Stolen Lives (The Alice Chronicles #3)

39

T he young man stands in the hall screwing his cap in his hands and looking around him at the high panelling, the moulded ceiling, the marble floor. He jumps as Alice enters, and she drops a curtsey. ‘Give you good day, sir.’

‘Ah, Mistress Cazanove, I am come to see Helena,’ he starts, with a hurried bow, the words tumbling from him in a nervous rush. ‘That is, Mistress Sprag. I thought… they said to come to the house but perhaps they meant… perhaps I should go to the kitchens…’ He breaks off as Alice holds up a staying hand.

‘Sir, I am not Mistress Cazanove. No doubt she is being summoned. I believe you are Master Devenish, are you not?’’

‘I beg pardon, madam. I am Roger Devenish.’ He bows again and his jerkin of faded watchet rises up his long body, revealing a gap of shirt around his waist. Creased breeches of heavy linen flap around his legs. Perhaps his bow has revealed to him the dusty state of his shoes, for he stands on one foot then the other to wipe each on his calves.

‘I feel sure you are expected here and not at the kitchen door,’ Alice says, ‘so let us sit while we wait.’ She moves to the settle, thankful that there is no fire in the swept hearth. It is only in the late afternoon that it is lit for Martyn’s benefit. His days spent in the solar keep him tolerably comfortable, she has heard.

The young man hesitates and remains standing. ‘Perhaps I should not. They did not invite me to.’

Alice wonders how to set him at his ease in these opulent surroundings. ‘Mistress Sprag has known you some while, I understand?’ she says.

‘We have been acquainted these few years now,’ he agrees. ‘Martyn – Master Sprag, that is, does not wish her to marry me until he is satisfied I can better support us both. I am only a cobbler, you see, and he is a gentleman. He feels I am not good enough for his sister.’

Not good enough for Martyn, more like, Alice reckons. ‘I expect he has her best interests at heart,’ is all she can think to say.

‘Nor can I convince Mistress Sprag that I can provide adequately for her. She speaks of an inheritance for Martyn, and an allowance for herself, but I do not care about any inheritance. I have been asking her to marry me these two years past, even if it means living with—’ he breaks off and flushes red.

‘I’d have thought it in everyone’s interests,’ Alice says, ‘for Martyn to have not one but two people to help care for him.’

‘I’ve often said to her, if we simply married, Martyn would settle to the change, whether we lived with him or not.’

At that moment Helena steps into the hall. ‘Roger!’ Then she sees Alice, and corrects herself. ‘Master Devenish. Mistress Cazanove told me you had arrived.’ Her face suffuses, her eyes soften. The worn, weary look is banished by her smile of welcome.

‘Mistress Sprag,’ he says, bowing.

‘I have good news,’ she says to him. ‘Martyn has inherited; there is the chance of an allowance—’

‘You will excuse me, I hope,’ Alice says, rising. ‘I should go and find my son.’

Out in the herb garden, Alice meets Luella, baby Eleanor in her arms, describing the various plants and their uses to her daughter. ‘That’s Lavender, it helps you sleep. And here’s Sweet Ciceley which softens the sharpness of fruits. And Thyme… Alice, give you good day.’

‘And you, Luella, and little Eleanor. I have just made Master Devenish’s acquaintance.’

‘Oh, he came! I am so glad. I accompanied Helena to the inn while you were away, and he seemed such a nice young man, so fond of her. He kept saying he wished she would just marry him, and it would all sort itself out with Martyn, but she wouldn’t.’

‘Because she fears to abandon Martyn?’

‘It seemed to me she feared not having enough to live on if she married.’

‘I understand he’s a cobbler,’ Alice says. ‘Not wealthy, certainly, but cobblers do marry and raise their families quite happily. And she must be used to living on very little.’

‘Helena asked Mistress Cazanove if she might invite him here to the house so that the three of them can discuss the future. Given that Martyn is rich, there is nothing to stop Helena and Roger getting married.’

Recalling the dusty shoes, ‘He looks as if he has walked miles,’ Alice says.

‘He will have, he lives not far from Bridport, so he must have been up very early, or even spent the night under a hedge. All for her. Let us hope they can come to a speedy agreement.’

‘And what of yourself, Luella. What are your plans for the future?’

Luella’s animation dissolves like breath in frosty air. ‘I am writing to tell my father the truth, and ask his forgiveness and help.’

‘And will you tell him how your husband knew Master Cazanove, and was involved in getting rid of Wat?’

‘I shall. Also that Wat is here but that I shall not be asking Father’s blessing on any union between us.’

‘I’m truly sorry for that Luella. Wat has been through so much, and I truly believe he loves you.’

Luella’s face hardens. ‘You know what he did with my letters to him in prison,’ she reminds Alice.

Alice sighs. ‘I don’t pretend to understand that, but can you not talk to him, ask him why, forgive him, in the same way you expect forgiveness from your father?’

Luella does not answer that. Instead, ‘I have already asked Mistress Cazanove’s help to find a position as a maidservant and I have told my father that if he cannot accept my child, I shall take this lowly work and make my own way in life. He may disown me at his leisure.’

‘And your mother?’

It gives Luella pause for thought. Then her head comes up. ‘My mother takes my father’s part. She should be stronger.’

Privately Alice thinks, How intolerant Luella has become. She castigates those of a softer humour, when she herself was formerly so yielding. Proud, stoic, she has the strength of her father, but also his exacting nature. She expects too much of milder natures, too much of herself. If only she would bend a little, those qualities would stand her in good stead. Alice makes one last effort. ‘Can you not admit Wat’s right to a voice in his child’s fate?’

‘He could not contain himself from going with another, within months, maybe weeks, of having been with me!’

Alice’s patience snaps. ‘You don’t know that! It could just be a libel written on glass out of spite! Anyway, even if it were so, what about you marrying Goldwoode within weeks? How do you think Wat feels about that? Where is your compassion for all the betrayal and ruin of his life? You reject him because he’s less than perfect, but you were happy enough to conceal from your husband that you were already with child!’

‘How dare you!’

‘You couldn’t find a better man than Wat! God knows why he still wants you, yet all you can do is carp about his supposed lack of unwavering devotion to yourself! You don’t even begin to deserve him!’

As Luella stares aghast at her, ‘Well, you don’t!’ Alice cries. ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry, forget I said that.’ Anger and frustration has once again led her into error. Error larded with injustice, even malice. Alice backs away and stumbles from the herb garden.