Maggie Prince - North Side of the Tree

“Surely Mother Bain is adequate as a chaperone,” I reply. “Unless your designs on me are more drastic and immediate than I anticipated.”

John smiles. “The problem is that Mother Bain has failing eyesight and hearing, and is also seen as somewhat unorthodox, with all her soothsaying and predictions. I think we need a woman of narrow views and a reputation for utmost propriety. The widow of one of the strangers who was killed in the woods has journeyed to Wraithwaite, looking for work. She is destitute now that her husband is dead. I spoke to her. She seems exactly the sort of person we need. Her name is Widow Brissenden.”

I stare at him. “You spoke to her without consulting me, John? I have heard of this woman. They say she is truly dreadful. They say she is carping and narrow-minded and criticises everyone in her path.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, you know what people here are like, particularly about strangers. They’ll get used to her. She has relatives in Hagditch who speak very highly of her. She’s staying with them but does not wish to be dependent on them, which is admirable. One of her nephews rode over here to recommend her to me. It seems only sensible to take her on, since she needs a position and we have one to offer. Also, I almost feel we owe it to her, since her husband was murdered whilst here at the command of your father.”

I pace round the kitchen, feeling angry, yet not in a position to vent my anger. I am John’s guest, and also I feel partly responsible for this woman having become a widow. The thought of having her as a constant reminder of the attack appals me though. I stop in front of John. “Please do not employ her, John. I shall not be here for long. It does not generally bother you to flout convention.”

He pours ale into a battered silver jug and tosses in some cloves, a cinnamon stick and a nutmeg. “It only bothers me because it concerns you,” he says mildly. He takes a moleskin mitten, pulls the red-hot poker from the fire and plunges it into the jug. A hissing billow of steam pours out, searing our cheeks.

“The bishop is coming on Friday,” he adds, stirring the mixture with the poker then pouring the ale into our two earthenware mugs. “I want to take him to visit your father – he can hardly refuse the bishop entry – so that we can arrange Verity’s betrothal and marriage as quickly as possible. Time’s going on. She can’t continue like this. The bishop can impose fines on your father, or exclusion from Communion, if he continues to attack Low Back Farm. It has become ridiculous. He can’t go on refusing to accept the situation. I’d intended that the bishop should also effect your release, if you hadn’t already done so yourself.”

I take the warm mug from his hands. “I’ll come with you to Barrowbeck, John, when you go there with the bishop.”

“Is that wise? Your father could have you seized again, and then you would have to… er… climb out of the window a second time.”

“You doubt that I climbed out of the window?”

“Sweet Beatrice, I know you. You do not lie well. I think some brave soul succeeded where I failed, and let you out.”

I gaze through the smoky firelight. “You were a brave soul, John. I watched you standing there with arrows flying all about you.” I pause, made suddenly miserable by the recollection.

He takes hold of my hand. “Who let you out? Tell me. I shall say nothing to anyone. Was it the gallant Hugh?”

I stand up and pull my hand free, finally giving up the battle to be gracious and conciliatory. “Oh please, not another of you making gibes about Hugh. I had enough of that from Robert.” I hurl the name at him deliberately, wishing to hurt him because he has engaged Widow Brissenden without asking me, and because the recollection of him being shot at makes me sick to my stomach, and because I do not wish to feel this way about anyone just now. It is too inconvenient. It is too demanding. I have had enough of it, and I know suddenly that with John it will be worse, because he lays claim to my mind, as well as to other parts of me. He is too clever. He could know me too well. If I let John into my head, how will I ever have secrets again?

He makes no response.

“How controlled you are, John,” I remark.

“It doesn’t come naturally, Beatie. Unfortunately it is part of my job. I would vastly prefer to go round shouting and hitting people.”

I am forced to smile. “Well, I have known you to do that quite well too. I apologise for my rudeness. Please forgive me.”

He stands up. “The fault was mine. I should not have questioned you.”

“No.” I shake my head. “No, of course you have the right, with my father hammering at your door, and an endless stream of the residents of Barrowbeck begging refuge of you.”

“Truly, say no more, Beatrice.”

We are silent for a while, sipping the ale, which is too hot. Eventually I say, “The reason I wish to come to Barrowbeck with you is to visit Verity, John. I haven’t seen her since she moved to Low Back Farm, and I’m worried about her, particularly with my father’s temper as it is.”

John is watching me, sprawled in his chair, flushed from the fire. “I think your presence here is keeping your father occupied and saving Verity and James a deal of trouble. Yes. Come. We’ll keep you out of his way. I’ll be delighted to have your company, and I’d like the bishop to get to know you better too.”

On Friday the bishop arrives. He is a man of charm and humour. “So, I am to brave your father,” he says to me as we sit in the kitchen finishing the bottle of claret he brought.

“I hope it will not be too alarming an experience, my lord. I fear he is intolerant of the clergy.” I am deeply anxious about tomorrow’s expedition to Barrowbeck, and have already lost a night’s sleep over it. I excuse myself to go to my room to catch up on some rest. As I am leaving, the bishop says quietly to John in Latin, “So is the lady Beatrice to make an honest man of you, John?” I pause on the threshold. John is looking at me with an expression halfway between laughter and despair.

“Master John was my schoolmaster, my lord of Carlisle,” I answer the bishop, also in Latin. The bishop clasps his hand over his eyes.

“My child, please forgive me.”

“I fear it is I who will be begging forgiveness after you encounter my father, my lord, so please disregard it entirely.”

He stands up, so that from deference I must remain. “And the answer, Beatrice? What is the answer to my question?”

John is shaking his head, trying to silence him. I wish above all else that I were lying down in my room, and not having this conversation. I drop a curtsey and reply that on the contrary, his lordship has made a mistake, and that I am to marry my Cousin Hugh. It is whilst I am saying this, that I realise it is no longer true.

The bishop arrived in a red and gold coach most unsuitable for our country roads, and which was mired several times on his journey here, so we travel to Barrowbeck on horseback the following day. We go first to Low Back Farm, and find that James has begun building a fortified pele tower on to his farmhouse. His henchmen, led by George and Martinus, are moving blocks of limestone with pulleys, ready for the Irish builders to lay the foundations.

I stand in this familiar place, and breathe in the smell of first frost, and let the distress of the past two weeks seep away. The ground is getting colder. I can feel it like a great stone under my feet. Overhead, seagulls scream and head inland, a sign of fierce weather coming.

It is wonderful to see Verity again. John, the bishop and I stay for an hour, eating hot buttered wheaten cakes and drinking more wine. Verity has begun keeping bees, and shows us her trussed straw bee-skeps, and the workroom she will use for producing honey and beeswax candles and furniture polish. She is noticeably increased in size.