A Divided Inheritance (13 page)

‘But such a Tour, that will cost you dearly, will it not?’ Her voice was unexpectedly choked.

‘It will be expensive, yes. But I look upon it as an investment, to ensure the future of the business. And was it not your own idea? And a good one too. I have thought it over and you are
right, my dear. All he needs is a little education.’

‘But not this!’ she burst out. ‘Not this, where he is rewarded with such an undeserved gift. I meant something where he would work hard, be of some use!’

‘He will work hard. He will be working for me.’

‘But you will not be there, Father. You will not be there to see how he spends your coin gambling, whoring and fighting.’

‘Enough.’ He stood, and she knew with horror that she had overstepped the mark. It was as if everything was happening very slowly, time’s wheel had stopped spinning. His tone
turned icy. ‘I will not hear such words from your lips. You disappoint me. I thought that I had raised an obedient and mannerly daughter. Would you had listened better during your own
education; it might have made you less mean-tempered.’

She retracted immediately. ‘Beg pardon, Father, I spoke out of turn.’ She waited, pulling on the lace of her cuffs, but he drew himself upright and turned his back deliberately to
her. Slowly he took down a ledger from his shelf. She tried again, ‘I am sorry. It was unforgivable. I spoke in anger, without thought. I apologize.’

She agonized for a few more minutes, but his back was still a wall between them and the bristling atmosphere remained, like a ditch of pikes. After a little while longer there was nothing to do
but to tiptoe away. She closed the door. He did not call after her.

Of course, Zachary was like the cock of the roost when Father told him. He smiled fit to crack his cheeks. It gave her a tight feeling in her chest to see her father’s
evident delight in his pleasure.

‘Will you have me bring my embroidery down so we can sit together, Father?’ she asked him, for they had barely exchanged two words since Zachary came out of the Marshalsea, and she
wanted to try to reason with him again.

‘Not tonight,’ he said. ‘Finish your embroidery. I want to begin working out the best route through the cities of Normandy. Zachary will want to see the cathedrals. He will be
leaving in less than a month and we still have so much preparation to do.’

She almost laughed. It was not Zachary who wanted to see those cathedrals, but Father. She would stake her life on it. Thank the Lord her cousin would soon be gone. By all that was holy, she
could not wait for that day.

Over the next week, Father was like a man possessed, plotting with Zachary in his study, the heat of his enthusiasm perspiring on his brow. She kept her distance, but it was
sad to see him living vicariously through Zachary, as though he could reclaim his youth just by being in the same room and rubbing shoulders with him.

And she could not help but note Zachary’s barely disguised boredom when Father began one of his little lectures. Father loved to instruct, and make long soliloquies on the discourses of
Greek philosophers, the science of the Italians and the great printworkers and bookbinders of Europe. And his passion was re-doubled now that he could talk of the architecture and cities where
these men lived.

But still, she could not feel sorry for Zachary, however hard she tried. She’d lost track of how often he had kept them hungry. She was sure that when he was supposed to be trading for her
father he was up to no good – the cuts in his clothes, his air of false nonchalance that told her he had been out with his good-for-nothing friends, not doing Father’s business as he
would have had them believe.

She was driven to distraction by their maps and papers, their talk of Paris and Antwerp and Cadiz. The board in the dining hall had a hand-penned map spread out in four sections, showing the
pilgrimage routes of France and Spain. Next to it sat an itinerary in Father’s tight hand detailing sea passages and coach stages, and the names of his business contacts.

Once, when the pair of them went out to the offices and the warehouses, she creaked open the great-hall door and went in to pore over their plans, to trace the routes with her finger on the map.
She felt the raised ink where her father had scratched the route, and she recited the foreign names to herself. It was a kind of torture, like rubbing a wound, to put her finger on all the places
she would never see, yet she could not help herself.

It was unfair. She opened Father’s ledger, and read out the long list of names like an incantation. Magical places, places she had heard of from the Spanish priest who had spent a long
time living with them when she was a child. Father Pelé – she remembered his way of chanting Latin with his eyes upturned towards the heavens, his feet rocking slightly on to his
heels. And his tales of the other Roman Catholic countries where the great feasts still took place under the stars on warm, balmy nights.

Nantes, Rennes, Padua, Assisi, Venice, Santiago de Compostela and Zaragoza, where Our Lady was transported to heaven by the angels. Father Pelé had told her of the street processions, the
crush of the crowd as they shuffled along, the sweet smell of burning beeswax from the votive candles, the statues that wept real tears. And Father used to sigh and his face turned sad. ‘We
had all that once here too,’ he used to say, ‘until that hatchet-man Henry dragged it down.’

Now Zachary would be part of it, would see first-hand the stuff of her childhood dreams, be able to pray in frankincense-scented air, beneath soaring vaulted arches. She snapped the book shut.
And she, Elspet, would be left reciting the empty words to the walls of the bare cellar downstairs. Still, it would soon be over. She exhaled a ragged sigh of relief. Zachary would take passage in
a few weeks and the house would return at last to normal.

Miracle of miracles, Hugh Bradstone had invited Elspet to the theatre. When the letter came, she could hardly believe it. He said he was staying with a friend in London for a
few days and wished to have the pleasure of her company. Martha dressed her in her second-best tawny silk and spent a long time braiding Elspet’s hair under a jewelled cap – the only
one she owned. She wore Mother’s twisted gold and pearl drop earrings and for once she felt herself to be quite the lady.

The theatre was packed and the noise and stench of so many people was astonishing. She picked her way over the detritus of the previous afternoon’s performance: plum stones, and nut shells
and discarded crumpled rags and papers. Mr Bradstone led her to a jute-curtained box overlooking the rabble, where they might enjoy the atmosphere and leave the noise and bustle below, where pie
sellers and chapmen hawked their trade. She was on view to the crowd, and was proud to be in the company of such a good-looking man. The play was Dekker’s
Mad Monk of Tomorrow
and
very droll it was too. After checking that Mr Bradstone also found it to his liking, she laughed until her sides ached.

‘Oh, look at that girl selling comfits,’ she said during an interlude. ‘She can hardly lift the tray.’

He did not offer to purchase any sweetmeats. ‘They will be tainted,’ he said, wrinkling his nose. ‘I will take you afterwards to dine at a more reputable place.’

And so he did. He took her into an alcove out of view of the rest of the customers who were all men. The serving wench winked lewdly at him, and he told her not to be so impertinent.

As they dined on a simple meal of oysters and shin beef served on pottery plates, he talked of how much he was away, and of his estate. She had to do nothing but listen and smile and nod. He did
not leave room for her to talk at all, so she listened, fascinated, to his descriptions of the hard life his trappers had, combing the frozen wastes of Quebec, and the easy lives of his men
harvesting his acreage of barley in Tockton.

When they parted, he kissed her hand and then pressed it between his own. It amused her that Martha had watched them like a mother bird over her chicks. Martha remarked afterwards that he was
‘quite the gentleman’ and it seemed a very apt description.

She had almost forgotten all about it until a few days later, when Father told her that Mr Bradstone had asked for her hand.

It was such a shock that she had to sit down.

‘Now isn’t that good news, Elspet dear? It is good to know you will be settled with such a suitable match.’

So soon? But she had met him only twice! She scarcely knew him. It gave her the most odd sensation, as if it were something happening to somebody else.

Eventually she said, ‘Have you agreed it, Father?’

‘Don’t worry, of course I have.’

She nodded, amazed. A man such as Hugh Bradstone actually wanted to marry her. Why? She could not work out what possible advantage it gave him – except, of course, a share in
Leviston’s Lace.

For the rest of the day her heart seemed to flip in her chest whenever she thought of it, and everywhere she went folk smiled and bowed and offered their felicitations. Thanking them made her
feel strange – as if she was thanking them for something to which she was not entitled. She had found Mr Bradstone an amiable enough companion, but she had expected a longer, more intimate
courtship. This felt too quick, as if she was a basket of laundry to be handed over.

Father was, of course, delighted. He even broke open a dusty bottle of Malaga sack to toast her health, and she had to endure Zachary’s smirking face as they raised their glasses to her
good fortune and the alliance of Bradstone and Leviston.

Mr Bradstone, Hugh, himself wrote her a delightful letter expressing his ‘deep happiness’ that her father had agreed to the match. She spent a long time examining his
narrow-shouldered writing, hoping it would tell her more about him. After she had read his words, she had a sudden urge to run away, but where could she go to? She could not even go to her sister
Joan, for she had given up the outside world altogether.

She reasoned with herself; all young women must feel this. It was just the change of circumstances, that was all. She would get to know Hugh and they would grow closer, like all married couples
did. Down in the kitchen, Goody Turner had some scones baking, and the smell drew her there. Such a homely smell. She lingered a while, petting Jakes and Diver and feeding them scraps of scone
until Goody Turner looked so cross that Elspet had to slink away.

She did not expect to see Hugh again for a few days, as his letter said that he was going back to his estate in Tockton to make plans with his overseer for the summer planting and to prepare for
their forthcoming visit. For now that the marriage was settled, Father had arranged for them all to travel to Tockton to meet Hugh’s parents. She was aggrieved that Cousin Zachary should have
to come too, but Father insisted he could not be left behind. Perhaps it was for the best – heaven alone knew what he might do if he were left to his own devices without Father’s
steadying hand. So – they were all to go, and she was consumed with curiosity about what her new home might be like. She was both looking forward to it and dreading it in equal measure.

By the middle of June, Father and Zachary were in a veritable lather of preparation. Maps and papers were scattered all over the house, whilst travelling trunks stood open by
the back door for everyone to trip over. Their plans had advanced, as one of Father’s ships was making a trade crossing to France the following week, and thank the Lord, Zachary had begged to
be on it.

To impress their in-laws, Father had allowed Elspet a bolt of dark blue dimity to make a new gown. In the candlelight it looked almost purple, a right regal colour. So involved in the sewing was
she, that when the rap came at the door and Jakes ran to growl at it, she did not get up. Probably the costermonger, she thought.

Martha opened it, and Hugh’s voice greeted the dogs. ‘Get down, boy, get down, I say.’

She jumped to her feet. ‘Mr Bradstone! You must pardon my appearance,’ she said, embarrassed, putting aside her work. ‘I was not expecting you. I thought you had gone home to
Tockton.’

‘I delayed departing,’ he said. ‘There have been storms off the north-west coast from Ireland, and four vessels lost. I feared for my own, but thank God, it’s safe. But
I’m afraid I’m the bearer of bad tidings.’

‘What’s to do?’ Father appeared from the door to his chamber, his cap askew, and his shadow, Zachary, at his shoulder.

‘My apologies, Mr Leviston, Mr Deane, for this tardy call, but I’ve just heard four ships have gone down in the storm, the night before last. Can you believe this weather? I’ve
never known a summer like it. Bainbridge’s vessels were amongst those lost. Fifty-six men lost on his two ships, and two score more on the others.’

‘Oh my Lord.’ Father’s face went white. ‘Does Bainbridge know?’

‘He’s taken it badly. All his Irish linen and hemp. His whole autumn stock lost. He was relying on it, and his trade will not survive another blow like this. He lost one in last
year’s spring bluster, did he not?’

‘Is it really that bad?’ Zachary asked. ‘He never struck me as being short of a silver penny or two.’