Keturah and Lord Death by Martine Leavitt

deep breath, and did not move. “Isn’t this a sin, friends, to dress as a man?”
    “Not if you are doing it for your friend. And for the king,” Gretta said encouragingly.
    “I admit I could desire to be of service to Lord Temsland,” she said nobly.
    “That is so like you,” Gretta agreed.
    Beatrice nodded and sighed deeply. “They say in countries across the sea that women sing in public. But here, of course, it is impossible.”
    I nodded. “There would be a scandal.”
    Beatrice took another deep breath and stared down the door. “Surely if a woman can cook for the king and a woman can sew to please the king, a woman can sing for the king.”
    “Like Tamara in the Bible, Beatrice,” Gretta said, “sometimes a girl has to take extraordinary measures. That Keturah could find these clothes is proof that all is according to plan.”
    Beatrice seemed to contemplate the sinfulness of it all, but gradually her face filled with rapture. She drew her hands together as if she might pray.
    “Yes, I see,” she said in a tone that allowed me to hear the music in her voice. “It is all very clear now. We have had a miracle.”
    Face flushed, she ran out the door to choir practice. Once, exhilarated perhaps to be free of the skirts she had worn her whole life, she turned and waved to us and smiled joyfully. I smiled too. Even Choirmaster could not stay gloomy with Beatrice around, and I felt encouraged that Lord Death would be cheated of the man’s soul if my plan worked.
    Of course, there was still Tailor to worry over, but I had a plan for him as well.

    Grandmother sent a message that she would spend the day with Goody Thompson, who would be bedridden for some time, and I made a potato and onion pie and then a raspberry pie while Gretta stitched. I wondered that though barrels of cobbles had been dumped in the square, no one yet had come to continue the work on the road. It made me taut as spun thread.
    After a time there came a knock at the door. I jumped, and Gretta answered it.
    It was Henry Bean, John Temsland’s constant companion. He bowed to me. “Mistress Keturah Reeve,” he said formally.
    “You have known me since we were babies together, Henry,” I said. “Come in.”
    “I am come on an errand from the young lord, John
    Temsland. He is ready for the interview you have requested.” Henry stepped away from the doorway and bowed again, gesturing grandly. “If you will allow me to escort you.”
    I remembered I had promised to return John s clothes, but they were at choir practice with Bill. There was no time.
    I glanced back at Gretta, whose stitching had fallen into her lap. “I will be back shortly, Gretta,” I said.
    “Of course,” she said.
    I ignored Henry as I walked, thinking of how to tell John Temsland everything I must. In the middle of my musings I stopped, remembering suddenly the eye in my pocket.
    I turned and waited for Henry to catch up with me. “Henry,” I said.
    “Yes, Keturah?”
    “Henry, you have become a man almost,” I said.
    He smiled and puffed out his chest.
    Could I love him? He was not handsome, but neither was he uncomely. He loved a good hunt and was not much for the fields. Still, it seemed he had become John Temsland’s man, and whoever married him might have something more than a little peasant cottage.
    “I have been a man for some time,” he said proudly. “Why are you squinting at me?”
    “Henry, could you love me?”
    His mouth opened and shut with a snap. He took off his cap, ran his fingers through his hair, and put his cap back on. “Well, now, Keturah,” he said uncomfortably, “ ‘tis well known I have loved you since we played hide and seek as little ones together.”
    “But grown-up love, Henry? If I could summon up a love for you, could you return it?”
    “Well... yes, I suppose I could,” he stammered.
    With great hope I touched the charm, but it was looking around, back and forth, up and down, more quickly than ever. I sighed.