The Misbegotten by Katherine Webb Page A

Rachel. Truly, she is bringing you up in the world . . .’
    ‘ Understand? ’ he pressed.
    ‘I won’t give you away. You have my word.’ You will do that yourself , she thought, defiantly, when you come running back to me .
    To Rachel’s relief, there was more to the house on Abbeygate Street than she’d first realised. Steps led down from street level to the main area of the shop, which had its own door, and a sign painted onto the wall above it: Richard Weekes & Co. Fine Wine & Spirits Merchants. The room on this lower level was cool and clammy, the brick floor slightly damp. Barrels were stacked in wooden racks from floor to shadowed ceiling, and glass bottles of all shapes and sizes filled shelves against one wall. It was a dark and crowded space, and the air had a ripe tang to it, a pungent mix of wood and fruit, mould and alcohol. Through a door in the rear wall Richard had his tiny office, containing a desk with a simple stool pulled up to it, and a shelf laden with ledgers and receipt books. The desk was scatted with pen shavings, spent candle stubs and spots of ink.
    Behind the house was a small yard, closed in by high walls furred with moss and slime. The yard had a stone sink built against one wall, the necessary house against another, and a shallow gully that ran into the sewer. It was poorly ventilated, and smelled accordingly rank. Rachel peered around it, and her heart sank. When Richard had told her there was a courtyard, she’d pictured a small garden where she might plant some herbs or flowers, and sit to read in either the morning sun or the evening, depending on which way the house faced. This yard was more like the damp inside of a cave. Within moments Rachel felt the walls begin to loom over her, and she stepped hurriedly back indoors, keen to conceal her dismay.
    ‘I have always sent the laundry out, and it’s probably best you continue to do so, rather than trying to dry it out here,’ said Richard, apologetically.
    Upstairs, at raised ground level, was a kitchen-cum-parlour, a good sized and better-lit room divided into two halves – one half of simple utility: the stove, a work table, shelves holding a few pieces of pewter plate, candlesticks and cooking pots. The other half was more formal, with an upholstered armchair, settle and ottoman that had finely turned – if battered – legs. They’d been positioned with their backs to the kitchen, as if not wishing to be associated with it.
    ‘The parlour furniture came from Admiral Stanton’s widow, when she was forced to sell up. I had it at a very fair price at auction,’ Richard told her proudly. ‘Do you approve?’ He ran his hand along the back of the settle. Rachel nodded, feeling a pull of sympathy towards the faceless Widow Stanton, for her sad decline in life. She knew exactly how it felt to see people perusing and haggling over the things you owned and loved. Richard was watching her, expectantly.
    ‘They will do very well, Mr Weekes,’ she assured him.
    ‘In a similar manner, I mean to gradually work towards furnishing the place in a better fashion for you, my dear.’ He took her hand, and kissed her fingers.
    The room had two large windows, one overlooking the yard, the other facing north onto the parade of shops, inns and accommodation on the opposite side of Abbeygate Street. By looking north-east from this one, Rachel could see the roof of the abbey. On the top floor of the house was the bedchamber where, the night before, Rachel had ceased to be a maid. Its beamed ceiling sloped to either side of the bed, and its window was smaller, tucked into the eaves of the roof. Rachel realised that the body of the house was hundreds of years older than its updated façade hoped to suggest. She ignored the smell of damp plaster, and turned to smile at her husband.
    ‘I shall be very comfortable here. And I’ll help make it even more cosy for us,’ she said.
    Past the jumbled rooftops and chimney pots of their near