Belle's Song Read Free Page B

further difficulty. The boy carefully lowered my father back onto his cushion, awkwardly accepted some equally awkward thanks—being rescued was hard for Father—and quickly turned away, leaving a smell of something pungent but not unpleasant that I couldn’t quite place.
Dinner, which Widow Chegwin had cooked and sat with us to eat, was taken in silence. She’d made the house neat as a new pin, my father’s bed all fluffed up and inviting. She’d even untangled the knots in the wool for the three-sided cushion I was clumsily trying to embroider. I’d been furious with her in the morning because, can you believe it, she’d washed Poppet. Washed her! Of course Poppet was dirty and of course I only imagined she still carried Mother’s scent, but the widow, thrilled that Poppet now smelled of violets, simply couldn’t grasp that inside the doll’s worn and battered body had nestled dust from happier times. As long as the dust was there, some of that happiness remained. Now it was all gone. As a consequence, I’d spent much of the day pumicing my legs. Yet even as I’d bitten down on a piece of leather, for the pain was very great, and cursed the widow in the language of the gutter, I’d been ashamed. For all her inconsequential cooing and dementing interference, what wouldmy father’s life be like without her? I gave him nothing: not a clean house, not a decent meal, not even an embroidered cushion. Even now, as we were sitting at supper, a meal which, naturally, I’d had no hand in preparing, I wasn’t concentrating on being considerate. Instead, I was telling myself a salty tale in which the milky fish on my plate was going to eat me rather than me eat it.
“They’re pilgrims, all,” the widow warbled, watching me cut my fish carefully into three, “and on their way to Canterbury so I hear, each wanting a miracle at the tomb of St. Thomas.” At mention of St. Thomas she crossed herself. She was a firm believer in keeping the saints sweet. “Such a diverse company! There’s a knight amongst them and a cook! Fancy that! A knight and a cook traveling together. Times are changing, are they not, Master Bellfounder? Even the king’s going to have to accept that. The knight’s brought his son as squire”—her little eyes blinked at me. She couldn’t help herself. Matchmaking was in her blood. “A handsome boy by all accounts, full of accomplishments. He’s interested in books too, I’m certain.”
I cut my three pieces of fish into another three and threw half to the cat. “I think we may have met the squire already,” I said politely. I wanted to show my father, who had witnessed the morning’s row, that my fury had abated. “Would you like more bread, Father?”
“He only eats one piece,” said the widow.
I clenched my teeth and gave Father a slice anyway.
“The squire helped us out of the Tabard. He’s not particularly handsome. Thank you for unknotting the threads in my cushion. I’ll try to get it finished.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” the widow twittered more kindly than I deserved, “but you do get the colors mixed up. I wonder whether all your reading hasn’t weakened your vision? A wife needs sharp eyes, you know, not just for sewing but to make sure she’s not cheated by her servants.”
“We don’t have any servants,” I pointed out, all my good intentions dissolving.
“No, dear, not now, but who knows …” She chattered on. I pushed my plate away. “I think you’re right about my eyes,” I said, “and there’s no time like the present. I’ll find the oculist.”
“Don’t go out,” said my father at once. “It’s not safe. Even you must know that with the king and Parliament still at loggerheads, mobs form out of nothing.”
“The king’s squabbles don’t bother me,” I said, “and it’s months since there was any trouble around here. Why, we’ve even given up setting the window bars at night.”
“We’ll start setting them again right away,”