Tidelands Read online

  Alys giggled and raised her skirt away from the muddy hoofprints on the quayside.

  “Not taking any wool to market?” Ned asked his niece, holding the ferry steady for them against the pier.

  “Not today,” she said. “Ma is buying some lace for Mrs. Miller if she sees anything nice, and selling some of her oils.”

  “Ribbons for you?” he asked.

  “Vanity is a sin, Uncle,” she said with a toss of her pretty head that made him laugh.

  The tide was flowing slowly and smoothly inward, but even so, Alinor gripped the side of the boat with both hands, and when Red, the dog, jumped into the boat beside her she gave a little gasp of fear.

  “That tutor, James Summer, went north in the middle of the night,” Ned observed. “Over the wadeway on Sir William’s second horse by the light of the moon. Didn’t call me, but I saw him. Going to London, I suppose. Didn’t call for a light. Didn’t stop for a chat. Doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t do much teaching either, does he?”

  “I don’t know,” Alinor said.

  “Does Rob know when he’s coming back?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “He looked better than when he arrived. He was sick as a dog, wasn’t he?”

  “Fever,” Alinor said shortly, keeping her eyes fixed on the horizon.

  “Will you buy a sheep’s cheese for me at the market?”

  “Yes,” Alinor said. “We’ll be back before dinnertime.”

  He handed her out of the boat on the far side. “You might get a lift in a wagon. You could wait here for anyone crossing.”

  “We’ll start walking,” Alinor said, and she and her daughter made their way up the road as Ned pulled the ferry back to the island side to wait for customers going to Chichester market.

  After a little way, the two women turned left off the road to Chichester and took the footpath towards Birdham. The ground was marshy, but the unmarked path ran on the top of raised banks at the edges of the fields, and on stepping-stones over the streams. Climbing over stiles that crossed the hedges from one low-lying marshy field to another, they made their way to the little village, a handful of houses clustered on the road.

  They both paused on the grass verge of the one-track road. “Do I look all right?” Alys asked nervously.

  Alinor straightened her daughter’s cap, set her cloak a little more evenly on her shoulders. “Fine,” she said. “Let’s wipe our boots.”

  Despite all their caution, the hems of their skirts were dirty from the walk, and their boots caked with mud. Carefully, they lifted their skirts and wiped the sides and toes of their boots on the grass of the verge.

  “I’m sweaty,” Alys said nervously. “And muddy. Damn this place, I’m always muddy. He’s never seen me in a clean petticoat!”

  “You’re beautiful,” Alinor reassured her. “And he’s seen you a lot worse.”

  Stoney Farm stood back from the road, a low wall of knapped flints between the house and the lane, to keep the stock from straying. A grassy track led to the front door through a small orchard of fruit trees, the apple trees bowed low with ripe fruit, a picker’s triangular ladder leaning against one of them.

  It was a good-sized house, one of the best in the little parish, two bedrooms and a lumber room for storage under the reed-thatched roof, and below them a kitchen and two rooms: one used as a parlor and one used as a store. The kitchen ran the length of the back of the house, the brewhouse and the dairy were across the stone-flagged yard from the kitchen door, the barn and the stables made the fourth side of the square. As the two women walked towards the front door, Richard Stoney, in a suit of dark brown, and good riding boots, muddy from the stable yard, came bounding round the corner of the house and ran towards them.

  “You’ve come! Oh, you’ve come!” He skidded to a halt and stopped himself embracing Alys. He made a little bow to Alinor. “Mrs. Reekie, thank you for coming. Alys . . .” He shot her a warm conspiratorial glance. “Good day, Alys.”

  As soon as she saw the warm intimate look that passed between him and her daughter Alinor knew their secret as clearly as if they had told her. She was certain that they were lovers, that Alys had defied all her warnings, all the teaching from school and church, had evaded Mrs. Miller’s suspicious glare, had followed her heart and not her head, and had lain with this young man.

  Now Alinor understood why Alys was so determined that the betrothal should go ahead. If Richard could not persuade his parents to agree to the marriage then he and Alys would have to part, and his parents would probably take him away from the tide mill to make sure that the couple never met again. Alys would be known as a girl who had lost the man of her choice, and her eventual marriage would be widely known as second-best. If it was ever known that she had lost her virginity it would be hard to find a reputable young man for her to marry at all, and Mrs. Miller would be within her rights to turn her away from work. Most village betrothals started with a promise and a bedding, but times had changed, and godly people and families on the rise condemned young love as both unchaste and bad for business.

  “Oh, no,” Alinor whispered under her breath.

  “What’s the matter?” Alys tucked her hand in Richard Stoney’s arm and turned to her mother. Defiantly, she met her mother’s reproachful gaze and, in the face of her happiness, Alinor could not be angry. The young couple were beautiful together, so well matched in height and looks; she could not blame them for being unable to wait for the reluctant consent of his parents. He was dark eyed and brown as a hazelnut, with a tumble of dark curls to his plain white collar. Alys beside him looked fair and delicate, her hair, a paler gold than her mother’s, modestly tucked beneath her white cap, her features as regular and pretty as a painted china doll.

  “Nothing,” Alinor said. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  Alys met her eyes and flushed as if she realized that her mother had guessed her secret. “Ma?” she said uncertainly.

  “We’ll talk later,” Alinor ruled.

  Alys blushed deeply, and drew closer to Richard, as if she were claiming him. “Ma, this is the man I’m going to marry,” she announced.

  Richard flushed like a boy but stood with pride. “If you permit,” he said politely. “I have promised. I have given my word. We are betrothed.”

  “Let’s see what your father says,” Alinor replied cautiously.

  Holding Alys’s hand, Richard led the way up the path to the house. Alinor followed, thinking guiltily that Ned must be right, and the wildness that he saw in her had come out in her daughter. She had failed to control the lust that lived in every fallible woman since Eve, and she had failed to teach Alys any better.

  The front door opened with a creak from disuse, and Mrs. Stoney stood in the doorway, her maidservant behind her.

  “Good day, Mrs. Reekie,” she said formally.

  “Good day to you, Mrs. Stoney,” Alinor replied, struggling for calmness.

  The woman turned to her son. “Go and fetch your father,” she said. “He’s in the barn.”

  Richard looked as if he did not want to leave Alys, but he went obediently as Mrs. Stoney led the mother and daughter into the best room at the front of the house. It was furnished sparsely with solid dark furniture; a large cupboard laden with expensive pewter took up all of one wall. There was one great chair with a woven back and arms, which was clearly for the master of the house, and a second chair beside it. Alinor put her basket of oils down by the door and moved tactfully to a smaller chair beside the dark wooden table, laid with a small piece of tapestry, anchored by a bowl of heavy pewter. Mrs. Stoney seated herself in the second-best chair; Alys stood beside her mother and was not invited to sit at all.

  They heard the men coming in the back door and the noise of Mr. Stoney knocking mud off his boots. Then he came into the room. He was a short, bluff, red-faced man with a ready smile and a handshake for Alinor, who rose to greet him.

  “How do?” he said to her. “How do?” Then he turned to Alys. “And h