itself, still smouldering after all these years, bitter idle fumes that availed an old man nothing in his loneliness.
Strange, she thought, that a man so obdurate regarding the formalities of his class should favour a near derelict farmhouse over his grand estate lying on the River Dee’s south bank at Handbridge. Then again, what did Bess know? Lord Heylyn, Earl of Chester, was a stranger to her, for all she now hoped to convince him that that was not so, for all her determination to haul on the halyard of his remorse and raise him to her cause.
They had dismounted and tethered their horses, each to an iron ring beside a mounting block by the front door, and now Bess found herself sheltering from the wind in the oak-timbered porch as Joe grasped another ring, this one forged with a dog’s-head knocker, and rapped it against her grandfather’s door. Near by, three hens scavenged in the mud, their plumage bristling in the chill.
‘He will not know me,’ Bess said, watching Joe huff into redraw hands. The poor lad’s felt broad-hat had holes in it, she noticed.
‘I think he will, Bess,’ Joe replied with a frown, knocking again, louder this time.
Bess had braided her hair and pinned the long tresses against her head, covering all with a simple linen coif and then a loose felt hood which she now removed for fear of the thing obscuring her face.
Let him be alive, God
, her mind whispered, a shiver running through her flesh as the door opened and a balding servant in her grandfather’s blue livery enquired after them.
‘I am Elizabeth Rivers, daughter of Sir Francis and Lady Mary Rivers of Parbold in Lancashire. I am here to see my grandfather the earl.’
For a moment the servant’s inquisitive eyes scoured her face, then slipped down to take an inventory of her modest dress: the russet cloak and, beneath that, the simple neckcloth pinned around her shoulders to cover her décolletage. Likewise her bodice was deliberately unworthy of remark and her skirts, though full and of multiple layers, were of thick, dull green wool.
Then the man’s eyes jumped across to Joe but did not linger on him, the appraisal done in a heartbeat, and returned to Bess, a lift in the brows intimating that perhaps it might be possible that the girl before him was indeed his master’s relation.
‘Do you doubt me, sirrah?’ Bess challenged.
His blue eyes, which were watery from the sudden cold air, widened, and he gave a slight nod, the few strands left on his liver-spotted head floating wispily.
‘Cry your pardon, madam,’ he said, ‘but we do not receive many visitors, fewer still since the troubles. Please.’ He swept an arm back into the dark interior. ‘Come in from the cold.’
Joe thanked him but Bess held her tongue as they stepped into the house, their eyes adjusting to the dark as the servant closed the door on the day and went to announce their arrival.
They waited for what seemed to Bess an age, as her memories sought form and familiarity that would not come, and she breathed the air that was sweet with wood smoke yet cut by the tang of an old man’s urine.
‘Lord Heylyn will see you now,’ the servant said, beckoning them into the parlour beyond whose threshold came the crack and pop of a roaring fire. ‘May I advise you to speak up and with clarity, for my lord cannot abide mumbling.’
‘Drink!’ The word was drawn out and had the sound of an ancient tree falling, ripping its roots from the earth.
‘Yes, my lord,’ the servant said, nodding that Bess and Joe should enter the parlour, then hurrying off along the gloomy hall.
‘Wait here, Joe,’ Bess said, noting what looked like relief in the young man’s eyes, then she took a deep, smoky breath, exhaled, and went to meet her grandfather.
That the man was old should not have surprised her, and yet it did. Seeing his face had lit a memory of him which, until that point, had been at best shadowy. Now, though, the past came flooding in on the
Strange, she thought, that a man so obdurate regarding the formalities of his class should favour a near derelict farmhouse over his grand estate lying on the River Dee’s south bank at Handbridge. Then again, what did Bess know? Lord Heylyn, Earl of Chester, was a stranger to her, for all she now hoped to convince him that that was not so, for all her determination to haul on the halyard of his remorse and raise him to her cause.
They had dismounted and tethered their horses, each to an iron ring beside a mounting block by the front door, and now Bess found herself sheltering from the wind in the oak-timbered porch as Joe grasped another ring, this one forged with a dog’s-head knocker, and rapped it against her grandfather’s door. Near by, three hens scavenged in the mud, their plumage bristling in the chill.
‘He will not know me,’ Bess said, watching Joe huff into redraw hands. The poor lad’s felt broad-hat had holes in it, she noticed.
‘I think he will, Bess,’ Joe replied with a frown, knocking again, louder this time.
Bess had braided her hair and pinned the long tresses against her head, covering all with a simple linen coif and then a loose felt hood which she now removed for fear of the thing obscuring her face.
Let him be alive, God
, her mind whispered, a shiver running through her flesh as the door opened and a balding servant in her grandfather’s blue livery enquired after them.
‘I am Elizabeth Rivers, daughter of Sir Francis and Lady Mary Rivers of Parbold in Lancashire. I am here to see my grandfather the earl.’
For a moment the servant’s inquisitive eyes scoured her face, then slipped down to take an inventory of her modest dress: the russet cloak and, beneath that, the simple neckcloth pinned around her shoulders to cover her décolletage. Likewise her bodice was deliberately unworthy of remark and her skirts, though full and of multiple layers, were of thick, dull green wool.
Then the man’s eyes jumped across to Joe but did not linger on him, the appraisal done in a heartbeat, and returned to Bess, a lift in the brows intimating that perhaps it might be possible that the girl before him was indeed his master’s relation.
‘Do you doubt me, sirrah?’ Bess challenged.
His blue eyes, which were watery from the sudden cold air, widened, and he gave a slight nod, the few strands left on his liver-spotted head floating wispily.
‘Cry your pardon, madam,’ he said, ‘but we do not receive many visitors, fewer still since the troubles. Please.’ He swept an arm back into the dark interior. ‘Come in from the cold.’
Joe thanked him but Bess held her tongue as they stepped into the house, their eyes adjusting to the dark as the servant closed the door on the day and went to announce their arrival.
They waited for what seemed to Bess an age, as her memories sought form and familiarity that would not come, and she breathed the air that was sweet with wood smoke yet cut by the tang of an old man’s urine.
‘Lord Heylyn will see you now,’ the servant said, beckoning them into the parlour beyond whose threshold came the crack and pop of a roaring fire. ‘May I advise you to speak up and with clarity, for my lord cannot abide mumbling.’
‘Drink!’ The word was drawn out and had the sound of an ancient tree falling, ripping its roots from the earth.
‘Yes, my lord,’ the servant said, nodding that Bess and Joe should enter the parlour, then hurrying off along the gloomy hall.
‘Wait here, Joe,’ Bess said, noting what looked like relief in the young man’s eyes, then she took a deep, smoky breath, exhaled, and went to meet her grandfather.
That the man was old should not have surprised her, and yet it did. Seeing his face had lit a memory of him which, until that point, had been at best shadowy. Now, though, the past came flooding in on the
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