“Did you see cavalry in the war?” James asked. He turned and gave Alinor a smile just for her, shielded beneath his hat. “Good day to you, Goodwife Reekie. You’re up very early?”
“Yes. At Marston Moor,” Ned said, naming Oliver Cromwell’s first great victory. “That was all in the hands of the cavalry. And many of us had never seen fighting but had only practiced standing and facing a charge, marching to the right, falling back and reforming, in the fields. But the horses bore it as if they knew it was the right thing to do.”
“So I heard,” James said blandly. He paid over his penny for the one-way passage and Ned tucked the coin into his pocket.
“I think your lord was on the other side,” Ned goaded the stranger. “Sir William? On the losing side. God commanded the victory to the godly and Sir William was in the wrong. He wasn’t lord of everything, that day.”
James sidestepped the challenge. “I didn’t know him in those days. I was appointed only last month to tutor Walter and prepare him for Cambridge.”
“From what?” Ned asked suspiciously.
“I beg your pardon?”
“What were you doing before?”
“Teaching another family,” James lied easily.
“And you teach my nephew too, don’t you? I’m Rob’s uncle, Mrs. Reekie’s brother.”
“I do,” James said cheerfully. “And I know of you, of course, Mr. Ferryman. Robert is a very keen clever young man. When Master Walter goes to university I should think Robert could get an apprenticeship, perhaps as a clerk to a physician. He knows more about medicines and herbs and oils than I do. He’s a very unusual young man.” He slid a smile at Alinor, who still sat on the farmer’s horse, looking at the two men.
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Ned said proudly. “And she learned from our mother, and she from hers and so it goes backwards.”
James smiled at Alinor again, his eyes searching her face, wondering at her silence. Still, she said nothing. He did not know, but she was thanking God for the sight of him, marveling that he had come, as he had said he would, conscious of her own simple joy at his handsome face, of the rich tumble of his dark curly hair, of the beautiful line of his mouth. He had come as he said he would—that was what surprised her most. He had kept his promise, and the warm rising of her desire felt like gratitude that he should be the man that she hoped, that he should be fit for her love, as natural and as unstoppable as the incoming summer tide.
“She’s been out all night attending a birth,” Ned spoke for her, and then turned to her: “Is all well? God bless them in their travail?”
“Yes, she has a boy,” Alinor answered, recalled to herself. “Strong and well made. She’s well herself. I’ll go back to see them later.”
“And will you rest now?” James asked her.
She smiled at his ignorance. “No, no, of course not. I have all my work to do in the cottage and garden,” she said. “And this afternoon I’ll come here to pick the plums, go to visit the mother and baby, and then go to the mill for gleaning and for the harvest home. Is Sir William coming to see the harvest in?”
At once he realized this was a chance for them to meet. “I don’t know. I’m on my way there now. But if Sir William attends I will come with him and bring Walter and Robert.”
“I should like to see Rob,” she replied. “Sir William usually attends the harvest home at the mill. The mill is the biggest farm in his estate.”
“I hope to come then. Shall we see you there?”
“At sunset,” Alinor said.
“Is there dancing?” he asked, as if they were a girl and a boy, and he might bow before her, take her hand and lead her out.
“After dinner,” she said. “Just a fiddle and the harvest dances.”
He did not dare to ask if he might dance with her. “I should so like . . .”
“What?” she asked, instantly alert. She thought of his hand on her waist; she thought of their steps going together.
“To see you at harvest home,” he said lamely. He nodded to her brother, bowed to her, climbed on the mounting block, and rode his horse down the track to the Priory without looking back.
“Pleasant enough, though fine as a lord,” Ned said carefully, watching her.
The face that she turned to him was blandly serene. “I’m so glad he’s teaching Rob,” was all she said. “It’s a great chance for him.”
“Started work but went away the very next week,” he pointed out.
“He left them studies to do. Rob told me they read in the library every morning and do the exercises he set them: translating and mathematics and map reading—all sorts.”
“Is he a godly man?” he pressed her.
“Oh, I should think so. He preached a fine sermon in Sir William’s chapel and stood before a table. He didn’t use the altar at all, and all the gold and silver and all the fine embroidered cloth must have been taken down and packed away. There were no tapestries or statues or anything fine. He’s one of the new men.”
“Well enough,” he said, denying the uneasiness he felt at the brightness of her face and the way that the gentleman had looked at her, as if he were surprised to find a woman like her in a place like this. “Well enough, I suppose.”
She nodded. She was completely calm. Ned could not reach her; he could not understand her.
“Seems very friendly,” he said, as if it were a failing.
“I don’t find him so. He’s just his lordship’s tutor. He just takes Master Walter out and about to see the things he should know, and Rob with him.”
“Handsome man,” he remarked.
“Do you think so?” she asked, just as Alys had said to her of Farmer Stoney’s son at the mill. “I hadn’t noticed.”
As soon as James Summer arrived at Mill Farm with Sir William, Master Walter, Rob, and the groom, he knew it was a mistake to come. It was obvious that they were the family from the great house, the landlords: riding out, ready to be amused by peasant celebrations. Sir William was on his charger and Walter rode his father’s hunter, James was on a high-bred black riding horse, and even Rob had the handsome cob once used to pull the ladies’ carriage. The four of them, overhorsed, overdressed, followed by the groom, rode through the white-barred gate into the mill yard as if they were royalty: condescending to observe village customs, patronizing the people’s sports.
Mr. Miller came out into the yard and bowed low to his landlord, his little son Peter beside him. Mrs. Miller burst out of the kitchen door, flinging off her stained work apron, trying to look as if she were a lady of leisure and had not been basting the roasting ham. Jane raced after her, pulling her best cap over her dark hair. James flinched at the bleached whiteness of the Miller women’s best aprons, the stiffness of the frilled lace, and the falseness of their smiles.
Workingmen who declared themselves godly, who knew well enough that Sir William had sided with the king, reluctantly doffed their caps and nodded their heads to their landlord, then turned away. They disapproved of him, of the old order, and the old ways. There would be no corn dollies and dancing and bringing the harvest home for them. But those who liked the old ways, and who liked a drink and were looking forward to a feast, set up a cheer for Sir William, hoping that he would pay for the harvest ale. The women smiled and waved at Walter and curtseyed low to Sir William. They could not take their eyes from James Summer, high on his black horse, his profile like one of the carved stone angels in the old churches. Alinor took a sharp breath and looked away from him. She tried to smile at her son, but she found her cheeks were hot and she was painfully aware of the knee-high dust of the field on the hem of her homespun skirt and the damp stains at the armpits of her shirt.