Quintspinner

by Dianne Greenlay

  “Did she say anything?” Tess pressed.

  “No. Mind, I’d not gotten close to her, but I knew when I saw her, who she was.”

  “Let’s seek her out one day. Soon.”

  Cassie turned to look at Tess in amazement. “Are you mad? Why would you want to?”

  “I don’t know. I just want to. Maybe she’ll tell our fortunes. Wouldn’t that be exciting?” Tess flopped back onto her soft mattress.

  “Tess, your father would whip you if he ever found out you went to her, let alone to that part of town. It wouldn’t be good for his reputation as a doctor and respectable citizen to have his daughter consorting with the like.”

  “Well then,” Tess retorted with a conspiratorial smile, “he mustn’t ever know.”

  A faint high pitched squeal that ricocheted off the walls and echoed down the hallway abruptly interrupted their conversation.

  “Charles the Third bellows, Madam, and I must go” Cassie groaned and gave a tired smile.

  Tess held up a hand towards Cassie. “You go to bed.” The squeal was more insistent. Tess rolled her eyes and sighed. “I’ll tend to the little monster.”

  “No, it’s my duty,” Cassie responded and wrapped herself in her dressing gown.

  “This one time, I’ll go,” Tess countered, “he’s my brother, after all–” As soon as her words were out, a flicker of hurt flared in Cassie’s eyes.

  “No. I’ll go,” Cassie affirmed, the smile fading from her face, and she hastily left the bedroom, padding noiselessly down to the nursery.

  Cassie was Tess’s unofficial adopted sister. Cassie was also one of the family’s servants. She was neither full kin nor indentured servant. She had been received as a young child, in partial payment for medical services that Tess’s father had provided to a nobleman’s family during an outbreak of fever.

  The deadly fever and sickness had spread like wild fire through the man’s house servant and serf populations, decimating both, including Cassie’s parents, before ripping through the nobleman’s own family. Cassie, spared but orphaned by the plague of disease, had been brought into the household by Dr. Willoughby himself. Not a supporter of slaves in his own household, the doctor nevertheless felt pity for the youngster and all other possible destinations for her seemed filled with only certain hardships.

  Accurate birth records on servants and slaves were seldom kept, but by an estimation of his own making, based on the number and size of the child’s teeth, Cassie had been perhaps only two years older than his six year old daughter, Tess. Dr. Willoughby had accepted his patient’s desperate payment scheme, knowing that the man’s fortune, like so many of the fever’s victims, had nearly disappeared in less than a fortnight.

  Now, at nearly eighteen, Cassie had grown into an attractive young woman. Her hair curled, rather than kinked, in loose waves reaching past her shoulders and nearly to her waist, onto golden brown skin.

  Like a man’s morning coffee with a dollop of sweet cream stirred in, was how Tess’s mother had once described the color. Cassie’s teeth, no longer gapping with the smile of a shy eight year old, were straight and white. This in itself made her stand out from most people, as darkly stained or missing teeth were the norm by adulthood. Elizabeth Willoughby, however, would not abide poor oral care within her household, demanding that everyone, servants included, polish their teeth and gums with a spit-rag before retiring each evening.

  Although Cassie had grown up officially as her house servant, most times Tess considered Cassie to be a sister, a replacement for the blood sibling she’d never had. As children, the girls had been inseparable. Tess herself was blossoming into womanhood, and she and Cassie were often compared, her creamy complexion and own head full of thick, soft, copper colored ringlets to Cassie’s darker palette.

  “You two are like the sunrise, all gold and red, and the sunset, all soft shadows and tawny dark,” Mrs. Hanley, the family’s corpulent cook, had declared. “One’s always sure to be followin’ the other, too,” she noted, nodding with a smile of satisfaction on her face, pleased with her philosophical observation. Mrs. Hanley often made such pronouncements about the goings-on around her, although Tess was quite certain that the jolly woman had never had real education of any kind, and was, in fact, like most of the household help, perfectly illiterate, not being able to read a single printed word.

  She was, however, a treasure house of folk wisdom and often shared bits and pieces with the girls, of the folklore and mystic chronicles that were firmly entrenched in her beliefs. Many blustery winter nights had been spent with the three of them cuddled in front of the roaring kitchen fireplace, sipping on hot broths brewed from the various vegetations that the girls had helped to collect during the growing season.

  “Ya’ know,” Mrs. Hanley had once said, her voice low enough that her words would not have carried beyond the closed doors of the kitchen, “there’s a reason us three gets on so well.” She had nodded her head, her plump cheeks and second chin shaking ever so slightly, as her eyes had sparkled with the excitement of sharing her secrets with the girls.

  “Three’s a strong number, ya’ know,” she had confided, looking at each girl, ensuring that she had their rapt attention. Looking back and forth from one to the other, she had leaned alternately toward each of them and continued in a quiet voice, “It’s a thing of nature, three is. Three’s the number that’s important in the Church, fer them what studies and teaches there, but fer us all, three’s the number of parts to a family. Mother, father and child. And three’s involved in lot of things–sun, moon and stars, fer instance, land and water and air. And the Irish have their three leafed shamrock fer luck … but the Irish luck and magic, well … that’s another story altogether.” She’d shaken her head and given them a wink, and then rushed on. “Three makes a triangle, all sides and points,” she’d whispered conspiratorially, “and everyone knows that ‘third time’s the charm’.” She’d beamed at them and gathered them in her arms. “However, mostly three’s fer things what wants to be together, like us!” she’d exclaimed happily.

  Tess and Cassie had also spent many daytime hours in the warmth of Mrs. Hanley’s kitchen, sipping hot tea and eating her freshly baked biscuits while seated at a table where Tess had painstakingly taught Cassie her letters and numbers. Most times, Mrs. Hanley observed the lessons none too tactfully, peering blatantly over the girls’ shoulders.

  “That’s right,” she would advise in an authoritative voice from behind, in apparent sagely assessment of Cassie’s written words, “but be a bit cleaner with yer penmanship, won’cha now.” And glancing sideways at each other, the girls would bite their cheeks to keep from laughing out loud at such a formal judgment of their work.

  It was expected that Cassie would stay with the family until marriage or a further employment offer arose to change her destiny. Hers was an odd arrangement. The Willoughby’s had raised her alongside their own daughter, as one of their own, although like their house servants, she had been given daily tasks to do. For such tasks, she had begun to receive small payments for herself on the occasion of her approximated sixteenth birthday. Nevertheless, no one ever discussed her leaving.

  She had been dressed and schooled in the social graces as Tess had been, and Dr. Willoughby’s approval was expected to be sought out by any prospective young men wishing to spend time in his adopted daughter’s presence. Not that there were many. The socialites of upper class London may have secretly found the young woman to be attractive and intelligent, but her mixed parentage was still a negative factor in most of their eyes. Cassie did not care. Her life had been blessed with this family–people who treated her with respect and, yes, even loved her. She had no wish for change.

  With them, she had learned all of life’s basic skills. Her assistance in the kitchen with Mrs. Hanley had taught her how to cook, to start or bank a hearth fire, and to keep a living space clean and tight enough to discourage rodents, insects, and disease. The errands that she ran for Mrs. Will
oughby introduced her to the finer things in life–soft linens and laces, teas, sweets–and gave her respected contact with the merchants involved in their procurement.

  Dr. Willoughby’s errands were more likely to be of an urgent nature–delivering letters and messages to colleagues and patients, picking up an assortment of medical supplies–he seemed to forever be running short of herbal mixtures, suturing supplies, surgical tools, and bandaging materials–and it was one of Cassie’s duties to keep the shelves in the surgical room at the Willoughby’s residence fully stocked. In between market visits there was the expected daily cleaning routine for her to perform as well as a thorough mopping up in between patients as required.

  This last task was her least favorite, as Cassie did not have the stomach to sop up the jellied blood and small puddles of putrification and bits of flesh and bone that were invariably present after a surgery She admired Tess’s fortitude and her ability to help her physician father when he required an extra pair of hands. The amputations and the birthing were the worst, she had decided, although the amputations were over quickly, while the birthings were hours, sometimes days of agony.

  Cassie had also decided that she never wanted to put herself through that agony. Her lack of suitors was a blessing to her. Coupling with a man would only bring pain and a life of looking after yet one more person.

  No, Cassie assured herself, I have no wish for change in my life. I have enough.

  Life with the newborn was unbearable. Charles Thomas Willoughby III was mostly a mewing brat, in Tess’s opinion. He had only four stages of existence–sleeping, crying, eating, and pooping–and he rotated through them with the same regularity as the arrival of night and day. Tess’s mother had remained weakened and bedridden for several weeks after the difficult birth, and a melancholy had settled deep within the woman.

  The babe was small, with scrawny limbs that seemed soft and floppy, until he was startled, at which time he would throw his head back, his arms and legs shooting out in stiffened little sticks, making him look like a human starfish. The biggest things on her brother, Tess observed, were his eyes and his voice. Everything seemed to upset him, sending him into a high pitched screaming fit that grated on her nerves. The birth had been long and difficult, her father had explained, and such tumultuous births often left babies easily irritated.

  At the time of the birth, he had checked the newborn over and quickly pronounced him to be ‘unmarked’. The relief in his voice cut through Tess like a surgical scalpel. Her own birthmark–an acorn-shaped brown spot below her left earlobe from which a few delicately shaped teardrops trailed three finger widths long down her neck–had always been a source of shame to him.

  “Ye’ve a gypsy’s earring, ya’ have,” Mrs. Hanley had cheerfully explained to Tess when she was old enough to understand. “That’s what it is, alright.” Her eyes had narrowed and she whispered, “The Fates mark their Chosen …” and she’d looked suspiciously over her shoulder as if expecting someone to jump out at her that very moment, before she continued, “but that’s another story altogether.” She had sighed and smiled at Tess. “Mark me words, little one, much of what ya’ imagine will become a reality fer ya’, if ya’ wants it bad enough and ya’ can put yer mind to it.” She had nodded in her wisdomly way. “Yer meant fer great things, ya’ are,” and she had hugged Tess to her bosom, kissing the girl’s head. “Great things.”

  Her father did not share Mrs. Hanley’s optimism.

  “Mrs. Hanley, this is a Christian household! I’ll not have you speaking of gypsies and pagans within my home! Not while you are in my employ!”

  He required Tess to wear high collars, powdering the mark over when she didn’t, and her hair was nearly always fixed in a left sided plait. An overheard conversation between her parents and not meant for her ears, had brought Tess’s sense of self worth into painful perspective a few years prior.

  “Charles, she’s past thirteen years of age,” her mother had pointed out,” and we must start making arrangements for possible suitors–”

  “Elizabeth, have you forgotten that she is marked?” her father had asked irritably. “What reputable man would have her so?”

  “The ‘mark’ as you call it, could possibly remain out of sight until after the marital legalities were completed, by which time it would be too late to matter.”

  “I am quite certain ‘false pretenses’ would be adequate grounds for annulment.”

  “She’s not disfigured, Charles! It’s just discolored skin–”

  “People less educated would not interpret it so!” he had shouted. “Better that she had been marked by cowpox or measles than carry the mark of the Druids! It’s pure superstition, but superstitious people talk! As do any who are in envy of our station in life.” He had stabbed the air with his finger as if to mark his next thought. “At least a pox survivor would have some great worth in the work force.” And with that, her mother had abruptly risen from her chair and swept from the room.

  Out in the hallway, Tess had shrank back from sight, tucking into the darkness of the under-stairs cubby, hot tears of shame sliding silently down her cheeks, her hand softly covering the side of her neck.

  The chowder, thin and oily, had an overpowering smell of fish to it. William hoped the smell of rotting fish that he had encountered earlier had not come from the cook’s galley. Still, he had not eaten since the previous evening and the broth was warm. As he swallowed down the lumpy chowder, he studied the one called Samuel Smith, sitting across from him. Silky brown eyes stared calmly back at him.

  Thin as he was, what flesh Smith did have, was well defined muscle; his hands seemed extraordinarily large, attached to the ends of such lanky forearms. William noticed that Smith’s knuckles were swollen and covered in scars and scabs. He’s been in some scraps, alright. In fact, the more William stared, the more he noticed that Smith seemed to be covered with scars everywhere. His upper arms were laced with a cobweb of silver strips that disappeared under the body of his shirt, and a long thin one on Smith’s cheek seemed to pull up on the corner of his mouth, leaving him with a permanent half grin.

  “How’d you get those scars?” William nodded towards Smith’s arms. Smith glanced down at his own shoulders and shrugged.

  “Kissed the gunner’s daughter a time or two.”

  The gunner’s daughter? A female? On a ship?

  William himself had kissed only one girl. Maggie. They had been behind the slaughter shed the first time, and it had been at Maggie’s instigation. He had sensed rather than felt someone behind him and when he had whirled around he had nearly knocked her over, she had been standing so close to him. He had reached out to steady her grabbing her by her upper arms. She’d fallen in towards his chest, and not by mistake he came to realize, as she’d quickly risen up on her toes, and turning her face up towards his, had pressed her moist lips to his.

  He remembered his surprise and feeling a rush of pleasure as their tongues had met, and he’d returned the kiss fiercely, holding her tightly to him, his hands traveling up and down her body in new exploration. The warmth of her young breasts, the tautness of her nipples as they hardened in response to his palms cupping her breasts had made him aware of the hardening in his own crotch. He was breathless and he had pulled away to catch a snatch of air, before kissing her again.

  A hunger for more–much more–of that pleasure was stronger than the guilt or the fear of getting caught, and he and Maggie had met on several occasions after that to enjoy their new intimacy. There had been many nights that William had listened to the grunts and gasps coming from his parents’ bed, and his fantasies of his secret meetings with Maggie had brought him his own solitary pleasure, his low moans going unnoticed amid the sounds of his parents’ coupling.

  Maybe she had been worth it, this gunner’s daughter. He could not imagine however, being scratched so deeply so as to be scarred like Smith.

  William’s puzzled look seemed to amuse Smith. “You’ll have yer own set ‘af
ore long I ‘spect,” he said, rising from the table, “near everyone does, sooner or later. Come on. You’re a midshipman, but you’ll also be helping Cook. Them barrels is the food stores fer this particular sailing an’Cook’ll have ya’ fetchin’ from them, I’ve no doubt. I just hope that yer skills is considerable less than his,” he cocked an eyebrow up and continued, “as it wouldn’t do to have the men gettin’ fat on flavor, or eatin’ fer any other reason other than to stay alive.” In spite of his fear of his strange surroundings, William smiled at Smith’s description, and felt some of his tension drain away.

  “You’ll start at mid evenin’ shift, so’s the breakfast is ready by dawn.” Smith pointed ahead of them deeper into the gloom. “Down there’s the slings.”

  The ‘slings’ proved to be narrow strips of stained canvas strung in the fashion of hammocks that were hooked from the rafters of the deck flooring above their heads. Row after row of the grimy sheets swung from the ropes, in rhythm with the ship’s sway. Most rows had two layers of the makeshift beds strung one above the other. A few were occupied, the sailors’ arms and legs hanging over the edges, with the width of a sling being roughly only the space between a man’s shoulder blades. Thinner sailors obviously slept more securely and comfortably in these contraptions.

  “When you’re off shift, grab an empty one,” Smith instructed. “Best to choose one what’s highest up, but give her a shake just the same.”

  “A shake?”

  “Fer dumpin’ cooties and such off ‘afore lyin’ yer own noggin down amongst them.” Smith saw William’s face cloud in confusion. “It’s to rid yer sling of the little buggers and chiggers what’s fallen off from the lad who slept there ‘afore ya;–do ya’ not know even a single thing?” Smith asked exasperatedly.