by Nicola Upson
She took a lamp through to the kitchen and hesitated, trying to work out what was different about the room. The stair curtain was pulled back, just as she had left it, but the door that had always stuck against the bump in the floor was now completely open and moved freely back and forth when she tested it. The stairs were in shadows, and she wished she had left a lamp burning in her bedroom so that she would not have to climb into the darkness. She paused again, listening, but there was nothing – no creaking of floorboards overhead to confirm her worst fears, no rattling windows to explain away what she had heard. Frightened now, she followed the beam of her lamp up to the first floor, but her bedroom was reassuringly familiar, the other rooms empty and undisturbed. There was no one else in the cottage, and she cursed Lucy Kyte for playing havoc with her imagination, and herself for allowing it to happen.
The boxroom smelt of sickness. In spite of Marta’s cleaning, the heavy, cloying odour had returned, stronger even than before. She took the lamp over to the window and put it down on the window seat, drawn against her better judgement to the words scarred into the wood. The letters seemed deeper than ever, and there were more than she remembered. The room‚ too‚ seemed more oppressive tonight, but how much of what she felt here was Hester’s cumulative darkness, and how much Lucy’s? How much – if she stayed in the cottage and allowed it to happen – would be her own? The lamplight in the window threw a likeness back at her, but the face she saw was pale and drawn, transformed by a sadness she had never seen before, a reflection barely recognisable as her own.
She turned away, took the blanket from her bed and went downstairs. The stub of her candle was guttering on the table, and some of the wax had run like tears onto the pages. The manuscript had been put down hurriedly and she found herself reading the section about the floods again before she realised that the pages were out of order. Still unsettled, she found it harder to concentrate now.
29 July
Mr Curtis came to say goodbye. He leaves on the Bury coach in the mornin’ ready for the trial. He has promis’d to bring me a copy of his book as soon as it is publish’d. I told him that the only promise I want from him is to do justice to Maria, and he smil’d. I will miss his smiles and his kindness and his voice. He has given me back the Maria I knew, and I am grateful to him for it.
1 August
The Missis told me that I am to go to the trial and give evidence – for William, not for Maria. I am to speak up for the family that pays me, and not for the friend who knew every secret of my heart. I w’d rather die than betray her like this, but I cannot see a way out of it.
7 August
My lodgings are in Sparhawk Street, and the Missis has had to pay a guinea for a single bed. The inns and public houses are full, and Bury men must be smilin’ for the good fortune the trial has brought them. There is not room for everyone. Folk are sleepin’ in doorways and on pavements, carin’ little for their comfort as long as they are here. There are puppet shows everywhere and men on street corners sellin’ drawings. William and Maria’s fame grows by the day, while the rest of us are strugglin’ to make sense of what has happen’d. Maria cannot be spoken of now without William, nor he without her. There was a time when that was all Maria wish’d for.
Samuel came early to collect me. It was only a short walk to the court, but it took an hour to get there. The old churchyard at the front of the building was full of people. They fill’d the gaps between the graves, and I was glad to get inside. Just after eight, the gaol cart came and the crowd ran forward. There was a fight to make a path through and I saw people hurt in the crush. William jump’d down from the cart. He wore a fine new coat and blue trousers, white neckerchief and silk stockings, and I felt sick and frighten’d when I saw him.
We were not let into the court, but kept in a side room until our turn came. I was glad to have Samuel with me. The Missis’s bailiff is call’d for the prosecution, and look’d as troubl’d with the side he is on as I am. Mr Matthews was there. I heard him ask after Thomas Henry, but there was little talk among us. We waited, as frighten’d as if we were the ones on trial, and time went slowly. There was a fierce storm and the sound of rain on the umbrellas outside fill’d our little room.
They call’d Maria’s stepmother first, and her fear as she was taken into the courtroom was plain. I pitied her, but her face told me there is to be no change of feelin’ between us. I am judged by what I am, not who, and I am servant to the Corder family. I am here to speak for William, and that is what will be recorded. No one will know how my heart screams against it. The day pass’d, and I was not call’d. Samuel walk’d me back to my lodgin’s and I must do the same tomorrow.
8 August
I was call’d at eleven and led into the court. I saw they had a model of the barn, which made me shudder. And then the people, cramm’d into the seats, all starin’ at me. I tried not to look at them or William, but the court was so quiet that I c’d hear heavy sighs comin’ from where he sat. Then I saw Mr Curtis, sittin’ with some other men. He smil’d at me, and I was glad to see him. William’s man ask’d me if I had seen pistols in his room. I said yes. I told them William had left his mother’s house two weeks before Old Michaelmas Day. Then he ask’d if William had ever behav’d badly towards me. I wanted him to ask about Maria, not me, so I c’d tell him how poorly she had been treated. But I had to tell the truth and say that William had always been kind to me. That was all. I was told to stand down.
They let me stay in the court after that. William’s doctor was call’d next, then Samuel, but he had to wait because of the noise outside. I look’d up to a trapdoor in the ceilin’ which had been open’d to allow air into the room. It was full o’ faces, as folk were climbin’ on the roof for a glimpse of William.
Mrs Martin was call’d back, and Maria’s clothes were put in front of her – the handkerchief that she had worn round her neck, the earrings taken from her body, a fragment of her bonnet ribbon and the bosom of her chemise. Filthy, rotten and dragg’d from the dirt, kept in boxes for men to pore over and shown to the court like a sideshow. Samuel took my hand. It was so hot and pails of water were brought into the court for the crowd, but the stench of death rose from those clothes and fill’d the air. Maria’s stepmother had to be help’d from the stand, and tears ran down Thomas Martin’s face as his daughter’s misery was laid out before him.
I must set down what happen’d next for the sake of my sanity. One of the surgeons held up a skull as he talk’d about wounds to Maria’s face, and I knew that the skull which now turn’d its dreadful stare on us had once been my friend. The surgeon walk’d towards the jury, Maria’s skull in one hand, William’s sword in the other. I scream’d, and all eyes turn’d to me. That is the last I remember. Samuel told me later what the verdict was, and that William will hang on Monday, but I know what I have seen today will haunt me for the rest of my life.
Josephine could not even begin to imagine the effect that such a scene must have had on Lucy, and on Maria’s family. It was straight out of the most lurid of melodramas, even if it was carried out in the name of science and justice, and she was shocked by the lack of dignity shown to Maria’s remains. She remembered what Henry Andrews had told her about the market for relics, and wondered if the skull had ever been reinterred, or if it sat in a darkened room somewhere, the most prized piece in somebody’s private collection.
11 August
I thought that sleep w’d not come when I went to my bed last night, but when I woke it was after seven. I c’d not help wonderin’ about him. Had he slept through his last night on this earth, or did he cling to his final hours? I hope he has suffer’d from knowin’ the moment of his own death. Maria was spar’d that, at least.
Went to rouse the Missis, but her room was empty. Search’d the house, afraid of what her grief might have driven her to, but she was nowhere to be found. Then I saw her from the window, walkin’ slowly up the hill, her bible in her hand, her head held high. The village was quieter than
usual – a lot o’ folk had gone to Bury – but the few that were about star’d without shame. Some dar’d to speak to her, but she look’d straight ahead as if she had not heard. She walk’d past me, too, as she came back in. The world only had room for her and her wretched son. She has not spoken to him since his sentence.
I c’d not do my work, and sat at my window. Just before 12, the sun came out. The church clock began to strike the hour, follow’d by the clock in the hall and the clock in the parlour, and I imagin’d the roar of the crowds buildin’ outside the gaol. I thought I c’d actually hear them, but the cries were of a mother lettin’ her son go from the world, in more pain now than ever she was when she brought him into it.
I went to her. There is only one grief, it seems, and the sorrow that stood between us has brought us together in the end. I have no idea how long we clung to each other, but when I left her the sun was much lower in the sky.
Josephine put the pages down gently, and cried – not for the Corders, but for Marta. It was the first time that her own life had truly broken through into her thoughts all night, and the collision of the two worlds felt strange and unsettling. They had hardly known each other when Marta’s son went to the gallows, and yet she longed to have been with her, to have taken on some of her pain as Lucy had done for Mrs Corder. Even now, she had no idea what Marta had done during the final moments of her son’s life, how she had coped with being alive in the hours and days that followed, how she ever faced another morning with that grief always at her shoulder. No matter how much they loved each other, or how strong Josephine’s instinct was for understanding and solace, she could not do for Marta what a servant had done for her mistress. Their distance hurt her, and it was a long time before she went back to her reading. When she picked up the final pages, the blackness outside had turned to grey, signalling the end of a long night.
12 August
The newspaper says it took him eight minutes to die. He confess’d on Sunday night. His wife kept faith with him until the end. It is a love he did not deserve. Mr Curtis’s paper printed William’s last letter to her, written on a page from a book of sermons that she gave him. They say she is ill in Bury. Perhaps William’s second child will be as unlucky as his first.
They took his body on a cart to the Shire Hall and show’d it to the people, naked except for his trousers, shoes and stockings, the skin cut from his chest, eyes and mouth half-open, his neck showin’ the marks of a shameful death. I wish I had known. I w’d have walked to Bury to see his body por’d over as Maria’s has been. Thousands queued for a last sight of him, they say, but readin’ about it is not the same as seein’ it for myself. I have such violence inside me. It sh’d be enough that justice has been done, but it is not.
13 August
Nan Martin caught me by the pond today and accus’d me of betrayin’ her sister at the trial. I open’d my mouth to argue but the words stuck in my throat because I know in my heart that she is right. I treated Samuel badly because of it. He pick’d a fight with Nan’s man, tellin’ him that no one is more loyal to Maria than I am, and I was cross because I do not want him to defend me. He was only tryin’ to help and I told him I was sorry, but we are a village at war at the moment. William is dead and the crowds have mov’d on. Left to ourselves, we turn on each other.
It was not Nan’s insults that upset me. It was lookin’ at her and knowin’ that she is replacin’ Maria – in the Martin house, and in the village. Thousands of folk think they have seen Maria’s picture these last few months, but they have not. The portraits that were sold in Bury, the ones in the newspapers, were drawn from Nan’s likeness, not Maria’s. No one drew Maria when she was alive. Now she is dead, even her face is a lie.
For some reason, Josephine found this as sad as any of the more shocking entries that Lucy had written; it seemed to sum up so eloquently the way that the real Maria had been forgotten even by those who knew her – replaced for posterity by someone who had never really lived, her image changed by history as easily as the spelling of her name had been. She turned to the picture in Curtis’s book. Maria shared the page with Corder and Thomas Henry, a twisted parody of the perfect family group. Josephine looked at the small, doll-like face, the bright eyes and pretty rose-bud lips, the perfect curls framed by a bonnet that had never been hers, and she felt cheated. She longed for the diary to tell her what Maria had truly looked like, but of course Lucy needed no written descriptions to bring her friend’s face to mind, and the pages – which had been so revealing otherwise – remained stubbornly silent.
26 August
Mrs Martin stopp’d me outside the forge and ask’d me if I w’d like to go to the cottage and see Thomas Henry. She needs any friend she can get. For every person who believes in her dreams, there are half a dozen who whisper behind her back that she knows more about Maria’s death than she says. I do not know the truth of it, but I am willin’ to forget our differences for the sake of that little boy.
The cottage has suffer’d like the rest of us. I w’d never say that Mrs Martin does not keep a tidy house, but the rooms smell of sadness. Thomas Henry’s face lit up when he saw me. It made me want to cry, but he has seen enough tears this last year, so I took him out into the sunshine. It did us both good. When we went back, his grandmother said I sh’d see him more often and take him to play with Molly, and I was pleas’d. Nothin’ would make me happier than to see them friends.
As I was leavin’, Mrs Martin put some of Maria’s books into my hand, remindin’ me of how we had always lov’d a story. It is nice to have them, with her notes inside, and a flower or letter tuck’d between the pages. I smil’d when I saw The Old English Baron. I c’d hear her voice, readin’ it aloud to me as we sat on the grass over Thistley Lay. The taller a tale, the more Maria lov’d it. Then I remember’d the part where a woman guides her husband to their daughter’s body through a dream, and now I cannot sleep for wonderin’.
In her excitement over the diary, Josephine had completely forgotten about the book she had bought with it, and made a mental note to look through it later, when she had finished Lucy’s story. The thought of seeing Maria Marten’s handwriting, and gleaning what she could of her personality from it, almost made up for the lack of an accurate drawing.
8 September
The Missis is goin’. I have known since the day he died that she w’d not be able to bear another winter here, and she will be away by the end of the year. She is to stay with family, and the house and farm will be relet. I will not be sorry to leave it. I long to shake off its shadows and be a proper wife to Samuel and lovin’ mother to Molly. I only wish that we c’d make our home somewhere far from here, not in the cottage so close to where Maria died, and where I will always be haunted by what happen’d to her.
12 September
One of the Suffolk papers has open’d a fund for the other Mary Corder. She is broken, it says, ruin’d in mind and body. Her school lost its pupils and she sold everythin’ she had for his defence. Now she is poor, reduc’d to the very last shillin’, with no hope of feedin’ and clothin’ her child when it is born. I thought she w’d come back here, but she has not spoken with the Missis, or look’d to her for money.
The harvest is in. It has been a poor year, Samuel says, and the barn is barely two thirds full. There has been no music, no dancin’, no reason to be thankful. The last grain has been taken from Corder land. When it has gone, there will be nothin’ left of them here but dust.
25 October
The Missis call’d me after breakfast and told me to get a room ready for William’s widow. She is to come here to have the child. A birth under this roof after so many deaths, but I cannot be happy for it. Maria was sent away from all who lov’d her to bring his first child into the world, and now, after all that has happen’d, his second will breathe its first under his mother’s roof. I am not to speak of it in the village.
3 November
She came after dark in a coach from Lavenham, where she has be
en stayin’. The child will not be long in comin’ and I put her straight to bed. The Missis has told me to give her every care, but she w’d not see her tonight. She is doin’ what she thinks is right, but there is no joy for her in the new life to come, and I think she fears that she will see her son in his child, and be reminded of more than she can bear.
16 November
William has a son. The Missis w’d not see the child and wanted only to know if he was well. He is a sickly little creature, and his mother prays for him. She has called him John, but he is not to take the Corder name for fear that it will go against him. As soon as they are strong enough, they are to leave the village, and the Missis soon after them.
21 November
The child is thrivin’ now, and his mother sees only William in him. She cries with joy and grief, and I am sad for her. Everythin’ that William has touch’d he has destroy’d.
2 December
The Missis left Polstead for the last time yesterday. It has been a busy week, and if it was not for the sadness of the work, I w’d have been glad. But packin’ away a life of such loneliness all but broke my heart, and I am glad it is done. She wanted company on the journey and we took the mornin’ coach. It was a bright winter’s day and the village look’d its finest, but as the carriage rattled down the Hadleigh road, she did not once look back. She has ask’d me to tend the graves of her husband and children if I feel able to, and if it will not cause me grief wi’ the village, but I think the churchyard is the only thing she regrets leavin’ behind. It holds so much of her.