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Ellen pushed her away. ‘I did not ask for any charity,’ she said huskily.
Cornelia did not budge from the edge of the bed. Holding Ellen’s hands, she looked at her. ‘Do you remember that day at Old Ford? When we sailed our twigs on the stream?’
Ellen turned her head away. Her hands clenched.
‘My grandfather broke his hip last winter,’ Cornelia went on chattily. ‘Poor old man, he
was laid up for weeks. Mother was afraid he would never get up again, but he did, when spring came around. He killed some pigs a month ago and sent us enough salt pork to keep an army. You always loved salt pork, didn’t you, Ellen? I must tell Grandfather when I write to him that I have seen you. Have you ever been back to the village?’
Ellen’s eyes were full of tears. She shook her head. ‘Have you been there?’ she asked weakly.
‘Yes,’ Cornelia nodded. Behind her she could hear Nan and Thomas beginning to make some inroads on the disorder in the room. Thomas was sweeping with a brush of hazel twigs. The dust rose in clouds. Nan coughed and said crossly, ‘Ah, wait until I’ve damped it down, you old fool . . .’
‘Is that your maid?’ Ellen asked, eyeing Nan curiously, for Nan’s crooked back always drew attention wherever they went.
‘Yes, but here, take this, eat.’ Cornelia brought out one of the small cakes and broke it in half. She offered Ellen half and munched the other herself. ‘Did you hear that the village mill burned down?’
Ellen was excited. ‘No. How did that happen?’
‘Jack Miller got drunk on Midsummer Eve, they say. Will you take a little ale? My throat is quite dry.’ She poured ale into two battered mugs, wiping them surreptitiously with her handkerchief first, and settled down for a long gossip, distracting Ellen from what Nan and Thomas were doing.
Nan had sent Thomas for some water from the nearest fountain and was busy cleaning the windows, scrubbing the floors, scalding some milk for the children who, brusquely washed, sat in surprise, like starlings on a gate, huddled together on one stool, staring at her with open mouths.
Cornelia looked into the rough cradle beside the bed. The baby, wrapped tightly in swaddling, slept with fast-shut lids, his cheeks bright pink.
‘Another boy,’ she said to Ellen. ‘Your husband will be pleased.’
Ellen’s face clouded. ‘If he comes home safe again,’ she said heavily.
‘Why should he not?’
Ellen looked at her. Her lips trembled. ‘He is aboard the Mary of Rye—she is six weeks overdue, and the talk is that she was lost in heavy seas off Spain.’
Cornelia put her hand over Ellen’s and silently patted the thin, dirty fingers.
‘I do not know what we shall do,’ Ellen said weakly. ‘Three small mouths to feed and no money coming in. I shall have to find work.’
‘Your plain sewing is so good,’ Cornelia said thoughtfully. ‘I know many houses where a reliable sewing maid would be welcome. I must talk to my mother’s friends for you.’
‘Would you?’ Ellen flushed. ‘I should be so grateful for that.’
A knock on the door startled them. Nan bustled forward and opened it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Andrew, blinking in surprise, looked in at them, one lock of honey-coloured hair falling over his temples, the hem of his long black gown dusty from the stairs.
He slowly stared round the room, taking in the changes, and then looked at Ellen, seeing the faint colour which had crept into her cheeks while Cornelia talked. The light from the windows fell upon her face, brightening her eyes.
Lastly, he looked at Cornelia. The blue eyes smiled. ‘Someone has been very busy here,’ he said softly.
‘Nan and Thomas,’ she said cheerily. ‘I have been idle. I was so busy talking to Ellen. We had a great deal to talk over. It is far too long since we last met.’
‘Four years,’ said Ellen, sighing. ‘Four years. It seems far longer.’
Andrew laughed. ‘Well, you look much happier than you did, Ellen. I think Cornelia has done you good. A little gossip can work wonders, it seems.’
He bent over the cradle, touching the baby’s cheek with a long forefinger, so gently that it made Cornelia’s heart twist painfully. She watched his thin face, saw the lines of weariness around mouth and eyes, the tell-tale pallor which betrayed night without sleep and days of ceaseless work.
