I found Lizzy and Hetta poring over books in the schoolroom. Schoolroom, I call it – in truth it looked more like a fairy den than a seat of learning when I walked in. Potted plants covered every surface. Baskets spilled over with ivy and periwinkle, trailing their foliage over the bookshelves. Hetta’s pet sparrow hopped in his cage and trilled a song. It is not a sober or reflective environment, but Hetta refuses to attend to her studies if there is no greenery around her.
Today she was reading Culpeper’s Complete Herbal, her very favourite book. It cannot be a coincidence, her interest in the natural world? Not with those eyes: mixed brown, green and yellow just like a tisane; or with that hair, blushing every shade of autumn.
Lizzy rose at once to greet me, but Hetta only offered that shy half-smile which never reaches her eyes. That is not her fault, of course – it is mine. An incorrect measurement, a stumbled word. She is not responsible for my blunders.
‘Hetta, sweeting,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you could go and do some drawing? Mother needs to talk with Lizzy.’
Obediently, she trotted off to the window seat. Pulling out her paper and pencils she sat, staring at a blank page.
‘She will draw flowers,’ Lizzy guessed with a chuckle. ‘Always flowers.’ She sat down once more in her rocking chair, adjusting the black partlet around her shoulders. ‘Look at her! Don’t you see a little more of Mary in her face every day?’
That was what I wanted, for certain. But it feels strange to see my dead sister’s features on this shy, silent girl. Mary was always full of life.
‘It is a remarkable likeness, indeed.’
‘But you wished to speak with me in confidence? What news?’
I finally let the smile break on my face. ‘Oh Lizzy, I have wonderful news. I am the happiest woman alive.’
She grinned, as she always does when I am happy. ‘What is it, child? It cannot be . . .’ Her eyes darted to my stomach. ‘No, not that. One miracle is enough.’
‘No!’ I patted the creases out of my bodice. ‘Far better. Josiah is home. He has told me to make myself ready. The King and Queen are coming in summer! Coming here!’
The smile wilted on her lips. ‘Here? The King and Queen?’
‘Yes!’ By the window, Hetta had begun to draw, her head tilted to the side. I dropped my voice. ‘How now, Lizzy? Why do you look unhappy?’
She squeezed my hand; her bony old fingers pressed into mine. ‘Oh, I am glad for you, dearheart. At least, I think . . .’ She shook her grey head. ‘May I tell you the truth?’
‘Always.’
‘I do not think they will be well received in the village.’
The village: I had not thought of that. The stuffed-up, precise men of Fayford with their chessboard clothing. I have not warmed towards them. When we purchased this land to build The Bridge, I called upon the workers with salves for their chapped hands. They shrank from me in abhorrence. They mistrust my skill with plants, look at me askance, and so I have kept away ever since. With a talent like mine, I must take caution. Spurious accusations could harm far more than my pride.
‘The villagers may be impudent with the gentry, Lizzy, but surely for their King—?’
‘Not them. They have no respect for the King. Haven’t you wondered why they don’t take to our family? The master serves a King who drained the fens, and they all expect he’ll be after more ship money soon.’
‘Fie! That tax does not apply to us. We are not a coastal district.’
‘Inland ship money.’ Lizzy hunched her shoulders unhappily. ‘It’s been proposed. Can you imagine? I dread to think of the scene in the village if that happens. They’ll throw vegetables at His Majesty as he passes.’
‘They would not dare! Stop it, Lizzy, you are getting me into a fright.’
‘I only speak the truth.’
‘Then I will have to find a way to bring the court here without them passing through Fayford. But really, I can’t see why I should. It is the King’s village. His country.’ Hetta’s pencil stopped. I took a breath and it started again. ‘I do not foresee King Charles demanding more ship money, Lizzy. He cannot be too poor of pocket. Josiah was just telling me of the new ceiling to be painted at the Banqueting House and the Queen’s building project at Greenwich.’
‘Oh aye,’ she said darkly. ‘He will spend money on his trifles. That is what makes people so angry.’
I looked at her anew. ‘You sound as if you agree with the Puritans of Fayford, Lizzy.’
‘I cannot say I like the idea of those royals bursting in here. You know,’ she whispered, ‘that she’s a Papist shrew.’
‘Lizzy!’ Hetta looked up. I bent my head and lowered my voice again. ‘The Queen may be a Catholic, but she is no shrew. You should not say such things. Must I remind you that my daughter is named for Queen Henrietta Maria?’
‘I don’t like it,’ Lizzy repeated. ‘Her in your house, chanting her popish spells and nonsense. Especially with the child so susceptible.’
‘Whatever do you mean? Hetta is not simple; only mute. She will not sell her soul to the Pope just because she sees a fine Catholic queen.’
‘Even so. An innocent child, in the same house! And the King! Why, you know what people said about him and the Duke of Buckingham.’
‘I do not see what gossip—’
‘Who could stand it? A papist and a sodomite under the same roof as our precious girl.’
‘Enough!’ I stood so suddenly that my chair squealed. Hetta froze, the tip of her pencil quivering on the paper. ‘Hold your tongue, Lizzy,’ I hissed. ‘I will not have it, not in my house. He is your King. You will speak of him with respect.’
Lizzy’s face closed: ‘Yes, mistress.’
I had done it again. I had treated her like a friend and then thrust her back down to the role of servant. I always do this, and I know she resents it. But what else could I say?
We are dependent on the King. Josiah has fine blood – his mother was a dowager countess before she married his untitled father – but only the King’s bounty can establish the Bainbridge name. Only the King can give my husband the knighthood he so craves. I cannot, cannot have one of my household spreading vile treason. Only last year I heard of a man who had his ears cut off for criticising the royal family. Would Lizzy want me to sit back and let that happen to her?
THE BRIDGE, 1865
There were two.
Elsie stared from one to the other, searching for a clue in their inscrutable wooden faces. One smiling her knowing, little-girl smile; the second, the interloper, a boy dressed for work in the fields. He faced to the right, leaning against a shepherd’s crook. Black hair straggled out from beneath his cap, framing a sombre, tawny face.
‘Who are you?’ she wondered aloud, as if he could answer.
There was something distasteful about the boy. He seemed untrustworthy, wayward.
‘Where have you come from?’
Perhaps Helen had found him in the garret? But no – the garret was jammed shut. Wasn’t it? Her mind wobbled. After the strange business with the nursery, she could not be quite sure about anything.
She blinked rapidly, hoping one flick of the eyelids would show the gypsy boy gone and only the little girl with the flowers standing beside her window. But it was no use: he stayed put.