The Wilding

by McCann, Maria

  My sister’s husband now ruled our household. I will own that at first I disliked him, partly because it seemed insolence, even after six years, to step so easily into Father’s shoes, and partly because I was jealous. Though a tyrant, my sister had always been one of the pillars of my young life, more often than not my sole companion. Now she was forever with him, doting and whispering, and for hours I wandered about the house alone.

  Our new master was a handsome young man, big and strong in body but lazy, fond of the table, good-natured as long as his wishes were met. I say now that he was handsome but I could not see it then. I found his face too red, his breath too meaty. He tried to coax me into friendship and would pull me onto his knee. I would blush and wriggle away, leaving him laughing. Then my sister (who barely acknowledged me at other times) would be angry at both of us, and he would call her his jealous little wild-cat, and kiss and embrace her until they made it up.

  He was not one for bickering. If the food was not well sauced he would shout and swear – eating was a great thing to him – but give him a good table and a good cellar and he was always in humour. I had expected him, as a fortune-hunter, to gather up my sister’s goods – all her coin, jewels, and bills – in a sack and run off with them, yet he was still with us, seemingly content to carry out his side of the bargain. He behaved kindly to me, unlike my sister, who showed only too clearly that she found me an encumbrance.

  A year after the wedding I was persuaded my father had been mistaken about him; two years after that I spoke as trustingly with my brother-in-law as I had once talked with Father himself.

  I was now nearly nineteen, but still babyish and shy, with no notion of putting myself forward. Most of the time I stayed at home, practising my music and embroidering in wool. I would have liked to go into the kitchen and talk to the cook, but that was forbidden, and we made few visits to local families. When I did meet with young men, their manners repelled me. They were often loud and boisterous and I preferred the easy-going company of my brother-in-law. Had my mother lived she would have taken thought for me, plotting likely matches among her acquaintance, but my sister was too wrapped up in her own concerns to bother about getting me a husband.

  Now, however, my sister decided it was time to bring me to market. My brother-in-law said, ‘Certainly,’ but took no trouble over it, and this angered her.

  ‘She’s not pretty,’ she said. ‘All she has is freshness, and it’s fading already.’

  She said this as we were finishing up our dinner. It was a cruel and wicked speech but I did not notice that then. I thought only that I was ugly. My lip quivered and I bit it to keep it under control.

  My brother-in-law whistled as if to say she was too harsh.

  ‘I wish to help her,’ my sister cried. ‘You should do as much.’

  ‘As much as what? Have you settled on a man?’

  She had not, and he knew it. She turned the question on me. ‘Miss Mouse? Have you someone in mind? Or shall I hawk you round the market cross in a basket, like stinking fish?’

  I could not bear it. I went to my room, where I cried a good half-hour.

  *

  The best excuse I can make for my sister is that she was then with child. She had already lost a boy, stillborn, and the dragging pains in her back were coming on again. She spent much of each day lying down with her feet higher than her head, drinking concoctions to strengthen the womb. (They did her no good: that child was also lost, like the one before it.)

  And at this very time, when a woman most craves peace and protection, my sister had another cause for fear.

  I am not sure when I first realised that my brother-in-law no longer loved his wife. Ah! you will say, your father was right, he was a fortune-hunter, but (if you will forgive me, Sir) you are mistaken. We heard tales of these men, coming down from London to the country places, dazzling silly wenches, flinging their dowries about in a fine show and then running away from the ruin they had made. Nothing in our house smacked of that. Leaving aside his eating and drinking, my brother-in-law was not extravagant. He cared nothing for finery, horses, gaming; you could even call him close-fisted. It was as I have said, he did not love my sister and that was all. I mean it was ALL, the coupling without which nothing else holds; but I would have taken my Bible oath he loved her when they were first wed. You are thinking, perhaps, that a Bible oath can mean little to a woman like me. It was a heavy matter to the girl I was then – and I would have sworn.

  Since my brother-in-law would go a long way to avoid a quarrel, and would always make one up if he could, I perceived the falling off in his feelings before my sister did. She was so sure of him, it took a thousand little things before she understood. I watched to see what she would do. She said nothing to him, but paid out double to the rest of us, the servants and me; I was treated worse than they were, on account of being a useless mouth. To me she was a demon, but never in her husband’s presence; he only ever saw her impatient.

  One day I spied on her from the window. She was standing in the orchard below, her hand on her belly and a look of sadness on her face. I pitied her then. Her first confinement (that was the boy) had brought forth a dead eight-months’ child – a horrible sight, and the midwife had let her see it. What is more, it tore her body in coming out and her maid whispered to me that the flesh had not knitted afterwards. She was always tired and fretful after that. Now she was again pale and misshapen, fearing that there would be nothing at the end of all her suffering but a bedful of blood.

  Mypitied herndured until she came into the house and met with me on the stairs. She at once turned on me and began lashing me with her tongue, and I will not conceal that I hated her.

  *

  Though I have not written of it so far, all this time the war was raging round us. I say ‘round us’ because it had never penetrated into our village; we had not yet found ourselves in the path of either army. The biggest landlord in our part of the world, Sir Ashley Sellis …

  This name caught at my memory. My aunt lived not far from one Sir Gilbert Sellis, a gentleman with extensive holdings in land, whom I took to be the son of this Sir Ashley. So Joan had been raised near Tetton Green, as indeed her way of speaking suggested. I mused upon the possibility of finding her people and prevailing upon them to take back both Joan and Tamar, unless, of course, they had also been beggared by the war.

  … had taken out no commission and raised no troops. He was known as a lukewarm sort of man, not caring whether the country was ruled by King or Parliament and asking only to be left in peace. Since I never saw him in the flesh, I always picture him as looking like my brother-in-law; their souls were cut from the same cloth.

  Though safe in our house and with land of our own, we felt ripples from the war. There was the loss of trade. The price of corn rose. My sister complained that the packman was not come and there was no salt to be had in the market, my brother-in-law that we had not as good a cellar as formerly. We heard from the pulpit each week of the hideous crimes of the rebel soldiers, whom our Vicar never failed to compare to the rebel angels, and we gave thanks that they were not yet come in our way. We had reason to be thankful, since our neighbour …

  ‘Jonathan! Jon!’

  I jumped, scrambled the letter back into the package and shoved it into a bag, out of sight.

  ‘Yes, Mother?’

  She opened the chamber door. ‘What are you doing in here? Your father wants you in the orchard.’

  * * *

  He was piling up apples into a barrow. To me, still bound up in Joan’s tale, it seemed that none of my surroundings was quite solid and real: not Father, not the trees, not even myself.

  ‘You said you’d come directly you’d been to Simon Dunne’s,’ he said, contenting himself with this mild rebuke though I had kept him waiting half an hour.

  I apologised.

  ‘And is he better?’

  ‘Ah –’ I had to remind myself. ‘Yes. Simon says he’ll be ready.’ In the excitement over
Joan’s letter I had forgotten my rea son for visiing Dunne in the first place: Bully had strained a fetlock but was now coming on well.

  ‘Your mother and I think of buying a horse.’

  I started. ‘Won’t that be very dear, Father?’

  ‘We’ve saved enough. We’re not as young as we used to be; it’d be a help to us.’

  ‘Then that’s the best reason,’ I said. ‘For myself, I’m happy to go on hiring Bully; but if you purchase a beast I’ll put my cider money towards it.’

  ‘Oh, that’s too much,’ said Father.

  ‘Not enough,’ I said firmly.

  There was a pause before he said, ‘Jon.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If we’re to buy a horse, there are other things to balance out. To settle.’ Father turned away from me to pick up some windfalls and I saw he was about to broach a ‘difficulty’.

  ‘Yes?’ I repeated as he straightened to dump them in the barrow.

  ‘This business with the girl at your aunt’s.’ Seeing my expression, he held up his hands. ‘We won’t talk of it – only, the thing is, Jon – I’m old but I do understand these things, you’re a man like other men –’

  I waited.

  ‘Your mother wonders if you’ve thought any more about Ann Huxtable.’

  ‘No,’ I said, not helping him. I made no pretence now of moving apples but stood arms folded.

  ‘She’s an excellent young woman.’

  I made a face.

  ‘Aye, young men set great store by beauty,’ my father said gently, ‘but virtue wears better. Ann’s a good girl, strong and cheerful, and she’ll have a farm of her own.’

  ‘My mother was beautiful when you married her – at least, so you always say.’

  ‘It was her goodness I loved.’ My father looked abashed, and I thought he had probably not liked her any worse for being a beauty.

  ‘I couldn’t have Ann Huxtable,’ I said. ‘Find me a woman I can take to, that’s all I ask.’

  ‘But you, son. Is there nobody you like?’

  ‘Nobody,’ I said. ‘If I were you I’d buy the horse.’

  * * *

  At supper it was my mother’s turn. Forced to admit deat in the matter of Ann Huxtable, she sought at least to move things forward and she wanted my blessing on the search.

  ‘It is not good that a man should be alone,’ she quoted against me.

  ‘Or unhappily wed,’ I retorted. ‘A man can marry in his fifties; there’s no hurry.’

  ‘But children, Jon! Your support in old age.’

  ‘They can come later. Father didn’t marry this young.’

  ‘He had to earn his living first.’

  ‘My wish was to be married earlier,’ Father agreed. ‘Most young men are eager for a wife.’ He was studying me, as was Mother, and I realised I was under suspicion.

  ‘I haven’t a mistress,’ I said. ‘That’s what you think, isn’t it?’

  Both of them immediately denied this and Mother returned to the attack.

  ‘If you don’t like the village girls we can look elsewhere. What about Poll Parfitt?’

  ‘Poll?’

  ‘You often spoke of her last year,’ she insisted, as I silently vowed never again to mention a woman’s name in Mother’s hearing. ‘Parfitt would be glad to make the match, I know.’

  ‘You’ve talked with him!’

  My mother smiled and winked. I could not remember when I had felt so angry with her.

  Father said, ‘We both thought you liked Poll.’

  ‘Not to marry.’ I stared down at my plate, marvelling at how fast we had sunk to this stupidity. I blamed it on the lack of children in the Dymond family: my parents evidently feared my dawdling might cause us to die out altogether.

  ‘If you think of anyone else,’ I said, getting up from the table, ‘pray have the goodness to ask me before you hawk me through the village like stinking fish.’

  My mother cried, ‘We’ve never done that!’ and I realised I was quoting from Joan’s letter.

  ‘No. I’m sorry, Mother. But please don’t talk to Parfitt, it won’t come to anything.’

  ‘Will you help me this afternoon?’ Father asked, seeing me about to leave. He seemed anxious to soothe me, but I was in no mood to be soothed.

  ‘I feel a bit queasy,’ I said. ‘I’ll lie down first, if I may.’

  They could have nothing to say to that, and they let me go.

  * * *

  I lay on my bed riffling the papers until I got to the placee I had left off:

  … We had reason to be thankful, since our neighbour told us his cousin, who lived over the other side of Brimming, had been away from home when the New Model passed through. The cousin was known to be loyal to His Majesty, and he returned with his wife and children to find their house occupied, soldiers throwing furniture on the fire and eating up every last grain of the stores. Our neighbour said the wife’s hair turned grey overnight. That was nothing, as I later found out: that was but quartering.

  Have patience, Sir, you will understand me in time. I think perhaps you understand me a little already. I would give much to be able to see you now, reading my words. But perhaps, being a witch, I can consult my familiars – tell me, is there not a spider busy somewhere in the room?

  Despite myself, I glanced up at a nearby web but it appeared to be empty.

  This ink you brought me must be the Elixir of Youth: I can even jest with you, like a young woman, though there is little to laugh at here. In truth, Sir, it has cost me a deal of trouble – a great deal, I would say – to write so much, yet it is nothing compared with face to face. Face to face, I could not have uttered a word.

  My sister’s second child was born dead and the mother came down with a fever. Though the doctor was with her constantly, after two days there was no change except that she grew weaker.

  We all believed my sister was being called before God. The servants crept about; her husband paced up and down, schooling himself to take a loving farewell of her. He could not grieve as a husband should, yet he wished her to die at peace, assured of his constancy. I saw nothing wrong in that; I loved her no better. My one wish was, that after her death he might turn his eyes on me.

  There, I have written it. Pray do not stop reading, Sir. Consider that every crime set down here has been paid for many times over.

  At the time I had no foreknowledge of what was to come. In mind and understanding I was still very young, if that may stand as some excuse. As long as I could remember, my sister had been cruel to me, and now she was good as dead; had she been the kindest sister ever born, I could do no more for her. Love might have held me back, but I felt none (in this I was far less shamefaced than her husband) and the most sacred duty was nothing against my feelings for him. We went together into my chamber. Afterwards he put his head on my bosom and cried. I was glad that he could do that at last, but he was not crying for her. He said he had ruined me, and I swore I would never give him away. And he promised that after her death he would make me his wife.

  I laid down the letter, strangely moved. The shrivelled creature in the cave had once been a lonely young woman on whose breast a man had sobbed out his heart. Until I pictured them lying there – the man crying, her arms around him – nothing in Joan’s history had touched me. I now began to guess how Tamar had come into the world and I read on:

  Such things never happen once.

  We gave ourselves up to sin, and God visited on us an ingenious punishment formed out of a blessing. Had we been what we ought, the blessing would have been pure and unmixed: my sister came out of her fever and was pronounced cured.

  We were now in a pitiable condition. By indulging our lusts we had increased them, so that we could not keep away from one another, and each day my sister grew stronger. As soon as the doctor would permit, she left her bed and sat about the house, taking in with her hawk’s eyes everything that passed. How he bore it I know not; for myself, I was in terror twenty times a day. My su
fferings did not end when the sun went down, for now she bedded with him again while I lay lonely every night. The more I strove to conceal my feelings, the more I revealed. If he and I were in a room together, my flesh seemed to dissolve away with longing; I could not help looking at him, even though she might be sitting there, watching us both.

  ‘What shall we do, what shall we do?’ I would ask if, by some blessed chance, we found ourselves alone. He would shake his head, as if to say he did not know. I thought he could not be as frightened of her as I was: he was a man, and God has given man dominion over woman. But then my sister had the marriage vows on her side, and a devilish temper. She said nothing, but I knew her: it was not her way to put questions unless she already knew the answers, and she was biding her time.

  Nor was this the end of our sorrows, for while we were thus perplexed the quartermaster of the King’s troops came seeking billets for his men. My brother-in-law bought the man off with his wife’s money, as I believe he once bought off Uncle Toby. Few could have driven such a bargain. As far as I know, he bribed twice in his life and to great effect on both occasions – he had a feeling for what to offer and when. What he purchased was a signed document to the effect that nobody should be billeted with us. This was indeed a comfort – I think none of us could have borne soldiers in the house, we must all have run mad – but he had paid the quartermaster an ungodly sum to secure it. Thus lust led in no time to deceit, and shame, and bribery, and waste, and with all this we still could not escape the soldiers entirely. A number of them were to be lodged in the Guild Hall, and any goods that could be removed were taken out in anticipation. Here I end my tale for the time being, Sir, since my stiff old fingers can write no more. In time you shall read the rest.