The Silent Companions

‘Let me guess: you found writing?’

‘No. I felt . . . strange. Like someone were watching me.’

‘We have all felt like that, Helen. It was probably Jasper.’ She turned away from the companions. ‘I think Mabel had better go to bed. She is clearly still unwell. And since we are here, Helen, I would rather you put the boy back wherever you found him. Miss Sarah only asked for the girl to go on display.’

‘I’ll put it in the cellar if you wish, ma’am. Still can’t get into the garret.’

‘Yes, I was in the middle of writing to Torbury St Jude for someone to open the garret when Mabel started this folly. You put the gypsy boy in the cellar and I will return to my letter.’ She was heading for the stairs when Mabel’s voice stopped her.

‘What about t’other one?’

‘Miss Sarah wants the girl companion, Mabel. Have Helen clean it if it scares you so.’

‘No.’ Mabel pointed a soot-caked finger. ‘That one.’

On the oriental rug, where Rupert’s coffin had lain, stood a third companion.

An old woman seated on a chair. It was worse than the gypsy boy; not just sneering but decidedly malevolent. She wore a white coif and a black partlet. Propped in her arms was a doll-like child, unnaturally stiff and blank-faced.

‘Where did that come from? Why . . . why would anyone paint such a thing? That face!’ Her words rang out through the hall and bounced back at her.

Helen trembled.

‘Put it away, Helen. Where on earth did you find it?’

Helen’s lips quivered. ‘Here, ma’am. Right here, this morning.’





THE BRIDGE, 1635


I knew from the moment I awoke that this day would be one of conflict: it was written in the muggy air. Battlements of cloud crowded out the light and a silent tension hung over the gardens. It was oppressively hot. I longed all day for the clouds to break and relieve my headache but still they glower down at me, primed. Nothing outside stirs; there is no breeze.

If it is like this when the King and Queen arrive, we will all be sweltering and cross. How can we look becoming in our beautiful outfits, with the sweat pouring off our faces? No one will hunger for a roast swan. Oh, if only this weather would give way!

Josiah has made me feel melancholy about the visit. He came to me soon after dinner and sent the maids away.

‘I need to speak with you,’ he said. The set of his jaw, the lines in his forehead, spoke for him.

‘You have decided about Hetta,’ I said.

‘Yes.’ He ran a hand down the length of his beard. ‘Annie, you will not like what I have to say.’

‘Then do not say it. Change your mind.’

He sighed. ‘I cannot. It is for the best. Henrietta Maria may attend the feast. She has worked hard enough for it. But as for the rest of the entertainments . . . The answer is no.’

My hands curled into fists. I knew I should select my next words with care, but I was not mistress of my emotions. That hot, tingling sensation welled up inside me and pushed tears into my eyes.

‘She is young,’ he went on. ‘I am not sure it would be suitable, even if—’

‘You are ashamed of her,’ I said.

He hesitated for an instant. It was enough. ‘I pity her . . .’

‘She is a miracle! The midwives said I would never bear another child, not after Charles. And yet here she is. Your only daughter, Josiah. A miracle.’

‘I am mindful of that. No one thought you capable of carrying another. Perhaps that is why she has her . . . her difficulties.’

Behind his words I heard the accusation that is always simmering beneath the surface: it is my fault that Hetta’s tongue did not grow. My womb failed to nurture a complete child. There was something lacking; either in me, or the mixture.

‘She is touched by God!’ I cried. He looked at me. Just one look, and it set my anger ablaze. ‘You think not? You think the other way?’

He held up his hands in surrender. He was tiring of me. ‘Calm yourself. Of course I do not think Henrietta Maria has a demon. You are speaking hysterically.’

‘I am not. You are hiding my daughter away!’

‘Everyone will see her at the feast, Anne. I will not hide her, but I must protect her.’ He began to pace the room, the leather of his boots creaking as he walked. ‘We will introduce her to society slowly. She is not ready yet. She is too wild, too girlish. We have indulged her and let her run around the house in her own way. But that must stop now. She will be instructed.’

‘Instructed?’

‘In court manners. There is no time to train her up before the visit. We cannot afford a mistake. Not one! I dare not imagine the consequences. Would you see me banished from court, for Henrietta Maria’s blunders? Everything must go perfectly.’

My temper frayed beneath the creak, creak of his boots. For I did not hear squeaking leather: I heard trees in the night, waving their arms above a cloaked figure picking herbs; a pestle and mortar grinding together; mystery and temptation in the words of an old spell. ‘You seem to imply that our daughter is not perfect.’

‘You know that she is not.’

It winded me. How could Josiah say such a thing, of his own child? I do not think I have ever hated him as I did at that moment. ‘This news will break her heart,’ I told him.

‘Then I will tell her, if you do not like to. Where is she now?’

‘In the garden.’

I walked over to the window, wanting to see her at peace before he shattered her hopes. Everything outside looked strange. The plants glowed unnaturally bright under stormy skies. My new fleur-de-lis hedges were transformed into vivid green spears; the roses, clots of blood. Behind them, my Hetta knelt on the ground, tending her herbs. Her ankles showed, smeared with green. I did not mind that. Her face was full of light, despite the clouds. She looked happy; she smiled as she nodded and tilted her head up to . . .

‘Who is that?’ Josiah’s voice blared over my shoulder.

I cursed under my breath. ‘It’s that gypsy boy again. It is time he had a good hiding. I have warned him to stay away.’

‘See? Do you see, now?’ He gestured out of the window. ‘Playing with gypsies! This is exactly what I am talking about.’

I whirled round, too angry to contradict him. ‘I will deal with it,’ I said, and stalked from the room.

My feet pounded on the stairs. Blast that gypsy and his impudence, blast him for making poor Hetta’s father think ill of her!

I burst out into the gardens. The air was like stale breath. I could not wonder that the plants did not thrive; even the soil was pale, dry and cracked.

Lizzy was nowhere in sight. What was she about, leaving Hetta unattended in such a manner?

‘Hetta! Is that boy bothering you?’

She sprang to her feet and came to take my hand. Her palm was dirty, but without sweat. The humidity that frazzled me and the gardens did not touch her.

‘What is going on?’

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