by Mary Hooper
I became full of misery then and fell to weeping, wondering how I was going to survive. I wished myself dead and Master Geoffrey too, cursing him and praying that he would be struck down by the falling sickness and die most horribly. I could not bring myself to go into the house, for my face was red and blotched (and I knew that the rest of the servants would be sure to deduce what I’d been crying about), so I left my basket outside the back door and took myself across the yard and into the dovecote. Here I climbed a stepladder into the darkness and squeezed myself onto a wooden platform to sit among the cooing birds, the droppings, the feathers, and the scraps of down floating on the air. Once there, well hidden, I felt I could have stayed forever, for to my simple way of thinking it seemed that the doves would look after me, and would not deceive and trick me as Master Geoffrey had; that I could trust them more than I should ever have trusted him.
After some time, though, I stopped weeping, grew cold, and began to fear what they’d be saying at the house about me, so was too frightened not to return. I went back very solemn, anxious about how I might be punished for my disappearance, but the house was in such a tipsy-topsy state with preparations for Master Geoffrey’s betrothal supper that my disappearance had hardly been noticed. I was brought down with melancholy, however, and when I was sent to the herb patch for pungent herbs to stuff a goose that afternoon, I could not help but look across to the smithy and recall the washing day when I’d first begun speaking to John Taylor. I missed him greatly at that time, and was so unhappy that the dishonorable notion came upon me that I might bring myself into his favor again, and lie with him, and pretend that the child I carried was his own.
He was not to be seen over the road, however, and thankfully such a wicked idea was soon gone from my head. Yet I shed more tears thinking of John’s kindnesses to me, and his gentleness, and how wicked I’d been to cast him off so cruelly when he had truly cared for me.
My situation seeming to have no solution, when I returned to the kitchen I didn’t protest when Mrs. Williams said I was to scour out all the slop buckets and chamber pots, for it seemed fitting to my mood and situation that I should be set such a horrid job—and even seeing that Susan had been set to the pretty task of making spun-sugar nests to go over candied apricots for the party did not make my disposition worse. Nothing could do that.
Everyone was eager for news of the new young lady’s arrival, and Patience, who was maid to Lady Mary, told us that she’d seen Miss de Millet at dinner that noon. She reported that she was a pretty, fresh young thing and had been wearing costly jewels, although her complexion was rather brown and her nose slightly on the long side.
“She seemed very ladylike, though,” she said. “She eats very dainty with her fork and knows just how to act. And I heard them say that she embroiders so neatly and with such fine stitches that the end result is like a painting.”
“What was she wearing?” asked Susan.
“A satin dress with an embroidered bodice and a line of ribbon knots all down the back,” Patience answered. “And it was in a flame color, which they said, being orange, was a play on the name of Clementine.”
All the female servants drew breath at the wit of this device, which did not strike me as clever at all, however, especially with her brown complexion.
“And does Master Geoffrey dote on her?” Mrs. Williams asked.
“Oh, yes, he does!” Patience replied. “And ’tis nice to see him so, for I’ve sometimes thought him a selfish young man.”
“Does he carry out little duties?” Susan wanted to know.
Patience nodded. “He looked after her fan and shawl, and led her to the table and saw her seated, and altogether acted as if he was very much in love with her, paying her little compliments and the like.”
Jacob gave a snort of derision, which pleased me, but the women gave him a cold look and said that he shouldn’t be so scathing, and ’twould be a good thing if all men were more mannerly. Susan cried, “What a pretty sight they must be together!” and glanced at me as she said it.
Later that day I determined that I must appeal to Master Geoffrey and tell him of my situation, for if I was not to end up in the parish workhouse I would soon be in dire need of a place to lay my head. I wished that I had some money put by and need not appeal to him, but as I sent most of what I earned home to Ma, I had only a few pence to call my own. My only possessions were my clothes—I could sell my bodice, of course—and the wedding ring of my grandma, although this would not fetch much, for it was but poor gold and had worn as thin as a hair over the years.
Speaking to Master Geoffrey alone was, I knew, going to be monstrous difficult, for it was only the footmen who served dinner and the ladies’ maids who were allowed about the house when visitors were within. I was, however, determined to try, for what would become of me if I did not?
The guests arrived (including, so we heard, Miss de Millet’s parents), and supper was served at seven o’clock. It had not been possible for me to get anywhere near Master Geoffrey before this, for most of the afternoon he’d been in the library deep in conversation with Sir Thomas, and someone had seen a gowned man of the law arrive bearing parchment and seals, which Mr. Peakes had said was sure to be something to do with the marriage settlement. After the family and guests had eaten supper, we servants cleared away and washed the dishes, so by the time eleven o’clock came, I was dropping with tiredness and also felt ill, which I thought was likely to be nerves because of what I knew I must do. Susan went to bed, as did most of the other staff, so that in the end the only servants sitting up were those who waited on their master’s or mistress’s coming to bed. This didn’t look like being for some time, however, for a group of fiddlers had come to the house, and some of the company had moved from the dining room to the great hall, and were dancing.
I went to bed, but crept out of the room when Susan was asleep and sat on the servants’ stairs listening to the music and gaiety from downstairs. If I’d known then what was going to happen and the intentions of the Reade family toward me, then I believe I would not have sat there so patient. I believe I would have gone down those stairs into the great hall and spoken my piece in front of everyone. Oh, what a disturbance I could have caused if only I’d been brave enough! Miss de Millet’s face would have shown stunned disbelief, Master Geoffrey’s would have been red and horror-struck, his grandmother would have had a shrieking fit, and his grandfather would have roared with rage. What a harum-scarum cockfight I could have caused in the great hall that night!
But of course I didn’t dare do any such thing, but stayed on the stairs and every now and again, when I heard a door open, ran to my bedroom and hid until I felt it was safe to go out again. I believe I fell asleep at some time, for when I woke there was no noise from downstairs and it seemed that the merrymaking had ceased. It felt safe, therefore, to go through the baize door into the family’s quarters and onto the bedroom landing, and to creep along in the shadows until I came to Master Geoffrey’s room, where a faint line of light under the door told me that his candle was still burning.
I pressed my ear against his door, shaking with cold and fright. I knew, of course, that Miss de Millet wouldn’t be in there—her body would be held sacred until they were married—but I feared that his valet might still be in attendance. All I could hear, though, was Master Geoffrey humming, and I felt angry when I heard this, for it seemed to me to be the hum of a contented man who has everything planned and neat in his life and cares nothing about what unhappiness he might have caused along the way of it.
I tapped on the door, but so tentative was I that he didn’t hear it. I tapped again, then gently pushed at the door and peered around it, ready to turn tail and run if I had to. It opened a little, and I saw Master Geoffrey at the washstand pouring himself a glass of water from a jug. He wore only a nightcap, had nothing on beside to hide his nakedness, and cut such a comical figure that I might have laughed at him had I been there for any other reason.
&nbs
p; I tiptoed into the room. “Master Geoffrey . . .” I began, and he jumped, turned, and saw me, and attempted to hide his private parts with the water jug. Why he did this I had no idea, for every other time I’d seen him he’d been only too anxious to have them on display.
“Out!” was the first word he said to me. As if I was a cur, or a cat to be chased off the soused herrings.
“Sir, I am most anxious to speak to you—”
“Out, I say!” he said in a harsh whisper. “At once!”
“Sir, I . . .”
He looked at me with great disdain. “Are you so hot, woman, that you have to come to my room and lay siege to me?”
I was astonished and outraged at this, but before I could give him a reply I heard the handle of the door to the adjoining room rattling, as if someone had put a hand upon it, and in my imagination saw Sir Thomas coming in, perhaps to acquaint his son with the results of some conversation he’d had with Miss de Millet’s father. I immediately reversed the two steps I’d taken in and, very shaken, backed out of the room as quickly and silently as I’d entered.
The next morning we were up at five o’clock as usual, although I could barely drag myself out of bed for weariness. My only hope of speaking to Master Geoffrey, I knew, was to catch him in his room. Accordingly, after doing my morning chores, I put a washing jug to one side and hid it in the buttery. Later, after the warm water for the family had been sent up and when Mrs. Williams was occupied elsewhere, I took up the jug and carried it to Master Geoffrey’s room. If anyone had seen me, they would merely have thought I was bringing him fresh water.
The curtains around his bed hung open, but he was still asleep, and as I looked on his sleeping form I was filled with a hatred such as the Bible says we never should feel, e’en toward our greatest enemies. Oh, I’d been stupid and I’d been lewd, but those were my only sins; Master Geoffrey’s were surely much worse, for he had cruelly used and deceived me, taken advantage of his position as Sir Thomas’s heir, and got me with child.
With this at the forefront of my mind, I became bold enough to shake his shoulder. “Sir,” I said. “Master Geoffrey . . .”
He must have recognized my voice, for he immediately turned away and burrowed further into the bed.
“Master Geoffrey. I must speak with you.”
There was no reply.
I called him again, and again. Desperately, I shook him more harshly and moved the drapes around the bed to cause a draught. At last he opened his eyes.
“What is it you want?” he asked coldly, every trace of the sweet-talking flattery, every one of the wheedling phrases he’d used before now disappeared.
“I need to speak to you most urgently,” I said.
“How dare you come to my room!”
“I came because I am desperate, sir. I am in an impossible situation.”
“Get out now, or I’ll call George and have you thrown out. ’Tis disgraceful you should beard a fellow in his room in this way.”
“But, sir, I beg you.” He closed his eyes and seemed about to go back to sleep, so I shook his shoulder again. “Sir, I must tell you that I am in a certain condition. I . . . I am with child.”
There was a moment’s silence, then, opening both eyes and seeming immediately to be fully awake, he said, “Then ’tis not mine.”
I stared at him, stunned, for in spite of my low opinion of him, I’d never considered that he might deny he was the father, nor hardly thought that a gentleman might do such a thing. At that moment, so much did I hate him that if I’d had a knife in my hand, I would have run him through with it and taken the consequences. “But I have not lain with another man!” I said, astonished.
He did not say a word.
“I never have! You must believe me!”
But he had gone back to being a stone again, his eyes tight shut, his face set stern, his mouth a hard line. I tried again and again to garner some response from him, but could not. In the end, frightened of being discovered there, I had no recourse but to leave.
I returned to my duties, not speaking with anyone but doing as I was bid without question, my mind running frantically in all directions. Should I leave the household now, before it was discovered that I was with child, or should I remain and get a little money put by? Should I return home? Would my father, who is not known for either his patience or his tolerance, allow me to stay with them, or would he insist I go into a workhouse? What would I do when the child was born? Perhaps, I thought grimly, I would swaddle it, bring it to the house, and leave it on the doorstep with Master Geoffrey’s name on it.
He was to leave Dun’s Tew that same afternoon, for I heard that Miss de Millet was taking him as far as Oxford in her carriage, where he would stay one night and then catch the coach back to London. But I had obviously given him a fright with my words, for he appeared in the servants’ quarters about midday saying he had a gold angel that Miss Clementine’s parents had left for the waiting staff. (I was in the dairy straining the buttermilk and became so anxious on seeing him there that I quite forgot to put salt in the butter, so that after two days it went rancid.)
After speaking to Mr. Peakes and giving him the money for distribution to the servants, he came to the dairy and, standing by the door in a casual attitude, said in a low voice, “There are ways to order these things. You must get rid of the child.”
“’Tis too late for that,” I said, my hands trembling as I held the muslin taut. “And besides, I have tried.”
“Then you have not tried hard enough.”
I didn’t reply.
“How do I know that you haven’t got yourself with child deliberately so as to obtain money from me?”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” I said, “but I cannot get myself with child on my own.”
“You knew what you were doing well enough! ‘Twas not your first time.”
I didn’t answer this, for I was too angry to control myself and felt that I might begin weeping. Either that or strike out at him.
“If you tell anyone that ‘tis mine—”
“It is yours!” I burst out. “As God is my witness, it is your child!”
“Then I’ll deny it. My family—my grandfather—will never believe you.”
I sighed when he said this, for I knew he spoke truly. Sir Thomas doted on him and would be bound to take his side whatever the circumstances. “And besides, I will get George and some of the menservants to say that they have also lain with you.”
Oh, how I loathed him then! And how it tormented me knowing that I carried his offspring within me. Struggling to keep from weeping, I scraped the butter onto the marble tile and began to form it into a block with the wooden spades. “If you shame me like that,” I said in a low voice, “then may you be cursed for your lies, and may God reveal you for the wicked devil you are.”
He replied immediately, “I will tell them that you cursed me, and you will be taken away for a witch!”
I turned on him angrily. “If they would take me from here then they cannot come quickly enough, for I rue the day I ever came through your door!” I said, and as I spoke I formed the butter into an oblong, then gave it such a mighty bang with one of the spades that soft drops of yellow spattered up into the air and fell onto the marble. I closed my eyes in despair for a moment, and when I opened them he’d gone.
I wondered after if I should have spoken to him soft and pretended I cared for him, for that might have been a better way. I should have used honeyed words and sweet talk, and assured him that his betrothal to Miss de Millet would not alter things between us, and I would still allow his liberties. Then, when he was won over and confident of my fidelity, I could have told him of the child and asked for his help. I did not do any of those things, however, and later spent many hours cursing my temper.
Now, though, I know that whatever I’d said to him, it wouldn’t have changed things.
I make one more effort to open my eyes, straining to see what’s about me in the darkness, but it
does me no good, for I am nowhere . . .
Chapter ~ 12
For a moment everything halted. The doctors and scholars who surrounded the corpse formed a tableau around Anne Green, whose body seemed rapt between heaven and Earth. She neither lived, nor was she wholly dead.
Robert gazed at Anne unwaveringly. He knew that something strange, something problematic and metaphysical was happening. A choice was being presented to the physicians: they could decide to give her succor, or assist in her peaceful passing.
Suddenly the scene reanimated. The doctors began moving into place around the body, the scholars crowded forward. Nathaniel Frisk was pulled into a corner and left, slumped sideways, to recover on his own as best he could.
“We must help her breathe,” Dr. Petty said urgently.
“I agree,” Dr. Willis said. “Shall we sit her up? Warm her?”
“What?!” roared Sir Thomas Reade.
“Chafe her legs, perhaps,” suggested Mr. Clarke.
“Hold!”
A voice rang out from the back of the room, and Robert turned to see a figure in clerical black, his white collar and tall hat marking him out as a Puritan.
“Now we shall have fun,” Wilton said.
Robert looked at him inquiringly.
“Puritans cannot tolerate anything upsetting the rightful order of things,” he whispered. “The man has wandered in to watch a dissection, and instead found a resurrection.”
The Puritan’s right hand was raised, finger pointing up like that of an avenging angel. “Hold, I say. That woman belongs to God, and God alone! You will not take her back from him!”
Chapter ~ 13
A month later I was still at Dun’s Tew Manor, lacing myself into my bodice and stomacher each morning and pulling them a little tighter betimes. I’d not left the Reades’ household, for a lethargy seemed to have come over me so that I had neither the energy to leave, nor the courage to go home and face my father. I knew I should have told Ma of my situation, or at least got a message to her, for it was probable that she thought the cunning woman’s cordial had been effective, but I did not wish to cause her any more distress. As well as this, I could not have faced the walk back to my village, for my legs ached mightily and I was constantly weary.