Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [81]
I go below to the kitchen, seek solace from the fire in the hearth. Little George is there alone turning spitted capon, his cheeks aflame from the heat. His eyes dart toward me with their usual mixture of curiosity and alarm. It is clear that he trusts no one on this earth, and there is little reason that he should. I look at him: his hands and brow are blackened with soot, his clothes are barely more than rags. At once I turn and walk down the passage to the larder, where I remove a handful of figs and sugared dates from a wooden barrel. I return to the kitchen, hold them out to Little George, and he stares in disbelief at my open palm. His eyes widen, then just as suddenly, they narrow as he gazes up at me suspiciously. I hold my palm out closer to him with the ghost of a nod, challenge him to take the offering. He glances round the room, then quickly takes the fruit, cramming half into his mouth and stowing the rest beneath his tunic. I retreat to the other side of the table, draw up a stool, and begin to peel a pile of onions Cook has left lying there. Little George sits watching me covertly, his mouth still full of dates, the turnspit momentarily forgotten. I do not know what has prompted this act of charity on my part—whether it is guilt over the wedge I have driven between my mistress and her only son, or anger over her denial of the sins committed by her husband. For though he is dead and buried, he is still the master of this house: I can feel his presence all around us, built into its very timbers.
Cook enters carrying water from the yard, and casts an unsuspecting eye over Little George, nodding approvingly at the nicely browned capon. She sets the pail of water down and crosses over to where I sit.
“Anne Wycombe is without,” she says quietly, nodding toward the yard. “She has some business with you.” I rise at once, wiping the acrid juice of onions on a rag, and hurry out into the yard where Anne Wycombe waits, anxiously twisting her leather apron in her hands.
“What has happened?” I demand.
“He is gone,” she says. “The Long Boy.”
“When?”
“I left him sleeping late this morning. His fever had returned, and I went to fetch water. It was not the first time I had left him,” she adds defensively. I place a hand upon her arm in reassurance. “When I returned, he was gone. I looked for him around the village, even asked at the alehouse, but he has not been seen.”
“It may be nothing. He said he wanted to go out,” I say. She shakes her head doubtfully.
“He has taken things from the cottage. Bedclothes, and some bread and other food. I do not think he will return before nightfall.”
“You are not to blame,” I say. “Go home and rest. I will go to the cottage and await him. If he does not return by dark, we will notify the magistrate.”
She nods then, a little hesitantly, as if she is uncertain whether to leave the matter in my hands.
“Go now,” I say a little more forcefully, and with a sudden sigh of relief, she nods obediently and hurries from the yard. I watch her go, her barren frame fleeing down the lane. When I turn back toward the kitchen, Cook is standing in the doorway.
“There is trouble?” she asks when I enter.
“The boy has run away,” I say. She frowns and I walk past her into the kitchen, take some rolls down from the ceiling basket, and stuff them in the pocket of my kirtle.
“Where would he go?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Perhaps to find his mother,” I say.
I check the alehouse first. When I tell Samuell and Mary to keep a close eye upon the stables, Samuell frowns. “He may wish to see her,” I explain. Mary nods and lays a hand upon Samuell’s arm.
“We will watch for him,” she says.
“What news have you heard of the magistrate?” I ask.
“None this day. Your master was here this morning. They remained within for some time,” she says.
“Is the magistrate there now?” I ask.
She shakes her head no. “He asked for his horse to be brought round, and said he would return by nightfall.”
I nod, relieved