sipped her broth and waited. At last, disturbed by her unwavering stare, she called her aunt’s name.
Phillippa blinked, slowly brought her attention to Lucie. ‘I hope my restlessness did not keep you from sleep last night.’ She seemed unaware that Lucie had sat there for some time. She chatted on, telling Lucie she had resolved to return to York with her on the morrow, to attend the Requiem Mass for Sir Robert and then stay a while in York. ‘Until I feel more at peace.’
‘I am glad.’
‘But I worry how the servants will behave with no mistress of the household. Would you allow Tildy to stay and take care of things?’
‘Tildy? Stay?’ Lucie forced herself to concentrate. ‘But you have been away before, visiting us, and the servants have managed.’
‘For a few days. But – this time I might be gone longer – unless you have changed your mind.’ As Phillippa finished, she dropped her gaze from Lucie’s face, as if fearing what she might see there.
‘I have not changed my mind, Aunt! It is just – it is Tildy.’ It would allow the young woman to try out the life Daimon proposed for her. But it might give Daimon false hopes. And what of the moral responsibility Lucie had towards Tildy? Should she leave her alone with a young man who was wooing her? ‘You do not know what you ask,’ she said.
‘No. I suppose I do not.’
And how could she? Lucie told Phillippa about Daimon and Tildy.
Phillippa perked up at the tale, seemed her old self as she put hands to hips, shook her head. ‘I see no problem. Put the question to Tildy – she is old enough to decide for herself.’
In the kitchen behind the hall, Tildy sat on a high stool and surveyed the tapestry she had spread across a trestle table. She tapped a toe in irritation and muttered to herself, occasionally using the breath to blow a stray wisp of hair from her face. From the rolled-up sleeves and askew cap Lucie guessed Tildy had had a struggle getting the piece down from the wall. She glanced up, noticed Lucie standing there, shook her head. ‘It hurts to see such a beautiful thing torn like it was a rag. How could Daimon think his mistress did such a thing?’ She lifted a corner. ‘You have often spoken of the colours on this tapestry.’
Lucie had always thought it a cheerful tapestry, imagining the laughter of the three maidens as they made their garlands. ‘Can you mend it properly? Enough so that it will not show in the shadows?’
Tildy screwed up her pretty face. ‘I could replace the backing piece to hold it together, but over time it will fray. I cannot think what it will look like when Master Hugh brings his bride to the hall.’
Twenty years hence? Thirty? ‘Perhaps I should take it back to the city, see whether there is a better way to mend it.’
‘I would, Mistress. It is too pretty a thing to neglect.’
‘I shall take it in the morning. My aunt has decided to return to York with me, did you know?’
‘I am glad of that. Her heart will be eased by the children.’
‘But she is worried about leaving the hall without a mistress.’
‘She has good folk here.’
‘She hoped that you might stay and see to things.’
‘Me? Stay here?’ Tildy shook her head. ‘But I cannot do that. Does she not understand that I am the children’s nursemaid? When I stayed here before I was here for the children.’
‘She knows. She asks the favour. I thought it was for you to decide.’
Tildy looked stricken. ‘For me?’
‘It is a reasonable request.’
Tildy stared down at the riven tapestry for a while, her toe still tapping. A lock of hair slipped from beneath her cap, curled over her chin. She blew at it to no avail. Taking off her cap, she tilted her head back, shook it, put back the cap, tied it beneath her chin, looked up at Lucie. ‘What would you do?’
‘In truth, I cannot say. I do not want you to feel you must do this for my aunt. Nor, if you wish to try your hand at running a household, should you
Phillippa blinked, slowly brought her attention to Lucie. ‘I hope my restlessness did not keep you from sleep last night.’ She seemed unaware that Lucie had sat there for some time. She chatted on, telling Lucie she had resolved to return to York with her on the morrow, to attend the Requiem Mass for Sir Robert and then stay a while in York. ‘Until I feel more at peace.’
‘I am glad.’
‘But I worry how the servants will behave with no mistress of the household. Would you allow Tildy to stay and take care of things?’
‘Tildy? Stay?’ Lucie forced herself to concentrate. ‘But you have been away before, visiting us, and the servants have managed.’
‘For a few days. But – this time I might be gone longer – unless you have changed your mind.’ As Phillippa finished, she dropped her gaze from Lucie’s face, as if fearing what she might see there.
‘I have not changed my mind, Aunt! It is just – it is Tildy.’ It would allow the young woman to try out the life Daimon proposed for her. But it might give Daimon false hopes. And what of the moral responsibility Lucie had towards Tildy? Should she leave her alone with a young man who was wooing her? ‘You do not know what you ask,’ she said.
‘No. I suppose I do not.’
And how could she? Lucie told Phillippa about Daimon and Tildy.
Phillippa perked up at the tale, seemed her old self as she put hands to hips, shook her head. ‘I see no problem. Put the question to Tildy – she is old enough to decide for herself.’
In the kitchen behind the hall, Tildy sat on a high stool and surveyed the tapestry she had spread across a trestle table. She tapped a toe in irritation and muttered to herself, occasionally using the breath to blow a stray wisp of hair from her face. From the rolled-up sleeves and askew cap Lucie guessed Tildy had had a struggle getting the piece down from the wall. She glanced up, noticed Lucie standing there, shook her head. ‘It hurts to see such a beautiful thing torn like it was a rag. How could Daimon think his mistress did such a thing?’ She lifted a corner. ‘You have often spoken of the colours on this tapestry.’
Lucie had always thought it a cheerful tapestry, imagining the laughter of the three maidens as they made their garlands. ‘Can you mend it properly? Enough so that it will not show in the shadows?’
Tildy screwed up her pretty face. ‘I could replace the backing piece to hold it together, but over time it will fray. I cannot think what it will look like when Master Hugh brings his bride to the hall.’
Twenty years hence? Thirty? ‘Perhaps I should take it back to the city, see whether there is a better way to mend it.’
‘I would, Mistress. It is too pretty a thing to neglect.’
‘I shall take it in the morning. My aunt has decided to return to York with me, did you know?’
‘I am glad of that. Her heart will be eased by the children.’
‘But she is worried about leaving the hall without a mistress.’
‘She has good folk here.’
‘She hoped that you might stay and see to things.’
‘Me? Stay here?’ Tildy shook her head. ‘But I cannot do that. Does she not understand that I am the children’s nursemaid? When I stayed here before I was here for the children.’
‘She knows. She asks the favour. I thought it was for you to decide.’
Tildy looked stricken. ‘For me?’
‘It is a reasonable request.’
Tildy stared down at the riven tapestry for a while, her toe still tapping. A lock of hair slipped from beneath her cap, curled over her chin. She blew at it to no avail. Taking off her cap, she tilted her head back, shook it, put back the cap, tied it beneath her chin, looked up at Lucie. ‘What would you do?’
‘In truth, I cannot say. I do not want you to feel you must do this for my aunt. Nor, if you wish to try your hand at running a household, should you
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