her feet smiling, but instead sat in the
cold grass in the dark and wept.
She had her head
buried in the folds of her skirt, that still smelt of her mother’s linen-chest
and home and a place that had a roof on it, and so she didn’t see him, but she
felt the touch on the back of her neck and batted her hand at it with a most
unmaidenly, “ Leave me alone !”
He laughed
weakly, and sounded almost as forlorn as she felt. “That’s not me, tibber.
That’s Marlowe. He worries about people.”
A horse’s muzzle
investigated the scant few inches of bare flesh at the nape of her neck,
between her hair and her collar: investigated, and blew, moistly, and she had
to laugh even though she didn’t want to. And then Thankful came and sat in the
wet grass beside her, and did not much care about the rain and the indignity of
sitting on the muddy ground in riding boots, but put his arms round her and
pulled her into his lap and held her head against his chest and rocked her, a
little, as if she had been a child again. “Oh, Thomazine,” he said, “oh, lass,
it will not be so bad, come the morning. In the daylight. Looks worse than what
it is, I’m sure. And, you know, we can always live somewhere close, and –“
“I want to go
home!” she sobbed, and felt him nod.
“So did I, my
tibber, so did I. Wanted this to be home and it’s not. It looks like the
morning after they lifted the siege at Colchester.” He rocked her again, and
lifted a hand to stroke her hair, as much for his own comfort as her own, she
thought. “It’ll come good, love.”
She wanted to be
her brave little mother, right that minute, because Het Babbitt would have
shaken out her skirts in a martial fashion and rolled up her sleeves and called
for soap and hot water, and started in on making the place all right and tight.
But Thomazine was too stiff and miserable, and just about the only thing of any
warmth in that whole bleak November world was the patch of her husband’s
shoulder where she clung, and even that was bony. The grey horse nuzzled at the
back of her head again, and she frowned into Thankful’s damp coat. “What kind
of stupid name for a horse is Marlowe ?”
“Blame your Uncle Luce,” he said
dryly. “He introduced me to the man's poetry.”
The tears still
ran down her cheeks, but that was of their own volition, and they no longer
hurt her eyes and her temples, they just ran, overflowing, like rain. Her nose
was running, too, and the breast of his coat would be a horrible sticky mess
when she straightened up, and so she burrowed her face tighter against him,
scenting wet wool and fresh air. He put his hand on the back of her head again,
and then cursed softly to himself. “Oh, a pox on those hairpins, tibber. There
goes another one. D’you want a handkerchief?”
It would be full
dark, soon, and moonless, and chill. She wanted to go in to a warm hearth, and
to her mother sitting beside it with her mending, and the smell of cooking and
baking bread and scoured cleanliness.
She sat up and
pushed her hair out of her eyes and wiped her nose on her cuff, though it was
so dark he’d probably not see the unfeminine gesture. And took a deep breath,
and straightened her shoulders. “No,” she said, “no, I shall be fine. A momentary
silliness, that was all. A little bit tired. It’s been a long day, I think. Do
we,” it was a forlorn hope, but she had to ask, “do you think there would be
anything to eat, within?”
He kissed the
top of her head. “Oh, my girl, you are your mother’s daughter. Well, I can
promise nothing. All I can say is that if I know the gentlemen that have been
working on the west wing, and if they have been here as recently as I pay them
to be, then yes. There may be a few leftovers. And if not, why, then, we won’t
starve before tomorrow morning.”
“The horses?”
Because if there were stables, there might be oats, and then there might be
gruel. Of a sort.
“Leave them
loose,” he said
cold grass in the dark and wept.
She had her head
buried in the folds of her skirt, that still smelt of her mother’s linen-chest
and home and a place that had a roof on it, and so she didn’t see him, but she
felt the touch on the back of her neck and batted her hand at it with a most
unmaidenly, “ Leave me alone !”
He laughed
weakly, and sounded almost as forlorn as she felt. “That’s not me, tibber.
That’s Marlowe. He worries about people.”
A horse’s muzzle
investigated the scant few inches of bare flesh at the nape of her neck,
between her hair and her collar: investigated, and blew, moistly, and she had
to laugh even though she didn’t want to. And then Thankful came and sat in the
wet grass beside her, and did not much care about the rain and the indignity of
sitting on the muddy ground in riding boots, but put his arms round her and
pulled her into his lap and held her head against his chest and rocked her, a
little, as if she had been a child again. “Oh, Thomazine,” he said, “oh, lass,
it will not be so bad, come the morning. In the daylight. Looks worse than what
it is, I’m sure. And, you know, we can always live somewhere close, and –“
“I want to go
home!” she sobbed, and felt him nod.
“So did I, my
tibber, so did I. Wanted this to be home and it’s not. It looks like the
morning after they lifted the siege at Colchester.” He rocked her again, and
lifted a hand to stroke her hair, as much for his own comfort as her own, she
thought. “It’ll come good, love.”
She wanted to be
her brave little mother, right that minute, because Het Babbitt would have
shaken out her skirts in a martial fashion and rolled up her sleeves and called
for soap and hot water, and started in on making the place all right and tight.
But Thomazine was too stiff and miserable, and just about the only thing of any
warmth in that whole bleak November world was the patch of her husband’s
shoulder where she clung, and even that was bony. The grey horse nuzzled at the
back of her head again, and she frowned into Thankful’s damp coat. “What kind
of stupid name for a horse is Marlowe ?”
“Blame your Uncle Luce,” he said
dryly. “He introduced me to the man's poetry.”
The tears still
ran down her cheeks, but that was of their own volition, and they no longer
hurt her eyes and her temples, they just ran, overflowing, like rain. Her nose
was running, too, and the breast of his coat would be a horrible sticky mess
when she straightened up, and so she burrowed her face tighter against him,
scenting wet wool and fresh air. He put his hand on the back of her head again,
and then cursed softly to himself. “Oh, a pox on those hairpins, tibber. There
goes another one. D’you want a handkerchief?”
It would be full
dark, soon, and moonless, and chill. She wanted to go in to a warm hearth, and
to her mother sitting beside it with her mending, and the smell of cooking and
baking bread and scoured cleanliness.
She sat up and
pushed her hair out of her eyes and wiped her nose on her cuff, though it was
so dark he’d probably not see the unfeminine gesture. And took a deep breath,
and straightened her shoulders. “No,” she said, “no, I shall be fine. A momentary
silliness, that was all. A little bit tired. It’s been a long day, I think. Do
we,” it was a forlorn hope, but she had to ask, “do you think there would be
anything to eat, within?”
He kissed the
top of her head. “Oh, my girl, you are your mother’s daughter. Well, I can
promise nothing. All I can say is that if I know the gentlemen that have been
working on the west wing, and if they have been here as recently as I pay them
to be, then yes. There may be a few leftovers. And if not, why, then, we won’t
starve before tomorrow morning.”
“The horses?”
Because if there were stables, there might be oats, and then there might be
gruel. Of a sort.
“Leave them
loose,” he said
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