Stolen Lives (The Alice Chronicles #3)

8

Y oung Nick Patten saunters into the kitchen court at the Cazanove mansion mid-afternoon, thumbs hooked into the armholes of his jerkin. At this time of day the house servants have gone to the fields to help with the Cazanove hay cut. Nick glances around before sidling towards the bakehouse and disappearing inside. Within seconds he emerges, eyes everywhere, but no one accosts him. Still keeping a wary eye, he approaches the kitchen door and peers within. Furtively he enters.

In the still room Alice has been making pastry for the two cherry tarts. Ursula suggested leaving it to her cook, but Alice is mindful that releasing all the available people for the hay cut is as important for the mansion as it was back home for High Stoke. Rainclouds are gathering again. She puts down the rolling pin and moves to the doorway to see into the kitchen. Young Nick tiptoes to the table where a cloth has been thrown over an undulating landscape of manchets. He lifts the cloth and peers at the new-baked bread, and his smile widens at the tray alongside of sweet spiced pastries still warm from the oven. His hand stretches out.

‘Looking for something, Nick?’

Nick leaps back, stumbling against the waist-high stone mortar. ‘Oh, Alice!’ he says, grabbing to steady it. ‘Hello.’ He produces a pallid smile. ‘Er… where’s Mistress Cazanove?’

‘I don’t suppose you’ll find her under that cloth,’ Alice says, wiping her hands and untying her apron. If you want to come with me, I think I know where she’ll be.’

Stout from habitual food thefts, young Nick trots panting alongside Alice in the direction of the herb garden. ‘Pa sent me,’ he puffs. ‘These people have arrived. They say the dead man’s going to pay their shot for them! Stiff as a board, he is. Imagine him reaching into his pocket! Creak, creak, crack!’

‘What people?’

‘Relations or something. Very high-handed.’

‘Was Master Goldwoode expecting them, then?’

‘Dunno. The old wheezer wouldn’t have paid anyway. I reckon he died of stinginess. Didn’t even want to cough up the price of chambers yesterday.’

‘Your mother told me he took a second for himself, because the baby was crying. If that’s stinginess…’

‘Said he was one family so should pay only for one. Ma asked him if he’d like to move back into one chamber, then. That shut him up!’

Alice suppresses a stab of unholy joy. She thought the man peevish and fussy when she heard him last night, more concerned with his own comfort than with that of his baby. So he was miserly as well. But Margery is well able to cope with that sort.

‘Questioned the price of ale last night,’ Nick goes on, ‘ and tried to haggle over his supper. Imagine asking him for more money now!’ He puts his hands round his throat, eyes wide, sticking out his tongue and making obscene gasping noises. ‘Erghhh? How much!? Erghhh!’ He laughs heartily.

‘What does your father expect Mistress Cazanove to do about it?’ Alice asks him.

Warming to his subject, Nick replies, ‘Shake the skeleton so the coins drop out!’

‘Nick?’

‘Pa says, now that you’ve taken Mistress Goldwoode away, and her old man’s lobbed his cock, and these people are demanding free chambers, who’s going to foot the bill?’

Late in the afternoon, Alice is returning downstairs, having changed out of the working wear she donned to prepare the cherry tarts. She slows, curious, as a hesitant knock sounds on the front door, followed almost immediately by a heavier hand with an imperative rat-tat. Hurrying from the kitchens, a serving man passes her, straightening his ruff, and proceeds along the screens passage to answer this late caller. She watches him pull open the great studded door. Outside, the clouds have thickened, leaving a few breaks penetrated by misty shafts of sunlight. A persistent rain shines the flagstones on which stand two figures, one leaning heavily against the other. Both are thinly cloaked, the cloth dark with wet and moulded round their shoulders. The run-off from the man’s hat drips on the woman who supports him, and her cap is drenched, as is her hair. Their faces gleam wetly yellow in the lurid light.

‘I am Master Sprag,’ the man announces. ‘I am a guest here.’

The serving man stands back to admit them. ‘Indeed, my mistress is expecting you, sir.’ On hearing Young Nick’s query from his father, Ursula decided they should be invited to the mansion, deeming it likely that Mistress Goldwoode will be comforted better by family than by strangers.

As soon as the pair move, it is clear that Master Sprag is unable to walk unaided. The serving man makes to support him but, ‘No, my sister can manage,’ Sprag says, waving him away. ‘I prefer her help to all other.’ The woman, an arm round his middle, hoists him across the threshold and he advances one leg in response. The other leg drags without volition. Step-hop, step-hop, the pair progress into the screens passage, where the woman points towards a settle. ‘There, Martyn, you can sit while I fetch our things.’

‘I’m cold,’ Martyn says, and peers into the hall. ‘Is that a fire in there?’ Dutifully, his sister turns, hoisting him step by slow step through the door which the serving man moves to hold open. Fascinated by this strange duo, Alice follows a few paces behind. So these are the relations of Master Goldwoode. Nephew and niece? Alice reckons them somewhere in their mid-twenties.

At the settle Martyn signals the serving man to untie the strings of his cloak. The man obliges and moves to take his hat. ‘Not my hat, man!’ Martyn snaps, ‘I am a gentleman!’

‘It’s wet, Martyn,’ his sister says. ‘You cannot wear it indoors in this state.’

‘I shall dry and brush it for you, sir, then I shall return it directly,’ the man offers.

Martyn shrugs, and permits the removal, calling after him, ‘See that you don’t stretch it!’ To the woman, he says, ‘You had best fetch the Tyrian blue one, it’ll be more suitable here, anyway.’

‘I’ll have a look, Martyn,’ his sister answers. ‘I’m not sure it’s in our box.’

‘Of course it is, Helena, I watched you pack it.’ With a grimace he leans an arm against the settle. ‘God’s blood, I ache all over.’

The woman takes a cushion, plumps it up and supports her brother to sit. She is straightening, easing her back, when he says, ‘This won’t do. I want to be nearer the fire.’ He reaches out his arms, ‘Helena?’, beckons with his fingers.

From the door, Alice stares in wonderment at this pair, the one so meekly at the beck and call of the other. There is something about the sister’s quiet compliance, as she raises and edges her brother nearer the hearth, that piques Alice’s sympathy. Below the hem of her cloak, Helena Sprag’s thin shoes and mired stockings are in plain view, she wears her skirts short to ankle length, like a maidservant. Presumably, Alice assumes, she needs to avoid impediment when she is supporting her brother, or running up and downstairs to supply his needs. As now, for instance, with no apparent inkling of the degree of his imperatives, Martyn is telling her to fetch his blanket.

‘You said you didn’t want it, Martyn.’

‘You know I get cold.’ He sighs and shakes his head as Helena moves to the door. ‘And I need a stool for my foot,’ he calls.

‘Allow me.’ Alice says to his sister as she passes. Helena, preoccupied, nods her thanks and Alice fetches a footstool from further down the hall. When she has placed it, Martyn declines her offer of aid, leaning down himself to lift the useless leg onto the stool. It slips off. He sighs and lifts again. On the third attempt his leg stays put and he leans back, closing his eyes. Martyn’s stockings are thick and coarse, his shoes round-toed, with a buttoned strap over the instep, a cheaper option than buckles. Like Helena, his shoes are worn, his stockings darned, but unlike Helena’s, free of mire. He opens his eyes. ‘Where is Helena gone now?’

‘I’m here, Martyn,’ she says returning, blanket in hand. She is of slight but clearly strong frame, given the degree of support her brother’s condition demands. Below the cloak she has now removed, Helena is dressed quietly in a brown homespun dotted with knotty slubs, over a coarse linen shift the colour of old lime-wash. She rests the blanket over the back of the settle and raises her hands, workworn and scratched front and back, to tuck back her wet hair under her cap. About her there is an absence of decoration. Lace, Alice reckons, even the slightest, narrowest sort, is beyond the compass of this woman’s purse.

The serving man returns and accosts Helena. ‘I see your cloak in the passage mistress, I shall have it dried and brushed for you. May I bring in your boxes? Stable your mounts?’

‘Box. Singular,’ Martyn calls from the fire. ‘And horse, singular also. We are not of that sort that can indulge in plurals. And you will find our mode of travel is a common cart. Despise us if you wish. Most do.’

‘I shall see to it, sir,’ the serving man responds, adding, ‘and my mistress begs me advise you that she will attend you soon.’

‘You understand, my brother is fatigued,’ Helena says to the serving man, who dips his head at the implied apology and departs. Helena shakes out the blanket and Alice moves to pick up the other end. They bring it to the seated man, who looks askance.

‘That blanket had better not be damp.’

‘It’s quite dry,’ Helena assures him.

Martyn leans a little forward as Alice and Helena wrap the blanket around his shoulders. He wears a shirt of the same fabric as his sister’s shift, under a plain collar and serviceable doublet, once black but now greening with age, and breeches of the same.

‘Straighten it behind me,’ he says, ‘or I shall feel it rucked up when I lean back.’

Helena obliges, supporting him to lean further forward. Alice helps smooth out the blanket and Helena leans him back against the settle. The fire crackles cheerfully on this warm afternoon, and in retreating to a moderate distance, Alice is able to study these two. She would hardly have guessed they are so closely related, there is little visible similarity between them, apart from the dark hair. Martyn’s large round head, his frown between narrowed, darting eyes, are in no way echoed in Helena’s thin visage, her weary mien. His complexion is pale but there are no shadows under his eyes as there are under Helena’s. Despite the humble clothes, he has a well-fed air and white hands, altogether in strange contrast to her facial and bodily thinness, her broken fingernails. Alice can imagine the one habitually feeding on the lion’s share, the other the scraps.

‘I shall find out where our chambers are and make sure yours is ready and the bed warmed for you, Martyn,’ Helena says.

‘Well be quick, I’m exhausted,’ he says as Helena departs. He leans back against the settle with a sigh. ‘I could sleep for a week. Oh,’ he adds, beckoning Alice, ‘run and remind her I want my other hat.’

‘It would seem a shame to risk crushing it if you were to fall asleep from your exhaustion, sir,’ Alice suggests.

He makes a small ‘Hmph.’ Then, ‘So who are you?’

Alice introduces herself, adding, ‘I am also a guest of Mistress Cazanove.’

‘I’ll hazard my cousin blessed the day when he started doing business with this place,’ Martin says, looking around approvingly. ‘Not short of a few guineas, is she?

Stuck with his company, even if only for a short period, Alice struggles for courtesy. ‘I hope your journey here was uneventful, sir.’

‘I fear I must dash your pious hope,’ he answers. ‘Two nights on the road instead of one, because she kept getting us lost. All that doesn’t help me a jot. Then complaining about a few little scratches! What about me?’

‘I noticed her hands are in a sorry state. Mistress Cazanove’s waiting woman may have a balm that—’

‘Several times the cart got stuck in mud and had to be pushed out. Then she got in a fret in case we lost a wheel. She went on and on about it, all because the cart’s borrowed. I’d happily have lost both wheels if it meant a modicum of comfort instead.’

‘I too was concerned about the wheels on our journey down here,’ Alice tells him. ‘Mistress Cazanove kindly lent us her coach and we went much more slowly over the Wiltshire hills when—’

‘Oh, a coach! I declare! What fortuitous charity you enjoy, mistress. Helena panicked and lost our way again last night. Then she vowed she was tired of coaxing the horse forward, so we had to stay at some fly-blown inn, regardless of how I felt. As it turns out, we were less than a mile from here. You might move this footstool for me, it’s crooked.’

There is only one inn within that distance of Hillbury, though “fly-blown” is not how Alice would have described the neat little hostelry. ‘You stayed at the Swan at Westover, then?’ she asks, bending to nudge the footstool into position. Lost and weary, no wonder Helena opted to stop at The Swan.

‘No, the other way.’ Martyn directs Alice with the footstool. ‘Bit more. That’s it, stand back now. I hardly slept at all, and I needed my sleep, I can tell you. Being rocked around in the back of a cart is very bad for me.’

‘I expect your sister was tired also, having to manage the cart all day.’

‘Strong as an ox, my sister. If she’d kept going yesterday, we’d have seen my cousin and he’d have settled our bill without all this fuss. Instead, oh no, we must stay at the Swan, more expense, even though they didn’t even give me a proper chamber, just made up a mattress in a parlour on the ground floor. By the time we finally got to Hillbury, my cousin was dead, his new wife has scuttled off up here, and the poxy landlord refused to give us chambers. And I showed him Goldwoode’s letter summoning us, told him I’m the heir.’

‘I understand Mistress Cazanove has kindly invited you and your sister to stay here at need while Master Goldwoode’s death is investigated and matters are settled?’

‘Kindly?’ Martyn says. ‘Well, perhaps. I rather think she has an eye to the future.’

‘The future? How so, sir?’

Martyn gives his first smile since arriving, a knowing smile. ‘Goldwoode’s influence was considerable. She knows that and she knows I will take over his business. And here she is, no husband, and trying to run the dye works. All on her own.’

‘I don’t understand you,’ Alice says, with the distinct feeling that she understands all too well.

‘Think about it,’ he says. ‘She needs all the friends she can get. If she does me a favour now, Mistress C must be thinking of the future, when I might put her in the way of a contact or two, introduce her around, you know, use my influence—’ He breaks off and Alice turns to see Ursula framed in the doorway.

‘You must be Master Sprag. Allow me to introduce myself, sir.’

A short two hours later, Ursula’s waiting woman Esther comes to the small parlour where Ursula has been teaching Sam a game with counters. ‘Supper is on the table in the hall, mistress,’ Esther tells her. ‘And I have let Mistress Sprag know that you will await her and her brother.’

‘Thank you, Esther. We shall come to table now if you are ready, Alice?’ She puts out her hand. ‘And you, Sam?’

Alice follows the two along the passages to the hall with its candles on the table and sconces around the walls. The great fire crackles, boosted for Martyn’s benefit. The long table stretching down the hall is laid for their meal. Ursula takes her place at the head, Sam and Alice on the side away from the heat. Big-eyed, Sam regards the dishes.

A shuffling in the passage heralds Martyn and Helena, the brother leaning on his sister. ‘Master and Mistress Sprag,’ Ursula greets them, ‘you are ready to eat?’

‘My brother was much fatigued when we arrived, madam,’ Helena interposes. ‘I am sure the rest has helped to boost his appetite.’

Regarding the fare on the table, Martyn says, ‘Thank you for divining the humours of my appetite, Helena.’

‘We are touched by your generosity in offering us bed and board, Mistress Cazanove, are we not, brother?’ his sister quickly interposes, seating herself next to him. ‘And candles at mealtimes are so cheering.’

‘And of course we are all so cheerful today,’ Martyn adds.

‘I did not mean…’ Helena says, with an agonised glance around the table.

‘At Christmas,’ Sam says, ‘we lit so many candles, we were too hot!’

And as Ursula smiles at this innocent diversion, ‘How fortunate you are,’ Martyn addresses Sam, ‘to enjoy the indulgence of warmth.’