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Authors: Pamela Hartshorne
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heart seems to stumble.
‘That’s him!’ Alice pinches my arm. ‘Mr Phillips’s assistant!’
I look back at him, and he smiles as if he knows we are talking about him. Still I can’t help glancing over my shoulder to see if it is really me he is smiling at, but everyone else is
watching Miles Fell, who is running out of curses and turning away like a sulky bear. When I look back, I suppose
Me?
must be written across my face, because his smile broadens and he
nods.
Alice nudges me. ‘See?’
A young man has smiled at me. It is nothing. For most girls – girls like Alice – it would mean nothing at all, but I feel flushed and elated and apprehensive all at the same
time.
Miles Fell lumbers towards us, still cursing, followed by his shambling dog, and we all fall back hastily to clear a path for them both. Few folk are brave enough to make him walk round them,
even when he is in the best of moods.
There is a sense of anticlimax. The fight many were hoping for hasn’t materialized, and the crowd disperses as quickly as it gathered, back to buying and selling and trading gossip and
insults. Nicholas Ellis is left to limp off alone, muttering about speaking to my Lord Mayor.
The notary’s assistant has drifted off with the others, it seems, and I turn, disappointed, only to find that Alice has vanished and he is standing right there. He smiles at my expression
and sweeps off his hat to bow, as if I were the Queen’s Majesty herself.
‘Francis Bewley, at your service, Mistress . . . ?’ He darts a beseeching look up at me. Close to, he is less handsome than he seemed at first, but there is a sleekness to him that
fits with his southern accent. He has a very red mouth, small, plump hands and those strange, intense eyes are like the Ouse on a bright day, reflecting back the light so that it is impossible to
tell what colour they are.
I know I should lower my gaze and walk away. I know how important my reputation is. I know that however much people seem busy about their own affairs, there will be someone watching me. There
will be a woman who will tell her gossip, who will tell
her
gossip, who will tell Mistress Beckwith that I stood in the middle of Thursday Market and was bold with a stranger.
But I cannot help myself. How can I walk away when a handsome young man is bowing before me, when his eyes are fixed on mine and he doesn’t seem to have noticed that I am dark and plain?
How can I not smile back at him? I forget that if Alice is right, he is dissembling and already knows my name.
‘Hawise Aske,’ I admit. I follow his gaze as it drops to the dog in my arms. ‘And this is Hap.’
To my surprise, Hap’s ears are fattened and I can feel his entire body vibrating with a low growl. It’s not like him. Normally he is the most sweet-tempered of dogs.
I set my basket on the ground and lay my free hand reassuringly on his head. ‘Quiet, Hap,’ I say. ‘Friend.’
Sensing someone at my shoulder, I turned to see two women, strangely dressed, watching me with a concerned expression.
‘Are you lost, dear?’
‘Lost?’ I said blankly. Why should I be lost in Thursday Market?
‘You’ve just been standing in the middle of the pavement, staring.’
I looked slowly around me. The stalls had vanished. There were no carts laden with cabbages, no women crouching by their baskets of fruit, no jabbering throng of people, laughing and gossiping
and bargaining. My eyes dropped to my hand. No small dog, growling softly.
And no Francis Bewley. In his place stood two elderly women pulling shopping trolleys behind them.
I was blocking their way. The realization was a slap, jarring me into the present, and I drew an unsteady breath as I remembered where I was.
Who
I was.
‘Sorry. I . . . I was just . . . ’ I couldn’t think of an excuse to explain my odd behaviour until I remembered Alice and her accusing expression. ‘. . . just
daydreaming,’ I said as I stepped aside and they trundled
‘That’s him!’ Alice pinches my arm. ‘Mr Phillips’s assistant!’
I look back at him, and he smiles as if he knows we are talking about him. Still I can’t help glancing over my shoulder to see if it is really me he is smiling at, but everyone else is
watching Miles Fell, who is running out of curses and turning away like a sulky bear. When I look back, I suppose
Me?
must be written across my face, because his smile broadens and he
nods.
Alice nudges me. ‘See?’
A young man has smiled at me. It is nothing. For most girls – girls like Alice – it would mean nothing at all, but I feel flushed and elated and apprehensive all at the same
time.
Miles Fell lumbers towards us, still cursing, followed by his shambling dog, and we all fall back hastily to clear a path for them both. Few folk are brave enough to make him walk round them,
even when he is in the best of moods.
There is a sense of anticlimax. The fight many were hoping for hasn’t materialized, and the crowd disperses as quickly as it gathered, back to buying and selling and trading gossip and
insults. Nicholas Ellis is left to limp off alone, muttering about speaking to my Lord Mayor.
The notary’s assistant has drifted off with the others, it seems, and I turn, disappointed, only to find that Alice has vanished and he is standing right there. He smiles at my expression
and sweeps off his hat to bow, as if I were the Queen’s Majesty herself.
‘Francis Bewley, at your service, Mistress . . . ?’ He darts a beseeching look up at me. Close to, he is less handsome than he seemed at first, but there is a sleekness to him that
fits with his southern accent. He has a very red mouth, small, plump hands and those strange, intense eyes are like the Ouse on a bright day, reflecting back the light so that it is impossible to
tell what colour they are.
I know I should lower my gaze and walk away. I know how important my reputation is. I know that however much people seem busy about their own affairs, there will be someone watching me. There
will be a woman who will tell her gossip, who will tell
her
gossip, who will tell Mistress Beckwith that I stood in the middle of Thursday Market and was bold with a stranger.
But I cannot help myself. How can I walk away when a handsome young man is bowing before me, when his eyes are fixed on mine and he doesn’t seem to have noticed that I am dark and plain?
How can I not smile back at him? I forget that if Alice is right, he is dissembling and already knows my name.
‘Hawise Aske,’ I admit. I follow his gaze as it drops to the dog in my arms. ‘And this is Hap.’
To my surprise, Hap’s ears are fattened and I can feel his entire body vibrating with a low growl. It’s not like him. Normally he is the most sweet-tempered of dogs.
I set my basket on the ground and lay my free hand reassuringly on his head. ‘Quiet, Hap,’ I say. ‘Friend.’
Sensing someone at my shoulder, I turned to see two women, strangely dressed, watching me with a concerned expression.
‘Are you lost, dear?’
‘Lost?’ I said blankly. Why should I be lost in Thursday Market?
‘You’ve just been standing in the middle of the pavement, staring.’
I looked slowly around me. The stalls had vanished. There were no carts laden with cabbages, no women crouching by their baskets of fruit, no jabbering throng of people, laughing and gossiping
and bargaining. My eyes dropped to my hand. No small dog, growling softly.
And no Francis Bewley. In his place stood two elderly women pulling shopping trolleys behind them.
I was blocking their way. The realization was a slap, jarring me into the present, and I drew an unsteady breath as I remembered where I was.
Who
I was.
‘Sorry. I . . . I was just . . . ’ I couldn’t think of an excuse to explain my odd behaviour until I remembered Alice and her accusing expression. ‘. . . just
daydreaming,’ I said as I stepped aside and they trundled
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