Page 15 of Linenfold (The Alice Chronicles #4)
Uncle and nephew have pulled the backstools before the hearth.
While Philip stirs up the fire, His Lordship comfortably sprawled addresses her.
‘Mistress Jerrard,’ as she pours their ale, ‘A moment of your time, if you will be so good.’ He turns to his nephew.
‘Philip, you might go up to my chamber and damp down the fire up there, if you will.’
As the latch falls on Philip’s withdrawal, His Lordship sits up and addresses Alice. ‘There is something I should like to say before we leave in the morning. We are very sensible of the kindnesses you have extended us.’
‘I am glad to have been in a position to help, My Lord,’ she answers.
His discomfiture is plain to see as he labours with a prepared speech. ‘I ask your pardon for any vexed offence I may have given.’
‘There was none given or taken, sir.’ So has Philip had a word?
He rises and goes across to the window seat, takes up a bulky bundle he must have put there earlier. ‘In token of my appreciation, I should like to offer you this.’ He holds it out to her. ‘With my grateful thanks.’
Alice does not move. ‘There is no need of gifts, sir. As I said, I was glad to be of service in your difficulties. You could not continue on your way, and it would have been inconvenient to split your party.’ She has a passing regret that Master Cranley is not present to hear her ready speech of rejection.
‘All the same,’ His Lordship says, approaching her, ‘I should like you to accept this token, which I hope may be of use.’ It is a rolled cloth, folded with the right side inside so that she can see only the rough but serviceable linen backing.
Even so, linen is expensive and there is a whole bundle of it.
‘Sir, I cannot—’ As she hesitates, seeking the words to decline guilt-laden generosity without offence, he allows it to fall open.
She regards with dismay a crudely embroidered length of fabric about the dimensions of a door.
The wool thread is coarse, tufty, the colours sludgy, worked clumsily into the form of a stocky, misshapen tree stuck with boughs bearing hordes of lumpy fruits.
The aim seems to have been to stitch and overstitch them so many times that they stick out in great mounds from the surface of the fabric.
She thinks of the exquisite, lightweight crewel-worked coverlet, padded with wool fibre for warmth, that her friend Ursula Cazanove in Dorset worked and sent her recently for the coming baby.
A tree-of-life piece with twining boughs, flowers, small animals and butterflies in glowing colours to delight the eye and remain a keepsake long after her child has grown out of the cradle it is made for.
Perhaps His Lordship has correctly read the schooling of her face, for he goes on, ‘It is an apprentice piece, I’m told, and so the work is not of the highest excellence …’
Of no excellence whatever. It is the sort of thing I myself might have turned out if compelled, the stitchery devoid of skill or interest. In real life, most of those branches would have collapsed under the weight of such an unlikely harvest.
‘… but I hope it may prove its worth in some nether region of your house.’
‘Sir, there is no need—’
He seems determined that she shall accept it. ‘Mistress Jerrard.’ He looks close into her face, ‘I should like you to give it a home, at least for a while.’
His proximity oppresses her. Or perhaps it is his ponderous gratitude.
She wants this thing finished, over. Setting herself at odds will only prolong the awkwardness.
Would that they were all gone, tomorrow can hardly be soon enough.
She produces a smile and accedes, letting him lay the thing thick and heavy in her arms.
‘I thank you, sir. I feel sure it will come in useful. And now I shall bid you good night.’ At last she can step back without appearing to retreat.
‘Thank you, Mistress Jerrard. You do me a kindness in accepting.’
Yes, the yeoman’s woman has taken it off your hands. And see this wonder, she has not fallen over her own feet !
She closes the door behind her and carries the hanging through to the kitchen, laying it open on the table and holding up a rushlight to take a closer look.
It really is the ugliest thing she has ever seen.
An idea occurs to her and she takes it up and climbs the spiral back-stairs.
The rain now drumming against the windows muffles but does not mask Philip’s footfall on the main stairs as he returns to the winter parlour.
The bed in the principal chamber has been curtain-less since she tore down the old threadbare ones after Henry’s death.
She lifts the grossly decorated hanging and slots it onto the rail on the window side of the bed.
I am doing Lord Hardcastle a service, she tells herself.
It will protect his eyes from the first light of day.
She draws it out and stands back to regard its raw rusticity.
He can have the pleasure of contemplating his fine gift as he dresses in the morning.