The Lady's Slipper by Deborah Swift Page A

wind.’ She pulled the brown hood over her unruly grey hair and stepped forward. As if it was a secret, she whispered, ‘I’m staying at the Anchor, if you find anything ails you.’ Alice wasn’t sure if this was a threat or an offer of assistance. She drew away, but Margaret was already picking up her bag, and the squat figure in the threadbare brown cloak was soon out of sight round the garden gate.
    Alice sat down on the window seat. First Wheeler, and now this. How could Margaret Poulter have possibly known that she had taken the orchid? Was she an acquaintance of Wheeler’s? That did not seem plausible, given that he was one of the strange sect of ranters from the Hall–and he had been hiding its existence precisely from people like Margaret. Had she got wind of it from Geoffrey? Again, Sir Geoffrey Fisk was hardly likely to befriend someone of the class of Margaret Poulter, still less tell her of the orchid.
    She paced the summerhouse, trying to unravel the conversation in her mind. Margaret Poulter seemed to know altogether too much, and, even more disturbingly, she seemed to be warning her of something. Despite the fact the sun had broken through, Alice shook her shoulders, ridding herself of some invisible pestilence. She was uneasy. The flower was causing her more strife than she had bargained for. What if Thomas were to return home and find that beggarwoman Margaret uninvited in the garden? It would be difficult to explain away. Perhaps a walk would help her clear her mind and make sense of it all.
    She locked the summerhouse with the little bronze key she kept hanging with her pomander, from a ribbon on her belt. She paused by the door to slip the pattens over her shoes. She had left them, as she always did, outside the door, so she would not tread mud into her painting room. And as she slipped her feet inside, she remembered her shoes.
    They were still in the sack of turnips where she had left them two nights ago. So much had happened since that they had fallen completely out of mind. Best dispose of them before Thomas should ask awkward questions about why she had ruined such an expensive pair. She hurried into the house and into the kitchen. Betty Tansy, the cook, was there rolling out pastry for an apple pie.
    Cook bobbed, and said, ‘Good afternoon, mistress. Apple pie for supper. We’ve far too many apples this year. Ella’s going to wrap them and put them in the loft to keep through winter.’
    Alice nodded. ‘I’ve a mind to take some for the harvest festival. If you’ll give me a basket, I’ll take some from the sack in the pantry.’
    ‘I’ll get some out for you, mistress, we’ve plenty.’ Cook was already brushing off her floury hands and coming round the table.
    ‘No need.’ Alice lifted one palm to stay her. ‘You carry on with the pies. Pastry spoils if it is left too long.’
    ‘Yes, mistress.’ Cook returned to her rolling pin.
    Alice picked up a wicker basket from underneath the long table and went into the cool dark of the pantry. Hastily she filled the basket with apples from the windfall bag. Then she felt inside the turnip sack for the shoes. She could conceal them under the apples to get them out of the kitchen. Her hands searched round inside the sack, feeling only the gnarled heads of turnips. She opened the sack wide and put both hands inside. They must be here somewhere, she thought.
    ‘Looking for something, mistress?’
    Alice turned round. Ella was slouching in the doorway, a sly smile on her face.

Chapter 8
    ‘Good morning, Richard,’ Benjamin said.
    The two young ploughmen, Joseph Taylor and his brother Benjamin, were early. Richard had them wait in the house whilst he finished washing at the pump outside the kitchen door.
    He ushered them into the cottage and bade them sit. He saw them eyeing the neat piles of books and papers on the table, the wheel-backed chair by the window with its feather cushion, the pipe rack and its collection of wooden and clay