The Painter's Apprentice

by Charlotte Betts

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Romance

Synopsis

1688. Beth Ambrose has led a sheltered life within Merryfields, her family home on the outskirts of London; a place where her parents provide a sanctuary for melancholic souls. A passionate and gifted artist, Beth shares a close bond with Johannes the painter, who nurtures her talents and takes her on as his apprentice.

But as political tensions begin to rise in the capital, Noah Leyton arrives at her family home in the middle of the night with a proposition that turns Beth's world upside down. And when Merryfields becomes refuge to a mysterious new guest, whose connections provide an opportunity for Beth to fulfil her artistic ambitions, she soon realises that it comes at a price . . .

Release date: August 2, 2012

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 400

Sample

November 1687

Darkness had already fallen when shouts and then the sound of a whistle blown three times made Beth’s head jerk up from her
easel. Her paintbrush slid from her hand and fell unheeded to the floor. Instantly alert, she reached for her own silver whistle,
which always hung around her neck. Noises in the night were not unusual in a lunatic asylum but generally the disturbance
came from within the walls, not from the outside.


Several sets of footsteps raced along the gallery, and in the courtyard below, Orpheus began to bark as furiously as if the
Devil himself had knocked at the gate. Beth pushed open the casement and hung shivering over the sill to peer into the frosty
night.


The servants had run outside with lamps and were shouting and milling around in the flickering light. The commotion was too
great for anyone to hear her when she called down to them so she hurried to investigate.


In the stone-flagged hall, the front door was wide open to the night air; a small group of anxious inmates huddled together,
while Beth’s mother and her youngest brother, John, attempted to reassure them. Orpheus still raged outside, his barks reverberating
around the courtyard louder than a peal of bells in a belfry.


When Beth caught sight of her father’s black-clad figure striding purposefully across the hall she ran after him down the
front steps into the courtyard.


‘Orpheus!’ William Ambrose caught hold of the wolfhound’s collar and pulled his huge grey head around to face him. The dog’s
teeth were bared in a vicious snarl, his muzzle spittle-frothed. William snapped his fingers. ‘Quiet, sir! Your job is done!’
Orpheus gave a throaty growl and William raised a warning finger. ‘Beth, take control of this hell-hound, while I find out
what is happening.’


‘Yes, Father.’ Beth hooked her fingers through the dog’s studded collar and tickled his ears until he quietened.

Emmanuel and Joseph had a man pinned between them, his face pushed between the bars of the great iron gates. The prisoner
fought furiously but he was no match for the sheer bulk and strength of the two black men.


‘Let him go!’ William’s voice rang out above the grunts and shouts of the struggling man.

‘We found him climbing over the gate,’ said Emmanuel, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the lamplight. Emmanuel looked at
Joseph and winked. Slowly they lowered the intruder, chuckling as they held him so that his feet hung just above the ground.


‘Down, I said!’

William held up the lantern to study the trespasser, who straightened his travelling cape, adjusted the lace at his cuffs
and turned to face them.


The light illuminated a young man’s features, currently arranged in a scowl.

‘Well, sir, what have you to say for yourself?’ A frosty cloud of William’s breath hung in the air between them.

Beth didn’t envy the intruder. It had been a while since Father had spoken to her in that way and she sincerely hoped it would never happen again.


‘Forgive me, sir.’ The voice was that of an educated man but he didn’t sound at all as if he was seeking an apology. Bending
over, he picked up his wide-brimmed hat, now severely trampled, dusted it off, tweaked the feather back into shape and replaced
it upon his head. ‘I lost my way. The cart dropped me off in the village and some mischievous child thought it amusing to
direct me to the wrong road. By the time I’d found someone to point me to Merryfields it was dark.’


Beth was astounded at how unruffled he sounded. He certainly didn’t behave like a common thief.

‘I rang the bell,’ the young man continued, as he stamped clods of mud off his high boots, ‘but no one answered. Since the
gate was locked and the hour so late, I took the liberty of climbing over the top, intending to knock on the door.’


William frowned. ‘And the purpose of your visit?’

‘I have a letter for Mistress Susannah Ambrose.’

‘My wife.’

‘Then you must be Dr William Ambrose?’

‘Indeed. And the content of this letter?’

The young man tilted up his chin. ‘I prefer to speak directly to Mistress Ambrose.’

Beth saw how the visitor, only a little older than herself she judged, met Father’s stare and couldn’t decide if he was fearless
or simply arrogant.


William grunted. ‘You had better come inside before we all catch a chill.’

Joseph, his steward’s keys jangling at his waist, held the lamp up high and spoke to the servants. ‘Back to your duties, everyone.’

Orpheus growled again. Beth pulled on his collar and patted his wiry head.

William led the way up the steps into the hall.

Shivering, Beth closed and bolted the massive oak door behind them.

‘Susannah, my dear,’ said William, ‘this young man brings you a letter.’

Beth’s mother, her pretty face anxious, let go of Poor Joan, who had been weeping on her shoulder, and came forward. ‘A letter?
But what was all the shouting about?’


‘The servants merely became overexcited when they thought our visitor was an intruder.’

‘Well, for goodness’ sake!’ Exasperation showed in Susannah’s green eyes. ‘What a fuss about nothing!’

‘Let me present …’ William turned to the visitor, with an enquiring look.

The young man took off his battered hat, exposing a fine head of wavy chestnut hair, and bowed low to Susannah.

She gasped, her face turning as white as bone. ‘But …? It can’t be! Tom? Oh, Tom, is it you?’

Then, almost before her husband could catch her, she fainted.



Supper was about to be served in the great hall. A fire crackled and danced in the stone chimneypiece; high up amongst the
beams the vaulted ceiling, painted cerulean blue, was studded with embossed stars of gold. Antlers of ancient stags adorned
the walls, a relic of the time when Merryfields had been a rich man’s hunting lodge. A group of chattering people clustered
around a long table, lit by candelabras and gleaming with polished pewter plate. The air was rich with the scent of woodsmoke
and chicken soup.


Beth and her parents, brothers Kit and John and her sister, Cecily, filed in to take their places at the top table on the
dais under the minstrels’ gallery. The visitor, whose name it transpired wasn’t Tom at all, but Noah Leyton, accompanied them.


William nodded at a portly man dressed in a shabby crimson velvet coat and an extravagantly curled wig topped by a golden crown. ‘Your Royal Highness, will you honour us by saying grace?’


The man bowed, cleared his throat and raised an imperious hand. ‘Pray silence!’

Beth squinted at Noah through half closed lashes, stifling a laugh at his expression of amazement.

After the grace there was a scraping of chairs and the hubbub of conversation began again. Peg and Emmanuel’s daughter, Sara,
bustled between the tables serving the soup and bringing more bread and baskets of russet apples.


‘His Royal Highness?’ whispered Noah, leaning closer to William. ‘Who is your illustrious guest?’

‘An honorary title,’ said William. ‘He was born Clarence Smith but imagines himself to be Henry VIII. It’s a perfectly harmless
fancy but his family are unable to live with his notions.’


‘So you eat with the inmates?’ asked Noah, looking with raised eyebrows at the handful of people sitting at the long refectory
table.


Susannah smiled. ‘It’s important for our guests’ wellbeing that they feel they are a part of our happy family. A regular daily routine is helpful in guiding them back to
health and happiness.’


‘I had thought that guests in a lunatic asylum …’


Susannah put a gentle hand on Noah’s arm. ‘We never call Merryfields a lunatic asylum. It is merely a place where those of
a melancholic disposition can come in times of sorrow to rest and mend their spirits in good country air.’


‘I h-h-help them to plant their g-g-gardens,’ stuttered John.

‘We have embroidery, singing and drawing groups, too,’ added Beth, smiling at John, who so rarely spoke except within the
bounds of his family.


Noah studied the guests, who were bent over their soup bowls. ‘They certainly seem to be enjoying their supper,’ he said.

‘Some have helped to grow the food we eat,’ said William. ‘Digging and planting leave little time for melancholy.’

‘It’s almost disappointing that this is so far removed from how I had imagined a place such as Bedlam,’ said Noah. ‘I can
see I must forget any notion of dining out on tales of how I broke into a lunatic asylum.’


Susannah froze in the act of spooning soup into her mouth and Beth glanced at her father, but William only frowned and said,
‘Indeed you must.’


Beth passed Noah the bread. The hunting-green of his well-fitting coat perfectly complemented the burnished chestnut of his
hair. She couldn’t help noticing that his eyes were a warm shade of amber and wondered, if she were painting his portrait,
how she would achieve the little flecks of gold that gleamed in his irises. ‘Have you quite recovered from your unfortunate
reception?’ she asked.


‘Perfectly! Although I can’t say the same for my hat.’ His lips twitched in amusement. ‘And I trust you are none the worse
from the shock of my arrival, Aunt Susannah?’


‘You have the same lean figure as my dear brother, Tom. It must be thirty-five years since he left us but then I saw you standing
there and I thought, just for a moment, that I was seeing a ghost. It’s hard to imagine him as a grown man with children of
his own.’


‘Your hair is even redder than Beth’s,’ said Kit, tweaking one of his sister’s copper-gold curls.

Beth glanced down the table at her siblings. All had hair as dark as their father’s. ‘Mama and I are the odd ones out in this
family,’ she said. But, of course, although William had been the only father she had ever known, his cousin, her birth father,
had been fair.


‘You’d feel at home in Virginia,’ said Noah. ‘I have three sisters and all are as red-headed as the Old Queen.’

Beth glanced at Noah from under her eyelashes. He carried with him an air of restrained energy, as clean and fresh as the
scent of the air on a spring morning in the smoky hall.


‘But why have you come to England?’ demanded Cecily.

Noah looked down at the table. ‘I fear I have been a great disappointment to my father.’

‘Surely not!’ Cecily looked up at him with limpid green eyes. ‘How could you possibly be a disappointment to him?’


William gave her a sharp stare and she lowered her eyelashes.

‘He has worked very hard to make his tobacco plantation so successful. He had every expectation of passing it on to me, his
only son, in the hope that I would continue to fulfil his dreams and make the name of Leyton mean something in the world.’


Kit gazed intently at Noah. ‘And your interests do not lie with the plantation?’

Noah shook his head. ‘But I shall always be grateful that the good living Father makes from it gave me the opportunity for
the education I received.’


‘Where do your interests lie?’ asked William.

‘I am an architect.’

‘An architect!’ said Beth, her curiosity aroused.

Noah’s face lit up. ‘And I have such plans! I am come to London to learn from some of the great masters of the art. There
is a great deal to see now the city has been so nearly rebuilt since the Great Fire. I shall return to Virginia and build
fine houses and public buildings. That is how I will make the name of Leyton well known.’


‘But will these fine buildings be enough to soothe your father’s sadness? It would be a hard thing for a son not to carry
forward his father’s ambitions.’ William glanced at Kit, who bit his lip and looked away.


‘Perhaps not at once,’ said Noah. ‘Oh! I quite forgot!’ He took out a letter from inside his coat, which he proffered to Susannah.
‘Father asked me to give you this.’


Susannah took it with eager fingers. ‘It’s been more than a year since I had news from him.’ She opened the letter and angled
it towards the candlelight to read it.


‘Noah, you will be able to stay for a few days, won’t you?’ said Cecily. ‘There’s so much to talk about!’


Susannah, still bent over her letter, drew in her breath and Beth glanced at her curiously.

‘Do stay!’ said Kit.

Noah glanced at William, who inclined his head. ‘Then I would be delighted to accept your invitation.’

‘Yes, of course you must stay,’ said Susannah, tucking the letter away in her bodice and giving Noah a bright smile.

Beth wasn’t sure but she thought she saw the gleam of tears in her mother’s green eyes.

The following morning Beth eased herself out of bed, careful not to allow in a draught of freezing air under the sheet, which
would disturb her sister. Father rarely allowed fires in the bedrooms any more, except in the case of sickness. Cecily still
slept, her mass of black hair tumbled on the pillow; Beth was determined to escape without being followed.


Shivering violently in the penetrating cold, she slipped on a clean chemise and hurriedly stepped into her favourite blue
petticoat with the embroidered hem. Cecily stirred as Beth lifted the lid of the chest to take out her bodice and skirt. Holding
her breath, she waited until Cecily sighed and burrowed back into her nest of blankets.


Beth laced her bodice and slipped the chain of her silver whistle over her head. She twisted up her hair, securing it with
a tortoiseshell comb. Shoes in hand, she made her escape.


Gales of laughter were coming from her brothers’ bedchamber as she pushed the door open. Kit and John, still in their nightshirts,
were propped up against the pillows while Noah, fully dressed, lounged on the end of the bed.


‘I see you are already awake and in bad company, Noah,’ said Beth.

John wiped tears of laughter off his face. ‘N-N-Noah was telling us about his voyage to England. One of the s-s-sailors had
a parrot and he’d trained it to say all m-m-manner of things.’


‘Most of them unfit for a lady’s ears, I’m sorry to say,’ said Noah with a warning glance.

‘How long was the journey from Virginia?’ asked Beth, settling herself on to the other corner of the bed.

‘Six weeks. I didn’t enjoy the first week very much but after that I found my sea legs. I travelled with an acquaintance,
Harry de Montford, whose father is a landowner near Jamestown and he always had a merry tale to tell or some mischief to get
up to. Then there were other passengers who would play a game of cards with us. And, of course, I had the care of the trees
to keep me busy.’


‘Trees?’ asked Beth.

‘The roots had to be kept damp in sacking and the leaves misted with fresh water every day. It was a constant difficulty to
guard the barrel of water to prevent the sailors helping themselves. Fresh water was always in short supply on the ship.’


‘But why did you bring t-t-trees to England?’ asked John, his weather-beaten face puzzled. ‘We have p-p-plenty of trees here.’

‘Our clergyman charged me with bringing specimens native to Virginia, but unknown in England, safely into the care of Henry
Compton, your Bishop of London.’


‘For the gardens at Fulham Palace?’ said Beth. ‘The Bishop has a great collection of exotic trees and plants, I believe.’

‘Indeed he has. The Bishop has been of great help to me,’ said Noah. ‘He was pleased with my tender care of his specimens;
in return he furnished me with letters of introduction and invited me to reside in Fulham Palace. I’ve had the good fortune
to secure the opportunity of working with Sir Christopher Wren on the construction of several churches which are being rebuilt in the city.’


‘But you intend to return to Virginia?’

‘Next autumn.’

Kit sighed. ‘I would so like to travel to the New World. I’m tired of living in a village and tired of Merryfields.’

‘How c-c-can you say that!’ said John.

‘Do you really wish to travel, Kit?’ asked Noah, giving his cousin a searching look.

Kit shrugged. ‘Father will never allow it. I am to be a doctor and in due course take his place here at Merryfields.’

John’s stomach let out a growl of hunger and everyone laughed.

‘Time for you lazy boys to rise from your bed!’ said Beth, pulling the pillow away from behind him. ‘And I shall take Noah
to find some breakfast.’


Beth led Noah along the gallery, stopping to show him the solar with the minstrels’ gallery overlooking the great hall.

‘These old houses are full of fascination for me,’ he said, running his hands over the carved oak balustrading while he peered
down at the great hall below. ‘We have nothing as old as this in Virginia.’


‘When we were children, Kit and I used to peep down from the gallery at the grown-ups eating their dinner. Phoebe, our nurse,
used to scold us back to the nursery but Mama and Father never really minded.’ Beth took Noah’s arm and turned him to look
at the paintings that lined the panelled gallery walls. ‘What do you think of these?’


Noah studied them in more detail. ‘Magnificent!’ he said. ‘Dutch?’

‘Yes. And no.’ Beth smiled. ‘They were painted by a Dutchman here in England. Take a closer look.’ She paused beside the portrait
of an elegant woman dressed in green damask, standing with her face turned to catch the light of a window.


Noah’s face broke into a smile. ‘Why, it’s Aunt Susannah!’

‘And if you look at the painted view out of the window you’ll see that it’s the garden at Merryfields.’

He leaned closer to study the delicate brushwork of the lace on Susannah’s gown. ‘Who is the artist?’

‘Johannes van de Vyver. Would you like to meet him?’

‘Most certainly!’

‘Come with me, then.’

Further along the gallery Beth opened a door. She watched Noah’s face, hoping that he would like her most favourite place
in all of Merryfields.


Three tall windows with diamond-paned glass flooded the room with light, even on such a grey and misty day. The walls, ceiling
and beams were whitewashed to reflect light to every corner and the air was heavy with linseed oil and turpentine. A paint-stained
work table was cluttered with earthenware pots of brushes, a half-stretched canvas, a wine-red grinding slab of speckled porphyry
and neatly folded cleaning rags. One wall was covered with marvellously lifelike botanical paintings and larger canvases of
landscapes and interiors in the Dutch fashion were propped up against the walls.


A great bear of a man, untidily dressed and with ragged blond hair, stood before an extravagantly large canvas on an easel
by the window. He had an ancient piece of sacking tied around his waist, encrusted with multicoloured daubs of paint. The
tip of his tongue protruded through his lips as he worked.


Noah moved forward but Beth caught him by his sleeve and put her fingers to her lips.

After a moment the painter sighed and wiped his brush on his apron, adding a new rose madder stripe.

‘Johannes?’ whispered Beth.

The big man started. ‘Ach, Beth! I tell you before not to creep up on me!’ He pulled a piece of muslin carefully over the
canvas, hiding it from view.


‘Forgive me, Johannes, but I wanted to introduce you to Noah, lately come from Virginia. He is an architect.’

Johannes offered his hand, noticed that it was smeared with ultramarine paint and wiped it on his breeches. ‘Everyone was
talking about you at supper last night.’ His English was good, although he spoke with a Dutch accent.


Noah bowed. ‘I’ve been admiring your work displayed along the gallery, sir. I, too, like to draw but I recognise real skill
when I see it.’


Johannes shook his head. ‘My efforts are never enough.’

‘Johannes is as hard a taskmaster to himself as he is to others,’ said Beth, smiling fondly at him.

‘May I see?’ Noah moved towards the canvas but the artist folded his sturdy arms and blocked the way.

‘No one sees my work until it is finished!’ He glanced at Beth with a half-smile. ‘Except for Beth, if she has worked hard.’

Noah glanced around the studio, taking in a still life set up on a side table with a lute, a glass decanter and a Delft fruit
bowl of apples all carefully arranged on a richly patterned Persian carpet. He noticed a smaller, uncovered canvas rested
on another easel and stepped up to take a closer look.


Beth watched his face intently while he studied the watercolour painting. It depicted a deep mauve hellebore, the petals delicately
veined in purple with lime green stamens to the centre. A drop of dew shimmered on the stem as if stirred by the draught from
the window.


‘This is beautiful!’ he said, reaching out to stroke the velvety petals before drawing his hand back. ‘It’s so lifelike it
makes me want to touch it.’


Beth let out a small sigh. ‘It’s mine.’

‘Johannes painted it for you?’

Johannes gave a shout of laughter. ‘My pupil still has much to learn but this little daub doesn’t disgrace her too badly.’
He pulled Beth to his broad chest and hugged her. ‘Perhaps I’ll make a painter of you yet, my little chicken!’


‘This is your work?’ Noah asked Beth, his eyebrows raised.

Beth nodded and felt her cheeks warm. ‘I’ve been Johannes’s pupil for nearly four years now.’

‘It’s a pity she isn’t a boy or I’d have taken her on as an apprentice,’ said Johannes, dropping a kiss on to the top of her
head as he released her. ‘As it is, she’ll probably waste my efforts by marrying and having a houseful of babies.’


‘I expect you’re right,’ said Noah. He smiled kindly at Beth. ‘Still, many women with artistic tendencies do enjoy dabbling
with their paints again when the children are grown.’ He turned away from Beth’s hellebore to study one of Johannes’ landscapes.


Rage boiled up in Beth’s breast. ‘I do not dabble with my paints. And I’ll not waste the skills that I have by taking a husband and spending the rest of my life waiting upon
his whims,’ she retorted.


Noah glanced back at her. ‘Really? I’ll wager you’ll change your mind within a year or two.’

‘I will not!’

Johannes put his great hand on her shoulder but she shook it off.

‘Don’t glare at me!’ said Noah, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. ‘I see your red hair makes you quite as fiery-tempered as
my sisters. I had no intention of upsetting you but, you must agree, it is the way of the world for a woman to marry and have
children?’


‘Because that is the way it has always been doesn’t necessarily make it right!’

‘Beth, Beth! Calm yourself,’ said Johannes. ‘It doesn’t matter what other people think. You will continue to make the best
work you can and let nothing prevent you. Your paintings will speak for themselves.’


‘Please, let us not argue since it is plain to see that you do have a considerable gift,’ said Noah.

Appeased by his response, Beth shrugged. ‘Do you need me to prepare any more paints for you, Johannes?’

‘Go and enjoy yourself and I’ll see you later.’ Johannes picked up his paintbrush again.

‘Shall we go, Noah? We have disturbed Johannes enough,’ she said.

The artist lifted a hand to them and turned back to his canvas.

‘Your Johannes has a great deal of talent,’ said Noah once they had left, ‘and, plainly, he cares a great deal for you. How
lucky that you have such an excellent teacher.’


‘Isn’t it? One of my earliest memories is of seeing the sunshine playing on the coloured water in the glass bottles on the
apothecary windowsill and standing on a stool trying to catch the magic of the reflections on a piece of paper. As a small
child I always had a stick of charcoal and a sketchbook in my hand.’


‘I did too! But my father never understood why drawing interested me so.’

‘Neither did mine. I was fortunate to have Johannes to encourage me. After he arrived here I used to creep into the studio
and watch him at work. Seeing one of his paintings grow from a simple outline to something that appeared very real and beautiful
seemed like magic to me. I became consumed with the desire to learn how he made it happen. One morning when I thought he was
still abed, he caught me mixing up some of his pigments and applying them to one of my sketches.’


‘And so he began to teach you?’

Beth laughed and shook her head. ‘I dropped the palette in fright when I heard his roar of fury and I’ve never had such a
scolding before or since! Then he picked up my sketch and looked at it. He didn’t say a word about it but made me clear up
the mess and set me to grinding pigments for him. After a month of this he showed me how to look at a still life; to see how
the colours changed with the light and how the shadows fell. Eventually he let me sit beside him and draw my own still life.
I learned never to disturb him with idle chatter and, in time, a whole new way of looking at the world.’ She dropped her intent
gaze from Noah’s face and her cheeks flushed. ‘But most of all, Johannes made me feel as if what I was doing was important. As if I was unique and special and my developing talent really mattered. Can you understand that?’


‘It’s true,’ said Noah thoughtfully, ‘that if you feel passion for something it alters your perspective. I cannot look at
any building without seeing what I can learn from it or how I could improve upon it and enrich the lives of those who will
live in it.’ He smiled at her. ‘We are alike in our passion, I think.’


They set off along the gallery again.

‘Johannes is working hard on a seascape now,’ said Beth, ‘and I’m hoping he’ll make good progress before he becomes unwell
again.’


‘Unwell?’

‘Perhaps I didn’t say? Johannes is one of our long-term guests.’

‘A guest?’ Noah caught hold of her arm. ‘You mean he …’

‘Yes.’

‘But is it safe for you to spend so much time with him?’

‘Johannes never hurts anyone but himself. Sometimes he becomes very sad and self-critical. I have known him to weep for days
and once he dragged all his paintings outside and set fire to them.’


‘What a terrible waste!’

‘Father says his humours are out of balance,’ said Beth. ‘But I blame the Catholics.’

Noah smiled. ‘The Catholics are blamed for a lot of things here in England. What did they do to Johannes that was so terrible?’

‘It’s not amusing, Noah! Nine years ago the French murdered his brothers in the Battle of Cassel. They killed more than eight thousand of the Dutch and Johannes has never forgiven himself for being the only one of his brothers to survive.’


Noah looked grave. ‘I can see how a man might be stricken with guilt, even though it wasn’t his fault.’

‘And then, to make it all worse, a French soldier ravished his wife.’ Beth sighed, remembering all the times Johannes had
broken down as he relived those terrible events. ‘Later, Annelies and the babe she carried both died of her injuries. He hates the French, and therefore all Catholics, with a passion.’ She lifted
her chin and clenched her fists. ‘And so do I, for what they did to him.’


‘But your Johannes seems well now?’

‘Yes, he is.’

Downstairs, the kitchen was busy. On either side of a cauldron, sizzling on the fire, sat a black woman with her hair tied
up in a colourful turban and a stout, elderly maid, each plucking a chicken. A large tabby cat patted at the cloud of feathers
drifting to the floor. Peg, her fair hair already escaping from her cap, was making pastry at the table and her daughter,
Sara, a pretty girl with skin neither as black as her father’s nor as pale as her mother’s, worked at the table peeling a
mountain of carrots and potatoes.


‘Are we too early for breakfast, Peg?’ asked Beth.

‘The fire in the hall hasn’t taken yet. It’s warmer here.’

‘Do you mind eating in the kitchen, Noah?’

‘Not at all, if we won’t be in the way?’

‘Always room at my table, sir,’ said Peg, a smile on her freckled face.

Sara cut bread for them and brought cheese, ale and cold meat.

‘I think you have already met Emmanuel, Sara’s fathe