Stolen Lives (The Alice Chronicles #3)

2

I t is early evening three days later before they have finally built the last of the mown hay into ricks. Alice watches the signs of satisfaction they share amongst themselves, jokes, teasing, back-clapping. This year at least there will be adequate feed to last through the winter.

Having watched them drift away for bed, or towards Guildford town for the inns, Alice has made a last solitary check on field and barn before retreating to the winter parlour. The evening sun streams in, glancing off polished board and backstool, its oblique rays casting the empty hearth into shadow. She takes her recipe book from the shelf. She has ideas to teach Maureen the cook how to cook. They have all lived long enough with pallid pottage and lumpen loaves. Leafing through for something simple, she turns to see Sam come in. He hands her a letter and throws himself flat on the floor, panting, hot and sticky. His shoes and shirt he has discarded somewhere; no doubt they will be found later. She breaks the seal, gazing out of the windows that stand wide to catch what cooling airs there might be in the close evening. Scents from the herb garden are carried fitfully, pungent rosemary, sharp lemon balm, heady thyme. A honeysuckle scrambles up the garden wall, laden with buds already opening; the honeyed perfume spreads through the air; the bees are still busy.

The letter is the third in the past few weeks from her friend Ursula Cazanove, widow of wealthy merchant dyer Rupert Cazanove. The note is a little scribbled as though in haste. Perhaps because Alice replied to the last two with a gentle but firm refusal of the invitation to make the journey to Dorset “to revive your spirit” as Ursula phrased it. How am I to revive my spirit, Alice thinks, when I have a household falling apart from low spirits?

‘What does it say, Alice?’ Sam wriggles to find another cool spot on the floor, bats away a midge.

‘We are invited to Hillbury,’ she tells him, and at his brightening look, adds, ‘Would you like to go to Hillbury for a short visit?’ Hillbury, the home where she grew up on the farm at Hill House, the village where she found Sam orphaned and starving during the plague last winter.

He pushes up on his elbows. ‘Is it from Daniel?’

‘Not from Daniel.’ She says it gently, knowing it will be a disappointment. She does not explain that Daniel, Hillbury’s blacksmith, who befriended them both through the black days of last winter, can neither read nor write. ‘This is from Ursula.’ Then, at his puzzled look, ‘The lady you call Aunt Cazanove. In the big house.’

During the last few weeks of spring, before Alice married Henry Jerrard, she took Sam to meet Ursula Cazanove, who has taken a particular interest in his welfare. He calls her Aunt at her request, though her high-bred demeanour tends to make him shy in her presence. He is more at his ease playing games with Alice, which usually involve rolling on the floor and laughing. These are not games that Ursula would recognise. Hers are played on wooden boards, with neat round counters or exquisitely carved figures. ‘She keeps sending you letters,’ Sam comments. ‘Does she like writing, then?’

‘Perhaps she does,’ Alice replies. ‘Or perhaps she hopes for a particular answer I have not yet given her.’

‘Is that why that man is waiting for your reply?’

‘What man?’ Usually the letters come by the carter. To send a messenger to await a reply is a measure of Ursula’s desire for a particular answer. ‘Where is he?’

‘In the kitchen.’ Sam’s eyes brim with mischief. ‘Maureen gave him some of that small ale she made, so I expect he’ll be poisoned by the time you get there.’

‘Then I had better save the poor man before he expires under my roof,’ Alice says, rising. ‘No, you stay and cool down, Sam, you have earned your rest today.’ Sam follows her nonetheless as she makes her way through hall and screens passage to the kitchen. The man who rises from his stool is lean, thin of face, wide of shoulder. And known to Alice.

‘Wat!’

‘Mistress Jerrard,’ Wat Meredith says quietly. A collected man, wary, not given to extravagances. A man of secrets, of closed feelings. A man of strong loyalty towards his mistress, whose husband he used to serve.

Alice moves quickly towards him, stretching out her hands in greeting. ‘Such a pleasure to see you again! Forgive me, I did not know you were here until Sam just told me. Sam, you remember Wat?’

Sam makes his angular bow as Wat responds, ‘We met but once in Dorset, I believe, Master Sam. I think you’ve grown.’ Sam looks pleased. Next to Wat, Maureen the cook hovers with ale jug, touching her hair and arching her short neck. The mug on the table has barely been touched.

‘I think we might offer Master Meredith some of the October ale, mightn’t we, Maureen?’ Alice says, reaching for a fresh mug. Bought in, the October ale is blessedly free of the cook’s dead hand.

‘I’ll do that, mistress.’ Maureen darts to possess herself of the mug. Maureen, who never offers to do anything for anyone. A slight flush stains her pasty cheeks.

‘Bring it through to the hall, would you, Maureen?’ Wat, do you come with me, the hall is cooler,’ she says, leading the way. ‘Mistress Cazanove is well? Everyone is well?’

‘My mistress is in good health indeed, and all the household at the mansion.’

In the hall she waves him to the bench at the table and takes a seat herself. Sam lies down flat on the stone flags. ‘He’s hot,’ she explains.

‘I’ve been helping the men with the haymaking,’ Sam says.

‘You are a credit to High Stoke, Master Sam,’ Wat tells him, and Sam grins and wriggles with pleasure.

‘You will stay overnight, Wat, of course,’ Alice goes on. ‘You cannot start on the return journey this late in the day.’

‘I saw a place in the high street which will suit. The sign of the Red Lion?’

‘I know the Red Lion slightly,’ she says. ‘I think you may be more comfortable here in the menservants’ loft. If you are happy with a cold supper you will be most welcome.’

‘A cold supper will be welcome,’ he agrees, ‘but my mistress did say I was to find my own accommodation, and I noticed the Red Lion has space to stable the horses.’

Horses, plural ? Heavens, she thinks, he must have been in a hurry if he was bringing a spare horse to ride.

‘And the travelling coach,’ he adds.

Alice begins to laugh. So this is what it is all about. ‘I see what your mistress means when she writes to say that she insists!’

One of the reasons she has twice refused Ursula is that she would need to take one of the High Stoke men, probably Allan Wenlock, who has driven the Jerrard coach when necessary. But Allan also works in the fields and she is reluctant to take anyone away from their work at this time. With Wat driving her, not only would that difficulty be solved, but also the household would be rid of her for a time. And she thinks with a pang, that would please them no end.

‘At such a busy time of year,’ she says, still unsure, ‘I really ought to decline.’ Yet perhaps this is how she should take Olivia’s counsel, and leave the household to show her what they can do. Or would that be a huge mistake? She cannot decide. ‘I mean, I am tempted to say yes, we shall come, but…’

At that, Sam jumps up. ‘You’ve said yes!’ He does a gangly sing-song dance round the table. ‘We’re going to Dor-set! We’re going to Dor-set!’

She looks at his excitement and knows she can hardly back out now.