Mistress of the Sea (3 page)

‘Are you ready, Mistress?’

Ellyn turned and recognised that her maid Lettie was waiting. So, the time had come for her to dress for dinner, and Peryn Fownes, the double-chinned merchant who had been idly courting
her,
would already be discussing business in the parlour of the house. Ellyn felt her spirits sinking as she called Lettie to her side.

‘Your lady Mother said the bird partlet with the blue velvet gown,’ Lettie chattered, ‘but which sleeves . . . ?’

Blue, red and black were held up for inspection. Ellyn shrugged. She cared less about her sleeves than she did about her freckles, but she supposed she ought to ask.

‘Do you notice anything different?’

‘They be different colours.’ Lettie smirked.

‘Look at my face, Lettie,’ Ellyn corrected her. ‘Do you see any change?’

‘You’re blushing . . .’

Ellyn glanced down to hide her embarrassment. She brushed irritably at her shift, and waited for Lettie to confirm that her efforts had been in vain.

‘You look . . . a little feverish,’ Lettie answered at last, with an alarming tone of genuine concern.

‘I am not ill, Lettie!’ Ellyn waved her aside. ‘And do not fuss.’ She gestured dismissively to show she had made up her mind. ‘The black will do. I am sure Master Fownes will not be in the least interested in my sleeves.’

‘P’haps not, Mistress, but he most certainly is in
you
.’ Lettie whisked the sleeves out of sight, turning her back to work on the gown, and humming with a show of nonchalance.

Ellyn sighed. What would follow? She would dress and eat, listen to the remnants of a tedious conversation about wool prices and shipments, and then, no doubt, Peryn Fownes would expect her to join him in a game of chess, treating her to a long discourse on how her playing might be improved, since this appeared to be
his
idea of flattering her intelligence while at the same time paying suit. Yet she lost to him because she was bored. She was sure she could win perfectly well if she wanted to, but what would be the point? She might offend the gentleman’s pride or worse: convince him of her interest.

Ellyn’s wretchedness grew. Her freckles remained, and so did her guilt. She should be more grateful. Her parents had been considerate in trying to give her a choice, and within the bounds of their approval she owed them a duty to decide. Their house would become her husband’s, whether that was Peryn Fownes or Godfrey Gilbert. Ellyn tugged at her bodice, tight and stiff with willow-slats and bone, as an image of sour Master Gilbert contended with that of smug Master Fownes. Neither suitor could offer a better house. Her future would be in the same place, confined within the same walls. Her children would run round the garden and jump from the steps while she, like her mother, would watch from inside, and little by little lose the desire to go out.

Lettie came over to help with the laces, continuing her babble with mischievous delight.

‘. . . And Master Gilbert, too. I believe they would fight over your sleeves . . .’

Ellyn shuddered. The idea of crow-like Godfrey Gilbert fighting for her was even more distasteful than that of podgy Peryn Fownes.

‘How perfectly silly that would be.’ She could have said more, but held back. Any remark would be the subject of kitchen gossip, even to sweet-tempered Lettie whom she believed too slow-witted for any guile. She could no more talk freely than she could leap over the tree.

Because they were so close, Ellyn noticed that the oils in Lettie’s hair had soaked through her coif. And while the farthingale was secured with a multitude of ties, she was aware of Lettie’s smell: suet and onions, lavender and musk. Such physical intimacy with a gulf between their souls. Ellyn listened with a sense of imprisonment while Lettie stooped, her mouth close to Ellyn’s hips, as if she was addressing the island on which Ellyn was locked in a tower.

‘And I am sure Will Doonan would fight them both if they would do him the honour.’

‘Lettie!’ Ellyn slapped Lettie’s back, but not very hard; the indignation she felt was too much to contain. Why should Lettie be thinking of
him
?

Lettie rushed into a denial.

‘Though they would not, of course. And I do not mean to suggest that Master Doonan might hope to win you either. He’d be above himself even to try.’

The gown was raised with a sweep, the black sleeves fastened in place. Lettie held it before her like a robe for the condemned.

‘But maybe these sleeves will taunt him as well?’

Ellyn snatched the gown away.

‘I doubt it, since he will not see them.’

‘I don’t know how you can be so sure. Every time you come back from church, Master Doonan seems to be waiting.’ Lettie darted to Ellyn’s side, lifting the gown at the shoulders while Ellyn inserted her arms. ‘There’s another maid in this house who’d swoon at his feet for one of his smiles.
Jane
is looking forward to your walk out today.’

What relationships had been developing without Ellyn being aware? A sudden concern caused her to respond.

‘I trust he’s not been troubling her?’

‘Marry, no!’ Lettie giggled, and that did not calm Ellyn at all. ‘But while he’s gazing at you, we maids are deciding who’ll be his real choice.’

Ellyn was shocked.

‘How can you?’

‘Because we women have ways of making up a man’s mind without him even guessing he’s not done so himself.’

Ellyn did not care to imagine what ploys Jane might stoop to use. But had she been encouraged? The question was vexing, though Ellyn had already decided to walk along the cliffs, rather than visit the chapel, precisely with the object of keeping clear of Will Doonan. His comments still rankled from their last encounter – ‘
Fruitful
. . .’, ‘
Mind of a bird
. . .’ – and the conviction that he had insulted her was enough to fix her resolve. She would not think of him and neither should Jane. She might perhaps meet him the next day, but most certainly not in Jane’s company. If she saw Master Doonan, it would be with Nan.

‘Jane will be disappointed. I have other plans for this afternoon.’ Ellyn noticed Lettie’s quick smile; then her mind reeled before the onslaught of a more alarming thought.

‘
You
would not consider him?’

Lettie answered primly while bending to arrange the gown.

‘’Twould be only natural for him to wed a maid such as me.’ She straightened and cast Ellyn a defiant look, but without the pluck to keep it sustained.

Ellyn stared back, and the effect was like cooling on freshly risen dough.

Lettie retreated to the dressing table with another coy remark: ‘He brought me a present this morning.’

‘What present?’ Ellyn was appalled; she knew she should not have been, but the feeling could not be helped.

‘A sweet pear. And one for you, too, Mistress,’ Lettie added, with the sort of haste that left Ellyn certain she was meant to be appeased. Lettie returned with a comb. ‘He said you were to have the best, and the remainder were “for the other fair maidens of the Cooksley house”, a droll gallant he is, and that included Old Nan. “One apiece”, he said. There was a pear for everyone.’

Ellyn sat. Did Will Doonan suppose he could win her with fruit, while at the same time pandering to all the household maids? She pulled hard against Lettie’s grooming.

‘He is overbold.’

‘I think he has a good heart. Nan had no mind to tell you, so do not say I did—’

What new revelation was this? Ellyn’s anger was rising even before Lettie had finished.

‘—she means to poach yours in wine with some of his cloves so you might enjoy his gift in all innocence.’

‘Pah!’ Enjoy it, she would not. Ellyn shuddered to think of the servants observing and winking, assuming they knew more than she did herself.

‘Jane says she will eat her pear raw and let the juice run round her mouth, thinking of his lips when she does,’ Lettie continued confidently, as she stitched tight the braid she had made of Ellyn’s hair. Her snickering drew a curt comment from Ellyn.

‘Ridiculous!’ Such licentious fancy, thought Ellyn. The girl was depraved. With an image of a pear against wet lips, she pursed her own tight, as if they had been drawn and knotted rather than fulsomely shaped. A cawle was pinned over her hair, and Ellyn gazed down at her partlet with its embroidery of birds. Most had been covered over, but two remained visible either side of an opening in which the faint shadow between her breasts almost showed as a line. She pressed her arms close to deepen the effect, but with little result; her bosom was too small. Why would a lusty man like Will Doonan be interested in a woman with small breasts? The idea was preposterous, the more so since he was unworthy and she had resolved to give him no further thought. ‘A man on whom to wager, but not trust’ – that was how her father had described him. They had been eating soup the previous night and the broth had been seasoned with Will’s spices; because of that her mother had mentioned his name. ‘I might back him with my coin,’ her father had said cryptically, ‘but no more than I could afford to lose. He is a venturer.’

Ellyn had been mystified by the opinion. What did her father know? They had certainly met recently, Will Doonan had told her as much, but what had they discussed? Will Doonan was a craftsman who worked with tar to caulk ships’ seams; how could a caulker be considered a venturer? She had tried to find out, but in her father’s baffling reply a warning had been clear: ‘Will Doonan is not what he appears. Men like him are like rolling dice; they never settle. He might leave tomorrow and be gone for years. He might return a fabulous profit, or make a total loss. If he survives one venture, there will be another, and always another, until fortune turns against him and he does not come back . . .’

So he would be leaving for the sea, that had been Ellyn’s conclusion, all the more reason to blot him out of her mind. She imagined Will Doonan’s blue eyes looking back at her from a lighter-boat in one of those scenes she had often witnessed at the harbourside: the sailors boarding in their thick, greased jackets; the ships in the Cattewater festooned with banners and flags; trumpets blasting; drums rolling; wives weeping. It would never happen.

‘Foolish,’ she muttered to her reflection in the glass.

Will dipped his quill in the inkpot and added another entry to the list. The inventory continued in a painstakingly formed hand. In the quiet of his rented room he sought to take stock of his affairs. The list already filled a span-square of paper, ruled into columns like the hornbook from which he had been taught his letters at petty school. He scanned the page with a frown. His characters resembled sturdy blocks, far removed from the elegant script that distinguished the hands of better-educated men, or young ladies, like Ellyn Cooksley, with their own private tutors. Will had seen her writing in a note Jane had shown him, because Jane could barely read and wanted his help to understand it. Ellyn’s hand was graceful and flowing, embellished like a vine with tendril curls and bountiful flourishes, even if her subject was wool and cloth. He put his pen down.

Had he offended her? He supposed that he had from the way she had left him, but by all that went before he believed he had won her interest, perhaps even touched her heart. Ellyn had spoken to him many times, sparred with him in wit, blushed when his words roused her, and met his eyes look for look. Give her a
day
or two without seeing him, and they would both be ready for more of the same. But could the game carry on? Mistress Ellyn had rich suitors, and her father would never accept him without some improvement in his prospects. Whilst the game was seductive, he could not realistically hope to win – that was the truth. He should forget her. He only played the game with ease because with her he had nothing to lose. Yet the game had taken a hold: it was the hook of first success, of small wins against the odds, and the glimpse of a glittering prize he could not measure and weigh up – though what he had seen of Ellyn enthralled him. He should quit while he could before he enjoyed the game too much.

With his elbows on the table he pressed his head against his hands; then he looked up through the open window. Leaves were blowing in the wind, and he knew from the way they scattered that a nor’easterly was getting up. Francis Drake had returned a few weeks before. His voyage to the Indies had been a success, and the investment made by Ellyn’s father had delivered a handsome profit. It would be enough to encourage Nicholas Cooksley to want to back the Captain again. Already Drake was talking about making another venture, sounding out interest among the Plymouth seamen Drake knew and trusted, who had experience as well as courage. Drake had spoken of such a voyage to Will.

Will looked at his hands, seeing the ink stains on his fingers and the browning left by tar. They were marked and rough but when he flexed them they felt strong. That had not always been so; not much more than a year ago, his hands had been reduced to skin and bone, and his knuckles had stood out like galls on twigs.
He
reflected on that as he clenched his fists. When he had returned from the Americas he had been close to death. He had been forced to leave his brother behind, and then hunger had almost killed him. The scars had healed, but his hatred still burned. No one knew what had happened to his younger brother, Kit. Will thought of the pictures he had seen in the
Book of Martyrs
: images of burning and torture. Will brought his fist down on the table. Where was Kit now? Was he still in the Americas, held captive by the Spaniards? That seemed most likely. Since Drake was planning another voyage there, Will owed it to Kit to go back – return as close as he could to the place where he had seen his brother last. He would have gone before if only he had been able.

Perhaps Kit was dead.

Will spread his hands over the paper, remembering his father’s last words. He could hear them whenever he chose – words spoken at his mother’s burial, after she had died from grief, as everyone supposed. ‘There be a grave for thy mother, Will,’ his father had said. They had stood side by side watching the clay thrown over her coffin. ‘A place to weep over her. What place be for thy brother, Will? What hast thou brought back? Thy brother . . . Where is he?’ Will could still feel the force of his father’s bitter anger, see his hands trembling with the urge to smite and accuse – though there was already a rift between them, narrow but deep, and he would not cross it, even in rage.