On Sunday the twenty third of March in 1682, Grace Cotter rose at daybreak and rushed outside into the garden, wearing only her shift, to draw water from the well. The garden was silent, except for the early flurry of insects, and the air was cool as she splashed her face and hands with fresh water. She quickly rubbed the rest of her body, rinsing her hair with clean water from a pitcher, massaging her scalp with deft fingers, drying herself on a thick linen cloth. Then she set about washing clothes, drawing more water in the bucket and filling the tub, carefully adding the mixture of wood ash and a little urine from her chamber pot and scrubbing the shift and the grey dress she had worn yesterday. She paid particular attention to the muddy hems, rubbing hard with her knuckles, then paddling the linen with a wooden bat. Then she dragged out the heavy clothes, squeezing the water from them, and hung them to dry on the bushes. She set to washing her father’s work clothes, which was always a hard job as his daily toil on the farm left them heavy with soil and sweat, but the air was fresh and would render them clean, and her own patched dress would dry well.
Grace returned to Slaugh Cottage massaging her chafed hands; her knuckles were sore and rough. Her hair was still wet and her skin was chilled beneath the thin shift, but she moved quickly into the living room to warm herself, blowing on the embers of the fire in the grate and fanning them until they glowed, adding twigs and then logs, filling the black kettle and hanging it over the fire on the hook. She cut bread and placed it on her father’s platter on the table, with cheese and a slice of cold mutton, then she filled his tankard with fresh milk from the pitcher. He would rise soon, wash and break his fast later than usual, as was customary on Sundays.
Grace hurried to her room and opened the clothes box by her bed, taking out her Sunday dress, a cream linen garment she kept for best. She pulled it on, smoothing the skirts, wrapping a clean kerchief around her neck, arranging her damp hair and covering it with a cream bonnet. She scurried downstairs again into the small back room, selecting items from the pantry: she had made a seed cake for her grandmother, which she placed carefully in a basket with a pot of blackberry jam. She had made several batches of jam last autumn: the weather had been warm and the plentiful berries had lasted until mid-October. Grandmother Bett had a sweet tooth and would be grateful for some sugary preserves to go with her bread. Grace added a pot of pickled cucumbers.
She was about to leave the pantry when a book on the shelf caught her eye. It was her mother’s seldom-used copy of The English Hus-wife by Gervase Markham, containing recipes, remedies and instruction. Grace held it in her hand, turning it over, her fingers pressing the creamy pages that her mother had once touched. She did not know many of her letters; she had been taught at her mother’s knee to write her name, but she could not read. In truth, her mother could not read or write well either: the book had been given to her, a treasure, and she had kept it as such without being able to decipher much of the contents.
Grace opened the first page and ran her finger lightly over the first few words, although she had no sense of what the writing meant. Thou mayst say (gentle Reader) what hath this man to doe with Hus-wifery, he is now out of his element.
Grace smiled. There was one particular recipe her mother used to make, a rich spicy gingerbread. Grace would bake some tomorrow, in time for Lady Day on Tuesday, so that they could share it in the evening. She imagined her father’s expression as he’d nibble the sweet cake and taste the warm sharp bite of ginger, bringing back fond memories of when they were a family of three, sitting together around the fire. Those were the times when he had been most happy.
Grace heard her father moving upstairs, his slow footfall heavy on the wooden steps, then he was in the living room, his clothes dishevelled, his face tired. She offered him a smile. ‘So, good day to you, Father. I have prepared you a feast – bread and cheese and mutton, and the creamy top from the milk. It is all laid on the table.’ She gave a little skip, the basket in her hand. ‘I am now on my way to see my Grandmother Bett. I will meet you at church.’
He was staring at her, his eyes shining. ‘You are a comely young woman, Grace, and full of goodness. You remind me so much of Anne.’
‘But my hair is as yours, Father, too much like the colour of strawberries. Mother’s locks were dark, and they would curl in ringlets. Mine will not hold a curl at all, even if I wrap it in rags and sleep in them all night.’
‘You have her sweet nature.’
Grace bobbed a half-curtsey, flushed with happiness. ‘I am glad I remind you of her, and that it gives you good cheer. Your Sunday clothes are freshly clean. I put them back upstairs on Friday. So, I will see you later, smartly dressed and in church.’
Will Cotter flopped in his chair, stretching out long legs. ‘It would be a better day if I could stay here and rest. Reverend Walters vexes me. His sermons are too lengthy.’
‘Father!’ Grace pretended to be surprised, but her eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘You know that we can be fined for not attending church, and we cannot afford it. You told me yourself, a fine for not attending church can be more than we earn in a year. So, to church you must go.’ She waved her basket, making her skirts rustle. ‘I will see you at St Bartholomew's, dear father. And be warned, sitting by the hearthside will make you fall asleep, and if you doze the morning away, you will be tardy to church.’
Grace walked the half-mile into Ashcomb village, past rows of low-thatched cottages and the village inn, The Royal Oak, renamed over twenty years ago in the King’s honour after the restoration of Charles II in 1660. Grace had learned the story of the King hiding in the branches of an oak tree from her grandmother, who seemed to be a source of any gossip or news that was happening inside and outside the village.
A young man passed her by in the street, Ned Shears, one of the farm labourers who worked with her father, and he doffed his cap, mumbling, ‘Good morning to ye, Mistress Grace,’ and she wished him a good day quietly, her eyes cast down modestly.
She arrived at her grandmother’s cottage, a small thatched house with white cob walls. Her grandmother was standing by the doorpost, smiling through her few remaining teeth. She wore a white cap and a clean apron and she waved as Grace approached, before rushing forward and kissing her cheek. ‘I knew you’d come by to see me before church today.’ Her voice was soft as rustling leaves. ‘Come inside, come inside.’
She led the way into the house; there was one dark room downstairs where a fire was burning in the hearth, a blackened kettle hanging from a hook, and an old spinning wheel stood in the corner, a stool next to it.
Bett White patted Grace’s arm affectionately, then she took her hands in hers, turning them over and frowning. ‘Look at your hands, Gracie Cotter. They are chapped and raw. Have you been washing clothes and not drying them properly?’ Before Grace could answer, she tugged her towards the hearth and urged her to sit down. ‘I will have to make amends. I’ll put some oatmeal paste on them. They’ll be as soft as a lady’s silk kerchief when I’ve finished. So, tell me, what are the ingredients of a good oatmeal paste for the hands?’
Grace answered dutifully. ‘Four ounces of lard, six ounces of honey, eight ounces of oatmeal, three egg yolks, all mixed together.’
‘All the village women swear by my oatmeal paste.’ Bett had moved to a shelf in the corner and was returning with a pot. ‘They say it makes the skin exceeding soft and supple. It is good for the skin after birthing too.’ She took Grace’s small hands in hers and began to massage the salve into her skin. ‘So, my girl, how are you? How is Will?’
Grace closed her eyes, enjoying the steady rhythm of her grandmother’s strong fingers against her palms. ‘My father is well. And I am well too.’ She smiled. ‘All is well, thanks be to God.’
‘Your father is a good man. You are lucky, child, to have a father who treats you with such kindness. A tolerant father is a rare thing, especially as you are a young girl of marriageable age. But I fear he gives you far too much freedom.’
‘He sleeps early most evenings and leaves me to tend my herbs in the garden. And I care for him as much as I can. He is old now and tired from his daily toil. I must make time later to collect some nettle leaves, to bruise and mix with wallwort to comfort his aching joints. I do my best to ease his pains.’
‘Let me ease ours, I have warmed some cider for us,’ Bett said softly, pouring from a fireside pitcher, filling two pewter tankards. ‘Already today I have drunk two mugs of it.’ She noticed Grace’s admonishing expression. ‘Do not think me a swill-belly. It is purely to keep me warm.’
‘Then why do you drink so much of it in the summertime?’ Grace teased.
‘Then, it keeps me cool,’ Bett retorted playfully. ‘Come, Gracie, and see. I have been mending. I am making that linen dress of yours into a gown fit for a lady.’ She tugged Grace’s sleeve over to the corner, pulling a cream dress from her large sewing basket. ‘It will be perfect for May Day. I’m going to embroider it with little white flowers, like the ones on the blackthorn, and you can wear it at the May dancing. You will be a beautiful May Queen.’
Grace held up the gown and gave a small twirl.
Bett clapped her hands gleefully. ‘Oh, you will make such a wonderful bride one of these days.’
Grace moved towards the fireplace, picking up her mug of mulled cider, sipping slowly. Her eyes were thoughtful. ‘I think not.’
Bett, her tankard clutched in the other hand, patted Grace’s knee. ‘And why not?’ She leaned forward. ‘I think perhaps some young gentleman has already caught your eye?’ She noticed Grace’s cheeks flush pink. ‘Indeed, I can see I’m right. Tell me, Gracie, for I know of all the eligible young bachelors in this parish.’
Grace shook her head. ‘I do not think of marriage, Grandmother. My father needs me at home. And I am content to stay there, to care for him.’
Bett raised an eyebrow. For a moment she was deep in thought, examining Grace’s expression, the downcast of her eyes, the pressing together of her lips. ‘Ah, you are a good girl, I am certain of it. But you cannot deny what is in your heart. Your mother had married your father at your age. I was married by the time I was twenty, and those were precious years with my John, God rest his soul. Young women of your age have children, and many of them too. Love is the way of the world, and it is natural to seek it.’
Grace shook her head. ‘I have no such fancy…’
‘But you do.’ Bett took another long draught from her cup and her eyes sparkled. ‘I can see it. And it is a young man of the parish.’
‘In truth, there is one goodly man, Grandmother, but we have rarely spoken, except in polite greeting. He knows who I am, where I live. But he will not choose me.’
‘Why not? You are pretty, you are modest, skilful; you are not afraid of hard work.’
Grace whispered, ‘He is the son of Joseph Harper, the farmer who pays my father’s wages, who owns the house I live in. He will not have eyes for one such as me.’ Her gaze stayed on her hands that held the cup on her lap.
‘Then I will charm him to come to you. I can make a love potion by mixing the pretty little periwinkle flowers with leeks and earthworms. And I can assure you that it will work.’ Bett’s eyes gleamed. ‘How else do you think such a one as John White, who could have had his pick of all the girls in the parish, came to choose me?’
Grace sat up straight, her voice indignant. ‘I can make such a potion myself, if I need so to do, Grandmother.’
Bett laughed. ‘Of course you could. I taught your mother and she taught you well.’
‘If Nathaniel Harper likes me, then I wish him to like me because he does, not because I have charmed him to do so.’
‘And that is very wise. But, just in case he should need a helping hand, so that he can find the path to Slaugh Cottage to court you in the evenings, perhaps I’ll make something I can leave on his doorstep at the farm, or slip into his hand at church, to speed his ardour.’
‘Grandmother…’ Grace saw the mischief in Bett’s eyes.
‘Come, let me look at the fine things you have brought in your basket. I can see cake, and my favourite jam. Pickles too.’ Bett changed the subject with a quick smile. ‘Then we must break some bread, have a bite of cheese. I have eaten nothing all day and I am quite gut-foundered.’
Grace rose from the seat. ‘Oh, do let me prepare a platter for you.’
‘No, we have much to talk about, so let us get the food together. I want to tell you about Kitty Stokes, who lives near the church with her husband. She is with child and just a few weeks from lying-in. I will deliver the child, but you must come with me to help, Gracie, because I fear it will not be an easy first birth. You know Kitty, she that was Kitty Watt?’
‘I think so, Grandmother. She is the same age as I, a year younger.’
‘Her grandfather was George Watt: he was killed at Dunster castle when I was a young mother, and Anne was at my knee. The Somerset menfolk defended the castle with Robert Blake against the Parliamentarians. That castle changed hands more times than the weather changes in April. Things were hard for us when I was younger– first the Lord Protector was in charge, then the Puritans. And the Puritans wouldn’t even let us celebrate May Day, not in those days – they called dancing a heathenish vanity. A year ago last February, Kitty Watt married Edmund Stokes, the grandson of Harry Stokes who was a great friend to my John back in the day.’
Grace nodded slowly. ‘Of course. I am glad to help you if I can.’
‘So, let us eat and you can tell me all about your young man, Master Nathaniel Harper.’
‘Oh, he is not mine, and there is little to say. He is an ordinary man – he has two arms, two legs, one nose.’ Grace smiled to herself. ‘He is just a man like any other.’
‘No man is like any other, and that is God’s truth,’ Bett said with a smile, then she bustled towards the corner of the room and began to slice bread and cheese.
Grace watched her grandmother for a moment, about to join her, when she gazed into the depths of her cider mug. The liquid was murky, ink-dark, like the bottom of her well, but for a moment she thought she glimpsed a shadow in the sediment, a figure that cleared and became a shape she was familiar with. It was exactly as she remembered him, wearing fine leather shoes, an open-necked white shirt and breeches that fitted snugly. He was standing by the lychgate outside the church, staring in her direction. Grace caught her breath as the image of Nathaniel Harper swirled away and disappeared, leaving her heart beating quickly and the dark dregs of the drink sinking to the bottom of the tankard.