The next few weeks were some of the happiest Grace had known. Gabriel was close by all day long, resting in her arms or slumbering in the hollowed-out barrel stuffed with soft straw and linen. She suckled him whenever he was hungry, her body responding immediately to the vigorous cry of his lungs, all the time watching his eyes on her, his lashes against his cheek as his mouth puckered and he slipped into contented sleep. Nursing him was always precious; she was astonished by the rush of love she felt every time she lifted him, the warmth of his skin against hers; Grace had never known such complete devotion. As she worked around the house preparing food, she sang happy little ditties that would make him smile and gurgle. And at night-time, she would snuggle in her pallet bed, holding him in her arms, listening to the soft rhythm of his breathing as he slept, inhaling the sweet warmth, pressing her lips against his cheek, so many kisses.
As March approached, new herbs started to push through in the garden and Grace slipped outside while Gabriel dozed, lingering to coax them to grow and to reply to the crow’s loud call. There were hares loitering in the garden, hedgehogs, and a vixen roamed, calling for her mate. Grace whispered her thanks to the well daily; gratitude filled her heart like a blossoming flower. She knew that her beloved blackthorn bush would bloom soon, heralding the arrival of May and she could take the baby outside to sit on the grass and she would make a daisy chain for him.
It was a Friday, March the twelfth, a fresh day with the promise of spring. Grace was working indoors, but she left the door ajar, aware of the birdsong, the sweet smell of new grass and changing seasons in the air. The blackthorn tree brushed against the shutters and Grace greeted the sound with a smile; she thought of her father working out in the fields and she was thankful for the heat of the logs crackling in the grate. She had prepared the evening meal – a hearty mutton stew was cooking in its pot on the hook; a loaf of bread was baking in the little oven – and Grace sat down to relax in her chair, Gabriel nestling in the crook of her arm. She murmured to him, telling him a story about a handsome young man who rode on a horse and brought treasure back from far-off lands. His eyes were on hers all the time, listening as if he understood each new word, his little fist clasped around her finger. Grace marvelled at the pudding softness of his hand and it saddened her to think that one day it would be calloused and rough as her own, raw like her father’s after he had ploughed fields each day. She wished with all her heart that she could save him from the hardship she and her father had known.
Watching Gabriel deep in slumber, Grace knew that she had named him right: he had the sweet flushed face of an angel. She placed him in his barrel crib, covering him with the blanket Alice had made for him, embroidered with the letter G which Grace knew well, it being the first letter of her own name. Alice had sewn four numbers onto the blanket, 1683, and Grace was pleased that the year of her son’s birth was chronicled in the stitches.
She gazed at her baby as he slept, then she reached for her own sewing work in a basket. She had a dress that needed patching, some breeches of her father’s to mend, but first she would finish the little doll she was making for Gabriel. She had worked a piece of linen into the shape of a boy with dark wool for the hair and eyes and for the buttons on his shirt, stuffing the cloth with new herbs, mint and sage, rosemary, lemon balm and parsley. She imagined Gabriel holding it in his tiny fist and inhaling the fresh scents, chattering to it like a companion: he would never have a brother or a sister.
She looked down at Gabriel again, and her thoughts turned to Alice: she was so kind, a true friend. Since the baby was born, Alice had visited Slaugh Cottage whenever she could, bringing gifts she’d pilfered from the kitchen at Hill Top Farm. She’d insisted on bringing curds and making posset to build up Grace’s strength; she’d baked more batches of spicy jumble biscuits and stolen eggs and fish, bringing them to Grace hidden beneath a linen cloth in a basket. Alice spent more time in the barn now, milking the cows, as Harriet was short of milkmaids, but she would slip down to see Grace whenever she could.
Grace knew how fond Alice was of Gabriel too; her face would relax and her eyes would fill with tears whenever she saw him, and she would beg to pick him up, and cradle him in her arms. Grace would always say yes, even if Gabriel was sleeping; Alice would lift him with such tenderness, never waking him, laying her cheek against his face and offering Grace a look of pure gratitude and affection. Grace hoped that Alice would find herself with child soon: she deserved to share the same happiness that filled Grace’s waking moments and her sleeping hours as she held her son in her arms.
There was a loud rap at the door. Grace’s first thought was to hope that the abrupt noise wouldn’t wake Gabriel. She wondered if Alice had come to visit early, if she had managed to slip away from her chores and from the keen eagle-eye of her mother-in-law. Her eyes moved to the baby, adjusting his blanket, then she pushed her needle into the linen of her sewing, dropped it into the basket and slipped from the room towards the front door.
Grace caught her breath. Nathaniel Harper stood in the opening facing her. Grace gazed over his shoulder; small birds fluttered in the leaves of the oak tree. She met Nathaniel’s dark-eyes and suddenly realised she was without her cap and her kerchief. Her pale hair hung around her shoulders and her dress was loose. She waited for him to speak.
‘Can I come in, Grace?’
Grace wished she could say no; the baby was inside, asleep; she was busy, but Slaugh Cottage belonged to Joseph Harper so she could not refuse his son.
She nodded and Nathaniel strode inside, into the living room. He stopped when he reached the cot, staring down at the sleeping child, taking in the dark tufts of hair. Then he turned to Grace.
‘So, the baby is well?’
‘He is.’
‘And I hear you have named him Gabriel?’
‘I have.’
Nathaniel did not take his eyes from her and Grace felt uncomfortable; he was in her house, a threat in the place she felt most safe.
She took a breath. ‘So – what can I do for you, Master Nathaniel? Was it my father you wanted to see? You know he is at work in the fields and will not be home until late.’
‘I wanted to see you, Grace.’
There was an urgency in Nathaniel’s tone that made Grace feel uneasy. ‘What is it that you want?’
Nathaniel looked at the baby again and a moment’s tenderness smoothed his furrowed brow. Grace wondered if he would lift the child from the cot and she was ready to tell him to leave her child alone; Gabriel was not Nathaniel’s to touch.
Nathaniel exhaled. ‘You know that my wife cannot get with child?’
‘She has much time before her. You have not been wed a year.’
Nathaniel shook his head. ‘I fear she cannot conceive. Alice is key-cold, not a warm-blooded maid like you.’ He gazed again at the baby. ‘And I need a son.’
Grace felt her heart start to knock in her chest; she was seized with the fear that Nathaniel would try to take the child from his cot, that he wanted to steal him away from her. She thought of her sewing tools in a basket next to her father’s chair; she imagined herself reaching for scissors or a bodkin. She would stab Nathaniel before she would allow him to snatch her son. She replied, her tone flat, ‘Gabriel is mine.’
Nathaniel’s face was immediately filled with regret. ‘Perhaps I made the wrong choice when I wived?’
‘You abandoned me.’
‘You bewitched me, Grace, and I was unwittingly charmed…’
Grace did not reply. Her gaze moved from Nathaniel to her baby, who was asleep in his cot, oblivious to the tension that hung in the air.
Nathaniel took a breath. ‘I’m here to speak to you for my mother. We are short of milkmaids in the strawed-down barn. And you are a skilled milkmaid. I have heard it said that your fingers have the power to make the cows let down more milk than any other maid. I want you to come back to work at the farm on Monday morning.’
Grace said, ‘And what of my child?’
Nathaniel shrugged. ‘It is spring. Wrap him well and bring him with you. He can sleep while you work.’
Grace stared at him, amazed that she had been called back to the barn: it was Mistress Harriet who had put her out. But the extra money would help. She would find a way to look after her son and to work. She offered a brief nod. ‘Very well. I will be there on Monday morning.’
Nathaniel turned, as if to leave. Then his eyes fell on the sewing. ‘What is this?’ He reached into the basket and picked up the little doll. ‘What have you made here, Grace? Is it an enchanted poppet?’
‘It is just a little herb-scented doll to comfort my son.’
Nathaniel turned it over in his fingers and then cried out in pain, ‘I have been pricked by a thorn.’
Grace reached for his hand without thinking, taking the doll from his fist, examining the palm of his hand where a bead of blood bloomed. ‘It is only my needle, it made just a small wound. If you like, I can clean it with water from the pitcher.’
Nathaniel tugged his hand away and took a step back. ‘It is no matter.’ He stared at Grace for a while. Outside, the sunshine illuminated fresh grass, buds of new blossom on the blackthorn. Nathaniel was still looking at her and Grace turned her gaze away.
He sighed. ‘I am sorry for what happened between us, Grace.’
Grace glanced at the baby asleep in the barrel cot. ‘I am not sorry for it.’
His brow creased. ‘Alice was my mother’s choice for a wife. Neither she nor my mother know this baby is mine.’
‘I will not mention your name. I have told no one.’
He drew himself up, taller, more self-assured, then he said, ‘Very well, Grace. You will start on Monday morning. I will bid you good day.’
Grace did not move. ‘Good day to you, Master Nathaniel.’
He watched her for a moment and she thought he might put out a hand and touch her hair, or speak a fond word, but he turned away. ‘I wish you well, Grace, you and the baby.’
Then he was gone; she heard the click of the door latch and she imagined him walking back up the lane to Hill Top Farm. She doubted they would ever speak again.
Gabriel was sleeping, making soft snuffling sounds as if dreaming, and Grace settled herself in the chair to finish her sewing. She picked up the doll she had been making, carefully extracting the needle from where she had tucked it in the fabric. She turned it over in her hands and saw the tiny spot of blood from Nathaniel’s hand on the cloth, like a little red heart. She lifted her needle and began to make careful stitches, finishing the doll, tying a knot in the thread. The flames leaped and crackled in the hearth and her face glowed in the orange light. Grace stretched out her legs, feeling the heat spread through her boots to her toes, and she sighed contentedly.