St. Edmund Wood

by Caitlin Luke Quinn

  The room fell into silence and heads turned, amazement on faces. And then one of the Frankewell servants spoke up.

  “Poor Mistress Witherslack!”

  Chapter 2

  Mrs. Emily Witherslack was disconsolate. All the misfortune of the world rested on her weary shoulders, what with the death of her beloved husband two years ago, and now this.

  “I don’t know what to make of it,” she sighed and cast a pitiful look at her guest, Reverend Talbot, the vicar for St. Ælfgyva’s Church Knowstone. Talbot shook his head in sympathy.

  “And you say he left no income to be disposed of, or a legacy?”

  “His debts exceeded one hundred pounds! That he should take rooms in a manor at Oxford—and not just any rooms, mind you, but the best rooms in Grafton Manor, and then a flat in London—it is certain we are disgraced. I would I knew what to do with her!”

  “Perhaps his family can be of assistance. Did you not say his father is the rector of Saint Mary’s Liverpool?”

  “Liverpool! A place as bad as Plymouth or Birmingham!” Emily spat.

  Talbot stirred his tea for lack of better entertainment and let his eyes slide from the comfortable parlor of the Witherslack house to its mistress, Percy Witherslack’s attractive widow. She was a handsome woman, but that was his only charitable opinion of her. He preferred women round in form and complaisant, demure and silent—the more consistently silent, the better. Everything that recommended a lady of quality in his mind; everything Emily wasn’t. Emily had a high opinion of herself and held an opinion on everything and was always willing to share it. Her voice was brittle and high-pitched as it happened with women who thought themselves above their peers and station. She was tall and lithe with the dark hair of her Welsh ancestors, the large eyes of a doe and a passion for all that was fashionable in good society. There was nothing soft or feminine about her frame or personality. Strange how such a severe woman with such cold beauty could give birth to one such as Mary Burnley. Were Talbot disposed to choose a wife from among the ladies of Knowstone, she would not be Emily Witherslack.

  Talbot had little room or cause to talk. If it were possible that an insect could walk upright and speak, that would describe Charles Talbot. Gangly, impossibly thin and with frighteningly large eyes that missed nothing (especially the slightest infraction), his judgmental stare made him few friends.

  Now he coughed when he noticed Emily’s scrutiny and stirred his cup of tea, this time thoughtfully.

  “Then perhaps Mr. Erland Frankewell.”

  Emily threw her hands up in despair. “Ah, now there’s a deep wound! I’m sure when it got about that my daughter returned, the Frankewells were the first to snigger behind their hands and start the ugly rumors! I shall have to leave Knowstone! I am forever in disgrace! I shall go to Chester. There’s nothing else! To think that after all these years in Knowstone as wife of the vicar! I’ll live with my sister in Chester; she has an income of one hundred and twenty pounds per annum left to her by her late husband, Mr. Lodge. She will take pity on my situation for there is none else!”

  Talbot removed his pocket watch and studied it, then coughed.

  “I have a remedy for that cough, Mr. Talbot, should you have need of it.” The words came out brittle and cold, biting.

  “I wonder if any part of your misery or grief is for the girl.”

  Now Emily threw herself out of the chair and paced the length of the room and back. She jabbed a boney finger at him, saying, “She took it upon herself, Mr. Talbot! She did not listen to her father or me! All that has befallen her, all that has happened, well, there’s a saying that if you make the bed, you lie in it—and we know that’s what she wanted, wasn’t it? Now see what’s happened!”

  “I’ll leave you now, Mrs. Witherslack. The bishop has called a meeting for tomorrow in Wells and I must be on the road if I am to arrive in time. No, no, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll see my way out. Commend me to Mistress Burnley. Good day.”

  Emily and Talbot exchanged sterile smiles and nods of their heads in farewell. They were the most despised people in Knowstone and neither knew it, being consumed by separate yet equal ambition for more than what was given them.

  Emily glanced at the mantle clock and knew no one else would come to call; she spent the remainder of the afternoon watching her daughter Mary Burnley work the loom in the far parlor, wondering what would become of the girl, but more importantly, what would become of herself.

  Mary ignored her mother’s sighs and vituperate glances, concentrating on the fair linen taking form beneath her shuttles. The bases of Celtic crosses started to appear against a smooth, plain ground. She remembered when she first thought of the design, for it came from the cross that hung about Justin’s neck. A year ago, she had been lying in Justin’s arms and listening to his heartbeat, feeling the heat of his body close on hers. It would be difficult, perhaps the most difficult thing Mary Burnley would ever do, to pretend that the last eighteen months had never happened.

  The cadence of the loom as it worked was like a heartbeat, like a voice that calmed Mary and whispered, ‘Soon, very soon. Soon, very soon.’

  Justin’s voice whispered in her ear.

  “Soon, very soon, my love…”

  The cadence became the gentle swaying of the coach taking them away to London, Mary being lulled closer to sleep as listened to Justin’s heartbeat…

  “I shall never be forgiven,” Mary whispered sadly.

  “You’ve done nothing that requires absolution, dearest!” Justin murmured into her hair, and just taking in the scent of him calmed Mary’s frayed nerves. He traced the outline of her lips with a delicate finger and raised her chin, coming closer so that Mary’s heart began a familiar race. “Let them speculate; let them say the worst, for they will. All they need know is how perfectly matched we are, and how much I love you! Let them be jealous of our happiness and love, and make of that what they will!”

  His fingers traced the outline of her face and neck, followed the hollow of her throat, which he kissed, then Justin looked up and smiled. All Mary could see were his sloe eyes, gentle and loving, the red lips as he came closer.

  He whispered huskily, lips almost touching, “Let us seal this contract…”

  “…Did you not hear me, girl? Cook has gone to bed with a fever and there’s no one else to lay the supper!”

  Emily was standing over her. That look of disapproval was worn as easily as her black fustian, the girl thought. Mary did not respond to her mother’s complaints and instead brushed back her hair and drew the heddle up and under, up and under, until another row was finished and the cross transect with its Celtic halo was done.

  “Cook is sick and could not go to market! I fear there’s not even a stone to make soup with!” Emily wailed.

  “Shall I go to The Castle and Motte, Mother?” Mary finally replied. “Perhaps Mr. Lawton will have a roasted hen and potatoes.”

  “Yes—but make certain you say it’s for yourself and not me.”

  “Of course, Mother. There’s no sense shaming both of us.”

  “Be sure it’s a good hen, and the potatoes are golden brown, roasted, no charring, and soft. And if he has some fresh bread, ask for it—and ale,” Emily said as she followed Mary around as shawl and pocketbook were fetched. “And be sure to take the path into Knowstone—ah, it’s almost dark! Have Gordon take you in the trap—Mary, are you listening?”

  “No need to disturb Gordon at his supper. I can walk to the village.”

  “You most certainly will not! We have the means.”

  “An even better reason. We’re no better than anyone else in Knowstone despite what people whisper. I’ll be home shortly with your supper.”Mary closed the door behind her and took in a great breath of cool, twilight air crisp with the scent and smoke of hearth fires. She was glad to be out, and for the journey ahead. Knowstone was a mile away from Hazelwick, the crumbling, ancient manor Emily had purchased with the legacy left to her after Percy’s
death. Hazelwick lay in the park beyond St. Edmund Wood and was far enough away from the gossips and crones of Knowstone that it gave Mary peace—at least on the walks to and from the village.

  She listened to the gentle crunch of her shoes on the path beaten by generations of travelers, leaves crackling, and the scud of her heels on the earth. A deer watched her from a safe distance, poised to fly if Mary changed her direction. The last of the day’s sunlight shot amber rays through the trees and speckled the path, shining on the ancient gate of the more ancient ruined abbey that stood at the edge of the wood as a boundary between Hazelwick and the outskirts of Knowstone. Before her soared the spires and skeletal remains, the traceries of the gothic abbey buildings. Going through the abbey was the shortest route to the village. She hesitated, staring at the gate, and reached for the latch. Looking down she remembered Justin’s hand on hers.

  “…of what are you so afraid?”

  The gate creaked open and thudded close behind them. Mary’s eyes darted toward the gate and then back to Justin. “I’d rather go another way back to the village.”

  “We’ve been gone too long and your mother will have begun to worry.”

  Mary took a furtive step and looked down at her boot scuffing against what used to be a paving stone in the chapter house, the ochre and rose-colored stone displaying the edge of a trefoil pattern. She looked up at Justin smiling tenderly at her. “You will think it’s childish,” she sighed. “It is said the abbey is haunted. They are ghosts of nuns who were defiled and murdered by the Danes in the days of Æthelred the Unready.”

  “Surely they will be sympathetic spirits. Now come; I won’t let anything hurt you.”

  With his arm around her waist and her hand clasped in his, Mary and Justin walked on, pausing to admire the skeletal remains of barrel vaulting and clerestory, the shards of a stained glass window pouring colored light onto the greenwood.

  “I think in a past life you were a noblewoman. Noblewomen were abbesses and held great sway in society and at court. They were sought after for their intellect, their wealth, some for their beauty—you would be such a prize!”

  “Oh really, Justin!”

  “You are meant to be here.”

  They paused to watch the sunset, and leaning against him Mary felt his lips on her neck. She relaxed as his hands glided up from her waist to rest just below her breasts and he held her against him in an embrace.

  “Mary!” he whispered. “I will marry you! Your father will hear me out, I swear it, my dearest!”

  The sudden departure of a bird brought her attention to overgrowth in what used to be the nave of the abbey church. Beyond that were a fore gate and a path overgrown by gooseberries and long grass that led to Knowstone.

  Mary paused by the tabernacle to the Virgin that had survived the centuries of disuse. It mattered little that the Blessed Mother had lichen and dirt in the folds of her dress and spattered on her limestone face, making her painted eyes more luminous, if not frightening. Mary plucked a few wildflowers, laying them at the Virgin’s moss-encrusted feet.

  “Lady Mother, do you know what it’s like to be alone in the entire world?” Mary whispered.

  “Best not to be in places like this alone.”

  The growl made Mary start and she gasped, short of a scream. Turning, she was close, eye to eye with the gnarled creature she encountered on the night of her arrival back in Knowstone. He carried a bow with arrows, a brace of coneys slung over his shoulder.

  “Sunset soon, Miss. Best be going back to the manor,” he muttered, hobbling off.

  “Thank you!” Mary called after him. Somewhere a bird rustled and chirruped, then took flight. Mary pulled her shawl tighter and hurried along the path until she could see the lights flickering one by one in the windows of Knowstone.

  Simon the Lamplighter was already climbing his ladder up and down Whitecastle Street, leaving behind him great orange and then yellow flames in the glass lamps. Mary was surprised when he called to her and let tuppence sail through the air. “Forgive me, Mistress! I never gave you a wedding gift!” he explained when Mary looked up, holding the coin.

  “You shouldn’t. What if you have need of it?”

  “I can look to myself, Mistress,” the lamplighter replied, pulling respectfully on his cap and scrambling down his ladder, hitching it under his arm and moving on to the next lamp.

  Mary basked in this kindness for only a moment. She was still staring at the copper wonder of the two-penny coin when she felt the sting of an insect on her cheek. She slapped and found that her hand came away red, looked down and saw the pebbles. Looking round, she saw the children across the lane. They were shouting at her as another volley of stones was loosed, hitting their mark accurately. One of the stones struck her forehead sharply. Almost immediately, she felt the warm trickle of blood in her hair and above her brows. Then came jeers, and taunts, the filthy names boys learned from their fathers when they shouldn’t be listening.

  “Here, you brats! Leave off! Go home and make your mothers miserable!” Simon shouted. He slid down the ladder and came at the boys waving an oil pot with a yellow flame dancing out of the lip. As he ran past Mary, a spark lit on her forehead and the acrid smell of burning hair made her reach up to feel the burn of the flame against her fingers. She cried out and Simon was back at her side, patting out the singed hair too late. “Now see what you’ve made me do, you bastards!” Simon growled at the boys.

  “T’was your pot, not ours!” one of the boldest boys scoffed and for good measure he threw a rock that missed Mary’s head and shattered a window pane behind her. That alone made the boys scatter, screaming in fright, doors slamming shut behind them.

  “I’m alright,” Mary said to the unasked question apparent on Simon’s face. The shop owner behind the broken window only glowered at her and at his damaged window, looking accusingly at Simon, who muttered apologies and went about his work. Mary found a kerchief in her purse and pressed it against her forehead as she hurried up the street. The taunts and names were still with her when she found sanctuary in The Castle and Motte.

  “Oh lord, Miss!” Dorcas exclaimed when Mary dropped wearily into a booth. She brought a wet cloth to wipe away the blood, a glass of whiskey to dull the pain.

  “It’s nothing, Dorcas,” Mary protested. She knew all eyes were upon her and behind their tankards were mocking smiles. “I want a roasted hen and potatoes, some carrots, if you have them ready. Cook’s down with a fever, and there’s nothing.”

  “Dorcas!” the innkeeper snapped.

  “Sir?”

  “We don’t want trouble. You know the rules, my girl!”

  “Master Lawton,” Mary rasped, trying to fight the tears stinging the abrasions on her face, the painful throbbing of her forehead, the burned skin below her hairline. “Cook’s down with a fever—there’s nothing in the pantry.”

  “Learn to tell time, Miss! Or didn’t they teach you that in Oxford with the music and art, and philosophy? Supper’s done!”

  “I have money enough! I’ll pay a half-crowns! A whole crown, if I must!”

  “Master Lawton,” Nathaniel Godwin spoke up from his usual table in his usual corner, behind the usual piles of papers and books. He was busy making notes on a page and didn’t bother looking up. “Perhaps you didn’t hear Mr. Talbot’s sermon last week? Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers that you do unto me? You would not dispute that a widow or orphan, a young woman, deserves the same as one of Christ’s more fortunate brothers or sisters, such as the Harrows or Frankewells?”

  “We can’t go changing the rules for just anyone,” the innkeeper groused. “Especially those who think they’re better than most!” This last was directed at Mary, who was wiping away new tears and blood with the hem of her shawl.

  “All I want is supper! Is it so much to ask?” Mary cried with exasperation.

  “Lawton?” Nathaniel queried as he continued to write.

  Sighing, the innkeeper waved at Dorcas
and she ran to the kitchen, shouting orders. Moments later a kitchen boy lugged a heavily-laden basket that was dropped on the floor with a thud a few feet from Mary as if it were alms for a leper.

  Mary sniffed back tears and nodded her thanks. Leaving The Castle and Motte, she wanted to shake the dust from her shoes and never come back, but knew that would be impossible. On her way to the door, she hesitated by Nathaniel’s table . Nathaniel, engrossed in his sermon notes, turned to open a commentary and finally glanced up and saw her, and noticed the scrapes and cuts. He was on his feet in a moment, fumbling for his handkerchief. Before he could offer it, she was gone, the door slamming shut.

  “What is wrong with all of you, that you should treat her so severely?” Nathaniel shouted. He didn’t expect an answer and was actually relieved when he received none. When the patrons returned to their card games, conversations and drink, Nathaniel barked for more wine.

  “You’ve had enough, Father,” Dorcas admonished, taking away his cup.

  “Then send a bottle to wherever Mistress Burnley goes. Do not say where it came from. Here’s money—go on, girl!”

  Dorcas grabbed the money Nathaniel shoved at her and glanced behind her only once as she fled, taking one of the best bottles of wine.

  Out in Whitecastle Street, Dorcas saw Mary struggling with the basket as she made her way out of the village. She caught her up and smiled when Mary looked up in amazement at the sound of her name, clutching her shawl about her face.

  “Let me, Miss; I can go with you to Hazelwick,” Dorcas offered. “That basket’s too heavy—we can carry it together.”

  Dorcas took one end of the handle and tucking the bottle inside of the basket, set off towards the wood.

  “Thank you,” Mary said after they’d walked a half mile or so.

  “No need to thank me, Miss! Besides, if there are two of us, those brats won’t be back—leastwise, not until tomorrow. They’re always causing trouble. You just happened to be their quarry tonight. Tomorrow it will be poor Mrs. Galthwaite or her cat.”