The morning after this, as Philippa opened her door, one of the castle lavenders, of washerwomen, passed it on her way down the stairs. She was a woman of about fifty years of age, who had filled her present place longer than Philippa could recollect.
Throughout the whole of the Middle Ages—for a period of many centuries, closing only about the time of the accession of the House of Hanover—laundress was a name of evil repute, and the position was rarely assumed by any woman who had a character to lose. The daughters of the Lady Alianora were strictly forbidden to speak to any lavender; but no one had cared enough about Philippa to warn her, and she was therefore free to converse with whom she pleased. And a sudden thought had struck her. She called back the lavender.
“Agnes!”
The woman stopped, came to Philippa’s door, and louted—the old-fashioned reverence which preceded the French courtesy.
“Agnes, how long hast thou been lavender here?”
“Long ere you were born, Lady.”
“Canst thou remember my mother?”
Philippa was amazed at the look of abject terror which suddenly took possession of the lavender’s face.
“Hush, Lady, Lady!” she whispered, her voice trembling with fear.
Philippa laid her hand on the woman’s arm.