Winter’s Children: Curl up with this gripping, page-turning mystery as the nights get darker. Leah Fleming
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‘Opinions, indeed! What doth a widow woman need with opinions?’ Bentley spat out his words. ‘It is forbidden in scripture for women to speak in worship. How dare she cast doubt on the Holy Writ? Is she or is she not a Christmas keeper: that is the question here?’
Her face flushed even though the fire at the hearth was meagre. All of Blanche’s conversation had been overheard, the walls of any church had ears eager to pass on mischief, the righteous spies who were only too willing to see another Norton brought down low.
‘You know, in times past the Nortons kept a great house with many celebrations but all that is long gone since the Commonwealth now rules,’ Hepzibah said. It was the best she could muster in Blanche’s defence.
‘I am pleased to hear it but what of worship? Does she intend to defy me and hold a Christ’s Mass in the chapel?’
The parson asked such direct questions that she was too flummoxed to proceed without untruths.
How would the Lord answer her longings if she spoke lies to His minister?
‘I’m not sure, sir, but she does not visit us often,’ she lied. ‘We do not meddle in each other’s affairs. She attends church as is prescribed, that I do know.’
‘But I fear such a wayward spirit within her. Was she not of the Royalist cause? I fear for her everlasting soul. A little chastening in that direction would be to her eternal interest,’ he smiled, and his breath smelled of rancid milk for his teeth were but few.
What did he mean, ‘a little chastening'? Did he mean to punish Blanche? A shiver of fear went through her.
‘If you would like me to speak to her myself …’ she offered.
‘No, but you must be my eyes and ears. The Lord will come unannounced in the night. We must prepare daily for the Judgement. I have my own plans for Mistress Norton. If ever a soul was in dire need of a humbling …’
His words trailed away as Hepzibah rose, feeling faint and nauseous by the stench of smoke and stale body odour, and the knowledge that this man would pursue her cousin further.
I must warn her and soon, she thought, warn her to be vigilant against his spies. There was a crazed hungry look in his eyes, which frightened her. She wished she had not brought meat to his door and stirred up his wrath against her cousin.
Next morning they woke to a blanket of snow: December snow that would stick, blocking all tracks, but she took heart from this as a good sign that at least the drifting would keep Parson Bentley at his hearth. He would not find it easy to go snooping. This gave her spirit some consolation.
Blanche was still her own flesh, and there was the child to consider too. She resolved to send a servant to Bankwell, to the hall down by the river, to warn her cousin not to provoke the parson into some idiocy this Christmastide. Better still, the two of them must come up to the farmhouse where no harm would befall them both. He would not dare to call on them unannounced, not with the stains of her fresh brawn on his jacket. That night it snowed hard again, blocking them fast in with drifts. The message to Blanche would have to wait. No one would be going anywhere now.
Anona Norton peered out of the mullioned window with excitement as the snow lay like a thick coverlet along the lawns and paths of Bankwell House in the winter of 1653. She wanted to run around and dance, roll over and make snowballs, leaving her footprints like deer tracks, but Mama wouldn’t let her play outside for fear of catching a chill and wearing out her boots. Why did they have to live shut away in this cold house with meagre fires when it was much more fun to go out of doors?
The snow covered the ruins at the side of the house with its whiteness. Everything looked mysterious, like the dustsheets hiding the furniture in the great parlour, which lay cold and empty all year round where she would gallop on her hobby horse, looking up at poor Papa on the wall ‘who art in Heaven'; the papa who died even before she was born.
She knew about the bad man, Cromwell, whose army foraged over the district and sacked their store barns of all good provisions so that ivy was growing over the ruined walls and there was little monies for repairs. She knew that Mama had a hidden box of treasure to pay for the fines so they didn’t have to go to Wintergill church every week.
Bankwell House stood tall in its park but everything was overgrown. It was close by the river crossing and sheltered from the northern snows but it could not withstand this new parson and his snooping spies. There was a chill wind of change in the air when he arrived. They were not allowed to use their own little chapel except in secret, and Mama said that the soldiers had stripped it bare to use as their stable. Anona thought that was nice for the horses but they left a fearful mess. Once they had gone it was put back again as best they could with windows boarded up, for the stained glass was smashed beyond repair. Here some of the villagers gathered for worship for no one could stop old Father Michael from coming over the river from his hiding hole to say Mass.
She liked the old priest, who was bent over like an arch, but he never came without some comfits in his pocket, a sweetmeat or two and nuts.
Soon it would be yuletide, and Mama promised it would be a special time, with fresh rushes strewn on the floor, proper candles and evergreens brought into the little parlour to cheer them up: holly and yew, mistletoe from the apple orchards and fresh rosemary from the little herb bed.
Since Sunday last Mama was sharp and crotchety with everyone and withdrew into her chamber to cry quietly, but Nonie knew if she pushed back the bed drapes and crept inside to hug her, she would soon sigh and feel better.
Sometimes she wished she had a real father like Uncle Nate, who was round and jolly, and laughed a lot. Aunt Hepzi was plain dressed and strict, but kind enough, so different from Mama in every way.
‘Are you sad because we can’t hold a Christ’s Mass?’ she asked once, puzzled by the parson’s angry words. If only Father Michael were the priest, but Mama said she must never tell anyone about his visits.
‘A little, child, but we will keep the holy feast days. It is our duty, whatever that black crow says,’ Mama said. ‘How else are we to give our tenants something to warm their bellies with for a few days? It is what your father did, and I will carry on even though it gets harder each year to find the extras. I cannot bear to think his cause and all who loved it died for nothing,’ Mama sighed, but Nonie did not understand.
She was glad that Christmas would be going ahead. ‘Can I help make frumenty, with the new wheat?’ she added.
‘In a while. Don’t pester now, Meg has enough to do. Yule is no yule without a dish of the finest wheat and cream brose.’ Mama turned over on the bed. ‘Be patient! I will rest and say my prayers for I don’t trust that black crow o’ Wintergill. His heart is hardened to our cause.’
For the next few days there was treason in the kitchen, a bustle of forbidden activities as Meg stirred up the plum porridge and the wheat was soaked for the frumenty, the cream lying thick in its bowl on the slate shelve. Nonie was set to sweeping out the stale rushes in the parlour and dusting the pewter, for the silver plates were long gone, but the last of their glasses were rubbed to a sparkle. When her jobs were all done she was allowed to roll out shapes with pastry dough. Mama laid out their best gowns with the lace-ruffed collars and cuffs, and lengthened the hem of Nonie’s skirt, for she was growing fast.
Then on Christmas Eve she was allowed to go out at last with the yard boys to collect holly and greens to decorate the parlour and the chapel. It was bad luck to gather greens before that day, and boys dragged in a fine log for the fire, one that had been saved secretly in the coppice to see them through the twelve festive days.
Christmas morning dawned dry and clear, and Nonie sat at the window waiting for visitors to appear. They would break fast after the service. In the distance she could make out the shape of old Father Michael coming at first light with boots lined with sacks and wadding. Each year he grew smaller and smaller, bending like a little gnome. She hoped he had got something in his pocket.
The little chapel