Brewer's Tale, The by Karen Brooks Read Free Book Online Page A

choice cannot be so fussy, can they? You can’t change what the good Lord intends.’ He gave a crooked smile to lighten the severity of his words. It only succeeded in rendering them cruel.
    As I escorted him to the door, I wondered what could I do? Even as I tried to think of ways of earning an income, of supporting the household, I knew I would have to inform Saskia and the others about Lord Rainford’s generous terms, that they didn’t have to leave the house or Elmham Lenn. It was the one bit of bright news. Was that what bothered me? The idea that educated as I was, trained to be a good wife and mother for some impoverished noble or wealthy merchant, I would suddenly be relegated to the status of servant? Surely, we were all servants in God’s eyes? Was it that or was it the idea of working for Cousin Hiske and Master Makejoy that perturbed me, indeed, made me rebel with every fibre of my being?
    God help me, I was proud. I would keep my own house, my own family. But how could this happen? I’d no means, no prospects …
    Was I being punished for my sins? Or for Mother’s?
    I could feel Will’s eyes upon me as I walked down the hall and knew my distress would carry the conversation in the kitchen tonight. I was beyond caring. I needed to find an answer and fast. But what? Oh Papa, Papa … Mother … Moeder …
    That night a storm raged, shaking the shutters while rain lashed the roof and lightning tore the sky. Instead of remaining in the solar with Hiske, I endured her disapproval and wandered downstairs to the main hall. Taking her role of chaperone seriously, Hiske followed. The trestle table and benches had been cleared, the floor swept. Unlike many houses, with the exception of the shop, we eschewed rushes in the lower rooms, adopting the style of my mother’s homeland, laying timber floors. The hounds bounded over to greet me, their claws clicking and sliding, their tongues wet, their breath steaming. Thrusting their great shaggy heads beneath my arms and onto my lap as I knelt, they whimpered when a low, long growl of thunder shook the house and their hackles rose. I laughed that two such huge creatures were rendered helpless by the weather, then remembered how treacherous and deadly it could be and my laughter died.
    Joining the servants by the hearth, they welcomed me and Hiske, the women returning to their sewing; Saskia, her spinning. Sitting down close to a cresset lamp, I unpicked some embroidery Betje had attempted. Hiske sat on a stool beside me, back erect, hands in her lap, not speaking. Even the silence between us was laden with meaning, with pressure and inevitability. I felt it with every sigh my relative issued, every look cast upon me with all the grace of a seagull. The low chatter of Saskia and Blanche, and occasional comment from Doreen, Iris and Will, was a blessed relief.
    After the first candle expired in a molten pool of wax and the lamps dimmed, I excused myself to go to bed. But first I looked in on the twins, who slept soundly, Louisa stretched on a pallet at the foot of their bed. In my room, I slowly undressed and, placing my nightgown near the fire to warm it, wrapped a shawl tightly to cover my nakedness and sat at the window, watching and listening to the storm. How terrifying it must have been for those on the Cathaline , trapped upon the sea in a creaking, shuddering wooden vessel, the waves arching over the deck, pounding them into the fathoms below. My reflections were dark. I wondered if Father suffered. What had been his last thoughts? Were they of Mother? He’d never shed a tear for her, not that I’d seen. Did he weep for himself when he realised all was lost? Or, as I now suspected, had everything he valued vanished years earlier? But if that was the case, why had he ever entered into such a one-sided agreement with the man who was the cause of such grief? Did he no longer care? How could he make himself so beholden to