A Divided Inheritance (4 page)

‘Bainbridge risks his own neck, like us, for the sake of his soul,’ Father used to say. ‘It is the least I can do.’

But he had never invited her to Bainbridge’s, even though, ever since Guido Fawkes and his fire-powder plot, it had become more dangerous for them to hide their travelling Jesuit priest,
Fr Everard, and so Bainbridge sometimes hid him in his own house. She sighed. It was a shame, for she liked Fr Everard. He was a good tutor, and he would surely have shared the broadsheet with her;
his enthusiasm for culture and for other countries knew no bounds.

How she loved his French and Spanish lessons, and hearing him talk of the romance of Paris and Madrid! And she loved it when he pointed out the paintings of the lesser-known saints in the city
churches, and told her their life stories.

No point in sitting moping like this, she thought. She stood up, brushed down her skirts and descended purposefully below to make her prayers. She shivered in the chill damp of the cellar, and
hoped Father and Zachary were warmer at Bainbridge’s. She could not decide whether they were brave or foolish to continue holding Masses at home. Father said Protestant spies were everywhere,
and the thought of it made her uneasy.

She closed her eyes as usual and began an Ave, threading the ivory beads through her palm with her thumb. She vowed that even though Cousin Zachary and her father might be worshipping at a
proper altar with a proper priest, her own soul would not be one jot behind theirs.

When her Aves were done and the Pater Noster too, she prayed for her father and for the souls of her dead sister and mother, and for her king – that he might find some peace in his heart,
so that Catholics might live unmolested in this great city. She prayed for Joan, her elder sister too, who was in France. She was a nun, and probably did not need prayers, being full of the holy
life as she must be by now, but Elspet always included her. She had fond childhood memories of her throaty laughter and still missed her company.

Teeth chattering, Elspet stood up, but then, as an afterthought and because it was her duty to include all her family, she reluctantly knelt back down again and said a hurried prayer for Cousin
Zachary.

Prayers done, she bounded upstairs to check that the dogs had been fed and fetched some warmed milk and honey from the kitchen, and a plate of cinnamon toast. It was always chill until the fires
took properly and her feet were numbed from kneeling for prayers. On the way back she passed by the old nursery – Cousin Zachary’s door. She paused outside, as if hooked by an invisible
thread, and put her ear close to the jamb. There was no sound from within – so it was true, he had gone out with Father.

In a trice she had put the tray down on the boards outside and lifted the latch. The door creaked open in the draught. She looked over her shoulder. No sign of a servant. She’d peek in for
a few moments, she thought – just to see what sort of a man he might be. After all, last night he had not even joined them for their supper, but had eaten a tray of cold meats and pickles in
his room, and then Father had taken him into his study. Their muffled voices had told her nothing, though she had heard her father’s laugh once or twice. It struck her that it was a sound she
had missed, one she had not heard since her mother was alive.

She stepped inside the old nursery and pulled the door so it half closed behind her. The shutters were only open a fraction, so it was moistly warm; the remnants of a wood fire had settled to
ash in the grate. She tiptoed over to the foot of the bed where lay her cousin’s travelling trunk and clothing, and yesterday’s discarded worn russet-brown doublet and breeches. She
fingered the fabric. Just as she thought; not hardwearing, not proper quality. So he was not from a well-to-do family, nor one of rank. And his garments were thrown here all in disarray, so he was
not a tidy person either. Martha must be busy; no servant had yet been in to put his things away.

She looked to his trunk. Did she dare? Feeling guilty already she hooked open the lid of the trunk with the tip of her index finger, just an inch. A few lawn shirts and undergarments lay
crumpled and none-too-clean, as if they had been thrust inside in a hurry. She could not see much, so she lifted the lid away from her until it was fully open, her breath loud in the empty
room.

She stared a moment. No prayer book or tract that she could see – usually they were at the top when someone was travelling. But there were no religious keepsakes at all, only a battered
pewter hip flask, a corked pot of what was probably shoe-blacking, and a pair of riding gloves thick with horse grease. She moved them aside carefully. What was she searching for? She did not know,
just something to tell her a little more about him, she supposed. About his family, where he had come from. It was only natural, wasn’t it, to want to know? she thought, as she suppressed the
prickle of conscience.

The edges of some papers were sticking out from underneath a soiled shirt and she eased these out. But it was only a treatise on fencing – stiff-looking woodcuts of men with guarded
expressions, their swords brandished aloft. Disappointed, she slid it back. She prised open a case to find a pair of daggers, the usual sort that gentlemen carry, and something wrapped in a velvet
cloth.

Dice. So he was a gambler. She hurriedly wrapped them up again, patting the papers back in place on top, aware that she had gone far further than she had intended. What in heaven’s name
was she thinking, becoming so engrossed in her cousin’s things? She quickly put everything back in place and shut the lid. The muffled peal of the city bells striking the half caused her to
glance fearfully over her shoulder again but, thank the Lord, there was not a sound in the corridor outside.

She tiptoed back towards the door. So he had only the one trunk, and that seemed to be all his possessions. How strange. Except that against the corner of the wall were propped a frightening
number of swords, all resting in their scabbards, their belts trailing on the ground. But there were no miniature portraits, no heirlooms. No clue as to where he had come from, or who his family
might be. She paused, her hand on the door.

A satchel dangled there on the coat hook. It was almost as if it called to her. She couldn’t. It would surely be a sin, and she had just finished her prayers. She stood a long moment,
weighing it in her thoughts. But it was too much of a temptation. No sooner had the thought come and gone, than the satchel was in her hand. She felt through the contents speedily: a kerchief,
something damp that made her withdraw her hand in revulsion – a mouldy apple-core. She pulled out a tinderbox and a blackened grindstone and placed them quietly on the table, listening
intently for sounds outside as she did so.

But here at last might be something. A handwritten letter, folded into a tight square. She opened it out and eased it flat. The writing was shaky and indistinct, and the edges furred, worn away
with age so that long holes made the writing even harder to decipher. It had curled, leaning-back capitals in a flamboyant hand. It was dated September 25
^th
1599. She made a calculation
– almost ten years ago, when she was only thirteen. She took it to the window to hold it to the light.

The noise in the corridor came too late.

‘Mine, I believe.’

She twisted round, horrified, the open letter dangling slack in her hand. Zachary was right behind her, his face white. He snatched the letter away with such speed that the paper near scorched
her hand. Turning his back, he folded it and stowed it in his doublet. The tension in him made her afraid. She stepped back towards the wall.

‘Wait, I can explain . . .’

But no words would come. How could she explain? She felt her face flame red. Meanwhile, he was gathering up the tinderbox and whetstone lying on the table, pushing them back inside his
satchel.

He whipped round to face her. ‘Did you touch anything else?’

She could not move. ‘No, I—’

‘My swords, you did not touch them?’

‘No, I only . . . it was just—’

‘Is this your usual idea of hospitality? To pilfer through a guest’s possessions?’

‘Cousin, I’m sorry –’ she faltered.

‘Just leave.’ His expression was stony, full of contempt.

‘I was only—’

‘Get out.’

She hitched up her skirts and fled out into the corridor, her face hot with shame. The tray was where she had left it, the milk cold in the cup, a wrinkled skin on the top, the toast waxy with
grease. She stooped to pick up the tray and the door slammed shut a mere thumb’s width from her face. She slunk away then, mortified that he should have caught her. Heaven help her if he told
Father. She would not blame him if he took the rod to her, though she was a grown woman. What would he think? That she had taken leave of her senses, as any reasonable God-fearing man might?

She took the tray back to the kitchen, and left it for Goody Turner to deal with. She knew one thing, recriminations would not be long in coming. Father would no doubt want to know why she was
spying on her cousin, and truth be told, she had no proper answer. She should have learned by now, some things were best left alone. She remembered other occasions from her childhood when she had
been caught listening at the door.

Father had been angry at her eavesdropping. ‘Has she nothing to occupy her?’ he asked, but Mother had just smiled in a placatory way and said, ‘Tush, leave her be, she’ll
grow out of it.’

Elspet could not concentrate any more on her usual book-keeping. She kept expecting Father to arrive at any moment and demand an explanation. She knew the men were in the house
somewhere, but she kept to her chamber and every time one of the servants passed by, her stomach lurched. She did not dare go to Father’s chambers as she usually did to go through the
day’s figures.

She set to needlework instead, but had to unpick the smocking of her nightgown again and again. Patience was not a virtue that came easily to her, and she let out a cry of frustration as she
pricked her thumb and a bead of blood spilled out and ruined the work. She swilled the cotton in her wash bowl, cursing herself.

A noise alerted her that someone was in the yard, but she kept away from the window in case Zachary thought she was spying on him again. But even from across the room she could see him through
the aperture, his wiry figure practising his parry and thrust, despite a deluge of rain that sluiced from the sky and turned the surface of the yard to a quagmire. He lunged and stabbed as if it
were the weather itself he was broiling with.

She could not forget the look on his face when he caught her reading his letter. It was from his mother, she imagined. Yet she had been given to understand that his mother had only just died.
From the few words she was able to decipher, the letter suggested she had possibly been dead for some years. It was confusing, and she tussled with it. She would never dare to broach it with her
father, at least not until she had apologized to her cousin.

By evening, she was jittery when it came to dressing for the evening meal, so that Martha despaired of lacing her properly into a clean gown. When the time came she sat quietly
in the dining hall looking into her lap, dreading the whole subject arising.

A place had been set on her father’s right for Zachary, and she was to sit opposite her cousin. The dogs were lying quietly under the table; they seemed to have grown accustomed to the
idea of Zachary’s presence already. Jakes sprawled at Zachary’s feet, his nose practically on his boots. She suppressed a twinge of jealousy that her position had been usurped so
quickly.

That night for supper Zachary had changed into a showy doublet, with too much gold braiding on the sleeves. She recognized it from his trunk because it looked new, but the thought that she now
knew all his possessions caused her to cringe with embarrassment.

Father poured him a cup of small beer. ‘I think, after all, you will come with me to the quayside tomorrow,’ he said.

Zachary smiled, ‘Thank you, sir, I would be interested to see just how the business is run, now that I have heard so much about it. But will I not be in the way?’

‘No, no. New blood is always good. There comes a time when the older generation have to pave the way for the younger; am I right, Elspet?’

She nodded politely and made a vague noise of assent. Zachary looked smug. He helped himself to the roast partridge plated at the centre of the table before Father had taken his, but Father
merely looked upon him indulgently. ‘That’s right, you must keep up your strength,’ he said. ‘I saw you training last night in the courtyard barely a half-hour after you had
arrived, and I saw you were out there again today.’

‘A man must keep himself fit for purpose. To miss a day would mean my body is not prepared.’

‘What are you preparing for, Cousin?’ Elspet asked mildly. Father cast her a disapproving eye.

‘London’s full of villains. A cut-throat from behind, coney-catchers in the alleyway, highway thieves. A man must defend himself.’

The answer seemed more for Father’s benefit than for hers.

‘My daughter has had too much female company, and does not understand the obligations of men,’ Father said. ‘At your age I was the same, always with the fencing
master.’

‘Is that so? Who was your master?’

‘Now then . . .’ Father looked discomfited. ‘Ah yes, an Italian, I think.’

‘Was it Bonetti?’

Father shook his head.

‘Master Saviolo, then?’ Zachary pressed.

‘I can’t remember,’ admitted Father.

Zachary smiled. He had caught him out. Elspet was sorry for her father and a little irritated. Until yesterday Father had believed that there was no further need for fencing since the advent of
gunpowder, but now he seemed to be changing his mind.