by Betsy Tobin
To sit at table with so many was a novelty for me at first; always it had been just my mother and myself, alone with our silence for company. In the beginning I found the coarse talk of the men and table banter of the girls alarming; early on I found it difficult to eat at all, so much so that my weight dwindled to that of a stable boy. Eventually I mastered my senses and could speak my mind, though I still found the bawdy humor and sly insinuations not to my taste. I suppose I am my mother’s daughter in that respect, for she has little time and even less facility for an exchange of wit. Her words are full of truth but empty of grace or subtlety: it is the latter that my mistress has tried to cultivate in me. Perhaps I am the daughter she never had, though I have never felt affection for her, only loyalty. For this I am amply rewarded. I now have my own bedchamber at the top of the house; not big but private, with a small rectangular window tucked under the eave. Inside there is a real mattress and pillow, with bleached linen sheets to sleep on, and a rough-hewn trunk to hold my few possessions, most of which were gifts from her. Every year at Christmas she makes a present of some cloth that I make up into a dress or cape. The first year I cut it carefully so there would be extra left to make a bonnet for my mother. When I gave it to her she pursed her lips and thanked me, but I have never seen her wear it.
It is the windows of the Great House I prize above all. I love the way the sunlight passes through the leaded glass, creating patterns on the floor that vanish in an instant, like a whim. Before I came to the Great House, I lived in near-darkness. My mother’s house had only one window, open to the elements and facing to the north. The sun did not shine through it, and the house was always cold as a result. We lived in one room and shared a bed, which was large and hung with curtains all around to keep out the draf. The cottage was one of several rented from my master; we were the only tenants in the row who did not farm. To a greater or lesser extent our fortune still depended on the harvest; in famine years, there were fewer babies to be born, and little money to pay my mother’s fees. But in times of plenty, we did well. My mother had a reputation that extended far beyond the village. She often traveled to neighboring towns, and once attended royalty who were passing through en route to London. The baby was born early and died, but my mother was still rewarded with more gold sovereigns than we had ever seen, as she had acted quickly and saved the mother’s life.
I was fourteen when I took up residence at the Great House. I was small for my age and had not yet a woman’s body. Cook took one look at me and laughed, saying I was not large enough to stew, let alone to help prepare one. But I worked harder than the others and kept my tongue, and soon I’d earned my place. There are advantages that come with being slight: I move about the House more freely than the others, and as a consequence am privy to its secrets. It is a large house, built by my master’s grandfather in the style of his time, but has been added onto by both succeeding generations. The result is a hodgepodge of function and design. My master’s father added wings to the north and west; the former houses utility rooms and servant’s quarters, the latter a sumptuous guest chamber, fit for nobility, that is rarely put to use. My own master added a massive hexagonal turret to the east, with a library on the ground floor and a circular stairway leading to a gabled tower. At the very top is a viewing platform that only he makes use of. The turret gives the house a slightly lopsided appearance overall, being out of proportion to the rest, and oddly placed. My master himself is misshapen, his spine bent like a hook from an accident at birth, and I have often felt that he built the tower in his own image so he would feel more at home. For the Great House is very much my master’s hearth: he does not move easily among those of his class, and rarely ventures forth from his own grounds.
He is the antithesis of his mother, my mistress, who longs to keep company with others, despite her age and failing health. Her husband died when I was but a child, and since then she has struggled to maintain her place in what little society our county affords. She delights in entertainments of any sort, and follows the fashions of the court in London as best she can, which is ludicrous given her age and relative isolation. There is a small scattering of minor nobility in the neighboring parishes with whom she socializes; otherwise she surrounds herself with physicians and servants, and in this way generates her own diversions. She is scrupulous in maintaining her outward appearance and dress, and my primary task these past few years has been to attend her in such matters. That is, when she does not take to her bed with illness, as she is wont to do when there is little else to distract her. At these times, I am kept busy with frequent applications of salves and ointments, and with Scripture readings, which she believes is beneficial to one’s health. All in all, it is relatively easy labor, so much so that my position sometimes causes jealousy within the Great House, though I doubt the others would find her constant advice and tuition easy on their ears. But I have learned to tolerate it, and have developed a facility for listening without hearing, and of maintaining my own private thoughts while reading aloud.
This morning she has taken to her bed, deciding she is ill, and has called upon me to send for her physician. He lives some miles away, and after dispatching one of the stable hands by horse to retrieve him, I return to her bedchamber. When I enter, she is dozing in her bed, and it strikes me that she, like my mother, appears newly aged. Like the queen she wears a wig in public, and without it her head seems too small, her silver hair so thin it barely shields her scalp. The skin of her face has been ravaged by years of makeup, and it appears rough and reddened when she does not conceal it with powder. She has lost many teeth, giving her mouth a sunken appearance, especially in sleep, and the skin on her neck hangs in great wrinkles. When I enter her chamber, she stirs and opens her eyes for a second, then closes them again and sighs. I seat myself beside her window in my favorite spot and take up my embroidery. She prefers that I attend her even while she sleeps, and I spend many an hour by the window with only my needles and musings for company. At such times I often grow restless, but today I do not care, for my mind is once again occupied by Long Boy.
It now seems strange that only he has questioned his mother’s death. She was found by a farmer whose sheep had strayed from their enclosure. It was he who first tried to move her frozen body from the ice. When he could not, he returned to the village and a party of yeoman returned to the scene of the accident. It took them some time to carry her home; in the end they dragged her on a sledge across the icy fields. They laid her out in her cottage, and afterward I overheard one say that Long Boy had been struck dumb by the sight of her. My mother helped prepare her body for the grave. She said afterward that the back of her skull had been split open by the sharp stone, and that her blood had flown so freely there was none left remaining. In the few days that followed before she was buried, her house was the scene of much mourning. Every member of the parish came to pay their last respects, and many came from neighboring villages and owns. While I was there, my mistress’s physician came, and I watched as he examined the wound to her head. He had raised her eyelids and peered at her pupils, then passed his hands loosely over her limbs and belly in a gesture that struck me as part exploratory, part caress. Finally, he picked up her hands and examined the palms, cradling her long fingers for a moment in his own. He then replaced them and turned away, making for the door. I moved to intercept him, but before I had a chance to speak, he disappeared.
My mistress stirs and raises herself on one elbow, beginning to cough. I move quickly to her side and support her thin frame with my arms. The bones of her shoulders feel like bird bones, as if they will snap under too much pressure. Her brittle frame shakes from the cough, a dry, rasping sound that slices through the stillness of the chamber. When the cough subsides she remains bent over, her breath a whistle, and I stare down at the bald patch at the back of her head, the size of an orange, like babies have. Finally she swallows and raises her head, fixing me with her watery gray eyes.
“I shall perish from this wretched cough,” she says.<
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“No, mum,” I reply. I hand her a mug of ale, which she takes with a nod. She likes it warm, and drinks copious amounts throughout the day. She slurps down half the liquid in one long draught and hands me the remainder, waving it away.
“Where is Lucius?” she asks.
“On his way, mum.”
“He should live closer,” she says. “What if I should suffer a stroke?”
“My Lord Carrington is near to hand.”
“I should still perish,” she says with a sniff. “One cadaver treating another.” This last is not an understatement: her other physician, Carrington, is so aged he cannot walk without assistance from a manservant. The last time he attended her he himself was so overcome during the examination that he had to be carried from the room.
I return to my seat by the window, take up my needle and thread. Her eyes trail past me to the glass. Outside the sky is flinty gray. The winter has been exceptionally harsh, like those I remember from my childhood. She shivers and draws her gown more closely around her shoulders, then lies back against the cushions.
“She must have frozen within the hour,” she says obliquely. It takes me a moment to realize she refers to Dora. “For her sake at least, I hope that she was already dead,” she continues, her tone not quite indifferent. It is not the first indication I have seen of her disapproval.
“They said she was killed outright by the fall,” I reply. My mistress raises her eyebrows.
“Perhaps,” she says a little distractedly. “Perhaps it was the fall after all.”
Something in her tone catches me. I raise my eyes and she is picking at a loose thread on her bedclothes. I frown, hesitate a moment.
“It shattered her skull,” I say. “Lucius examined her.”
“Many, many times, I should think, over the course of a lifetime,” she adds. It occurs to me for the first time that age does not preclude jealousy. I do not look at her, as I can think of nothing to respond that does not smack of disrespect. We sit for a while, with only my needle pricking the silence.
“It is difficult to believe that she is dead,” she says finally. I raise my head and she is looking past me into the grayness, her expression frozen. She turns to me slowly and blinks.
I stare at her, unable to reply.
Lucius arrives an hour later, delayed by the roads, which are barely passable this winter. He bustles in carrying his case of instruments, and clears his throat with measured self-importance. My mistress appears not to notice his affectations. Indeed, she becomes coy whenever he is present, if such a thing is possible for one so old. It is difficult for me to comprehend why she behaves this way. Lucius is not much younger than she, though he is stouter and more robust. His face is not handsome but I suppose his bearing is impressive. His best feature is his hair, which although graying, is thick and lively and entirely his own. Indeed, on a windy day it operates independently of him, and I have often glimpsed him struggling to restrain it outside my mistress’s chamber. His eyes are small and piglike, however, and his nose is prone to redness. Both are made worse by the complete absence of a chin, which he tries to mask with a thin goatee and an oversized ruff.
Still, she flirts with him like a young maid, and sends for him when there is only the slightest provocation. This morning she sits up when he enters, and I am reminded of a bird opening its plume. My mistress has the ability to transform herself at will, to shrug off both age and infirmity when an opportunity presents itself. Lucius is just such a one. He bows to her and she extends a bony hand, which he presses lightly to his lips.
“Your humble servant, madame,” he says.
“You are neither, Lucius,” she responds with a wave. “But you are nevertheless welcome. I am near death this morning.”
“My lady exaggerates,” he says, stepping forward. “A touch of colic, nothing more, I should venture.” He picks up her wrist and feels her pulse.
“Perhaps,” she says with a shrug. He opens his case and takes out a cone-shaped instrument, not unlike the one my mother uses. He motions for her to bend forward and he places it against her back, lowering his ear to listen. My mistress frowns a little. In truth, she does not like the actual process of being examined, no more than she likes the various treatments he applies, but she tolerates them for the sake of his presence. I am sure he is aware of this, and he always responds to her complaints with as much gravity as he can muster. Together, hey are like players in a comedy.
“Your chest is a trifle heavy,” he says finally. “A dose of camphor should suffice.” It is his favorite remedy, and not one she is overly fond of. She barely manages to conceal her distaste.
“Very well, if I must,” she says with a sigh.
“It will clear your chest and raise your spirits,” he responds, snapping his case shut with authority.
“I should be grateful if it did not give me indigestion.” He appears not to notice this comment and takes up his case in preparation to leave. “Will you not stay on for lunch?” she asks, a note of irritation creeping into her voice.
“I apologize. I am needed in the village.”
“In the village?” says my mistress, raising her eyebrows. There are few in the village who can afford a physician’s services. “For whom?”
“The boy. The Long Boy. He has been overcome with fits.”
“How unfortunate,” she murmurs, her eyes once again flitting to the window. “They say that she froze solid.” She turns to him. “Is this true?”
Lucius blanches, for the question clearly unsettles him. “Such a thing is possible,” he says finally. “By the time I saw her she was . . . thawed.”
My mistress shrugs, picks at her bedclothes. “I suppose we should not pity her. She lived life as she chose.”
“No,” says Lucius quickly. He pauses, then deliberately relaxes his tone. “She would not want our pity.” His voice trails off, followed by an awkward silence.
“She did not choose to die,” I say quietly. They both turn to look at me, and I feel the heat rise in my face. I do not know what has prompted this thought, nor why I did not keep it to myself.
“No one does, my dear,” says my mistress pointedly. “The Lord chooses for us.”
I do not reply, thinking only that Dora did not deserve such an end. Lucius looks at me and I am sure he reads my thoughts. He clears his throat.
“Any woman in her condition would have been at risk for such a fall,” he says quietly.
I raise my head to look at him. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“She was with child,” he declares, after a pause.
“I did not know,” my mistress says, raising her eyebrows. She turns to me a little expectantly, but already my mind is distracted by the image of her lifeless body. Once again I see Lucius’s hands travel loosely over her belly. Only a trained eye would have recognized her pregnancy; it was not discernible to me. But to my mother, who laid her out in death, it must have been apparent.
Chapter Three
It snows intermittently throughout the afternoon, and by the time I finish work the grounds outside the Great House have been frosted like a cake. My feet are among the first to mar the pristine whiteness covering the ground. As I hurry along the road toward Long Boy’s cottage, the snow begins to fall anew, large wet flakes that cling to my eyelashes and clothes. I raise my face to the evening sky and the snow stings my skin with its icy, moist caress. As I reach the first few cottages on the outskirts of the village, I hear the shouts of children up ahead. The sky is dark but the snow itself lights their play. They have piled up a mound as tall as I am, and scramble over each other happily, oblivious to the cold. As I watch them tumble about in the dark, I cannot help but think of Long Boy in his bed, for he has never known the joy of child’s play. He knew only his mother’s love, and now that has been taken from him.
By the time I arrive my shoes are wet through and my toes aching from the cold. It is my mother who answers my knock at the door. She is wearing a white apron, soiled
from the day’s work, and her forehead is smudged with ash from the fire. Her face is lined and heavy, but no more than usual, for it has been so all my life. Like me, she is small and neatly formed, though her waist has thickened with age. Her once-black hair has turned to gray, and she keeps it tightly bound in a linen cap.
The inside of the cottage is barely discernible in the semi-darkness, the only light coming from a few glowing embers in the fireplace. My mother presses a finger to her lips and motions me inside, where I can see Long Boy sleeping in his bed. A pan of water lies on a chair next to the bed, and a cloth is draped over his forehead.
“His fever is broken,” says my mother.
“The doctor was here?” I ask.
She gives a curt nod and picks up the bowl, carrying it to the front door and emptying it outside. When she returns she goes to the fireplace and stirs a pot hanging over the embers. The room smells of brewing herbs. I recognize the aroma of one of my mother’s remedies.
“What did he say?”
She pauses before answering. “He gave me camphor.”
“Did you use it?”
She purses her lips and nods to the boy. “It was not needed.” My mother has little time for physicians and their cures, and has her own store of remedies made from ingredients she either grows or gathers. It is useless to argue with her over such things, so instead I move to the boy’s side. His skin is pink in the firelight, almost luminescent, and his dark hair is damp with sweat, but he sleeps deeply and easily. I stand for a moment over him; his face is a curious mixture of youth and maturity. His cheeks are round and full, like that of a toddler, but already he sprouts a downy show of black hair upon his upper lip.
My mother busies herself at the table, moving quietly about with various preparations. After a moment I turn back to her.
“Why did you not tell me she was with child?”
She stops suddenly and looks at me, her face a mask. “There was no need,” she says after a moment. “The baby died with her. I am sure of it.”