The Cursed Wife

by Pamela Hartshorne

  Look at how much I have not shared with Gabriel.

  London, Little Wood Street, October 1590

  So we go through the motions, or that is how it feels. I run a sober house, I set a fine table. I supervise the servants. I support my husband. The household still gathers for prayer every morning, but no one prays as fervently as I do, for forgiveness, for release, to forget.

  Gabriel’s business prospers. He never asks about the hundred sovereigns that are missing from the accounts. I know that he has spoken to John about the state of the accounts, but I don’t know what was said. All I know is that John is more sober now, and attends his father dutifully. I am glad of it. That at least has come good again.

  ‘We must find John a wife,’ Gabriel says one night as he watches me comb out my hair. It falls thick and straight to my waist and is my one vanity, in spite of – or perhaps because of – the fact that he is the only person who ever sees it. Every morning I bind it up beneath a cap, but at night I let it tumble free, and when I straddle my husband and lean down to kiss him, it falls like a curtain on either side of his face. We are shut off by the bed curtains, but my hair makes our world even smaller, even more intimate. A world where nothing exists but our mouths, our kisses. Our skins, pressed together. Our desire, burning bright.

  I tilt my head as I comb, thinking. ‘That would be good for him. Do you have a family in mind?’

  ‘Henry Sim has a daughter, Margaret. I dined with him last week and she was at the table,’ Gabriel says. ‘They call her Meg. She is a modest girl, quiet, but Henry says she is sweet-natured.’

  All to the good. John needs a sweet-tempered girl. ‘Does she bring any money?’

  Gabriel nods, smiles. ‘She is his only child, and dear to his heart. As dear as Cecily is to mine.’

  I nod approvingly. I want John to be happy, but one must be practical, after all. ‘Let us invite Henry and his wife to dine here and to bring their daughter. A family dinner, some music and good cheer. Nothing formal.’

  Although, needless to say, I will plan the meal as carefully as if we were entertaining our Lady Queen herself.

  There will be much discussion to be had, but first let us see if John has a fancy for Meg Sim. Gabriel is a fond father. He will not force John to wed where he has no inclination, but what, after all, is there for him to object to in a well-mannered, sweet-natured girl? A wife would be a steadying influence.

  It is time, I know, but still I feel a pang. It seems not so long since I first came to this house and John was but a boy. Where have the years gone? When he weds, his wife will come to live here, just as Jocosa came to Steeple Tew when she wed Avery. I know only too well how a new wife can change a household – but perhaps change is what we need?

  For a while I fear that my diminished reputation among my neighbours will make the Sims cautious about a connection, but they live in Cornhill, a different ward altogether, and Agnes Blake means nothing to them. Besides, if my reputation has suffered, Gabriel’s has not. He is wealthy and respected, anyone would be eager to ally with his son, I remind myself when the Sims accept the invitation without apparent hesitation.

  The young people are stiff together at first, but I like Meg at once. She is a good, kind girl, with round blue eyes and a shy smile. I like her mother, too. We take each other’s measure when we meet, but that is only natural. I see her look approvingly around the hall and picture her daughter as mistress here one day. Well, so she may be with my goodwill.

  I know she is curious about Cat’s position in the family, but I am unable to think of a reason to exclude Cat from the gathering. I dare not, is the truth. She has never looked more beautiful. Her skin glows, her hair shimmers gold in the candlelight. She keeps her blue eyes lowered in a parody of a demure girl, so the effect is all the more dazzling when she lifts them and smiles. She does nothing to put herself forward, I have to give her that, but she draws the eye just by sitting there. I am afraid that she will overshadow Meg and remind John of his ill-judged passion for her, but that at least seems to be cured.

  Cat sits quietly, saying little. She is playing a part, of that I am sure. I wish I knew what game she is playing but I cannot accuse her of behaving badly.

  Which I am sorry to admit is more than I can say for my daughter. Cecily, until now so open and loving, has turned secretive. She has become brattish, flouncing out of the room, and spending hours in her chamber pinching her cheeks and adjusting her ruff. She tosses her head when her will is crossed and a mutinous look has settled around her perfect mouth.

  I have been too ill or too preoccupied to be a good mother and must give her more attention. I am not pleased with the pettish face she shows to Meg, or the way she does nothing to make her feel welcome. Yes, she sings beautifully and the Sims applaud, but there are more important things than singing. There is kindness and courtesy. I thought I had taught her that.

  ‘She is jealous,’ Cat says the next day.

  We are in the still room making scented waters for the table to replace those we used last night. Sarah has laboured in with well water for the tub, and we are picking over dried herbs to add to it. The air is heady with the scent of marjoram and camomile. There is something about the still room that invites confidences. In the great chamber, in the hall, in the kitchen, I am wary of Cat, but here in the still room, I seem to forget.

  ‘Jealous?’ Puzzled, I drop a sprig of marjoram into the water. ‘How so?’

  ‘Cecily is used to being first in all your affections. Look at how she demands attention. That is why she must sing and play every night,’ Cat says authoritatively. ‘Everyone must look at her! As long as she is the centre of the world, she is happy, but let someone else be of interest and she pouts and scowls.’

  I know somebody else like that, I think but do not say, reluctant to spoil the peace of the still room.

  ‘She doesn’t like the idea of John marrying at all,’ Cat goes on. ‘That is plain to see. She loves John.’ She pauses delicately. ‘And he is not, after all, her brother, is he?’

  ‘She thinks of him as a brother,’ I say.

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘Of course she does.’ But I have left too long a pause before replying.

  Cat notices, but doesn’t remark on it. She tosses camomile into the tub. ‘If I were you, I would marry her off,’ she advises.

  ‘She is not yet fourteen,’ I object.

  ‘That is old enough to marry. Do you have no one in mind for her? She is the daughter of a nobleman, after all.’

  There is a short silence while we both remember whose daughter Cecily really is. She thinks she is Lord Delahay’s daughter; we know better. I killed one father, Cat the other.

  Summer recedes to a torrid memory. As the negotiations for a marriage between John and Meg continue, I begin to think that I will be able to put those wretched months behind me after all. John gives Meg some gloves, she gives him a handkerchief. He blows hot and she blows cold, but then warms again, in the old dance of courtship.

  Anthony lies deep under the ocean, nibbled by fishes. I have survived. I avert my eyes from Peg when I pass. I cannot bring myself to put her away, but I don’t straighten her skirts any more. I don’t want to look at her empty eyes and see my own horror reflected there. The past is past. I want to think about the present, about being a good wife, a good mother.

  I welcome the cool autumn days because they mean that the summer is over. I like the crisp mornings, the way the wind chivvies the dead leaves along the street and swirls them into drifts that rustle beneath my clogs. The mist shrouds the Thames and drapes over the tops of the masts so that the ships tied up by the quays look stunted.

  I like the longer evenings, especially when Gabriel is at home and we sit on either side of the fire in the great chamber. John is happier, and often visits the Sims. I miss him, but am glad that he seems so happy with Meg. They seem certain to wed in the spring. I have been stricter with Cecily, and she has been charmingly contrite. ‘It is just a show
,’ Cat says, but I refuse to believe her. We are a family again. All we lack is Tom, but Tom is in tearing spirits in Hamburg from all accounts, and will come home in good time.

  Cecily is singing: Go from my window, my love, my dove . . . Her voice is as sweet as ever, and listening to it calms my heart. I glance up from my sewing to meet Gabriel’s eyes and we exchange a contented smile, before I look to my stitching once more. John is at the Sims’ house on Cornhill. Amy is walking out with a young man, but Sarah is sitting on the floor, hugging her knees and listening raptly. She loves to listen to Cecily sing and can sometimes be persuaded to join in. Cat is on a cushion, inspecting her nails.

  The wind and the rain have brought you back again, Cecily sings, but you can have no harbour here.

  If only I had said that to Cat.

  Gabriel is nodding his head gently in time with the music, a smile lingering around his mouth still. I know without him telling me that he is thinking about tonight, when we will be alone in our bed, and anticipation clenches within me. We have never lost our desire for each other.

  I lower my head to my sewing once more, but there is a prickle at the back of my neck, something I have missed that my mind wants me to notice. Under my lashes, I look around the chamber once more. Everyone is doing what they were doing before. Cecily is singing, Gabriel nodding, Sarah smiling with pleasure. Cat is still staring at her hands . . . but as I watch, her eyes lift and she looks at my husband, and the expression on her face is one of such fierce yearning that my hand slips in shock and the needle stabs my thumb.

  ‘Ouch!’

  My exclamation makes Cecily jar a note on the lute.

  ‘Oh, Mamma! You have distracted me!’ she complains.

  I suck a bead of blood from my thumb as she starts again. My mind is racing. What a fool I am to have thought myself safe from danger! Anthony may be lying on the ocean bed, but danger is still right here. There is no mistaking Cat’s expression. She hungers for Gabriel, for my husband, and if I know Cat, she will be planning ways to have him, because Cat has always believed that she can have whatever she wants.

  But she is not going to have my husband, I vow to myself. I will not let that happen.

  Somehow I will have to find a way to be rid of her once and for all.

  How? My mind flickers to Anthony’s fate, but no, I cannot kill again. That was different. He threatened my family, not me. And in spite of everything, Cat was my friend. Once we were as close as sisters. I cannot kill her. I just want her to go away.

  I must be careful, though. If she guesses that I know what she really wants, she will fight like a cornered cat. My only hope is to let her believe that I am ignorant of her desires.

  Let her feel contempt for me, I care not. She does not know Gabriel the way I do. She does not love him. She wants him, but that is not the same thing at all. You can love and want, yes, but Cat does not know how to love. She only knows how to want. She can take, but she cannot give.

  The autumn wears on and I am not closer to finding a way to dislodge Cat from my home. We gather apples from the orchard. Sarah and I lay them out carefully, not touching, lest any rot spread. Cat is the rot in my household. I must cast her out before she infects us all.

  Somehow, somehow, I must be rid of her.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Cat

  Gabriel is home. He is here. Any moment he may walk into the room, which means that I am constantly atremble with anticipation. I look up every time I hear a latch lift in case it is him. Men’s voices sound in the street and I strain to hear if it is him. My blood thrums in my veins. I was not imagining things: I do desire your husband. And the more I see him, the more I want him. Hunger for him bangs in my belly like a drum, heavy, insistent.

  At night, I think of him with you in the chamber below, and I touch myself where he is touching you, imagining that it is his hand, his mouth on me, and my breath shudders out of me. I have felt desire before, but not like this. I am made fearful by it, struck dumb by it.

  I do not understand it at all. Gabriel is not a gentleman. He is not handsome, he is not charming. He writes no poetry about my beauty. He does not flatter me. Half the time I am not even sure if he notices me at all. He is just himself: steady, sure, at ease in his own skin. He moves deliberately, a man who knows exactly what he is doing and why he is doing it.

  And, of course, he is yours.

  Is that why I want him? I don’t think so, but it may be partly true.

  Much good my desire does me. My charm has quite deserted me. At first, I pretended to be modest and demure, hoping that Gabriel would approve of me, but it seems that the role has taken me over, at least as far as your husband is concerned. I can barely speak when he is near. My tongue feels thick and unwieldy in my mouth and my mind goes blank. How does he do that to me? Why cannot I do the same to him? Even if I could summon them at will, smiles and flirtatious looks mean nothing to Gabriel. I have no way to reach him. My beauty is not enough. When I sing or play, he watches me, but indifferently. Just so does he look at Cecily, or Sarah or Amy.

  At everyone except you.

  I am consumed by envy of you. You rarely touch him, I have noticed that. Gabriel is more affectionate. He drops a hand on your shoulder, or runs a finger down your cheek, and every casual gesture is fraught with his desire for you. What do you do to him behind the bed curtains, Mary, to keep him so enthralled? I wouldn’t put it past you to concoct some potion in your still room, some spell to bind him to you. You could be a witch if you chose, Mary, you really could, for all the time you spend on your knees. You are always in church, or praying at household prayers, your lips moving fervently, your head bowed. It is too late for praying now, the deed is done. We never talk about what happened in the warehouse, even when we are alone, do we? But that does not mean that it can be undone, or that I do not remember.

  Still, we carry on. From first light, you keep the household busy with tedious chores. There is water to be carried, linen to be washed, food to be bought and prepared, floors to be swept, clothes to be brushed. You brew ale and dry herbs and preserve fruit. You make sure the silver is polished and the rush matting replaced regularly. You entertain Gabriel’s guests and cast the household accounts.

  Things are better for you since your husband came home. You can hide your tattered reputation behind his, and you invite guests almost every night. There are companions for John, wholesome young men and women to remind him of the comfort of decent living, good families to eye up Cecily to see if she might be a good match for a son one day. And then there are the old men and widowers you think would do for me.

  I know you want me to leave, but how can I go and not see Gabriel every day? Every night, guests or not, I sing my heart out for him. I treasure every little smile, every casual word of praise. I rack my brains trying to think of something to say to him, but the only subject we have in common is you.

  I take to loitering outside his closet, hoping that he will come out and we can talk. He is usually with someone else, or you send me away, but once he comes out and catches me pretending to polish the silver.

  ‘Good morrow to you, Cat,’ he says. He has his hat in his hand and is clearly on his way out.

  My heart races so fast that I fear I might faint. ‘Sir,’ I manage, and even now there is a part of me that marvels that I should call a mere merchant ‘sir’, that I should want such a man with such a fierce longing.

  That appears to be it, but at the last moment – oh joy! – he turns back to me. ‘Have you seen your mistress?’

  ‘She is gone to the market.’ There, I have managed a whole sentence!

  There is a faint frown in Gabriel’s eyes as he studies me. ‘Does she seem quite well to you?’

  Now is my chance. I do not miss it, but I resent you for being all that I can talk about with Gabriel. ‘She is not as well as she was,’ I agree. ‘She was very sick while you were away. We feared for her life, and although she has recovered, ever since she has been . . .�
� I trail off, wondering how far I should push it.

  ‘Preoccupied?’ Gabriel suggests, and I nod.

  ‘Yes, that. As if something troubles her greatly, but when I ask if there is anything I can do, she will not tell me. I worry for her,’ I tell him. ‘We have known each other for many years, and I have never seen her like this before.’

  ‘I am glad you have been here to care for her,’ Gabriel says. ‘She has no kin so it means a lot to her that you are here now. We all need someone who remembers us and tethers us to our past.’

  He has no idea how tethered we are, or how desperately we wish to unshackle ourselves from it.

  ‘She is very dear to me,’ I say, and the odd thing is, Mary, you are. You are part of my past too. But this envy I feel for you has grown out of control. I love you, but not as much as I hate you now. ‘But I fear that she has changed lately.’

  Gabriel stands, his eyes unfocused, rubbing a finger thoughtfully under his bottom lip. It gives me a chance to stare at his mouth. I want to cover it with kisses, to grab that finger and put it in my own mouth, to let him know that he can do whatever he wants with me, as long as he does it now. My whole body is pulsating, as if I am about to burst into flame.

  But he is thinking of you. It is always you, you, you. It is infuriating.

  Gabriel shakes himself out of his study and bestows a smile on me that will keep me burning for the rest of the day at least. ‘I would be glad if you would keep an eye on her,’ he says. ‘If you are concerned at all, I beg you will tell me.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, lowering my eyes so that he does not see the naked need there.

  I go to Gabriel a couple of times to tell him of my concerns. I cannot do it too often or he would be suspicious of me, but I hoard the chance to speak to him alone. Now I may scratch on his door and go into his closet. I know I must make a touching sight, my beautiful face creased with worry for you. How I love those minutes with him and I spin out the conversations as long as I can.