The Silent Companions

And after all that commotion it was Jolyon who spoke for most of the meeting, detailing their plans to change from lucifer matches to matches with safety heads, and their proposed improvements for the welfare of staff. It was Jolyon who explained ventilation fans, Jolyon who made the case for a separate drying house. But it was Elsie whom Rupert remembered.

‘A remarkable woman,’ he said to Jolyon, when he thought she was out of earshot. ‘Your sister has an acumen for this business, Livingstone, I hear it in every word she says. You are quite right to involve her.’

‘Elsie.’

But that was not what Jolyon had said in response. It was not a voice from the past, but from the here and now.

‘Elsie.’

She blinked, making an effort to draw herself back to the present. The image of Rupert and Jolyon shaking hands melted away. In its void rose another Jolyon. He bore no resemblance to the young man she had just seen; his face was distorted, shocked; his voice hollow and unreal.

‘Elsie, what are you doing here? I’ve been looking all over.’

She stood, walking down the last few steps to take his hands. They were slick and hot. ‘Whatever is the matter? You look terrible, Jo.’

‘A damned awful business. Pack up your things. You need to go back to The Bridge. Today.’

The contents of her stomach shifted. ‘Why? What on earth has happened?’

‘It’s Mabel.’ He gripped her gloves, tight. ‘Mabel is dead.’





THE BRIDGE, 1635


He will die tomorrow.

It is my fault. All of it. Every morning I wake sick to the dregs of my stomach with guilt. But I have not suffered enough, I will never suffer sufficiently to please Josiah. He must push my face to it, like a dog that has messed in its master’s house. So we are hosting a celebration.

Since Mark caught up with the runaway, my husband has decreed that the servants be rewarded with a feast. All day the spits have been turning, flooding the ground floor with smoke. My eyes sting from it.

Josiah has granted them use of the Great Hall. They sit there now, clinking glasses, ripping meat from bones with their teeth as if they are ripping apart Merripen himself.

I have resigned myself to the kitchen with Lizzy. It is my penance to sit here in the choking smoke, sweat dripping from my forehead, watching the animal skins blister and bubble as they turn above the fire.

We try to make conversation but it seems too glib a thing, too ordinary an occupation. Can such trifles continue after all that has passed?

‘It don’t seem right,’ Lizzy sighed. She mopped her face. ‘Carrying on like that because a lad will be stretched in the morning. Even an evil lad.’

I listened to the fat dripping and sizzling. Would Merripen roast like that in the fires of hell?

‘I was so foolish to trust him. Yet he did not seem like a wicked boy.’

‘Aye. But the devil takes on many guises. The way he attacked that poor horse . . .’ She came and patted my hand with her own sweating, calloused palm. ‘Perchance it’s better this way. Put an end to him before he can turn his spite on a human soul.’

But what an end.

We watched the fire together. To my eyes the logs resembled charred limbs; a poor soul burnt at the stake. God grant they never discover the way I begot Hetta. If they hang, draw and quarter Merripen, what would they do to me?

‘How is Hetta?’ I asked at last. ‘Does she know what will happen to her friend?’

Lizzy heaved herself onto a bench. ‘I didn’t tell her, but she’s sharp. Knew there was to be a big feast. To and from the garden all morning she was, gathering herbs for Cook. I suppose it helps her to keep busy.’

‘And now?’

She glanced at the clock. ‘Now I had better be fetching her in. Didn’t have the heart before, so I let her sit where she was at peace. But there’s a vicious nip in that air. Can’t have her catching cold.’

I put up my hand as she made to rise. ‘Let me go, Lizzy.’

She nodded her consent.

The frozen air was pitiless when I left the heat of the kitchen. I did not realise how cold it had grown. It was cold enough for snow. Frost glittered on the twigs that snapped beneath my slippers as I made my way to the herb patch.

My once fine garden had turned into a collection of bony branches scoured by the wind. The sky stretched above, colourless as salt. No lilies grew, no roses survived. Only the topiary remained, a green ghost of my summer hopes. And Hetta’s herbs.

I thought I was chilled before I saw her. But the moment my eyes fell upon my child, my heart froze within me.

She sat on the frosted dirt with her skirts pooled around her. Perfectly still. Although her gloved hands were empty, she held them in her lap with the palms facing up towards the sky.

Her basket remained on the path. She did not look up as my feet crunched beside it. Her eyes stared blankly ahead.

‘Hetta? Hetta, what are you doing? You’ll catch your death.’

I tugged at her shoulder. She was like a doll in my hand, floppy and senseless. Crystals of moisture sparkled on her hair. How long had Lizzy let her sit here in the damp?

‘Hetta. Give me your hand and stand up.’

The last flicker of twilight danced upon the icy herbs and dazzled my eyes. I reached down and felt that Hetta’s gloves were sticky, stained with the juice of plants. They released the fragrance of thyme and something deeper, something bitter, as I seized them and pulled her to her feet.

‘Have you been gathering herbs with your hands?’ I looked to the basket. It was filled with creepers and thistles. ‘Where are your little scissors?’

She reached into her apron. Cold light flashed off the blades as she moved them, snip, snip. They looked rusty, a brown substance caking the handles.

‘You shall have to get the knife-boy to clean them.’

I jostled her towards the house. She looked more dead than alive; her skin waxen and her eyes a dull, singed green. My breath plumed out and shivered on the air before disintegrating but her breath was shallow, barely there at all. Only once did a wisp curl from her nose, thin as the smoke from a snuffed candle.

I changed her clothes and loaded her bed with furs. I banked up her fire with my own hands. Then I covered her sparrow’s cage and positioned one of the wooden companions by her side, just as she likes it.

While the wind groaned down the chimney we sat looking at one another, us two, complicit in our guilt. Together we had ruined the family. And still the wind howled, warning of further torment to come.

Hetta raised a hand. She was reaching, reaching for me, wanting my comfort . . .

No. She did not even see me. All she wanted was my diamond necklace.

I pulled away from her.

When at last Hetta slept, I crept back down to the kitchen. Lizzy was asleep at the table, her head on her outstretched arms. I sit now beside her dear, warm body and listen to the breath whistling from her nose. It strikes me that this old woman with the lines gouged in her face is the only true connection between Hetta and myself. After all my efforts to make a precious daughter and friend, this is all that we share: the love of a servant and the death of Merripen.



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