now.’
Lizzie had been a whore he’d known from his work. They’d shared jokes on night-time corners, her laughter genuine and infectious. She’d offered herself to him a few times, and once or twice, when things had been bad at home, he’d accepted. After Sedgwick’s wife had run off with a soldier, she’d turned up at his door, wondering who’d look after his son.
She’d been living with him since the previous autumn and he was still surprised at the joy it brought him every day. He looked forward to coming home, to the feel of her lips on his, to the pleasure in her eyes when she saw him.
He picked up some bread and began to chew.
‘John?’ Her voice was tentative, unsure, so unlike her that he turned.
‘Do you think I’m a good mother with James?’
‘Of course I do,’ he told her, meaning it. She loved the lad properly, giving him ample care and attention. He’d blossomed with her, revelling in life, playing on the riverbank as she watched, discovering mischief, all the things he should be doing. He reached out and took her hand. ‘Why are you asking?’
She smiled shyly.
‘Well, it looks like you’re going to be a father again.’
Five
He loved this time of day, the soft minutes between waking and sleep when his mind could wander freely. Mary’s head rested on his chest, her hair loose and tickling his cheek as she slept. The window was open wide and from the woods in the distance he could hear the restless hoot of an owl.
Earlier they’d walked out past Burmantofts, taking a stroll in the quiet evening. It was a good way to put the cares of the day behind him, a chance for restful conversation. He understood that their new situation, just the two of them, was hard on Mary. She was alone all day, tending the house and the garden, feeling the emptiness and the silence of the place. When he came home she drank in his company, eager for words, a touch, a soft smile, the pleasure of talking.
He stroked Mary’s shoulder through her shift and felt her stir slightly. Years before, he recalled, they’d discussed all the wonderful things they’d do once the girls had gone. Now that time was here and they were groping their way into it. Yet Mary was already gazing ahead to the day he’d retire.
‘Richard,’ she’d said as they passed the old burgage plots, heavy now with fruit and flowers and herbs, ‘we’ll be able to spend all our time together. We can do things.’
He smiled at her, happy to hear the eagerness that seemed so girlish. After Rose’s death in the winter he’d watched helplessly as some of the light leave her. Now it seemed to have returned, her eyes twinkling as she dreamed of the future.
‘We’ll have precious little money,’ he’d pointed out. It was true; the city would grant him the house and a tiny pension — if he lived that long. He took her hand and tried to stop her thoughts. ‘Besides, that’s a long time off yet. Let’s just enjoy what we have now, shall we?’
She laughed, pulling him down the lane towards home.
He gazed at her later as she let down her hair then untied the mantua dress he’d bought her in May. It was second-hand, the blue faded to the colour of dawn sky, but she loved wearing it. She slipped into bed, curling around him with a kiss. Thoughts of the young man he’d once been touched him, his curious, cautious shyness, the sense that the world could fall at any time. And he realized he loved her more now than he had back then. A different love, less ardent maybe, but stronger than youth.
Nottingham set off early for Roundhay, taking the gentle horse from the ostler and following the road that ran out by Sheepscar Beck. He could see people already hard at work in the fields but there were precious few travellers at this hour; all he encountered was a pair of riders and they were going into Leeds.
He passed a small sign guiding travellers to Gibton’s Well. He’d heard of the place, that the waters there were supposed to be beneficial. For a while it had been fashionable and some of the merchants and aldermen had come out with their wives, all hoping to be healed of their aches and pains by its waters. None of them had ever looked much better.
He continued up the gentle slope, the vista spreading out green before him, sheep grazing in large white flocks.
By the time he reached Roundhay village the sun was well risen, the warmth rounding on his shoulders and leaving his throat dry. He stopped at the alehouse, letting the horse drink from the stone trough while he went inside for a mug of small beer.
It was nothing more than a ramshackle cottage with a bench and two barrels of ale resting on trestles. The woman who served him was small and old, her back bent, lines cracking deep on her face.
‘Do you know Lord Gibton?’ Nottingham asked.
The woman chuckled. He could see her gnarled knuckles as she poured his ale.
‘Oh aye, Lord,’ she said mysteriously, took a clay pipe from her apron and lit it, blowing smoke up to the low ceiling. The Constable waited and she continued, her voice rough and gravelly. ‘Allus had their airs, they have, thought they were better than everyone, although the family’s lived almost like the rest of us longer than anyone can remember.’
She made a half-hearted attempt to wipe the table, brushing a few stale crumbs on to the earth floor with her hand, happy to continue the gossip.
‘What happened to their money?’
‘All sorts of tales,’ she said dismissively. She leaned forward, bringing the smell of ancient sweat and foul breath. ‘I’ll tell you what most folk round here say, though. Long time ago, they owned all this land but lost it at cards.’
‘Do you believe that?’
She shrugged. ‘All I know is they got some money again and they’re back living like royalty.’ She spat towards the empty hearth.
‘How long ago did that happen?’ Nottingham asked.
She stopped to consider, counting back in her head.
‘About eighteen month back, something like that,’ she answered finally. ‘Not too long before that little lass of theirs got wed.’
‘Sarah?’
‘Aye, only one they had. They’d had some others, but they all died. Some of them as babbies, some older. Doted on that girl, they did, couldn’t do enough for her. Married her into wealth, from the way she dresses when she comes back.’
‘Does she come back often?’
The woman paused and thought. ‘Every month or so, I suppose. Hard not to notice her, way she prances around the place on her horse.’
‘So where did this all new money come from?’ he wondered.
‘They
‘What?’ He couldn’t believe that. He knew well enough about the dowries many women brought to marriage, anything from land and coin to a small chest of sheets, but he’d never heard of a man paying to wed a girl. ‘Where did you hear that?’
‘Summat folks have said here and there,’ the woman said with a small air of defiance. ‘Makes sense enough. There’s no one to leave brass to the Gibtons.’
He considered the idea. Who’d sell their daughter that way? But the more the thought lingered, the more he had to admit that it could happen. With the rich, everything was wealth and power, however they could obtain it.
‘Where do they live now?’
‘Moved out the village.’ She clicked her tongue at the idea. ‘They used to have a cottage close to the
