Once I heard the nursery door close, I checked my hair, straightened my tunic, and, taking a deep breath, went back downstairs.
* * *
As I reached the bottommost stair, I almost collided with Will, the footman. “M . . . Mistress Sheldrake,” he said. “I was just coming to get you.” He stepped back and bowed, his face hot.
“Thank you, Will,” I said. “The office?”
“Aye, mistress. Master Makejoy’s here . . .” he hesitated. “Mistress Jabben’s there as well.”
Will opened the door and stepped aside.
My father’s office always roused mixed emotions. It was a forbidden, hallowed space, long and narrow, like a tomb. Sepulchre-like, a lone candle flickered on the desk. Though he wasn’t there, my father’s presence lingered in every corner, in the ebony wood of his desk, in the stools against the walls, the folios, vellum scrolls, maps, star charts, and ledgers stacked on the shelves, the metal safe under the table, even in the cracked sill of the small, shuttered window that opened onto the shop.
“Mistress Sheldrake.” Leonard Makejoy handled Lord Rainford’s business affairs and, by default, my father’s as well. As I entered, he clambered to his feet, and in that action banished the ghost of my father. With what passed for a smile, he came forward, one arm held out to clasp my waist, the other to take my hand, as if I were an invalid in need of assistance. “God give you good day. Come, sit down.”
Attempting not to recoil at his touch, I raised a hand. “If it’s all right with you, Master Makejoy, I would rather stand.” His attenuated fingers retreated and instead discovered each other. Wringing them, he nodded gravely, his eyes traveling to the piece of paper unfurled on the desk.
“Very well. But with your permission, I’ll resume my seat.”
I nodded and he sat erect in Father’s hard-backed chair, passing a hand over his brow as though fevered. I too felt unnaturally hot. Yet the room was cold. Bitterly so. It had been over three months since a fire had been lit in here.
“What is it, Master Makejoy? What brings you to our home so early on this chill autumn day?” I stepped closer, trying to read what it was he’d carried with him. The Rainford seal occupied the lower left corner, bold black strokes the rest of the missive. I could see our name—Sheldrake. “Is this for me?”
“It is, Mistress Sheldrake. It’s from the most honorable and worthy Lord Hardred Rainford.” Master Makejoy glanced toward a corner. “I’ve taken the liberty of informing Mistress Jabben of the contents.”
A quiet murmur located Hiske behind me. I looked to where she sat and acknowledged her with the barest inclination of my head. “Cousin Hiske.” Emboldened, I pressed on. “What brings you to Father’s office?”
Hiske rose slowly, smoothing her russet tunic, and approached the desk. The flickering light transformed her face into a foreign landscape of gulfs and ravines.
“Curiosity. I too heard the commotion Master Makejoy’s unexpected but most welcome arrival made, and wished to know the reason. Anyhow, it’s my right to be here, as you well know.”
I pursed my lips, uncertain how to reply. While I wanted to send her away, she was correct. She had the right. Turning back to Master Makejoy, I saw a look pass between them. A flash of . . . what was it? Triumph? Understanding? A shudder ran through me.
“Mistress Sheldrake”—he cleared his throat—“I’m afraid I’m the bearer of terrible tidings . . .”
A frigid wave rolled in my chest. I held out my hand.
With a look I only understood later, Master Makejoy passed me the missive. I read it slowly and, while I registered what was written, another part of me began to resist. The words swam on the page, re-forming to say something completely different. My body endured all seasons in the time it took to process the words. I stared and stared and yet nothing I did changed what was stated in stark, ebony ink.
Raising his rheumy eyes to mine, I saw the future foretold in Master Makejoy’s miserable regard.
“This says the Cathaline is lost at sea.” Though I whispered, my words seemed to echo.
I felt Hiske’s shoulder brush mine. She thought to stand by me now, of all times.
“Aye.” Master Makejoy waited for me to say more, but nothing came. His confirmation pitched around in my head before I tasted its salty bitterness, then allowed it to meet my heart, which was beating frantically in my ears.
“Father?” My voice was dry, scratchy.
Master Makejoy stood unsteadily and I saw the empty mazer of ale and the jug beside the letter; Hiske had attended quickly to our guest.
“I’m afraid, like the rest of the crew and cargo, he too is unaccounted for. Lord Rainford”—he gestured to the parchment—“as you have read, presumes him drowned. No one could have survived such a storm, the wreckage . . .”
Darkness collected at the edge of my vision and then sped to steal my sight. I swayed. Master Makejoy said something and Hiske’s fingers gripped my arm. A stool was dragged over the floor. I was pushed none too gently onto it. There was a gurgle and splash of liquid.
“Here, drink this,” said Hiske, shoving the mazer into my hands. I refused. “Drink it,” she insisted.
Ignoring her, I turned to Master Makejoy. Melancholy etched his features, the lines of his long years forming deep furrows. “What about Tobias?”
“There’s no word, yet,” sighed Master Makejoy. “But thank the good Lord, he’s with Sir Leander Rainford, on the Sealhope.”
“It survived?”
“Along with the rest of Lord Rainford’s fleet, it never left Bruges. Sir Leander is . . . more cautious . . .” He held up his hands as if to ward off my protests, though I made none. “You know your father. He would have taken the weather warnings as a personal challenge.” Reaching over, he removed the mazer and, placing it gently on the desk, took my fingers. His flesh was papery, dry, his eyes moist and cloudy.
“Father is dead.” I said it like a vow.
In reply, he squeezed my hands tighter.
I sat there, lumpen, solid, waiting for the tears, the grief I knew should overcome me. Instead there was silence. Silence broken only by the spit of the candle, the wheeze of Hiske’s breathing, Master Makejoy’s swallowed belch, and the stench of burning tallow. My head was bowed, my eyes fixed on the floor.
Father is dead.
The past telescoped until all that remained were these last few seconds where I was propped in Father’s room, a lifeless doll holding the hand of this husk of a man, one who knew the world only in terms of debits and credits and had announced what was to be my lot today: loss.
I thought of all the other ways this description fitted—my father would be spoken of as lost at sea, his children as losing their father, as if we’d carelessly misplaced him. There would be condolences offered for our loss, prayers, sorrow, tears.
A thud above forced my thoughts to fly upstairs. The twins! Oh dear Lord, the twins. How would I tell them? They loved their father, in spite of everything . . .
My heart became a thick, swollen mass that pinned me to the seat. It had finally filled, and the pain was indescribable, at once exquisite and deadly. Tears spilled, rolling down my cheeks, dripping onto my hands, onto Master Makejoy’s. A sob tore from my throat, a bark that would have done our hounds proud.