Selena had worked on the painting throughout Friday, her easel set up in the sitting room not far from the window, outlining the shape of the window frame and the blackthorn tree. She had stopped for lunch at two o’clock, sitting dreamily in front of a plate of rye biscuits and a piece of brie, thinking about the date tomorrow. Perhaps Nick would book a table at an intimate taverna somewhere in nearby Taunton, but, again, he might take her closer to his home in Exeter and Selena wondered, her thoughts racing, if he would invite her back to his place afterwards. She imagined that his living room would be crammed with bookshelves, packed with piles of books: so many novels, thick ancient tomes, modern literature, philosophy. She could picture the spines lined up alphabetically, Dickens next to Dickinson, Pratchett next to Proust. She visualised his bedroom, wooden floors, a thick patterned rug, the walls cream, the duvet grey, a Basquiat or Picasso print on the wall. Their first kiss might be on the sofa, poring over a book, or he might take her in his arms before that, as they stepped from the car and hesitated by the door. Or perhaps she’d kiss him first. Then she stopped her thoughts abruptly and told herself that she must take things slowly. She and Nick would spend a cordial afternoon together researching the history of the cottage, they’d pop into the nearest town for a pleasant meal and then he would drop her off and go home.
By three thirty, Selena was completely absorbed in her painting of the blackthorn tree. The outline was sparse, thin twigs jutting from thicker branches curved towards the frame of the glass. She worked on into the evening, ignoring the hunger that gnawed at her stomach. She mixed silver and cream-coloured paint to highlight the tips of the twigs, indigo to create the heavy shadow and the sinister curves in the foreground. She was pleased with her work, but she needed to make the blackthorn tree stand out, to show its potency. She began to paint in the night sky behind it, thin silver brushstrokes illuminating the branches from the moon’s glow, thicker layers for the inky darkness behind, spattered with silver stars. She stood back and considered her work: it was almost there. She glanced at the clock – time had flown by: it was past ten and she knew that she ought to go to bed. She placed another log on the fire: she felt warm beside the grate, but beyond the easel, the windows were cold, a mist of condensation on thin glass.
Selena’s phone rang and she twisted away from the fire and her painting to answer it: it was Claire, her voice hurried and full of apology. ‘Selena. It’s just me. I’m sorry – is this too late? It’s been bothering me all evening. I just wanted to say again – I feel so bad about David getting hold of your address. I feel really awful.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Selena said. ‘It worked out for the best – it brought me some closure.’
‘Gulliver feels awful too – David was very persuasive about needing your address and poor Gulliver’s such a trusting soul – he believed David’s rubbish about you wanting him to get in touch. He says he’ll make it up to you. He can’t wait to see you again. It’s less than three weeks until you come home and we’ll put up all your paintings in the gallery. I was thinking about names for the exhibition – the Somerset Collection, the Mystic Collection…’
‘Home,’ Selena repeated flatly, thinking about Manchester. She was suddenly tired.
‘And I wanted to tell you – Gulliver and I are together, we’re a couple, as from yesterday.’
Selena grinned. ‘Oh. That’s great.’
‘It is,’ Claire’s voice was bubbling with excitement. ‘We both think this could be it; we’ve found the one. We’re just so compatible.’
‘That’s brilliant, Claire.’ For a second, Selena wondered whether to mention her date with Nick, but she held back; it was too soon to be certain about what would happen between them and, besides, this was Claire’s moment and Selena wanted her to revel in it fully. She took a breath. ‘I’m so glad everything is working out well for you.’
‘Oh, it is…’ Claire lowered her voice. ‘In fact, he’s staying here at the moment…’
‘I’m so pleased for you.’ Selena said. ‘I’d better let you go now…’
‘Thanks, Selena. See you soon – take care, love you lots,’ Claire replied, and she was gone.
Selena turned back to her painting of the tree. All of a sudden, the room felt cold, her skin prickled with it. She was aware of the sensation of icy breath on her neck, a light touch on her shoulder. Someone had just walked past her, brushing against her hair. She shuddered, her legs suddenly weak, the phone clenched hard in her fist, then she looked towards the window. The blackthorn tree drummed lightly in the wind. There was something written on the window, strange shapes on the glass. Selena stared, her heart pounding: five letters had been scrawled untidily in the condensation, as if unpractised fingers had tried to form them for the first time. She saw it clearly, the word inscribed in moisture.
A name: Grace.
Grace stared at the shutters, wishing she could be outside gazing at the moon, breathing in the fresh night air. Her father was sitting in his chair by the fire, dozing in the warmth. She glanced towards the wooden stairs; Gabriel was upstairs, asleep in her room. She would go up soon and join him; she always looked forward to lifting him in his blanket, the bundle of warmth next to her skin, listening to the light rise and fall of his breath.
Her father gave a cough, waving a hand to beckon her. ‘Come and sit with me by the fireside a moment, Grace.’
She moved to the grate dutifully, sitting on the low stool. ‘How are you, Father?’
‘I am weary – all day I have been cleaning out the stables and barns with some of the men. April is no easier than any month on the farm, but I am glad the air is a little warmer.’ A smile flickered on his lips and was gone. ‘What I would give to rest my bones on a stool, sitting miking a cow.’
‘It is better than being a weeding woman – I am happy that the cows let down their milk for me so readily or I would surely be back to plucking weeds.’ Grace raised a hand to her head, pressing the temple that had begun to ache, a tight band around her head. ‘No one will speak to me in the barn now, not since Nancy’s baby, Agnes, was born, and that was four weeks since. Jennet turns her back to me; Margaret says little most of the time and the new girl, Joanna, is afraid of Jennet and looks to her for what she should do.’ Grace sighed. ‘But it is no matter to work alone. I have my son with me all day and he cheers my heart. I miss Alice, though. She is the farmer’s wife now that Mistress Harriet rests all day, and I see her only when she comes to the barn to check our milk pails.’
‘Grace…’ Will chose his words carefully. ‘I believe I am not long for this world…’
‘Father, do not speak like this—’
‘Hear me, child. I would go gladly to be with my Anne in Heaven, were it not for the fear of leaving you and Gabriel behind. If I were to die, Slaugh Cottage would surely go to another labourer at the farm. I know George Shears has already asked Master Nathaniel about it for himself.’
‘He has a family of his own now, and they live in one small room.’
‘There is much talk between the men each day, Grace.’
‘Between the women, too. I have heard Jennet tell Joanna that Master Nathaniel is buying a new horse for himself. He will bring it to the farm soon. It is a fine beast and he will ride it out to Taunton and in the fields when we are working.’
‘I have heard it.’ Will met her eyes. ‘But the talk is often of you and little Gabriel, and that he has no father named.’
‘I am sorry, Father.’
Will’s face was etched with anxiety. ‘You have grown to be a fine woman, Grace, but you have not had a mother to guide you, and I have been of little avail. It is I who am sorry.’
‘Gabriel is mine. I would not change it now.’
‘I have seen you with the child. You are a good mother. Your mother was just so with you. It warms my heart to see it.’ Will closed his eyes. His face in the orange firelight was furrowed and tired. When he opened his eyes again, he said, ‘People ask me who is the child’s father. There is much talk of it, and some of it is jealousy, spleen and malice. But I do not like to hear it.’
Grace took a breath. ‘I cannot speak the name of Gabriel’s father. I have vowed to myself that it will not pass my lips.’
‘Then who knows what will come?’ Will said. ‘Take heed, Grace. There are some who do not speak you fair and I have tried my best to stop them. George Shears is the worst. And you know that once a word has been uttered, it cannot be unsaid…’
Grace was thoughtful for a while, staring into the flames. Sparks swirled up the chimney and away into darkness. A high pile of logs hissed and smouldered in the grate among blackened twigs like charred, snapped bones. Grace put out her palms and warmed the span of her hands until they were too hot, placing them over her face, her fingers pressing her temples. Beyond the window, a breeze blew hard, seeping through the rickety shutters. She smoothed her skirt and stared into the hearth. Then she exhaled slowly. ‘I will go outside into the garden, Father. I will not be long.’
Grace wandered from the house, leaving the door ajar; the hooked moon glimmered in a starless sky, casting silver light, tinting the edges of leaves. Her headache was gone now. She moved on silent feet to the well, staring into the blackness of the water, whispering words in a low voice that floated down to the depths. Then she stood slowly, turning to the blackthorn tree and smiled. It was her favourite tree at all times of the year, but now, in April, its branches were crammed with blossom, and she reached out slender fingers, murmuring her request. ‘May I pluck a bloom or two for myself and wear them in my hair?’
Grace touched the creamy petals, stretching to pick a tiny flower, selecting the largest bloom, then she jerked back, her hand caught in the thorns; the blackthorn tree had answered her. She felt a stabbing pain in her finger and, in the moonlight, she saw the dark bead of blood rise and spread across her flesh. The indentation of a sharp curved thorn had lodged in her skin. She tugged the blackthorn out, putting her fingertip to her lips to stop the flow of blood. For several moments, Grace trembled from the shock of the spike: a sharp puncture from the blackthorn was a bad sign.
She turned to gaze up at the moon. It slipped from behind a cloud, leaving ragged grey clouds in its wake. She breathed in the sweet smell of the garden, the damp grass, the fragrant herbs, and pulled off her cap to feel the breeze separate the strands of her hair and lift them, cool on her neck. Then she closed her eyes, raising her arms towards the moon, whispering soft words in the hope that all would be well, that she would be safe. Beyond, in the hedgerow, a hare scuttled into the shadows and, in the distance, a fox screamed.