The Tutor by Andrea Chapin Page A

with a white cambric cloth. Her skin glistened from the heat; dark circles of sweat stained the light blue silk under her arms.
    When Katharine’s grandfather reconfigured the house more than twenty years before, he had added a great chamber for entertaining—smaller and more intimate than the ancient great hall—several parlors and withdrawing chambers, the gallery, the library, the secret chapel and the three priest holes for hiding their priests in case of a raid. Edward and Matilda’s lodgings were part of that new wing. The women often gathered in Matilda’s antechamber to sew, and though the windows were neither large nor plentiful, the colors and the fabrics made their own kind of light, for the room was dressed with a rich confection of heavy red velvets and golden brocades, tapestries of several sizes, exotic carpets from the east and a large carved stone fireplace. Usually a fire was lit, even in midsummer, but the recent relentless hot spell had vanquished any chill in the air.
    “I told the cook that’s what I desired,” said Ursula, feeding her yapping dog a piece of kidney pie.
    Katharine did not look up from her lace: she was making a collar for the christening of her cousin Grace’s new baby.
    “What our family and our guests eat, Ursula, is my duty,” Matilda said slowly, enunciating each syllable with a thrust, as if it were a knife.
    Matilda often had to scold and to reprimand Ursula as a mother does a spoiled child. But Matilda’s tone today was different, sharper, less tolerant.
    “She asked me,” Ursula said, kissing her dog on its mouth.
    “Next time find me,” said Matilda.
    Ursula popped a piece of pie into her mouth and gave a giggle. “I’ve heard you do it a million times. Why shouldn’t I have a try?”
    “’Tis not your place.”
    Ursula uttered a little cry, as if she had been poked in the ribs, and plopped in a pout on the same chair as her daughter Joan. Joan looked nothing like her mother. Where Ursula was tiny at the waist, Joan was thick. Where Ursula was blond, Joan was black-haired. Where Ursula had skin as smooth as white marble, Joan’s skin was dark and pitted. Joan was a solid girl, a somewhat sad girl, who tended to her younger siblings as though she were their mother.
    Katharine sat on an oak stool, and as she pushed and pulled the lace hook, she wondered what Matilda had heard from Sir Edward. She hoped, with Matilda’s permission, she could write a letter to Edward soon. In all the years she’d lived with Matilda their relationship had never been intimate. She often pondered if anyone, even Edward, could penetrate that wall, for Matilda remained aloof even with her own children. Katharine couldn’t imagine that; she dove into moments when Matilda would have held back. Katharine sometimes thought that was why Sir Edward sought her out, that Matilda made him feel lonely.
    Katharine’s currency with Edward was books and writers, for his admiration for poets was second only to his veneration of the Pope and certain prominent priests. He saw no problem with his love of God andhis penchant for poetry; for him the beauty and grace of words was no different from the beauty and grace of nature. Katharine wasn’t sure Matilda could even read. She’d never seen her with a book and never dared ask, afraid of offending her.
    Isabel came running, and they all looked up from their stitching.
    “There’s a letter, a letter,” she cried.
    Isabel, who was not yet sixteen, had large chestnut eyes and barley-colored hair. Katharine gave her lessons, and the girl already showed talent in Latin and Greek. She was playful, full of laughter, loved to dance and to sing and was the anchor of her father’s heart. Katharine prayed her glow would never dim.
    Matilda rose. “From your father,” she said.
    “No, no, Mother, from Ned. He’s coming home! He wrote to me.”
    “Read to us, then,” said Matilda.
    Isabel sat on the windowsill and, leaning into the light, read: