‘He would be delighted, I would think, to find himself with a wife so much fairer than he had thought,’ I said levelly. ‘We could tell him the truth: that we swapped places so that you could see him.’
I could tell that my reference to her fairness pleased Cat. She arched her neck and preened, but at least she had the grace to laugh when she caught my eye. ‘Mary, you will not persuade me,’ she said, wagging her finger at me. ‘I would not make a good merchant’s wife. You marry Mr Thorne if he pleases you so.’
Barely a week later, a letter arrived announcing the imminent return of George’s nephew, the new Lord Delahay. Cat took the news as a personal affront, forgetting that I had been warning of this for months.
‘What shall we do?’ I said, equally dismayed. ‘Now we have no choice but to go back to Steeple Tew.’
Cat stilled suddenly. ‘No,’ she said, resolute. ‘I am not going back. Put together my jewels, Mary, and any coin that you can find.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Anthony and I have talked about what we would do if this came to pass. We will be married whether Avery wills it or no,’ she said. ‘We will leave this very afternoon. I will not wait for George’s nephew to turn me out. I will not be married off to a man of my brother’s choice.’ She put up her chin stubbornly. ‘This time, when I marry, it will be my choice, and I choose to be happy. I choose love.’
I gaped at her. ‘But how will we manage? What about Cecily?’
‘I cannot take her. You must see that.’ Cat seized my hands, blue eyes imploring. ‘You care for her, Mary. I give her to you! Take her back to Steeple Tew,’ she said. ‘Avery will not turn away his own niece. Anthony and I are bound for France. We have often talked about it, and now we must do it.’
She bundled up the jewels and her gowns, chattering wildly about her love for Anthony. She would not listen to reason. Love, love, love was all she would talk about, as if that made it all right to abandon her daughter.
To abandon me.
That night, when she and Anthony had climbed into the carriage and bowled away, the house yawned emptily without her. It was the first time we had been apart since I had arrived at Steeple Tew all those years earlier. I had not believed, not really, that Cat would leave me alone.
My throat was tight as I sat in the nursery and held Cecily on my lap. She was but a babe still, and her huge eyes, so like Cat’s, sparkled as she chuckled and bumped her forehead against mine. Her chubby hands clutched at my hair but I welcomed the pain as she pulled.
‘I will look after you,’ I promised her, but I was not sure how.
When the messenger arrived, I thought at first that the letter he brought would announce the arrival of the new Lord Delahay, and my fingers trembled as I broke the seal. The wax splintered over my skirts like drops of blood, and I brushed them from me in horror. How would I explain to him that Cat had gone? Would he be kind, and let Cecily grow up as part of his household? What if he were cruel, like George? Would he let me stay to care for and protect her? Or would he send us back to Steeple Tew with the shame of Cat’s elopement to hang over Cecily forever? The questions hammered at my brain so remorselessly that it was a while before the words stopped dancing on the parchment and settled so that I could take them in.
The letter was not from Lord Delahay at all. It came from Steeple Tew. The sickness Avery had mentioned in his letter to Cat had spread and taken hold, sweeping through the village. Avery and Jocosa were both dead. If only Cat had waited a few days was my first thought, but in the end, what difference would it have made? The manor would pass, like Haverley Court, along the male line. The new owner was likely to have little use for a maid turning up with a child who she claimed was Cat’s daughter.
Like a startled coney, my mind ran frantically in different directions, stopping, starting, bolting afresh in search of a way out. Oh, if only I were Cat and could have married Gabriel Thorne, all would be well, I thought.
If only I were Cat . . . The idea dropped through me like a stone into a well.
Write to me, Gabriel had said.
Avery and Jocosa were dead. They would not be at the wedding to point fingers, and who else would know or care that I was not Cat? No one.
Who would know me in London? No one.
It was wrong, I knew that, but what else was I to do? I had Cecily to think about. I could consign her to the uncertain care of indifferent guardians, who would treat her with contempt, the unwanted poor relation as I had been, burdened with the scandal of a runaway mother. Or I could take her to a comfortable home.
I thought about Gabriel’s cool eyes, the steady way he had looked at me. I thought about his sons, who needed a mother, and Cecily, who needed a father. I would bring her up as my own, he had said.
It was a monstrous deception, but I dared not wait to see what George’s nephew might be like. He might be kind – but he might not.
I went to George’s closet and found some parchment and some ink. I had considered his offer, I wrote to Gabriel Thorne, and I had made up my mind. I would marry him. My daughter and I would come to London as soon as would please him.
I signed the letter: Catherine, Lady Delahay.
PART III
Chapter Fourteen
Cat
London, Little Wood Street, June 1590
Oh, what a dreary June it has been! Sullen clouds weeping a perpetual warm drizzle that has turned the streets claggy and spangled the heavy woollen cloaks that made us all sweat. The dullness of the weather is as nothing to the dullness in the house, though. Three weeks since, Gabriel and his young son Tom took ship for Hamburg, and nothing feels quite the same.
You are pining for your husband, I can tell. Oh, you manage him very well, I must admit. You have him dancing on a string. When the rest of us were singing and making merry that night, you sat and rubbed your scar and looked sour, and then you took yourself off to bed, knowing that Gabriel would follow. ‘A headache,’ he explained, but I felt sure that you had no headache when he excused himself a few minutes later. No, you and he will have been going to it in that soft bed of yours while I was left to entertain the others. I could smell it on you both, see it in the way you looked at each other. The next day your skin glowed at morning prayers and a small satisfied smile lurked around your mouth.
It chafes at me that you should find so much pleasure with the merchant. I confess that on closer inspection he is not as doughy as I thought at first. He has none of Anthony’s style and elegance, but he has a certain quiet appeal, I will grant you that. There is something reassuringly solid about him. I am sure you know just what I mean. He has a nice mouth, and though his smile is rare, when it comes, it is a pleasant jolt, a kick to the heart.
It did not take me long to persuade you to have a feather bed laid over the flock mattress so that I can sleep more comfortably. It is still not as comfortable as your bed, though, is it? No curtains for me, no cushions, no embroidered coverlets or furs. Not that I need fur when it is so hot, but it is the principle of the thing. The knowledge that your bed is better than mine is a tiny piece of grit on the fine sheet, digging into me whichever way I turn.
And you share yours with Gabriel, while I sleep alone.
So, yes, I can quite see why you glow so. Your husband pleases you mightily.
It is not fair that on top of everything else you have pleasure too. But so it has always been. You have whatever you want. You have never suffered, Mary, not truly. You looked down your nose at me when you saw how bedraggled I had become, but you know nothing of what it is to be at the mercy of a man. All those years I protected you, and in return you took everything that was mine: my name, my kin, my status, my daughter.
Gabriel could have been mine too. I may have made a mistake that day I left him to you. I dare say he would have been happier with the real Lady Catherine. I’ll wager I know some tricks that you have never learnt as a staid merchant’s wife.
I sigh regretfully as I fasten my gown. Of
course, it would have been better if Gabriel had bought himself an estate and a title. I would have been more than content with him as a husband then. He would not have wanted to watch me swived by another man, or use my beauty to attract foolish men with coins in their purse, mere pigeons for the plucking at cards or dice.
Of course you can never tell. That I have learnt.
Still, no fucking for you for a while, not until Gabriel comes back from Hamburg, and that will be some weeks away. Your husband’s absence weighs heavily on you, does it not? I see you pretending to put a brave face on it, but you are pale and scratchy, and the truth is that I am feeling more cheerful knowing that your perfect life is not quite as perfect as it normally is.
And today, for once, the sun is shining. Those depressing clouds have lifted and there is a lushness to the air, a startling greenness to the trees hanging over the garden walls and the grass in the churchyards. A smell of summer that drifts into the city in spite of the stench of too many cesspits close together, and the pungent odour of streets crammed with people and horses and pigs and geese and sheep and cows and ducks and hens and dogs and cats and rats and all the other creatures that scuttle along the gutters or are driven through the city gates. But to my relief, I have not seen or heard a single peacock here.
Gabriel left you and John in charge of his business while he is overseas. Tedious work, it seems to me. Men’s work, and if you had any sense you would leave it all to John, but no, you must spend long hours down at Gabriel’s warehouses. What is it that you do there? Surely you are not standing on the quayside supervising the loading and unloading of ships? Perhaps you inspect everything as you do in the market, turning things over, lifting them to your nose, prodding and poking, pursing your lips and bargaining.
John is quite capable of managing the business by himself, but no, you must always know best. If John had any backbone he would tell you to take your nose out of his affairs, but he is distracted of late. My fault, I fear. The moment his father had taken ship, he declared his love for me, and what could I do but laugh at him? I may sing with him, but I have no desire to tie my fortunes to a young man who can do nothing for me.
‘John is too young for you,’ you whispered furiously, and I could not agree more. I have married for status, and I have married for passion, for all we did not bother with witnesses. If I marry again, it will be for wealth and comfort and security.
It will be so that I can have what you have, in fact.
Now John is languishing. His heart is broken, he thinks. His smile is not so quick, his eyes not so steady. He bought me gifts, but what do I want with gloves and trinkets? He may bring me jewels, a ring or a bracelet perhaps, and I will look more kindly on him, but until he has your husband’s wealth, he will never win me.
So he is sulking like the boy he still is, and thinks to punish me by leaving us in the evenings to go to the taverns with his friends. As if I care that we do not sing any more.
You have been at the warehouses from first light and no sooner are you home to break your fast than a message comes from Goodwife Blake who lives off Milk Street. The woman is fretting as usual about her precious child. Every week it seems he has some rheum or other, but instead of rebuking her for her insolence in sending for you, you rush off at her summons. I cannot understand why you do not tell her to stop fussing, but no, you must always please everyone. What is it you are constantly making amends for, Mary? Why must you always be liked, no matter what cost to yourself? You have no idea how tiresome it is for the rest of us who care less what others think and say.
Cecily and I are entrusted with going to market while you make speed to save another soul. I will shop, but I will not sew, sing but not scour. Cecily and I smile at each other with equal insincerity when you give us our instructions. I am inclined to protest, as a matter of principle – am I really to be ranked with a snippy girl? – but the day is so bright and inviting after the gloom that I am glad to get out, Cecily or no.
Baskets over our arms, we trip down Wood Street to Cheapside. It always makes me think of the time I saw you again. I have stopped fearing that Anthony will see me. I have seen no sign of him, heard nothing about him. Besides, he will surely have moved on by now. He talked grandly of finding a position at court, or at least with one of those who hang around the edges of court. I thought it was unlikely in the extreme that his fortunes should change after so long, but I would be glad to know that he is not in the city any longer, I must say.
Still, I no longer look fretfully over my shoulder as we make our way along the stalls. You have sent us out to buy provisions, half of which I cannot remember, and Cecily is no use. ‘I don’t know,’ she says unhelpfully when I ask if we are to buy strawberries or cherries, cabbage or cucumber. ‘It is your job to remember.’
And then, when I decide on strawberries, she stares as they are tipped into my basket. ‘You should have checked they were good,’ she says. ‘Mamma always checks.’
You have spoilt that child, Mary. You treat her like that horrid wooden baby you carried around at Steeple Tew as if it was something precious instead of a burned stump dressed in a rag. Cecily might mind her manners while you are by, but when we are alone, she is pert and impudent. You must have noticed, too, how she puts herself forward. It is most unbecoming in a maid. But you never chide her when she plays the wrong note or makes me sing off-key. ‘She is just learning to play,’ you say. If you ask me, Cecily knows perfectly well how to play if she chooses. She just does not like it when I sing because everybody looks at me instead of at her.
She is like a gnat buzzing at my ear, and frankly, I am glad when she spies a friend and drifts off to irritate someone else. It leaves me free to pretend that I am mistress once more, and not a mere companion. I imagine myself in a costly gown, out to shop for velvet and silk, some lace perhaps, or some pearls, not cabbages and flour. That the goodwives who stop to speak to me admire my gown, instead of inquiring respectfully after you. I amuse myself by hinting that you are not quite as virtuous as they believe. It is easily done, after all. A raise of my brows, a widening of my eyes and then a rather too obvious recovery.
‘Yes, indeed,’ I say. ‘It is good to know that we can put our youthful mistakes behind us. Oh, did you not know? Please, forget that I spoke.’
Or when they speak admiringly of how devout you are, I look doubtful for a moment, and then smile when they ask if something is wrong. ‘Oh no, no, nothing at all,’ I assure them. ‘She is devout now indeed.’ But now trembles in the air. I can see them thinking there must be more to know. One or two even try to probe our relationship, but I cast down my eyes and simply say that I have known you a long time. I laugh to myself to imagine what they would say if I told them the truth, that their respectable Mistress Thorne stole my identity and lies every day of her life. Hah! Perhaps one day I will, but for now I am minded to bide my time. It is better to keep the truth in my armoury for now. I hold it like a weapon over you. It gives me power, but like an arrow, once unleashed it is beyond my control.
When I get back to the house in Little Wood Street, you are in the kitchen, looking pale and cross. ‘Where is Cecily?’ you demand, rubbing your throat. I see the scar from when you rescued your wooden baby from the fire still livid on the side of your hand.
‘With her friend,’ I say carelessly, plonking my basket on the table. ‘The pudgy one.’
‘Joan Parker?’ You frown. Cecily has lately abandoned your gossip Anne’s daughter for the daughter of Mistress Parker, she who hides her jealousy and resentment of you behind a mask of fawning smiles, and you do not like it. Joan has a flouncing way with her that you fear will encourage Cecily. ‘She should be with you, though, Cat. She is only thirteen. I do not want her wandering around the city on her own.’
‘Oh, she is safe enough,’ I say. ‘Besides, I have no authority over her. She does what she will.’
‘She can be headstrong,’ you acknowledge.
‘I wonder where she gets that from?’
I say innocently, and you shoot me a look.
‘Did you get everything?’
‘I think so.’ But when you unpack my basket you find fault with it all. The strawberries are crushed and rotten. The oats are powdery. Did I not dig my hand deep into the sack to check? And why have I brought home a limp cucumber?
I see Amy and Sarah exchanging glances behind your back, and I burn with humiliation. How dare you speak to me like this? Anyone would think that I really was your servant!
I am not often grateful to Cecily, but when she dances into the kitchen, her appearance at least cuts short your carping. ‘Where have you been?’ you demand. ‘You should have stayed with Cat.’
‘Oh, she had no idea what she was doing, Mamma,’ Cecily says, the little vixen. ‘Do you know, she never inspects anything before she buys it. She just takes what she is given. The countrywomen all love to serve her!’
‘That’s enough, Cecily,’ you say, which is little enough reproof. You sound tired rather than cross, and your voice is squeezed and scratchy. Cecily doesn’t notice. She is too busy unpacking her own basket, which is full of fripperies that are all she has seen fit to buy. She sets them all on the table – a ribbon, some lace, a pomander that will not be nearly as good as the ones you make yourself, a trumpery ring – and then pulls out her last treasure, and my heart gives a sickening jerk.
It is a peacock feather.
‘Look what I have!’ She flourishes it with an air of triumph. ‘Is it not beautiful?’
‘Where did you get that?’ I ask, fear sharpening my voice, and she stares at me, the puppy-brown eyes full of insolence.
‘It was slipped into my basket, from an admirer, I suppose – although I do not see what business it is of yours, Mistress Nosey,’ Cecily retorts, and my fists clench in frustration. If the feather comes from Anthony . . .
Perhaps I am alarmed for no reason. A peacock feather is not that unusual, I suppose. But the sight of it makes my skin shrink over my scalp and sets a dull dread thumping in my stomach. It takes me back to Haverley Court and the depravity I endured there. I am sure that Anthony has sent it as a message to me: that he is watching, that he has not forgotten, that he has not forgiven me for abandoning him.
The Cursed Wife Page 14