Free The Silent Woman by Edward Marston Page B

errand. Anne therefore assumed that she was sent by her mistress to summon the aid of Nicholas Bracewell, who was possibly her former lover, even her husband. But was this necessarily the case?
    Nicholas did not deny the existence of a silent woman in his past but there did not have to be any romantic implications. Could the woman not just as easily be his mother, or sister, or a relation? And was there not – now that she paused to reflect upon it – another reason for his refusal to offer her a full explanation? Nicholas was shielding Anne. The message that the girl brought had already cost one life. He did not wish to put hers in jeopardy as well. As long as Anne Hendrik was kept in ignorance, she was safe. That was why he could not take her completely into his confidence. He had begged for her trust and she had held it back. Anne’s blind jealousy had clouded her judgement and blunted her finer feelings. She had lost him for ever.
    Yet even as she swung once more towards him, there were considerations that drew her back into pained disapproval. Nicholas Bracewell had rejected her appeal. Given a stark choice between staying with her and going to Barnstaple, he selected the latter. Anne was hit by the realisation that, even if Devon had not been an option, he would still have left withWestfield’s Men. They were the true centre of his life. She was merely a pleasant appendage to a real existence that took place elsewhere. It was a doomed relationship. Margery Firethorn had once told her that to marry an actor was to hurl oneself head first into a whirlpool of uncertainty. Sharing her bed with a man of the theatre had left Anne Hendrik in the same helpless predicament. The most sensible thing she could do was to put him from her mind and concentrate on her work.
    ‘You do not need to do this, mistress.’
    ‘What is that, Preben?’
    ‘I have been making hats for over thirty years and I am too old to learn new ways. Please do not stand over me like that.’ The Dutchman smiled respectfully up at her. ‘You are in my light.’
    ‘I am in your way,’ she said with a shrug, ‘but you are too kind to put it like that.’ Anne glanced around the room where her four employees and the apprentice were bent over the respective hats that they were working on. ‘Are there no more deliveries to be made this morning?’
    ‘None.’
    ‘What of our accounts?’
    ‘They are all in order and up to date.’
    ‘There must be something I can do, Preben.’
    ‘No, mistress.’
    ‘Perhaps I could help to—’
    ‘Let hatmakers make their hats,’ he suggested quietly. ‘That is why you pay us. If you seek employment, go out and find new orders to keep our trade healthy.’
    ‘That is good advice.’
    ‘When Jacob was alive, he led by example and we toiled to keep up with his nimble fingers. His memory lives on toguide us. We will not skimp or slack because we are left alone in our workplace. Jacob Hendrik watches over us.’
    Anne sighed and accepted the wisdom of his comments.
    Preben van Loew was a tall, spare, wizened man in his fifties with skills that had been chased out of his native Holland and that had settled in London. Dressed severely in black, he was modest and unassuming and always wore a dark skullcap on his domelike head. Anne owed him a tremendous amount because he had kept the business going when Jacob Hendrik, his closest friend, had died, and he had instructed her in all the subtleties of his craft when she decided to take over the reins herself. Her talents lay in managing the others, finding commissions, dealing with their many customers and helping to design new styles of headgear. Until that morning, she also knew when to leave her staff alone to get on with their work. Now she was simply using them to occupy her mind, and her presence was disruptive.
    With a gesture of apology, she moved to the door. Preben van Loew spoke without looking up from his task of snipping through some material with his