Time's Echo by Pamela Hartshorne Page B

workshop, and her mother’s
temper – never sweet to begin with – soured even further, so I was glad to get away when the Beckwiths offered me a place in service.
    I was twelve then, and it was Elizabeth I grew up with, Elizabeth I giggled and whispered with, Elizabeth whose loss I mourn still as if she were in truth my sister.
    Since her death I have tried to get to know Agnes better. The sickness carried her mother off two years since, and now she is alone with my father and Jennet, the sour old widow who cooks and
cleans. It is too much for Agnes to keep house, she says.
    It is not much of a house, either.
    Mr Beckwith’s house has twelve rooms as well as a shop, and it is richly decorated. My father’s has only six, and there is a slatternly air to everything. I look around the room. In
the dim light coming through the shutters, it is dreary. The curtains around Agnes’s bed are silk, but they are tatty and worn. There is no silver on my father’s table, no cushions in
his hall. Once he was a merchant and adventured across the seas, but his fortunes have dwindled to naught, squandered on dice and cards in the alehouses of York. He is a member still of the mystery
of mercers, but he is no merchant, no mercer. He is barely a chapman, eking out a living from his friends and his former reputation.
    I feel sorry for Agnes, stuck here with little chance of marriage, either. Like me, she has no dowry, and like me, she is plain, but otherwise we are the contrary of each other. Where I am dark,
everything about my sister is pale. She has pallid skin and hair so fine it seems almost colourless. Discontent tugs at the corners of her pale mouth. Agnes is very devout, while I attend divine
service and let my mind wander outside the walls, where I used to run when I was a girl. She is sickly and I am sturdier than I look. I want to be friends with her, but she is not like
Elizabeth.
    Still, I try.
    I tuck my feet beneath me. ‘Agnes,’ I say, lowering my voice so that Jennet won’t hear. ‘I think I may be in love.’
    I can’t remember exactly what Francis looks like, but I like the idea of being in love. I want to be.
    Agnes drops her arm and pulls herself up on her pillow, her eyes sharpening. ‘In
love
? Who with?’
    ‘His name is Francis. He is from London.’
    ‘London! Who vouches for him?’
    When my gaze slides away from hers, she purses her lips in disapproval. ‘Hawise, you cannot be so foolish! Where did you meet this man?’
    ‘In the market.’ I know where this is going. Who are his friends? Who are his kin? Do the Beckwiths know? ‘I just want to meet someone who’s been further than Fulford
Cross. I want to
talk
about something different. Is that so bad?’
    ‘Not if talking is really all you’ll be doing.’
    For someone so pious, Agnes’s mind can dip surprisingly close to the gutter at times. I flush.
    ‘I just want to talk to him,’ I say, sulkily pleating my skirts. Elizabeth would have been excited for me. She would have understood.
    ‘Consider your reputation, Sister,’ says Agnes. ‘Do not go. Stay and pray with me instead.’
    The room is stifling. I cannot breathe in here. Jumping up, I go over to the window and open the shutters in spite of Agnes’s protests, so that I can lean out. The street below is potholed
and flies swarm around the midden outside the door, but if I lift my eyes the sky is a beckoning blue, while a soft breeze stirs the leaves of the overgrown trees in the old friary garden.
    ‘Oh, Agnes, it’s such a beautiful day,’ I cry, swinging round. ‘Don’t you ever want to escape? I know!’ Seized by the idea, I run over to the bed and grab her
hands, though she shrinks back into the pillow. ‘Why don’t you come with me? How long is it since you went out of the house? It will be cool out in the crofts and the air will be
fresher. It wouldn’t be improper for me to meet Francis if you were with me, would it?’
    ‘Hawise, please, you’re