Mist Over Pendle (38 page)

“Yes?”

“Who is this woman who swills Tom Lister’s dairy?” “Jennet Preston’s her name. I know no more of her.”

“And her folk in Pendle?”

“That’s beyond my knowledge, I never heard their names.” She nodded and seated herself once more in the elbow-chair.

She must seem at ease now, and she went about it calmly. She smoothed her kirtle and examined her finger-tips thoughtfully. When she looked up at him she was smiling, and she spoke clearly and easily.

“As I’ve said, I had met this Southworth once before, though that was not by my contriving. It’s true also that I gave him some comforts then. That was because He was then in some distress of wind and weather, and I ... I was soft of heart. I saw you and him by chance that afternoon, and it’s true I supposed it to be him who rode with you.”

She paused and her eyes searched his face; but it stayed impassive and betrayed nothing.

“I saw you by chance, and I rode into your path with no clear intent at all. But I was hoping . . . hoping for I know not what.”

“For his escape?”

“In some manner, yes. You’ll remember that I had not met you then. But I had met this Southworth and had some small esteem of him---“

“As had I, escort though I was.”

“You?” She stared at him in surprise. “You also?”

“I also.” He was half smiling at her surprise. “And, at the least, drawing’s a vile thing---“

“It’s hideous. But Frank, do you mean you . . . you understand?”

“In some sort, yes. Which is to say I understand that you might have a sympathy for this fellow. But what of your fall from a horse?”

She laughed openly.

“You may acquit me of that. I don’t yet know how it chanced. The beast went from under me, and then--and then you were there, and maltreating me most grievously.”

It was his turn to laugh.

“I did you no hurt. But could you not have told me of these things?”

“Tell you? How could I have told you? You were a stranger to me, and I did not dare. And I’ve said enough now to be clapped behind bars if you speak it out at Lathom.”

“I’ll not do that.”

The ring in his voice put his sincerity past mistake, and Margery, seeing a chance to make an end, went on quickly.

“I’d no thought then of what it would bring to you. I didn’t think of that when we rode in Pendle. I didn’t think of it in the mist when you rode for Lathom. But when you were back, and I learned what I’d brought upon you--and I knew there was deceit, and I dared not speak of it---Oh, don’t you see? I could not look you in the face--and you say you marked a coldness!”

She stopped and was staring, moist-eyed, into the fire when he answered quietly:

“I seem to have done you some injustice. Yet one thing more. It’s finished now, is it? There’ll be no more with this Southworth?’’

She turned to him with relief. That, at least, could be answered.

“I have not seen him, nor heard of him, from that day to this. And I neither wish to nor expect to. He came and went and is gone. I’m no papist, Frank, and no deceiver either, when it’s not forced upon me.”

His hand was on her shoulder as she came to her feet, her face very close to his. He spoke softly.

“It’s ended then. For which, thank God! And now we may be back as when---“

“As when we rode in Pendle.”

“Aye. In heart and mind.” He took both her hands in his. “There’s one thing lacking, though.” “What’s that?”

“Advancement. I’m in no good case to wed, nor even to have thought of it.”

“Frank! What matters---“

“I’m in no case to wed. So on that I’ve no more to say--tonight. Let’s pray the world will mend.”

His hand was under her chin, and in silence he turned her face to his and drew her close.

Roger Nowell, coming quietly into the parlour he thought private to himself, discovered his mistake and was gone without being heard.

The wind was from the East.

It came with an icy touch, and the track rang hard beneath the horses as they came down the road from Gisburn, down past the Malkin Tower, and so into Pendle Forest. Roger, muffled in his cloak, with his hat pulled low and his chin buried in his scarf, watched warily for ice, and showed no desire for talk. Nor did Margery. She rode at his side, muffled as he was, and she shivered. No cloak was wholly proof against that wind; worse still, her ears were freezing and her nose was dripping; her fingers were too numbed for the proper drying of her nose, and she herself was too chilled to care for dignity. If Christmas led to this, then Christmas was to be deplored.

She had had a surfeit of Christmas. There had been Christmas Eve, and then the Twelve Days of it; and by the seventh night, Margery had had enough, physically and mentally, of eating and drinking, of romping and dancing. By the tenth night she had been longing for the quiet of Pendle and the cool wind on the Hill; now she had got the wind, and she was heartily wishing she had not. This was not at all the return she had pined for.

She had not even got Frank Hilliard at her side. He had ridden for Warwickshire after all, though by no means at his own wish. He had stayed at Marton for three days, and had meant to stay the Twelve; certainly there had been no talk of his returning to Westby. But on the third day there had come a letter from his father, urgently carried by a servant. The news of the trouble Frank had found at Lathom, so his father wrote, had much distressed his mother, who was, moreover, already grieving because her only brother had recently broken his neck from a stumbling horse; and Frank’s letter, on top of that, had been too much for her. She was much disordered, and Frank’s immediate return might be her best medicine. He was therefore to make all speed home, despite any engagements he might have.

He had brought the letter gloomily to Margery, who had promptly told him he must go; then he had carried it to Roger, who had told him the same, and in more peremptory terms; and he had ridden the next morning, leaving for Margery a void which no junketings could fill. It was, she had told herself, a lot better than it might have been, for suspicions and resentments were gone; but a void it remained, and nothing at Marton could fill it. And now, in this wind, she had forgotten even the void; all she could think of at this moment was shelter, food, and a warm fireside. Only once did her mind stir from present discomforts, and that was when they passed the Malkin Tower; that reminded her that she must see young Jennet again, and as soon as might be; she had a question or two for Jennet.

She had not long to wait. The next day was a Wednesday, and, cold or no cold, Roger thought it his duty to join Nick Banister at Altham. Margery saw to it that he was filled with hot ale before he left, and then she pulled her cloak over her gown and went out on the gravel to see him off. She waved him away and then scampered back to the door, clutching tightly at cloak and gown with freezing fingers; and there was Jennet, sprung from nowhere and leaning against the lintel. Margery did not argue; she was too cold for that; she swept Jennet in front of her and hurried her into the snug warmth of the parlour.

Jennet huddled on the hearth and wriggled herself as close to the fire as she could. Margery, warming outstretched hands, looked the child over and was shocked. Her small body was blue with cold; her face was pinched and drawn, her thin legs were twitching, and there was a glaze in her cheeks that hinted at hunger carried to a far degree. Margery forgot her chilled hands and became busy. She found hot milk, and cake, and the apple tart that Jennet loved; she found honey and spread it on the tart; she found sugar--sugar from the Indies, at a price that kept it under lock and key--and stirred it into the milk. Jennet said nothing; but she flung herself at everything that came, and by the time Margery thought she had had enough for the moment, she was lying flat on the floor and grunting with pleasure.

Margery looked her over and was satisfied. Jennet was certainly looking better, but that might not last when she was out in the wind again. The child was not clothed for such weather; she was barelegged and barefooted, and her rustic smock was of a thin frieze, threadbare with age.

“Jennet.” The child rose to her knees as Margery spoke. “What do’you wear under your smock?”

Jennet said nothing, but she quickly lifted the smock and showed that she had nothing at all under it. Margery shivered. No wonder this child looked blue.

There was in an attic a great chest of painted elm which Roger had shown her when she had been seeking oddments for her kirtles; but it contained more than oddments, for it was mainly a store of old clothes left from the days when there had been children in the house. Roger had told her that she might help herself, and she chose to regard that permission as still valid. She helped herself liberally, and she soon had Jennet clothed with warmth and decency; there was a woollen undersmock, a petticoat, and an oversmock of red serge; and Jennet was almost preening herself when she came down the stair again. Margery gave her more milk and regarded her with a satisfaction qualified by the thought that the clothes were almost certainly damp. But that, she thought, could not be helped, and damp clothes would be better than no clothes; at least, Margery hoped they would. Then she sought an opening for talk.

“You should have had the clothes for Christmas, Jennet.”

“They’d have nicked ‘em,” said Jennet darkly.

“Nicked?” This was new to Margery.

“Thieving bitches.”

“Who were?”

“At Christmas.”

Margery paused to think this out. Jennet’s thoughts ran quickly, and she was sparing of words; but Margery thought she had the drift of it.

“Who were they, Jennet?”

“Witches.”

“You said bitches just now.”

Jennet nodded vigorously, as if to say that either word would do.

“You mean they came to your house?”

Another nod answered that.

“How many?”

“Two.”

“And who were they?”

“Mouldheels.”

“Who?”

“Mouldheels. She’s Hewitt’s wife--from Colne.” “But why Mouldheels?”

“Feet stink.”

And Jennet gave an offhand nod that seemed to dispose of Mistress Mouldheels. Margery thought she had better pass on. “And who was the other?”

“Jennet.”

“Jennet? But Jennet who?’’

“Don’t know.” For once the young voice held doubt. “She came out of Craven, and they called her Jennet.”

“Craven, was it?”

Margery made herself speak steadily. But in her mind was Frank’s quiet voice, telling of a woman who swilled a dairy at Westby--a woman who had carried a poisoned tale, and had the name Jennet Preston.

“And what did she come out of Craven for, Jennet?”

“Don’t know. She’s come before.”

“Has she? But what did she talk about?”

“Don’t know. Got put to bed.”

“Who? Oh, you did, you mean? And who put you to bed, Jennet?”

“Greediguts.”

“Jennet! Who do you mean?”

“Alizon. She is.”

But that seemed to remind Jennet of something, and she began to peer hopefully about the room. Margery laughed, and decided she had better let this wait. The child had probably told all she knew, and clearly her young mind had now gone into her stomach again. Margery accepted it and took Jennet to the kitchen.

Roger was home before dusk, and Margery let things wait till he had thawed. But she told him in the parlour after supper, and he heard her with interest.

“Is it so?” he mused. “Our Demdikes here, and this Preston crone out of Westby. I did not know our coven linked with Craven. I ask myself whether this Preston came here by chance. Or was she sent for?”

“That’s to be guessed.”

“We’ve no doubt guessed alike. Meantime, do you hear any tale of mischief done in Pendle?”

“I’ve heard of none.”

“Nor have I. Nevertheless, I think we’ll show ourselves at the Newchurch on Sunday. It will let folk know we’re back. And there may be some gossip.”

Margery agreed, though when Sunday came she was inclined to regret it. The freezing wind still blew from, the East, and the clouds were low in a sullen sky. Roger tightened his cloak and spoke gloomily of coming snow, and Margery wondered if it would hold off till they were home again. Nor was the Service cheerful that morning. The grey light left the grey church dark, and the cold of the week had settled deep into its stones. Margery shivered as she sat, and even Richard Baldwin had for once made a concession; he had forgone the dignity of his gown and appeared in his weekday cloak and jerkin. But he met them at the door and took them to the front pew, where Grace was sitting huddled against her mother, both of them cloaked and gloved. Nor was Master Town impervious to the cold; he hurried through the Service in a style that set even Roger nodding with brisk approval, and he cut his sermon to less than an hour--and not even the Wardens murmured at the indecent brevity of that.

Then they were out in the churchyard, where the wind was as keen as ever, and the clouds seemed even lower; and there was Grace, waiting while her father cleared the church and her mother chatted with a neighbour. Margery took the chance at once.

“We didn’t know you were back,” said Grace, as Margery went up to her. “How’s it with your Frank?”

“Well enough.”

“Is that true? You’re happy of it?”

“Why yes. But--but why do you put it so?”

“It’s . . .” Grace hesitated. “It’s only that we had heard---“

“Heard what, Grace?”

“It must have been an idle tale. But we had heard that he’d left you and gone altogether from the North Parts.”

Margery stared at her, wondering what lay behind all this.

“He
has
gone,” she said steadily. “He’s gone to visit his mother, who’s ailing and asks for him. It’s tedious for me while it lasts, but it’s not a thing to be complained of.”

“He’s coming back to you then?”

“To be sure, he is. Why should you think otherwise?”

“There’s no---I’m sorry, Margery.”

“No need for sorrow. I only wonder that you should have thought it.”

“I--I heard the tale so. That is all.” Margery’s eyes were narrowing.