A Murder at Rosamund's Gate

2

Lucy leaned back against the larder, pushing aside several jars of dried fruits and spices, thinking about the true account she had just heard from Master Aubrey. “Well, I did hear tell of Anne Johnson, who did poison her husband, a candlemaker—”

“No, no, not a candlemaker. Not a monstrous tale!” Bessie interrupted. “I mean a real murder. Happened in these parts.”

“Truly?” Lucy asked, studying Bessie’s face. The girl was alight with excitement. “Who was it?”

“No one knows,” Bessie said. “The watchman found her body last night in the north fields. That’s why the constable was here. To bring the magistrate the news.”

Instinctively, Lucy made the sign of the cross over her heart. The old faith stayed with them all when confronted by ungodly acts. Bessie nodded at the gesture and continued. “Edna—you know, the Thompsons’ maid?—said she heard it was a woman, but no one could be sure if she was from around these parts.”

“But why say murder?” Lucy pressed, seeking to find sense in Bessie’s words. “Could it have been an accident?”

Certainly the field in that area was generally flat, but tall grasses often hid rocks and small hillocks that made any false step treacherous. She said as much to Bessie.

Bessie smirked, reveling in the best part of the story. “Unless she ran her own innards through with a knife, certainly ’twas no accident!”

“No!” Lucy’s hands flew to her mouth. “How awful!”

Bessie continued, happy with the effect of her words. “Yes! Edna said Tom said there was blood everywhere and”—her voice lowered significantly—“she was near naked! Clad only in a few bits of cloth!”

That did not suggest a virtuous woman. Still, Lucy felt a pang of sorrow for this luckless person who had met such a fate. No one deserved such a death.

“And the north fields are not so very far away,” Bessie whispered.

Lucy shivered. What if the murderer had come their way instead? Now that she knew what had happened, she was grateful that Adam had walked her to and from town earlier. There were many empty, desolate fields between here and there. Many fields where a stranger could wait. She shook her head, trying to clear the disturbing images from her mind.

The girls continued to speculate in hushed tones until they heard Cook’s footsteps by the pantry. “Plenty of time for your tongues to wag later, girls,” the older woman said, bustling about. “Supper is upon us, and we’re hardly ready for the master’s guests. The brawn is ready, but the cabbage is not done, and I’ve not even started the pancakes. And surely,” Cook looked hard at Bessie, “I didn’t see you press the mistress’s new India silk. Would you have her wrinkled before the Mistresses Larimer and Chalmers?”

Bessie bobbed her head, mindful of her charge. Despite her flippant ways, she took her duties as the mistress’s lady’s maid as seriously as she took anything. Her good intentions did not keep her on the path to their mistress’s chamber, however, when she encountered Lucas just returning home. Lucy could hear Bessie whispering fervently to him in the hallway, rather than collecting the mistress’s gown. Lucy could not see them, but she could imagine Lucas nodding, a slight smile on his face as he took in Bessie’s excitement.

Lucas was a friendly sort, a lively presence in the household. Although the red of his cheeks might have been more becoming on a lass, he was handsome enough, even if his slight plumpness kept him from cutting as fine a figure as Master Adam. Lucy knew the local gossips whispered about Lucas’s history—“Was he from the wrong side of the blanket?”—yet the truth was far more sad than sordid. Bessie had told her, in confidence, that Lucas’s mother, dying of pleurisy, had begged the magistrate to take her son as his ward. Apparently there was some distant relationship to the family. Having shown no inclination to be a soldier, Lucas had only one other option: to enter the clergy, a decision he accepted easily enough. “Treat me with respect,” he would tease the girls, “or when I deliver my sermons, I’ll have you cast from the Church.”

Laying out the pewter in the dining room, Lucy fought a small pang of disappointment. When the family did not have guests, the servants were allowed to join them for the evening meal and sit together afterward, provided the day’s chores were done. That was Lucy’s favorite part of the evening. Or at least it had been, before Adam had returned to the household. Before, the magistrate would read passages from the Bible and, more interestingly, from other texts. She didn’t always understand what he was reading, but she always attended to his words and on occasion ventured a question. She’d stunned everyone, including herself, the first time she’d spoken up during his reading. The magistrate had been talking about how a man freed from prison would be hard-pressed to regain his liberty. “Because no one would ever trust him again,” she had murmured. No one else had been listening—Sarah, Bessie, and Lucas had been playing jackstraws, Cook was dozing in the corner, and the mistress had already retired—but when she whispered these words, everyone had stared at her, causing her to flush painfully. The magistrate had paused and peered at her, his expression in the candlelight inscrutable, although his eyes were kind. “That’s right, Lucy.” Before long, the magistrate would regularly query her. The rest of the household had taken notice, amused at his interest in his chambermaid’s opinions. Still, as Sarah said, “At least Papa has someone to discuss those deadly dull texts with him.”

This all had changed when Adam had returned and real debates between son and father ensued. Lucy would usually take her little stool from the kitchen and sit by the women, positioned so that she could sew in the light of the hearth while she listened to them debate politics, religion, and the law. Shy before Adam’s superior words, Lucy stopped venturing her point of view. Only once did the magistrate ask her for her opinion straight out. “What say you, Lucy?” the master had asked. When father and son looked at her, she grew tongue-tied, staring at the mending in her lap. Adam and the magistrate were both surprised, Adam that his father was seeking the serving girl’s opinion, and the magistrate at Lucy’s silence. After that, Master Hargrave never pressed her again.

This evening, Lucy brought fruits and sweetmeats to the withdrawing room, lingering as much as she dared, hoping to hear some interesting conversation. Sarah and Lucas were playing draughts at a small table in the corner while Adam and the magistrate conversed quietly with their guests, Sir Herbert Larimer, an important physician from the Royal Academy, and Sir Walcott Chalmers, a barrister at the Inns of Court. Their wives sat with Mistress Hargrave in another corner, engaged in their own private conversation, which as far as Lucy could gather seemed to be something about a recent scandal involving one of the king’s mistresses.

Accepting a mug of beer from Lucy’s carefully polished tray, Sir Walcott turned to the bespectacled man sitting in an embroidered chair by the hearth. “Well, Larimer, what do you make of this recent business? Who was this lass found in the field?”

At the barrister’s words, the women abruptly stopped their own conversation. “A horrible business,” Mistress Hargrave sniffed. Lady Chalmers murmured agreement, but both women hung on the physician’s response. He was often called to serve as coroner for suspicious or important deaths and could offer some fascinating detail that did not make it to the printed account.

Lucy lit another candle and brought it over next to Adam. He nodded at the gesture but was intent on hearing what Dr. Larimer had to say.

Larimer leaned back in his chair, touching his pipe stem to his lips. “’Tis an odd thing, that is certain. The body is being brought around to my office tomorrow morn; I will conduct my investigation then.”

“A doxy, do you suppose?” Lucas asked from the corner, chewing on a date.

“Lucas!” both the master and mistress cried at once.

Master Hargrave jerked his head at his daughter. “We’ll have no such talk here!”

Catching Lucy’s eye, Sarah giggled behind her handkerchief. They’d certainly heard of women who sold their bodies for a bit of gold. Lord, didn’t the Reverend Marcus speak of whores and lust and temptation every Sunday? He had done as much to inform them of the wages of sin as any boys joking about could have done.

“I don’t mind telling you, Christopher, I don’t like it. Not one bit,” Larimer said, pulling at his beard. “Two young women in the last few months, taken nearly the same way. What monsters walk among us!” The physician frowned at Lucas. “And no, young man, not one of them a known lady of the evening.”

“Similar deaths, you say?” Adam asked, glancing at his father. “Could they be connected in some way?”

“Young man, I think it highly unlikely that two monsters met together to plan out these young girls’ deaths. Dashed near impossible, one might say.” Larimer took a drink. “I say, is this your Cambridge education showing? We Oxford men would not make such wild speculations.”

“But,” Adam persisted, “you would agree, perhaps, that one man may have seen the popular accounts of the first murder and then—”

“Copied the other?” Larimer stared at Adam. “How strange. I cannot presume to know the mind of a murderous criminal. Would one copy the heinous acts of an irrational man?”

“Or it was the work of one man,” Lucas suggested. “But I’m afraid I’ve neither Oxford nor Cambridge to blame for my irrational views.”

“One deranged man? Stalking the lasses of London?” Mistress Larimer shivered. “How singular.”

“And quite unlikely, my dear,” the physician reassured his wife. He turned back to the magistrate. “Have you heard what Sam Pepys had to say today?”

With that, the conversation turned to lighter topics, though a slightly bilious feeling remained in the room.

* * *

The next day, after wiping her brow, Lucy poured hot water into a great tub set out in the courtyard. As the day was bright and fine, Mistress Hargrave had declared it perfect for the monthly washing. Even Sarah had to pitch in for the day’s labors, although she would usually disappear once her mother had left.

It fell to Lucy to bring down pile after pile of shirts, shifts, and drawers from throughout the household. Thinking Adam was with his Cambridge mates, Lucy boldly pushed into his room to retrieve his linens, then drew back in dismay.

Adam was sitting at his small desk by the window, regarding a portrait that fit into the palm of his hand. Lucy could not see the image, but she supposed it was a young woman he fancied. Or even just her eye, as was sometimes the custom, if the woman was married or sought to conceal her identity.

His pen and ink jar were out, as if he had been writing. She could see a long sheet of notes in his careful, elegant script. Startled, Adam closed his hand over the miniature.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, sir. Pardon me! I didn’t know you were in here, I thought…” She trailed off. It was one thing to talk to the magistrate’s son in the drawing room, or even on a trip to the market, and quite another to be alone with him in his bedchamber.

“Yes?” he asked, trying to mask his annoyance. “Is there something you need?”

Unbidden, Lucy recalled how Miss Sarah’s nurse used to say, A maiden who does not protect her virtue will soon see it lost. Maybe that was just for gentry, but she thought her mother would agree.

She ducked her head. “’Tis washing day.”

Barely sparing her a glance, Adam stood up and thrust a pile of linens into her arms. As she backed from the room, she saw him slip the miniature into a box on his desk.

* * *

Once outside, Lucy tossed the linens onto the sticks that lay across the buck tub, placing the cleaner clothes on top, still thinking about Adam’s miniature. Together, Lucy and Bessie poured in the lye, their eyes stinging from the mixture of urine and ashes. Despite the chill in the air, the hard work and the fire kept them warm.

As they worked, Janey stopped by, holding a smudged penny piece out to Lucy. “Read it,” she demanded.

Lucy rolled her eyes but took the paper. “‘Jane Hardewick, a servant from a good house in Lincoln Fields but a trollop by any measure,’” Lucy read, “‘was found stabbed in the glen by her master’s household, that of the good family Elton.’”

“Jane Hardewick!” Bessie exclaimed, clutching her knotted skirts. She sat down on an overturned pail.

“Oh, no!” Lucy said. “Bessie, did you know this poor woman?”

Bessie frowned. “Yes, I did. She was no trollop, or at least, not as I’ve heard tell.”

John brought buckets of cold water then, dumping them into the tub. Lucy and Bessie, sweat trickling unpleasantly under their clothes, took turns vigorously pulling the staff as they stirred the garments together. Cook helped pull and twist the heavy linen, squeezing away the water. Even Lucas came out to help.

Janey watched, tapping her foot. “Read the rest!” she urged, her eyes gleaming. “Tell ’em about what she was wearing.”

Lucy wrinkled her nose but, seeing that everyone was waiting, continued. “‘Though last seen in a gray muslin dress and an embroidered red sash, the serving wench was found only in her underskirts—’” Lucy and Bessie looked at each other. The rumor they had heard seemed to be true. “‘She had no coin upon her person,’” Lucy continued, her voice dropping at the dramatic bits, “‘but upon closer inspection of the grounds, the constable did find a handkerchief embroidered with the letter R and a note—’”

“A note!” Bessie exclaimed. “How odd!”

“‘—a note addressed to the unfortunate girl,’” Lucy read. “‘This note implored her to meet the same-said R in that very field upon which she did encounter her most treacherous fate.’”

“R,” Bessie breathed. “Who could that have been?”

Lucy read through the account carefully. “‘The local constable who found her said that R may have referred to one Robert Preswell, who had of late pressed his suit upon her, despite being “of the married state himself.” However, it was just as likely that she may have been set upon by ruffians or highwaymen.’

“Oh, look!” Lucy exclaimed. “Here’s something about Sir Herbert.” She read, “‘The good Dr. Larimer, a royal physician, examined her and duly avowed, “She was not heavy with child, but no doubt was expecting a babe in arms in four or five months’ time.’”

“Oh, that’s a shame.” Cook clucked. “What else does it say?”

Only that the Eltons’ neighbor, one Goodwife Croft, had long warned that the trollop would come to no good end. Lucy thought about that for a moment. Every community seemed to have a Goodwife Croft or a Janey, women who carried tales, whispered stories, and always assigned the most sinister of motives to the most innocent of actions.

Lucy turned back to the account. The author, identified only as J.L., wrapped up by offering several opinions about the murderer’s motives. He seemed certain that “R” had most likely murdered Jane to conceal their liaison from his wife. On the other hand, as J.L. jested, “‘R’s wife had threatened to take a rolling pin to his head, if he did not take care of his mistress.’”

Lucy raised her eyebrow. “His wife asked him to kill off his mistress in such a way? Does that even make sense?”

John chuckled. “A mistress and a wife? The man would do better to kill himself.”

“Think that’s funny, do you?” Cook asked, frowning at her husband. “I ought to take a rolling pin to you.”

Ignoring Cook and John’s playful squabbling, Lucy skimmed the last paragraph of the broadside. Here, J.L. delivered his judgment on the criminal and offered his readers a customary warning.

On a whim, Lucy climbed upon the bench, mimicking Master Aubrey’s expression. “‘R must be apprehended. He must be brought to justice.’” With a great flourish of her hands, she read the final words. “‘He must be hanged—ere he strike again!’” Stepping down to mock applause, she caught sight of Bessie’s expression.

Bessie’s rosy cheeks had completely drained of color. “Make fun, will you?” Bessie asked. “Poor, poor Jane. She was one of us.”

* * *

Lucy could tell that Jane’s murder continued to weigh heavily on Bessie’s thoughts. Throughout the next day, every time she saw Bessie pull the broadside out and look at it, she felt her friend’s rebuke sting her heart. When she tried to express her sorrow, Bessie had just shaken her head. “Don’t you understand, Lucy? Jane Hardewick had her whole life in front of her, and now it’s gone. And no one cares, because they think she deserved it.”

“I didn’t think she deserved it—” Lucy began, but Bessie cut her off.

“There’s Evensong,” Bessie said, hearing St. Peter’s bells chime. “Time to ready supper. The Embrys have been invited to dine.”

Already out of sorts because of her tiff with Bessie, Lucy felt her mood sink even lower knowing the Embrys would be joining the family for supper. When Lord Embry and his friends had visited before, they’d spent most of the evening drinking the magistrate’s finest madeira, with no care to depleting his stores. She’d also spent most of the evening fending off their roving eyes and hands in the corridors; when out of sight of the Hargraves, they’d try to catch her unaware.

Their noble status notwithstanding, Lucy wondered what the magistrate saw in the Embrys. Lord Embry did not seem clever or interesting, and indeed often said things that she could see made the magistrate flinch. To her surprise, Mistress Hargrave asked her to bring out the best pewter goblets and plates and the real silver emblazoned with the family’s mark.

She understood later, though, when she overheard a whispered conversation between the mistress and Sarah. “Lord Embry is bringing his wife and daughter,” the mistress said. “Your father is hoping that Adam will get on with Lady Judith.” She pressed her hand to her forehead, sounding ever so slightly puzzled. “I suppose since her father is so important in the House of Lords.”

Ah, that’s it, Lucy thought. They are hoping a match with the Embrys’ daughter will help advance Adam’s career. Such arrangements were customary among the gentry, of course, but she could not help but curl her lip for a man who would make a match for such reasons.

Although nervous of grasping fingers, Lucy quickly realized that Lord Embry was all courtesy and good manners before his wife and daughter. As she filled goblets and plates, Lucy studied the Embrys under her lashes.

Lady Embry was crisp and polite, sitting straight-backed in her chair. Judith was lovely, her blond hair pulled on top of her head, revealing fine, if icy, features. Her teeth were even but overlarge, Lucy thought, somewhat crossly. She did not like how mother and daughter looked about in a calculating way. When they thought no one was watching, they seemed to be appraising the magistrate’s furniture, the flagons on the table, the tiny silver spoons. Throughout supper, Sarah twisted the linen in her lap, obviously disconcerted by the elegance of the Embrys, and the mistress kept a distant smile on her face, inclining her head courteously to Lady Embry. Lucas chatted amiably enough with Judith while Adam spoke with his father and Lord Embry.

When the company moved to the drawing room, Sarah tried to engage Judith, but Judith seemed more interested in talking brightly to Adam. “This is lovely wine,” Judith said, looking meaningfully at the jug in Lucy’s hand.

“Oh, let me fill that for you,” Lucy said, moving across the room. In her haste, a bit of wine sloshed onto Judith’s silk dress.

“Stupid!” Judith exclaimed, jerking back in her chair. “Look what you’ve done!”

“Oh, miss, I’m so sorry!” Lucy stammered, her face red. She looked about for a bit of linen to dab at Judith’s dress.

“I should say you are,” Judith said, smoothing her skirts, conscious that the men had stopped talking. To Mistress Hargrave she said, “Your servant has spilled the wine. In our household, she’d be discharged for such sloppiness. So uncommon is it for us, I daresay it surprises us when we come upon it elsewhere.”

“Yes, my dear,” Lady Embry purred, with a quick glance at her daughter, “but we should not expect servants to be so well trained as ours. We get ours early on indeed, sometimes as young as nine or ten, and train them from the start. This way, they know how to handle themselves in the presence of their betters. A few were even from the palace, where such happenstance is unheard of.”

Lucy looked down, her cheeks burning.

Master Hargrave coughed slightly. “Indeed,” he said, smiling at Lucy. “Such accidents are rare here, too. In any case, we should not like to sack a lass like Lucy, for such loyal and trustworthy servants are worth far more than the trouble a few drops of wine can bring.”

“Moreover,” his wife put in, “I know how to take that stain out.” Mistress Hargrave then dabbed a clean piece of linen into her goblet before carefully rubbing at the stain on Judith’s dress. As if she had performed an act of sorcery, the stain disappeared. “See, the white Rhenish wine takes out the red straight away.” She laid the linen on the table. “A little trick I learned at the palace.”

Judith and her mother exchanged glances. “At the palace?” Lady Embry asked, her haughty tone catching a bit.

“Yes, when I was one of Her Majesty’s own ladies-in-waiting. I was but a young girl, of course, not much over twelve when I first came.” The mistress smiled blandly at her guests. Lucy could have hugged her. “And I can tell you, during the time of Charles and Henrietta, there was no small amount of wine spilled at the palace, by nobles and servants alike.”

The mistress sat back, dabbing her mouth daintily. Lucy could have sworn she was hiding a smile but was far too well bred to show it. To have served the queen as a beautiful lady-in-waiting was no small honor. Few could say the same, and this was quite a triumph. Lady Embry nodded slightly, acknowledging the added status of her hostess, and seemed to lose her chill somewhat.

The rest of the night passed pleasantly enough with Master Hargrave pulling out the fiddle and passing it around for the household to play a merry tune. He had long insisted his children and ward learn to play. Sarah was quite good, Lucy noted with a little smile. Sarah’s music teacher had been attractive enough to keep her interest. Lucas, too, though coming to the instrument a bit late, played a few quick jigs passably.

Dutifully, Adam took his turn, his eyes half shut, ignoring Judith’s rapt attention. He seemed neither interested nor disinterested in the piece but played with little of the fervor she had seen in him on some evenings. Indeed, he seemed distracted.

Placing the violin back in the case, he caught Lucy’s eye. She raised an eyebrow, and he gave a little shrug. I do not perform for strangers, he seemed to say.

Especially ones that insult a hardworking lass in his household, Lucy added mentally on his behalf. Whether that gallantry was true, she did not know.

* * *

The next morning, Bessie and Lucy stepped out of the magistrate’s house, eager to have a day off. The mist today was tentative, a few wisps that the wind easily chased away. Since both were visiting their families south of London, the girls planned to walk together as far as Southwark. Although they didn’t admit it, neither wanted to walk alone. There were several long, lonely fields ahead of them, and Jane Hardewick’s death reminded them how vulnerable they were on their own.

Lucy was glad that their tiff had smoothed over, and Bessie seemed to feel the same way. By unspoken agreement, neither mentioned the murder again.

“Shall we pass through Aldgate?” Bessie asked.

“Aldgate?” Lucy asked, surprised. “That will add nearly three-quarters of an hour to our journey.”

“Well, I thought perhaps your brother, Will, might have the day off, too,” Bessie said, a trifle too carelessly. “We could all journey through Lambeth together.”

Lucy narrowed her eyes. She knew Will had taken Bessie to the plays a few times, but she also knew that her brother had a roving eye. “He did not mention his next day off, so I do not know his plans,” she said.

Seeing Bessie smirk out of the corner of her eye, Lucy added, “However, I’m sure if he is free today, he will be quite eager to see Cecily, his sweetheart from home. They are all but promised, you know.” She wasn’t trying to be unkind, but she did hope to dampen Bessie’s hopes about Will.

“I don’t think they are promised,” Bessie said.

Lucy snorted, but pretended she had sneezed when she saw Bessie’s hurt expression. “You may be right,” she said, trying to make amends.

“I am right,” Bessie said smugly. “You’ll see.”

* * *

When they arrived at the smithy, Lucy was irritated to see that Will, indeed, was waiting for them. Clearly, he and Bessie had arranged to meet, and neither of them had told her. For a little while Lucy pouted, but then gave up when neither seemed to notice. Finally, when Will stopped to buy them some apples, Bessie linked her arm in Lucy’s. “Do you mind? About Will?” Her blue eyes seemed enormous in their worry as she waited for Lucy to respond.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lucy whispered.

Bessie shrugged. “I should have. You are my own true sister.” She paused. “There’s something else, too,” she began, but broke off when Will tossed them both an apple.

By and by, Lucy gave in to the pleasure of spending time with her brother. She could not help but eye him happily. Truly William, with twenty years behind him, was fast becoming the handsomest man she knew. His boots were of fine black leather, and his cloak was of soft spun linen.

When she remarked upon his finery, he laughed. “Yes, my master often allows us to trade our services to men in town. He let me work for Master Brumley, whose good wife made me this cloak. I brought something for Mother, too.” This spoke well of Will, for most guildsmen were strict about allowing their apprentices to work for themselves.

The three continued on, chattering all the while. Several young men, making merry with a leather flask, passed by them, no doubt off to the playhouses for a bit of afternoon fun. Since the Puritan ban on theatergoing had been lifted four years ago, plays were even allowed on the Lord’s Day and during Lent.

Lucy sighed, wishing she could spare the three shillings required to attend, but such coins came dear. Will went frequently, but she suspected that he might have been less drawn to the plays and more to the actresses who cavorted about. The only time he’d taken her to the Globe, he’d also pointed out a comely orange seller who might have been another of his lady loves. Perhaps, Lucy thought, in that regard Bessie would be good for her brother, although she could not imagine he’d be ready to settle down.

When they reached London Bridge, Lucy caught herself humming a few words of a popular song.

London Bridge is broken down,

Dance over my Lady Lee,

London Bridge is broken down,

With a gay lady.

Not for the first time, Lucy wondered what poor Anne Boleyn had been thinking as she was being carted to death across this very bridge. What had it been like, knowing that her husband, the king, had ordered that her head be chopped off once she reached the other side? Had she cried on the shoulder of her faithful attendant, Lady Margaret Lee? How despairing she must have felt, that God had not seen fit to give her a male heir. That pitiful queen would never know, of course, that her daughter, dear Queen Bess, would bring such an era of peace and prosperity to England.

As they neared the south end of the bridge, Lucy willed herself not to look up. She knew, from the few other times she had passed through the south gate, that the rotting heads of criminals were set on pikes, warning all who would commit crimes against the king and the people of the realm. It sickened her, hearing the crowd jest and make fun.

“Mind the fresh ones,” they would poke each other, “lest you get a bit of gristle on your clothes.”

Instinctively, Lucy gripped Will’s arm and buried her face in his shoulder. She felt him pat her cheek and was comforted by his touch.

At the crossroads by St. Mary Overy dock, as Bessie was about to take her leave, William caught her hand. “Now, you will be careful, won’t you, lass? We can’t have our girls running about alone, can we?”

Lucy watched him then whisper in Bessie’s ear and saw her nod before she walked away.

Suddenly, she felt quite irritated with her brother. “Don’t you even remember Cecily at all? Weren’t you promised to her?” She stamped her foot.

Will kicked a tuft of dirt. “We were never promised, and you know it.”

“Are you courting Bessie now?”

“I like Bessie. She’s very sweet.” Will touched her shoulder. “Lucy, before Father died, long before the Troubles, he told me that he did not want me to be a farmer. He wanted me to learn a trade, make some money, and support Mother, you, and little Dorrie. That’s what I’m trying to do. I’m just not ready to settle down with anyone. Bessie understands that.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“I am! Besides, Lucy, I want to master my own trade!” he said, throwing his head back, looking like a young lion. “I don’t want you to be serving gentry your whole life. I want something better for you, too. You should have a dowry.”

“Well, if I live with you, I won’t need a dowry,” Lucy said, catching his excitement, her earlier annoyance forgotten. “You can buy me books instead. I shall learn to write books myself. Then you can set me up as a lady pamphleteer, and I can bring in my own income.”

Will stopped and stared at his sister, horrified. “Lucy!”

Lucy giggled, lest he think her mad. “Nay, Will. I was just teasing. I think it’s quite unlikely I’ll become a petticoat author; I can scarcely write. Of course, I shall wed in time. Perhaps you can provide me with a dowry that will convince an earl to come a-calling.”

“Indeed, Lucy. Indeed.”

* * *

The next morning, Lucy was walking back from the market, just a few bruised apples in her basket. Hopefully Cook could make a pie. Though it was cold, she decided to take the long way home, sticking to the main roads, not crossing through the fields as she usually did. Jane Hardewick’s murder still sat uncomfortably on her thoughts. Why hadn’t she asked if Bessie or John could accompany her to market? she wondered. The road, though bright and sunny, was fairly desolate, and trees were thick in this part. Plenty of places for highwaymen and cutthroats to hide.

Then, to her dismay, Lucy heard someone cry out. She stiffened, looking this way and that. Was someone—crying?

Hesitating, she cocked her head toward the sound. It did not sound like a baby, or even a child. Taking a deep breath, she pulled aside a branch and peered into the brush.

Lucy stared. A man, tattered and mud splattered, was huddled in the dusty grasses, swaying back and forth and moaning. Controlling her enormous desire to flee, Lucy heard herself speak to the man. “Sir?” she asked. “Is there something the matter?”

At her voice, the man’s head popped up, his mouth slack jawed. Drawing back, Lucy recognized him. She had seen him before, in town, where small laughing boys had taunted him with sticks and rotten apples, making sport of his drooling lips, his missing fingers, and the frightening patch he wore over one eye.

Sickened now by the memory of the children’s cruel taunts, Lucy knelt beside him. “Why are you crying?” she whispered.

Not replying, he wrapped his arms around his knees and began to rock slowly back and forth. Lucy tried not to look at his maimed hand. “Avery has lost his kitten, and she but a wee little thing, too. She was here”—he patted his leather pouch, which lay open on the ground—“in Avery’s pocket. She just done gone and run off.” He blew his nose noisily into his sleeve.

Lucy sighed. His mind was no doubt touched, but she felt sorry for him. How could he take care of a kitten? He seemed hardly able to take care of himself. Lucy knew she shouldn’t tarry, but surely, she reasoned, she could spare a minute to help the poor addled soul.

Within moments of crawling through the brush, Lucy regretted her impulsive decision. Though Avery might be harmless enough, how could she be sure? What if this were a trap? Her mind flashed again to Jane Hardewick, killed in a field not so far away. Her heart started to pound. “I must get out of here,” she whispered to herself. “This is folly.”

She began to edge away but then heard a little mewing sound. Pausing, she watched a leaf move, and then a little white kitten popped up its head. Lucy scooped up the kitten, its orange and white tail wrapped around its frail, shivering body. Under her cloak, she felt the kitten begin to purr. “Avery, look here!” she called. “This must be your kitten!”

The big man bounded over, his face wreathed in smiles. “Kitty!” he scolded, gently taking the kitten from her outstretched hands. “Why did you run away? Avery missed you!”

Avery sat down with his back against the tree, stroking the kitten in his lap. “We take care of each other, me and Kitty. Avery had another cat once. During the war. But that one’s all gone now.” His face clouded over.

“You were a soldier?” Lucy asked, somewhat taken aback. Yet, as she admitted to herself, there were many men like Avery still about, scarred and missing limbs, at the edge of public places, not venturing much among the people, except to beg.

“Aye,” Avery answered. “One of King Charles’s own men. Avery dunna remember much. The cannon he was feeding did done blow up in his face.” He cocked his head, listening to the kitten purr. “’Twas lucky enough Avery lost only a few fingers. He’s still got the other hand to do his bidding. Some poor devils, the surgeons had to keep sawing and sawing.” Stroking the kitten, he added, “Avery still hears screams sometimes.”

Lucy shuddered, imagining the gore of battlefield surgery. A wave of sympathy poured over her as she thought bitterly of the blood that had ruined her father’s fields. Holding out her hand, she smiled gently. “I’m Lucy.”

He took her hand tenderly in both of his own—one hand perfectly formed, if grimy, and the other a claw—and a funny expression crossed his face. For a moment, she saw a glimpse of the man he once was. “You’re lovely.” She smiled and was about to thank him when he added, “Near as lovely as the other one.”

Lucy supposed he meant some long-ago sweetheart, and she felt sad. The war had robbed so many people of so much. She did not pretend to understand much about politics, but she did understand suffering. Idly, she wondered how the magistrate would explain the great conflict that had torn so many families and communities apart.

Avery’s dribbling mask returned, and he dropped her hand. They sat in silence for a moment, watching the kitten nestle on his knee. “That lass was an angel,” he said, stroking the kitten’s fur. “A fair angel.”

“Was she your beloved?” Lucy asked gently.

“Beloved?” He seemed confused by her words, and then his brow cleared. “No, Avery doesn’t have a sweetheart. Me and Kitty just have each other. Avery meant the girl sleeping in the field.”

“In the field?”

“She looked like a sleeping angel, she did. Her hair was spread out so fine. Me and Kitty were hid behind a tree, but we could see her, lying in the grasses. Peaceful, she looked. But Avery did not like that the witches stole her clothes while she was asleep.”

“She didn’t wake up? When people were taking her clothes?” asked Lucy, sitting straight up. Something seemed off.

Avery rubbed his nose in the kitten’s soft fur. “Like the men in the war. They didn’t wake up either,” he muttered. “All kinds of things happened to them.”

An unpleasant thought occurred to Lucy. Her heart tripped faster. “Asleep, like the men—you fought with?” Lucy asked casually. “Did those people—witches, did you say?—help her, the angel, er, fall asleep?”

Avery shook his shaggy head. “No, they just took her clothes. She looked cold and alone. Avery wanted to cover her up. Poor angel.” Then his face changed. He looked unbearably sad and fully comprehending. “She was dead.”