The Tanner’s Daughter – Episode 36
The Tanner's Daughter by Pamela Kavanagh
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- 35. The Tanner’s Daughter – Episode 36
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- 37. The Tanner’s Daughter – Episode 38
- 38. The Tanner’s Daughter – Episode 39
For Jane the days passed in a daze.
Work was naturally attended to with her usual efficiency, and yet the secret she hugged to herself was always there, to be mulled over and delighted in at any odd moment.
A baby! She felt different – older, wiser somehow.
She thought back to when Will had first come into her life.
She had been but a girl then, full of romantic notions that bore no resemblance to reality.
She had wed Will on a dizzying tide of emotion that would probably never again be recaptured, but which was settling into something more mature and a tad scary.
She was going to be a mother. A new little person, no bigger than a bean, was developing inside her.
Who would he resemble?
That she bore a boy Jane had no doubt. A son for Will – an heir for Hatton’s.
Would he have Will’s russet-brown colouring or her own red-gilt looks?
She wanted to shout her news from the rooftops, but not yet. Will must be the first to know.
She imagined his reaction when he heard what she had to say – the joy and incredulity on his face, the way he would wrap his arms around her and tell her how clever she was.
She was upstairs in their bedchamber, indulging in a quiet fantasy, work papers spread out on the desk, when she heard a knocking on the front door.
With Dorcas absent it fell to Martha Renfrew to respond to any callers – but Martha would be taking her afternoon nap, as would Mother and Ann Lovett.
So Jane rose and left the room, running down the stairs to answer the summons herself.
As she went, the brass lion-head knocker sounded again, more impatiently this time.
Slightly out of breath, Jane smoothed her disordered skirts, tucked a straying lock of hair into her headdress and opened the door.
Due to the deep camber of the roofing and the protecting wooden panels and balustrade of the overhead walkway, the Row beyond was in shadow and the female figure on the step was not easy to see.
“Yes?” Jane said.
“Is this the abode of William Leche?” the woman asked in a broad country voice that faintly resembled the intonation in Will’s tones when he was angered or excited in any way.
Jane went very still.
“It is, yes. I am afraid my husband is not here at the moment. May I be of assistance? I am Mistress Leche.”
“Oh, aye?”
Jane’s eyes had now become accustomed to the gloom.
The caller, she saw, was short of stature and wore the coarse homespun of the country dweller, though her woollen shawl was beautifully worked and obviously her best.
Her face was narrow, the nut-brown eyes close together, and she lacked a front tooth.
Jane took a sustaining breath.
“Mistress, may I enquire your name?”
“Tes Alys. Alys Croft. Tes not familiar to you? Aye, well, that ent no surprise.
“I be sister to our Will. Half-sister, to be exact.”
There was nothing gracious or likeable about the woman, and apart from the colour of her eyes she bore no resemblance whatsoever to the brother whose sibling she claimed to be.
Where Will’s eyes sparkled with intelligence and humour, the sister’s were dull, hopeless.
As she gazed at the caller a terrible sense of doom came over Jane and her hands went to her stomach, as if to protect her child from hearing what was about to be said.
She summoned up all her dignity and addressed the woman in a voice that was surprisingly calm, considering the turmoil within.
“The November air is chilly. Perhaps you had best come in. Follow me, if you please.”
Jane led the way, not to the main parlour where visitors were normally taken, but to the domain known as the small parlour used by her and Will.
This overlooked the long garden behind the house and there was less chance of being disturbed.
A fire of apple wood burned fragrantly in the grate, casting a rosy glow around the room and giving a welcoming warmth.
Jane indicated the settle with ornate tapestry seat cushions worked by her mother.
“Do sit down. May I offer you some refreshment? Wine? A cup of lemon cordial?”
“I’ll stand, thank ’ee. And I want nothing.”
There was a sudden glimmer in Alys Croft’s eye that Jane did not like. It was mean, spiteful.
Bracing herself, she met the woman’s gaze steadily and waited for her to speak.
