sister, Nancy, and her husband now, but he will find us a small room and we will live together there once we’re wed. He is no drunken tosspot like George. He is a fine man and I will be very happy.’
Margaret rubbed her hands together and resumed milking. ‘I think there will be thunder soon. The sky is dark as pitch.’
‘It may not come yet.’ Grace looked out of the barn towards the hovering clouds. The temperature had fallen. Her pail was almost full and she blew on her raw hands to warm them.
‘What about you, Grace?’ Jennet called across. ‘What will you be doing this yuletide? It is only two days away.’ Grace didn’t answer, so Jennet raised her voice. ‘Will you be in Slaugh Cottage, cooking your father’s food and washing his clothes?’
Margaret shook her head. ‘It seems to me the same thing, Jennet, whether Grace waits on her father or I wait on the children in our family or you wait on a husband, we are all still working our fingers to the bone.’
‘Ah, but my Ned is handsome and he is a good man. We want to find our own little cottage one day and live happily there together, just me and him, a pitcher of ale and a vicious mousing cat to keep the vermin away.’
Grace sighed and rubbed her belly with a gentle circular movement. The wind that whistled around the barn was bitterly cold and it cut through her clothing. She felt the child moving and she wanted to keep him warm. In the distance, a single crow swooped to peck at the muddy soil. Grace’s pail was full and she rose to lift it, her shoulders swaying, moving heavily. She took a step forward as Harriet Harper rounded the barn, Alice just behind her. Grace paused: she felt instinctively that something was wrong. Harriet’s brow was puckered with anger and, in contrast, Alice appeared hunched, drawn and pale. Outside the barn, the rain began to spatter.
‘Grace, will you come here?’ Harriet pointed a finger, indicating that she wanted Grace’s immediate obedience.
Grace pulled the sheepskin cloak around her and shuffled forwards.
‘Mistress Harriet?’
Harriet’s voice was a low hiss. ‘Alice tells me you have been giving her potions.’
Grace gazed at Alice, who hung her head low, and then back to Harriet. ‘I meant well.’ Silence hung in the air so Grace added, ‘It was only some nettle infusion… some raspberry leaf…’
Harriet threw an angry look towards Jennet. ‘Why have you stopped work?’
Jennet and Margaret lowered their eyes and appeared to be milking with all their energy.
Harriet grabbed Grace’s arm. ‘What evil mixture have you given her?’
‘I have done nothing wrong.’ Grace replied softly.
‘So why can she not get with child?’
‘It is not Grace’s fault…’ Alice began.
‘You will stop your mouth, Alice, it is to Grace that I speak,’ Harriet snapped. ‘Is it because of you that I still wait for a grandson?’
‘No, it is not,’ Grace said honestly. ‘I was trying to help, and only where I was asked to do so.’
‘You hussy.’ Harriet pulled Grace hard, tugging at her arm, and the cloak fell from her shoulders onto the straw.
Grace stood still for a moment, her dress loose, the fabric around the belly stretched and round. As she turned to pick up her cloak, Grace glimpsed Jennet’s wide eyes, her mouth open in surprise.
‘What is this?’ Harriet shrieked. Then her voice became even louder. ‘Ah, so now I see your tricks. You are belly-up, you have no husband at home, and Alice is living here with nothing to show, while you feed her potions to make her barren. Is that it?’
‘No,’ Grace protested.
‘So, tell me, who is the father of your child, Grace Cotter? Tell me, are you a left-handed wife, a mistress of some foolish man already married to another? Say what befell you.’
‘I cannot,’ Grace lowered her head. ‘I do not know the man now – he is gone.’ Her voice trailed off.
‘And you must be gone too,’ Harriet raised a hand and for a moment Grace thought she would strike her. Then, her arms firmly folded back across her chest, Harriet said, ‘Go home now, Grace. We no longer have need of you here.’
Grace gazed at the rain. The blustering wind blew clouds overhead. She turned to Alice. ‘I am sorry for you.’
Alice’s cheek was streaked with tears. She swallowed hard, then she whispered, ‘And I for you, Grace. I did not wish it this way.’
Grace lifted the cloak from the ground, hugging it around her, and stepped out into the rain. The rain tumbled, dampening her face and cap and the sheepskin cloak. She continued to walk the descending path towards Slaugh Cottage without looking over her shoulder, even when she heard Harriet shriek after her, ‘And do not come back here, Grace. You are not welcome.’
Grace continued to plod towards home, her head down, the hem of her dress trailing in the mud. She was bitterly cold, shivering inside her own skin. It would be Christmas in two days’ time; next year, at the end of winter, the baby would be born. Grace had no idea what she would do to help herself. Her whole body began to tremble, then the tears came in throaty sobs. She felt utterly alone.