On the afternoon after Twelfth Night, Grace picked her way carefully to her grandmother’s house across packed snow, a basket in her hand. She had walked the twenty-minute journey to Ashcomb many times since she had been a child, but this time she felt achingly tired. Her Grandmother Bett met her at the door, her face crumpled with concern.
‘You are only weeks from lying-in and you have walked here through the cold and the snow? You make me fret…’ She shepherded her indoors and sat her down in the chair at the hearth. ‘I will bring you something warm to drink. You must rest, Gracie.’
Grace was glad of the opportunity to relax in front of the fire, and she handed over her basket dutifully. ‘I brought these things for you.’
Bett lifted the linen cloth. ‘Eggs, pie, a good slab of cheese. Did your father bring these back from wassailing at Hill Top Farm?’
‘No, Alice Harper – Alice Shears as was – took them from the farm kitchen. She said they had plenty there for the family and a little left over. Alice is my friend now.’
Bett watched her a moment, concerned: Grace appeared exhausted. Bett placed the basket on the table and poured warm cider from a jug, handing it to Grace, who closed her eyes. Then Bett crouched down, taking her granddaughter’s hands, rubbing them between her palms to warm them. ‘Did you see the fallen branch of the oak tree when you left Slaugh Cottage? Is it still across the lane?’
‘I know not of what you speak – there was none fallen when I left.’ Grace’s eyelids were still closed. ‘Did the oak branch snap? I said to Alice that it would. It was laden heavily with snow. I expect someone has taken it away to burn in their hearth.’
‘Oak wood burns slowly to bring fertility,’ Bett said. ‘But a high branch snapped late last night and crashed to the ground, just after the feasting for the wassail. Did you not hear about it? Everyone in Ashcomb is talking about Ned Shears’ accident after the wassailing in the ox barn.’
‘An accident has befallen Ned?’ Grace gasped. ‘How did it happen?’
‘Did your father not tell you this morning?’
‘He returned early from the wassailing. He was tired and took to his bed.’
‘I have heard this story several times today from many people in the village. Ned Shears and his brother, George, and several others were walking back towards Ashcomb late, after midnight, and as they were beneath it, the branch broke in half, falling down on Ned and his leg was trapped and twisted beneath him. The other men had to lift off the branch and then carry him to his home.’
‘Is he recovered?’
‘I fear he will not.’ Bett shook her head. ‘I have heard the leg is much damaged. I do not think he will work for many weeks. This morning I spoke to Mary Cook, a woman who lives in one of the cottages by St Bartholomew’s, and she told me that a splint was put on his leg, and that he was racked in terrible pain. I promised to call round later with a comfrey poultice to help knit the bone.’
‘Poor Ned.’
‘Of course, if he cannot work, then what will he do? He lives with George and Nancy, and Nancy has a child coming in March. Ned was to marry Jennet Bryant this summer, but he cannot wed her if he cannot afford to wive. He has suffered much misfortune. The wassail festivities did not send good luck to knock on his door this year, I fear.’
‘I am sad to hear about this, grandmother. I like Ned. He is a kindly man, and he has a good heart.’ Grace sighed, recalling how she had only spoken to him the day before. She remembered the gentleness of his voice, and the tender light in his eyes. ‘I wish him well,’ she muttered.
‘There is much sadness in this world,’ Bett said. ‘But there is also much to rejoice this coming year. I hear that Kitty Stokes is with child again, that she will be delivered of it in the autumn. And you will soon be safely delivered too, then you will need to lie in for a while to recover.’
‘I hope you will be there with me when the child comes. I fear I cannot do it alone.’
‘I have promised it, Gracie. And I hope all will be well; you are sturdy and strong, if slight, and you are carrying the child high, but you are a good girl and I hope it will not be a difficult birth.’
‘I hope so too, with all my heart,’ Grace said. ‘The little one turns and stretches every day and I fear that soon he will be too big for me to carry.’
Bett laughed. ‘I may be furrowed with old age, but I have delivered many women of their babes. You need not fret, for you are safe in my hands.’
‘I do not doubt it.’ Grace stretched out her legs in front of the fire and sighed deeply. ‘And, indeed, I am looking forward to holding my child. He will come soon, I know it.’
‘But meanwhile we must keep ourselves strong…’ Bett stood up slowly. ‘My back aches today and I need a cup of warm cider to ease the pain.’ She began to laugh. ‘Do not think me a swill-belly, Gracie, but I need to pour myself another cup. Let me get us both something to quench our thirst and I’ll cut us a piece of the pie you brought, then we can sit together and tittle-tattle the hours away…’
Bett stopped, moving softly towards Grace, whose small face was illuminated in the orange blaze, her eyes closed. There was a sweet smile on her lips, and she was breathing gently. Bett gazed at her fondly. Grace was sound asleep.
On Sunday morning, Selena was awake and dressed by seven o’clock, bright-eyed and smiling. Nick arrived at eight: they shared breakfast and were ready to leave at nine, her sketch pad stowed safely in the back of his Dacia Duster. Intense sunlight streamed through the windscreen, a warm honey-gold beam, but there was a sharp bracing wind; it was a perfect day to visit the coast, driving through Taunton and onto the sleepy A358 and then the busy A39.
‘So, where are we going first?’ Selena asked.
‘The weather is due to be dry all day, so you choose,’ Nick said, his eyes on the road. ‘We can either go to Dunster Castle, which is beautiful and packed with history, or we can walk through Dunster itself and see the thatched yarn market, the ruins of a Benedictine priory, a working watermill and the packhorse bridge.’
Selena clapped her hands. ‘All of those, please.’
‘But then the artist in you might want to go to Dunster Beach, which is all sand and shingle, it’s great for a long walk. Or we can drive up to Exmoor, where the views are stunning. I can imagine you painting the panorama of the moors, with all the folklore, pixies, ghosts. Even the Devil himself is said to lurk on Exmoor. It’s a wild place, with changeable weather and vast skies. Have you ever read Blackmore’s novel Lorna Doone?’
Selena shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so…’
‘It’s a love story between a kidnapped aristocratic girl and a young farm lad who has a grudge against the notorious Doone clan; it was written in the late seventeenth century. The story is set in a hidden valley on Exmoor.’
‘That sounds so romantic,’ Selena blurted, then stopped herself, her cheeks tingling. ‘I mean, it might be nice to go there…’
‘I was thinking about the sort of places you might want to photograph so that you can paint them later,’ Nick explained. ‘If we can feed your creative imagination on a Sunday, then maybe it will help you to paint during the week.’
‘It certainly will.’ Selena felt a surge of gratitude; Nick was so thoughtful, seeking out inspirational views for her to use in her painting. She was about to suggest that he should decide where to go since he knew the area so well, but she stopped herself. In the past, she had allowed David to make all the choices; she had often been passive or ambivalent. It was time now for her to become more decisive. ‘Can we go to Exmoor first and see the moorlands, then perhaps we can visit the beach, then if there is any time left, we can go to Dunster?’
‘Perfect,’ Nick replied, then he offered, ‘However, there is one small problem, which means we might run out of time. My mother made me promise to bring you over later this afternoon for tea at Hilltop.’
‘Tea? As in a cup of tea and crumpets?’ Selena asked nervously.
‘My mother likes to bake. She’ll be at home right now whisking up a sponge or making some scones.’ He glanced across. ‘Is that all right? My mother knows I’m showing you round the sights and she’s been grumbling that she hadn’t seen you in ages.’
‘Of course – that’s wonderful.’ Selena tried to sound pleased, but she was unsure about having tea with Nick’s parents. Immediately she told herself she was being silly; she was Lesley Russell’s tenant and Nick’s friend, that was all; it wasn’t as if they were the parents of a new boyfriend. She was worrying unnecessarily.
Nick glanced anxiously towards Selena, then back at the road ahead. ‘Are you okay? You’re a bit quiet today…’
‘Am I? Oh, sorry…’ Selena said. ‘It’s been a busy week. I’ve done lots more work in the conservatory, lots more local scenes, and then I visited the primary school to show some paintings to the ten-year-olds.’
‘Impressive.’ Nick raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d love to see the latest paintings you’ve been doing.’
Selena thought of the sunset view from Wychanger Lane that she had painted, and decided not to say anything about her visit to Joely and Matty, and what they had discussed. Instead, she said, ‘I’m even more excited about the ones I’m going to paint this week. Exmoor sounds wonderful and I haven’t painted an ocean in years. What I’d really like to do is paint the sea at night, you know, the moonlight and the reflection on the water…’
‘We can come back one evening, drive to somewhere like Bossington Beach and take lots of photos…’ Nick replied and Selena wondered if he was teasing her. No, she decided, he was genuinely offering to give up his time to help her with her paintings. He seemed to read her thoughts as he added, ‘I really look forward all week to the places we visit together on Sundays, going round the county and finding some of the best places for you to paint. It’s great to be outdoors, walking. If I was back in Exeter, I’d be either reading or working at home, or having a pint down the pub with a mate.’ He grinned. ‘This is much more fun.’
‘I’m glad.’ Selena gave him a warm smile. ‘I have to say, I’m really grateful for everything you’re doing to help me.’
‘It’s a pleasure.’ Nick pointed through the windscreen as he turned the car left to climb up a steep hill. Selena gazed out of the window at tufty grass, shades of green mixed with yellow gorse and wild purple heather. ‘And we’re almost here. I think you’re going to love Exmoor.’