But perhaps they had plans to fill it with more offspring. Ena – the child worth keeping – was a start. How many more might my mother birth? She’s not so old... And away from the sea, away from Hob’s Hallow, new children might be safe, no nameless ones needed to feed to the waters…
As I approach Nelly’s room (beside Ena’s), which I must pass to get to my own door, I hear noises: sighing, heavy breathing, gasps and tiny moans. The door is not quite hitched, it’s fallen ajar too, which it wasn’t when I passed by before, and in the breach I can see Nelly’s bed. And Nelly straddling someone, moving back and forth, bucking. And from her partner comes my uncle’s voice whispering profanities and threats, grunts. I almost stop mid-step, am almost grasped by an awful reckless fascination, but I keep going, press forward oh-so-silently until I can ease open my own door and hide myself. Then I let go of my hard-held breath.
I huddle beneath the covers, thinking of the book of tales I’ve hidden away in the bottom of the blanket box beneath quilts and shawls and fresh linen). I wonder, then, why my parents appear to have gone on a long journey with neither travel bags nor clothing to wear nor any of the cosmetics to which my mother was clearly very partial. Not even her hairbrush.
* * *
The next day I tell my uncle I am going to the village to make arrangements for the harvest celebration. He yawns and nods, clearly worn out by his night’s labours. I ride away in the right direction but as soon as I’m out of sight of the house, I change my course.
The smelter is closer than the mine. I can fit in a quick trip and be less likely to be missed just in case anyone were to ask about the times of my comings and goings. I can go to the smelter, then head cross county to the village, with Uncle Edward none the wiser.
I dismount and leave my horse in a copse, then approach the gathering of four rough wood and tin buildings that stand on a circle of earth. No grass grows within the bounds of the compound. And it appears that there is nothing special to see. I don’t step from the tree line myself because there are some few men still working there and I don’t wish anyone to note my presence. A few puffs of grey smoke come from the tall chimney stack on the largest structure; inside I imagine there will be a furnace, someone shovelling the silver into it, then the boiling liquid poured into ingot moulds. I wonder how it gets shipped out, where it goes, who from the village takes it or is there a regular pickup by someone? I think perhaps I shall speak with Oliver Redman about such matters; I believe he’ll keep any conversations between us.
As I’m about to leave, a man wanders out of the sliding door of the main building. Jedadiah Gannel, shirtless, covered in coal dust and sweat from feeding the forge. He stares at where I am hidden by shadow and low-hanging branches as if he can see me. I hold my breath and stay still until he shrugs, grins, and turns away to head into one of the smaller outbuildings.
29
The day of the fete dawns fair but a little colder than it has been, as if winter is sending her breath on ahead: Don’t forget me, for I’ve not forgotten you. But soon enough the sun warms everything, and the warning is forgotten. My loose long green dress cinched in only with a sash (beautifully made by Lucy Forsyte) is perfect for the bright day.
The front lawn is busy, busy, busy: trestle tables laden with food, others entirely with ales and mead, finer wines and rougher whiskeys. Almost two hundred women, men and children scattered across the sward of green, everyone’s done something to contribute to this celebration. A group of fellows are gathered around a newly-dug fire pit (which I’m certain will make Uncle Edward pale when he sees it), but he and Nelly have not seen fit to join the festivities, and I gave permission for its creation. Soon perhaps we might see a point where Uncle and I part ways on matters of the estate’s management, but that day has not yet come… yet every time I make a bold decision, I know I push a little closer. A pig and a steer are both spitted above the flames, and the men, stout chaps all, take turns with the handle to keep the meat rotating. Potatoes and pumpkins in clay pots have been buried in the coals and are cooking there. Fat sizzles down the sides of the meat, and the scent of roasting flesh fills the air. My mouth waters as I walk through the crowd, chatting, ensuring everyone is happy and relaxed, rewarded for their work on the estate, for that seems to have been lacking since my parents went away.
‘Miss Miren,’ Oliver calls. He’s standing by a trestle table and the lot of barrels I found in a small storeroom off the kitchen. No one could have brewed soon enough for today’s event, and there’s no point in hoarding for three people in the big house. This was my contribution.
‘Hello, Mr Redman.’ I call him “mister” precisely because my uncle does not. ‘All is well?’
‘More than well, Miss Miren, and it’s all due to you.’ He smiles, his cheeks are red from the contents of the barrel.
Abel Woodfox stands beside him, the blacksmith is an enormous man, almost seven feet tall, muscled as a bull. Even I have to strain my neck
