St. Edmund Wood

by Caitlin Luke Quinn

  “Christmas last he wanted to surprise me and took me to the theater, the opera, and there he died of a sudden illness. That is more than anyone will never know. I prefer it that way.”

  “That you should share this with me…”

  “Don’t wonder. You’re the only person in Knowstone who doesn’t condemn me to a circle in hell for what I did.”

  “This illness. Was Mr. Burnley an elder man? Perhaps that is why you met with such disapproval.”

  “He was twenty-six. The youngest Professor of History at Oxford. He was Saint Sebastian. His beauty I shall never forget. Michelangelo surely thought of my Justin when he sculpted his David. I thank God that his illness did not ravage him as it might others—no one can account for his illness. I cannot.”

  Nathaniel sighed and dared to ask: “Do you love him still?”

  “I shall always love him. One doesn’t stop loving, only the love changes. And you find that love in others and in other aspects of your life.”

  Mary was studying him carefully, her eyes skipping over every perfect aspect of his beautiful face.

  “Would you—will you ever consider love again?”

  “Of course.” Their eyes met and Nathaniel did not dare ask or expect more. The answer satisfied him. They sat quietly now, making daisy chains together. Suddenly Mary spoke up. “I’ve grown used to being alone, but not altogether used to the poor treatment I receive at the hands of others.”

  “Why do you not challenge your critics? Let them know what they believe is a lie?”

  “I am a woman and it would be considered unwomanly to face my accusers. I shall have my vengeance by success in my endeavors. You see, Mr. Godwin, I am going back to Oxford to the university. I have decided that.”

  “I applaud your nerve!”

  “Do you think it nerve? Were I a man, it would be logical. Now you sound like all the rest! I shall prove all of you wrong!”

  A hunter’s horn shattered the pastoral silence and Mary immediately got to her feet, dusting her frock of leaves and gathering her things. Beyond the clearing riders were evident and she saw that they were men of Knowstone.

  “Oh dear…” Mary sighed. “You’d best be off, Mr. Godwin,” she warned; “Another black mark against my reputation would be nothing to me, but you have a living to make and the villagers would not make it easy. It would be a terrible thing to have your reputation compromised.”

  “What others think means little. You are gentle and kind and if Knowstone knew your sorrow they would humbly beg your pardon.”

  “How can you, knowing these people, believe that? Now go.”

  The riders were closer and within sight.

  “Permit me then…”

  Nathaniel nervously and hesitantly took Mary’s shoulders and left a lingering kiss on the sweetly scented skin of her brow, another gentle kiss, chaste and sweet, on her lips. He was relieved when she returned the favor with a smile, and touched his face gently. This was done in full view of Martin Frankewell and John Harrow, out with their hunting party that afternoon. Nathaniel bade them a good afternoon very cordially and rode off, giving his courtesy to Mary with a tender and telling smile.

  Let them think what they would.

  Chapter 7

  Mary arrived home from her afternoon in the wood and her chance meeting with Nathaniel just as a storm broke, a thunderstorm that lasted for most of the night and brought with it two days of blustering rain and winds. She found herself locked up at Hazelwick with her mother, who was no more pleased by the turn of the weather than Mary. The maid and the cook saw to it in their service and presence that the tenuous peace held and all breathed easier when by Wednesday morning the skies cleared and Mary was able to go out.

  The path through St. Edmund Wood was barred by a tree that had fallen in the storm. Mary glanced about and frowned, looking for another way into the village. She shifted the basket of linens and set it on the trunk. Lifting her skirts, she tried to step over it, but it was too broad and slippery. Her attempt brought her tumbling into bracken and mud.

  It was no use. She’d have to walk through the abbey.

  Mary picked up her things and hurried, glancing at the sky. It would be five o’clock soon, and it was Wednesday. Her heart stopped when she approached the abbey.

  The ancient gate was open.

  Mary thought she was the only person who knew about the gate and knew this shortcut into Knowstone. As she approached the Virgin’s tabernacle, Charles Talbot came around the ruins of a pillar. Mary shrieked, her cry setting the birds to flight.

  “What do you want?” she demanded.

  “Anyone can walk here, Mrs. Burnley. I’m on the way to the church—I took a walk through the wood, as in the days of your father. Do you remember?”

  “Do you believe in faery folk, child? Come, let me show you a place that’s full of magic…”

  Her father’s voice in her mind was carried off by a wind that started to pick up.

  “Those days are long ago, sir. I have to go—I have an appointment in Knowstone.” Mary pushed past him but he grabbed her arm.

  “Mustn’t keep the vicar waiting, Mrs. Burnley. Mustn’t break another man’s heart!” Talbot rasped.

  “Let go of me, sir!”

  “I suppose you’ve told him all?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you tell your tale of woe; the poor widow misunderstood by family and villagers?”

  “I did not. And even if I said anything, it would be the truth.”

  “An intelligent man, a man of the world wouldn’t believe a word of it—Nathaniel Godwin is neither, but then, there isn’t a word from your sweet lips he would doubt!” Talbot edged closer, his face almost close enough to Mary’s for a kiss. Trembling more in anger than fear, Mary waited for the worst. Talbot didn’t move any closer, however. He whispered, “Thus saith the Lord, ‘your daughters play the whore, and your daughters-in-law commit adultery!’”

  Mary hadn’t heard that quotation from scripture for years and she went cold at the sound of it. “Sir, I tell you now, unloose your hand or suffer the consequences!” she rasped, trying to keep her breath and voice even and void of all emotion save anger. “There’s no one who would believe you! Why don’t you leave? Throw yourself from the castle ruins? There’s no place for you except the fires of hell!”

  “I said, let me go!” Mary growled, and felt her hand and arm go numb from the painful grip he had. “And let he who is without sin cast stones, Mr. Talbot!” she said as she managed to free herself and run toward the village.

  “No one wants you here!” Talbot shouted after her. “No one will ever believe you!”

  No one paid attention to the girl running up Whitecastle Street, nor did they care that she was weeping, her dress torn and spattered with mud. She paused only a moment to drop her basket of linens at the door of the church and ring the bell. When Nathaniel answered, he found only the basket.

  At Hazelwick, once more Emily found herself at a disadvantage, having said good day to Mr. Talbot only minutes before and now to find herself with another guest and her daughter not yet returned from the village. Would the stars never align for her? Would Mary always embarrass her thus?

  Emily tried her best not to stare at the young man sitting in her parlor. His coat and boots were the finest she’d seen, and the way his hair fell rakishly over his brow gave Erland Frankewell the look of an artist or poet from London society. Thank goodness she’d thought to wear her best gown that afternoon!

  “And your mother, is she well, sir?” Emily simpered, pouring out another cup of tea. “I do remember fondly your visit of a fortnight past, when you condescended and paid a visit here to Hazelwick. And Jane. Now there’s a handsome and obedient girl!”

  “Lady Isobel will be glad of your concern,” Erland commented. He glanced at his pocket watch, and then at the door. “You said she’d be home by now, Mrs. Witherslack?”

  “I am sorry that Sir Martin will not condescend
to you and consider your well being and your happiness. We were all hoping for a spring wedding—and now it seems it will be your sister Jane, and not yourself.”

  “It is—unfortunate. Mrs. Witherslack, I cannot stay for much longer. Please convey my greetings to your daughter.”

  He rose to leave but Emily all but pushed him back into the chair. “You know how the path from Knowstone can be treacherous in the autumn. I expect Mary will return at any moment. Please.”

  “Very well.”

  Emily sighed and then offered a pretty smile. “Just think, this formality would all be forgotten if matters had fallen into place as she should have, if Mary hadn’t taken it into her head…”

  “Mrs. Witherslack, I implore you, if all you wish to do is revisit a painful episode, you do your daughter and me a great disservice. I must be on the way. Will you tell Mary that my business with her is urgent and perhaps she will receive me in the morning?”

  “My daughter is disconsolate—her husband’s death makes her grief extraordinary, but I wish to secure a better future for her, and who better than the gentleman who first loved her?”

  “As to that I cannot say. I do not know if she would be willing…”

  “Are you saying that you would reconsider—?” Emily asked hopefully, sitting up straighter in her invalid’s chair and removing her shawl.

  “I am saying nothing of the kind, Mrs. Witherslack. You know that I would be disinherited by my father if I chose your daughter as my bride.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  The front door closed and Mary’s voice in conversation with the maid silenced them. Emily glanced hopefully towards the parlor door and her face lost all of its color when Mary entered. Erland was on his feet, though his face was flushed, that coloring that comes with seeing a beloved.

  “What have you done now, Mary?” Emily moaned. “Cora!” she shouted. “Cora! Where is that slovenly maid—ah! There you are, girl. Draw a bath for your mistress. Mr. Frankewell, I’m sure she will be more presentable after a bath and dry clothes; if you would wait just a while longer?”

  “I cannot, but,” Erland’s heart was pounding at the sight of her, the sweat rising on his palms, and the longing he’d felt for so many months returned, for even in her disheveled appearance, Mary was still beautiful and desirable.

  “Erland, you may join us in the kitchen. I’m sure the impropriety of watching a young woman wash her face would not compromise you in any way,” Mary said quietly as she wiped her nose on her sleeve. “It’s this way, if you don’t remember.”

  In the kitchen, Erland seemed more relaxed, and watched in fascination as the maid helped Mary with the cuts and bruises on her face and hands from her fall, washing the dirt away delicately. The pretty maid blushed and begged his pardon while she put up a screen and from behind it changed Mary’s ruined dress for a nightgown and robe.

  “I’ve been meaning to come by,” Erland said, his back to the screen.

  “And so you have.”

  “There is talk, Mary.”

  “Oh dear!” The voice was amused and sarcastic.

  “Have you taken Nathaniel Godwin as a lover?”

  “No!”

  Mary came around the screen in her robe and gown and Erland held his breath momentarily, taking in her beguiling yet simple attire and her beauty.

  “My father saw you in St. Edmund Wood.”

  “Has no one in this place anything better to do with their time than gossip? You know me, Erland.”

  “You were seen with the curate alone in the wood. You were seen in an embrace.”

  “And why should that offend anyone? I may be a widow, but I have not taken a vow of perpetual obedience to my dead lord and master,” Mary laughed. “I have no obligation to you any longer, nor to any man.”

  “Is he your lover?”

  “No. I tell you this plainly. And I tell you despite it being none of your business or the concern of anyone else in Knowstone.”

  Erland looked as if he studied the pattern of tiles on the floor while he fumbled for something in his pocket, drawing a small box from it—a jeweler’s case containing a ring.

  “That is the problem, Mary. I do know you well, and hope now that you would accept this.”

  The case was offered, but Mary only frowned and stepped away as if it contained the most lethal of poisons.

  “I wonder at your foolishness, Erland! Your father has said time and again that you must not renew your suit or you would find yourself penniless and without a home, without means to live. I have heard this threat more than I care to, especially since I am the cause of such anger!”

  “You mistake my meaning,” Erland said quietly. “It is the wedding ring I purchased for you almost a year ago. I ask you to take this ring and leave Knowstone. Sell the ring—it would be a year’s living at least. Get away from here. You deserve better.”

  “Out of sight, out of mind?” Mary hissed. “No.”

  “Send them away,” Erland demanded, jerking his head toward the servants. Once they were out of the kitchen, Erland took Mary in his arms and kissed her, and was not at all surprised by her indifference.

  “If you will not leave, then be my mistress. My lover! No matter what, my heart is yours, my body is yours! Our fate would be tolerable if we had something to share and I could look forward to every moment we could be together. I’ll put you up at the lodge—do you remember the place? It’s mine to do what I wish and nothing would please me more than to make it your home—our home. We would be happy there, together. You could be away from your bitch of a mother.”

  “You would make of me what is whispered and rumored, and all of it untrue,” Mary responded quietly.

  “I care only for you, Mary! I love you! I have always loved you!” Erland proclaimed, leaning in for another kiss, but was prevented by Mary’s hand against mouth.

  “And yet you would not speak up for me in that dark time and instead went away to hide.”

  “Can we not forgive one another?”

  “We?” Mary now shoved herself out of his arms and stepped back. “I have done nothing that requires your absolution or that of anyone else!”

  “Come with me—we can go to Salisbury, or—”

  “It is you who must go, Erland.”

  Mary led the way through to the hallway and was met by Emily, whose face was bright with expectation as the couple moved quietly to the door. “So? Is it decided?” she asked, looking from one to the other. Mary ignored her and opened the door for Erland who looked at neither lady as he came forward.

  “It is. Good day to you, ladies,” Erland barely whispered on his way out.

  The door closed slowly, quietly. Mary now looked at Emily and said, “It is not what you would wish for.”

  “What have you done?” Emily hissed, following after her. “What did you say to him? What did you tell him?”

  “Only that his attention is undeserved and unwanted.”

  Emily let out a scream of anguish, as if her heart had been ripped out of her chest. The howl made the cook drop a pan and set the maid to wailing, as she had dropped some of the best china while laying the dinner table. “You‘re no good to anyone, least of all me!” Emily shrieked.

  “I shall leave,” Mary announced and that stopped Emily‘s hysteria for a moment.

  “What? What say you?”

  “Oh Mother, don’t pretend not to have heard me,” Mary sighed on her way to the dining room to help the maid, who leapt to her feet when she entered. “Dear Cora! Let’s see what can be done here. I’m afraid she’ll take the cost of mending this old thing from your wage packet,” Mary said as she knelt beside the girl to help salvage what they could of a tea pot.

  “I‘m sorry, Miss! I thought she‘d murdered you.”

  “I‘m very much alive, Cora.”

  The next day it was Cora the maid who helped Mary pack her belongings and carry them to a small cottage at the end of Bottle Street.

  Nathaniel learned of this and
could not believe what he heard from Mrs. Tynemere on the following Sunday when he arrived to take dinner with her.

  “Just as the sun came up, there was Mrs. Burnley with a cart and a maid! She took old Mrs. Cuthbert‘s place , the one we call Street End Cottage - the large place with the yard and garden, the barn!”

  “I‘d not seen her all week,” Nathaniel murmured and when he noticed Mrs. Tynemere‘s smile, added, “She comes on Wednesdays with the linens.”

  “Make no mistake, Mr. Godwin, we all think kindly of Mrs. Burnley and welcome her. We’ll look after her. Now! Here‘s a fine turnip stew and some eggs, fresh bread and butter, some apples from the woodlanders. It‘s not what you‘re used to, but it‘s good fare.”

  Smiling, Nathaniel offered a blessing and tucked into the hearty meal. As soon as dinner was scraped and sopped up from the plates and the ale pitcher drained, he thanked Mrs. Tynemere for the fellowship and hospitality and finished his rounds of Bottle Street, his last stop at Street End Cottage.

  Cora answered his knock and immediately stared down at the alms basket. Before he could get a word in she said, “That should go to someone truly in need.” When Nathaniel stared in puzzlement, Cora added, “Begging your pardon, Reverend, it’s what’s in the alms basket. My mistress sewed the clothes and knit the socks. She’d be distressed if you thought she was in need of them. We lack for nothing, truly.”

  “Is your mistress about?” Nathaniel ventured.

  “I’m sorry, sir, the mistress is working on Lady Jane‘s wedding linens and won‘t be disturbed.”

  “Please convey my greetings?”

  “I will, sir.”

  With a nod, Nathaniel said good afternoon and went home. The week dragged on until Sunday arrived again and Nathaniel saw that he wore his cleanest shirt and new collar, his boots polished. Rather than walk, Nathaniel took the horse for perhaps Mary would entertain the thought of a ride to the wood. Again he made the rounds in Bottle Street and ended at Mary‘s cottage. It was Mary who answered his knock this time.

  “Mr. Godwin, is there something you wanted? Is my mother ill?” Mary asked, a tinge of curiosity in her voice, rather than concern, given the query.