The Good Wife

by Eleanor Porter

  Then the road fell, passed the turn for Gressingham and led on into new country. At Arkholme the mist drew apart and faded; the world waked into bright warm certainty, with all its strangeness gone and the road ahead flecked with people. For five more miles we barely paused. Juno, sensing my eagerness, pushed herself to a canter wherever the road was level and clear. I wanted badly to arrive and yet the nearer we came, the more my chest tightened with mistrust. If he had left already? I might have missed him on the road by an hour, a day, a week! Oh it would be too much, too much to bear. But why, if he could walk, would he be here still? The question kept returning. He must be sick almost to death. Round and round my thoughts raced, till my lungs hurt with the pain of breathing, but always, at the last, they returned to this. Perhaps he was disfigured, or ashamed at what he had become and thought to let me have a better life without him. ‘No,’ I said aloud. ‘As long as you have life, Jacob, I will tend you, and if relief is to be found then I will find it. I have as much skill in my fingers as any London physician. I know as much as they.’

  At last, round about noon, I came to a forking of the ways. Kirkby Lonsdale, I was told, was to my left, to the right the Devil’s Bridge. I hesitated, then turned Juno to the right. Perhaps it was fear prompting me, but it seemed important to visit the bridge first, before I attempted the town.

  It was a fine spot, with the river wide beneath the vast, ancient bridge. I led Juno to the shingles to drink and there being no one by, stripped off my hose and breeches and my doublet too to stand with her in the cool flood and calm my nerves. Sunlight played on the underside of the arches in echo of the rippling water. I watched the swallows swoop and sip from the surface and listened to Juno drink.

  ‘Hulloa there, traveller,’ a man’s voice shouted. I started and looked up, he was leaning over the parapet of the bridge. ‘Best be careful there – another step or two and you’ll be over your neck.’

  He was right. I chided myself that I had not seen. A few paces further off and the shingle fell into deep dark pools. It was lucky Juno was on my left side. The man appeared behind me as I stepped back.

  ‘A fair few bones lie round this bridge,’ he said. ‘For a second I took you for a swan, in your shirt and your arms so white. Then I saw the horse.’

  ‘A swan,’ I said, staring at him stupidly, scrabbling to retrieve and fasten my doublet.

  He laughed and clapped me on the back. ‘Eyes aren’t so good these days. Come for tomorrow’s market, have you? Course I’ve lived in Kirkby man and boy, but I still say there’s no better place to trade, not north or south, east or west. Honest people you’ll find us, lad, and our girls are fresher than daisies.’ He nudged me in the ribs.

  ‘Looks like they must live off milk and butter,’ I said sweeping my arm vaguely towards the pastureland beyond the bridge. ‘I’ve rarely seen such fine cattle. Where would a stranger find a welcome, friend?’

  ‘Well, there’s a question. No end of choice. The Bull is a fine hostelry, but to my mind you could do no better than The Sun, top of Main Street. Honest food and good ale and the young man who’s got the run of it now knows horses better than any, though he’s a southerner like yourself.’

  Somehow I forced an answer. ‘A southerner you say?’

  ‘Aye, somewhere or other. A few months back. Old Jack the landlord brought him up from Lancaster. Taken the care of him after he took a blade in the belly; but he’s mended good and proper. Fixed for good now, he is.’

  I felt myself grow giddy and staggered pulling on my hose to cover my buckling knees. ‘That was a Christian act, to nurse a stranger.’

  ‘You could call it payment,’ the man said. ‘Word is the lad stepped between his master and old Jack’s youngest daughter, prevented her being forced, and her a slip of a thing, fourteen years old.’

  I nodded, unable for the length of a breath to speak. ‘God bless them both,’ I said, at last, pulling at my voice to keep it low and steady and fussing with the points of my doublet to keep him from noticing the blood rush to my face.

  ‘Aye, they’ve been blessed in it, all round. Right, well, I must leave you. Promised my sister in Leck I’d be with her these two hours. My name is Roger, Roger Alderson. Find me in town tomorrow and I’ll stand you a pot of ale.’

  ‘Jabez Foxe, your servant. God b’ye,’ I said. ‘And thank you for your good counsel.’

  After he had gone I sank down on the stone beach. So it was true; he was here, only a mile away. Soon, so soon, all this would be over. Tonight I would sleep with his warm body laced with mine. How should I greet him? How find him out alone? Should I put on my woman’s garb or be a boy a little longer? I began to undo my pack to pull out the kirtle, but then I checked myself. The thought of hobbling into town in Betsy’s trumpery, game for laughing boys, decided me – I did not want a stir; I got back up on Juno’s weary back.

  Soon enough the road became a street; workshops where men paused to watch the mounted stranger. I felt too visible, drawing eyes as a horseman is bound to do, clattering along in the dozy August heat. I got back down, gripping Juno’s bridle as though it were a candle in the dark. Main Street. He could step before me at any moment; he could stride out of a shop, like this ironmonger’s just beside me; he would know at once the roll of my walk. My guts knotted, I could not breathe, I could not think, not clearly. What would he do, what would he say – and I myself? He was well-mended the man had said. Good. And yet he had not stirred to find me. A thousand meetings played out through my head; there were people all about and I did not dare to look. Then, too soon, I reached a junction and a boy was hovering at my side. Could he take the mare? ‘Look sir, here, the stableyard of the Sun, she would be well looked after, no better yard in town.’ I nodded dumbly, took my bag and watched him take Juno through the gates. He glanced back and gestured to the inn door.

  36

  The hall was dark after the glare outside; for a moment I stood dazed, then I made out a large long room, with barrels at the back and a burly grey-haired man among them tapping ale. There were two tables of men; they looked up as I entered and nodded friendly-wise. The place smelt of ale and fresh rushes and herbs strewn in the rushes. I sat down at a table by the street door, pushing myself into the shadows.

  ‘There’s a man come in wants ale, Alice!’ one of the customers called out and from beyond the barrels a young woman emerged. She drew a jug of ale and approached me. There was a lightness to her walk, as though she was ever on the edge of dancing.

  ‘Welcome stranger,’ she said smiling. ‘Have you come far? Will you be wanting a room?’

  ‘Your pottage, if you please,’ I said. She was about my age, or younger; soft-cheeked and bonny, with bright red hair. ‘And yes, I’ve come a long way.’

  ‘Well stay a while, friend,’ she said, ‘you look traiked, you’re as pale as whey.’

  I took courage from her gentleness.

  ‘I’ve been told,’ I said, ‘a Jacob Spicer works here.’

  She stopped smiling and stepped back at once; her voice when she answered was guarded, sharp. ‘Who are you? What do you want with him? You’ve his southern tongue, the exact same. He’s not Jacob Spicer here. He’s Jacob Cockshoot. If you’ve brought another letter you can keep it, he’s been plagued enough. Near lost his mind after the last one.’

  This made no sense. I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said, ‘no letter. I … a greeting only, nothing to harm him. Please, give him this,’ I pulled a sprig of rosemary from my pocket.

  She did not take it. ‘If you ask me, he’s done all the remembering he needs to do. The past should stay home.’ She sighed. ‘But you don’t look as you mean ill. Give it to him yourself, he’ll be here presently. I’ll fetch your pottage.’

  A table called her and then she left through the door at the back, leaning to whisper to the old man. I did not want to ponder what she’d said, not yet, and I did not have time to. Another door opened; for a second a man was framed in light in the doorway, then he stepped
through. He carried a small barrel on his shoulders and was turning his head to shout to someone behind him. He limped slightly. His curls were the colour of ripe corn.

  Jacob.

  It was him: he was here, across the pipe smoke and the chatter. He lightly placed the barrel down and stood a moment.

  I felt intensely aware of his every movement, his every breath, every thread of his shirt or rush-stem at his feet and yet I could no more have spoken or stood than flown. I was like the fox or the otter that scents the hounds and freezes, hair upstaring, poised. The ale cup was hard in my hand. One of the customers hailed him and he came forward and clapped him on the shoulders, laughing. My Jacob, laughing. Life was this moment; here, now, nothing else. To have it stay so, I would forego heaven. I gripped the ale and pressed myself into the wall. Then the old man tossed a word to him and he looked up, and looked across to me, still laughing, and slowly the laughter slipped and was gone. He frowned and shook the frown off and took a step towards me, his eyes seeking out my own. All other sounds and details fell away. I looked into the fierce puzzle in his eyes; he walked towards me. A man called his name and he put up his hand to forestall him. He moved round a table, he was halfway here, his lips were forming to a name; I found my legs again and bolted for the door.

  The street was busy with people; I stared at them wildly and shrank into a dark alley opposite to quiet myself. What had I been thinking? Why was I still in breeches and hose? It could not be in there, among the ale-bibbers, that we found one another again. I could not bear an audience. The inn door opened; he walked into the road, shielding his eyes to look in each direction in turn. Oh God, the sight of him there, before me. I closed my eyes and hauled in a breath, and stepped out into the sun.

  A laden cart had lumbered between us. I couldn’t see over it. When it had passed he was gone. Then I saw him, turning into the stables. I followed. The boy was nowhere about. Did he hear my footfall on the stone behind him? I used to say that he could hear the landing of a sparrow on a twig. He did not look, but I felt how his hands and shoulders tensed. He opened Juno’s stall. Still he did not look.

  A strange calm possessed me; time held its breath. There was only he and I in all the world. Why had he not turned at once when he felt me behind him? But no matter, it was only a few paces. He was there, caught where sunlight fell into shadow, on one knee, tenderly feeling Juno’s leg for swellings. My shadow fell across him.

  ‘You have ridden her too hard. See? A windgall.’ His voice was low and choked; he leant his head against Juno’s flank. I tried to focus on his hands – so familiar, so gentle on the horse’s leg. There, the pale sickle scar on his right thumb. I reached out and let my right hand hover over his, and he turned his head to watch it. I let my palm draw closer till the thrill of our almost touch rippled through me, through us both; with a long slow indrawn breath he watched as I placed my hand on his, on his rough warm skin.

  ‘Jacob,’ I said.

  At once he twisted his hand about mine, then gripped my wrist hard and pressed my palm against his cheeks, his brow, his mouth, as he stood up, slowly, stiffly – how different from the easy grace I’d known! – keeping me still behind him so that I could not see his face.

  ‘I was not sure,’ he said. ‘There’s a boy there says he knows you, Jack said, and I looked and I thought you were a spirit.’

  I leant my head against his back and he shuddered at the touch. I could hear the fast beating of his heart. ‘Look at me Jacob. I am no spirit. I am your own true wife.’

  ‘I cannot!’ I did not understand – his voice was harsh. Then he said more gently, ‘I cannot look at you, Martha.’

  He clasped my wrist so hard it hurt me; I did not want to pull away. The stable boy appeared in the glare of the yard. ‘Jacob, I’ve mucked out and set down fresh straw and seen to all the beasts. The mistress wants to know if you’re coming in and if there’s aught else I should be doing.’

  ‘No,’ Jacob said. ‘Go in Thomas.’

  The boy hesitated, glancing at where Jacob held me fast. ‘Is all well?’

  ‘Go in,’ Jacob said, ‘all is well. Tell Alice I’ll be back shortly.’

  The boy ran back. We were alone in the close gloom of the stall. At last he turned to me, with the sun all behind him, flaming the tips of his hair. I searched out his eyes; there was something wrong; there was a horror waiting for me just beyond my vision, like a night hag glimpsed at the edges of a dream. If I could only make him look at me and draw him close surely I could blink it gone, this creeping dread. I raised my free hand to his face but he threw his head back askance. So strange and so known at once – to be here, close to him and at odds.

  ‘I had a letter,’ he said. ‘Why do you think—’ and he raised his free hand to wave towards the tavern. ‘How did you travel? Alone, poor, how did you get money? And these?’ he plucked at my breeches, ‘What led you to dress up like a man, your legs stripped to every brazen stare on the high road?’

  ‘What?’ I said, ‘You challenge me? After the road that I’ve come to find you!’ I pulled away from his grasp but he would not let me go and so I leaned in and spat my words into his face. ‘How do you think? I turned a trick with every man I met. And when there were none willing I pulled on a codpiece and followed an upright man, sometimes his doxy, sometimes his thief.’

  As I spoke I saw the fury gather in his eyes, I felt it burn in mine; then he was kissing me, hard, insistent and I was drained of anger. There was only his soft mouth and his tongue and the rough wood of the stall behind my back. He pulled his fingers through my shorn hair and across my breasts and I lifted his shirt and kissed the muscles of his chest, his ribs, the strange new rope of a scar.

  ‘Oh dear God, my heart’s darling,’ he said kissing my neck, my ears, the tears that wet my cheeks. ‘I near died for want of you.’

  I smiled, ‘I have found you, Jacob, it’s over, all’s well.’

  He pulled heavily back and drew my hand away. ‘No,’ he said and groaned, ‘I don’t know. What’s to be done?’

  I frowned, and the night hag crept back from the dark corner where I had banished her.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said, but Jacob had turned, there were footsteps in the yard and a woman’s voice rang out.

  ‘What business is it keeps you? Is he here still? If he is a friend, bring him to the parlour.’

  It was the red-haired woman who had served me. She was still more pretty in the sunlight; as Jacob stepped out to greet her she smiled and touched her belly lightly and I understood.

  I had no words, no breath for words. The night hag had me by the throat and choked me. There was only shock and darkness and a need for air.

  ‘Wait,’ he called back to me, ‘wait a moment and I’ll come with you. Please. I’ll come. Just a moment, I beg you.’

  37

  He hesitated and looked back as he ducked into the inn behind her, but I had pressed myself into the shadows. My only thought was to get out, to be somewhere with only stone and crows for company, where I could allow myself to face the horror that pressed up at me. It was real – I would not believe it – I had seen it with my eyes. I felt at once wildly agitated and separate from myself. It did not take long to saddle Juno up, to fix the bag and roll and loop the bridle over her head. I left a coin for the boy on the stall door and walked her out of the gates to the mounting block. Over and over the picture returned, her hand touching her belly, her familiar smile. A hundred yards down Main Street I heard him shouting after me, but the road was near empty and I squeezed Juno to a trot.

  I did not take the road for Lancaster but crossed the bridge and blindly headed east, towards the high fells that brooded in a line above the town. Where a likely track branched steeply off the road I met a cowman driving a dozen cattle. I opened the field gate he was headed to and the beasts lumbered through to the fresh grass. It would be a good fine afternoon, he said, and a clear night too, God willing. I pointed to the track and asked where it led.
/>   ‘It’s the fell road,’ he looked at me quizzically, ‘don’t lead nowhere, mostly.’

  I nodded and took it. Here in this wilderness, I could begin to think. Soon the hill was bare of trees and farms and the lane grew rougher, steeper and I slid from Juno’s back, remembering she was already weary with the morning’s ride. So long ago that seemed! When all seemed good and happy! Like a world made out of cloud that a child might point to and say, ‘look Mother, Father, a church spire, a castle in the sky.’ She was with child, his child. Again and again I saw the way her hand reached to her belly, the way she smiled at him. The past should stay home, she had said. How had I been so slow to piece it? I remembered the Hornby stablehand: a cousin of my mother’s in Westmorland has just married a taverner. The fellow at the bridge too, as good as spelt it out: Fixed for good, now, he is. Blessed all round.

  How could the sun shine boldly in the sky and he be false to me? So soon, only half a year since he had left! How long before he swived her, two months, three? All his vows forgotten, all our life, kicked like so much rubbish in a ditch, stepped over. Was I forsaken already when I left Hope? I had been afraid of a thousand thousand endings, but never this. I thought we had exchanged hearts, he and I, that my blood pulsed to his. A kind of numb bewilderment enveloped me. I knew a sharper suffering would engulf me soon, but as yet all I felt was a hollowness. I had seen a woman once whose house was burning. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came, although her body shook with terror. I was caught like her, waiting for the scream, for the roof of heaven to crush me with the thought of what was lost.

  The fells were empty of people. I could be as lonely here as I could wish. As I climbed higher the grass was mingled with mountain heather, already turning the heathland purple. High above a lark delicately twirled and sang. The track curled beneath a knoll where a twisted birch tree hung over a beck. Suddenly I knew that I could walk no further. I led Juno to the stream to cool her leg and then I crushed and wrapped wild thyme about the gall for want of other herbs and tied her loosely to the birch tree so that she could graze. The tussocked grass was soft when I lay down. I let my mind pour into darkness.