Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About giving birth.'

  Should she tell Elizabeth that she has been seeing her mother; that the ghost stands behind Elizabeth's chair right now, wet and dripping, black eyes staring at Mary accusingly? Mary looks to the floor instead of meeting that dark gaze.

  ‘Will this child be the death of me?’

  ‘No. You must not think like that.’

  ‘Something is not right.’ Mary’s voice trembles. Her mother is getting closer. She can hear drips landing on the floorboards. She knows her mother is a figment of her imagination. She knows that if she were to reach out, her hand would slip straight through her mother’s body and the apparition would vanish, but that knowledge does not ease her. ‘Something with this child is not right.’

  ‘You should not say such things. Every child is born innocent.’

  Mary is not convinced. Everything can be cursed. ‘Who was that woman on the heath?’

  Elizabeth stills. Her fingers twitch as they rest in her lap. ‘I do not know.’

  ‘She is an omen. A ghost. Or a witch. Perhaps she has cursed me.’

  ‘She is a human woman who likes to scare people!’ Elizabeth shrieks. ‘I gave her satisfaction yesterday. I should never have run. I should have faced her and told her to go away. I shall know for next time.’

  ‘But why did she come here?’

  ‘Why do beggars beg? Why do whores whore? Why do pickpockets take watches and purses? Why do we do anything? Because we feel we must. Because we are forced to. Because it gives us a thrill. I do not know why she is here. Stop asking me.’

  Elizabeth’s hands are shaking, and the shaking travels up her arms and into her body. She knows something.

  Anne returns with the tea tray and sets it on the table.

  ‘Why do you think that woman came here yesterday, Anne? Did she look familiar to you?’

  ‘No, ma’am. I’ve never seen her before in my life.’

  ‘Pour the tea, Anne,’ Elizabeth commands.

  ‘I think you should have some sugar with it, Elizabeth. You are quite clearly still in shock.’ Mary drops two lumps of sugar into Elizabeth’s china cup.

  Elizabeth turns her silver spoon around in the liquid. Mary sips, tastes the bite of the fresh ginger as it slides over her tongue and down her throat. The baby kicks in response, but her second wince does not garner a response from her sister, who still stares out of the window intently.

  ‘If you are so certain it was just an ordinary woman from the village playing tricks, why are you so scared?’

  Chapter 8

  December 1869

  Her chamber is thick with old, stale air as Mary passes another hour in confinement. Her night clothes sweat with the heat of the fire, and her stomach is like a mountain in the sea of the bed.

  She has little company now. It is like she has been put here, out of the way, and no one cares to visit. Sometimes Mrs Jeffries, the newly hired wet nurse, comes to see her, but the woman is so dull that Mary would prefer it if she stayed away.

  The only other person she can rely upon to visit her at night is her mother – her dripping, staring mother – who whispers insults at her through a tight-lipped mouth.

  Doctor Jameson calls by every now and again to check her pulse, test the colour of her urine, ask how she is feeling in herself. He says he knows she is struggling with the confinement, but that she must rest, for the sake of herself and the baby.

  It will not be an easy birth at your age.

  She has never liked his honesty.

  The only thing that occupies her mind is Tom and that night. That night before she was sent into the confines of her chamber. She replays it over and over again.

  She had crept across the landing into his room. By the moonlight from the half-curtained window, she had found him asleep, the sheets halfway down his body. His face had been turned towards her, his mouth dangling open, his eyes closed and twitching. The fire had been low in the grate, and the room had a chill to it, so she had peeled back the covers and slithered in beside him. He had stirred a little when she had rested her head on his pillow.

  Tom, she had whispered.

  She had kissed his lips, as lightly as a feather quill. He had smiled, his eyes still closed and flickering with dreams, so she had kissed him again, gently at first, then a little harder until he was kissing her back, until his hands were sifting through her hair, until he was moaning, until she could feel him against her thigh.

  Tom, she had said again, in pleasure at his touch, her voice louder this time. Her hair had fallen over his face, and at the sound of his name, he had lifted her from him, so that he could see her, clearly.

  It was as if he had looked at a stranger who had come to strangle him. He had dived to the other side of the bed, told her to go, that she should not have come.

  The struggle between them is a little blurred in her memory now. Was it she who first lunged at Tom, or him at her? Had she slapped his cheek, pushed at his chest before pulling him back on to her, knocking him off balance? Or was it he who had taken hold of her wrists and dragged her out of the sheets? She could not remember their exact movements, not until they were together in front of the bedroom door, her hands in his grasp.

  Why did you marry me, Tom? You do not love me. You have used me.

  Her words had made him stop. She had thought she may have hurt him. She had thought, for a moment, that tears would spring from his eyes, and he would apologise, and say that he did love her.

  Yet, as the moonlight had shone on his face, she had seen the tinge of a smile stealing onto his lips.

  No more than you have used me.

  She had searched his face, trying to find his meaning.

  Your father turns in his grave to know that I am in his place, and that is what you wanted, wasn’t it?

  The fight had left her then. She had been nothing more than a sack of trembling skin.

  He had opened the door, taken a breath, and bid her goodnight, as coolly as if nothing had happened at all.

  That was the last time she had seen him.

  It was not a good way to begin her confinement.

  Anne lingers in the village, gazing at the small, squat houses, wondering what her old neighbours are doing inside their homes. It is the first time she has not wanted to return to Floreat since moving there. The village is too cosy, too homely at this time of the year. If only she could sneak into her old bed, curl up beside Grace, and hear her family’s soft snores. But that is a silly fancy.

  She holds her oil lamp out before her and drags her feet into the darkness. Her father had offered to walk her back, but she had insisted that he stay inside in the warm. When her mother had worried about the strange woman who might be out there, Anne had reminded her that the woman had not been seen by anybody for over two months; she would be long gone.

  Anne crosses the fields using the farm tracks, passing sheep and cattle who appear as solid lumps of black in the grey night. The moon is thin but bright, and the stars are plentiful. She gazes at the sky as she walks, trying to spot the constellations that her father once told her about, but forgetting their names and shapes.

  The heath is already beginning to crisp up. Her footsteps crunch on the new frost. She wishes she had worn extra petticoats and stockings, for the cold seeps into her toes and ankles, into her calves and thighs, and makes her shiver.

  She walks for a long time, until the magic of the starry night soon wears off. She is impatient to get into bed so that she may start to warm up. She longs to rest and sleep, for the day has been long, despite it being a Sunday. Already she is grimacing as she thinks of her work for tomorrow, wishing she did not have to deal with Mrs Oliver’s giant, sweating body and ridiculous orders. Even dealing with Miss Oliver is now difficult; the woman has been distant ever since their walk in the woods, and Anne has not been able to fully meet her gaze without flushing.

  ‘Anne Witmore.’

  Anne screams and drops the lamp.
It smashes, and the flame dies. In the darkness, something presses against her shoulder. She screams again and reels to find the strange woman looming above her, black skirts shimmering in the moonlight like oil on water, the netting on her hat covering her face.

  Anne thinks she will die.

  She tries to make a dash for it, but her toes jam into the uneven earth and she crashes onto the ground. She drags herself upright, tries to run again, but the woman clutches her arm. There is a brief tussle between them, but the woman is strong, remarkably so. Her grip burns Anne’s skin as she pulls her close.

  ‘What do you want?’ Anne says, her breath catching in her throat as she speaks. She tries to swallow, but her mouth is dry. ‘Are you going to kill me?’

  The woman laughs, and it sounds like a man puffing rings of cigar smoke into the air. ‘No.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I want you to do something for me.’

  The woman’s hand is still wrapped around Anne’s forearm. Anne tries to shake her off, but she holds fast.

  ‘I want you to spy for me. I want to know everything that happens in that house.’

  It is the last thing Anne was expecting. The surprise makes her go limp, and finally, the woman releases her.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That is no concern of yours.’

  ‘It is if you want me to do it.’

  The woman’s eyes narrow. ‘I have seen you with the man of the house. I have seen the way you look at him.’

  Cold twists in Anne’s stomach. ‘So?’

  The woman laughs again, that puffing sound, as if she has no voice box. ‘I know you love him.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘I could give you something to help if you will do as I ask.’

  It is too tempting to ignore. ‘What?’

  ‘Love potions. I could cast spells for you.’

  ‘You are a witch?’

  ‘All you need to do is tell me what you know.’

  Anne recalls the last time she saw this witch, the terror in Miss Oliver’s eyes as if she had seen a ghost, the worry in Mr Oliver’s face as he looked in the mirror.

  ‘No.’

  The witch hesitates. Her hand dives into the lining of her skirt. Something clinks, tinkles, then she brings out a small bottle filled with clear liquid. ‘This will make him love you.’

  Anne swallows, forces herself to look away. ‘I cannot help you.’

  ‘Very well.’ The witch hides the bottle again. ‘Then you will have no spells from me, and you will live and die a spinster.’

  Anne flinches but keeps her resolve. When the witch turns her back, Anne lifts her skirts and runs.

  ‘You have a very pretty mother.’

  Anne stops.

  ‘It would be a shame if she were taken from you.’

  The witch lifts her veil and reveals her face, showing the waxen quality of her flesh, like fat candles when they have spilled over and dried unevenly. Her mouth is nothing more than a dark hole. Her eyes are black marbles.

  ‘Have you ever smelt burning flesh, Anne?’

  Anne shakes her head.

  ‘Fat bubbles and spits. Skin melts. Hair singes. The pain … the pain is the worst thing you can imagine.’

  Anne tugs at her high collar, feels the heat against her neck as the witch approaches her, one step at a time.

  ‘Many women die like this. Many die while sat in front of their fires. All it takes is one ember. It would be difficult for your mother to run away, in her condition.’

  ‘Say another word,’ Anne hisses, ‘and I’ll tell Mr Oliver about your threats. He’ll get the police onto you.’

  The witch tuts. ‘Silly girl. You should not rile me so.’

  ‘Don’t speak of my ma again.’

  ‘Would she like to know how her daughter whores herself for her master?’

  Anne’s jaw drops. ‘That is a lie.’

  ‘What would your father do, do you think? What would Mrs Oliver do? Rumours spread worse than fire, Anne. You would be ruined. You would be out of that house in an instant, and you would never see Mr Oliver again.’

  ‘It is not true!’

  ‘It does not need to be.’ The witch touches Anne’s cheek and wipes away a tear. ‘You will meet me here, every Sunday night, and tell me all that you know.’

  The air is too still, the sky a fluffy grey-white as Anne trudges over the heathland. She carries a gift of lace that she ordered from the dress-maker all those months ago and a wooden toy soldier that she managed to procure from a travelling salesman at the back door one day. The two gifts have cost her nearly all her earnings.

  Once home, she finds her family playing games in the parlour. Her brothers sit on the floor and roll their plain glass marbles at the one that has been placed as the marker. Eddie shrieks as he takes the winning shot.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ Anne says.

  Eddie and Paul spring from the floor and gather about her skirts. ‘What have you got for us?’ Eddie says.

  ‘Have you brought us a present, Anne?’ Paul says.

  She takes the soldier from her basket. ‘Will this do you?’

  Eddie grabs it and holds fast when Paul tries to prise it from his grasp. They both marvel over its bright red and green paintwork and squabble over who will get to play with it first.

  ‘Oh, Anne, it’s wonderful.’ Gwen opens her arms to her daughter. Anne hugs her mother then Grace, then takes her seat. ‘How was Christmas at Floreat?’

  It had been a day of forced merriment, helped along with extra allowances of beer and rich food. She had been grateful when bedtime came. ‘Lovely. This is for you, Ma.’

  ‘Oh! You shouldn’t have.’ Gwen unfurls the long piece of lace and gasps in delight. ‘It’s beautiful, Anne.’

  ‘You should have kept the money,’ her father says but smiles at her all the same.

  Anne helps herself to a slice of cake as they talk, but from her seat, she can see the clock as it ticks away her time, and the cake grows stale in her mouth.

  ‘Is everything all right, Anne?’

  ‘Yes, Ma. I had a big dinner, that’s all.’

  ‘You seem a little ... I don’t know. You’re not quite yourself.’

  ‘I’m just tired from yesterday.’

  Her mother watches her as she sips her tea. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Let her be, Gwen. She don’t need you nagging her. Let her rest while she can.’

  ‘I’m just worried, I’m allowed to be, you know.’

  How Anne wishes she could tell her parents about the witch. How she wants to unburden herself and cry in her mother’s arms and have her father make everything all right like he always used to do. But she cannot.

  So she stays quiet, and they laugh at Eddie and Paul as they thrash about on the floor, until the clock strikes. Anne tightens her shawl, and reluctantly eases herself out of her seat.

  ‘I best be heading back.’

  She kisses them goodbye, lingering a little too long in the comfort of her mother’s embrace.

  ‘You sure you’re all right, darling?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Ma. You just look after yourself.’

  She cannot look at her mother as she passes through the back door.

  It is a black night, for the clouds have blotted out the moon and stars. She feels the first soft snowflakes as they fall upon her face, and her hand, which holds out the lamp, grows cold and wet beneath her glove.

  She walks for a long time, slowing at the place where she thinks she last encountered the witch, but the witch is nowhere. She shines her lamp about herself, but the light is useless, and she sees no further than the length of her arm. She continues walking until Floreat comes into view. Perhaps the witch has forgotten, or better yet, died?

  ‘What can you tell me?’ the witch says, appearing out of nowhere.

  Anne puts her hand to her mouth so her heart does not leap out of it. ‘Nothing. Mrs Oliver has not yet had the child, though she’s overdue. Doctor Jame
son is worried.’

  ‘What about Tom?’

  ‘Mr Oliver is ... he is fine.’

  ‘What does he do with his time?’

  ‘He spends it in his study, mostly. I don’t know what he does in there. Otherwise, he is in the library, reading. Sometimes he takes his horse, and he and his sister go riding when the weather is clear.’

  ‘His sister?’

  ‘Yes. Miss Oliver.’

  The witch seems to consider this for a moment. ‘And what does his sister do?’ the witch slurs and some spittle reaches Anne’s own lips. Anne shivers and brushes her mouth with her hand.

  ‘She sews, looks at magazines. Sometimes she joins her brother in the library. She talks with Mrs Beacham about the food.’

  The witch laughs.

  ‘I have nothing more to tell you. There is no news.’

  ‘What do you make of Miss Oliver?’

  Anne has been thinking less and less of Miss Oliver as time has passed.

  ‘Your silence speaks, girl.’ The witch’s eyes reflect the golden glow from the house. ‘She is a very beautiful woman, do you agree?’

  Anne nods.

  ‘She is prettier than you.’

  Anne’s cheeks throb.

  ‘They are close, Tom and his sister?’

  Anne would speak, but humiliation has her tongue.

  ‘How very infuriating for you.’

  ‘They are siblings.’

  The witch smiles then walks away. ‘Next week,’ she calls.

  In the library beside the fire, Liz cannot get warm. No matter how close she sits, she is perpetually cold.

  Tom reads something. It seems to be all he does now.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ she says to fill the silence.

  ‘It is a book about Venice.’ He looks over the pages at her. His right cheek is flushed from the fire, and he has loosened his shirt. ‘I am seeing where we might live.’

  Liz cannot match his optimism. ‘If we ever get there.’ She stares at the logs which burn black and orange and cannot imagine the heat of the Venetian sun on her skin. ‘If this baby ever comes.’