Page 51 of The Affairs of Ashmore Castle

Two plates, two knives, a loaf on a bread board, a wedge of cheese on a plate, a crock of butter. A jar of honey. ‘From Batty’s,’ he said. Mr Batty in Cherry Lane kept bees. ‘Honey’s good with cheese.’

‘I’ve never tried it,’ Alice said, interested.

‘Marmalade’s good too, but that’s for winter.’ He went out to the scullery and came back with a jug. ‘Only water to drink,’ he apologised, ‘but it’s cold and good from the pump here. Unless you want beer.’

‘No, thanks. I tried it once but I don’t like the taste.’

He twinkled at her. ‘See you keep it that way.’ He surveyed his table. ‘It’s not what you’re used to, I’m afraid.’

‘That bread smells divine,’ she said firmly.

He took up the bread knife and carved her a careful slice. She leaned forward to examine the wooden board. It had clearly been made from a slice of wood cut across a tree trunk, and shaped and planed and polished. ‘Oh, the little carving on the rim!’ she exclaimed. It was a mouse nibbling at an ear of wheat, every detail perfect. ‘It’s beautiful. Did you do it?’

He nodded shyly. ‘When I cut the board, there was a big knot there. I was going to saw it off and plane down the edge, but then . . .’ He hesitated. ‘I sort of saw the mouse in there. Sounds daft when I say it, but I knew that’s what it had to be. Can’t explain really.’

‘I know exactly what you mean!’ she cried. ‘Often when I start a drawing or painting I can see it on the blank paper, as if it’s there already, just waiting for me to bring it out.’ He was watching her with an arrested look, and she felt an intense connection that she didn’t quite know what to do with. She gave an embarrassed little smile and continued, ‘Mostly it doesn’t end up the way I saw it, because I don’t have the skill yet. But I always know how it ought to be.’

He seemed to shake himself back into the mundane present, passed the slice of bread to her and pushed the cheese plate closer. ‘Help yourself,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’ She cut herself a piece of cheese, and looked around. ‘Where’s Captain?’

‘Gone,’ he said.

‘He died?’ she faltered.

‘No – leastways, he might be dead by now, but I wouldn’t know. He left, that’s all. When we got here, he seemed different. Restless. Warn’t interested in me. Kept listening as if he could hear someone calling. Then one day he flew off into the wood and didn’t come back.’

‘Oh dear, I’m sorry.’

He shook his head, brushing off the sympathy. ‘’Twas always his choice, to stay or go. I reckon he heard his own kind out there in the wood and went to find ’em.’ He met her eyes and smiled at her creased brow. ‘No need to look so downcast. ’Tis no sorrow to me. You can’t keep wild things – only make ’em want to stay.’

‘But why didn’t he want to?’ she protested, childlike. ‘I’d want to. I’d stay here for ever.’

‘You wouldn’t like it so much in the middle of winter, in the cold and wet. Then you’d be pining for your nice cosy castle.’

She laughed. ‘You’ve never been inside it, or you wouldn’t call it cosy! This is much cosier.’ She took a mouthful of bread and cheese and honey, and adored the simple, true flavours. No luncheon at home had ever tasted so good. ‘You weren’t at church on Sunday,’ she said.

‘I was too. I was up in the gallery. Saw you come in. Blue coat, brown hat with daisies.’

‘But not singing in the choir?’

‘Well, see, I’ve had to give that up. Can’t be sure of getting to choir practice Wednesdays. That’s a long day for me – I have to take the wood to the lumber yard out past Priestwood, and by the time I’ve got back, had a wash and a bit o’ supper, it’s too late. And Della’s tired too. Don’t want to take her out again and make her wait down there and come back up the hill after sunset, when she wants to be in her own stall. Mr Arden was very nice about it. Said I’d be missed but he understood. Said if things changed I could come back.’

‘Will they?’

‘Change? Not f’ the foreseeable.’

‘You’ll miss the singing.’

‘I will. But I got all those big empty woods – I can sing out there. God’ll still hear me.’ He took a polite bite at his bread, chewed and swallowed, and said, ‘You got a new generation up at the Castle.’

‘Baby Louis? I suppose he is a new generation. I hadn’t thought of it that way.’

‘Lot of expectations sitting on that young lad’s shoulders.’ He shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t be him for worlds. Not for all his silk suits and golden spoons.’

Alice laughed. ‘He’s a baby! No golden spoons. And he’s dressed in wool and cotton.’

‘He won’t always be a baby.’