Hue and Cry (31 page)

Hew lifted the mattress to find a wooden box within a hollow in the floor. ‘Open it,’ she pointed with the knife. He considered reaching out to grasp the thin arm, thought better of it, turned the lock, and opened the lid on a treasure of candies and gems, silvercraft, laces and trinkets. The child leant forward to spear up a plum, and dangled it, teasing, in front of him.

‘Take it. It’s my turn to treat you.’

Warily, he plucked it, with an eye upon her wrist, marking the quivering blade.

‘Are they not fine?’ Jennie demanded.

‘Precious indeed. Where did you get them?’ He let the plum fall to the floor and wiped his fingers on the bed. She saw the slight and flushed.

‘I did not steal them.’

‘I had not thought you did,’ he answered gravely.

‘I
earned
them,’ she persisted.

‘So I feared.’

‘If you tell my brothers, I
will
kill you,’ she said earnestly. ‘Why will you not eat it? It’s honestly bought.’

‘I never cared for sugarplums.’

She stared at the blanket. ‘You think I’m a whore.’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘I never did
that
.’

‘Then I thank God for it. How did you come by your treasures, though? How do you live?’

‘There are men at the harbour less pernickety than you,’ she said defensively, ‘who pay well to dandle me, shipmen and merchants far from home, who miss their own wee lass and would have a wean to spoil. I bring them comforts.’

‘
Comforts
, Jennie?’ he mocked her, ‘And you do not play the whore?’

‘No,’ she countered stubbornly, ‘I will not have them
do
it so.’

‘You go among sailors, child. Someone will force you.’

‘Someone has tried,’ she said softly. ‘I carry the blade in the sleeve of my blouse. I cut him, down
there
.’

‘
Jesu
,’ whispered Hew. She gazed at him reproachfully.

‘That’s a bad word, from a kirk man. The sailor said the same.’

‘Nonsense. Tis a prayer. For thanks that you’re not killed.’ He did not take her seriously. She frowned.

‘He would have to catch me, and he wasna after running, at the time. His friends made merry sport of it. But I made sure to lie low till the ship was sailed. There’s a tavern by the harbour where the sailors go. And there’s a place in the rocks where I can hide. But here’s my proper home.’

She gestured proudly with the knife. ‘Tis brave enough, until I have another. I do not mean to stay here, though. When I have sufficient saved, I will pay for my passage on one of the ships, to England, perhaps, maybe France. And I will become a fine lady.’

‘I wish you good fortune!’ Hew shifted slightly. She spun at him, flexing the blade.

‘If you move from there, I will cut you where I cut the sailor. Libbit like a lamb. I swear to God, you will not give me chase.’

He winced. ‘I could wish you a little less bloody,’ he grumbled. ‘May I have a towel to wipe my neck? This is a new shirt.’

‘Aren’t you afraid?’ she asked him, disappointed.

‘I probably should be. But then, I was ever a fool. I had some hapless notion I might catch your father’s killer. Misbegotten, I can see.’

‘I had forgotten,’ she conceded, ‘as to that. But I know who he is.’

‘You know him?’ He stared at her, startled at last.

‘Well then, not his name,’ she qualified, ‘but what sort of a man he must be. I did not know so much about men, about
sorts
of men, when you asked me before. But I have learned things since. There are rough men, the mariners, stinking of ale; and there are the kirkmen, dour, and from the university, they like me well enough; and the bravest are the merchants, with their velvet cloaks and strange caressing voices, and their trinkets fine and rare. He was one of those.’

‘A foreigner? From overseas?’

She pouted. ‘No, I
told
you. Don’t you ever listen? He was Scots. Not local, though. He came here on one of the ships.’

‘But you’ve not seen him since?’

‘No. But when he comes I shall be waiting. I will let him dandle me. And when he does, I’ll carve him to the bone.’

Hew groaned. ‘You are the most bloodthirsty baggage I ever clapped eyes upon. Were it not sufficient to declare him to the coroner, and see the blaggard swing?’

‘You think they would believe me against a rich man?’ she said scornfully, ‘No, I swear, I’ll slit his throat.’

‘Suppose he will not come? You’ll have a better chance of finding him if you leave me whole.’ He looked pointedly up at the knife.

‘Well then, I doubt I shall.’ She tossed him a napkin, and gingerly he dabbed at his throat.

‘What would you do,’ she asked, ‘if I should let you go?’

‘I’d go and be damned, and to Hell with your father and his killer. I am bloodied and sore and heartily sick of it all.’

‘And what about me?’

‘What about you? You cannot think that I care for
you
, Jennie? A cut-throat, a cheap little whore?’

She ignored this. ‘You do though,’ she said shrewdly.

He conceded, smiling, ‘Aye, perhaps. Why did you run away?’

She fell silent a moment. ‘My mother said things,’ she answered at last.

‘What did she say?’

Jennie set her lip. ‘She said that my father was black in his heart, and I was like him and a whore. That I will always been the dyer’s child, polluted with his stain. Well then, I will show her, for I am my father’s child, and he did want a better life, and I will make one too, and will not live like she does, in the stink and stew.’

There were tears in her eyes. Hew had not seen her cry before. She no longer noticed him. He was able to stand up, and take the knife. Gently, he set it down. He held out his hand to her, almost touched her, and withdrew. ‘I must be gone. I’ll come again.’

She made no objection. Only as he left she said, ‘I won’t be here.’

It was days before he came again, days spent in college and with Meg, where in the fright of Meg’s attack, and the fear of what succeeded it, he forgot the dyer’s child. And when he came at last it was as if he had imagined her. The trinkets and the plums, the little chest and bed had disappeared. The pictures on the wall had been scrubbed away.

Lucy Linn had not known what to do. As Meg lay frothing in her bed she tried to recall the doctor’s instructions. Doctor Locke had been terse and Lucy was afraid of him. Now the convulsions had returned she could not remember what he had told her. The maid was no help. She had taken one look and fled the room in terror. Lucy could not manage it alone. In despair, she risked her husband’s wrath and did the one thing she could think of: she sent for Agnes Ford. It was Agnes who undressed Meg and gave her the medicines that the doctor had prescribed, Agnes who nursed her and soothed her to sleep. And it had worked out well, for as Agnes had folded and hung up her clothes she found what she was looking for, the little leather pocket filled with carrot seed. And Agnes knew that it was providential after all. She had the means to make her husband lie with her. She left Meg sleeping soundly and went home to make a pie.

Tibbie stared out of the window at the rain. It seeped through the casement, spotting the wall. ‘
Why
has my father gone to Cupar?’ she demanded, pushing down the latch.

Her mother sighed. A strand of pale hair had escaped from her bonnet, softening her frown. Impatiently, she tucked it back. She was making pastry with the last of the white wheaten flour. They would have to bake their bread with oats and barley, or at worst, with stony peas. Archie would not suffer it. He would return from Cupar out of sorts, and if the trip had shown no profit, nothing would be right. She made the pie to mellow him, the remnants of a hare dismembered in the dish with parsley and sweet cicely in a sauce of wine and blood. There was not enough pastry to shape a full coffin.

‘He hopes to win the markets there, since business here is slow.’

‘His cloths will all be sodden. He’ll scuttle homewards crosser than a crab,’ her daughter said relentlessly. She ran her finger down the windowpane, chasing the drops. ‘Could you not have dissuaded him, Mother? You know he will vent it on Tom.’

‘He’ll not be driven from his purpose. But you’re keen to take Tom Begbie’s part. I thought you despised him?’

‘Aye, mebbe.
Perhaps
,’ she gave a subtle smile, ‘the tide will turn, now that his lass has gone.’

‘You father will not countenance the match. No more will Tom,’ her mother warned. ‘He has no eyes for you.’

‘We’ll see, then.’ Tibbie came towards her. ‘What is that you’re making? Coffin-crusts?’

‘It is your father’s pie. You shall have a pudding.’

‘You know I hate blood pudding,’ Tibbie pouted. ‘Anyhow, what about Tom?’

‘Whisht will you, harping on Tom! There’s bread enough, and cheese.’

‘Minnie, are we poor?’ the girl asked seriously. She rolled a piece of paste between her fingers. Agnes snatched it back.

‘Of course not. Do you want for meat?’

‘Yet we do not have the dainties we were wont to have,’ the girl persisted. ‘The little cakes with currants, and the raisins of the sun. Our ale is weak like water, and the bread is hard and coarse. I almost broke a tooth today.’

‘Ungrateful wench!’ Her mother scolded, yet her tone was fond. ‘We wait upon your uncle to return with these good things. Your father will not waste his coin to buy them in the marketplace, when Gilbert can fetch them for nothing.’

‘Except he does not fetch them. So we’re poor.’

‘You must not think it, for your uncle will come soon. There! I’ve shaped the crust to pattern like the hare. It’s bonny, don’t you think?’

Tibbie looked critical, wrinkling her nose. ‘There’s not enough paste for the ears. It looks like a cat. It
smells
like gib-cat too!’

Agnes laughed. ‘Strong-seasoned, aye. To tempt your daddie. Meat to please a man.’

‘He’s welcome to it then. What is it that you tempt him to? What would you have him do?’ the daughter teased.

‘Nothing, hussy! Tis a sweet to coat his humour when he comes home from the fair.’

‘Ah, then you confess it, that his humour will be sour!’

‘I do
not
confess it, but indeed the rain . . . if he does not prosper . . .’

‘Then, for sure, we
are
poor.’ Tibbie stamped her foot.

‘Pray, do not sulk. It spoils your looks. You may take this pie to the pastry-cook, and ask him to bake it in his oven till the crust be good and brown, and send it with his boy. And if you
see
the boy, you need not flirt.’

Tibbie ignored this last. But she objected, ‘In the
rain
? It will prove a damp pie, for all that.’

Agnes was exasperated. ‘Take it in a cloth, it is not far. Here’s a penny for to pay for it. And here,’ she felt a little deeper in the pocket, ‘buy some comfits, if you will.’

Tibbie reaching out her hand to grasp the coin had caught her look of hopelessness. She paused, and shook her head. ‘I’ll wrap it in my cloak to keep it dry. I will not stay for comfits. Not today.’

They could tell from the rattling of the shutters to the shop, that the trip had not gone well. Presently they heard him on the stair, and Tibbie, sinking back into the shadows, sat as though intent upon her needlework, quiet and hidden until she was called. Agnes stood nervously, close by the fire. The pie had returned from the pastry-cook, and kept warm, pungent, on the hearth. In places the coffin had split, and hot pools of gravy spilled from the crust. Agnes set out bread and butter on the board. It needed nothing more.

Archie Strachan was drunk. He swayed a little as he walked towards the bench and sat down heavily. Agnes smelled the whisky on his breath. She did not meet his eyes. She could feel them hot
upon her, belligerent within the fat red face. Without a word, she cut into the pie and began to ladle liquor on his plate. The weaver sniffed suspiciously. ‘What’s that?’

‘It is the last hindquarter of the hare. I put him in a pie-crust with the leavings of the wine.’

‘Tis pungent.’

‘It is the liquor of his blood. You like him so.’

He did not comment further, but began to eat the pie. The crust was crisp and melting and the hare flesh black and cloying, dripping from the bone. Dribble glistened on his chin. At length he broke a piece of bread and mopped the liquor from the plate. He licked his fingers carefully.

‘A piquant hare.’

‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Will you not finish him?’

‘No more tonight.’ He patted his great belly, satisfied. ‘Some ale, though. Where’s our daughter?’

Tibbie slipped out from the shadows, pouring the ale. Boldly she enquired of him, ‘Father, did you like the pie?’

‘The pie?’ He belched contentedly. ‘I liked it well enough.’

‘My mother was most curious to make it well for you.’

Agnes shook her head in warning.

Archie frowned. ‘Curious? And she might well take pains with it, when I am up at dawn to tout my wares. And what have you done this day, I ask you, save watch your mother bake indifferent pies?’

‘Twas a good pie, Father, I am assured of it.’ She stood her ground. ‘And I have sewn new seams on all the linens, and have finished off the sheets. My mother says I stitch as neat as any semster.’

‘Does she? Tis well, for you may yet have to sit and sew linens, to make us our bread.’

But he did not seem angry now, as though the hot pie in his stomach had perversely cooled his heat. Tibbie stroked his hair. ‘I shall do it, if it comes to it,’ she soothed him, ‘yet I cannot think it will.’

Her father closed his eyes. He did not seem to hear her. ‘Ale!’

‘May I have the leavings of the pie to take to Tom?’ she pressed him.

‘Tom?’ He stirred. ‘Why, let him starve. He has sold nothing today.’

‘Leave it,’ murmured Agnes, tugging Tibbie’s sleeve. ‘We’ll feed Tom later. Pour the ale.’

The weaver complained of a thirst, drinking deep. He trembled. ‘Wife, tis cold in here.’

‘I’ll put a log upon the fire.’

‘My toes are cold. Like ice within my boots. Undo the laces, Tibbie. Rub my feet.’