Time's Echo by Pamela Hartshorne Page B

the hubbub of conversation. It is always like this on market days.
    There is so much noise that no one is going to overhear us, but I lower my voice anyway. ‘What is it like?’ I ask Alice, because I want to know and there is no one else I can ask.
Elizabeth would have told me, if she had known. ‘You know . . . doing it?’
    ‘It’s all right,’ she says carelessly. ‘Hurts a bit at first, but it gets better.’ Her lips curve as she thinks about it. ‘A lot better. And it keeps John
happy.’
    I would like to ask more, but don’t want Alice to know how ignorant I am. ‘And when will you be wed?’ I ask instead.
    ‘Soon. My family have given their consent, so now it’s just a dowry to be agreed. It is time you had a sweetheart too, Hawise,’ Alice says, her smile sharp as pins. ‘You
must be, what, twenty?’
    ‘I am nineteen,’ I say stiffly, turning my basket out of the way of a wheezing goodwife.
    ‘I hear that you have an admirer,’ she says with a sly look.
    ‘I? No!’
    She arches her brows at me. ‘Don’t tell me that you haven’t noticed?’
    Infuriatingly, she stops then to admire some ribbons on a peddler’s tray. I know she is just doing it to tease and I am tempted to ignore her, but I am intrigued, I admit it.
    ‘Noticed what, Alice?’
    ‘Mistress Rogers has new lodgers. They say Mr Phillips is a notary from London. He has business with my Lord President, no less.’
    I gape at her. My Lord Mayor and his brethren are pleased to think they rule this city, but we all know that they have to do whatever the Council of the North tells them. The Lord President is
here in place of the Queen herself, and there is no one in York who dare say him nay.
    A notary who has dealings with the Council of the North, let alone my Lord President . . .
    ‘And he has noticed
me
?’
    ‘Not Mr Phillips!’ Alice rolls her eyes. ‘His assistant!’
    ‘But I don’t know any assistant.’
    ‘Well, it seems he knows
you
. He asked Anthony Pusker who you were, after church. I can’t believe you didn’t see him, Hawise. It’s not as if there are that many
new faces in the congregation!’
    She is fingering the ribbons, pretending to consider buying a blue one. ‘A farthing to you, pretty lady,’ cajoles the peddler, but Alice is more interested in my reaction, which is
clearly exactly what she wanted.
    ‘Anthony told him you were in service with the Beckwiths. I’m surprised he hasn’t found an excuse to meet you. He is a clean and sober man by all accounts, and he will be a
notary.’ She purses her lips, totting up his prospective worth in her head. ‘You could do worse.’
    I am dumbfounded. ‘But why would he be interested in
me
?’
    Alice surveys me critically. ‘You’re dark,’ she agrees, ‘but there’s something about you, all the same. Haven’t you seen the way men watch you?’
    ‘What men? How?’ I stutter. ‘How do they look?’
    ‘You know . . . with heat in their eyes. No, not today,’ she adds to the peddler, dropping the ribbon back on the tray and turning away.
    ‘Two for a farthing!’ he calls after her desperately, but Alice just waves a dismissive hand. ‘I’ll let John buy me a ribbon at the fair. Come on, Hawise.’
    With Hap still at my heels, I trail after her. I’m not sure why. I think I am too astounded by the vision of myself as someone men notice. Is it possible? I think of Mr Beckwith’s
guests. Sometimes, when I serve at table, I catch their eyes and they always look quickly away. Their cheeks grow ruddy and my master snaps at me to leave them. I have never seen any heat in their
eyes. Alice is mistaken, I am sure of it.
    But I long to believe that she is right.
    We are skirting the edge of the market, past the countrywomen who squat by their baskets filled with lumpy beans and onions, with carrots and fresh green peapods. It has been a poor summer so
far, but at last there are fresh salad herbs and spinach and cucumbers to buy again. My