less than five or six miles away, across marshy country, in winter.
“Thank you.”
She retreated indoors, away from the cold wind.
There was always plenty of work to do. The innkeeper’s wife, Mistress Tyrrell, set her to sweeping the upper chambers. The other two were scouring pots, cackling together in the scullery. Alice was glad to get away from them, and went upstairs and swept her way down from the attics, sneezing as the dust flew. At the top of the stairs above the parlour she sneezed harder than before and felt a sudden wetness between her legs.
She stood still, aware of her breath, her heartbeat. Could this be…? There was no one about. She caught up her skirts, put a hand there and drew it away. Blood. Bright red.
So she was not with child. That was her first thought, and with it came a wash of relief and then, perversely, disappointment. And yet … it had been so long. It was October when they were in Salisbury and she had first thought her courses were about to come. How many weeks ago was that? Eight? Nine? Ten? Today was the eighteenth of December. She knew because Master Tyrrell had an almanac downstairs, like the one they’d used at Tor Farm.
I must be with child, she thought. I must be nearly three months gone. And now I’m bleeding. She began to tremble with fright. She propped the broom against the wall and ran up to the attics and rummaged in her pack for rags. Robin’s heavy purse, in a pocket under her gown, bumped against her hip. She wished she could hide the money somewhere else, but feared Sib and Nell would find it. She had padded the coins with cloth to prevent them from jingling. Her father’s book was hidden too, pushed down inside the front of her stays. She’d made the mistake, once, of picking up the latest newsbook that lay on a table in the parlour. One of the regular customers would occasionally read aloud from these to the assembled company. But that day Alice had read alone, in silence, following the words with a finger.
Sib had jeered, “Look at her ! We have a scholar among us!”
And Alice knew she had distanced herself even further from those two. They would have no mercy on her book if they found it. “Bum fodder!” they’d crow, and rip out the pages to use in the privy.
They would have no mercy on her, either, if they knew she might be about to miscarry. As she tied the rags in place she noticed several dried blood spots on her shift; and she became aware, now, of a low backache that she realized had been with her for most of the day.
I should rest, she thought. But that would mean admitting she was with child, and she had been pushing that revelation away into the future, thinking – hoping – that Robin would come and remove her from this place before she needed to tell.
Should she tell Mistress Tyrrell now? The woman was not unkind, but she was brusque, busy, unapproachable. A girl who needed to rest was no good to her. And if she did tell Mistress Tyrrell, it wouldn’t be long before Sib and Nell knew.
She’d do better to keep quiet, keep her shift on, not be seen washing it, hope … what?
“He’s moved on.” Perhaps it would better if she miscarried. No, she thought. No. She clung to her dream of a baby, a husband, a new life as Robin’s wife.
“Alice! Have you gone to ground, wench?” Mistress Tyrrell’s voice rose up from the foot of the stairs.
Alice hurried down, seized the broom and began banging it busily around the skirting boards.
Next morning, on waking, she felt a dragging ache in her hips and back. She got up and dressed quickly, hiding her stained shift under her skirt while the other two maids were still half asleep. She went about her work, cleaning, scouring pots, fetching and carrying. She bled again, and the ache was worse. Once, in the afternoon, she felt a cramp that took her breath away. She had to put down her kitchen knife and press with both hands on the table till it passed. Fortunately no one noticed, and when
“Thank you.”
She retreated indoors, away from the cold wind.
There was always plenty of work to do. The innkeeper’s wife, Mistress Tyrrell, set her to sweeping the upper chambers. The other two were scouring pots, cackling together in the scullery. Alice was glad to get away from them, and went upstairs and swept her way down from the attics, sneezing as the dust flew. At the top of the stairs above the parlour she sneezed harder than before and felt a sudden wetness between her legs.
She stood still, aware of her breath, her heartbeat. Could this be…? There was no one about. She caught up her skirts, put a hand there and drew it away. Blood. Bright red.
So she was not with child. That was her first thought, and with it came a wash of relief and then, perversely, disappointment. And yet … it had been so long. It was October when they were in Salisbury and she had first thought her courses were about to come. How many weeks ago was that? Eight? Nine? Ten? Today was the eighteenth of December. She knew because Master Tyrrell had an almanac downstairs, like the one they’d used at Tor Farm.
I must be with child, she thought. I must be nearly three months gone. And now I’m bleeding. She began to tremble with fright. She propped the broom against the wall and ran up to the attics and rummaged in her pack for rags. Robin’s heavy purse, in a pocket under her gown, bumped against her hip. She wished she could hide the money somewhere else, but feared Sib and Nell would find it. She had padded the coins with cloth to prevent them from jingling. Her father’s book was hidden too, pushed down inside the front of her stays. She’d made the mistake, once, of picking up the latest newsbook that lay on a table in the parlour. One of the regular customers would occasionally read aloud from these to the assembled company. But that day Alice had read alone, in silence, following the words with a finger.
Sib had jeered, “Look at her ! We have a scholar among us!”
And Alice knew she had distanced herself even further from those two. They would have no mercy on her book if they found it. “Bum fodder!” they’d crow, and rip out the pages to use in the privy.
They would have no mercy on her, either, if they knew she might be about to miscarry. As she tied the rags in place she noticed several dried blood spots on her shift; and she became aware, now, of a low backache that she realized had been with her for most of the day.
I should rest, she thought. But that would mean admitting she was with child, and she had been pushing that revelation away into the future, thinking – hoping – that Robin would come and remove her from this place before she needed to tell.
Should she tell Mistress Tyrrell now? The woman was not unkind, but she was brusque, busy, unapproachable. A girl who needed to rest was no good to her. And if she did tell Mistress Tyrrell, it wouldn’t be long before Sib and Nell knew.
She’d do better to keep quiet, keep her shift on, not be seen washing it, hope … what?
“He’s moved on.” Perhaps it would better if she miscarried. No, she thought. No. She clung to her dream of a baby, a husband, a new life as Robin’s wife.
“Alice! Have you gone to ground, wench?” Mistress Tyrrell’s voice rose up from the foot of the stairs.
Alice hurried down, seized the broom and began banging it busily around the skirting boards.
Next morning, on waking, she felt a dragging ache in her hips and back. She got up and dressed quickly, hiding her stained shift under her skirt while the other two maids were still half asleep. She went about her work, cleaning, scouring pots, fetching and carrying. She bled again, and the ache was worse. Once, in the afternoon, she felt a cramp that took her breath away. She had to put down her kitchen knife and press with both hands on the table till it passed. Fortunately no one noticed, and when
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