‘Most countrywomen have a familiarity with herbal remedies,’ Henrietta said as casually as she could. ‘We are far from the nearest surgeon – not that the common people could afford his ministrations. We are in the country here and even apothecaries are not two a penny as they are in London Town.’
‘It is a dangerous power none the less.’
‘There are many families in the village who have cause to be grateful for Mistress Perrott's skills,’ Henrietta reproved him sharply. ‘She has delivered most of the babies hereabouts, myself and my brothers included.’
‘So she is a midwife too.’ He turned his sharp black eyes on her face for the first time since they had begun to walk. ‘Women have cause to thank the midwife for more than safe deliveries. Children are not always welcome.’
Henrietta knew what he was implying. ‘How dare you suggest such a thing? She is the God-fearing widow of an honest tenant of ours, a respected member of our congregation. If her sons were to hear your words you would live to regret them.’
‘It is not her sons I would fear, but her arts, madam,’ the clerk said softly.
Suddenly Henrietta was afraid, her anger banished. He had not spoken the word witch but it was on the tip of his tongue. His religious views were extreme enough for him to make the accusation, and once made it was a charge rarely disproved.
That witches existed she had not doubt, along with other instruments of the Devil. Did not Mr Halsey, and before him Mr Hale, warn against them from the pulpit? But they did not lurk in Winterbourne or its village.
Yet Henrietta knew enough of human nature and its envies and spites to know that if the cry of, ‘Witch!’ was raised someone would take it up, remember a hard word or black look or a cow sickening inexplicably.
She walked on in shaken silence until they reached the front door. Cobham bowed, wished her a punctilious farewell, and took himself off round the side of the house.
‘Good riddance!’ Henrietta shivered, trying to convince herself that her fears were fanciful. Matthew was master here and he would permit no unjust witch-hunt.
Even as she thought of it her husband came out of the front door and stood on the steps looking down at her. ‘You are troubled? Do you wish to speak of it?’
The doubt in his voice stung her, but she nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, Matthew, if you please. I am worried, but what I have to say may anger you.’
His eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he came down the steps and offered her his arm. ‘Let us walk in the herb garden.’
In the scented peace of the garden
she sat on a bench and handed him the bundle she carried. ‘Your clerk believes these are potions obtained from a witch.’ If she had hoped to gain his attention she had succeeded. Matthew flicked open the cloth and sniffed the contents. ‘But these are simple herbs. A sleeping remedy if I am not mistaken.’
‘Perhaps you will tell Cobham that before he has Mistress Perrott, that good woman, burnt as a witch.’
‘Nonsense. He would never do such a thing.’
‘Matthew, the man is extreme. He dislikes and distrusts me, indeed I do believe all women are damned in his eyes. He truly believes Mistress Perrott to be an agent of the Devil. You must silence him, counsel him in moderation.’
‘The old fool.’ Matthew sounded both weary and angry. ‘I am so used to him I have failed to see how extreme he has grown. I knew he did not like you as he did Sarah, but he had known her as a child. But believe me, Henrietta, I would not tolerate him showing you disrespect. I will deal with the man. There will be no more talk of witchcraft at Winterbourne.’
‘Send him away, Matthew,’ she pleaded. ‘He has a malign influence on the household.’
‘Your dislike of him leads you to exaggerate. I will speak with him, but not harshly. He served my father well, and has been a good servant to me. His life has seen much tragedy; I will not turn him out because he has grown crabbed with age.’
‘Thank you.’ With that she must be content. At least Matthew was speaking to her now.
He took her hands and pulled her to her feet. ‘Come, Lady Sheridan, show me round your domain. The gardens are looking very well despite this dry weather.’
*
The fine, hot weather persisted into the opening days of September. Consulting the farm log, Robert predicted a record harvest and the village looked forward to a fine autumn and a comfortable winter.
Henrietta set every maidservant who could be spared to harvesting the hedgerows for blackberries, elderberries, sloes and hips. The stillroom was alive with activity as cordials were distilled, jellies and syrups boiled and strained. Work in the cool room was envied by the kitchen staff, who still had to swelter in front of the spits and fires, and by the girls boiling coppers in the laundry.
The tenth of September saw the last corn gathered in. Henrietta, dressed in her oldest gown, went out to the fields to help with the final wagonloads, part of Winterbourne's long harvest-home tradition.
She waited for Alice, concerned to see that her friend sat quietly in the shade when they reached the field and did not tire herself walking among the chattering, laughing harvesters. Matthew and Robert had gone on ahead and she glimpsed her husband's tall figure, jerkin discarded, sleeves rolled up, as he worked with the others to toss the heavy stooks on to the wagons.
Her heart contracted with love for him, and hope. Things were still not perfect, her secret still hung unspoken between them, yet they had attained some measure of peace and trust.