A Secret History of Witches

by Louisa Morgan

  She whispered at first, forgetting there was no one else in the house to disturb. “Maman! What are you doing?”

  Nanette glanced up from beneath the hem of the old scarf. Her eyes were hollow and her cheeks pale with fatigue. She said, “I have to sleep.”

  “Wait!” Ursule’s voice rose now, and she hurried down the staircase, her stockinged feet slipping on the bare wood. “Wait, Maman! Why aren’t you in bed?”

  The look her mother gave her then, lifting her head and gazing fully into her face, brought Ursule to a halt, still three treads from the bottom. Nanette said, “You’ll find out in time, Ursule. Or you won’t. Until then, you’ll just have to wait. For now, I must sleep.”

  She turned away toward her bedroom, hugging the dark object close to her breast. The cat followed, winding past her ankles to precede her into the room. Ursule shook herself and hurried after her mother, but Nanette closed the door firmly in her face. Ursule cried out in shock when she heard the heavy click of the lock.

  She stood for a time where she was, as her feet grew cold and chill prickles broke out on her arms. She lifted a hand to knock, but she thought of Nanette’s face, gray with exhaustion, and lowered her hand again. Reluctantly she went back up the stairs, consigning the resolution of the mystery to the morning. She lay wakeful in her bed for a long time, watching the bands of moonlight slip across the slanted ceiling. When the goats began to bleat, she had fallen into a deep, numbing slumber. She struggled awake with difficulty, and pulled on her clothes with her eyes still half-shut. Not until she was already on her way to the byre did she feel fully awake.

  Nanette slept late that day. Lammas was approaching, the time of first harvest, and Ursule spent her morning in the kitchen garden, weeding, thinning, propping up vines and stems. She was bent over a row of potatoes, plucking beetles from the leaves, when she caught sight of her mother through the kitchen window. She brushed soil from her hands and skirt and strode up through the garden to the house.

  She kicked off her boots on the porch and went into the kitchen in her stockings. Nanette had set the kettle on the stove to boil and pulled a half loaf from the keeper. With the bread knife in her hand, she glanced up.

  Ursule had meant to press her about where she had been last night, but a wave of concern forestalled her. “Maman, are you well? You look terrible.”

  Nanette smiled a little as she wielded the knife, cutting two thick slices of bread. “I’m well enough,” she said. “I’ll be fine after one good night’s sleep.”

  “Eat breakfast and go back to bed,” Ursule urged. “I’ll take the goats up to the moor.”

  “No, no. There’s too much work to be done.”

  “Tell me where you were last night, then.”

  “Ursule, don’t be foolish. Where do you think I was? What do you think I was doing?”

  “You didn’t go up the tor by yourself!”

  “I did.” The kettle began to whistle, and Nanette turned away to pour water into the waiting teapot.

  “But why? If you wanted to say a crossing rite for Fleurette, I would have gone with you, you know that. To go alone in the dark is foolish! What if you had fallen? Or something had attacked you?”

  Nanette laughed, a sound that was both weary and satisfied. “I suppose that’s why the Goddess sent him.” She pointed one finger at the cat, who had slunk beneath the table and lay glaring up at Ursule, his tail lashing back and forth. “He followed me.”

  “But why did you go to the temple? What was your purpose?”

  Nanette poured out a cup of tea and carried it to the table. Before she sat down she said, “Do you have some fresh milk for the cat, Ursule?”

  “I’ll fetch some, if you like. But tell me, please.”

  “Non, ma fille. You will laugh, and I can’t bear it. Not today.” She pulled out her chair and sank into it with a groan. “But you’re right. I’m terribly tired. Perhaps I will go back to bed, if you will forgive me.”

  “Bien sûr, Maman. Of course. Yesterday was a sad day. And a long one.”

  “Merci, ma fille.”

  “Where has the cat been?”

  Nanette glanced beneath the table at the cat, lying perfectly still except for his restless tail. The smile returned to her lips. “I don’t know. He comes and goes.”

  Ursule eyed the cat, who watched her through slitted yellow eyes. His tail flicked faster as they gazed at each other. She resisted the temptation to urge him out the door with her foot. Instead she went down into the cold cellar to pour fresh goat’s milk into a shallow bowl. She would tolerate the creature for her mother’s sake, though she had rather hoped he was gone for good. She set the bowl down, and the cat strolled to it and began to drink.

  Nanette’s eyes held a spark of amusement when she looked up at her daughter. “You don’t like him,” she said.

  “He doesn’t like me.”

  “Actually, he doesn’t seem to like me that much, either. But the Goddess sent him, for Her own reasons, so that’s that.”

  Ursule closed her lips and settled with her teacup, resolving for the hundredth time to allow her mother her illusions. There was precious little left to give Nanette comfort.

  6

  Morcum Cardew, a farmer with a small property west of Marazion, rode up the lane to Orchard Farm on a handsome Shire stallion just three days after Nanette and Ursule laid Fleurette in her grave. It was midafternoon, and a hot August wind tugged at the thatch of the roof and whipped the ends of Ursule’s scarf. She had been pulling carrots, shaking the soil from the plump tubers before tossing them into a basket. She was covered in dirt from her skirt hem to the waist of her apron. Hastily she brushed herself as clean as she could and stepped out through the garden gate to greet the visitor.

  He lifted his flat cap to her before he dismounted. “Miss Orchard,” he said.

  “Good day to you, Mr. Cardew.” Ursule knew him from the market. He was not tall, but he was strongly built, broad shouldered and ham fisted. His short beard was half gone to gray, but his hair was still shoe-leather brown. His clothes were clean and mended, though he was widowed. He had lost his wife the year before, dead in childbed, and the infant with her.

  Ursule was more interested in the Shire than she was in the man. The horse was surely eighteen hands at the withers. His hooves and nose were black, but his hide was a silvery gray, with dapples so faint they vanished in the sunlight. She stepped forward to caress his muscled neck, and he dropped his nose into her hand. “He’s a beauty, this one, Mr. Cardew,” she said. “Good under harness as well as saddle?”

  “Gentle as a lamb, is Aramis,” the farmer said.

  “Aramis. Silver.”

  “Yes. Even Annie used to ride him, though she said it was like riding a mountain.”

  “I’m sorry about your Annie.”

  “Thanks. It’s been a year now.”

  “I know.” Ursule stepped back to look the horse over from withers to hocks. “I don’t suppose Aramis is for sale.”

  “Nay, not for sale. But—”

  He paused, and Ursule turned, her eyebrows lifted and her hands tucked under her apron. When he didn’t finish his thought, she said, “What brings you so far from your home, Mr. Cardew? In need of some goat’s cheese, perhaps? We have some cheeses ready.”

  “No, no cheese today.” He took off his cap again and turned it in his hands. His cheeks were red with the wind, or with embarrassment, Ursule couldn’t tell which. He turned from her and cast his eyes at the byre and tidy fences of Orchard Farm. “Just you two left to manage your farm now, I heard. You’ve had a lot of death here.”

  “Yes.” Ursule took her hands out from beneath her apron and tightened her scarf over her blowing hair.

  “Hard to get by on your own,” he said. He turned his head as if to assess the state of the thatch on the roof, or the paint on the walls of the farmhouse.

  “Mr. Cardew,” Ursule began.

  He turned back to her with a look of resolution on his
plain face. He said, in a rush, “I wish you’d call me Morcum, Miss Orchard.”

  “What?”

  “I wish you’d call me by my Christian name.” He hesitated, chewing on his lower lip, then blurted, “See, I’ve come courting.”

  For one long moment Ursule couldn’t think what he meant. She stared at him, at his graying beard, his weathered skin, until the import of his words began to sink in. His eyes were a bright blue in the sunshine, and they held a look of pleading.

  “Do you—Mr. Cardew—I mean, Morcum—” Ursule floundered to a stop.

  He put out one of his thick hands and took hers. His hand was scrubbed clean, while her fingernails were grimy with garden dirt. “I do mean it, Miss Orchard. Ursula, if you don’t mind. I’m a plainspoken man, and I’m older than you, but I know how to farm. I think we could do well together.”

  “But you don’t know me at all!” She tried to pull her hand away, but he held it.

  “I do,” he said. “I’ve seen you at the market, and I know what you can do. I’m alone now—a year,” he reminded her. He had said that before, and she remembered that was the proper length of time for a man to mourn a wife. “You’re alone, too, and if you’ll forgive me, not getting younger.”

  At that Ursule laughed aloud. “I’m not yet twenty-two!” she said.

  “Aye. Annie was fifteen when we wed.”

  Ursule, still smiling, shook her head. “This is a strange call,” she said.

  His sudden grin surprised her. His teeth were white and even, and the grin made him look ten years younger. “I know it,” he said. “Girls like romance and all, like in books. I don’t have any of that.”

  “I’m not interested in romance.” She retrieved her hand at last and stood, her fists on her hips, gazing at him. “I can’t think what put this idea in your head, Morcum Cardew.”

  “It’s a good idea, Ursula,” he said stoutly. “I have two good cows and three does to add to your milkers. I’m strong and healthy, and if I sold my farm, the money could be used to improve yours. We could share the work. We’d be better together than apart.”

  Ursule, considering this, suddenly felt her mother’s gaze on her back. She didn’t need to turn to know that Nanette had lifted one edge of the curtain so she could see. She wondered why her mother didn’t come out to greet their visitor, or invite him in.

  Morcum replaced his cap, clearing his throat as he took a final look around Orchard Farm. “Said my piece,” he said, with a faint air of relief. “I’d be pleased if you’d do me the honor of thinking about it.”

  “It’s a bit of a shock,” she said.

  “Take your time,” he said, and turned to his horse. She wondered for a moment if he could mount without a block, the stallion was so big. He was, however, strong, just as he had said. He pulled himself up with only a small grunt, and swung his leg over the saddle. He sat for a moment looking down at her. “I’m not asking anyone else,” he said. “It’s you I want, Ursula.”

  He touched his cap one more time, lifted the reins, and was off down the lane, leaving Ursule staring after him in amazement.

  “Now will you believe me?” Nanette’s eyes flashed with triumph, and she tossed her head so that her hair rose like a cloud of smoke and ash around her head. “The same rite I spoke for myself, I spoke for you.”

  “Maman, you don’t think that’s why he came!” Ursule turned from the stove, where she had dropped freshly chopped carrots into a simmering broth.

  “Bien sûr!”

  “No,” Ursule said. She wiped her hands on a towel and tossed it over her shoulder as she crossed to the bread keeper. “He merely waited out his year of mourning, then came looking for someone to step into Annie Cardew’s shoes.”

  “There are other unmarried women in Cornwall.”

  “No doubt,” Ursule responded. She wielded the bread knife with energy, peeling off thick slices of the brown loaf. “But those women are not in possession of Orchard Farm.”

  Nanette sighed. “You’re so cynical, Ursule.”

  Ursule laughed. “I’m not a cynic. I’m a realist. They’re different things.”

  Nanette let the matter drop and went to fill the crock with the butter she had churned that morning.

  When the soup was ready, they filled their bowls and took their seats at the long table. They had developed the habit of sitting side by side at one end, avoiding the vacant chairs. The gray cat lay between their feet, snapping up any morsels that fell his way.

  They set a simple table, with the breadboard and the butter crock between them, and the salt dish within easy reach. They were hungry after a long day of work in the bracing air, and neither spoke until their soup bowls were half-empty.

  As she scooped butter onto a second piece of bread, Nanette said, “Tell me what you think of him.”

  “Who?”

  “Who! Why, Morcum Cardew, of course. Have you forgotten him already?”

  Ursule took another spoonful of soup, sighed, and laid her spoon down. With her napkin she wiped a bit of butter from her fingers, avoiding her mother’s eyes. “No,” she said finally. “I haven’t forgotten. I just don’t know what to think of him. He seems pleasant enough. He can’t pronounce my name properly, but I suppose that doesn’t matter.”

  “It’s a gift from the Goddess,” Nanette said.

  “That may be.” Ursule looked up. “I’m not sure I want it, Maman.”

  From his spot beneath the table, the gray cat suddenly hissed, a long, angry sound like water spilled onto a hot stove. Ursule felt the bat of his long tail against her ankles, and she had to resist the urge to kick him away.

  Nanette raised her eyebrows. “Sounds as if the cat has his own opinion.”

  “You should give the creature a name. He’s been here for years.”

  Nanette shrugged. “I never know if he’s going to stay.”

  “But he’s ancient, Maman. What cat lives so long?”

  “A special one.”

  “You mean,” Ursule said tartly, “that he was sent by the Goddess?”

  “Of course. Like your soon-to-be husband. But remember, my dear daughter—” Nanette smiled as she picked up her spoon. “Not all gifts are permanent.”

  It was a remark made lightly, but it was one Ursule would ponder as the years rolled on.

  Ursule and Morcum were wed quietly at St. Mary’s Church in Penzance, as Father Maddock in Marazion refused to officiate. Nanette was the only guest. The Cardew family, three taciturn brothers and two sour-faced sisters, declined to attend, saying Morcum was marrying a gypsy, a heathen who would lead him straight to hell. Even the priest, paid well by Morcum, looked askance at Ursule, and pressed her on her beliefs. She shrugged and said she had no difficulty with the church as long as it left her alone. Morcum hid a grin at the priest’s scowl. For his part he asked nothing about her private beliefs, and as far as she could tell, he didn’t care what they were. Ursule thought it best not to press him on his family’s doubts.

  The priest performed the ceremony in perfunctory fashion. Ursule had attended Mass often enough to take part, after a fashion. She watched Morcum going through the ecclesiastical motions, and thought how similar it all was to the rites her aunts had practiced. It was something she would never tell him, of course.

  It was a practical marriage, with neither frill nor flourish. Morcum had already sold his bit of land and moved his stock to Orchard Farm. For days before the wedding he’d labored in the byre, adding new stalls for the extra goats, strengthening the fence around the pasture where the cows grazed. Aramis, the great, gentle Shire, occupied the same paddock as the ponies. Morcum spent an entire night observing the beasts together to be certain there would be no trouble. In the morning, with satisfaction, he reported that the ponies had taken shelter from the wind behind Aramis’s bulk, and that Aramis, as usual, took care where he put his feet and even how he swished his enormous tail.

  There was to be no wedding journey, because the expanded stock would be
too much for Nanette to manage alone, and none of the Cardews would agree to help. Ursule assured her groom she didn’t like to leave her animals in any case, and he said, in his blunt fashion, “Good. My first wedding journey cost the price of a new calf.”

  Flashes of humor sometimes eased the edge of such frank speech, and he was, just as he had promised, a hard worker. With his big hands and stout shoulders, he could do twice as much work in a day as Ursule could, and there was no job he scorned. She kept the milking for herself, as it was her favorite chore, but it was good to have someone else to spade hard ground or lift a heavy basket of spuds into the jingle. Morcum regarded Aramis as his own, but when he had occasion to be away from the farm, Ursule spoiled the big horse, carrying him chunks of carrot in her apron pockets and snuggling close to his warm flank on a cold day.

  Aramis reciprocated in his ponderous way, lipping her cheek and bending his thick neck to cuddle her. She savored such moments. There was no cuddling to be had in her marriage bed.

  Ursule had known little physical affection in her life other than the occasional embrace from Nanette. Her aunts, and the old uncles, had been as stiff and distant as the boulders on the tor. The closest physical contact she had ever experienced with a human being was with her new husband, and Morcum was hardly less perfunctory than the billy goat who covered the nannies each year.

  Nanette had taken pains to make the best bedroom ready for the new couple. She aired and turned the mattress and spread it with an eiderdown comforter, new goose-down pillows, and sheets of new linen. Before the wedding night, Ursule looked forward to the marriage bed with curiosity. Afterward she was merely bored.

  Nanette tried to draw her out, inviting confidences, but Ursule gave a very good imitation of her mother’s Gallic shrug and said she didn’t see what all the fuss was about.

  Whether because of Morcum’s workmanlike approach or Ursule’s indifference, the marital bed was the only nonproductive aspect of their union. Orchard Farm prospered under their labors. The goats produced so much milk that their cheese production doubled, and they sold their output at both the Thursday and the Saturday markets. Morcum was brilliant in breeding the ponies, and their foals brought top prices. The kitchen garden flourished, and the cold cellar was full of potatoes and corn and beets.