her son’s godmother.
Due to the children’s father, Simon Caldwell, having been killed in an accident the day of his son’s birth, Jane and the children were very much in need of a man in their lives, despite most considering her a capable woman—after all, she had kept house for her brother, Giles, after their parents’ deaths until her marriage.
It had felt odd at first being a widow and she had found herself wishing fervently that Nicholas Hurst had not gone away. She had thought when he had changed his mind about entering the church, having spent a short time with the Blackfriars in Oxford, that their becoming acquainted could have partly been the reason behind his decision. Then out of the blue he had decided to return to Flanders. It had come as a terrible shock. Especially when Rebecca, who had lived with Jane and her husband, had married Nicholas’s brother, Philip, and accompanied him to the king’s court at Greenwich.
Sad to say Jane missed Rebecca more than she did her husband. Simon had been a widower and stonemason when her brother had introduced them. Simon had had two young daughters in need of a mother and so her brother had arranged a marriage that was very convenient for both of them. It had worked out far better than she could have hoped, although her husband had spent a large part of his time away from home, working on various building projects. His death had been the result of a fall from scaffolding at a church in Oxford. She had spoken to him often enough about his being too old to do such climbing, but he had not listened.
Of course, his sudden passing had been completely unexpected, taking place as it did the day of the younger Simon’s birth. The house in Oxford had become a place of mourning. Her husband had been kind and they had relied upon him in so many ways, to deal with the tasks that fell to a man, especially when it came to dealing with the finances. She could not say that those years married to Simon had been delightful, but she had grown fond of his girls and he had been appreciative of all she did, especially when she had given him the son he had so wanted. He had provided her with all the necessities of life, except that need to be loved. Her husband hadn’t had a romantic bone in his body and could not be said to cut a heroic figure. There were times when a woman longed for such attributes in her man, despite knowing there were other essential traits necessary in a husband.
She still had much to learn about the adventurous Nicholas Hurst, but from the moment Jane’s brother’s widow, Rebecca, had opened the pages of the printed book concerning his travels and read aloud of his adventures to her and the girls, Jane hadn’t been able to get him out of her dreams. Not that she had ever revealed how she felt to anyone. The fact that Rebecca had known the Hurst brothers since she was a young girl and had visited their shipyard at Greenwich meant that she was able to paint vivid word pictures of Nicholas’s appearance to her listeners. Such descriptions did not appear in his book so were especially appreciated by Jane.
The day she had actually come face-to-face with him was one she would never forget. Especially when his behaviour in defending her son lived up to what she had expected of him. Then she had gone into labour, having received the news that her husband was unconscious after a fall.
By the saints, what an experience that had been, what with the famed explorer seeing her in such a state! And yet Nicholas had achieved all that she had asked of him and the three of them had survived the ordeal of childbirth. How had he felt deep inside with her being another man’s wife? How much had Simon’s sudden death reflected on that memory for him?
One thing was for certain: she had determined he would play a part in Simon’s life if it were in her power to bring it about. Hence the reason for asking Nicholas to be his godfather.
A sigh escaped her. How she wished her appearance had been different that day. He could have only compared her unfavourably with the wanton Louise who had been his mistress. Distracted now by the thought of the Flemish woman, she wondered if he had found her. What of the child? Had both been delivered safely from the ordeal of giving birth? If so, had he decided to wed the woman whom he’d felt so passionately about? Her heart ached at the thought.
She squared her shoulders and told herself to believe in Nicholas’s promise. He had said he would come. If all was well with him, then God grant that he would be here soon. She would welcome him warmly despite there being still eight months of the mourning period to endure.
Of necessity she’d had to sell the house her husband had left her in Oxford and rent a smaller one here on the outskirts of Witney in order to be able to support herself and the children. She had dared to consider entering the cloth trade, despite it being very much the precinct of men. For that she had been offered assistance by Rebecca’s father, Anthony Mortimer.
Just like Nicholas, he was a much-travelled man. Indeed, they had not known of his existence until his sudden appearance a few months ago. He had contacts abroad that he was willing to share with her and she had appreciated the help he had given her so far, but she sensed that was causing him to believe he had more influence and control of her situation than she desired. She suspected that he thought if he were to find her a weaver than she would look upon himself with much favour. Several times he had spoken of feeling lonely and she guessed that he might be looking for a wife to share the house he was having rebuilt at Draymore Manor.
She felt a tug on her sleeve which roused her from her reverie.
‘Mama, what if Master Hurst has not changed his mind and intends keeping his promise, but has lost his way in the snow?’ said Elizabeth, gazing up at her.
‘That is a foolish thing to say,’ cried Margaret. ‘Master Hurst is a great explorer! He has travelled to the Americas and to the Indies and been all over Europe. He will not get lost.’
Jane’s elder son, James, looked up from the wooden-jointed soldier he was playing with and said in a voice that had not so long ago lost its babyish lisp, ‘But the snow will cover the highway. His horse might wander off or lose its footing. It’ll be dark soon.’ Eagerly he added, ‘Perhaps he needs a light to show him the way!’
‘A light in the window like a beacon leading him here,’ said Elizabeth excitedly, gazing at her stepmother. ‘Shall I fetch the oil lamp, Mama?’
Jane nodded, glad to be active, which was strange considering how tired she was. She’d risen early that day to go over her accounts and later she had interviewed a man she had hoped would be willing to weave the thread she spun, but without any luck. She found this deeply discouraging and wondered if the time she spent teaching her stepdaughters to spin was just a waste. A depressing thought considering she had been so delighted when she had discovered that she had not lost the skill taught to her by her own mother.
‘I deem it would be wiser if we set the lamp in the window upstairs,’ said Jane. ‘Due to the dip in the street, its light might not be seen if we were to have it down here.’
So a lamp was duly set in the window that jutted out over the ground floor where the family hoped and prayed for Nicholas Hurst’s arrival. Jane placed the cooking pot on its chains above the fire and added more onion, beans and turnip to the broth she was making and waited in frustrated silence.
* * *
As Nicholas rode on through the falling snow, his head throbbed and his shoulder was aflame with pain. He had to reach Jane—only she could ensure Matilda’s survival now. He fumbled inside a pouch at his waist for a kerchief and managed to drag it out and ease it beneath his doublet where the blood still oozed from the wound in his shoulder. Pray God it would stop bleeding soon.
So far he could hear no sound of pursuit, but that did not say he was not being followed. He could make no sense of what had occurred and how Berthe and the other woman had been involved! His mind strayed to that difficult time back in Bruges six weeks ago. After the death of Matilda’s mother in childbirth, Nicholas had let it be known that he desperately needed a wet nurse prepared to travel to England and stay there for a year. The woman his Flemish kin had found him had refused his more-than-generous offer to accompany him to England. He had been so relieved when Berthe had come forwards that he had not bothered with references. She had appeared sensible and trustworthy and in desperate need of help herself.
Her story was that her husband had been killed in