The Woman in the Shadows by Carol McGrath

Author:Carol McGrath
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: The Woman in the Shadows
ISBN: 9781786152282
Publisher: Accent Press
Published: 2017-05-27T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-four

MISTRESS WATT’S HOUSE LOOMED up out of a fresh snowfall. It was a solid, substantial merchant’s building, situated on Bread Street, its overhanging upper storeys constructed of timbers, wattle and daub. If I had expected, and I did, to find perfection and a bustling wealthy household inside, I was to be surprised.

When Thomas rapped an iron knocker, cast in the image of St Catherine, wheel included, the door was opened by a smut-faced, shivering, skinny, dull-eyed little maid clad in a grubby thin woollen kirtle. Her dress looked as if it needed washing and, despite the cold weather, the girl smelled stale.

Ignoring her surly look, Thomas said, ‘Tell Mistress Watt that Thomas Cromwell wishes to speak with her.’

The maid glanced at us suspiciously, heavy-lidded eyes darting from Thomas to me and back again. Softening my husband’s terse introduction, I said in a gentler tone, ‘I assume Mistress Watt is at home this morning.’

‘In the parlour,’ the girl replied. I peered beyond her thin shoulders into a hall with an old-fashioned central hearth where she had clearly been trying to light the fire. The hall was filling with smoke which explained the smuts on her cheeks. We shook snow from our boots onto the rushes closest to the entrance and followed her into the smoky room. I began to cough and raised the neck of my cloak across my mouth.

‘Wait here,’ she said, lifting her hand to stop us entering the corridor off to the side.

We stood at a distance from the failing fire and waited. Thomas folded his arms patiently. Meantime, I studied the hall, or rather what could be seen through drifting smoke. It was a miserable place and as no other servants were evident, I assumed that Mistress Watt could not be quite the wealthy widow she purported to be. A clutter of dirty pots lay littered by the hearth and old rushes on which we stood would have harboured all sorts of vermin were it not so cold. Some time passed before the maid reappeared.

‘Mistress will see you,’ she mumbled.

We followed her through a low door that led into a narrow corridor and to the right, the parlour. It was warmer in the parlour, which had clearly been added onto the ancient, smoky hall recently because a brick fire-place was set deep into a stone wall where logs were burning brightly and with ease. I tried not to breathe too deeply because after my first breath I realised that the parlour, while not smoke-infested, contained the rank smell of Cheape tallow candles. There was little furniture to be seen - no chests, tables, hangings, cushions or the family ornaments that normally would make a wealthy widow’s home comfortable. This, I recognised, was a home fallen on hard times.

On seeing us enter, Mistress Watt rose from an arm-chair by the fire. Thomas bowed and I curtsied. In an imperious tone, ignoring our good manners and not returning them, Mistress Watt said acidly, ‘Master Cromwell, what brings you

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