The Good Wife

by Eleanor Porter

  I slept with Jacob’s knife beneath my pillow. In the day I got on with the work of the opening year. There was planting to be done and Sally’s hives to be unwrapped of their winter coverings and scoured. Every day near enough I went collecting, but I was careful to take Meg with me.

  ‘How that child loves you,’ Sally said to me one morning when I came for her. ‘It’s good of you to take her off my hands. She’s big enough to be helpful but she has a way of loitering at your feet. That, or she’s found herself the tiniest nook she can and is there crouching, picking apart a stem or such like.’

  It was true, I’d often found her just beside the wood, all tucked up, her brown hair like a piece of oak bark. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘she likes small spaces.’

  Sally glanced behind to check we were alone and then leaned into me. ‘Do you think she’s right-minded, Martha? I swear sometimes she’s a fairy looking out at me, her eyes all glazy. I have to shout in her eye for her to hear me.’

  ‘I think she’s full of thinking, Sally,’ I said, ‘and sometimes the thoughts are so bright in her head she gets lost in the patterns they make. I knew a boy like that in Kynaston. They made him a grammar school boy.’

  ‘Go on with you,’ Sally said, but I could see I had pleased her, though it was nothing but the truth. The thought came to ask to have Meg stay with me, just till Jacob was back. The nights would be less lonely and if Boult did come I would not be on my own.

  It felt strange to be putting a child to bed in my own house. The first night there was a wind that banged the shutters and whined under the eaves; I woke to Meg’s whimpers. It was not such a big storm, but nothing would quiet the child, till I brought a candle stub and sat up with her head on my lap and told her a story. Every evening after that she wanted another; sometimes I plucked one from the book, sometimes I gave her one of my own. It was all one to her, clever fox or sun god. Often I would glance down and she would be asleep already, the shadows flickering her face and hair as fast as dreams. The next day, out gathering, or at our work, she would beg me to take up the thread again, ravelling out the beginning to me almost in my own words.

  ‘Tell me about your mother, Meg,’ I said once; we were scrabbling in the wood for pignuts, ‘what was she like?’

  ‘My ma? She was big and broad-looking. She had a blue ribbon, she let me tie it in her hair at harvest. She was always working and groaning, like this,’ and Meg put her hand on her back and moaned.

  ‘That was because she was tired Meg, from the baby in her belly.’

  ‘Peter ripped her all to ribbons,’ Meg said, rubbing at the earth on the root, ‘that’s what Ma Sally says, but they pulled up the blanket and wouldn’t let us see. It was stained red. I don’t think it was right, to say she was like ribbons, do you Martha?’

  ‘It’s just a way of talking Meg, it means she bled too much, that’s all. Was her hair curly like yours? It must have looked pretty when you put a ribbon in it.’

  Meg paused and frowned. ‘I don’t think it was very curly. Maybe. I don’t remember. Can we talk about something else now?’

  In my thoughts her face was pale, worn thin from bearing and suckling, and her eyes that had been like blue ribbon were shot with red. But what did I know of her? She was fading even from her daughter’s mind. I took the pignuts Meg handed out to me and kissed her bonnet. It was not her fault. What did I remember of my own mother, but moments which fled before I could grasp them and that other picture, the vision of the gallows tree that I spent so many years refusing? How little time we have to thread ourselves into the fabric of the world, especially if we are women. I thought of all the girls in Ovid’s book, becoming trees and stars. It seemed a lonely way of lasting. Would I choose that, just so I would not be forgotten? It would be better, surely, to live in people’s hearts and tongues. If I were to die when the baby came, Jacob would talk to her of me, perhaps people would tell her how I healed them; perhaps that should be enough. I took Meg’s hand, sticky with soil.

  Meg smiled. ‘Sometimes I held her hand,’ she said, ‘when she looked sad like you, and she held mine, too, when I was afraid.’

  When we got back to the cottage Annie Bartlet was at my door wanting more physic for her father. She raised her brows at us as we drew close.

  ‘Wasn’t expecting you from the woods Martha,’ she said with a wide grin, ‘or not without leaves in your hair. Pignuts is it? You could be dining on finer fare than that afore long. You oughta let yourself eat gravy.’ She all but nudged me in the ribs and I flushed, despite myself, at Meg’s confused look.

  ‘Don’t Annie,’ I whispered. ‘I don’t want to hear it and I won’t. From him or you. I sent the chain back, days ago I did it.’

  She bent her head confidentially towards me, pursing her lips as you might to reprove a child. ‘More fool you then, Martha Spicer.’

  It was a lie; I had not sent it. Every night I had resolved I would do it in the morning and every day I had put it off. The thought of seeking him out disgusted me – and what if he refused to take it, or assaulted me again? A slight fever had taken Rowland to his bed or else I might have asked him to take it; there was no one else I trusted for such a task. But I could no longer put it off. That evening I did not take down the book when Meg asked. As soon as it was light I rose and wrapped it as carefully as I could, folding the necklace in paper and placing it within.

  ‘Come,’ I said to Meg, who was still rubbing the sleep from her eyes. ‘The world’s all fresh laundered. We’ll do an errand before breakfast.’

  It was true; all smelt new washed. The road glistened. In a brake a thick clump of windflowers drooped as though the dew had made them weep. I would return the book and the chain and there would be an end to it – I would rid myself of this dread, I thought, so that I could feel fresh and clean for Jacob’s homecoming. Any lingering murmurs I could outface, because I would tell my husband everything. Everything but the kiss or how Boult had put the chain about my neck and touched me. I smiled down at Meg.

  ‘Nuncle?’ she said, ‘do you think the flowers pray? The windflowers look like they are praying.’

  ‘Yes child,’ I said, ‘they surely do. Every night they bend and pray and every morning too, until the light of day comes and releases them.’

  The world was innocent and new. I felt the familiar sickness rise in my belly and welcomed it. I would soon be able simply to rejoice in the gift I carried. A breeze riffled through the flowers and grass as we rounded the spinney where I had first sat and read the book. The garlic was coming into flower now, feathery white, but today the sky was thickening into cloud. Despite its promise, it would not be a day for lingering after all. By the time we came in sight of the Steward’s house all the light was gone grey. Meg dragged on my arm as I began a lumpen run to outpace the shower.

  It was little use our having run before the rain, for they left us standing outside the door. I had intended to give the package to the first I saw, but I thought better of it when the grease-gleaming scullery boy thrust out his hands for it.

  ‘I cannot hand it to you,’ I said, ‘I’m to give it to his man, Richard.’

  The boy frowned but shouted over his shoulder, ‘It’s the cunning woman from the village. Says she’s got a package, urgent like, for Richard to give the master.’

  ‘Well let her give it him herself,’ a man called back, ‘we’re at our breakfast.’

  The boy jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Through there,’ he said.

  Richard was in Boult’s hall, busying over the table. I stood at the back of the great dark room and coughed. Meg hid behind my back. He curled his lip when he saw me.

  ‘What is it?’ he said. ‘You’ve been paid, haven’t you?’

  I held the parcel out. ‘I beg to return this to your master,’ I began – and stopped. Richard had stood, up, his face suddenly all officiousness.

  ‘Well, well,’ a familiar voice said behind me, ‘what pretty maid is this?’ He pinched Meg on her cheek. ‘Richard, tak
e the child to the kitchen and tell them to give her some cake. Then bring food for Goodwife Spicer, she will break her fast with me.’

  ‘No need to hem and haw, woman,’ he added over his shoulder as he strode down the room ahead of me. ‘Think of this as business.’ He pulled out a chair for me across from his own and stood behind it as I sat, as though I were a lady. It had a high, carved back; he rested his hands upon it, either side of my neck and waited until Richard returned with a laden plate and a cup of ale; then he settled himself in his own seat, shook out his napkin and signalled for us to be left alone. ‘Eat,’ he said, ‘I have a mind to watch you.’

  The bread was warm and soft, but though I chewed and chewed, it was almost more than I could do to swallow. I felt nausea suck at me; I was afraid I should vomit, on all that dark wax-shiny wood. He leaned back in his chair and watched me. The beer was better, when I raised the cup it hid his face.

  He did not eat. He said nothing; I began to wonder how long this would go on. Presently, he reached across the table, picked a crumb from the corner of my mouth with his finger and put it to his tongue. I gripped the wood with my fingers.

  ‘Sir,’ I said. ‘I ask for forgiveness if I have misled you. I must ask you to take back the gift you gave me, and the book.’ I placed them on the table.

  He lifted a finger. ‘Remember where you are, madam,’ he said. ‘I will take them back when I have a whim to do so and not before.’

  ‘My husband,’ I began.

  ‘Your husband,’ he put in, taking a slice of bread, ‘is a churl, a villain, a thing of no consequence. You may put him out of your thoughts. I have asked people about you, Martha Spicer. “You mean Martha Dynely”, people said, “the little witch of Marcle Ridge.” You’re not very far from your past. Less than a day’s walk. Could you not get further than that? You were not even married in a church, girl. Let me be frank. I want you to come to my bed. I want you to do it willingly.’

  It is strange how anger can clarify the air; every detail, from the threading of the veins on his cheek or the legs of the fly, dozy with good fortune, that had settled on the meat, stood out with precision. So, I thought, it is laid out clear as a lease. I half expected him to take out a paper I should sign; the clauses numbered, what I had to gain, and lose. How easy it would be to extend his fat fingers and pinch me, like the poor fly on the beef.

  ‘Never.’ I said, hearing my voice high and brittle. Even as I spoke I realised he expected, perhaps wanted such an answer. It was sport for him, this hunting me down. I was not a woman, only quarry. ‘Never,’ I said again.

  He stared at me, almost smiling, then he stuffed the fork into his mouth and his jaws worked at his breakfast. ‘We will see,’ he said at last, gesturing with his fork for me to go.

  I stood and started for the door, but he called me to halt. ‘Take them,’ he said pointing to the package.’

  ‘Take them,’ he said again, ‘or the whole parish will know that’s my bastard you’re carrying.’

  I froze and he started laughing, great guffaws that spat the food from his mouth. I picked up the cloth-wrapped book. ‘Tell Richard I need more beer,’ he called after me.

  Meg was pink with cake and petting when I took her from the kitchen.

  ‘You’re holding my hand too hard,’ she said when we got to the lane.

  I let go. ‘I’m sorry Meg,’ I said.

  ‘Are you well, nuncle?’ she said, ‘you look poorly.’

  I nodded, ‘Let’s get home, Meg, out of the weather.’ It was no sweet April shower after all, but a steady rain and a wind that battered the branches above us and tossed the windflowers back and forth as it wished. How silly, I thought, to tell the child they prayed. They cowered, that was all.

  10

  The mornings turned back towards winter, with a dripping light that lost itself in mist. Our boots and hems were sticky with cold clay. I woke earlier every day; if I lay awake the knot of waiting tightened till I could hardly breathe, so I tucked Meg gently in and left. Always I found myself wending towards Leominster, because they would be sure to come that way, although I knew there was very little chance they’d arrive of a morning and even then, not early, but I could not help it. The expectancy was present in the pulse of my blood, in everything I saw and heard. It seemed to me sometimes that I could sense Jacob coming closer – the rise and fall of his breath on the moving horse. He would believe me, surely. I would lay out all before him and he would take me in his arms and say ‘Martha, heart’s breath, I am here now, he cannot touch you.’ And if he believed me true, and if I told him all, what might he do, then, in anger? Might he put his own sweet life in danger?

  ‘You won’t speed them with your loitering Martha,’ Sally remarked one morning, seeing me limp home from watching. ‘You’re looking that downcast lately, I’m getting worried about you, venturing out o’ mornings to feed on nothing but foul night vapours. Have you the green sickness Martha? It’s not just yourself you have to think of now, eh my girl.’

  I smiled as heartily as I could and promised I would not tempt the drizzle and the lingering mists. After that, when I rose I tried instead to steady myself with reading. The paper and the binding might belong to the Steward but that was scarce the stories’ fault. They danced free. Soon, when I lifted my eyes. Jacob would be there, as familiar as the hearth. ‘Go on,’ he would say at my ear, ‘tell me, what happens next.’ Maybe he would merely wave away all Boult’s importunements with a shrug and all would be easy and good between us.

  Later, Meg’s babble and the work to be done helped the hours to pass by; often I was called out to treat a neighbour, but afterwards, as the day wore on, I would find I could not be still in the cottage. Sometimes I took Meg with me, sometimes she went home to play an hour or two with her sister or mind little Peter; either way I would find myself limping over to the slope behind the church, where there was a good view to the road, and I would wait there until the light muddied and the sheep loomed white against the grass.

  Then, one noontime, Meg and I were returning home from Sally’s when we were overtaken by a cart in the lane. It was one of the thatchers from Bodenham. He’d come to fetch me he said, to see to his mother out by Saffron’s Cross; her leg was a running sore. I fetched my things and sent Meg back. As we rode the sun shifted the clouds and for the first time in nigh on a fortnight it felt warm. The thatcher was young and awkward at first, frowning at the reins when I addressed him, but when he fell to talking he grew easier. His name was William, he said, the youngest of four brothers, three of them working now at the thatch like their father and uncle. ‘And the other brother,’ I asked? He shrugged and was quiet a while. ‘London,’ he said. That was the last they heard of him. He’d fallen in with bad company, taken up with a doxy out at Leominster fair. He’d come back once, dressed half in velvet like a gentleman; told them he lived in London now, at a place called the Blackfriars. He was a player. Broke his mother’s heart when he left again. He squinted up the road as he talked.

  ‘You’d like to follow him?’ I said.

  He glanced at me quickly. ‘No, not me. In winter sometimes, when the idlers in the malthouse are past bearing and the candles all stubs. But the coldness of that road prevents me – that and the harm it would do my mother.’

  He stared ahead as he spoke, at the sunlit valley open before us and the meadows bobbing yellow with cowslips.

  ‘Not only in winter,’ I said.

  He glanced at me and smiled. ‘No, not only then.’

  We were quiet a while then and I felt a whisper of his yearning for a world elsewhere, for the city. I had told myself often enough it had been killed in me, by the rank closeness of Ludlow gaol, but there were days when I glanced at the road with longing. I touched my belly; that kind of thinking must be put aside now. How would Jacob be, I wondered, now that he had seen the world? Might he have discovered a restlessness within himself, for throngs and talk? I laughed softly to myself, what nonsense was I thinking! He was less tha
n two months gone; had I begun to forget him already?

  ‘My husband,’ I said into the silence, ‘is with Sir Thomas’s party that are returning from the north. It’s a lot of miles he’s travelled. I haven’t seen him these two months.’

  He whistled. ‘Then we’d best hurry. They were at Croft Castle two nights ago I heard. The lords are at odds again, I hear. Young Edward Croft returned pell-mell two weeks ago, rode on to London. Sir Thomas stopped to make peace with old Sir James. He’ll be on his way again by now. There was ever bad blood between the Crofts and the Coningsbys.’

  Oh, I thought, they might be arriving now, already. Jacob opening our cottage door, calling me and finding me nowhere. What would he think when he found I’d gone out of the parish healing, against all his wishes? Would I come home to find him angry, even before I told him of the Steward? William talked on about Edward Croft and the trail of wrongs he scattered behind him, but I could not attend. What did I care for a cossetted lord? Nevertheless, when we reached the cottage I found I could still myself and look to his mother. It was as though I stepped into a different face; my heart was all in tumult but in the foul air of the cottage with the poor woman before me, I could forget myself. My voice was clear and smooth; I explained the making and applying of the poultice to her son’s wife and waited and repeated it until she did not fumble over quantities. It was only when I stepped outside into the afternoon to wait for the cart that my breath caught in my chest with impatience. There was a problem with a wheel; it took an hour to sort; I was on the verge of walking when the cart trundled up with an easy roll.