The Memory Palace. Christie Dickason

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      She paused as one of the dairymaids staggered in from the cow barn with two full pails. Together the three women lifted the heavy pails to pour the milk into a shallow lead sink rescued from the dairy house, so that the cream could rise to the top for skimming.

      ‘The churn Mistress Wilde lent us from Far Beeches needs to be scoured and set to dry in the sun,’ Zeal told the maid.

      ‘Waste!’ muttered Mistress Margaret, pummelling her dough again.

      Zeal began to pump the bellows.

      ‘I like the man well enough, don’t mistake me,’ said Mistress Margaret.

      Slap, thump.

      ‘…As far as I’ve had a chance to know, that is. It’s not that…can you find me the seeds?’

      Slap, thump.

      ‘…but he’s old. And odd.’

      Thump!

      ‘…keeping to himself, forbidding anyone to clean his chamber. He might be a murderer for all we know. Have chests full of severed heads.’ She sliced the dough into six smaller lumps.

      Zeal took a lump and began to shape a cob loaf. ‘I like him well enough too.’

      ‘“Like!” La, la!’ Mistress Margaret stood staring down at her loaf. Then she burst into tears and hobbled out of the bake house.

      Before Zeal had shaped her second loaf, Rachel came into the kitchen. Without speaking, she went straight to the second oven and began to work the bellows.

      After several minutes, Zeal said into the silence, ‘Yes, it’s all true.’

      ‘God be praised!’ Rachel’s elbows flapped as if she were a duck trying to lift off a pond. ‘I can save my tears then.’

      

      When Zeal passed him in the forecourt mid-morning, Doctor Bowler wore the expression of a kicked dog and avoided her eyes.

      ‘Terrible, terrible about Harry,’ he said. Though he did not mention the proposed marriage, she knew by his odd manner that Wentworth had spoken to him as promised.

      By the end of morning milking, the rest of Hawkridge estate seemed to have heard the news of both death and marriage, and split into those for the match and those against. John Nightingale had been popular during the fourteen years he had run the estate, first for his uncle and then for his cousin. Wentworth shunned friendship and had often given offence by repulsing well-meant overtures. Few were in favour.

      ‘They’ll work it out soon enough,’ Rachel told her, having caught Zeal near tears in the still room. ‘But we must get you into a safe berth first.’

      Zeal pinched her lips and drew a deep breath. ‘And what do you hear about Sir Harry’s death?’

      Rachel peered into a tiered muslin sieve, which was dripping a greenish juice into a crock. ‘Everyone on the estate knows the truth of what happened. Any rumours will soon die.’

      Zeal had never before felt out of favour here, even when first proving herself to them as Harry’s new, fourteen-year-old wife. Now the averted eyes and pursed lips hurt her. She hated the way talk stopped whenever she entered a room. She was frightened by the occasional assessing eye that measured her waist. Wentworth was right. They must marry as soon as possible.

      That morning, Wentworth abandoned his rod and the river to spend several hours with Sir Richard. Then, he borrowed a horse from Zeal and set off for Winchester.

      She watched her betrothed settle into the saddle and gather up the reins. At least I now know that he can ride.

      The beech avenue swallowed him.

      Perhaps he has gone for good. His proposal was a cruel jest. And he has taken my horse. How can I know differently?

      She had planned to write that morning to tell John of her proposed marriage. Now she decided to wait until she knew for certain that Wentworth was coming back. It was best not to tempt fate.

      

      Wentworth returned three days later with an ordinary ecclesiastical licence issued by the diocese, which allowed them to be wed at once, without calling the banns. Though the growing child was the reason for this saving of three weeks, Zeal was grateful that news of the marriage need not be published throughout the parish. The disapproval and curiosity on Hawkridge Estate alone were as much as she could bear. She did not ask how Wentworth had managed to acquire the licence. Nor did she know that both Sir Richard and Master Wilde of Far Beeches had each stood surety for a large sum of money, to guarantee, accurately or not, that Wentworth’s written allegation presented to the archdeacon contained no falsehoods concerning her state of legal spinsterhood.

      After one night back, on Michaelmas Day, Wentworth borrowed the horse again, this time to ride to Basingstoke.

      

      ‘Surely I must settle a jointure on you, not the other way round,’ Zeal told him unhappily. ‘Do we need a lawyer to ensure your right to my pile of ashes?’

      On marriage all her property became his, as it had become Harry’s. She had much less now than then, but nevertheless, if Philip had had a male heir, that heir, not she, would have the right to whatever remained after Philip’s death. Or a creditor of his might attach the estate, or the king might declare it forfeit if Wentworth committed a crime.

      From the little he had told her so far, an unknown crime did not seem beyond possibility. These risks were the price of her child’s life.

      The lawyer Wentworth brought from Basingstoke was eating toasted bread and cheese at the bake house table while a kitchen groom held another slice on a knifepoint over the fire. The man’s papers and pens waited on Zeal’s table in the estate office.

      Wentworth nodded curtly at yet another of the house family who had found an excuse to visit the bake house kitchen. ‘Am I a specimen in a menagerie, that all these people must come peer at me?’

      The second dairymaid’s face disappeared from the kitchen door.

      ‘You’re not often seen. And, by day, this is always a busy place.’

      ‘Small wonder I prefer the riverbanks!’ He led her to one of the little windows and stooped as if to look out. ‘I will almost certainly die before you,’ he said quietly. ‘I want no one to find anything irregular in our union. For the child’s sake.’ He glared at the kitchen groom, who fled. ‘Also, I want to make secure your absolute title to Hawkridge again after I am gone, not just dower rights or a widow’s annuity.’

      She nodded. It was kind of him to think of such things, although she would be leaving Hawkridge in any case, when John sent in seven years for her to go to the West Indies. None of which Wentworth knew. ‘Arrange things as you wish,’ she said, avoiding his eyes.

      He scratched the bristle on his chin and smiled. ‘“On my obedient wife, Zeal Wentworth, I settle, herewith, two fishing rods of willow with copper rings, four Brown Queens, two Peacocks and a dozen hooks of the finest Spanish steel.”’

      Zeal laughed.

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