A hoar frost frothed in the corners of the garden of Slaugh Cottage, illuminating spiders’ webs, glistening on the iron blackthorn branches, making the grass sparkle and the bushes gleam white in the morning dew. It was the sixth of January, 1683, a Wednesday, and Grace stood in her garden digging up vegetables for the evening stew. She would dine alone tonight. It was Twelfth Night and her father would not break with a time-honoured tradition; there would be wassailing up at Hill Top Farm, the farmworkers congregating together in the ox barn to toast the animals and the crops to encourage fertility. There would be feasting, singing and plenty of drinking from the wassail bowl.
Grace recalled being there last year, watching men sup from the upturned bowl and singing with them:
‘Love and joy come to you,
And to you your wassail too;
And God bless you and send you
a happy New Year.’
Nathaniel had been amongst the throng watching her then, his hands on his hips, his dark blue eyes luminous.
It seemed so long ago now; so much had come to pass in just one year. She wondered what the next one would bring and she smiled.
Grace gathered potatoes and turnips in her apron and gazed up at the sky. It was white, heavy with snow, a full belly just like her own. She rubbed the baby beneath her dress with the flat palm of her hand and murmured, ‘It will snow today, little one, and we must go to the farm for milk.’
She deposited the vegetables in a bowl on the table, wrapped herself in the sheepskin cloak and set off with a pitcher towards the farm. A few single flakes of snow twirled in the air and held, before falling to the ground and dissolving. Grace leaned forward, struggling against the biting wind, her eyes watering, her cheeks becoming numb in the cold. She crossed a field where some men were working with a flock of sheep, bringing them closer to the farm because of the imminent snow and putting out hay. She recognised Ned and George Shears amongst several other men and Ned waved a hand and called to her.
‘How now, Grace?’ He approached her warily, standing a few paces away. ‘I hope you are well.’
‘I am, thank you, Ned.’ Grace cast her eyes down, uneasy, as the other men stopped working to watch them talk together. ‘I go to the farm to fill my pitcher.’
Ned hesitated. ‘You have heard of my news? I am to marry Jennet Bryant this coming summer.’
‘I am glad to hear it. I wish you both many blessings.’ Grace noticed how he stared at her, tentative, a little nervous around the mouth.
Then he said, ‘And – do you have all you need to keep you warm and well fed at Slaugh Cottage?’
‘I do. My father and I have enough food.’
‘Will you come to the wassailing up in the ox barn this evening?’
Grace’s hand rested on her belly. ‘I will not. I must rest.’
Ned inclined his head. ‘Then farewell to you, Grace.’
‘Farewell.’ Grace moved away slowly. Above her, the clouds were still thick with snow, but only the occasional flakes fell, landing on her eyelids. She pulled the sheepskin cape tightly around her, hearing the men’s low chatter drifting on the wind from behind her, a guffaw from a hearty voice that she believed must be George Shears. Then something caught her eye. A black sheep had overturned in a ditch by the edge of the field. It lay on its back, completely still, its legs sticking upwards.
Grace called over her shoulder, ‘Ned, make haste. There is a sheep fallen in the ditch. I fear it may be dead.’
Grace reached the animal and knelt down; damp earth seeped into the material of her skirt. She wrapped her arms around the sheep and heaved, struggling to turn it carefully, always mindful of the baby she carried. Ned was at her elbow as she pushed the sheep back onto its legs. It wriggled for a moment and then rushed away to join the flock.
Ned gaped. ‘The black-woolled sheep was dead and now it is alive.’
‘No, I turned it – it had fallen on its back and couldn’t right itself without help.’ Grace inspected her muddy hands. ‘It will be well now.’
Ned grasped one of her hands, helping her up from where she had knelt in the mud. His eyes held a tender expression. ‘Even the sheep do your bidding, Grace.’
‘Thanking you kindly.’ Grace removed her hand from his. ‘I must be on my way, for I fear the snow will come soon.’
‘I will tell the others how you saved the sheep. I will tell Farmer Harper of your good deed, and he will recompense you.’
‘Oh, I beg you do not,’ Grace said. ‘I wish only to fill my pitcher with milk. Good day to you, Ned.’
She left him watching her. She felt sad momentarily; Ned Shears was a good man and she believed he was probably a little in love with her. But he was promised to Jennet Bryant and there was only love for her child in her heart now; there would never be space for a man. She knew that was true: she had even promised the chattering well beneath the new moon that her entire life would belong to her child if he came into the world hale and whole, if he would be blessed with good fortune.
Grace reached the farm and knocked on the door. She noticed the familiar marks above it: a circular daisy wheel and two letters etched into the woodwork. Grace recognised the A in Grace and knew the engravings had been carved there to ward off evil.
The cold wind made her shiver and she knocked again. Then Alice appeared, an apron over a pretty linen dress, a cap on her head. She smiled happily when she saw Grace. ‘Come in, come in and warm yourself by the hearth.’
‘Oh no, I am here only for a pitcher of milk,’ Grace began, but Alice’s arm was around her shoulder, tugging her into the spacious square room with an inglenook.
Alice set her on a chair before a roaring fire. ‘Old Mother Harper is busy with the festivities for the wassailing tonight. She is in the kitchen. She will not come here to disturb us.’ Alice knelt at her feet. ‘Your dress is dirty.’
‘I helped a sheep that had fallen on its back into a ditch. As I knelt, my skirts became muddy.’
Alice took Grace’s raw, icy hands and rubbed them gently. ‘You have made yourself cold, Grace, and it is not good for the baby. Rest awhile – I will fill your pitcher and bring some posset to warm you.’
‘Thank you.’ Grace closed her eyes for a moment and her skin begin to thaw again. The baby turned, pushing out a strong foot, and Grace rubbed it, a soothing circular movement. She hummed the lullaby she believed the child recognised already; she was sure he knew the comforting sound of her voice.
Steam rose rise from the damp skirts of her dress; her feet inside the thick boots began to dry. Then Alice was beside her, placing a cup of posset in her hands. Grace inhaled the smell of warm spices, nutmeg and cinnamon, the milk curdled with wine. She sipped it gratefully.
Alice placed a basket beside her on the floor. ‘Here is your pitcher of milk. And I have put in a few things to take with you – some cheese, bread, butter, a piece of pie, some bacon. My mother-in-law will not miss them. Will you be able to carry them to Slaugh Cottage? If not, I will gladly walk there with you.’
‘Oh, Alice, you are most kind.’
‘Finish your drink and we will go together.’ Alice’s blue eyes twinkled. ‘For I have much to speak about: since you gave me the acorn to wear against my heart for luck, life here is much improved. And I am hopeful for my marriage.’
Grace finished the posset and handed the cup to Alice before easing herself upright. ‘Then we will leave together. It is not good your mother-in-law finds me here.’
‘Oh, she is an ill-tempered, heavy-footed stamp-crab.’ Alice covered her mouth with a small hand and smiled, a little embarrassed at her boldness, almost believing that if she had dared to speak ill of her mother-in-law, her words would surely be heard. ‘Come, let us not tarry.’
Alice wrapped Grace snugly in her cape and pulled on a cloak of her own, then lifted the basket in one hand and threaded the other through the crook of Grace’s elbow.
‘Let us walk down the hill.’
As they stepped outside, it had started to snow, the flakes falling thickly.
Alice cheered. ‘God is eating goose tonight for the Twelfth Night Feast. Look how the snow tumbles, fat as feathers. Someone in heaven is plucking them and letting them fall to earth.’
Grace smiled. ‘You are in a better humour, Alice. I am pleased to see it.’
‘You have brought me good luck with the acorn you gave me.’ Alice allowed Grace to lean against her as they walked down the hill. ‘Nathaniel pays me more attention now. He has bought me a new dress for the festivities tonight and this morning he called me his pretty Alice. I am sure that he and I will have a child soon.’
Grace felt the snow settle against her brow; she looked up towards the heavens, enjoying the icy softness against her skin. ‘I am pleased for you.’
‘Besides, if I do not get a child this year, I will have one soon. I believe it. And you are my dear friend now.’ Alice squeezed Grace’s arm. ‘And next month you will have your baby, and at Hill Top I am secretly making a blanket to keep him warm. I will visit you at Slaugh Cottage whenever I can once he is born, and we can watch him grow together. Perhaps you will let me hold him and stroke his cheeks, and it will bring me luck to conceive a baby of my own.’
‘Perhaps I will bring forth a girl?’ Grace said.
‘Perhaps you will, but whether it is a boy or a maid, I will help you in any way I can. You have shown me such kindness and I mean to do the same for you.’
‘Thank you, Alice – I am truly happy to hear it.’ They were approaching Slaugh Cottage and Grace pointed to the old oak tree. ‘Look how heavily laden the branches are on the tree. The snow is heaped so high, I fear they may break and fall.’
Alice stooped, picking up a handful of snow. Flakes danced around her head, settling on her cap, sticking to her eyelashes, making the tips white. ‘If you were not with child now, or if your baby were already born and walking, we would make a big snowman. You, I and the child could make one almost as tall as the house.’
‘A man made of snow is a good thing,’ Grace agreed. ‘I once heard my mother say that white snow is God's forgiveness of our sins. The circular snowball shows the everlasting life God promises us. It would be pleasant to make such a man.’
‘Just imagine, Grace – next year we will be here in the snow, and the year after. Your child will laugh, his little cheeks red, and you and I will laugh along with him. And maybe I too will have a child of my own, and the four of us can make one together.’
‘I hope for it.’ Grace clasped Alice’s hand. ‘For I wish you much happiness.’
Alice lifted her skirt in a pirouette. ‘Tonight, Nathaniel and I will dance together in the ox barn, and perhaps our union will be blessed…’
A sudden thought came to Grace and she grabbed her friend’s wrist. ‘Come with me, Alice.’ She picked up the basket in her free hand, tugging Alice towards the well. ‘You must speak your heart’s desire into the well. Then whatever you wish for will come to pass.’
‘The chattering well – I have heard others speak of it.’ Alice’s eyes shone.
They rushed towards the well, kneeling down, leaning into to the depths.
Alice squeezed Grace’s hand and whispered, ‘Shall I say it now?’
‘Speak that which you want more than anything else,’ Grace said softly.
Alice leaned forward, Grace’s fingers folded tightly in hers, and murmured, ‘More than anything in the world, I would like a baby boy of my own.’
‘And I wish on my own life that it will come to pass.’ Grace’s voice trembled, and her words mixed with Alice’s in a soft echo at the bottom of the well, the sound returning to them as a single voice from the depths.
They smiled and threw their arms around each other.
‘So be it,’ Grace embraced Alice again and when they pulled apart their cheeks were damp with melting ice or warm tears, they were not sure which.