Mist Over Pendle (36 page)

Margery followed, undecided what to do. She was still wondering how Roger was occupied; he was surely with Tom Covell, and something was surely portended by this midnight arrival. Tom Covell, she remembered, was a Coroner and a Justice of the Peace and Quorum, as well as being Governor of the gaol at Lancaster; such a man would hardly ride through this, of all nights in the year, without a purpose.

A snore disturbed her thoughts. Heat and ale had overcome Tom Heber at last; he sprawled, open-mouthed, in a chair, his legs stuck stiffly out and his red face twitching. Margery considered him thoughtfully, asking herself how she would have fared if Fate had sent her to a cousin cast in such a mould, instead of to her own Roger. She knew how easily it could have been so; for Tom Heber, not Roger Nowell, was the pattern of a country gentleman.

She looked further. Anne Heber had disappeared and Margery guessed that she was seeing to it herself that the children were safely in their beds; that would no doubt take a little time, and Margery’s eyes moved to the firmly shut door of a little parlour which had been given to Roger as his own; it was private to him while he was in this house, and Margery had little doubt that he and Tom Covell were in it now. For a moment she considered. Then she tossed her head wilfully and marched boldly at the door; at need, she told herself, she could show a proper surprise at seeing Master Covell within.

She tapped politely and then walked straight in. By the little hearth, Roger was leaning in his favoured pose, and Tom Covell was filling the elbow-chair; he was something more than filling it, as was apparent when he began to heave himself out of it.

“Don’t curtsey,” he told her cheerfully, as he saw her point her toe in preparation. “If you do, I’ll have to bow, and I’m a deal too fat for scrapings.”

He was on his feet, rocking a little and breathing heavily, and his grin sent Margery into a smile.

“We’ll give you absolution,” said Roger from the hearth. “But here’s the lass herself. And here’s Tom Covell, and you’ll have heard talk of him.”

“Aye, sir.” Margery’s amusement was growing as she turned again to Master Covell.

“Your servant, sir.” She said it formally, and she only just checked the curtsey that would have followed so naturally.

“Servant!” he growled. “You should have let me say that. I say it to all the girls, and when they’re as pretty as you, I mean it.”

He eased himself into the chair again, leaving her without an answer. Tom Covell was something new in Margery’s experience. Her mother’s circle had not included men like this, and the thought of him suddenly dropped among them came quickly to her, and sent her into gurgling laughter; then she recovered her manners and eyed Tom Covell anxiously. But he seemed delighted; his grin had broadened and he was sitting back, wheezing and chuckling.

Roger leaned forward, and his foot hooked a small leather-covered stool from the wall.

“You’d best be seated,” he told her. “Covell’s here from Westby, and with a word to say that touches you.”

Margery’s smile faded. Word from Westby must be word of Frank Hilliard, and Roger’s tone had been sober. She took the stool, and without a word she seated herself and sat still and erect, her hands clasped and her kirtle smoothly spread. In silence she looked anxiously at them, and waited for one of them to speak.

It was Roger who spoke. The Council of the North, he said, had met at York, and Tom Covell, returning from that to Lancaster, had chosen to break his journey at Westby, as he had done the year before. There, also as he had done a year before, he had met Frank Hilliard; and there had been some talk between them.

“How is he?” Margery put in impulsively.

“Sad.” Master Covell gave her the answer himself. “Sad as a dripping tree. But that’s no matter. That’s as he should be. I’ve grieved as hard myself in the days when I went a-wenching and was crossed in love. He’ll get past that, and it’s no matter. What’s of weight is that the lad’s sour---“

“Sour?”

“As the green crab juice. And there’s an oddity about that.” Tom Covell paused, and nothing of the jester was left in him now. “This sourness is some three days old, no more--though he’s been there these three weeks, as I’m told. I’d some talk with Jane Lister---“

He went on to explain it at some length. Mistress Lister had been perplexed. She had found Frank something out of humour when he had arrived from Read, but that had not distressed her; it was no more, she said, than was proper after the events he had related; and under it he had been buoyant, making no secret of his intention to visit Marton at Christmas and there put all to rights. And then, all in an hour, he had changed. A bitterness had come into his talk, and there had been no more said of a ride to Marton. He had declared instead that he should go to his home and stay there. He had had enough, he said, of these North Parts and their folk. He would stay out of courtesy till Christmas was in, and then he would be away to his home in Warwickshire, there to stay until some proper employment should offer; he would not return to Lancashire, nor to the service of a nobleman whose words and conduct he resented.

“And that’s the drift and set of it.” Tom Covell came to an end and looked steadily at Margery with eyes that were now grown very bright and keen. “I tried to learn what scent he was nosing, but he only grumbled that it was not his tale to tell. Then I tried Tom Lister, and he as good as bade me to the Devil.”

“And Jane?” Roger spoke quietly.

“As foxed as I.”

“And you’ve come here to tell us this?” The big man shrugged, and for a moment he seemed almost shy.

“I like the lad,” he explained slowly. “And knowing you and yours, Roger, I made the guess that the lass might be worth the liking too--as she surely is.” He turned to her with a smile that set her blushing. “What do you say to it all, lass?”

“I ... I know not what to say. It’s exceeding kind of you, sir, to---“

“Tom---“ Roger cut in sharply as if he had seen her con- fusion. “Exceeding kind of you it surely is, but there’ll be more to it than that. You did not ride here at this hour, on this night, to do no more than tell a tale. Now what’s in your mind?”

Tom Covell sat mute, as though he collected his thoughts. Then he spoke gravely.

“The lad means it,” he said slowly. “He’s the sort that does. He’ll stay through tomorrow--or today, as it is now, and at tomorrow’s dawn he’ll be away. And being away, he’ll remain away. That’s bad. But what’s worse, he’ll take his sourness with him, and it will stay with him while he lives.” His thick shoulders shrugged again. “That’s all I’ve a right to say. It’s for you and your lass here to say if it’s to be permitted.”

“How’s it to be stopped?”

“It’s but ten miles to Westby. A letter sent at dawn could have him here by nightfall. There’s time enough.”

“Only just.” Roger was smiling at him from the hearth. “Time enough, but none to spare. Which is why you rode in rain on Christmas Eve.”

Another twitch of the shoulders was the only answer to that, and Roger turned to Margery.

“It’s for you to speak,” he said. “Do we send such a letter?”

“Not ‘we’, Roger.” Tom Covell was grinning again. “There’s but one voice he’ll heed.”

“Very like. So it stays with Margery.”

She wriggled on her stool in acute discomfort, but it was plain that she must say something. She had been taking it for granted that Frank would somehow appear at Marton during Christmas. She had made the white damask kirtle with that foremost in her mind, and now---

Roger, as usual, came quickly to her help.

“There’s a need for courtesy in this,” he said. “All being said, you owe him something--more, perhaps, than he owes you. It would be proper to give him thanks of a decent warmth before he departs these shires. Or at least, you could represent it so---“

The hint was enough, and Margery came quickly to her feet. Roger produced writing needs, and soon her pen was busy. She wrote shortly and quickly:

I hear from the wind that you purpose to depart from the North Parts. I owe you much thanks for kindness done, and it’s ill work setting thanks on cold paper. But if you will ride this way your welcome shall not lack warmth. Pray bring with you no thought that might cast a chill on
Margery.

She passed it invitingly to Roger.

“Subtle as the serpent,” was his comment. “He may find in it what he pleases, yet nothing that you can’t deny.”

She wondered if that was censure; but as she folded it and applied the wax, he took his signet from his finger and passed it to her; and that, she thought, was surely the seal of his approval.

“I’ll take order for sending this,” he told her. “For yourself, get you to bed. It’s well past one, and you’ll have heavy eyes at noon.”

She had. She slept heavily, tired by the long and arduous evening, and she knew nothing of the lad who rode into the Christmas dawn with the paper that bore the arms of Nowell. But she was astir when Tom Covell called for his horses some two hours short of noon, and she was at his stirrup when he mounted. He grinned ruefully at her and hoped she would enjoy her dinner.

“I’ll miss mine,” he grumbled. “But there’s no help for that. I’ve wife and family at Lancaster, and a man should sup with his own on this night. Fare you well--and deal softly with the lad.”

He was away before she could answer him, and he left her with a head of anxious thoughts as she wondered what the day would bring, and what response that letter would evoke. She had six endless hours to fret away before she knew; and then, as the grey dusk closed on the house, a horseman came quickly from the rising mist--a trim figure in cloak of green and gold, who sat erect, and looked eagerly at door and window as if in search of someone.

Margery was above, in her bedchamber, for it was already time to begin preparing herself for supper. She held her breath as she saw; and then, telling herself that Christmas gave leave for most things, she pushed the lattice open, leaned out, and waved. He saw it on the instant, and she marked his upturned face as his hat gave the answering wave. And then Tom Heber was out of the door in noisy welcome, and Margery left them to it. She called for Anne Sowerbutts and the kirtle of white damask; and with that she grew busy.

She stood at last before the mirror, peered critically, and was modestly satisfied. The damask took a glint from the candles, as she had hoped it would, and the two bands of silver lace that edged the front body made a frame for the cream satin of the stomacher. The damask flared widely at the hip, where the farthingale held it out, and then fell sheer to the ankles. Here was simplicity and no contrast of colour; to keep the simplicity, Margery had rejected the elaborate patterns of lace that were usual, and had left the whole sweep of the damask plain except for some scraps of lace sewn here and there like silver stars.

She gave her attention to the ruff, thin, delicate, and finely pleated. She had not trusted Anne Sowerbutts to set those pleats. She had done them herself, working till her fingers ached with the pleating pins and Mistress Turner’s starch; but it had been worth it, for the pleats had set admirably, and the yellow starch was vivid against the damask. A slight frown came upon her as she looked again. The set of the ruff was certainly excellent, but was it level? Pinning a ruff to a kirtle was delicate work if the pins were not to show, and Margery was not satisfied that this one lay evenly. Anne Sowerbutts, hovering behind her, was promptly called to order and told to alter those pins. Margery watched critically, and then turned attention to the high collar that swept stiffly upwards behind the ruff. It was of the same white damask as the kirtle, for once Margery had decided that sweet simplicity would suit her, she had carried it out thoroughly and had been very sparing of her colour-contrasts. But Roger had produced from somewhere a few small pearls, and these she had sewn round the top of the collar, where they gave a fine effect of richness without spoiling the scheme. She looked, and nodded with satisfaction. It would do very well. But she hoped Old Ball would not appear again tonight. If he did, she would have to be careful; last night’s kirtle had looked a wreck in the grey light of morning.

Anne brought her the taffeta gown and helped her into it. Once again she looked and was satisfied. The deep orange of the gown brought a glow of warmth to the kirtle it framed, and Margery let it hang open. Then, after setting the furred collar to her liking, and carefully smoothing the long sleeves, she was ready.

She stayed for a last look, and then went quietly to the head of the stair. For a moment she lurked in the shadows, listening to the sounds from the lighted hall below. She was intentionally late, and the pluck of viols and the thump of drums told her that the dancing had begun. Her left hand lifted her kirtle the prescribed six inches, to let the damask fall in flutes, and show the silverstars on her satin petticoat. She made sure of her stance, chin up, shoulders back, right arm straight; and for a moment she stood breathless, summoning her forces. Then, brisk and erect, with a crinkling smile and a roving eye, she went marching down the stair to the lilt of that dancing tune.

At the foot of the stair Roger came from nowhere: Roger in black velvet and arabesques of gold, which made him gay and saturnine together. His eyebrows went up at once.

“What mischief do you brew?” was his greeting, in the old familiar tone.

“Mischief, sir?”

Margery was as innocent as her damask, and Roger nodded affably.

“When a maid brings such fond exactness to her tiring, it’s seldom to the sole glory of God.”

He wandered off before she could answer, and left her to pout at his retreating back. Roger invariably knew too much.

Then Frank swooped upon her, darting through the press so that he was the first of them all to greet her. She gave him her hand, thinking that a warmer greeting than a formal curtsey, but to her surprise he bowed over it and carried it to his lips. That meant the curtsey after all, and she was excited as she made it.

“I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said softly.

“I could do no other,” was his answer, and before she could decide what meaning to put on that, he had swept her into the dance; and she found him as deft in that as he was in other things. She went at it joyously.