‘Where are you going?’ she said.
‘You didn’t really expect me to make you show me your
basket-weaving
? Now go and have fun with that brother of
yours and meet me back here at dusk.’
‘No . . . no,’ Naomi frowned. ‘You must come. Your
father will be expecting to see something.’
He laughed again. ‘Fear not, I shall simply tell him that
you are a terrible basket-weaver and we should not make
a penny out of you!’
Her frown deepened. ‘I’m a good basket-weaver and if
you won’t come then I shall have to go back.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘And make my brother’s bath?’
‘If that is what’s required.’ She turned to go.
‘He is so sour you can use the water for vinegar afterwards!’
he called after her.
She turned and began walking back towards the house.
With her wild hair imprisoned beneath the bonnet and the
neat brown skirt his mother had given her she could have
been anyone’s maid: drab as puddle water. And yet he did
not find her drab. In fact he found her utterly perplexing.
How could she be so wilful and infuriating one minute,
and so docile and obedient the next? She was more exasperating
even than Flora. And yet he couldn’t let her go
back to be Abel’s slave.
She was almost to the corner. He sighed heavily.
‘Naomi!’
She turned, her back straight, chin lifted. ‘What?’
‘I
should
like to see some of your work. If you don’t mind.’
She hesitated a moment then said, ‘I don’t mind,’ and
walked back to join him. As she drew beside him, then
passed him, he chuckled to himself at her audacity, then
fell into step beside her.
Soon they had reached the outskirts of the village. The
wheat had grown much taller since he last came this way:
it was waist-height now; emerald spears tipped with tight
knots of grain lancing up towards the blue sky. He plucked
a blade of grass, tucked it between his thumbs and blew hard. At the unholy screech crows erupted from the surrounding
trees, like smuts from a collapsing fire. A field
mouse scurried out from the protection of the grass and
stopped dead in front of them. Naomi knelt and picked it
up. It was almost completely round, with delicate shell-like
ears and huge black eyes.
‘Beautiful,’ she said.
Then it bit her. While Barnaby would have been inclined
to throw the thing across the field, she just set it gently
down and it scurried off back into the greensward.
‘I thought you farmers didn’t like mice,’ he said as they
carried on.
‘I’m not a farmer,’ she said. I’m a maid, remember?’
‘Well, I’m hoping you’re a basket-weaver actually, or this
will have been a wasted trip.’
‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘It has saved you from the chore of
sleeping.’
He opened his mouth but couldn’t think of a response.
For once the witch tree was silent as they passed and she
stopped to pluck a few green acorns from one of the lower
branches.
‘Don’t,’ he said instinctively.
‘Why not?’
He laughed with embarrassment. ‘The village girls say
the spirit of the witch that was hanged here still haunts the
place. She would not like you stealing her possessions.’
‘I’m sure the poor old woman would not begrudge the
piglets a little snack. Thank you, Madam!’ she called up
into the leaves, and they trembled a little as the wind
breathed on them.
‘Stop it,’ he said.
She turned to face him. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘There’s
no need to be afraid. I’m sure she was nothing but a poor
mad old lady.’
‘I’m not afraid.’
‘We’re all afraid of something.’ She looked away from
him and walked on.
‘What are you afraid of?’ he called after her.
She waited for him to catch up then said quietly, ‘Your
brother.’
He snorted. ‘He wouldn’t dare touch you, or he would
have me to answer to. Plus he is feeble as a half-starved
kitten.’
‘It’s not his body I fear,’ she said.
They were halfway up the little path to the cottage when
Mistress Waters came scurrying out, her face filled with
consternation. ‘Naomi! What have you done now?’
‘Nothing, Mother,’ she called back. ‘Barnaby would like
to see some of my basket-weaving.’
For a moment the woman’s face brightened, then she
frowned again. ‘It’s
Master
Barnaby.’
‘Not at all, Mistress,’ Barnaby called. ‘Plain Barnaby is
fine.’ Then he grinned. ‘Though Handsome Barnaby is
even better.’
The woman blinked in surprise. ‘Very well, Sir, whatever
you wish.’
‘Come on then, Handsome Barnaby,’ Naomi said under
her breath.
He followed her up the slope to the little stone cottage.
It leaned markedly to the right, as if shying away from the
forest on the other side of the lake. He himself wouldn’t
like to be so close to it.
The glass in the windows was so thick and undulating
it was impossible to see through to the gloomy interior.
‘Perhaps you would like to sit out in the sunshine,’
Mistress Waters said, blocking the doorway with her body.
‘I can bring you some caudell.’
The thought of warm, spiced egg yolks on a day like this
made him feel nauseous. ‘Is there anything colder?’
‘We have no ice house and no cellar,’ Naomi said quietly.
‘So if the day is warm then the drink is warm.’
‘If you can wait I can put a bottle of ale in the lake to
cool . . .’ Mistress Waters said.
‘Actually, caudell will be lovely,’ Barnaby said. ‘It is not
so hot after all.’
He waited on the wooden pew while Naomi went inside
with her mother. The lake sparkled amicably today, inviting
him in. Wavelets plashed musically against the bank as if giggling
about their former misunderstanding. But he wasn’t
going in today, not for anything. Though the good opinion
of a serving girl may not have mattered much he
was
her
master after all, and his father had always told him that it
was important to retain the respect of the servants. Though
how Henry could imagine that Juliet still respected him,
after the numerous occasions she had helped Frances undress
him after nights of heavy drinking, was anyone’s guess.
The little brother suddenly appeared with a stool, set it
down in front of Barnaby, then sat on it and fixed him
with a steely-eyed glare.
‘Hello, young man,’ Barnaby said. ‘How are you?’
The boy said nothing, but shifted on the stool. Clearly
the thing had been well made because it did not so much
as squeak. The wooden legs were exquisitely carved with mice and field birds and the golden seat had been perfectly
woven. Surely a peasant farmer could not afford such a
quality piece.
Then he understood.
‘Did your sister make that?’
The boy grinned. ‘For me.’
‘How much do you want for it?’
The boy thought hard. ‘A penny.’
Barnaby guffawed and when Naomi emerged a moment
later he told her how cheaply her labour of love had been
lost.
‘Oh it wasn’t all my work,’ she said, blushing. ‘Father
turned the wood for me. Here are some other things.’
She had brought an armful of baskets: some large enough
to carry a week’s worth of logs, others small and woven
tightly enough to hold the most delicate of trinkets. There
was not a single reed or stake of wicker out of place and in
the centre of each base was a perfectly symmetrical five-pointed
star.
‘Why are you a maid exactly?’ he said finally.
She smiled and shrugged. ‘The wicker is too time consuming
to gather in sufficient quantities and too expensive
to buy. I do it for pleasure.’
‘This is pleasurable? Doesn’t it hurt your fingers?’
She held up her hands. ‘They are not so delicate.’
It was true. Her fingers were stubby, the nails bitten to
the quick, and the backs criss-crossed with scars.
‘Now let me see yours.’
He glanced down at them then dug them into his pockets.
There was no way she was going to see how shamefully
soft and white they were.
‘I think Father would be interested in these,’ he said to change the subject.
‘I couldn’t produce them in enough quantities.’
‘You could have help. What about your brother?’
‘Benjamin? He’s five. His fingers are soft as bulrushes.’
The boy had wandered off but glanced up at the mention of his name.
‘We may be poor,’ she went on, ‘But we are not so desperate that we would cripple our children.’
Barnaby flushed. ‘I did not mean . . .’
‘Perhaps
you
could assist me?’ He was relieved to see that she was smiling again. ‘Or are
your
fingers too soft?’
It seemed simple enough at the beginning. Naomi gave him a handful of sticks and a bodkin then showed him how to split them down the middle. He only wrecked a few and soon had
enough to push the others through to make a cross shape, securing it with some fine, thread-like shoots.
He paused to smile smugly at her before starting on the spokes.
Here it all went wrong. The spokes would not stay an even distance from one another and kept bunching together; the thread snapped and had to be knotted to another length, which also snapped.
She tried to help but he slapped her hand away and started weaving the willow strands in and out of the higgledy-piggledy spokes, fully aware that the basket was already doomed. But he was too
clumsy and the jagged end of one of the spokes dug into his belly.
The sight of the blood soaking into the waistband of his breeches made him feel faint. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. Mistress Waters cried from the house,
‘What’s happened? Oh goodness, is he hurt?’
‘I’m alright,’ he murmured. ‘Honestly.’
‘Benjamin!’ Naomi cried. ‘Go and get some cobwebs from the wood shed.’
When the scampering footsteps returned, she wiped the wound gently with some damp material and pressed the soft gauze over the cut.
‘There,’ she said. ‘It will be healed by tomorrow.’
He opened an eye. The cut was now covered in grey webbing and had started to itch already – a sure sign of healing.
‘And wasn’t it all worthwhile?’ she said, holding up the wretchedly deformed basketwork.
He snatched it from her. ‘It’s mine and I shall finish it, or you will only berate me for giving up.’
More cack-handedly than ever he began thrusting the stalks through the yawning cracks in the weave.
‘It would be perfect to hold something large,’ she said. ‘A pumpkin, perhaps.’
‘Quiet. You’re distracting me.’
‘Benjamin!’ she cried. ‘Come and watch the master at work!’
A moment later the boy was peering over his shoulder, laughing as hard as his sister.
A shout from over by the lake made them all look up.
Squinting into the low sun, Barnaby could make out three figures silhouetted against the glittering water.
‘Your father has finally given up on your merchant’s career, then?’ a voice called.
It was Richard. His tone was gently teasing rather than the usual jeer, but Barnaby thrust away the basket and stood up.
‘My maid was showing me some peasant crafts,’ he called back. ‘But I’ve had my fill of it if you are heading anywhere in particular.’
‘Only to Griff’s,’ Richard answered. ‘It’s my aunt’s birthday. There will be chicken and lamb and plum cake if the last one was anything to go by.’
‘Excellent,’ he said and, without looking back, went to join his friends.
‘The sun has burned your face, Barnaby,’ Richard said. ‘You should be careful. The girls will not find you so handsome with a blistered nose.’
‘My blistered nose will be infinitely more handsome than your great lump of dough,’ he said with a grin, but he didn’t feel like grinning.
He felt as low as a mongrel dog as he walked down the slope and away from the little crooked cottage. A stone whizzed passed his ear and a moment later he heard Naomi speak sharply, followed by
a slap and the sound of Benjamin crying. He whistled to drown out it out.
He’d nothing to reproach himself for, Barnaby told himself later. Naomi was his maid, not his equal, and he had been perfectly courteous all day, had taken all the
teasing about his basket in good humour, and had not even made her return to the house with him. Plus he had saved her from a fate worse than death – preparing Abel’s bath. The girl had
had an entire day off for heaven’s sake!
And yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had behaved badly.
When he got back that evening, full of devilled lamb kidneys and apple cake, all he wanted was a drink and his bed, but catching a glimpse of Naomi in the kitchen he decided to forgo the drink
and went straight upstairs.
He was awoken next morning by a knock at the door. It was his mother.
‘Have you see Abel’s silver crucifix?’ she said. ‘He can’t find it and is beside himself with worry.’
‘No,’ he said and turned over.
When he next awoke someone had filled his ewer with warm water and lavender and a bowl of cherries stood on his side table. He really hoped it had been Juliet. Peeling off the cobweb dressing in
order to wash, he found that the wound had closed completely, leaving just a small red scar in the shape of a crescent moon. He remembered that Agnes had always said cobwebs had magical properties,
but perhaps they were just sticky enough to keep cuts closed. Somehow he couldn’t imagine Naomi believing in the supernatural abilities of a house spider.
The crucifix was still not found by the time he went downstairs and Abel was too distressed to leave his room.
Barnaby stepped over Juliet, who was on her hands and knees looking under the dresser, and sat down at the table.
He had no desire to help look for the necklace, which had been given to Abel on his last birthday, wrapped in a lawn shirt whose lace collar and cuffs had been painstakingly worked by Frances.
Abel had dismissed it as showy and vulgar. That same year Barnaby had been given a florin to buy whatever he liked from Grimston market.