The Cursed Wife

by Pamela Hartshorne

  Anthony exchanges a significant look with me as we walk through the hall. I know he is taking in the tapestries and the silver, the beautifully carved staircase.

  I close the door behind me and lean back against it, and only then do we allow ourselves a grin.

  ‘I see you found yourself a comfortable hiding place!’ Anthony says, running his eyes assessingly around the closet, until they come to rest on the bags of coins on the desk. ‘Is this . . .?’

  I nod and go over to pull open the bags so that we can scoop up great handfuls of the coins and let them stream back into the bags, chinking and gleaming: fine sovereigns, ryals, angels, nobles . . . you have even scraped up some silver shillings.

  Anthony lets out a long hiss of satisfaction, and he pushes me onto the coins so that he can kiss me and stifle our laughter.

  ‘We are rich,’ he says. ‘Just as we planned to be all those years ago. And now there is no George, just bagfuls of coins!’ He kisses me again, urgently this time. ‘Come with me now, Cat. You do not have to play the maidservant any longer. Let us go and spend this money together!’

  For a moment, I am tempted. I have a choice. I can go with Anthony now, and leave you alone. I know that is what you would like.

  But how long will this money last? I know Anthony. He is like to gamble it all on the turn of a card, and then where would I be? Besides, Gabriel will be home before too long, and I have a strange yearning to see him again, to know if this obsession I have with him is real or not.

  Why should I not have everything? I have suffered, not like you, and now I am due my reward.

  Perhaps Gabriel will be my reward.

  I do not suppose you would like that, but you might not be here then. Anything might happen between now and then.

  And meanwhile, where there have been a hundred sovereigns, there will be more.

  I ease myself out of Anthony’s embrace with a last kiss to keep him sweet. ‘I have a better idea,’ I say.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mary

  Whenever I think about how I had to buy Anthony off, guilt lumbers inside me, lurching queasily from side to side, bumping into humiliation, tangling together and tripping over my guts until I am ready to vomit at the memory. I had to ask John for the money. I dreaded answering his questions, but he barely seemed to take in what I was saying.

  ‘Yes, yes, whatever you need,’ he said, but he was preoccupied.

  So now I am worried about John, too. Something has happened between him and Cat. She was all smiles and fluttered lashes with him for a while, but it seems a long time since they sang together. Cecily is cross at the moment, prone to flouncing out of the room. I should rebuke her, but I have been so tired since my illness. It is not just the after-effects of sickness, though. I miss Gabriel. Worse, the household he entrusted me to keep safe seems to be crumbling and worry is rubbing away at me, wearing at my edges, whittling down to a great weight that presses constantly on my chest.

  Amy is talking about finding another position, Sarah is sulky. I still straighten Peg every morning, but her painted expression looks somehow peevish nowadays. I cannot decide if I am imagining it or not, but are my neighbours less respectful than they were? Since Peter Blake’s death, I have hardly been asked for my advice. I thought it was out of kindness, that I had been too ill myself, but now I am starting to wonder.

  Since Cat came, my life has unravelled, and no matter how hard I work to keep things the same, I cannot find a way to spin it back to the way it was before. The air is curdled with unspoken resentments, and instead of the welcoming sense of home that used to settle over me when I stepped through the door, the house seems to be hunching its shoulders in sullen silence and turning its back on me.

  Only Cat is thriving. No one would guess that her lover, the man she lived with as a husband, has threatened to betray her secret to the coroner.

  It is as if she is feeding on my misfortune. The more tired and fretful I grow, the brighter her eyes sparkle. As my happiness leaks away, she blossoms and glows. She is more beautiful than I have ever seen her. I am not surprised that John was smitten with her.

  He was always such a sturdy, cheerful boy, always ready to shoulder responsibility. Now his open face wears a shuttered look and instead of his quick smile, he is more likely to offer a careless shrug. I suppose it is inevitable that he should have been bowled over by Cat. A woman of her beauty and charm must have been alluring. I see that. I just wish that she had quashed that interest straight away and turned him aside. She could have done it easily, but instead she toyed with him, just as Cecily complained, and he has turned surly as a result, his pride wounded as much as his heart, I guess. He spends every evening in the alehouse. When Gabriel was here, we would gather every evening to sing and to talk and play games, and John was glad to join in. Now he comes home dishevelled and disorderly, and I know he has been drinking and dicing. Sometimes he has a high flush and his eyes are unnaturally bright as if he has a fever, but when I ask him if he is well, he snaps at me.

  At night I lie awake, worrying at my scar. Somehow I must make things right before Gabriel returns.

  At least Anthony has gone. Cat has assured me of that. ‘He was more than content with the money,’ she tells me. ‘Do not be so downcast,’ she says. ‘To be sure, it was unfortunate that he should find us, but he has gone now. Your secret is safe. You have everything,’ she says with a tinge of bitterness.

  It is true. I have everything I had before Amy’s toothache sent me to Cheapside that day. I have a husband, I have a home. John, Tom and Cecily are healthy. We are prosperous. I am fortunate indeed.

  But it all feels precarious now. Things are not the same. I was a fool to be so content, to let myself feel safe. I will never be safe as long as Cat is here. That much is clear.

  ‘You are right.’ I force a smile. ‘If Anthony has truly gone, then it is time to make your situation more secure. We must find you a husband.’

  There is a tiny pause, so tiny I wonder if I have imagined it. It is just long enough for a flash of something in Cat’s face, something that scares me, but then no, she is smiling.

  ‘Why, what an excellent idea!’ she says. ‘Yes, let us have some entertainment. We have been too dreary with Gabriel gone! It is time to amuse ourselves. What we need is an evening of good cheer, and you may invite all the widowers you please. In fact, let us all invite our friends.’

  Our friends? ‘Do you have friends here?’ I cannot help asking. ‘I thought you knew no one in London.’

  ‘Oh, I have become very friendly with Anne Hawkins since you became ill, you know,’ Cat says. ‘She came to see how you were, and we got talking. You know how it is. She is quite my gossip now!’

  Yes, I know how it is. I remember the times I have sat talking with Anne, the pleasure I have taken in her uncomplicated company. Anne has a humorous way with her and is easy with everyone, but I thought that I was a special friend.

  ‘May I invite Anne?’ Cat prods.

  I want to invite Anne. She is my gossip, I want to say. Instead I smile stiffly. ‘Of course.’

  ‘And Cecily can invite her friends. Fat Joan Parker and Anne’s Bess. Surely when she sees them side by side, she will see how superior Bess is? I know Anne is worried about the rift in their friendship,’ she adds to underline how much she knows about Anne nowadays, how excluded I have become. Anne has said nothing of this to me.

  Cat claps her hands, all delight and merry smiles, and the thought slides into my head before I can stop it: I hate her. ‘We should have thought of this before,’ she tells me. ‘Do you make sure John is there, and he may invite his friends, too. Do not scold him for spending time in taverns but make it pleasant at home for him—’

  She breaks off, pretending (I am sure) consternation. ‘But I should not say anything. You have been ill, Mary. It is hard for you without your husband.’ Clasping my hands, she shakes them as if to shake up my spirits. ‘But I promised Gabriel that I would not let you fall
into a fit of the dismals.’

  That is news to me. I cannot imagine Gabriel asking Cat to do anything of the kind, but what do I know? I am not sure of anything any more.

  I drag up a smile. ‘You are right. We should be keeping John amused, not driving him away. I will think of who to invite for my part. We will make a feast for all to enjoy.’

  ‘Exactly! Now, you look tired, Mary. Go and rest,’ Cat says. ‘Leave everything else to me.’

  Cat is true to her word. She organises everything. There is to be feasting and music and conversation, with a banquet of sweetmeats to round off the evening. ‘Just like my mother used to serve in the banqueting house at Steeple Tew,’ she reminds me.

  Miserably conscious of the hundred sovereigns I have given to Anthony, I wonder how much all of this will cost, but I do not have the heart to protest. The house does feel more cheerful. The idea has achieved that at least. Cecily is going to play and sing, and spends long hours practising. The summer days have turned long and hot, and all the casement windows stand open in the hope of catching some stray breeze. Cecily’s lovely voice spills out, so sweet, I think, that at times I could swear that the birds are singing along with her. John’s eyes have lost that red-rimmed look, and he has brightened at the prospect of a feast. He has invited his friends, he tells me, and they are all coming. I hope they will be young men we already know, sons of Gabriel’s connections or our neighbours, but I am afraid he may have befriended other, less reputable types in the taverns he has been frequenting of late.

  Amy and Sarah, too, have entered into the excitement of planning a feast, and Cat is amusing herself devising ever more grandiose dishes to impress: a great sirloin of beef, a haunch of venison, roasted swan, a dish of larks. Pasties of red deer, a breast of mutton, stewed. Custards and a quince tart. Gingerbread. A peacock made into a pie, its feathers on display. Cat laughs when she tells me about the peacock pie, I am not sure why.

  There will be roasted porpoise and woodcocks served with a mustard and sugar sauce. There will be jellies and fricassees and fritters. There will be salted salmon, minced and served with verjuice and a little sugar, and a marrowbone pie. Cheeses and pears and pippins.

  Oh, and we are to have salads laid out on dishes in the form of flowers. The petals will be made with preserved gillyflowers, parsley stalks will act as the stem, and thin slices of cucumber will be carefully cut to make the leaves.

  ‘Anne told me of this,’ Cat boasts, and jealousy pinches at me that she should refer so easily to my friend, my gossip. When Anne visits, she sits dutifully with me, but I am poor company and quickly tired still, and I see her face brighten as she takes her leave, hear her laughing on the stairs with Cat.

  Once I would have taken pride in setting such a feast in front of my guests, but now I feel only weary at the prospect. I offer to help, but Cat shoos me out of the kitchen. ‘I can supervise Amy and Sarah,’ she says.

  My head aches too much to read, so I sit in my chamber with Peg on my lap and I smooth her skirts over her burned stump as unease curls through me, fear lingering in its wake like the smell of smoke.

  I am glad when the day of the feast comes. All day the house has been in a frenzy of activity, with Amy and Sarah shrieking at each other as they meet in doorways, laden with dishes and tablecloths, and Cecily scrabbling through chests in search of a special ribbon she is sure she put away safely. Cat orders the silver to be polished, the candles trimmed, the pepper boxes carefully aligned. She picks up the glasses and holds them to the light, flicks them with her fingernail so that they make a satisfactory ping.

  Gone are the days when she refused to take an interest in the running of the household. Since I have been ill, she has discovered the pleasures of being mistress. I hope it means that she wants to be mistress of her own house. I am afraid that she is enjoying being mistress of mine too much.

  I have invited as many widowers as I can think of, hoping that one at least will offer marriage to Cat. Now that she has learnt some housewifery, with her beauty and her charm, she might make a good match. Not the kind of match her father promised her, but it was her choice to run away with Anthony, I remind myself. I do not need to feel guilty about that.

  I have so much else to feel guilty about.

  Cat asked meekly if she could refurbish up her old gown for the occasion. The memory of the hundred sovereigns I have squandered burns in my throat, but I want Cat to look her best. I want a man to come tonight and be dazzled by her, to desire her so much that he takes her away from here. If she were only gone, the way Anthony is now gone, I could be happy again. Besides, she has worked hard to make the evening a success.

  ‘Cecily is having a new gown,’ I said. ‘Do you come with us to the tailor, and I will buy you a gown of your own too.’

  She chose red. A sober colour would have been more suitable, but I had not the strength to argue. She looks beautiful as we wait for the guests to arrive. John can scarce take his eyes off her. I am hoping some other man will react the same way. Someone older and richer who can please himself.

  The trickle of guests is slow at first, and then abruptly, it seems, the hall is full and the walls are ringing with the noise of conversation and laughter. The windows are open, but they let in little air and it is still very hot. The back of my neck is damp, and my smock is unpleasantly clammy against my skin. I keep my spine straight, though, and my head high as I greet my neighbours and bid them welcome. I am not imagining it. The women in particular have shrunk back. It is slight, almost imperceptible, but the change is there. Ever since Peter Blake’s death, I have felt my position slipping. Like the foolish man who built his house on sand, I have built my reputation on a lie that shifts and shudders beneath my feet.

  But I smile and make conversation. I agree that it is too hot for comfort, that some rain would be welcome to dampen the dust. I keep an eye on Cecily as I talk, and my heart swells with pride at how charming she looks in her embroidered bodice with the slashed sleeves and blue satin skirts.

  Beautiful as she is, she is outshone by Cat in her red gown. Poised and smiling, she has made herself the centre of the room. Mine is not the only gaze following her.

  ‘A good turnout,’ Richard Martindale comments, appearing at my elbow. He has no wife, and claims he is too much of a sea dog to settle for one, and besides, he has too simple a heart for me to wish Cat on him, but I invited him anyway as he always enjoys an evening’s entertainment. I am fond of him, too. I like his bluntness and his simple affection. ‘No one wants to miss out on one of your feasts, mistress.’

  ‘Is that why they come?’ I ask him with a trace of bitterness. ‘For the food?’

  ‘And for the company, I dare say.’ He examines me closely. Too closely for comfort. ‘You are not looking yourself, Mistress Thorne.’

  I smile faintly at his straightforward approach. ‘I have been unwell,’ I admit, ‘but I am better now. I confess, I will be glad to see my husband home soon.’

  ‘I have a cargo bound for Hamburg in a few weeks,’ he tells me. ‘If we get any wind. I expect to bring Gabriel home with me. Give me a month or two and I will have him safely home, mistress.’

  Even a month seems a very long time to wait, but I summon a smile. ‘I will be glad of it.’

  Richard stands by my side in companionable silence. Cat has snagged at the edge of my vision, and he follows my gaze. ‘What has happened to make that one look like the cat lapping at cream?’ he asks.

  ‘I am hoping I might find her a husband,’ I confess, low-voiced.

  ‘Get rid of her? Very wise,’ says Richard briskly.

  ‘I do not suppose that you know of anyone in want of a wife?’

  ‘Not I!’ he says, recoiling with such an expression of abhorrence that I cannot help laughing.

  ‘I did not think you,’ I reassured him. ‘Where is Jacopo tonight?’

  ‘It is a fine night. He is happier waiting outside.’ Richard leans towards me confidingly. ‘He told me once that crowded
rooms remind him of prison.’

  ‘Prison!’ It is the first I have heard of it, but knowing Jacopo, I am not surprised. ‘Where was that?’

  ‘He did not say. Picked up some tricks, wherever it was,’ says Richard. He wipes a hand over his face. ‘This cursed heat! I’ll be glad to get to sea again.’

  ‘What cargo do you take with you?’

  Richard is always glad to talk business, and I am happy to listen, nodding, sparing only a casual glance at the door for late arrivals.

  All at once there is a commotion at the door, and four or five lusty fellows jostle through it, laughing and shoving at each other, their voices loud and jarring. A frisson of disapproval runs around the room, and Richard breaks off in mid-sentence.

  ‘Your guests, mistress?’ he asks in surprise.

  ‘I do not think so,’ I say, frowning. ‘They must have mistaken the house. Excuse me.’ Embarrassed by the rowdiness, I make my way across the hall, only to see that John is heading over towards them. Relieved, I hope that he will deal with the situation quietly and persuade them to leave, but to my horror he gives a shout of laughter and they all clap each other on the back, the way men do.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ cries John jovially. ‘Now we shall see some entertainment!’

  ‘I have brought my dice.’ One tosses them in his hand. ‘What more do we need?’

  ‘John . . .’ Quickly I move towards him. I am not sure how I will be able to get rid of these men, but somehow I must. John turns to me, all smiles.

  ‘Mother! These good fellows have come to join us. I bid you make them welcome!’

  A voice cuts through the babble. ‘Perhaps we are not welcome, my lady?’

  I do not see who is speaking at first. My gaze passes over them, little more than a herd of young men, indistinguishable as bullocks, until it jerks back as I register that one is older, and shock stops the breath in my throat.

  Anthony.

  It is as if a bucket of icy water has been dumped over my head, and as the chill ebbs, darkness roars at the edges of my mind. For a moment, I fear that I am going to faint. Beside me, John is talking, apparently eager to present the men to me. They are his particular friends, he tells me. How glad he is that I bade him invite them all.