He remembered the cloth in his hand. And suddenly he felt how the cold penetrated. And he was uncomfortable standing before her, stripped to the waist. He dried himself quickly and donned his shirt.
'You've cut enough wood to last a fortnight’ she said. 'And all on an empty stomach. You'll win me over yet, Owen Archer’ Teasing words, such as his sisters might have used with him.
But she'd misunderstood him. He had not cut this stack of firewood to impress her. '1 needed to move’ he said. It sounded ridiculous.
Lucie Wilton nodded, not interested enough to note the awkward comment, and led the way back through the snowy garden.
While he ate, she quizzed him on his experience and his knowledge of medicines and gardens. His answers appeared to satisfy her. Her questions impressed him. She was indeed ready to graduate from apprentice to journeyman, if he was any judge. She was quick, like Gaspare. She absorbed information and used it at once, asking questions off his answers. It was plain she knew more than Owen did about both medicines and gardens. Far more.
The questions dwindled and she grew quiet, staring down at her hands on the table. And then those cool, level eyes lifted to his. 'I can believe that you might be through with soldiering and want to learn a trade. But why in York? Why not in Wales, close to your family? You speak of your mother and the land with affection.'
Why indeed? He explained that the old Duke had asked Thoresby to assist Owen in entering a trade. But it sounded hollow and rehearsed to his ears. Surely it must to hers.
Lucie Wilton sighed, got up, busied herself at the hearth. She looked proud and noble standing there, though her dress was simple, with darned spots, most of them unravelling. An impatient seamstress. He wondered why she had not arranged for help before. Wilton's business could certainly support such help. The room was substantial for a merchant's kitchen, beams, shelves, trestle table, and chairs of oak. The crockery on the shelves was simple but well fired. Little of it appeared to be used. Most was covered in dust, hi fact it was easy to see what took precedence in this house. From the beams, herbs hung to dry and shed their debris unchecked, so that dried flowers and leaves mingled with the dust on the shelves and were crushed underfoot, starring the packed dirt floor. Odd, when the shop was as dust-free as was humanly possible.
Lucie sat down again. Her mouth was set in an angry line. 'Soldiers are a cold, unnatural lot.'
It was not at all what he'd expected her to say. He had to think about where their conversation had left off. I'm condemned for not returning to Wales?'
'You are a free man, with funds enough to keep a private room at an inn. Funds enough to let your people see that their prayers were answered, that you are alive. Did it not occur to you to see them before you took up your new life?' Angry tears stood in her eyes. The emotion brought colour to her face.
Apparently aware of how readable she was at that moment, Lucie looked down, flicked invisible crumbs from the table.
Owen could think of no answer to her outburst. To be honest, he'd never considered his family. They'd been part of his boyhood. Wales was the past. But he did not say that. He said nothing for a moment, wondering about the source of this attack. A possibility occurred to him. 'Your father was a soldier, I hear.'
She stiffened, eyes cold.
He'd guessed the source, but it was a misstep, for sure. 'I do not mean to pry.' It seemed as though prying was all he did these days.
She did not warm to his apology. 'You'll begin the day by sweeping the shop doorway and lighting the lamps. Then you can stack the firewood outside the kitchen door. Later I'll show you around — '
A rush of cold air sucked the warmth out of the kitchen as Bess Merchet opened the outside door. 'I thought I might find you here.' Her cheeks were rosy. She paused to catch her breath, her eyes taking in the remains of breakfast. 'You're off to an early start, the two of you. And so's the Summoner. He's just been to the inn to say the Archdeacon wants to see you, Owen Archer. I sent Digby off with the promise I'd tell you at once.'
Owen glanced at Lucie.
She looked pale, but said calmly, 'Get the shop ready before you go.'
The Archdeacon smiled. An unpleasant experience on his face, but a smile nonetheless. 'I suspect you thought yesterday's promise mere courtesy, Archer. But God has granted me the grace to fulfil my promise in one day. I have heard this morning of an apothecary in Durham who needs an apprentice.' Anselm sat back, elbows on the arms of his thronelike chair, his fingertips meeting in a satisfied steeple;
Owen had not foreseen this turn. He did not respond at once as he thought how best to relay the bad news.
The Archdeacon chuckled. 'I see that I have, indeed, surprised you.'
Owen decided to act simple. 'Oh aye, that you have, Archdeacon. As you said yourself, posts such as that are rare. And I took that to heart yesterday and — well, I signed a contract with Master Nicholas Wilton.'
The steeple crumbled as the Archdeacon's hands descended to the arms of his chair, which he clenched with enough strength to turn his knuckles the colour of bleached bone. 'You did what?'
'You see, I decided I'd best settle for whatever I could get, apprenticing to an apprentice though it is, else I might starve before I heard of another post.'
'You — ' The Archdeacon checked himself. 'Most unfortunate.' Anger tightened his throat.
Owen stood up. 'I'm grateful to you.'
Anselm's eyes burned into Owen's, then glided away. He nodded.
' 'Tis a binding contract — ' Owen said.
'Go.' Anselm breathed the word as if expelling poison.
Owen obeyed, hurrying away before he made matters worse. He paused in the minster yard, committing the Archdeacon's reactions to memory. It was to be expected that Anselm would be annoyed to have wasted his time on Owen. But why had he done so in the first place? In case it might please Thoresby? Perhaps. But Owen could not think of a way Anselm could have sent queries to Durham and received a reply in the house between their two conversations. That made it very likely a bogus post. To what end? With the hope that Owen would be attacked by Highlanders on the road? And eliminated. Anselm's anger, then, had more to do with Owen's working for Nicholas Wilton than with Anselm's having wasted his time. And his anger had made him reckless. Owen did not like that.
Owen sat across from Lucie and ate his meal in silence. Once she caught him watching her, and he quickly looked down at the stew in his bowl. She had an uncanny effect on him, as if he'd taken up the role of little brother. It irritated him, and yet when he met that grave, level gaze, instead of confronting her he looked away, confused, as now.
They'd managed to pass the day in peaceful co-operation. He'd learned the lay of the household, shop, and garden. Much impressed he was, too.
He finished his meal before Lucie did, and got up to stoke the fire.
'Don't build it up so late,' she said.
'It will go out in the night.'
'I want it to. I mean to clean the hearth first thing in the morning.'
Then you'll have to rebuild the fire.'
' Tis always so when I clean the hearth.' She looked at him as if he were simple.
'When will you have time to do it?'
'Before dawn.'
'How will you know when to rise?'
Til sleep beside it. When the fire dies, I'll wake with the cold.'
'Let me do it.'
'No, this I do myself.'
'Then the serving girl.' She was to come the next day,
'No.'
'Why is it so important that you have a clean hearth?'
'Because I want it clean.'