The Cursed Wife

by Pamela Hartshorne

  It is twelve years since I have seen Anthony, but I could not mistake him. He looks coarser now. Mottled veins have turned his skin ruddy and his nose more bulbous, but there is that negligent charm still.

  Look at him, standing there in his handsome suit of velvet, his buttons gleaming, cross-garters at his knees, a fine lawn collar at his neck! His sleeves are puffed, his shoes decorated with slashes and loops, and a cloak hangs with careful casualness from one shoulder.

  All paid for with my hundred sovereigns, I have no doubt.

  He even has the gall to use his own name. ‘Sir Anthony Cavendish,’ John presents him proudly, and Anthony steps forward. For one terrible moment I think he is expecting a kiss of welcome, but in the end he only bows, and when he glances up at me, his brown eyes are mocking and sickeningly familiar.

  Cecily’s eyes.

  I stand numbly as John presents the others and sweeps them off. ‘Bring wine!’ he calls to Sarah, and they are soon straddling benches, roaring with laughter and tossing dice on the table in front of the scandalised gazes of my neighbours, although all have done their best to resume their own conversations.

  What is Anthony doing here?

  Oh, but I know the answer to that at least, don’t I? I was a fool to think he would have gone so easily.

  Instinctively, I turn to look for Cat. She is laughing with Anne Hawkins and Edward Parker. Across the hall, Isabella Parker is watching them too, her expression venomous.

  Did Cat know? Did she plan this? Surely she has as much to lose from Anthony as I do, though? I need to talk to her, but I cannot confront her now, not with all these people around.

  How will I endure this evening now? The bullocks, as I think of them, are persuaded to clear their dice from the table, and we all sit for the feast. I see my neighbours talking and laughing, their mouths opening and closing, growing ruddy-faced with the heat and the wine, but I am separated from them all by an invisible wall, cut off by a dread that churns queasily in my stomach. I am here, but I am not part of things. I see my guests enjoying the feast, sharing dishes with their neighbours, but I cannot force any food down my throat.

  After the feast, we move up to the great chamber. I see Cecily playing at the virginals, I see friends singing their parts, but all I can hear are the words of ‘John, Come Kiss Me Now’ beating in my brain. I hear the gasps of delight at the display of sweetmeats that Cat has ordered specially, little sugar goblets and plates, sugar birds, sugar beasts . . . so much sweetness for a bitter evening. What use is sugar when danger is sitting at my board, in a velvet suit and a neatly trimmed beard: now, now, now?

  The evening wears on and on. It grows louder and louder. It is as if Anthony’s presence has unleashed something coarse and reckless into the air. My neighbours, usually so carefully mannered, are squabbling. There is a lewdness lurking at the heart of every conversation, every song. People stop looking askance at the dice-playing. They barely blink when the cards come out. I am mortified.

  John is in high good humour, slapping cards onto the table and gathering his winnings towards him with a great shout of triumph. His expression is avid as he studies his cards. He barely knows the rest of us are here, I think, and when Cecily tries to persuade him to sing with her, he shrugs her aside so carelessly that tears stand in her eyes.

  I see Cat go over to help persuade him, which Cecily does not like at all, but even Cat cannot tear John from his cards. Cecily stalks off, her shoulders rigid, and Cat lifts her hands gracefully with a charming smile of surrender. She says something I cannot hear and everybody laughs.

  I am watching Anthony now, who has strolled away from the card players and is making himself pleasant, as he well knows how to do. My neighbours are mightily impressed with him. If they only knew. At last I manage to get Cat alone. She has seen Anthony of course, and professes horror. It seems genuine, but with Cat you can never tell.

  My head is aching so, I fear it will explode. I want nothing so much as to go to my chamber and pull the curtains on my bed so that I can lie quietly in the dark. But I cannot leave while Anthony is here, prowling around my home.

  He is playing with my family like a cat with a wounded bird, patting them this way and that for his amusement. He has John enthralled. I have no doubt that they have diced together and that he has flattered John with his attention. He is older and more assured, and doubtless a better card player too. Perhaps he has been advising him how to deal with women, and curing him of his heartsick love for Cat. But John will not see how gradually Anthony will fleece him, luring him into gambling deeper and deeper until there is no way out. He can ruin John as easily as look at him. John has ever been open and trusting; he is no match for the likes of Anthony.

  And then there is Cecily. Anthony makes sure he flatters her with his attention, and I watch grimly as she unfurls and blossoms. Her lashes dip, her eyes peep, her smile trembles invitingly. Where did she learn to flirt like that? Never have I seen her look more like Cat and my heart cracks.

  He is standing with her by the virginals, their heads close together as they sort through the music, choosing what to sing next, poor Joan Parker ignored beside them. I want to stalk over and slap him away. I want to scream at him to leave my house, to leave my family alone. But I cannot do that. He knows too much about me.

  Will my guests never go? Can no one else feel the menace trembling in the chamber? Can they not see the tension spitting and crackling in the hot air?

  ‘You look tired,’ Anne Hawkins tells me bluntly as she sits down beside me in the window seat.

  ‘I have been ill.’

  ‘I know, but you cannot hide away in here any longer. We need to see you out in the street once more, else these rumours will not go away.’

  ‘What rumours?’

  ‘That you sent Peter Blake the wrong remedy.’

  ‘It was not so, I am sure of it!’

  ‘Now they are saying that it was deliberate. That it has happened before. Who can tell where rumours start? Cat does her best to quash them, but it seems that you do not want to face the world at the moment. People think you are ashamed, that you must feel guilty. I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I thought you would want to know.’

  I rub my temples. ‘They do not think me so guilty that they refuse to come here.’

  ‘No, but the dicing and the card-playing will not have done your reputation any good,’ she says frankly. ‘How came you to allow John to invite those men?’

  ‘I did not know.’ I am overcome with weariness. ‘I have lost control of everything, Anne,’ I confess.

  ‘Come,’ she smiles. ‘It is not that bad. They will forget this evening soon enough.’

  The words are barely out of her mouth before a screaming and a shrieking erupts on the other side of the chamber. I jump to my feet and hurry across to find Joan Parker sobbing in her mother’s arms and Cecily, her eyes blazing, slapping at Cat’s attempts to restrain her.

  ‘What has happened?’ I demand.

  ‘Your daughter has no decorum,’ Isabella Parker snaps. ‘She slapped Joan’s face and pulled her hair. I knew this would happen. Cecily is no suitable companion for Joan. She is a hurly-burly girl with no manners!’

  I bristle. Nobody talks of my daughter like that, least of all Mistress Parker. ‘I fear that she has learnt lack of manners from your daughter!’

  ‘How dare you! Fine talk from someone whose house is little better than a tavern,’ she blusters.

  ‘At least I offer some hospitality, which is more than can be said for you, madam.’

  And with that we are off. I know I should stop, but I cannot help myself. The pent-up tension of the evening explodes as I tell Isabella Parker everything that I have ever thought of her meanness and her pretension, while neighbours stand agog, half horrified, half enthralled. We have exchanged every insult we can think of before Isabella sweeps off with her husband and Joan, two spots of high colour in her cheeks, vowing to take me to court for vile slander.

  Ther
e is an awkward silence as she leaves, broken at last by an embarrassed murmur as the rest of the guests decide that they should go too and all trail back down to the hall. I am glad of it. I stand stiffly by the door to bid them all farewell, burningly aware of how badly I have behaved. Almost last of all comes Anthony, smirking as he bends over my hand.

  ‘I fear we have all outstayed our welcome,’ he says, and the touch of his lips on the back of my hand makes me shudder. ‘Thank you for a delightful evening. I have rarely enjoyed myself more.’

  I look into his eyes. I see the cold calculation there, and I understand that money is not enough for him. He is determined to make mischief too. I know without being told that he is prepared to lead John along the road to damnation, that the dicing and the drinking will only be the beginning. Before long there will be an invitation to a house where there will be all kinds of debauchery, the likes of which John has never even dreamt of. Then perhaps Anthony will ask John for a temporary loan, or ask him to settle his debts, and John will be lost.

  Anthony will do whatever he can to ruin Cecily too. He smiles at me, and his smile tells me that he can lead Cecily astray just as easily. That if he chooses, he can fascinate her and tease her until she forgets every duty that I have taught her. He can lead her into temptation and ruin her, and care nothing for it.

  Unless I stop him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Cat

  Anthony is almost the last to go. I watch him bow insolently over your hand, see you flinch from him.

  Oh, this evening has been better than a play! I cannot remember the last time I was so amused. Laughter has been bubbling in my throat all night. Where to begin? I made sure to greet Anne Hawkins most affectionately when you were watching.

  You don’t like the fact that Anne likes me, do you? She used to be your gossip, but now she is really mine. You never were good at giving up what you had, Mary, that is your trouble. You never had much, like that unchancy wooden baby of yours, but you held onto it for dear life. You would never share. I had to share my family and my home and my life with you, but what did you ever give me in return?

  Anne dared me to flirt with that dullard Edward Parker, which was easy to do, and I enjoyed making that hag, his wife, glare. I thought it would stir trouble between you and her, but I could have spared myself the inconvenience, could I not? It turned out you were quite capable of making trouble by yourself.

  Oh, and then there was John, ignoring Cecily as she tried to drag him away from his cards. That pretty little nose of hers is mightily out of joint. She must have everyone at her beck and call the whole time. She treats John as a lover, not a brother, she wants him to jump up and down and turn her music for her and tell her the sun rises in her eyes or some such nonsense. Faugh! I have tried to hint that what she feels for him is unnatural, but you cannot see it. ‘She loves her brother,’ is all you will say, puzzled. ‘What is wrong with that?’

  Cecily can forget John now. He is lost to the cards. I might lure him back if I choose to, but I do not.

  I thought my sides would burst with the effort of holding in my laughter when Anthony arrived and I saw your face! True, you kept your cool then, but those rowdy youths he brought with him, tossing their dice and dealing out their cards . . . Will your reputation ever recover? Your neighbours were shocked. I heard the disapproving murmurs all evening, but even that was not the best. That was when Cecily and Joan fell to squabbling and pulling each other’s hair and then, oh then, there was your quarrel with Isabella Parker! In front of everyone! The names you called each other! You were like two fishwives scrapping over a herring down on the staith! I could have died laughing, but I had to appear shocked like everyone else. You will never be Mistress Perfect again. What will Gabriel say when he returns?

  Of course, it was I who told Anthony the taverns where he might find John, and how easily he might be lured into gambling. I who suggested that the feast would be the perfect time for him to threaten you without saying a word. I was conscious of a tug of pride when I saw him come in. He looked very fine, even distinguished, in his new suit. I think about this afternoon when we were going at it in his rooms, and a small, satisfied smile tugs at the edges of my mouth. I am the one glowing now.

  I cannot imagine why I was so afraid of Anthony finding me. I have the best of both worlds. When Gabriel comes home, why then perhaps I will make a decision, but for now, I may as well make a profit while I can.

  Anthony offered to buy me a new gown, but I could not risk you wondering where the money had come from. So I asked you if I could refurbish up my old gown for the occasion, and of course you let me order a new gown altogether. I knew you would. This one is cherry red, and I know I look my best in it. I felt the way people looked at me tonight, the envious glances of the women, the heat in the eyes of the men, both warmed me.

  Of course, I made sure to appear properly horrified when I sought you out, pretending that I had just noticed Anthony. ‘Have you seen who is here?’ I asked you, letting my voice tremble.

  ‘I have.’ Your eyes were hard as you looked at me. ‘What is he doing here, Cat?’

  ‘I do not know! I thought my heart would stop when I saw him!’ I pressed my hand to my throat. ‘He told me he would be gone,’ I whispered as if terrified. ‘Does he want more money? Has he said anything to you?’

  ‘Anthony wants more than money,’ you said. ‘He means mischief.’

  Your gaze rested on him as he bent courteously over Cecily at the virginals, and I almost flinched. I hope you never look at me like that. Perhaps you are not as easily frightened as I thought.

  I twisted my hands together. ‘What shall we do? Anthony knows too much.’

  I have not forgotten that Anthony is as great a threat to me as he is to you. It is just that you have more to lose now. And the pull of passion is strong still. For now, he has remembered his desire for me, and the situation amuses him, no doubt. Anthony has never cared for the humdrum. There is part of him that craves darkness and depravity. He was a good apprentice to George, after all.

  ‘We will bring out the sweetmeats,’ you answered coldly. ‘We will pretend nothing is wrong. We must serve him and watch him. And then,’ you said, ‘we must be rid of him.’

  The implacable expression in your eyes took me aback, I confess. I wonder if I should warn Anthony? But what can you do? Anthony needs only tell one or two of your neighbours who you really are, and your pleasant life would be torn asunder.

  Of course, he could also tell the coroner in Wiltshire what happened twelve years ago. I have no desire to find myself on trial for murder. But for now, Anthony is captivated once more, and I can control him.

  I find myself torn. It is unusual for me. I usually know what I want, but now . . . I cannot decide. I want Anthony again, yes. The secrecy has added spice to our fucking, or perhaps it is the knowledge that you would not approve. More, you would be horrified if you knew what I was about. Why does that make it so much better for me? You are so good, so dutiful, so dull, that you allow me to be the opposite.

  I am enjoying this game Anthony and I are playing with you, too.

  Anthony is giving me pleasure, for sure. But I am not the impractical fool who ran away with him before. There will be money as long as you pay up, but Anthony will never keep it. Coins run through his fingers like water, and I am grown used to comfort again.

  Anthony is for now. Gabriel is for the future.

  My obsession with your husband has taken me by surprise, I confess. It is not just his wealth, whatever you would surely think. And it is not just because he is yours, although that does add piquancy to my desire. It is him. I keep thinking about the set of his mouth, the deft way he peels an apple to please Cecily. I think about his sudden smile, and how the air steadies and settles around him. When Anthony is thrusting into me, shoving between my spread knees, I think about Gabriel doing it to you, and how it will feel when he is doing it to me, and there is a pounding in my blood and a need that gather
s and gallops until it explodes out of me in a great shout of release.

  I must have him. I must.

  But first, I can have some fun with Anthony and with you. I think I deserve that, don’t you, Mary? You have had all the luck so far. It is my turn now.

  Oh dear, Mary, you don’t look well, really you don’t. Your face is drawn and you have lost that prosperous glow I used to envy so much. It is as if someone has rubbed away at you and left you looking blurry around the edges.

  Your life is not so perfect now, is it? I told Anthony where to find John, who was easily lured into the pleasures of gambling. Gabriel will be so disappointed in you when he finds out, will he not? Cecily is sulky, your neighbours shun you, your servants are beginning to accept me. All except Sarah, who is surly with me still.

  As for your husband, he is still overseas, and who knows what trulls he will be consorting with while he is away.

  And you dare to find a husband for me? When you suggested dangling me in front of a parade of fat widowers, it was all I could do to keep my tongue between my teeth, though in the end it has suited my purposes perfectly. I was happy to let you invite some widowers to inspect me. You can waste your time and your reputation if you wish. I will take none of them. I have quite a different husband in mind.

  Yours.

  Now the last guests have trailed out of the door, and the energy ekes out of the house. We are left with the debris of the feast. Sarah and Amy have already cleared away most of the dishes, but there are goblets abandoned on chests and windowsills. Wine has spilt stickily onto the tiles and the tablecloths are stained and scattered with crumbs.

  John clatters down the stairs, shrugging on a jerkin. ‘Where are you going?’ you ask.

  ‘Out,’ he says. ‘I promised Sir Anthony I would join him for a drink. The night is young yet.’