White Water (2 page)

Maria Kendal set down her goblet and raised anxious eyes.

‘Plague?’ she echoed. ‘In Ashburton?’

The years had been kind to her and at thirty-three her oval face still kept its firm lines. The grey eyes no longer blazed but held a softer expression which suited them equally well, and the dark hair beneath the beaded headdress was barely touched with grey. Her strong teeth were almost as white as when she married and her smile was sweet. Now, however, the finely arched brows were knit. She was unsmiling for the subject was grim. Her daughter-in-law, Harriet, who sat opposite, waited for Hugo’s reply.

Her husband, Hugo, nodded. ‘’Twas only in one street, I grant you, but the three doors bore painted crosses and in one a woman leaned from the upstairs window talking to another who waited in the street below.’

‘Was there a watchman at the doors?’ Harriet persisted. ‘No, but the door was barred. And at the far end of the street a man unloaded brushwood from a cart.’

‘For the bonfire,’ said Harriet soberly. She was a small slim girl, with soft brown eyes and a gentle face. Her hair was held back by a neat velvet head-dress and her fingers played nervously with the new wedding ring which gleamed on her left hand. She had been married to Allan Kendal for only three months, but had lived at Heron for the past two years. Allan was the eldest Kendal son — the only child of Simon and Hannah. Now a man of twenty, he was finishing his law studies in London and Harriet longed for his return to Heron at the end of June. They were ideally suited and the little time they had spent together augured well for their future happiness. At some time Allan would inherit and she would be mistress of Heron but she was still young and not eager for such responsibility.

At present she was content to share the pleasures of the Kendals’ family home. Maria was like a mother to her and Hugo treated her affectionately — almost brotherly. She was fond, too, of Beatrice, Allan’s sister, now eighteen and living in Exeter with her husband, Mark Quarterman. Life was very agreeable and she considered herself most fortunate. She wanted nothing to disturb their peaceful existence and Maria’s talk of plague dismayed her. Barely sixteen, she had only the vaguest memories of the last serious outbreak to affect the West Country and now all her fears were for her beloved Allan. She adored her tall blond husband and longed to give him a family of tall blond sons to carry on his name. Her one fear was of losing him.

‘Is it elsewhere, do you think?’ she asked as casually as she could.

Hugo shook his head. ‘I’ve not heard of it,’ he said. ‘Pray God ’tis a local outbreak and soon ended.’

‘Then pray God ’tis not in London,’ said Harriet, putting a name to her fear.

Hugo, understanding the direction of the girl’s questions, smiled at her. ‘There’s no mention of it in London,’ he said. ‘And no mention of it in Exeter.’ He put a hand over hers. ‘We must put it out of our thoughts,’ he told her. ‘Three shut houses and a bonfire! ’Tis very little to be alarmed about. That may well be all there ever is to it.’

Harriet looked at Maria with new hope. ‘Mayhap the crosses were old ones,’ she suggested, ‘from an earlier outbreak. And the women just gossiping and the bonfire was to celebrate — ’ Her voice trailed off as she failed to think of an alternative reason for the untimely appearance of the bonfire.

‘Mayhap,’ said Maria kindly. ‘As Hugo says, we must not fret. We shall take precautions and all will be well. We’ll have a few bonfires of our own to burn up any pestilence in the air — if there be any — and will stay away from Ashburton for a week or so.’

‘Have we plenty of medicaments?’ Hugo asked lightly and she nodded. ‘Then we can speak no more on such a mournful topic,’ he said. ‘We’ll finish our wine and then Harriet shall sing for us.’

Maria nodded and her smile to Harriet was warm and reassuring. However, as she sat later listening to the girl’s thin sweet voice, her thoughts returned to the threat of infection and she determined to be safe rather than sorry. She would send out for more herb of grace and dragon water and sprinkle fresh herbs and flower petals among the rashes on the floor to sweeten the air. Tomorrow, too, she would warn Melissa. Content that she could do no more, she went to bed a little easier in her mind and, with Hugo’s body comfortingly familiar beside her, the spectre of plague faded until at last she slept.

A week later, however, the number of reported plague cases in the town had trebled and there were isolated cases in the neighbouring hamlets. In Exeter there were a few more and Maria’s concern grew daily for Beatrice. The baby, due in October, would be the first grandchild.

At Ladyford, a short distance from Heron, a bonfire burned day and night. There Melissa Benet, the children’s aunt, kept a watchful eye on her own small household. Her husband Thomas was an old man and vulnerable. Neither Minnie, the cook, nor Jacob, the hired man, were ever ill and her son Oliver was away at sea. Nevertheless Melissa heeded Maria’s timely warning and had visited the apothecary before the general alarm put the medicaments in short supply and sent the prices creeping up. There was nothing left then but to wait and pray and this last they all did with great fervour.

*

Kent
,
July
1574

Appledore, in Kent, shimmered under a fierce July sun which, late in the afternoon, struck the wooded slopes at an angle and sent long shadows across Romney House, nestled below them. They gave the white walls a cold look and the black beams stood out harshly, but were in their turn offset by the warm thatch grown brown with age and pitted with birds’ nests. The house now belonged to Maria, but had formerly been the home of Harold Cummins, to whom she had once been betrothed. Now it had a neglected air and the gardens were little better. The once neat hedges sprouted rebelliously and the shrubs grew into trees, obscuring the red brick wall which bordered the garden. Harold Cummins would have grieved to see it in such a state but his sister Ruth, who had survived him, was unaware of the gradual deterioration for her sight had begun to fail two years after his death and now, four years later, she was blind. Maria had engaged a young companion for her, and Felicity Carr moved into Romney House. Maria also kept on the shepherd, Mark Wynne, for the dwindling flock of sheep and a part-time gardener who could do little more than tend the fruit trees and keep an eye on the bee hives.

Felicity tiptoed into the bed chamber and gently opened the shutters and pulled back the bed drapes. Then she sat beside the bed, closed her own eyes briefly and waited for Ruth to waken from her afternoon’s sleep. At last the old lady stirred and her eyelids fluttered. She opened her eyes but saw nothing. She drew a shaking hand from the bed clothes and felt for the bed drapes. They had been pulled back and a cool breeze reached her, telling her that the shutters had been opened. She listened but there was no movement in the room and she called feebly. ‘Felicity? Are you there, child?’

‘I’m here, ma’am.’

The voice was soft and caring and came from the left side of the bed. The old woman stretched out her left hand and felt young firm fingers close round it.

‘I was waiting for you to waken,’ said the girl. ‘I made your draught but when I brought it up you were already sleeping. I thought it best not to disturb you.’

‘Quite right, child. Quite right.’ Ruth sighed heavily. ‘What time of day is it?’

‘Evening, ma’am. I opened the shutters when the sun passed. And — ’ she could not hide the excitement in her voice ‘ — there’s a letter come, ma’am — from Mistress Kendal.’

‘A letter from Maria? Why didn’t you wake me? Oh, help me up, child and then read it. A letter from Maria! Why, ’twas only yesterday I spoke of her, saying I was certain she would write.’

Smiling, Felicity helped the old woman into a sitting position, as eager as Ruth to hear the news from Devon. Although she had never visited Heron, and had met Maria only once, the news from the Kendal family was almost her sole link with the outside world and eagerly anticipated.

She plumped up the pillows and straightened the woollen bonnet which the old woman wore at all times to hide her scanty grey hair.

‘There!’ she said. ‘All tidy. D’you want to take your draught now, then the news will take your mind from the bitter taste!’

Ruth was impatient to hear the letter but she allowed the girl to spoon three measures of the syrup into her mouth and wipe the drips that ran down her chin. Sometimes she wondered about the girl, trying to piece together an image from the modest descriptions Felicity gave her. A homely face, small mouth, speckled brown eyes set wide apart and long mid-brown hair. Hardly a beauty but kindly and dutiful — altogether a good choice.

And patient in the face of Ruth’s occasional nagging, for her sudden blindness had in no way sweetened her temper and increasing age had not mellowed her sharp tongue.

‘The letter!’ she demanded. ‘My chin’s of no importance with none to see me but you. Read the letter and read it slow, the way I told you, else I can scarce take it in.’ Felicity handed her the rolled paper. Ruth liked to feel the seal to reassure herself that it was unbroken and that her young companion had not taken a preliminary look at its contents. Felicity watched her, a faint smile of amusement on her face, then received it back, opened it, and began to read.

‘From your affectionate Maria this first day of June. In hopes that your health be much improved and pleased that the shaking in your limbs is less troublesome. Felicity writes a fair script and we value her reports on your progress. Lorna is stitching a sampler for you with thick wools that she says you may feel the design with your fingers and see the colours in your mind. Piers makes progress with his Latin though Master Parry declares him an obstinate scholar — ’ Ruth’s face puckered suddenly into a smile and she laughed silently until the laughter became a rattling cough and Felicity leaned forward anxiously to put an arm round the bony shoulders.

‘That young Piers!’ said Ruth. ‘So like my brother when he was a boy. Such a bad boy, he was, and never out of mischief. You did not know my brother, did you?’

‘No, ma’am.’ Felicity answered the familiar question patiently while her eyes skimmed the letter eagerly.

‘He died,’ said Ruth. ‘He was a good man. Such a bad boy but such a good man. Maria would have wed him but his health failed him. Poor Harold. He loved Maria. They were betrothed. Did you know that, child?’

‘Aye, ma’am.’

‘And you did not meet him?’

‘Indeed not.’

‘He was a good man — a dutiful brother … But go on with the letter. Piers and the Latin — ’

Felicity continued ‘ … an obstinate scholar and would beat him if I would approve such measures but I can not. My beloved Hugo is well enough, but the mine is a source of great unrest and he finds little pleasure in it and loses sleep and is grown tired and out of humour. I trust you do not suffer the plague in Kent, which is lately broken out again in these parts and with some speed leaps from one village to the next, and the heat of summer will nurture it so that we are grown fearful and stay at home. Beatrice is in Exeter and it is there also so we must all to our prayers and take all good care that we can do. I am thankful Martin is away at school and Allan in London away from the infection. Matt would be remembered to you and speaks often of you and Harold, God rest his soul. Now my letter closes and I wish God’s grace and peace to all at Romney House.’

She let the letter fall into her lap and looked at Ruth for her reaction. The old woman plucked absentmindedly at the coverlet and stared unseeingly towards the window.

‘Martin,’ she said at last. ‘She speaks of Martin. How old is he, this Martin?’

‘Eleven, ma’am — or it may be twelve. He is at school in Winchester.’

‘Ah, yes. And have we seen the boy?’

‘No. Nor any of them.’

‘Yet I see them, you know, Felicity. I see them as you read. How is such a thing possible?’

‘Maria has told us. She describes them and you remember.’

‘I do indeed, child. I remember all of them. My adopted family! Maria calls them my adopted family.’ She sighed. ‘I could have wed you know,’ she said wistfully. ‘Did you know that, Felicity?’

‘Indeed, ma’am. You have often spoke of it.’

‘But I chose to care for my brother.’ The girl was silent, reading the letter again and the old woman’s voice rose querulously. ‘You don’t answer me, child. I said — ’

‘You chose to care for your brother,’ said Felicity hastily. ‘That was well done.’

‘Aye … but she speaks of the plague in Exeter. We are more fortunate here.’

‘We are indeed.’

‘Lorna … Have we seen Lorna?’

‘No, ma’am. ’Tis a long way for such a child. Maria says she will visit when she is older.’

‘Ah, yes. I recall … That Matt she speaks of. Simple in the head, poor lad. Matthew, his name was, but he would not have it other than Matt. Harold taught him his letters, did you know that?’

‘No.’ Felicity lied kindly for the story was one of Ruth’s favourites.

‘Harold was so patient,’ the old woman began, ‘and he persevered so. But this Matt, he had so few wits and his fingers were big and clumsy — ’

Felicity settled herself for the account, smoothing her skirt and Ruth broke off suddenly and turned towards her. ‘What are you wearing, child?’ she asked sharply. ‘Answer me truthfully.’