by Betsy Tobin
But I am not prepared for her death-face, for it is cold and rigid like the mask of a player; her features are grotesque and the life has long since vanished. I stare at her, thinking of the woman I have spent the past few days remembering: the woman locked within my mind. For she is no more here in front of me now than she was this morning in my master’s library.
I turn to the painter and he stands immobile in the half-light, his eyes stunned. Perhaps he, too, was not ready to face death.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
He nods slowly, then moves a step closer to the body. “Please . . . the taper,” he says in a whisper-thin voice. I hand him the light and he holds it out at different angles, catching the light upon her face. At length he hands it back to me and pulls the sheaf of paper from his satchel, together with a lump of charcoal. He sketches quickly, purposefully, and I can barely make out his impression in the darkness. As I watch, the cold seeps into me, just as death has clenched her in its grip.
After a time he finishes, quickly stowing the sheaf of paper in his satchel. He turns to me and reaches out a hand toward the taper, but as he does a gust of wind enters through the cracks in the wall and chokes the flame, leaving us in total darkness. I gasp and the taper drops from my hand, and then there is nothing but the sound of our breaths intertwined in the blackness. I feel his hand take mine.
“I am here,” he says quietly.
His voice floats across the space, does not come or go but hovers all around us. And then he steps forward until his body is just next to mine, and I can sense the smell of him, and feel the warmth of his flesh. I turn my face until it is only a fraction from his own, then feel his lips brush lightly against my forehead. I raise my chin to find him in the darkness, can think of nothing but finding it: the warm, dark center that is him. And then I feel his mouth on mine and I am swimming in his skin, until suddenly, unwillingly, I hear the scrabble of the door and see a thin shaft of light reach across to where we stand.
I turn and trace it back unto its source: a beacon in my mother’s hand.
She stares at us from the open door, her eyes like pinpricks of anger. Her face shimmers eerily in the half-light of the beacon in her hand. I see a movement behind her and Samuell steps forward from the shadow of the doorway, his expression confused. In one quick movement the painter and I separate, and we are suddenly two strangers in a room with a corpse.
“How came you here?” says Samuell sharply.
“It is my fault,” I say quickly. “I wanted to look upon her one last time.” Samuell looks from me to the painter and back again. I keep my eyes upon his face, avoid my mother’s scrutiny.
“What of him?” he asks after a moment. I hesitate before replying, but the painter intervenes.
“I asked to see,” he says quickly. “The dead are of interest to one of my trade.”
“She is not some curiosity at the fair,” says Samuell.
“Forgive me,” says the painter.
“You can ask the Lord’s forgiveness. It is not mine to give,” says Samuell. Just then a man’s voice shouts for him in the yard. He hesitates, then looks at me.
“We’ll not be long,” I say. He slips out the door, leaving me to face her in the flickering light.
“Mother,” I say after a moment. “Are you all right?” She nods then, slowly.
“I’ve come to pay my last respects,” she says finally. She looks only at me, does not acknowledge the painter’s presence.
“The boy?” I ask.
“He sleeps,” she says. And then, still looking only at me, her voice as hard as flint: “He has no right to be here.”
The painter steps forward. “I am not a voyeur,” he says, his voice polite but firm. I raise a hand to quiet him, see the shadow of a frown cross his face.
“He is carrying out a commission for my master,” I say slowly. “A portrait. Of her.” My mother silently considers this.
“It is not right,” she says finally, and I can see from the set of her jaw that there is nothing I can say to change her mind. A that moment I am poised between the three of them: my mother, the dead woman, and the painter, and struggle not to lose myself within their triangle.
“It is time we left,” I say, beckoning toward the painter. I cross the room and slip out the door, past my mother’s motionless anger.
Once outside I walk briskly toward the kitchen door. “Wait here,” I tell the painter, and I go inside to give Mary the keys. She gives me an admonishing look.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“ ’Twas devilish luck,” she replies. I smile and slip back out the door.
The painter waits for me, but I cannot read his expression. We cross the alehouse yard in silence, and when we reach the road he turns to me.
“I do not understand her anger,” he says stiffly. “A portrait is harmless enough.” I stop short and turn to him, consider my reply. It is not easy to explain my mother’s actions, and yet I would not have expected anything but her response, for I know her mind as well as my own.
“It is the idea of it that offends her,” I say finally. “The great-bellied woman belonged to no one in life. To no man. My mother thinks it is wrong for him to try to own her now.”
“He wishes only to preserve her memory,” he says.
“He wishes to have her to himself, as he could not have done in life,” I reply swiftly. We stand facing each other in the darkness, and we are miles apart.
“I see,” he says finally. He frowns and turns away. It is evident that he does not see. I watch him for a moment in the cold light of the moon.
“It is not just that which angers her,” I say after a moment. He looks at me expectantly, and I take a deep breath before replying. “It is the fact of my presence there . . . with you.” I choose my words carefully, and cannot meet his eyes when I utter them. We both stare at the frozen ground, and the silence stretches out between us. And then finally his voice floats up out of the darkness.
“I apologize if I have compromised you in any way,” he says stiffly. “It was not my intent. I only seek to carry out my commission successfully.” He clears his throat and looks away again, and I feel my heart race with anger. Perhaps my mother is right: men only seek to further their vocation. The painter and I are not partners as I had thought: I merely serve to buttress his ambitions.
I turn and walk away into the night, leaving him behind me in the cold.
Chapter Thirteen
When I was seventeen I very nearly lost myself. The man in question’s name was Joseph and he was an itinerant quacksalver who plied his trade throughout the county. He was some years older than I, past his thirties, though of robust good looks and youthful vigor. I first saw him at a market fair, hawking his potions with a fervency that I had rarely seen outside the pulpit. But unlike most of his kind, he seemed to me no charlatan. His belief in the healing properties of his tonic was absolute, or appeared to be so at the time. And I am ashamed to admit that my belief in him was very nearly the same.
He had no carthorse, as is common among those of his trade, but carried his stock upon his back, in a rough woven pack that lay at his feet while he spoke to the gathering crowd. But his clothes were finely cut and his hair artfully tied at the nape of his neck, and his eyes were of a brilliant blue, like the plumage of some rare bird. I stood for several minutes at the back of the crowd and listened to him expound upon the merits of his tonic. Rheumatism, palsy, gout, the stone—it seemed there were no ills it could not cure. And while I was tempted to acquire some on behalf of my mother, I had not the necessary money in my pocket, so I kept my place and watched as he disposed of several bottles among the crowd. At length their numbers dwindled and only I remained, and he turned to me expectantly. He held out a bottle and I blushed and shook my head, and he stopped in front of me and pushed his three-cornered hat back so it rested precariously on the back of his head. He glanced around, saw that we were alone, and spoke with some degree of candor.
“Are you beyond the reach of ill health, or merely skeptical of nature?” He tilted his head and awaited my response, a glimmer of a smile upon his lips.
“I am neither, sir,” I replied, blushing.
“Then perhaps you are here for your amusement.”
“I thought at first to make a purchase,” I stammered. “But find my purse is light.” He nodded knowingly and smiled.
“A light purse is a most regrettable affliction, but it is not beyond cure,” he said. Then it was my turn to smile, for I could see he did not think ill of me.
“How much do you have?” he asked outright.
“I have but one and sixpence.”
“Then that is the price you shall pay,” he said, handing me the bottle.
“No, sir, I could not. It is too generous,” I protested.
“It is nothing of the sort,” he replied. “The day is long and my pack is heavy and one and sixpence will buy me a hearty supper.” And with that he pressed the murky green bottle into my hands and turned away. I watched as he disappeared into the crowds, his pack slung over one shoulder, and I was left clutching the bottle to my breast.
That night when I presented my mother with the bottle, she asked me warily from where it came, and for what price. When I told her she frowned and shook her head. “You’ve paid dear,” she said. With some eagerness I explained that I had in fact received a better bargain than the others. She looked at me and sighed.
“Men who offer much for little are not worthy of your trust,” she said.
“He wanted nothing but my custom,” I said defiantly.
She raised an eyebrow. “Such generosity does not come without its price,” she said, turning away.
“You will not even try it?” I asked, incredulous. She turned back to me with a pointed look.
“You should not have parted with your money.”
I stared at her, too angry to speak, then snatched up the bottle and left.
Two nights later when I went out to the yard of the Great House to draw water, I heard a commotion in the chicken coop. I rounded the corner just in time to see a figure disappear inside the stable. I stood in the open doorway, struggling to catch a glimpse within the darkness. After a moment I heard a squawk and the beating of wings, and the same quacksalver emerged from the shadows clutching a pullet by its feet.
“I thought to make a purchase, but find my purse is light,” he said. I stared at him in disbelief before replying.
“A light purse is a regrettable affliction,” I said finally. “How much do you have?” He held his free hand up in the air.
“Naught,” he said. Just then the pullet squawked again. I stepped forward and held out my hand for the pullet, and he surrendered it with a grin.
“What happened to your earnings from the fair?” I asked.
“I met with ill fortune,” he said. A gambler, I thought. I should have known.
“Another sorry affliction,” I replied. He smiled and threw up his hands in defeat. And then he waited, and I realized that the next word would have to be mine, for I had caught him red-handed, and thievery of livestock was a punishable offense. We stared at each other for several moments. And then I spoke with as much seriousness as I could muster at the age of seventeen. “Wait here and I will bring you a plate of food.”
When I returned he was lounging on a stack of hay, looking for all the world as if it were his rightful place. I shook my head in wonder as I handed him the wooden platter, piled high with scraps of meat, half a loaf of bread, some pickled onions, and a boiled egg—whatever I could procure from the kitchen without drawing attention.
“You are too generous,” he said with the slightest trace of mockery. I watched him eat in silence for a minute.
“The potion you sold,” I blurted out finally. “What did it consist of?” He stopped chewing and wiped the grease from his mouth with his sleeve.
“Naught that would do harm,” he said slowly.
“And naught that would do benefit,” I replied evenly.
He considered this. “Optimism is a powerful tonic,” he said a last. “And there are many who are sadly lacking in it.” At this I could not help but smile, for I had no doubt that he was right. I stayed until he finished, and when he handed me the empty platter he tipped his hat and bowed.
“You’d best be gone,” I said.
“When you wake, you’ll not remember I was here,” he said with an enigmatic smile. And then I watched as he slipped out of the yard and disappeared in the dusk.
But he was wrong, for when I rose the next morning I was tinged with regret at his departure, for the world seemed to shimmer in his presence. I went about with a melancholy air that day, so much so that my mistress deemed me pale and sickly, and ordered me to retire early. But I was far too restless to do so and walked out into the spring evening, choosing a route that ended up at the stable. When I paused to look inside I was stunned to find him there, asleep upon the same stack of hay in the corner. I approached him slowly and as I did he woke and smiled at me.
“I came to repay my debt,” he said. And then he reached inside his purse and withdrew one and sixpence and held them out to me. I stared at the coins in his palm.
“Where did you get this?” I said doubtfully.
“An honest day’s wages,” he replied. I frowned, for work was scarce at the moment, as the rains had delayed planting. Besides, the amount was too much and I knew it.
“Do not take me for a fool,” I said darkly.
“And do not take me for a common thief,” he replied, holding out his palm. “I did not say what kind of labor,” he added.
I hesitated, then took the money. “I suppose you require a plate of food.”
“I require nothing,” he said. “But neither would I refuse.”
Once again I stole into the kitchen on his behalf, choosing carefully so as not to raise Cook’s suspicions. This time I brought a tankard of ale as well, and when he saw it he raised an eyebrow and I blushed at the suggestion that I was favoring him. He pulled up a milking stool for me to sit upon, and chattered happily while he ate, regaling me with stories of his travels. At seventeen, I was spellbound, for outside of my mistress and the great-bellied woman, I had never met anyone who had journeyed farther than London.
When he finished the ale I slipped into the Great House to replenish it, for I was as thirsty for his words as he was for the drink. When he’d emptied the second tankard he seemed to sense my dismay, and as he handed it to me he leaned forward and startled me with a sudden kiss upon the lips.
“Forgive me,” he said quietly, but did not withdraw, and when he met with my own stunned silence, he kissed me again, this time more slowly, and I remember the taste of ale upon his lips, and their unthinkable softness. This time he left me breathless, for such feelings were entirely new to me, and I was quickly in their throes. He seemed to sense this and drew back momentarily, eyeing me.
“You’ve not been with a man before,” he said, and I shook my head slowly. Then he took the tankard from my hand and placed it gingerly upon the floor, and spread his cloak upon the straw while I watched, mesmerized by his movements. He turned back to me and held out his hand, and when I placed mine in it, he gently pulled me down onto the makeshift bed.
And there I lost myself to him, and to my own desires, plunging deep into the darkness of his flesh.
Afterward I was drenched with doubt. I passed a sleepless night in my room, and rose the next morning in a turmoil. Until that day, lust had not been a part of my vocabulary: I had not been raised to acknowledge, let alone anticipate, pleasures of the flesh. The specter of my mother was also freshly planted in my brain, uttering truths about the price of generosity. That she had been right irritated me enormously; that I had not been more resistant to his advances filled me with self-loathing. And so I was left bearing the weight of these two conflicting crosses: desire and shame fought within me like sparring siblings.
At the end of our evening together he h
ad managed to extract a promise from me to return upon the morrow, so the following dusk I prepared myself to meet him and disavow any further interest. I waited in my room until the time was right, choosing a frock that was severe and somber in its aspect, and rehearsed my little speech of forbearance ten times over, determined not to give way once again unto temptation. Finally, when I could stand it no longer, I once more crossed the stable yard, expecting to find him in a state of high anticipation. But all I found upon entering the stables was an empty pile of straw, whose disarray was the only clue to the previous night’s occurrence. I planted myself upon the milking stool and waited three full hours for him, until the well of anger and humiliation within me rose so high I thought that I might burst. Just past midnight I crept across the stable yard and into the Great House kitchen, hoping to God that I would meet no one on the stairs.
The following morning, after a night of dreams in which he repeatedly appeared to me in the guise of various demons, I threw the green bottle and its murky tonic of optimism into the stream behind the Great House, wishing for all the world that I had never come across its maker. For some time after, I took to reading Scripture in the evenings, hoping to purge myself of any residue of sin. And after some months I managed to banish entirely the memory of that unthinkable softness, and the molten desire which accompanied it. Not surprisingly, relations with my mother improved greatly during this period, as if by renouncing any claim on the world of men, I had renewed the bond between us—the cord of loyalty that binds mothers and their offspring not just at birth, but in my case, forever after.