Constance swept past with a plate full of lather and whiskers. She threw the soapy water into the courtyard, splashing Sadie, who had dug herself out of the flower bed to see what Con was bringing her.
Pegge had returned from Sevenoaks with her father the previous night, for he had grown tired of cucumbers and rural conversation before the week was over. As soon as he had woken, he had blown his trumpet for his eldest daughter and asked her to untangle his hair and shave around his beard.
When Con came back in, smoothing her dark gown, Pegge speared the hot crust and blew on it. “Will you teach me how to shave him, Con?”
Con wiped the inside of the shaving plate and laid the razor across it. “There’s no need now that I am home.” She took a looking-glass out of her pocket and propped it on the shelf.
“But you might marry again,” Pegge said, eating her fried bread.
Con licked her finger and curled a strand of hair around it. The black curl stayed obediently in place as she stood back to consider the effect. Pegge had her father’s hair—thick reckless handfuls of auburn down to her waist. Up to now, she had thought it childish, twisting it into ropes to tame it, but this morning it held the fragrance of mulberries and Izaak Walton’s fingers. By the end of the day, it would reek of kitchen fat and coal-smoke once again.
“Will you teach me, Bess?” Pegge squinted at her reflection in the grimy window, judging her hair too long to fasten up like Con’s.
“Now the kitchenmaid has run off, I need you here.” Bess was ferrying goods from the larder to the kitchen table. “A load of cucumbers came from Sevenoaks this morning. This was on top of it, for the Dean’s daughter.” She pushed the bulky object towards Con.
Con pressed another curl in place, then unwrapped the bright cloth around the parcel. Underneath was a thick layer of leaves. As she peeled them off, a clump of moss appeared with a puddle forming around it. When the moss expanded then contracted, Con took a quick step back.
At the end of the moss, Pegge could see a large golden mouth opening and closing with a quiet sucking noise. She pulled out some green tufts to reveal a pair of eyes that bulged like a monk’s awakened from a long sleep. Then she stripped off the rest of the moss and saw a row of tiny longhaired Pegges reflected in the giant scales.
Bess came around to look. “It’s a good enough fish,” she admitted, probing under the gills with a finger. “And it could not be fresher.”
Pegge filled a deep pot, then slipped her hands under the fish and plunged it into the water. When the fish came up to the surface, she fed it a cube of bread soaked in milk.
“Why does Mr Walton do such things?” Con asked, perplexed. “I have done nothing to merit this … this … flounder! ” She wiped her hands on the cloth, realized it was wet, and threw it back onto the table.
“A mirror carp,” Pegge corrected, “a love-poem from an angler.” She was already weighing and discarding inferior phrases, rehearsing her thank you to the fisherman, for she was sure the gift was meant for her, not Con.
Con was taking a closer look at the scarlet cloth it had arrived in. “How did he get my bodice?”
“You can’t wear that colour,” Bess said. “You’re in mourning.”
Pegge crossed to the bucket, lifting the dipper to hide her face. It was good water from the conduit, not the muddy Thames. She took a long sip, then let the rest fountain off the dipper onto the carp. The mirror , she thought, feeding it another morsel.
“So you took it, Pegge, and gave it to him,” Con said. “Is that why your face is red?”
Bess slapped a bunch of leeks on the table and pushed a knife towards Con. Ignoring the chore, Con went back to the looking-glass, stretching the neck of her bodice this way and that to judge which would expose the most pale flesh.
Pegge bent her ear to the carp. For a minute there was nothing, then a soft puk
Pegge had returned from Sevenoaks with her father the previous night, for he had grown tired of cucumbers and rural conversation before the week was over. As soon as he had woken, he had blown his trumpet for his eldest daughter and asked her to untangle his hair and shave around his beard.
When Con came back in, smoothing her dark gown, Pegge speared the hot crust and blew on it. “Will you teach me how to shave him, Con?”
Con wiped the inside of the shaving plate and laid the razor across it. “There’s no need now that I am home.” She took a looking-glass out of her pocket and propped it on the shelf.
“But you might marry again,” Pegge said, eating her fried bread.
Con licked her finger and curled a strand of hair around it. The black curl stayed obediently in place as she stood back to consider the effect. Pegge had her father’s hair—thick reckless handfuls of auburn down to her waist. Up to now, she had thought it childish, twisting it into ropes to tame it, but this morning it held the fragrance of mulberries and Izaak Walton’s fingers. By the end of the day, it would reek of kitchen fat and coal-smoke once again.
“Will you teach me, Bess?” Pegge squinted at her reflection in the grimy window, judging her hair too long to fasten up like Con’s.
“Now the kitchenmaid has run off, I need you here.” Bess was ferrying goods from the larder to the kitchen table. “A load of cucumbers came from Sevenoaks this morning. This was on top of it, for the Dean’s daughter.” She pushed the bulky object towards Con.
Con pressed another curl in place, then unwrapped the bright cloth around the parcel. Underneath was a thick layer of leaves. As she peeled them off, a clump of moss appeared with a puddle forming around it. When the moss expanded then contracted, Con took a quick step back.
At the end of the moss, Pegge could see a large golden mouth opening and closing with a quiet sucking noise. She pulled out some green tufts to reveal a pair of eyes that bulged like a monk’s awakened from a long sleep. Then she stripped off the rest of the moss and saw a row of tiny longhaired Pegges reflected in the giant scales.
Bess came around to look. “It’s a good enough fish,” she admitted, probing under the gills with a finger. “And it could not be fresher.”
Pegge filled a deep pot, then slipped her hands under the fish and plunged it into the water. When the fish came up to the surface, she fed it a cube of bread soaked in milk.
“Why does Mr Walton do such things?” Con asked, perplexed. “I have done nothing to merit this … this … flounder! ” She wiped her hands on the cloth, realized it was wet, and threw it back onto the table.
“A mirror carp,” Pegge corrected, “a love-poem from an angler.” She was already weighing and discarding inferior phrases, rehearsing her thank you to the fisherman, for she was sure the gift was meant for her, not Con.
Con was taking a closer look at the scarlet cloth it had arrived in. “How did he get my bodice?”
“You can’t wear that colour,” Bess said. “You’re in mourning.”
Pegge crossed to the bucket, lifting the dipper to hide her face. It was good water from the conduit, not the muddy Thames. She took a long sip, then let the rest fountain off the dipper onto the carp. The mirror , she thought, feeding it another morsel.
“So you took it, Pegge, and gave it to him,” Con said. “Is that why your face is red?”
Bess slapped a bunch of leeks on the table and pushed a knife towards Con. Ignoring the chore, Con went back to the looking-glass, stretching the neck of her bodice this way and that to judge which would expose the most pale flesh.
Pegge bent her ear to the carp. For a minute there was nothing, then a soft puk
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