Alice in Love and War (13 page)

“In Oxford some will – the Puritan sort.”

“Oxford? But the king is there! I thought Oxford was loyal.”

“The university is loyal, but the town is for Parliament. Oxford has always been divided. Indeed, the whole country is divided. We have friends – neighbouring gentlemen and their families – who used to visit with us in the good times before the war. Sir Basil Thornton, Sir Antony Deere. Both declared for Parliament, and so we are become enemies and our families no longer meet. And Lady Weston’s husband, Sir Richard, was captured in battle and is in prison in London. So you see, Alice, for us, celebrating Christmas is important: an act of defiance. ”

Thirteen

The
servants’ sleeping quarters at Weston Hall were scattered all over the house and outbuildings, wherever there was space or need. The housekeeper and the cook each had her own small room; but the grooms slept over the stable, and the kitchen maids in the bakehouse. The ladies’ maids had truckle beds in their mistresses’ rooms, or slept in closets close by. As still-room maid, Alice had no obvious place, but the housekeeper, Mistress Denham, decided that at least while the house was full at Christmastide she should sleep with the maids in the bakehouse. Alice was glad to comply. She wanted to be accepted in this house, not only by Christian Aubrey and Lady Weston, but by the kitchen maids and cook – those who had the power to make life difficult for her.

She need not have feared. The kitchen people were gossips and teases, but no one seemed to be unkind. The cook, Mistress Florey, and the two maids were full of curiosity about her. Mistress Florey told her she looked half starved and urged her to eat well. On that first day, when Alice came to the kitchen for dinner, she placed a bowl of fish broth in front of her and said, “Get some of that down you. You’re too thin. When your soldier comes back he’ll have nothing to get hold of.”

Alice blushed. “We had to eat what we could find,” she said. “It wasn’t much. All the soldiers were hungry.” She picked up her spoon.

“Meat’s what you need,” said Mistress Florey, herself a large woman with arms like hams. She set down bread, little pies and a dish of winter cabbage, shredded and mixed with dried fruit and spices. “But this being Advent, and Lady Weston sticking to the old ways, there’s none to be had. You must wait till next week.”

“Pease porridge and turnips till then!” joked Joan. She glanced curiously at Alice. “How long since you’ve seen him – your soldier?”

“Twenty-seven days,” said Alice. She had kept a tally.

Bess tutted in sympathy.

Joan asked, “What’s his name? What’s he like?”

Alice answered briefly. She knew she was the centre of speculation and interest. The maids in particular found her story both shocking and romantic, and wanted to know all about her and Robin. It gave Alice the courage to do some delving of her own.

“Who is Christian Aubrey?” she asked. “I mean,
what
is she? Is she a lady?”

“No,” said Mistress Florey. “Christian Aubrey is a kinswoman of Lady Weston, but a distant one – a poor relation, you might say. Lady Weston took her in when both her parents died, twelve years ago. She’s much of an age with the daughters of the house: Lady Grace – that’s the one who’s here with her children – and Lady Cecily.”

“Lady Weston is seeking a husband for Mistress Christian,” said Joan. “She’s without a fortune, poor girl, and can’t afford to be choosy.”

“But she turned down Hugh Lyford,” said Bess, grinning.

“Who wouldn’t? A man who takes his horse to bed with him?”

“
Joan!
It
wasn’t
his horse! You
know
it was his dogs!” Bess went off into a fit of the giggles.

“Now, you girls,” said Mistress Florey. “Back to work.”

There was plenty to be done: pies and puddings to bake for Christmas, as well as all the extra day-to-day meals with visitors in the house. Mistress Florey was indulgent towards the children. They ran in and out of the kitchen begging for treats, and were never disappointed.

Alice left the maids grating and sieving stale manchet bread to make gingerbread, and returned to the still room, where she and Christian were also preparing sweet things for Christmas. A block of refined sugar, saved from before the war, stood on the table. “It’s twice as expensive as unrefined,” said Christian, “but saves hours of work.”

The sharp, tangy smell of oranges and lemons filled the room. Christian was peeling an orange, and beside her were two bowls, one of oranges and a smaller one of lemons. Alice had occasionally seen oranges and lemons being unloaded at the quay in Bideford, and sometimes her aunt might buy one in Tavistock market; but such luxury as this astonished her. What wouldn’t we have given for these fruits on the march! she thought; and she exclaimed impulsively, “Oh, I wish my friends could see all this – could taste the orange juice and smell the spices! It would be such a wonder to them – like going through a door into Fairyland!”

Christian smiled. “You miss your friends?”

“Yes, especially Nia.” She remembered sharing treats with Nia on the campaign: the excitement when they found the blackberries; the way they had eked out mushrooms and hazelnuts and tiny, worm-eaten crab apples. And she wondered how Nia was faring now, what sort of place she was staying in, whether
her
baby was still safe in the womb.

“I wish I knew where they were,” she said.

“You’ll find out in the spring, perhaps,” said Christian.

She showed Alice how to peel the fruit. “Mistress Florey will use some of the juice,” she said. “Nothing must be wasted. We will boil the peel several times until the bitterness goes. Then, when the pieces are dry, we’ll make a sugar syrup and coat them with it. Tomorrow, if we have time, we can make some more comfits.”

Alice had noticed the jar of comfits: little sugar balls with spice or fruit at their centres.

“You can buy them,” said Christian, “but they are much better home-made.”

She reached up and opened the jar and handed one to Alice. Alice put the tiny sugared ball in her mouth and sucked it. She loved the sweetness, and when she bit through the last brittle layer she released a fragrant spicy taste from the coriander seed at its centre.

“I like these,” she said.

Christian looked pleased. “They are wholesome. Good for the digestion after a feast.”

The two of them worked hard together all afternoon. Later, while they were laying out the crystallized peel to dry, Alice felt suddenly tired and asked if she might sit down.

“Of course,” said Christian. She put a hand on Alice’s shoulder as she drooped on the stool. “Rest while I make you a cordial.”

Alice thanked her, then astonished herself by bursting into tears.

Christian was immediately concerned and dropped to her knees beside her. “Are you unwell?”

“No.” Alice did not know why this sudden grief had come upon her, but she found herself sobbing helplessly, “My baby. My baby…”

Christian tried to comfort her. “Alice, until a child has quickened in the womb it has no life; it is not a living soul. You lost a child of three months or less. You never felt it move?”

“No.”

“Then you must not grieve for it.”

But Alice did. The thought that the child had never quickened into life saddened her even more.

“Lady Weston says you should go to church – to our chapel – and ask forgiveness for your sin. She says Advent is a time of joyful waiting but also of penitence. If you could confess your sin to God you might be healed of this grief.”

Alice nodded, unable to speak. She knew she had committed the sin of fornication, and that she should do as Lady Weston said; but she felt that the only thing that would lessen her sorrow now would be the sight of Robin coming to claim her, and that if they were married her sin would be taken away.

“Lady Weston finds the chapel a place of solace,” said Christian. “She goes there to pray for her husband’s health in prison and for the souls of her dead children.” And she added gently, “It is our family chapel, and gracious of Lady Weston to allow you to use it.”

Alice went to the chapel the next day. It was close to the house, on the western side, and very small, with a High Church look that would be sure to offend the zealots in Parliament: Christ on the Cross hanging above the altar; the altar itself set back behind a rail; a painting of the Resurrection and another of the Madonna and Child; coloured windows full of saints and miracles; many candles and a smell of incense. Alice wondered whether Lady Weston might be secretly Catholic.

There was no one else in the chapel. Alice wanted to light a candle for her lost child, but hesitated because Christian had said it had no soul. Instead she knelt and tried to feel penitent. The peace and silence of the place was calming, and she felt its beauty and the influence of Lady Weston and all those others who had worshipped here. But true repentance would not come. She knew that, given the chance, she would do the same again.

“Make way for the yule log!”

From outside, in the frosty morning, there was a beating on the door. Inside, the entire household was assembled: family, children, servants, dogs and cats, though the cats fled as Mistress Denham flung open the door and two old men – the gardener and the head groom – carried in the massive log between them. All the company broke into song. Alice soon picked up the words of the chorus and joined in. The song ended in clapping and cheers, and the children shrieked with excitement as the fire was kindled. Lucas Rowles, the gardener, lit a small piece of last year’s log and used it to ignite the dry tinder surrounding the new one. When it was blazing, everyone filed past and made a wish. Bess had told Alice that as the yule log burned, it banished misfortune and healed old quarrels. Alice wondered what the others were wishing for. The end of this bitter war, perhaps, or the return of husbands and sons? Her own first thought was to wish for Robin to come to her. But she wished for that all the time; it was part of her being. Instead, when she reached the fire, she wished that Nia might stay well and strong and bear a healthy child in the spring.

On Christmas Eve, the night before, she had joined the servants gathered in the yard with lanterns, and walked to Copsey church for midnight mass, the holiest part of Christmas. In the morning the family had attended their chapel again while the servants made ready for the feast. With the bringing in of the yule log, Christmas had now truly begun. Earlier that day Alice had helped the women, ladies and servants together, to make the kissing bough, a ring of evergreens – ivy, holly and mistletoe – twisted and tied around a frame and entwined with ribbons of red and gold. Small gifts were tied with laces and hung from the bough. While the men put up greenery all around the hall and staircase, the women assembled the gifts. These were mostly sweetmeats: star-shaped biscuits, a bag of comfits, candied peel, sugar shapes, nuts, spices.

While they worked, the two little boys ran around, begging sweetmeats and crawling under the table to play with the dogs. Meanwhile the youngest, fastened into his wheeled walking frame, trundled around after them, shouting with laughter, then screaming when something he wanted was out of reach. The dogs too were indulged by Lady Weston, who tossed them treats which they caught and ate. The children wanted her to do the same for them. “Me! Me!” they cried – but missed and had to scamper in pursuit.

Mistress Florey laughed. “We’ll have nothing left for the bough!”

Alice felt one of the hounds pushing at her hand; his pleading eyes looked up at her. She had learned the dogs’ names now: Keeper, Jewel, Holt and Bryce. This was Holt, her favourite because he always sought her out. She stroked his smooth soft head and slipped him a biscuit.

When the kissing bough was ready, the men hoisted it high to hang from the beam above the hall’s entrance.

Now, with the greenery in place and the yule log lit, the day’s feasting could begin: a leisurely dinner shared by all, seated along the length of a long table garlanded with ivy and coloured ribbons and illuminated by beeswax candles in gold holders. Everyone sang as Tobias Fairthorne carried in a roasted and garlanded goose. (“It would have been a boar’s head before the war,” Mistress Florey told Alice.) There was more meat – beef, duck and capon – and pies and rich sauces. After the meal the candies and comfits Alice and Christian had made were passed around in small bowls.

By the time the meal was over, the early dusk of winter was crowding against the windows. Lady Weston sent for candles. She lit them herself, handing them out to the maids to be set in sconces and windowsills and fill the hall with soft light and leaping shadows while they all sang another carol. Surely no edict from Parliament could ever suppress this, Alice thought.

The snow began in earnest before the end of December, and by Twelfth Night, Weston Hall was cut off from the village by deep drifts. The community turned inwards, relying even less than usual on the village and the world beyond. The livestock had been killed and there was fresh meat in the larder, and Mistress Florey would soon be busy salting and preserving what could not be eaten. There were stocks of root vegetables, green beans layered with salt in earthenware crocks, summer fruits bottled or made into preserves. The wood stack in the yard was heaped with logs, and the baskets indoors with kindling; candles, both beeswax and tallow, were stored against the dark evenings and sunless days.

The servants had received presents on St Stephen’s Day, mostly of clothing. Alice, so newly come to Weston and not a bound servant, was surprised and pleased to receive a gift of a pair of blue woollen stockings. During the days that followed there was plenty of merrymaking, and – until the snow set in – visitors coming and going. One of these was an elderly neighbour and widower, Sir Walter Clare, who, Alice noticed, paid particularly courteous attention to Christian.

Twelfth Night was the last great day of feasting. Christian told Alice that before the war they would have had a houseful of guests, the gentry from all around. Even so, it seemed grand to Alice. Lady Weston had hired musicians, and everyone danced and joined in the feasting. At dinner Mistress Florey carried in a Twelfth Night cake, baked with ginger, honey and cinnamon. Somewhere inside it was hidden a dried bean, and whoever found the bean would be king or queen of the revels. Mistress Florey cut the cake and made sure that everyone took a slice. Almost at once shy Bess found the bean and, in terror at the thought of being the centre of attention, put it back in and pushed her plate away, declaring that she wasn’t hungry.