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Elizabeth looked at the thread once more, then put it into her workbox.

“Yes,” she said. “I should be very glad to have somebody to send for.”

Chapter Eleven

ELIZABETH PUT THE thread in her workbox before Sally came to help her undress. Afterwards she opened the box once more to be certain it remained there.

She was ashamed of the precaution. Thread did not ordinarily leave the place in which one put it.

Across the passage Jane wished Charles good night. Elizabeth heard the affection in her sister’s voice and wanted, quite unreasonably, to go to her. Instead she put out her candle and drew the coverlet higher. She lay awake until the house grew quiet, turning over the words Mrs. Reynolds had shown her. At last she slept.

In the dream a man caught her wrist before she could touch the woman upon the bed.

“No charms.”

His cap had fallen upon the rush matting. Water dripped from his coat. Behind him a girl carried a basin through the doorway, holding it high to avoid his elbow.

“Let go of me, Robert,” Elspeth said.

Elizabeth knew the name of the woman whose voice she heard. She knew, too, that the frightened man had come through the rain to fetch her, and that his wife’s bed lay beneath a roof which no longer kept out the weather. She knew these things as she knew the weight of the wool gown about her legs. She did not stop to ask how.

“The parson says—”

“Ask him to hold the basin, Mara.”

The girl put it into Robert’s hands before he could object. Elspeth knelt beside the bed.

Agnes Fletcher turned her wet face toward her. “He says you mustn’t.”

“What do you say?”

Another pain took the woman’s answer. Her fingers closed upon Elspeth’s sleeve. When she could speak, she said, “Help me.”

Elspeth looked over her shoulder. “You heard your wife.”

Robert stared at the basin. Steam rose past his face. He had brought Agnes here, begged a dry room for her, and now stood between her and the woman he had come to find.

A second man appeared at the door.

Nicholas.

Elspeth’s relief came before he spoke. His doublet was wet across one shoulder where he had helped carry Agnes from the cart; mud marked the fine leather of his shoes. She loved him for having made himself useful after their quarrel over admitting her. He might grumble about the linen when they were alone. She could bear that if he would stand beside her now.

“Leave them to it,” he told Robert.

“The thread, master. She has asked for thread.”

“And you have asked for my wife’s help.”

Nicholas took the basin and set it upon the chest. Then he put his hand beneath Robert’s elbow and led him out.

Elspeth met her husband’s eyes as he turned at the threshold. She smiled her thanks. For a moment he smiled, too.

“Mara, the door.”

The girl closed it. A latch dropped into place; the men remained in the passage.

The room smelled of tallow and wet wool. Agnes lay propped against a bolster, with her linen smock clinging to her shoulders. The old midwife had come in the cart beside her; she stood at the foot of the bed, stripping off a soaked outer gown. Beneath it her arms were thin and strong.