Cunning Women

by Elizabeth Lee

  He led her down the path where birds began their song in the trees that lined it and across the yard. So close to the slumbering house.

  ‘It was well you asked Seth to pass on your instruction,’ she whispered. ‘He’s an ally to us.’

  Daniel glanced over his shoulder. No one to be seen. ‘He helps your family?’

  ‘Aye, brings the buttermilk and such. Comes to Mam sometimes, for without her cures he falls into darkness or soars too high in the light. When he’s dark he feels he can do nowt, but when he’s light he really believes he can change everything. For the better.’

  He ushered her into the barn, filled with the scent of hay and droppings. ‘And can he?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Sarah stopped. ‘Oh, it’s Bonny,’ she whispered, reaching a hand out to the horse, stroking her side. ‘You brought me to see her?’

  ‘No,’ he said, leading her away to where the cow and oxen chewed sleepily on their hay. ‘I brought you to work.’

  Pippin was already beginning to call out, ready to have the weight of her milk taken from her. Sarah stepped backwards so suddenly that Daniel’s arm was almost wrenched off.

  ‘Why is he bawking?’

  ‘Why – what? It’s just – needs milking, that’s all.’

  ‘He’s much bigger close to.’

  ‘She,’ Daniel said. ‘And she’s soft as butter. Pippin’s much sweeter than Bonny and you’re not afraid of her. Come on. I’m right here.’

  ‘Does she bite?’

  Daniel laughed. ‘Bite? She’s a cow. Not unless you’re a clump of grass. Now, take that pail and put it under her, then fetch that stool.’

  ‘Why?’ Sarah asked, pulling the pail away from the wall and darting under the cow, dropping it into place so quickly that it fell on to its side.

  ‘You’ll need to know how to work the farm. Won’t you?’ He could not tell her the whole plan until Bett had played her part.

  She looked up at him. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So. Again. Stay calm.’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Aye.’ Took a slow breath in, edged towards Pippin, righted the pail. Turned to him with a look of triumph.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Excellent. Now, sit.’

  He crouched behind her as she sat on the stool, took her hands in his, showed her how to bring the milk down.

  Daniel finished the day’s work and hurried back in time to eat with Father. Bett gave him a slight nod as he walked in and quickly, before the confidence this gave him faded, before he thought again of the perils of his plan, he sat at the table, cleared his throat.

  ‘I am going to find a milkmaid,’ he said. Cut up the collops and eggs and took a bite, all without looking to see Father’s reaction. The sound of Bett calling her goodbyes as she left filled the gap.

  ‘Milkmaids cost,’ Father said at last. A predictable response and one Daniel had prepared for. It was not that Father was without the money to pay a dairymaid. He was just unwilling to spend it.

  ‘I’m a man. Your only son. There’s better work for me to do.’

  Father chewed, swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘And where do you plan to find her?’

  ‘The mop.’

  ‘Not for another few weeks.’

  ‘I will manage until then.’

  Father grunted, and spoke not another word that night.

  Daniel ate his fill, and sat back, content. A milkmaid would bring less in the way of dowry than even a blacksmith’s daughter. Father would not be pleased.

  But it was not unknown for romance to blossom between farmer’s son and dairymaid. And should Father learn of such a thing, should he believe Sarah might be left in some kind of trouble, he would insist they wed, however much the match disappointed him. As long as he did not discover who she truly was.

  Sea and Leather and Fish

  Bett’s house is as ours would be, had it not stood abandoned all those years, had we means and time to show it the same care. Two rooms, the first with table and chairs, fire glowing in grate, water pail standing in corner, pans hung on wall, nets draped from beams. There’s a smell of hot water and woodsmoke, and underneath that, faintly, fish. She takes a candle to the fire, lights it and shields it with her hand as she carries it over.

  An unfamiliar and none-too-pleasant scent of burning tallow fills the room, a slow-flickering, warm light I’ve not seen before throws a small illuminated pool across the table. The house is not large but neat, the tabletop gleaming and empty, the floor clear and clean. No ash-fall around the fire, no mould on the wall, no draught whispering through the roof.

  I’m still a little unnerved. Daniel had not told me the housemaid would be there when we met this evening and I stepped back when I saw her, my belly tightening. Still, she did not look unfriendly, a woman of rolling roundness, apple-cheeked and ample-stomached, holding a bundle of cloth.

  She eyed me up and down and turned to Daniel with an exasperated expression. ‘Not here. I can’t just give them to her, would you know how to place a coif without help?’

  ‘Well, what then?’ he asked.

  This conversing about me as though I was a sick beast on the farm was new, unwelcome. ‘Tell me what’s happening,’ I said, loudly, and they both turned to me at once. ‘Do not speak and concoct plans without my knowing, I am not one of your horses, I will have some sway over my own life. Why do I need a coif? What have you both decided is happening to me?’ I glared at them, and then added as an afterthought, ‘And Mam has worn such things, we were not always as you see us now.’

  Bett raised her eyebrows. ‘Picked a fiery one.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Daniel said. ‘I – I’m a fool.’

  ‘As we’ve already agreed,’ I said, and caught sight of Bett hiding a smile.

  ‘The farm is in need of a dairymaid and I thought, you have a natural ability with animals and I can teach you the right skills, I will present you to Father in this part and it will begin your work as farmer’s wife.’ He flashed a look at Bett as she turned sharply to stare at him, blushed.

  ‘But – will your father have me?’ I met his eye, challenged him to be truthful. This was no time for stories.

  He did not fail me. ‘If you are dressed as any other girl, and if I say you were found at the mop, then yes. He will not have the curiosity to question. I am certain. Yes.’

  ‘All right,’ I said, hiding my excitement, not wishing him to think he had triumphed completely, riled as I was that he planned it so without me.

  I stood as tall as I could, trying to show myself to be more than my ragged outer to this housemaid woman. ‘Then I thank you for these,’ I said, indicating the bundle. ‘And as I shall soon be earning a wage, I’ll pay you what I owe for them when I can.’

  ‘As you wish,’ she said, sparing my dignity.

  Daniel turned to me, pleased with himself, and I could not help but give him the smile he craved. Bett coughed and looked away. Under the hedge something shuffled, and I glanced quick to see a hare, no doubt this time, bounding away, and I wondered if it was Dew-Springer, running back to tell all to Mam.

  ‘Well, this fool, as it turns out we are all three agreed upon, did not inform me as to his plot either, but simply instructed I bring these,’ she said. A look passed between them that I did not understand, though I felt Daniel had been reprimanded. ‘Your mam is able, I know, but I have time. What do you think to us going to my house and trying them out? Then if they don’t fit I can find others.’

  So here I am in Bett’s tidy little house, watching her unwrap her neckerchief, remove her hat and hang both on a nail in the back of the door. Order, where I’m used to chaos. Her hair is light, unruly curls bursting free from her coif.

  ‘Right,’ she says, wiping her hands down her apron. She turns to the fire, throws on two logs from the neat pile in the corner and rattles at the grate with the poker. I stand, awkward without a task. She looks at me over her shoulder and waves her hand at the table.

  ‘Sit,’ she says, and
I do.

  ‘Did you not think to leave the farmhouse when you married?’ I ask.

  She snorts. ‘How could I? No other would keep order over that shambles as I do.’ Her tone softens. ‘And besides, ’tis like family, in its way. I’ll stay, until I have my own.’ She glances heavenward and quickly presses her hands together. ‘God willing, I pray.’

  The sea beats against the beach, wind shaking the front door on its hinges. We lived in one of these cottages once, and I remember more strongly than ever the sight of my father’s salt-stained boots, warped into the shape of his feet, drying by the door; the smell of sea and leather and fish he carried with him.

  ‘My father was a fisherman,’ I say. I don’t know why.

  Bett sits at the table, opposite me. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Once. We lived down here.’

  She nods.

  ‘It was a long time ago.’ I don’t know why I started this conversation, don’t know what I expect of this stranger. Unperturbed, she begins to sort through the bundle of clothes she placed on the table, shaking out and holding up a petticoat, looking from it to me with her eyes narrowed.

  She sniffs. ‘You’re a spindly one. This is the smallest I could find, we should be able to tie it tight enough.’

  She stands up, lights a rush, holds it and the bundle out to me. I don’t know what I’m expected to do.

  ‘Well, go on then,’ she says, flapping a hand towards the door to the other room. ‘Try them on, come back and I’ll help you with the coif.’

  I take the clothes from her. ‘Thank you. Aye, I will. All right.’

  She looks at me as though I’m the village goffy, and I hurry through the door. In the half-light I hear a scuttle and flurry of small creatures taking refuge as I enter. One mat fills most of the space, blanket neatly spread over it. There is a chest squeezed in by the wall and I place the rush on it, laying out the clothes.

  The petticoat is not so different from my own, though this is thick and warm, smooth at the edges and without a thin patch to be seen. Such material is unfamiliar and a little prickly in my hand.

  Leaving my own rags in a shameful pile on the floor, I sit on the mat and pull the stockings on, wriggle my toes now encased in cloth, feel the material rest right against the skin of my legs. Imagine myself a farmer’s wife, and that wearing these clothes is as unremarkable a feeling for me as it is for any other village woman. Pull on the shift, too large so the cuffs fall almost to my fingers. Then the stays, stiffened with reeds. A memory I didn’t know I had of Mam putting hers on comes to me, and I manage to tie the laces well enough. I reach for the petticoat, forced by the stays to bend awkwardly, feeling already more like a village woman simply because of the way I must hold myself now. Warm and thicker than I’m used to, the petticoat falls to my ankle. Wide at the waist, but no matter, I bunch it and tie the belt fast. Next, waistcoat and apron. So many clothes. More than Mam and I own between us. I’m glad Bett agreed that I may pay her.

  I feel no longer myself. Held tall by the stays and layers covering every part of my body, I cannot imagine running along the riverbank or bending to lift Annie as I’m used to, nor ever feeling the wind from the sea cut through to my skin again. These clothes hide me, and I wonder if they are disguise enough to fool the one that chose me. Yet I’m shy to show myself. Sitting on the mat, in the rushlight, I listen to the chewing of mice and wonder what Annie, Mam and John are doing now, what they would make of me could they see. I want the life these clothes fit, but fear it will keep me apart from theirs.

  The sound of knocking makes me jump. ‘Come along, then. Show yourself,’ Bett says.

  I open the door and step through before allowing myself time to doubt. She holds the candle up, moving it so the light falls from my neck to my ankles.

  ‘Good, yes, you look a proper little lady. Well, excepting that.’ She waves a hand at my head. ‘Sit down.’

  I take a seat at her table, and Bett combs my hair. She works silently, more gentle than I expect, holding clumps near the top and tugging below her hand. The comb is wooden, and she uses the wide-toothed side so it does not catch. There’s a strange comfort in being cared for this way. She pulls my hair from my face, winds and pins it at my neck, and stands back, hands on hips.

  ‘Nearly there,’ she says. She pours water into a bowl and brings a rag, dipping it in and wiping my face and the back of my neck. The water is cold and the cloth rough, but I close my eyes and make no sound. She takes each of my hands, washing the back, turning them and washing the palm, pressing the rag under my fingernails and scrubbing.

  ‘And now,’ she says, ‘a woman’s secret.’

  She fetches from the shelf a small pot of pink powder that carries a scent of rose, dips in her finger and pats a little on each of my cheeks.

  She lays the coif on the table. Plain linen, shaped to cover forehead and ear. Just as she wears, just as every village woman wears. Seeing it here, a memory of Mam removing one and placing it down like this flickers.

  ‘Go on,’ Bett says.

  I put it on. Laughing, she shakes her head, pulls it down harder at the back, tighter over my forehead, tucking in any loose strands of hair. She steps away, arms crossed. I watch her, uneasy as the cloth presses against my head.

  ‘Now we’re there,’ she says. ‘No, wait. Shoes.’

  She takes the candle into the other room, leaving me at the table. The room quiet and lit by the lilting flames from the fire, the sound of gently crackling wood and the distant rolling of waves, nothing more. Calm.

  Returning, she wipes dust off a pair of brown leather shoes. ‘Old,’ she says. ‘Sorry.’

  I had shoes as a child, I remember looking down at the shiny toes. Cannot recall the feel of them now.

  She kneels, placing them in front of me, and I push my feet in. Too big, but once she’s laced them they fit a little better. Enough to stay on my feet, at least.

  Bett sits back. ‘Walk,’ she says.

  I stand. The weight unbalances me. I lift my foot, too high. Take a step, too far.

  Bett laughs. ‘Keep going. Practice is all you need.’

  I walk around the room, steps too large, too slow, as though I am wading through water.

  ‘You look like a duck,’ she says.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ I say. Feel like crying but laughter comes instead.

  She wipes her eyes, hiccups down mirth, smiles encouragingly. ‘Yes, you can. Keep at it.’

  Around and around I go, past fire, bedroom, front door, pans on the wall. At last my steps are smaller, swifter.

  ‘There,’ she says. ‘Perfect.’

  I stand for a moment, dizzy from my travels around the room, from the twist of events that have led me to be in this stranger’s house, wearing her clothes. She begins to busy herself with food preparation, and I fetch my own clothes from the bedroom. I dawdle, unsure whether to change back into them.

  Bett wipes her hands down her apron, brushes an escaped strand of hair from her face. ‘Leave them on,’ she says. ‘Show him.’

  In the doorway I turn to her, this woman I don’t know, who has dressed and washed me and spoken with me as one of her own. ‘I don’t know how to—’

  She cuts me off. ‘No need. You’re buying some bits of clothes from me, is all.’

  I nod, as grateful for the words as the clothes.

  ‘Your mam helped us once,’ she says. ‘When we were first wed and Nathaniel’s nets were empty as often as not. She placed a charm on the boat and told us which parts of the sea were more generous. We’ve not gone hungry a day since.’

  Walking away, shoes scuffing and scraping along the ground, I hear her call after me.

  ‘Walk, don’t waddle.’

  Peddled a Dream

  She stood at the riverbank, the woman, looking out over the water as the sun set, and he knew it was Sarah. The way her chin tilted, the straightness of her back. His mother’s neckerchief wrapped around her shoulders. He knew it but did not feel it.

&nb
sp; He took her hand, turned her to face him. Still the same narrow fingers in his own, still the same turbulent eyes looking out from under the coif. Larger, they seemed, skin more pale and clear with her hair pulled away. The nape of her neck exposed now, a whisper of dark hair grazing the skin there. He knew the feel of it, and it was for him alone. He resented the gaze of others on this part of her.

  She was still Sarah, still his, but as she would have been. The Sarah of another life. He longed, briefly, to see her in rags again, hair wild and raging in the wind. To put stop to this brave and treacherous plan.

  He smiled, taking both her hands and spreading her arms wide, looked her up and down.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he said. ‘Yes. They will all be charmed.’

  ‘Will they know it’s me?’

  ‘No. Only I will.’

  As they spoke, walked and ate bread spread thick with butter, she became more herself to him. She wearing the costume with more comfort, he seeing her through it. She looked now like any village girl. But she could never be.

  ‘Have you shown your family?’ he asked, reaching past the edge of the coif to stroke her cheek.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘They will like it,’ he said. And then, unsure, ‘Do you think they will like it?’

  She looked beyond him, to the river slipping past. ‘I think so. I don’t know. Nay, perhaps not.’

  ‘They want you to be happy?’

  ‘Aye. But perhaps they’ll think me – a different Sarah.’

  ‘But you’re not.’ He reached in past the linen that framed her face, found her lips. ‘You’re the same Sarah.’

  ‘Aye,’ she said. She did not sound certain. ‘This will – it’ll protect them too. Yes? I’m not beginning a new life and leaving them in the old.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Because – because I’ll be paid? Even so, I can feed them, but how will they be safe? From the village, from the new …?’

  Truthfully, he had thought little beyond bringing Sarah to him. But he spoke as sure as he could. ‘With your wages they will not need to sell charms, or any other thing that might bring trouble.’ He reached in, brushed her cheek with his thumb. ‘You can take them food, still. More, even. They will be safe.’