a pleasure, lady.”
There seems to be nothing more to say. My profuse and incoherent thanks of earlier cannot be repeated, back in this normal world. I try to work out my feelings. I try to work out whether there was anything else he could have done. I feel a strange closeness to Leo, like kinship. We share one another’s secrets. Perhaps this is how you do feel towards someone who has saved your life. After a while Leo says, “I’ll be saying nowt about the other, neither, mistress.”
I have to think for a moment what he means, then I realise he means John, and the kiss. “Oh. Well thank you. And… Leo, you can be sure… I shan’t be saying anything to anyone about what happened, either.”
He nods. A pact has been sealed.
Germaine comes round with cates, tiny squares of bread fried in goose grease, wafer-thin slices of salty black pudding, candied gooseberries, marchpane comfets. We help ourselves from two big platters. My father, leaning lopsidedly on the chopping block, slips off when he tries to help himself, and bangs his cheek. With a spluttering curse he heaves himself upright and crosses the room to the fireplace as if dancing the galiard, relieves himself into the flames, then pirouettes back. He picks up one of the flagons with both hands and drinks from it. The wine spills down his neck, staining his ruff. “Damnation to the Scots!” he shouts. The assembly raises its goblets. The fire flares brilliant, unfocused, into the room. Germaine goes round lighting the candles, and they shine with rainbow haloes in the smoky air. Leo pats me on the shoulder, and leaves.
As the afternoon draws on, Kate puts on barley broth to stew, for those who might wish to recover their senses later. I grow weary of explaining my injuries to people, and wonder if I would have minded less if my explanations had been the truth.
Tilly Turner, curled on the oak settle by the fire, faints with great drama, smashing her head on the hearth, and has to be revived with a burning feather under her nose. Mother pats her cheeks back and forth with more vigour than is strictly necessary, and William the henchman assists her out into the fresh air. Moments later he returns with a flurry, calling to Father, “Master, parson’s come out of t’wood.”
“Woodworm’s come out of t’wood,” my father mutters, staggering to his feet. William comes over and props him up.
“Is he to come in, master? Is the parson to come in?”
Everyone waits for my father’s answer. They all know his opinion of John Becker.
I creep across the kitchen and take over Tilly’s place on the oak settle, where I can be hidden by its high sides. I had forgotten that John was coming. I’m horrified at the thought of him seeing me hot, sweaty and half-drunk. Germaine comes to sit next to me. “Hiding, Beatrice?” she enquires. I nod carefully, fearful that my head might fly off. Germaine laughs. “He might consign the rest of us to hellfire, but not you, my dear.”
To me, the kitchen already seems like Hell – hot and full of people whose misdeeds are about to catch up with them.
My father blunders across the kitchen, stumbling over chairs and benches. “Might as well show him in, William lad,” he shouts. “Yon whining preacher could do with a drink, I daresay. Can’t do aught but improve him.”
Everyone’s gaze swings towards the entrance. We hear the front door crash open, then William’s voice. “They’re in the kitchen, sir.” My father prepares himself grandly, feet apart, hands on hips. William comes back into the kitchen and whispers something to him.
“Nay lad,” my father replies loudly, “I’ll see him in here. Is he too grand for the kitchen? Eh? Eh?” His voice is thick. His nose stands out purple with a slight knob on the end where a vein pulsates. William departs, and returns with John.
It is a shock to see him, all the more so because he looks absurdly pale and sober and clean, in comparison with the rest of us. I see how we must look to him, red-faced and rowdy. It dawns on me how unsuitable a match I would be for John, or indeed for any decent and respectable person outside the family. “Good day.” He looks round and addresses everyone, then turns to my father. “May I speak to you privately, Squire Garth?”
He is beautiful, beautiful and solemn. I am starting to remember what it was like this morning. He hasn’t seen me yet.
“You can talk to me here, lad. No one’s going to be eavesdropping,” my father answers. Everyone turns away and pretends to be busy doing something else. “We’re all celebrating being alive.” Father waves his arms. “Even you can understand that, I daresay. You’ll take a cup of elder?”
“Thank you.” John smiles at my mother, who is already reaching down another goblet. “It’s worth the journey here just for your elder wine, Columbine,” he says. Mother nods – she obviously realises why he is here – and his attempt to soothe the atmosphere hangs awkwardly in the air. He turns back to my father. “Sir, it is important that I speak to you alone, upstairs in your rooms please, about a matter of great importance.”
Everyone is listening. Germaine stands idly chipping flakes of dried food from the knife marks on the table with her fingernail. Kate studies her pie. The henchmen nod meaninglessly to each other, in a pretence of conversation. Suddenly Aunt Juniper rises from the chimney corner and marches towards John. “Young man, I cannot imagine how you permitted this to happen,” she snaps. Silence falls across the kitchen.
“Juniper…” Mother tries to hustle her away. “It’s better if we talk about this in private.”
“Nonsense. Do you imagine you can keep this disgraceful secret for even a moment, Columbine? My niece was in your care, Parson Becker…” She stands before him, clearly almost speechless with fury, and shakes her finger in his face. Mother hurries round her and takes hold of my father’s arm.
“Come, Husband. The parson wishes to speak to us privately.”
My father brings his fist down on the table with a terrifying thump. “What is this? What brings you here, parson?”
John swings his gaze from my father to Aunt Juniper. “This happened before Verity was in my care, madam, indeed it happened whilst she was supposedly in the care of your two Barrowbeck households. Now please excuse me.” He turns back to my father. “I have already said that I wish to speak to you privately, sir.” He gestures towards the stairway. “Now, will you kindly accompany me?”
My father is silent for a moment. He releases his arm from Mother’s grip, steadies himself and brushes crumbs from the front of his doublet. Then he says, “I had assumed you had come to do the job you’re paid for, parson, to bless the dead. There have been murders here today. We shall find the murderer, you can count on it, and then you will have the opportunity to lead that lost soul to repentance, afore we hang him. These are the jobs you’re paid to do, sir, and not, I think, to decide where and when your betters should speak to you.”
John gives a brief sigh of vexation. “Very well then, Squire Garth, let’s go and bless the dead. Perhaps you would be so good as to accompany me?”
My father nods graciously, and leads the way towards the wood cellar, followed by John and my mother. Everyone watches in silence as they go. Aunt Juniper is in tears. I put my arms round her.
“Did you know about this, Beatrice?” she asks. I nod. She sinks on to the bench and covers her face with her hands. Hugh and Gerald hurry over to her, whilst Uncle Juniper watches nervously from a distance, fidgeting from one foot to the other.
“What’s happened?” Hugh asks me, and since everyone will soon know anyway, I answer, “Verity and James are expecting a baby.”
Kate splutters over her pie. “James Sorrell? Yon farm lad? Nay, never!”
I turn on her. “That’s enough, Kate.”
She tightens her lips in outrage, marches to the hearth, flings her pie into the baking oven and slams the heavy iron door shut with a clang that echoes round the walls.
Aunt Juniper rises to her feet and sweeps out of the kitchen, saying tersely