My bed…
“Come…” He held out his hand and I let him pull me up. For what else could I do? What other choices did I have?
We walked up the wide oak staircase and he showed me the room that was to be my bedchamber with its high carved bed and silk-embroidered hangings. There were tapestries on the walls and richly patterned carpets on the floor. A basin and ewer filled with clean water stood on a chest. Soap that smelled sweetly of roses and honeysuckle. Fine linens to dry myself. A tortoiseshell comb and looking glass in a frame embroidered with flowers. Toothpowder, hair curling papers and perfumes. And laid out on the bed, the finest cotton shift, trimmed with lace. A skirt and bodice in silk taffeta; soft mourning grey, the colour of a pigeon’s wing. Beautiful, beautiful things.
Then, when I was left alone and I had stepped out of my old clothes and I was quite naked, except for the braid and the ring, I took up the mirror and looked in it and hardly knew myself. For the child Margrat had gone and could never come back now.
I washed slowly and carefully. I dried myself; breathed in the heady smell of roses and honeysuckle. I combed my hair until it shone and rippled over my shoulders like liquid bronze. I took the shift from the bed and let it drop over my head. I pulled on the skirt and laced up the bodice. I slipped stockinged feet into buckled and embroidered shoes. All fitted perfectly… as if he had the measure of me already.
Then I walked from the room and down the stairs and into my new life.
I had been wrong in believing there were no servants. There was one. She served us that first day at table. She was a slight, mousy-haired girl, who scurried about bringing in dishes of meats and bread and salads; filling our glasses with wine and saying nothing above a whisper. A timid-seeming little thing, who quivered when the Doctor spoke to her.
Her name was Martha, but I never did find out much else about her, all the time I was there. Except I might trust her with my life.
She flitted about the house from sunrise to sunset, keeping the sea coals banked up in the fires, the floors swept and dusting all the many curios the Doctor had collected on his travels: pottery from ancient Athens. Marble statues from Rome. Exquisitely illuminated manuscripts. Wall hangings. One of St George slaying the Dragon, that always made me stop and look up at it. Then there were the books. On all manner of subjects: philosophy, theology, medicine, alchemy, the magic arts.
And Nefertaru.
It had been a shock to see her mummy case standing in the far corner of the library, for I had thought she was still on show at the Head and Combe. Now she was a constant reminder of things I wished to forget, so I kept away from the library.
But there was one room that was never swept or dusted. It was Nicholas’s study on the second floor of the house, directly above my bedchamber and with the same view over the Strand. He kept it locked at all times, even when he was at work there. Which I quickly noticed followed a pattern. He rose early, before dawn, and said prayers in his study. I could hear the steady rise and fall of his voice and I knew that he burned incense, for the house filled with its bittersweet smell. Cassia, myrrh, aloes – the sweet smell, so the Bible tells, of our Lord Jesus.
Then after breakfast, he went out and often did not return until late afternoon. I know that he went to purchase herbs brought ashore at Fresh Wharf. I believe he was also physician to a number of high-born people. What else he did, I was never sure but sometimes, when he came home, he brought presents for me: shoes and a beautiful silver necklace to thread the ring through, as he feared the red braid might fray and break.
No visitors ever called at the house. I thought that strange. I saw no one but Nicholas and Martha. No, that is not true, for I watched the world from my bedroom window. And one morning I saw Christophe. Or thought I saw him.
I opened the window, leaned out, called his name (Nicholas had gone out early or I would not have dared do it). But whoever it was did not turn around and had soon disappeared into Little Drury Lane.
At first I was wary of Nicholas, though I felt such an attraction to him. Perhaps that was why I asked if Martha might sleep on a truckle in my bedchamber. But Nicholas said she went home at night. So I kept my door locked instead and the candle burning. I listened for footsteps on the stair, the turn of the doorknob, hushed breathing. I fell into a troubled sleep, haunted by the ghosts of my dead father and mother. I dreamed of them; they were running through the streets and alleyways, just ahead of me and forever out of reach. I would wake at first light, in tears and to the sound of the Nicholas’s prayers, the smell of his incense enveloping me, but the door still locked and the candle gone out.
So it was that those first few weeks drifted by. Nicholas did nothing to make me feel uneasy. He said nothing about the Book of Thoth or Sekhmet. Nothing about the spell. And if I worried he might know of the Emerald Casket, he said nothing that made me fearful. It was as if he had forgotten all about the 21st spell, or was reconciled to its loss.
I confess, in believing that, I was stupid and naive. I ought to have observed him more carefully. Then I would have seen that he never forgot the smallest thing nor was ever reconciled to anything, not even the loss of a waistcoat button. But he seemed a quite different man then; more vibrant, more alive. It made me think of my mother. How, as the great feast day of Christmas approached, her mood always lightened. She sang and laughed and danced about the house and my father said she became again, just for that short while, the girl he had married.
I was gulled by him. Utterly taken in. Seduced. The powerful attraction I felt for him, but which had till then been tempered by fear, now began to consume me. I took his name, Nicholas, and wrote it out endlessly. Whispered it to myself over and over. When he was away from me, I felt as if I was a fire struggling to stay alight. When he was there, the sight, the sound, the smell and touch of him, fanned that fire into an inferno. In the evenings, before the light had faded, he would read aloud to me. The poetry of Shakespeare, Herrick, Milton. Tales from Ancient Greece and Egypt and his own translations. Magical stories, brilliantly told.
Then with all the candles lit, though there was no one to play for us and no others to make up the set, he would ask me to dance. I could not refuse him. And so, anyone looking in on us, would have seen a strange sight. A tall, dark-haired man and a small, flame-haired young woman circling solemnly about each other. No sound except the slip and click of our shoes on the polished floor.
How beautiful he seemed to me then as he began slowly to bind me to him; with ropes as fine but as strong as gossamer. If I had once thought of running from him, I no longer saw the need to do so. If I was held prisoner, then I could not see it. If the door to my cell had been left open wide, I should have stayed inside and thrown away the key. I have heard since that this sometimes happens: the prisoner comes to love his prison and his gaoler.
So one day rolled into the next, with little variation. Except… one morning I was woken with a griping pain in my belly. Getting out of bed to use the chamber pot and lifting my nightshirt, I saw blood trickling down between my legs. I stopped a droplet with my finger and looked at it in shock. I knew what it was, for my mother had told me about it. A monthly show of blood signifying that I was now a grown woman and ready to conceive and bear a child.
I sat down heavily on the bed, my legs trembling. I was careless of the blood seeping through my nightshirt and onto the coverlet. I felt a tear run hot down my cheek and then another and then another. I felt a great sob rise up and break free. Soon my whole body was wracked with them. And that was how Martha found me and she said nothing, but her eyes took in the red stains on the nightshirt and the coverlet. She came and put her arms around me. Tentatively at first, but then as I clung to her, she stroked my hair and whispered soft words and rocked me like the child a part of me still wished to be. Once I was calmer, she went and put the wash basin on the floor and fetched hot water and poured it in. She held out the cake of soap and I took it and, crouching over the basin, started to wash the blood aw
ay. It swirled in the water like red smoke and soon the water was the colour of a brilliant sunset. I wiped myself with a linen cloth and, though I had washed carefully, blood still stained it. Then she showed me how to take a strip of linen, fold it and fasten it with pins to the gusset of my drawers.
Nicholas came to my bedchamber later that morning. But I would not open the door to him, though he spoke softly to me. For I was both proud that I was now a grown woman and yet ashamed. “I will leave some laudanum for you. It will ease the discomfort and do you no harm.”
When I was sure he had gone, I opened the door and took in the medicine. Laudanum. My mother had given it to me when I had the toothache. It had taken away the pain and made me sleep. I could still remember its taste. Bitter and sweet together. Opium and sherry wine. I unstopped the blue glass bottle and poured out a spoonful. I hesitated for a moment, then putting the spoon to my lips, let the sticky liquid trickle down my throat. I felt its warmth spreading out through my body. Just one spoonful could do no harm. I would take no more until I could see what its effects might be.
Soon I began to feel peaceful and at ease. I lay down on the bed and with the griping in my belly soothed, I fell asleep.
When I woke up again, night was falling. One spoonful of laudanum and I had lost the whole of a day. But the pain had gone and I felt calmer than I had felt for a very long time. Yet when Nicholas came to my door that evening and asked if I would come down to supper, I still refused him. “I cannot,” I said, remembering what my mother had said. “For I will turn the wine sour.”
“And will you turn the pickled meat rancid and curdle the milk too? Old wives’ tales, Margrat. You should not heed them!”
But I did and it was four days before the flow of blood stopped and I could allow myself to get up and get dressed and go downstairs again.
And when I first sat down again to supper with Nicholas, I knew something had subtly changed between us. That night, when I went to my bed, I did not lock the bedchamber door. I fell into a feverish sleep. And when I awoke and found him standing over me, I felt no surprise or fear. There was just an agony of longing, which only increased when he lay down beside me, but not at first touching. I could feel his breath, hear my own heartbeat loud in my ears. He said nothing and there was nothing to say.
His fingers undoing the ribbon at the neck of my nightgown, brushed against my collarbone. His hand, slipping around my waist, found the hollow of my back and pressed me in close. The heat of our bodies; the sweet musky smell of mine and the sharp smell of his. And I thought: this is what it must be like to die a little death and then to come back to life again and fly out in a thousand tiny pieces. The shape of his hands, the curve of his mouth, the way his skin felt like silk and his hair fell and curled against his shoulder. All those things drew me in, but it was his mind that held me. The naked power of it. And all the while I told myself I would not be utterly lost to him. That I would keep some part of myself safe and hidden from him. But it was like a drug. An addiction. There was always the need for more. And with each night, the recklessness increased. Now he would come and stay just a little while. He lay close to me, whispering my name and stroking my hair. Nothing more. After he left my mind would be in such disorder that I could not sleep. And I grew so desperate to find some peace that I fell to taking laudanum each evening.
Then, one night in early December, when the fire was lit in the grate and the frost was thick on the windowpane, he came and did not leave. And for a few sweet hours before dawn, I learned how it was possible to exist outside of time and in a place that is all pleasure and sensation.
When I awoke, just before first light, he was there still, lying beside me. How peaceful he looked. How vulnerable he seemed as he slept. But as I watched, his eyes flew open and widened for a second, as if in fear. But then he blinked and the fear was gone and he was wholly himself again. I reached out and touched his mouth. He took my hand and kissed its palm, then folded my fingers over and held it in his. He told me that I would soon be his for ever. And I felt weak at the thought of it. We were together every night after that, though he was always gone before sunrise. Even on the morning of the 23rd day of December… my 14th birthday.
Martha came with a present, a cake she had made herself and with my name pricked out in currants on the top. I washed and dressed hurriedly and went down to breakfast, but I ate alone. I asked Martha where he had gone, but she did not know.
I was almost asleep by the fire in the parlour when he appeared. He was carrying something wrapped in a gold brocade cloth. He placed the parcel in my lap. It felt very light.
I looked up at him. Though he looked calm, I felt excitement burning inside him, as clearly as I felt the heat from the fire on my cheek. Whatever it was he had brought for me must be very special. I unwrapped the parcel quickly. The brocade fell back and there was a casket. An emerald-green casket. I knew at once what it must be. My hands trembled, my mind was like snow.
Now he was kneeling beside me. His hands reached around my neck and he undid the silver necklace. Slipped off the ring and began to push it onto the third finger of my right hand. I was afraid, confused, for hadn’t he told me not to wear it on pain of death? And worse, when the ring would not even squeeze past the first joint, he grew very angry. His eyes glittered like jet. I could see the muscles around his jaw tighten and the veins in his neck stand out. “It will not matter,” he said fiercely, “the little finger will do…”
“Look, look!” I said. “It will fit. I know it… there… it is loose and I will have to take care not to lose it, but it will fit. See how easily it does…” Now the fire of his anger grew white hot and fear of what he might do – a desperate need to dampen down his anger – was making me gabble.
His hand was against my mouth and with the other, he pressed the ring on my little finger into the cartouche on the box. I sat stock-still, rigid with fear and hardly daring to breathe. His hand was crushing mine. Tighter and tighter until I could hear the bones crack. Rage, sorrow, bewilderment; all these emotions passing across his face as quick as the blink of an eye. He seemed to have forgotten that I was there. He was muttering to himself, repeating words over and over, as if by saying them out loud he might come to some better understanding of them. Which all at once he seemed to do, for he grew calmer. He loosened his grip on me and his eyes focused in on my face. His hand reached up and stroked my cheek. He smiled, saying, “The one true daughter. Now I see what it means…”
I did not. But at least whatever was in the casket was safe. The ring was not the key to opening it. Nicholas and Christophe were both mistaken.
At first I did not know that anything was amiss. I had only just begun to menstruate and so when several months passed with no bleeding, I paid it no attention. But then I began to thicken around the waist and my clothes became uncomfortably tight. In the mornings I would wake up and be violently sick. Even a further dose of laudanum would not relieve it. I knew what it meant now, for Martha had told me that I must be with child.
I was mortally afraid of what Nicholas would say. But I need not have worried, for instead of raging at my news, he seemed overjoyed, saying she, the baby growing inside me, would have her mother’s red hair and her father’s single-mindedness of purpose.
When I said he could not know it would be a daughter, he smiled at me as if I were an innocent, “Only a daughter can be brought to term and live. Any male child of my bloodline will die in the womb or be stillborn. The spells have given me power over that at least.”
My mind refused to admit the true horror of what he was saying. But my arms crossed low round my belly as if to protect the baby inside me… though I knew such a gesture was futile. I prayed with all my heart that I would be safely delivered of a girl, with hair the dull brown of a field mouse. That Nicholas would forget his obsession with opening the casket. But my prayers went unanswered.
As the months passed and my belly swelled and I did not miscarry, he became ever more jubilant. I
t was as if we had been incomplete in ourselves and were now made whole. When he was absent, my thoughts were always with him. When he was there, his eyes were always upon me. Winter slowly turned to spring. The weather, at first warm, became wet and foul. The Doctor rarely went out now. He watched over me. Carefully. But on the 23rd day of April, St George’s Day, he was absent from the house. He must go, he said, to attend the anniversary of the King’s Coronation at the Palace of Westminster. But before he went he placed a hand on my belly and said words in a language I had never heard spoken before.
From the window of my bedchamber, I watched him climb into the carriage and drive away. I stood for a long time looking down into the street. My hands resting on the swell of my five-month belly, tight like a drum. Then I felt a fluttering inside, as if my stomach was full of moths, some discomfort and an urgent need to push down, as if I might squeeze out the baby growing inside me. Which I silently did.
Moments later, lifting my skirts and obeying that urge to push, I was delivered of it. Still in its caul, which was supple like fine leather, slippery as soap and clear as frosted glass. I could see the baby curled up and floating inside it. Thinking, in my ignorance, that I might save it, I tore open the sack with my fingers, the warm waters gushing out. Then I sat back in shock at the sight of it. Its body so small it would fit into the palm of my hand. Its eyes not yet open, but fused over. So mesmerised was I by it, I did not notice Martha come into the room. It was only when she knelt down beside me, took out a knife from her apron pocket and bent towards the baby, that I was jolted out of my reverie.
“No!” I cried out, not understanding what it was she meant to do. But she pushed me gently away, saying, “Shh now. I mean only to cut the cord. See, it is a boy. There now, you shall hold him for a while.” Which I did, taking in every little thing about him. The tiny hands and toes with their perfect nails all in miniature. The translucence of his skin, with the map of his veins showing clearly through.
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