Wordlessly, Alice held her hand out for the purse. Feel the goods for yourself; take nothing on trust: market laws. The indigo silk dropped away, leaving a red weal across her index finger and palm. But Anne shook her head, and now even Isabel, whose mother had died before she remembered, who hadn’t known death, could understand that there was no comfort in that look, no possibility of error. ‘It’s his,’ Anne said gently; bleakly. ‘I saw it.’
‘I sewed that purse myself,’ Alice Claver said with unnatural calm. ‘I thought it would help if he passed out in a tavern somewhere. Having his name so clear on it.’ Then her body began to heave. The sound that started coming from her was not unlike her laughter in the dark parlour a few days earlier: a harsh, dry sucking in of breath; a snort of something loud and unmelodious. It took Isabel – standing utterly still at her mother-in-law’s side as if she’d been turned to stone – what felt like an eternity to realise that this strange braying noise must be crying.
‘There, dear, there,’ Anne Pratte was murmuring, as her larger friend heaved towards her in an ungainly mess of arms.
No one acknowledged Isabel’s presence. It was as if she wasn’t there; didn’t exist; hadn’t been married to Alice Claver’s son; hadn’t just been trying to learn Alice Claver’s work. Neither of the older women even saw her leave.
‘You’re well-provided for, at least,’ Anne Pratte said, dabbing at Isabel’s face. ‘You won’t have to worry. You get half the thousand pounds Alice settled on Thomas for the marriage. Quite a dower. Your father will welcome you back with open arms with all that.’
Why would I go back to my father? Isabel wondered, but she kept the thought to herself.
Anne Pratte had come up as dusk fell with a bowl of water. She’d murmured, ‘Oh, your poor eyes’ and ‘Alice is sitting with him; they’ve laid him out in the hall; would you like to join her?’ and just sighed when Isabel shook her head. She appreciated being remembered by Anne Pratte, who had a kind heart. But she’d wait. She couldn’t face Alice Claver now.
‘I know. It hasn’t been easy,’ Anne Pratte had said sadly. She’d had the grace to stop there.
She’d waited a few more moments, patting and dabbing at eyes and shoulders, before clearing her throat and asking, ‘Forgive me, dear, but I know you’ll understand why I…’ and giving Isabel something like her usual bright, inquisitive look. Isabel had stared back, not understanding. Anne Pratte had looked harder at her and raised her eyebrows. Her expression was encouraging, as if she were trying, wordlessly, to discover some secret only Isabel knew. Isabel knew she must be being stupid not to understand. She looked down at the bowl of water with the cloth sticking out. Anne Pratte composed her features into an expression of still greater patience. ‘Are you… by any chance…?’ She’d nodded her head. Then she’d paused delicately.
‘Oh,’ Isabel had said flatly. ‘With child, you mean. No.’
Anne had sighed. There was a silence. Then she’d nodded again.
‘Shall I send for your sister?’ she’d asked a moment later. ‘Or your father?’
Isabel could see what Anne Pratte was feeling towards: nudging her back to the Lamberts to save her friend Alice Claver from having to go on sharing her home with an irritant, a girl who’d never settled in and never worked, and whose continued presence now would only remind her of the son she’d lost. If Isabel had been expecting a baby, or if they’d become close, it might have been different. But it was too late to think like that. This was how it was.
She shook her head again. Stubbornly. Refusing the possibility of sinking back into her childhood life as if this time with Thomas had never been, because what went with that would be waiting to be found a new husband and sent off again like a parcel of cloth. She didn’t want Jane’s smug pity or the servants’ anxious, helpless eyes; not yet. She didn’t want her father rushing to find a new plan. She didn’t want to have to face up to a choice between being a burden on the Lamberts or a burden on Alice Claver. There’d be time for that tomorrow, after the funeral. She just wanted to be alone and, later, to sneak downstairs and be alone with Thomas.
She was grateful when Anne Pratte patted her shoulder and left.
* * *
Alice Claver was asleep on a chair drawn up near Thomas. Her face was ravaged. She was snoring softly. The candles at his head were low. It was nearly dawn.
Isabel tiptoed round her and put a stool quietly down on the other side of the two benches they’d laid Thomas on.
They’d wiped the dust off him, but the smell of death was so strong it turned her stomach. His body was wrapped in sheets. They’d left his face uncovered. It was so perfectly still that it seemed somehow flatter and wider than she remembered. She leaned forward, trying not to be frightened; trying to stop retching. She touched his cold cheek, then crouched down over his face and kissed it until it was as wet as hers. But it stayed empty. ‘I love you,’ she muttered, so panicked by the finality of it she couldn’t think of a prayer.
Alice Claver stirred. Isabel froze into her crouch, hardly breathing, willing her mother-in-law back to sleep.
But Alice Claver opened swollen eyes and said: ‘I used to swing him round in the garden until I was dizzy.’
Isabel wasn’t sure Alice Claver was talking to her. ‘When he was little,’ Alice Claver went on in the same dreamy monotone, ‘he couldn’t get enough of it. Lay on the grass howling with laughter.’
She nodded, up and down; remembering. ‘While Richard was alive…’ she murmured. ‘When I still had time.’
A shadow passed across her face. ‘I should have made more time.’
She closed her eyes again. But Isabel could see she hadn’t gone back to sleep. Her face was too alive for that: terrible with grief; twitching with memories.
Isabel hadn’t imagined Alice Claver would feel guilty.
Wishing she had the courage to show the compassion sweeping through her – to go over and put her arms round the older woman, or pray with her – but knowing she didn’t, Isabel put a last tentative kiss on the lips of the husk of Thomas instead, and slipped away.
Her last thought before her own twitchy, uneasy sleep took her over was, ‘I’ll go home.’
It was only after the funeral the next day that she realised she couldn’t go home.
Not because of her father’s irritating calculations at the plain meal of bread and cheese and beer that the Prattes organised in Alice Claver’s house after the burial – ‘You’ll be out of mourning in a year; you could marry again at sixteen. With that dower you’ll be able to choose whoever you want’ – as if she was really supposed to believe that John Lambert would keep his word and let Isabel choose, any more than he had the first time. Not even because he’d said, with what she thought supreme tactlessness, as if discussing possibilities for her next marriage at her husband’s graveside might cheer her up, ‘One of the Lynom boys, even. Now that would be a good match.’
It was the other guests who shut the door home to her: Thomas’s friends from outside the Mercery. One red-nosed shabby man after another; some vaguely familiar, some perfect strangers, but all avoiding her eyes and Alice Claver’s. All shuffling up to William Pratte instead, taking him off into corners for their private chats, searching through pockets and pouches and purses for dirty bits of paper to present to him. They wanted to talk to a man.
William Pratte was well-known as an administrator. He was on the merchant venturers’ committee at the Guildhall. He knew how to be correct. Isabel watched him out of the corner of her eye as he gravely thanked each guest for the paper, and folded it away. But his plump face, already sad, got longer every time a new hand tapped him on the shoulder.
He waited for everyone