by Mary Nichols
Then he was gone and she remained in her seat, staring at the overturned chair. He had sentenced her to death, a sentence which he seemed incapable of revoking. Or perhaps he didn’t want to. He had not expected Susan Chalfont to tell her about that curse, but when she had he must have realised he could not stay and watch her die. But how was she to die? Illness, accident, childbirth, murder? No one had explained that. And why, in the name of God, had he made her his wife in truth as well as name? He had said he loved her. No, he had shouted it angrily, in a fit of temper, not gently and lovingly, as a man ought. But he could be gentle and loving; he had it in him to be everything she desired. He had pulled her from the ice when he could have left her to drown, had carried her tenderly home and put her to bed. And he had taken her from Chalfont House, where she would undoubtedly have died from an overdose of laudanum, if not her injuries, and had sat by her bed and begged her to live. That must have been guilt; it could not have been anything else.
Was she even going to survive the next three months? Should she stay in her room, never going out, waiting, watching for the blow to fall? She began to laugh crazily, filling the room with the crazed sound, unable to stop herself. He had almost succeeded in making her believe she was doomed. She was not going to die, she was going to live. She was going to live in order to confound him. He would stay away until their first anniversary and then he would come home to find her alive and well and the mother of his child. And then what? Reconciliation? No, that was impossible. Divorce? That was unthinkable. Her laughter suddenly turned to tears as she contemplated a future without him. She wept with her head buried in her arms on the table, wept and wept until she had no more tears to shed.
She lifted her head at last. Everything was as it had been before—the dinner-table with its plates and dishes; the overturned chair; the closed door through which he had disappeared and on the other side of which servants waited for her summons; the curtains at the window, beyond which her blurred vision could see sky and lawns and ducks waddling. The summer day had not ceased to be a summer day; there was no great tumult in the sky, no thunderclap. Everything was normal. She got up slowly and went to her room, where she washed and changed into a cool silk gown, put a light shawl about her shoulders and went out. She would not cower at home; she would go out and meet her fate with her head up.
Penny followed her at a discreet distance because she knew she would be in trouble from his lordship if she did not. Margaret realised she was there, but pretended she did not. She wanted to walk alone, to breathe deeply, to stand and watch the great bowl of fenland sky, with its light clouds chasing each other on a zephyr wind, to look into the water and see her own reflection alongside the images of the drooping willows, to try to understand the reason behind it all, to calm herself. She was only a tiny particle of God’s creation and it was He who dictated who should live and who should die, not some half-demented woman. She turned for home.
Roland watched her from the window of his bedchamber and his heart ached for her. He wanted to rush down and say he had changed his mind, that he would stay with her and they would fight the demon together. But it was no longer a simple matter of whether or not he believed in the curse; it was all about trust and faith and love, and she could have none of those for him. She knew Susan had tried to kill her and she believed he had condoned it. Perhaps he had; perhaps by taking Margaret to Mount Street and allowing Susan to take her upstairs he had given Susan carte blanche. He felt as guilty as if he had done the deed himself. No woman with any spirit would forgive that, and Margaret had more than her share of spirit. She was walking along the road from the village now with her head held high and a smile on her lips for everyone she met. How could she smile? Did she know something he did not? Where did she find her strength? He was glad of it; she would need it in the weeks and months to come.
In the early autumn days that followed, Roland was more taciturn than ever. His behaviour veered from an over-solicitous concern for her well-being to a crabbiness which he did not seem to be able to control. His remedy for that seemed to be to disappear for hours on the fen. If he found her company so distasteful, she wondered, why did he delay leaving? Why not go at once? Could it be that he was waiting for a summons from Susan Chalfont?
She tried not to think about that, and directed her restless energy into preparations for re-opening the school as soon as the children could be spared from the harvest fields, and to looking after the welfare of the villagers, doing her best always to appear cheerful and at ease, though the effort often exhausted her. Wherever there was hardship, she was there with a basket of provisions and clothes; wherever there was sickness, she was there with medicines and a cool hand; wherever there was a dissent among the women, she was there to see justice done.
‘The villagers have taken you to their hearts,’ Roland said one day when, for a change, he had come home for dinner. ‘I do believe there isn’t one who would not die for you.’
‘They respect and admire you, my lord, and as I am your wife——’ She stopped, wondering if she had said the wrong thing. Would it remind him that he wished it were otherwise? ‘Besides, I like to do what I can for them.’
‘But you must not tire yourself. Remember, you have been very ill, and the child…’
‘I am perfectly well,’ she said, putting her hands over the bump in her abdomen and feeling the baby kicking. ‘You do not have to coddle me, you know. Everything is perfectly normal.’
Now she really had said the wrong thing. His face clouded and he hurried from the table, saying he had forgotten that he had promised Barnard that he would look in on one of the horses which was foaling.
It was like living on a knife-edge, she decided. And ‘normal’ was the very last word to describe their marriage. She sighed and went to the kitchen where Cook, with help from the village women, was preparing a feast of beef and mutton, fowl and fish, fresh-baked bread and home-made ale for the harvest horkey which was to be held in the big barn behind the Manor as soon as the harvest was finished. There was no shortage of things to do, but nothing seemed to take her mind off her troubles.
She was standing beside Mistress Coulter when the last sheaf of corn was taken from the harvest field, decked with flowers and ceremoniously brought to the barn and nailed over the door, where it would stay until the following harvest. ‘It guarantees a good year,’ Mistress Coulter told her.
‘More omens?’ Margaret queried, unable to stop thinking of that fearful curse.
‘A good one, though.’
‘What do you do if you want to break a spell?’
‘Why, you consult the wise woman, my lady.’
Margaret had heard of her before. She lived in a cottage on the edge of the fen and dispensed nostrums and spells to everyone who cared to consult her. A hundred years before, she would have been condemned as a witch, just as Anne Capitain had been, but now she was simply tolerated.
‘Do you want to consult her, my lady?’ the woman went on, looking at Margaret knowingly. ‘Do you want to know if your baby will be a son or a daughter? She can tell you, you know.’
‘No, I do not mind which it is. I shall be happy with whatever God sends me.’
‘Amen to that. It don’t do to meddle, does it?’
‘No, it certainly does not,’ Margaret said fervently as all the villagers, dressed in their Sunday best, crowded behind the cart carrying the decorated sheaf and poured into the barn.
Roland, for once, was in a genial mood, joking with the men and paying compliments to the women. He made a speech, praising the workers and telling everyone the harvest had been a good one, and, with the new dyke, they need not fear the fields being flooded in the coming winter. He was cheered to the rafters and then held his hand up for silence again. ‘I have to go away on the King’s business, but I leave my affairs in capable hands.’ He turned to smile at Margaret, then faced them again. ‘I charge her to look to you and I charge you to help her all you can. Believe me, I would not go at such
a time if it were not imperative. God bless you all.’
There was silence and they looked at each other, wondering what to make of this announcement, then one of them called out, ‘Aye, my lord, you may depend upon us.’
After that there was a general scramble for the food, and when they had eaten their fill the tables were pushed to one side and a fiddler began to play for country dancing. Margaret felt too heavy and cumbersome to dance, but she watched for a while, sitting with the older women, tapping her feet to the rhythm until Roland, noticing she was tired, came to take her home.
It was late afternoon on the following day, when she was out walking with Penny, that she remembered her conversation with Mistress Coulter and decided to go and see the wise woman. It was not that she wished to consult her about her own particular demon, but it would be interesting to find out why the fen people set such store by her. Roland was busy elsewhere—she suspected he was deliberately keeping out of her way—and she had nothing to occupy her before supper, so she set off along the drove which led to Sedge House, with the protesting Penny several paces behind and getting further behind with every yard they went.
Halfway along the lane, she turned off on to a narrow path which lay higher than the summer field—ground which was dry in summer and submerged in winter—to a little creek on the edge of the permanent fen. The cottage stood by itself, surrounded by an osier-bed. It was in good repair, bright curtains hung at the windows and the door stood open. A cat, sunning itself on a bench beneath the eaves, stretched and yawned as she approached, and jumped down to rub itself against her legs. She bent to stroke it.
‘She likes you,’ said a cheerful voice. ‘That’s a good sign.’ Margaret looked up to meet the blue-eyed gaze of the woman who had come to the door. If she had expected to see a bent old crone in voluminous black clothes, she was doomed to disappointment. The woman was plump and middle-aged, wearing a brown linen skirt and a flowered cotton blouse. On her greying hair she wore a crisp white cap.
‘I am Lady Pargeter,’ Margaret said, looking round for Penny, but the girl had stopped at the corner and would come no further. ‘I heard you lived here alone and I thought——’ She stopped suddenly.
‘And I am Janet Henser. I have been expecting you.’
‘Expecting me?’ Margaret queried. ‘How can you have been been? I decided to come only a few minutes ago.’
‘Everyone visits me sooner or later. Come in, my lady; sit and rest a while.’
After a moment’s hesitation, Margaret ducked her head to go through the low doorway of the cottage and found herself in a bright room furnished with a table, a chair, a bench, and a bedstead. There was a rug on the dirt floor and a kettle boiling on the fire. A shelf under the window held a collection of bottles, odd-shaped lumps of wood, small pieces of bone, a bowl containing pins, and an array of herbs. Everwhere was spick and span. The cat had wandered inside and was now curled up on the bed, washing itself.
‘Sit, please,’ Mistress Henser said, busying herself with the kettle and a teapot. ‘I will make you some herbal tea. Now do you wish to consult me or have you come simply from curiosity?’
‘No, no,’ Margaret said quickly, seating herself on the chair. ‘I am merely making a social call.’
‘As you wish.’ She poured tea into two cups and handed one to Margaret. ‘Drink it; it will soothe you while we talk.’ She sat on the bench opposite Margaret and looked at her closely. ‘You are disturbed.’
‘Not at all. Why should I be?’
‘My lady, you should never lie to a wise woman.’ She smiled. ‘Your husband has already been to see me.’
‘Roland came here?’ Margaret could not keep the surprise from her voice.
‘Why not? He was greatly troubled and needed help.’
Margaret could hardly believe that Roland, who was Lord of the Manor and a Justice of the Peace, should stoop to consulting such a one. But he had behaved so oddly lately that she knew it to be true. ‘He told you about the curse?’
‘It was already known to me, my lady.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I offered him a solution, but as he had no faith in it there was little point in proceeding. And besides, the ingredients were impossible to find.’
‘What ingredients?’
Janet chuckled. ‘We needed a lock of hair, or nail parings, from the person who made the spell, but as she died over a hundred years ago and has no marked grave we would have had to substitute something else—perhaps something of you, my lady, as she was your ancestor. This would have to be sealed in a small glass bottle together with some apple-pips and pins, and placed in the back of the fire.’
‘It would explode.’
‘Yes, it would, and when it did that it would blow all the evil away.’ She shrugged. ‘If his lordship had had sufficient faith it might have worked.’
‘I believe he was right to be sceptical.’ She paused, wondering what else Roland had had to say. ‘Did you advise him to leave me?’
‘He had already hit upon the idea, but I agreed it had some merit.’ She leaned over and stroked her cat, which began to purr loudly, reminding Margaret that witches often had cats as familiars—demon helpers. She stopped her foolish thoughts when Janet spoke again. ‘He must go. It is necessary to appease the evil influences which were at work when the curse was made.’
‘When does he go?’
‘Very soon now, my lady.’
‘He has told you this?’
‘No, but I know it.’ She watched as Margaret’s good sense fought with her doubts, and added, ‘You have the power to bring him back when the time comes.’
‘How can I?’
‘By willing it.’
Margaret forced herself to smile. ‘I fear he goes to pleasanter company than mine and, if he does not want to return, there is nothing I can do about it.’ She gave a cracked laugh. ‘Nor anything you can do either.’
‘No, my lady, not if you do not wish it. You have to have faith.’
‘In your spells?’
‘No, in yourself.’
Margaret was puzzled. She had expected a different sort of person, someone who looked the part, and she had expected incantations and potions and dire warnings, none of which had been offered. ‘Tell me, how did you come to be a wise woman?’ she asked.
‘I inherited the power from my mother, who taught me how to use it.’ She smiled. ‘Have no fear, my lady, the force is not used for evil. I try to do good. If the people come to me for their remedies and I am able to help, that is all I ask.’
‘With witchcraft.’
Janet Henser smiled. ‘No, simple faith, my lady.’
‘If that is all, why do you need all these things?’ She indicated the objects on the shelf. ‘Why exploding bottles?’
‘Faith needs something tangible, something the suppliant can do or hold, or have me do, to reinforce it.’
‘Then it is not faith.’
‘Indeed it is, my lady, just as the parson’s collar, the candles on the altar and the taking of bread and wine in communion strengthen the conviction of those who believe in God.’
‘You set yourself up in competition with God,’ Margaret cried angrily, jumping to her feet. ‘That is the worst kind of blasphemy. You will burn in hell for it.’
The woman seemed unperturbed. ‘Each to his own, my lady. I am a believer, just as you are. There are many paths to God; we each have to find our own.’ She paused and looked up at her visitor. ‘Do you have faith, my lady?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Then trust in it, my lady. Believe that all will be well, and it will be.’
‘Is it as easy as that?’
‘No, it is not easy. Your will has to be even stronger than the beliefs of those who think otherwise. Even though he does not wish it, your husband is convinced you will die. He cannot help it. You must overcome his conviction with a stronger one. Now, please sit down again and drink your tea.’
Margaret d
id not know why she obeyed; there was no hint of compulsion, no threat, no piercing eye, no coercion at all, and yet she sat down again and drank her tea and, after a little while, she felt calmer.
It was strange that Mistress Henser and the Reverend Mr Archibald should both give her the same advice, both tell her that she should have faith. But faith in what? God? Yes, she had that. Faith in the omens? Perhaps, but also faith in herself, in her own strength to overcome evil.
She was not going to give in; she was going to fight. She would go on living, not just for the next few months but for years and years, and she would have a healthy child, one who would never know about a curse put on the family by a vindictive woman all those years ago.
CHAPTER NINE
IT WAS late when Margaret left the cottage, and growing dusk, but she told herself she was not afraid and the darkness held no terrors. Penny, who had had neither the pluck to follow her mistress into the cottage nor the courage to leave her and go home alone, was waiting at the end of the track, tense and fearful. Margaret smiled at her and took her hand. ‘Come, Penny, home for supper. I am famished.’
Moonlight lit their way. It threw shadows across the path, shadows of the windmill with sails slowly turning, so that there was continuous movement around them, first light, then deep shadow, then light again, and the very earth seemed to be alive. The creaking of the buckets and splash of water as it was tipped into the drain sounded loud in their ears. A frog croaked near at hand and an owl hooted somewhere towards the village.
‘Oh, my lady, we shouldn’t have come,’ Penny sobbed. ‘If we was to meet that hateful black thing…’
‘What hateful black thing?’
She looked round fearfully and dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Black Shuck, my lady.’
‘Nonsense! There is no such thing.’ Margaret spoke sharply, but she could not deny that she was nervous and would have felt more so if she had not had Penny for company. Talking to keep up the girl’s spirits also bolstered her own. She was glad when they at last turned in at the gate and made their way towards the lights of the Manor. Almost at once the great doors were thrown open and Roland hurried across the courtyard to meet them. Behind him stood several menservants.