Kate Sedley - The Weaver's inheritance

I stood up. ‘I’m sorry to have offended you, Master Lightfoot, and I assure you that Mistress Burnett had no thought but to apprise you of what had happened. She felt that as a kinsman you had a right to know.’ This was to a certain extent true, for Alison had never seriously regarded Baldwin as a villain, and would have dissuaded me from wasting precious time visiting him if she could. She would have preferred, once the warmer weather came, that I should set out straight away for London, being convinced that that was where I was most likely to discover the truth. ‘I must be going now, if you’ll forgive me. I’ll see myself out.’ And I picked up my pack and cudgel from the floor.

He heaved himself to his feet, but his aggression seemed to have abated. ‘I daresay I’ve been over-hasty,’ he said. ‘If so, I must apologize. The day’s events — ’ he waved a hand towards the window — ‘have been most upsetting. Widow Twynyho was an excellent neighbour.’ Tears welled up, and I had no doubt that his distress for her was genuine.

But that didn’t mean he was incapable of trying to cheat his cousin. I asked abruptly, ‘Were you in London, sir, at any time last autumn?’

I half-expected another spurt of anger, but although his eyes regained their steely expression, he answered mildly enough, ‘I haven’t been to London for nearly four years. The last time I was there the Archbishop of York had just been arrested, and there was a great deal of speculation as to what would happen because the Earl of Oxford had landed on the Essex coast. So you can tell what a time it’s been.’ He added, in a bid for my sympathy, ‘I don’t get about as much as I did once. Old age, you know. I’m not as spry as I used to be.’ He smiled ingratiatingly, showing the gaps in his teeth.

I found myself wondering about this abrupt change of mood. Why was he so anxious to placate me all of a sudden? I let my glance stray to my surroundings. Baldwin Lightfoot could certainly do with money. I asked as casually as I could, ‘When did you last see your Cousin Clement?’

He answered, equally casual, ‘Not for a decade or more. He may have been — oh, let me see! — fourteen, fifteen years of age when I last clapped eyes on him. Alfred brought Clement with him when he attended my mother’s funeral. I used to see a lot of both children when they were young, but after my mother died we somehow lost touch. The Alderman and I never cared greatly for one another. So, I repeat, I doubt very much that I should have recognized Clement, even at the time of his disappearance. Boys can alter a lot between fifteen and twenty. I heard that he’d vanished, of course, but only by roundabout means. There was no word from Alfred. Later, it was reported to me by an itinerant friar from Bristol that Clement had been murdered, and that the rogues responsible had been brought to justice. Since then, there has been little news. I was told that Alison had married, and the name of her husband, but again, not because of any direct communication from Alfred. You can understand, therefore,’ he added with a mocking smile, ‘how surprised I am to receive a letter from my Cousin Alison now.’

His version of events tallied with what Mistress Burnett had told me, and I felt that there was nothing more to be gained by staying longer. But I had at least met Baldwin Lightfoot for myself, and was able to form some sort of judgement concerning his character and circumstances; and I thought him quite capable of alleviating his poverty by underhand methods should the chance present itself. But had that opportunity occurred?

I took my leave of him, promising to convey his spurious condolences to his ‘dearest cousin’ and to assure her of his constant goodwill. He would pray, he said unctuously, for a happy outcome to her present dilemma. I thanked him, tongue in cheek, on behalf of Mistress Burnett and hastened on my way, free at last to seek out that other dwelling where lived the most beautiful creature on earth.

People were still standing around in little groups, their heads turning every now and then in the direction of the Twynyho house with its shattered door. But I hurried past them, intent only on reaching a cottage at the end of the street which I remembered from my visit the previous autumn. I could see it. I was almost at the gate in the paling which surrounded its modest plot. I was there and, miracle of miracles, a girl with brilliant blue eyes and a thick mass of fair hair was walking down the path from the cottage door towards me. My heart gave a great leap — before I suddenly realized that she was not alone.

The young man who accompanied Rowena was a mere half a head taller than she was, stockily built, brown-haired and freckle-faced. His skin had the leathery appearance of the countryman who is out in all weathers, and his clothes were made of grey homespun. He had broad, placid features, blue eyes and a grin which spread almost from ear to ear. Place him, I thought bitterly, among a crowd of other country yokels, and he would never stand out from the ruck. As far as I could tell, seething as I was with jealous disappointment, he had nothing whatsoever to recommend him to a beauty such as Rowena Honeyman, yet twice, before they even reached the gate, she lifted her face for his kiss.

‘Mistress!’ I said, blocking her path and hoping against hope that her eyes would light up when she saw me.

Instead, she looked puzzled as she tried to remember who I was. ‘Your face is familiar,’ she smiled. ‘Have we met?’ But as recollection crowded in on her, the smile faded and she shrank back into the crook of the young man’s arm. ‘My aunt’s not in,’ she said coldly, and turned her head towards the reluctantly dispersing knots of people, some of whom still found it difficult to resume their normal tasks. ‘I don’t think she’ll wish to buy anything today, but if you want to ask her, she’s over there talking to the woman in the blue dress and the linen apron and hood.’

I recognized the description of Dame Janet and, with a sidelong glance, verified that the woman in question was indeed Baldwin Lightfoot’s housekeeper. In that brief moment, however, Rowena and her escort slipped past me and started off down the street towards the open countryside. I half-raised my hand to detain her, to grab at her sleeve, her skirt, any part of her within my reach, but thought better of it and slowly allowed my arm to drop back again to my side. What was the point in trying to claim her attention when she so plainly wanted as little to do with me as possible? In her eyes, I was still the man who had been partially responsible for her father’s death. I had been living in a fool’s paradise all these months, imagining that she would have forgiven me by now; exonerated me from any blame. How self-deluding I had been!

I stared after her as long as she was in sight, then heaved my pack on to my back and turned in the opposite direction. I felt winded, as though I had been dealt a heavy blow to my stomach, and I walked blindly, looking neither to left nor right. I had treasured up the memory of Rowena Honeyman for so many long months, that there was nothing now to take its place. It seemed as if a huge, gaping hole had been torn in my heart and that my life’s blood was slowly seeping away. It was not a sensation that I had ever experienced before and I had no idea how to cope with it. I had never been in love, although once, just over three years ago, I had come close to it — and had married someone else instead! But anything I had ever felt for Cicely Ford was as nothing to the emotions which Rowena had stirred within my breast; and my present dejection was not improved by the knowledge that I had been both arrogant and presumptuous in believing that during our short acquaintance I must necessarily have favourably impressed her. I realized with shame that I was so used to the admiration and friendship of women that I was in danger of taking them for granted and not valuing them as I should. If I was wise, this experience would be a salutary lesson to me.