The Flawed Mistress (The Summerville Journals)

by Margaret Brazear

  My mother died later that day and for a while I was afraid that Uncle Stephen would send me back to my father, despite his earlier promise, but nothing was said about it. Being a child, nobody bothered to tell me anything and all I found out was from listening at doors, a habit I carried with me into adulthood. I learned that way that my father had disappeared, that his house and lands which had cost me so dear were now in the possession of Mr Carter and his friend.

  Now I believe that the man had somehow tricked my drunken father into signing over his entire estate as well as his daughter. I believed they had murdered him, and that my mother had known and done nothing. She was certainly not surprised at his absence on the morning we left. But I could not care. Uncle Stephen said I could stay with him and that was all I could have wanted. He was a kind enough man, though no special favours were ever given. He was obviously only doing his duty by having me there and had no special affection for me. He was anxious that I should have a governess to keep me to my place either in the schoolroom or in my own chamber.

  London was exciting after my years in the countryside and even without leaving the house, there was always something to see from my window. There were men and women selling things, fruit, vegetables, milk, meat. There was one young woman I saw every single night who did not seem to be selling anything, but she would disappear into an alleyway with a man sometimes. Of course, I know now what she was selling, that same thing that had been brutally torn from me.

  I felt safe with Uncle Stephen, safe for the first time in my life and I began to trust him as time raced by.

  We settled into an uneasy friendship, only speaking when necessary, never talking about my ordeal. I would have liked someone to talk to, but not about that really. As I grew older, the normal bodily functions of puberty came sporadically and hurt when they did. It was my governess who told me what it was, but she of course did not know why I suffered so much more than most young girls. I would have died of shame had she found out.

  ***

  It had been three years since my mother and I had arrived on Uncle Stephen's doorstep, she at the point of death, me not much better, and I was grateful to him for giving me a home even though he had not really wanted me.

  It was an anxious time in London. The King had abandoned his lawful wife, Queen Katherine, and was trying to persuade the pope to grant him a divorce so that he could remarry. Tensions ran high and I was warned not to repeat any gossip that I might hear, but my uncle was not close to the court and although I was the daughter of an Earl, I had no wish to go there and had no one to present me in any case.

  I did not know then that Uncle Stephen could have paid a member of the nobility to take me in and present me at court, and I am not sure whether he knew that himself or whether he felt under an obligation to keep me safe with him. I hoped it was the latter and in any case, I was quite happy with the arrangement. The King and all his courtiers held no attraction for me, despite the beautiful clothes and jewels they wore.

  My uncle and I attended mass each week, along with our servants, and one day after the service the priest informed us that the King had established himself as the head of the church in England, that we were no longer Roman Catholics, but English Catholics.

  My uncle said nothing as we left the church, but when we arrived back at his house he warned me very seriously that I should forget the Pope in Rome had ever existed, that mentioning him at all could anger the King and be extremely dangerous.

  I shivered at his warning. I had seen the King, had seen that tiny mouth and those angry eyes; I had no wish to be on the wrong end of his wrath.

  Not long after that there were parades in London as the King married the Lady Anne Boleyn. Uncle Stephen took me out to watch the coronation parade when she was crowned Queen, but it was very frightening.

  There were cries of “Long live Queen Katherine” and Anne’s appearance caused much booing from the crowd. Nobody cheered, nobody wanted her and the King looked murderously angry. I felt a little sorry for Lady Anne Boleyn that day, even though my uncle and I had not sympathised before. From what I had heard, she had manipulated the King into putting away his wife and making her Queen, when he had wanted only another mistress like all the others.

  From the romantic ideals of a thirteen year old, I believed that she must have really loved him and he her, but I realise now that it was only lust, just like the two men who had destroyed my life. My view of men was already one of suspicion, even before that parade when I attracted many glances.

  Although I bore the title of Lady Rachel Stewart in my own right, Uncle Stephen had no such aristocratic claims which put me in an unusual and awkward position as I grew older. He wanted to find a titled gentleman for me to marry, but it would be difficult when he had no access to the court in his own right.

  By this time I had found out, again through listening to servants' gossip, that what was done to me was normal for married couples. I did not know that it was the act without the brutality, but even if I had done, I would not have understood why anyone would want to get married and suffer so.

  When Uncle Stephen first put the idea of a marriage to me, I was horrified.

  "No, Uncle," I told him. "You have no need to concern yourself about finding a titled gentlemen, since I shall not be marrying anyone."

  He grinned slightly.

  "So you think I am going to keep you for the rest of your life?"

  "I can find something to do, surely. Perhaps I can be a governess when I am older, like Mistress Browning is to me."

  "That would hardly be a fitting position for a lady of the nobility, for an Earl's daughter," he argued.

  "What then? There must be something I can do. What do other ladies in my position do?"

  "They marry," he answered. "That is what they do. Never mind, we will talk about it when you are a little older perhaps."

  "We have no need to talk about it at all," I said determinedly.

  What I had not noticed on the day of the coronation, that my uncle had, was how many gentlemen turned their heads to look at me. Even the King, so I was told later, paid particular attention to me, standing beside the road and watching the carriages with everyone else.

  It was but two weeks later that my uncle received an offer for my hand in marriage from a wealthy, titled gentleman, the Earl of Connaught.

  I was not consulted, and Uncle Stephen was very pleased with this offer, but I was terrified. It had never occurred to me that I might be chosen to marry anyone, since I had no dowry and no titled relations to assist. When we had spoken about it before, I imagined Uncle Stephen having to go out of his way to find someone willing to marry me, someone with a title. This offer was unexpected and very unwelcome.

  “I cannot marry,” I told him in a panic. “I am just thirteen years old.”

  “It is old enough, beyond the age of consent.”

  I was shocked and talk of marriage brought back those memories that I had tried very hard to put away forever. Surely my uncle must understand how I would feel about a marriage to anyone. I would rather take the veil, but that was not possible since the King was dissolving all the monasteries and convents.

  “You cannot have forgotten what was done to me, Uncle,” I replied pleadingly "and it still hurts."

  I blushed and he frowned a little, then shrugged as though he thought I was inventing excuses.

  “No, I have not and I have explained to the Earl that you are no virgin. He seemed to sympathise.”

  I just stared at him, hardly able to believe my ears.

  “You told a stranger all about it? How dare you!”

  “He is offering you marriage, Rachel, a good marriage. This is not an opportunity we can overlook; it will not come a second time.”

  “Does he know that I cannot give him children?” I demanded, suddenly recalling what I had overheard the physician telling my uncle. He looked startled that I knew. He did not know that I had overheard the physician talking to him and I had never menti
oned it. It was unimportant; I was not going to marry, was I? I was not concerned that I might be barren.

  “No. It is not certain that you are barren, is it? The doctor did not know for certain so it might be wise to keep quiet on that score.”

  I could scarcely believe what I was hearing. Uncle Stephen had not ill treated me but he was apparently more anxious to get rid of me than I had suspected. I had tried so hard to keep out of his way, to leave him to his solitude; there was no real need for him to be so eager for me to go.

  “Supposing I tell him myself?”

  “Then you will no longer be welcome in my house,” he replied firmly. “This man noticed you in the crowd and wants to marry you. He is an Earl, so the same rank as your father and I see no other way I am going to find you someone so illustrious.”

  “I know nothing about him,” I replied frantically. “Who is he? What age is he? Is he widowed or unmarried? You cannot just marry me to a stranger; I am supposed to give my consent. Even I know that much.”

  “You can refuse your consent if you wish,” he replied quietly. “But if you do you will leave this house immediately. I do not believe you have anywhere else to go, which should make the prospect of this marriage more appealing to you. He is thirty years of age I believe. His first wife died ten years ago and he has mourned her ever since. It seems it was a love match, so you are lucky to have attracted his attention. I believe he does not want another love match, merely an ornament to hang off his arm and entertain his guests. You are very, very beautiful. I do not believe you realise that, which modesty makes you even more appealing.”

  That was the first time I had felt that horror when someone told me I was beautiful; it would not be the last. All I could think of was sitting in that carriage with Mr Carter, of shrinking back into the corner while he told me I was beautiful, the most beautiful little girl he had ever entertained.

  ***

  So I was to be married to the Earl of Connaught, a man almost twenty years older than me and about whom I knew nothing. It seemed that my very existence was merely for the convenience of various men and I wondered if this one would prove to be another deviant who wanted to abuse me and share me with his friends.

  I tried to run away. I stole some jewellery from my uncle's bedchamber, a necklace and bracelets that had belonged to his late wife, and I crept out of the house early one morning with them. I found a jeweller on the other side of the city, where I thought no one would know me, and asked him to buy them, but he recognised me from the coronation parade. He had seen me there with my uncle and he knew my uncle, so he kept me there while he sent for him.

  "After everything I have done for you," Uncle Stephen said angrily, grabbing my upper arm and pushing me along the pavement. "You steal from me? And my dear wife's jewels as well. I cannot believe it."

  "Then perhaps the fact that I did that will make you understand how desperate I am. I cannot be married."

  He just looked down at me and shook his head slowly.

  "It will be all right," he said. "It will not be like your ordeal, I promise."

  He did not understand. No man could really understand, no matter how hard he tried. I felt sick to my stomach at the very idea.

  ***

  The marriage took place at St Paul’s Cathedral, which made my uncle very proud. He told me that he felt happier now that he had found a proper place for me, as he had no idea how to go about finding a suitable match. He blessed the day he took me to the coronation parade, while I cursed that day and wished it had never happened.

  It was all King Henry's fault. If he had stayed married to his lawful wife, there would have been no coronation parade, no Queen Anne, no Earl of Connaught.

  I could not make my uncle understand or even sympathise. He seemed to think it was the normal sort of nervous behaviour of a bride to be and for that I would never forgive him.

  His Lordship did not wish to meet me before the ceremony, did not wish to learn about me or find out if he even liked me. It seemed that his only interest was in how I looked, and people kept telling me I looked beautiful. They could not know how those words made me cringe. I did not feel beautiful and after my tenth birthday ordeal, I doubted that I ever would.

  He was a reasonably personable gentleman, a little stout perhaps but had he been skinny he would have resembled that other one too much for comfort. He had blondish hair and blue eyes, and a slightly pimply complexion.

  I resented the way I had been forced into this marriage, but I decided to try to be a good wife, since it was obviously my fate to be the Countess of Connaught. There could well be compensations though I was really too young to consider what they might be.

  The first time we met was in the church where we stood through a long and complicated wedding mass, pledging our lives to one another. He did not speak to me at all, not until that night when the servants came along to take me to his bedchamber, to wash me and undress me and put me into the bed to await his pleasure.

  That is when panic set in and the memories came flooding back. I closed my eyes and could see again that horrible T shaped scar and hear the laughter. There would be no pleasure in this night for me, that was for certain.

  When he eventually decided to join me, after a wait of some half hour during which I had fallen asleep, he removed his clothing, climbed into the bed, rubbed himself until he was ready then shoved himself into me, telling me to lie still. Then he left, leaving me to feel the pain all over again.

  It was not long before the reason became apparent. He wanted an heir and it was believed that a woman should lie still to ensure a secure pregnancy. I did not tell him that I was probably not capable of conceiving. I might have, had he treated me with any sort of respect, but I did not think that he deserved it. I did not know then that had I told him, I would have been given some peace, he would have had no further interest in me. I thought I was taking revenge, but all I was doing was prolonging the agony.

  I was married to a man who did not speak to me, did not do anything for me except to make sure I was dressed in accordance with his rank. My clothing was always beautiful and expensive, velvets and satins, cloth of silver, all in shades that went well with my dark hair.

  He presented me at court, but only because it was expected, while for my part I hated every minute spent there. I felt shy and inadequate and had nothing to say. The Earl ignored me for the rest of the time, but every night he performed his disgusting and painful ritual, every month he looked for signs of a pregnancy I knew would not happen. The knowledge gave me a sense of satisfaction, a feeling of power over him.

  When the King called for his courtiers to sign the Act of Supremacy, supporting his claim to be the head of the church, His Lordship signed without hesitation. I presumed that religion meant little to him and he was not about to risk his life for it, unlike Sir Thomas More who faced the executioner rather than deny his beliefs.

  Many people mourned Sir Thomas. I had seen him once, at court. He was much loved and had a family, a wife, a son and daughters who cared more for him than for the King. His head went missing from its spike on Tower Bridge and it was rumoured that it was his daughter, Margaret Roper who had climbed up there during the night and taken it.

  The Earl took me to court on a number of occasions, for various balls and celebrations that the King gave and I could not help but notice that men looked at me, took more notice of me than most of the women there. I could also not help but notice the smug look of satisfaction that those glances gave to the Earl. He was very pleased that his wife was considered such a lovely creature, while I would rather have disappeared into the floor and let some other woman have their attention.

  I also noticed that the King himself gave me more than a passing glance or that his Queen treated me to one of her disdainful, angry looks. I would really rather not attend any of these functions, but I had no choice. Even once when I feigned illness, I was still made to go.

  I had been married to the Earl for a year or so when
I decided that it was time I established myself as a person, even though I did not have the confidence for the task. Surely it must have occurred to him by now that there would be no child, so why did he bother to perform his ritual every night? I could not believe that he enjoyed it any more than I did myself. I doubt it caused him any pain though, which it did me. I did not know then that it was not painful for every woman, that it was my own special burden. I only wondered why God had made women so weak that they felt pain every time and thought perhaps it was to be sure of their chastity.

  “My Lord,” I said one night when he had finished with me. “Can I ask a question?”

  He had climbed out of the bed, as always, to return to his own chamber and now he looked down at me as though he had not realised that I could actually talk. He nodded his consent.

  “What will happen if by some strange chance I should conceive a son? Will he also be taught that I am not worth talking to?”

  He frowned a puzzled frown, as though not quite sure of my meaning.

  “It seems unlikely to happen does it not, so the question is irrelevant. I do not understand it anyway.”

  “My uncle told you that I was not a virgin?”

  “He did,” he replied stiffly. “At the time I believed it would make the physical side easier, you being so young. But it seems not to be the case as I still find it difficult.”

  I laughed then, I could not help it. Perhaps things would not be quite so ‘difficult’ if he bothered to treat me with any sort of affection. I was not about to reveal that it was ‘difficult’ because it hurt me so much. I would not ask for sympathy when I expected none. But a frown of anger crossed his brow; perhaps he thought I was laughing at him, and perhaps I was.

  “Was your first wife treated the same as me?” I asked him boldly.

  “You will not speak of her,” he replied angrily, raising his voice.

  I felt angry then and determined to wield a little power of my own.