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Автор Джейн Джонсон

For Abdel

To the Right Honorable Lords of his Majestie’s most honorable

Privy Council.

Haste, haste, posthaste.

Plymouth, the eighteenth of april, eight in the eve

—Thomas Ceely, Mayor

May it please yr honors to be advertised that this daie I have heard of certaine Turks, Moores, & Dutchmen of Sallee in Barbary, which lie on our coasts spoiling divers such as they are able to master, as by the examination of one William Knight may appeare, whose report I am induced the rather to believe, because two fisherboats mentioned in hys examination were very lately found flotyng on the seas, having neither man nor tackle in them …

I am also credibly informed that there are some thirtie sail of shippes at Sallee now preparing to come for the coasts of England in the begynnyng of the summer, & if there bee not speedy course taken to prevent it, they would do much mischeef.

Hereof I thought it my dutie to inform yr honors.

And so I rest,

Yr honors in all dutie bounden,

Thos. Ceely, Mayor

Plymouth, the 18^th daie of april 1625

CHAPTER 1

“THERE ARE ONLY TWO OR THREE HUMAN STORIES, AND they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they have never happened before, like larks that have been singing the same five notes for thousands of years”

I had scribbled this down in a notebook after reading it in a novel the night before I was due to meet Michael and was looking forward to slipping it into our conversation at dinner, despite knowing his likely reaction (negative; dismissive—he was always skeptical about anything that could even vaguely be termed “romantic”). He was a lecturer in European literature, to which he presented an uncompromising post-structuralist stance, as if books were just meat for the butcher’s block, mere muscle and tendon, bone and cartilage, which required flensing and separating and scrutiny. For his part, Michael found my thinking on the subject of fiction both emotional and unrigorous, which meant that at the start of our relationship we had the most furious arguments, which would hurt me so personally as to bring me to the edge of tears, but now, seven years in, we were able to bait each other cheerfully. Anyway, it made a change from discussing, or avoiding, the subject of Anna, or the future.

To begin with, it had been hard to live like this, on snatched moments, the future always in abeyance, but I had gotten used to it little by little so that now my life had a recognizable pattern to it.

It was a bit pared down and lacking in what others might consider crucial areas, but it suited me. Or so I told myself, time and time again.

I dressed with particular care for dinner: a devoré silk blouse, a tailored black skirt that skimmed the knees, stockings (Michael was predictably male in his preferences), a pair of suede ankle-strap shoes in which I could just about manage the half-mile to the restaurant and back. And my favorite hand-embroidered shawl: bursts of bright pansies worked on a ground of fine black cashmere.

I’ve always said you have to be an optimist to be a good embroiderer. A large piece (like the shawl) can take six months to a year of inspired and dedicated work. Determination, too; a dogged spirit like that of a mountaineer, taking one measured step at a time rather than panicking at the thought of the whole immense task, the crevasse field and headwall of ice. You may think I exaggerate the difficulties— a bit of cloth, a needle and thread: How hard can it be? But once you’ve laid out a small fortune on cashmere and another on the silks, or there’s a tight deadline for some nervous girl’s wedding, or an exhibition, and you have not only to design and plan but to stitch a million stitches, I can tell you the pressure is palpable.