She had been afflicted by the plague, yet she and she alone had survived. Had her mother effected the cure? What had she tried with Bess that she had not given to the others? What powerful remedy had she concocted, and if it were so efficacious, why had she not used it sooner? She saw now that her mother’s hair was not the only thing to have altered so dramatically. She seemed to move differently, to inhabit the room in an entirely new way. A way that was strange and unsettling. Something profound had changed in her mother while Bess had lain on her sickbed. Some transformation had occurred at the root of her being, Bess believed, something had changed forever in her very soul.
* * *
That winter was the bleakest Bess had ever endured. The chill of grief in her heart was matched by the icy winds and cruel frosts that assailed the farm. She and her mother battled to tend the land and the livestock, but it was an impossible task. The smallholding had been stocked and planted to require the labors of four adults, not two. It quickly became clear that they could not manage the acreage alone, and as there was no money to hire help, they were forced to part with some of their beasts. And fewer beasts meant less food. Together, they slaughtered the old sow, laying the meat down in salt. The remaining pig wandered the yard morosely for days and threatened to pine away to nothing before their eyes. The youngest cow they sold to a neighbor. The oldest proved to be barren, which meant there was only one left to give milk. Such a low yield meant an end to their cheese-making at least until the following autumn.
Christmas passed unmarked in the Hawksmith household. Neither Bess nor her mother could face the cheery traditions and customs that would mark the day out as special and remind them of their lost loved ones. Had they but had the time or energy to care, they might have realized that many in the village now ceased to celebrate the yuletide festival. The fashion of the land was for quiet observance of God’s will, not for showy rituals that gave an excuse for gaiety and often drunken excess in His name. None of this mattered to Bess or Anne. They rarely ventured into the village now, save to sell or buy something. Neither of them had set foot inside the church since the plague. It had crossed Bess’s mind that this would not go unnoticed. She remembered Reverend Burdock’s words to the church warden. What a long time ago that seemed—back to a sunny, light, hopeful time. All parishioners were required to attend Sunday worship, and their absence would be recorded. For now though the inclement weather and privations inflicted on the village by the plague gave people other things to concern themselves with. For now.
For two whole weeks in the darkest days of the season, snow covered the land almost to the sea itself. Bess had never seen the cliff tops white before. The warmth of the sea had always kept such weather at bay until now. Looking out at the beautiful, frigid land, Bess felt as if the earth itself had gone into mourning. Would spring ever come again? she wondered. It seemed to her things might stay this way forever. Before Christmas, she had helped her mother press the last of the apples and set the juice to ferment. Now the cider was ready, and Anne decided they should sell some of it.
‘I want you to take those flagons to the Three Feathers. Ask for James Crabtree. Agnes will want to bargain with you herself.’ As she spoke, Anne fastened her own heavy cloak about Bess’s shoulders. ‘Do not be drawn into dealing with that woman; she will have the lot off you for nothing. Insist on speaking with James, do you hear me?’
Bess nodded. She felt an unfamiliar sensation in the depths of her bowels and eventually recognized it as excitement. She had never been in an alehouse before, and the Feathers had a reputation as the wildest in the village. After being so long cooped up in the farmhouse, she felt a
* * *
That winter was the bleakest Bess had ever endured. The chill of grief in her heart was matched by the icy winds and cruel frosts that assailed the farm. She and her mother battled to tend the land and the livestock, but it was an impossible task. The smallholding had been stocked and planted to require the labors of four adults, not two. It quickly became clear that they could not manage the acreage alone, and as there was no money to hire help, they were forced to part with some of their beasts. And fewer beasts meant less food. Together, they slaughtered the old sow, laying the meat down in salt. The remaining pig wandered the yard morosely for days and threatened to pine away to nothing before their eyes. The youngest cow they sold to a neighbor. The oldest proved to be barren, which meant there was only one left to give milk. Such a low yield meant an end to their cheese-making at least until the following autumn.
Christmas passed unmarked in the Hawksmith household. Neither Bess nor her mother could face the cheery traditions and customs that would mark the day out as special and remind them of their lost loved ones. Had they but had the time or energy to care, they might have realized that many in the village now ceased to celebrate the yuletide festival. The fashion of the land was for quiet observance of God’s will, not for showy rituals that gave an excuse for gaiety and often drunken excess in His name. None of this mattered to Bess or Anne. They rarely ventured into the village now, save to sell or buy something. Neither of them had set foot inside the church since the plague. It had crossed Bess’s mind that this would not go unnoticed. She remembered Reverend Burdock’s words to the church warden. What a long time ago that seemed—back to a sunny, light, hopeful time. All parishioners were required to attend Sunday worship, and their absence would be recorded. For now though the inclement weather and privations inflicted on the village by the plague gave people other things to concern themselves with. For now.
For two whole weeks in the darkest days of the season, snow covered the land almost to the sea itself. Bess had never seen the cliff tops white before. The warmth of the sea had always kept such weather at bay until now. Looking out at the beautiful, frigid land, Bess felt as if the earth itself had gone into mourning. Would spring ever come again? she wondered. It seemed to her things might stay this way forever. Before Christmas, she had helped her mother press the last of the apples and set the juice to ferment. Now the cider was ready, and Anne decided they should sell some of it.
‘I want you to take those flagons to the Three Feathers. Ask for James Crabtree. Agnes will want to bargain with you herself.’ As she spoke, Anne fastened her own heavy cloak about Bess’s shoulders. ‘Do not be drawn into dealing with that woman; she will have the lot off you for nothing. Insist on speaking with James, do you hear me?’
Bess nodded. She felt an unfamiliar sensation in the depths of her bowels and eventually recognized it as excitement. She had never been in an alehouse before, and the Feathers had a reputation as the wildest in the village. After being so long cooped up in the farmhouse, she felt a
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