Angel of Ruin

by Kim Wilkins

  “You must be, Father, for here is another. Andrew Benjamin Olson Parkes. Born 1609, died 1661.”

  “And here am I only a year younger and still as healthy as a horse!”

  “Would you like me to find you some more, Father?”

  “No, for I know there will be too many. I am glad that you are with me, Deborah. Your sisters are not worth much, but you are a good child.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Deborah said, aware that she should perhaps defend Mary and Anne, but too pleased with his praise to ruin the moment.

  “I think you are right about my poem,” he said, his red-gold hair glistening in the summer sun. “It needs a new title.”

  “Father?”

  “I think I shall call it, Paradise Lost.”

  It wasn’t until after supper on the third day that Mary spied her chance to be alone with Uncle William. The owners of the house, Sir James and Lady Aileen, had decided on an evening walk. The sun was still in the sky, the long shadows drew out along the street, and the heat of the day had eased. She had sent Anne with them and purposed to stay behind with William, feigning a sick stomach.

  “Sister, can you go and take little Max with you,” Mary had said. “He would love the exercise, and I am too ill to walk.”

  “If you wish,” Anne said, surprised, wondering at Mary being alone with detestable Uncle William. “Only I shall have to tie him.”

  Tie Max! The thought almost brought tears to her eyes as she remembered it now: finding a soft rope, making a loop for his little head, ensuring it wasn’t too tight. All the time Max whimpering as if to say, “Mary, why are you tying me?”. Still, he seemed happy and eager enough as he trotted off with Anne, who limped after James and Aileen. They were kind people, and Mary was certain they would walk slowly to accommodate her.

  Almost as soon as the sound of their feet on the cobblestones had faded into the distance, Uncle William had sidled up to her on the wooden bench under the window.

  “Mary, Mary, you’re so pretty.” His hands were already reaching for her. Up close, she could see his hair was dirty and tiny white flecks clung to the strands. Two of his teeth near the front were rotten and the hair in his nose abundant.

  “Uncle William, please. Come not so close. I’ll call the servants.”

  “And I shall send them away,” he said. But he leaned back a little, chastened, eyeing her cleavage. “You have such nice duckies. May I touch them?”

  “I need some information about my mother,” she said.

  “What information? And what’s in it for me?”

  “Was my mother superstitious?”

  “Aye.”

  “Did she consult a wise woman here in the city?”

  Uncle William cocked his head to one side. “What’s in it for me?”

  Mary picked up one of his hands and pressed it to her left breast, on the outside of her dress. “Did my mother consult a wise woman here in the city?”

  William squeezed hard enough to bruise her. “Aye, she did. I think she was a friend.”

  Despite her discomfort, Mary was excited by the information. Perhaps she would be commanding her own guardian angel soon. “Do you know anything else about her? Her name? Where she lived?”

  William’s eyes grew cunning. “I should like to suckle you, Mary. I should like very much to see your duckies and suckle them.”

  Mary sighed in exasperation. “Take your hand away, Uncle William.” And when he didn’t comply she said more forcefully, “Take your hand away, or you shall get no further with me.”

  He withdrew his hand. She unhooked the front of her bodice and opened it to her sheer undershirt. Uncle William’s bottom lip hung loose and wet as he ogled her. “Now, what do you know?”

  “More,” he said.

  She wriggled down her undergarments and let her breasts free. He reached for her.

  “No,” she said, her arm fending him off. She sprang up from the chair and stood in front of him, breasts bare. “Now, what do you remember about the wise woman?”

  “She lived on Leadenhall Street.”

  “Anything else?”

  He shook his head and made to lunge at her. She sidestepped him and quickly refastened her clothes. “If you remember no more, then you get no more from me.”

  “It was so long ago,” he wailed. “How am I supposed to remember which wise woman your mother knew?”

  “If it is important enough you’ll remember.” She stood primly in front of him as he watched her, his mind turning over the problem.

  “And if I do remember? What do I get?”

  “Everything,” Mary said without hesitation, for she knew she would never honour the bargain. “You get me. But only if I verify the information as accurate, so don’t go making anything up.”

  “Very well. Very well, I shall find out, you’ll see. Within a month you’ll be lying beneath me.”

  Mary sniffed. “Find me the information first.” She turned towards the stairs. “Until then, nothing.”

  Betty was back by the end of the week, and Deborah felt an unexpected jealous tug when she saw her father and new stepmother go walking on the first evening of her return. She watched from the window in her room as Betty led Father to the bottom of the street and then around the corner. She turned her back to the window.Father seemed to love Betty in his own gruff way, and Deborah supposed she should be glad that he had found happiness.

  She descended to her father’s study. Liza was out at the markets, so she had the house to herself until Father and Betty, or her sisters, returned. She relished the solitude — nobody to disturb her thoughts. Father kept a collection of old books in trunks in the corner of his room. Deborah flipped open the lid of the top trunk and pulled a stack into her lap. The sheer weight of them — pages upon pages of people’s thoughts — swelled like a promise in her hands. She wanted so badly to be like Father, to know many things and understand where they belonged in the scheme of the cosmos. She wanted especially to understand the workings of the human body, to know the secrets which made it move and breathe and think, so that she could use them to heal. Imagine finding a remedy for plague, for gout, for Father’s blindness. The magic of healing was to her far more thrilling than Betty’s superstitions or Anne’s delusions of angels.

  She chose one of the books — astrology and the humours — and sat back on the floor to read. Liza’s return didn’t disturb her, nor did the noise up and down the street of carts and vendors. When she finally did look up, it was because there was a commotion just outside the front door. She could hear a woman shrieking, a dog whimpering, and above it all, her sister Mary losing her temper vigorously. Deborah put the book aside and hurried to see what was happening.

  “He bit me!” This was Betty, shouting, red-faced, her hand pressed to her bosom.

  “’Twas only a nip.”

  “A dog’s bite is extreme bad luck!”

  “You ought not have strook him, you cruel, cruel witch.” Mary clutched Max hard enough to break bones, tears welling in her eyes. Anne tried to spit out words, but her tongue was tied.

  And Father, caught amongst it all, was looking very rattled. “Quiet, quiet,” he said, and his head darted this way and that as though he wished he could see if a crowd had gathered to watch the disturbance. His detractors knew where he lived, and would waste no time in passing on the news of the domestic furore they had witnessed, making him a subject for jokes.

  “That dog is not coming into my house,” Betty cried, and reached out to seize Max.

  “No, you shan’t touch him!”

  For a few brief seconds they wrestled over Max, until Mary aimed a kick at Betty’s shins and she overbalanced, started to fall, knocked Father …

  Deborah was with him in an instant, steadying him. Betty fell directly on her buttocks in the mud and Mary began to laugh hysterically. Deborah couldn’t endure the bafflement on Father’s face, the embarrassed rage over his near-fall, and quickly hurried him inside. “Stop it,” she said har
shly to Mary and Betty as she passed.

  In a moment she had him sitting in his chair. “Is all well with you, Father?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m well enough. What kind of nonsense is that?”

  “I’ll stop them. Wait here calmly.” She went to the door. Anne was helping Betty up and Mary was still laughing.

  “Please, please, don’t argue here on the street. Can’t you see you’re embarrassing Father?”

  Betty huffed and marched inside. “That dog is going,” she said over her shoulder. “Your father will make you give him up.”

  “Indeed he will not!” Mary cried, racing after her.

  “Don’t upset Father any further,” Deborah said. Anne limped in, offered a crooked smile. Already Betty and Mary were in with Father, demanding he hear their cases. “Welcome home, sister,” Deborah said to Anne.

  “This will end b-badly.”

  “I fear the same.”

  They joined the others in Father’s study.

  “John, the dog bit me. He’s ugly and he smells, and I don’t want him in this house any longer.”

  “She’s lying. He nipped her gently, that’s all. Why, there is not a drop of blood spilled.”

  “A dog’s bite is a bad omen no matter how hard or soft. And who’s to say he won’t bite harder next time?”

  “He’s a good, gentle boy.”

  “He’s a dirty wretch.”

  “Stop it!” This was Father, and his eyelids were raised as though he were staring them down. “I have had enough. How dare you both bother me with such rubbish?”

  Betty was contrite, Mary clutched Max desperately.

  “John, the dog must go.”

  “Father, please, let him stay. I love him so much.”

  “And so I am to decide? Will all fighting stop once I have decided?”

  “Yes,” Betty said confidently.

  “Father, he’s just a —”

  “Will all fighting stop?”

  “Yes, Father,” Mary said, tears streaming from her eyes as she pressed Max into her chest. She obviously expected the worst.

  “I wish to ask good counsel,” Father said. “Ere I make my decision, that is.”

  “Counsel of whom, John?” Betty asked.

  “Of the only other person in this household who has any sense. Deborah? Step forward.”

  Deborah drew a quick breath. “Me, Father?”

  “Yes, yes. Tell me, what do you think I ought to do about this dog? Is he a biter? Should we send him out on the street?” At this Mary flinched.

  “I …” Deborah began. Was this some trick? Was he testing her loyalties?

  “Deborah? Child? Speak. What shall I do?”

  She went with her conscience. Father would expect that of her. “Max does sometimes nip, Father, but only gently. Usually as a sign of affection. He’s never hurt anyone.”

  “He hurt me!” Betty exclaimed.

  “Wounded pride doesn’t count,” Mary said.

  “I think,” Deborah said more confidently, “that if Mary promises to keep him away from Betty, she should be allowed to keep him. He’s her dearest friend.”

  “Hm,” Father said. “Is this right, Mary?”

  “Yes, Father, he’s the dearest, sweetest —”

  “While I believe you should be more discriminating about your friends, I cannot see why I should put the dog on the street if you promise to keep him away from your stepmother.”

  “Oh, I promise, I promise,” Mary said.

  “But John —”

  “Be reasonable, Betty,” Father said. “Did you never love anything so much as Mary loves the dog? Mary, Max can stay.”

  “Thank you, thank you.” Mary was nearly laughing with relief.

  “Liza will have supper soon,” he said gruffly. “You had best change into your house clothes.”

  Mary practically danced out of the room, Max under one arm, her travelling case under the other. Deborah and Anne followed in procession up the stairs. As soon as they were in their room, the door closed behind them, Mary enclosed Deborah in a rapturous hug.

  “Oh, thank you, sister. Thank you for making him take my side.”

  “I merely offered him rational advice,” Deborah said, extricating herself from Mary’s affection. “And you will be careful to keep Max away from Betty?”

  “Yes, of course. For his own safety, the dear little thing. You should have seen how hard she strook him. Oh, I can’t bear to hear him yelp like that.”

  With a bang, the door burst open and Betty stood there, her face flushed with anger. Max ran to hide under the bed.

  “It were meet for you to knock,” Mary said, barely concealing her smirk. “We may have been dressing.”

  “Don’t you …” Betty fought with her anger.

  “Mother? What have you come to tell us?” Mary said. Deborah kicked her heel lightly, tried to will her not to be so bold.

  “You needn’t be so smug, Mary Milton,” Betty said. “He is fonder of me than of any of you. I shall be rid of that dog, even if it means I have to be rid of the three of you.” She turned and slammed the door behind her.

  A few heartbeats passed in silence, then Mary whispered darkly: “If she hurts Max, I shall kill her.”

  “S-sister —” Anne started, a pale hand reaching out.

  “Oh, shut up, Anne,” Mary said. “You’re becoming tiresome.”

  3

  The Fatal Trespass

  It was October before Betty tried for revenge. Throughout the noisy London summer she waited and watched, observing her stepdaughters carefully. Deborah, she would have to suffer to stay. John was fond of her, and she was a good scribe. Betty had poor spelling and no languages. No matter how often she offered to help, John always turned her down. But the dullard, Anne, she knew he would lose easily, and he seemed to have no attachment to Mary either. She felt confident that she could persuade John to send them away, provided she made it easy for him. So, as the leaves began to fall from the trees and the mornings grew colder, she wrote to the lacemaker in Surrey again, and weaved her gentle lie. Within a week, she had a reply. She took it to John, kneeled beside him and pressed his hand in her own.

  “John? I have news.”

  “Yes, Betty?”

  “My friend the lacemaker in Surrey has written. He still has need for two apprentices. I thought Mary and Anne could —”

  “We discussed this earlier in the year,” he said dismissively.

  “Please, John, allow me to read what he has said.”

  “Go on, then.”

  She unfolded the letter and read. “‘Dear Betty, We should be very pleased to take to apprentice Mr Milton’s daughter and her simple friend’.”

  “What? What did he say?”

  “He thinks Anne is merely Mary’s friend,” Betty said. “He goes on to commend Mary’s kindness in taking responsibility for a cripple and says it reflects well on her father. He doesn’t know that Anne is your daughter.”

  “But they are sisters, and they look like sisters.”

  “No, they do not. Mary is much rounder, Anne’s face is more angular. John, you haven’t seen them since they were children. I assure you they are quite different.”

  “Hm.”

  “Well?”

  “Betty, they’ve settled in now. They are my children,” he said, then added in an embarrassed mumble, “As much as they bother me sometimes.”

  Betty felt as though her stomach had filled with air. “But, John, you wanted them to be sent away as much as I did.”

  “That was six months ago, Betty. They’re part of the household now. It wouldn’t be fair on them.”

  Fair on them? Betty wanted to shout, What about me? Then the seed of an idea came to her. “John, I wonder that they don’t take you for a fool.”

  He bristled. “What do you mean?”

  “John, they have sold some of your books.” In fact, Betty had sold a half dozen of his books, old ones from the bottom of the pile, to pay the pie man.r />
  “What? Are you certain?”

  “Not certain, but there are several missing.” She leaned in close to deliver the final blow. “They have taken advantage of your blindness.”

  He fell silent with a thoughtful twist to his lips. Betty held her breath, afraid he might see through her ploy.

  “John?”

  He sighed. “I cannot decide, Betty. If the lacemaker still wants them, and if I need not be bothered any longer with it, then perhaps they should go. A trade will ensure their security in the future. But Deborah will stay.”

  “Yes, John, of course.”

  “For while I’m unsure whether the eldest two have the cunning to sell my books — and I’d just as quickly blame Liza and give her nought more than a beating — I know for a certainty that Deborah would stand by me.”

  “I share your certainty,” Betty said, though she suspected her envy may have tainted her voice.

  “Write to him, then,” John said. “They shall make good apprentices.”

  Anne stood on the threshold of the Church of St Giles at Cripplegate, reluctant to move out into the cold autumn morning. It was the first Lord’s Day of November, and a light haze of mist clung to the rooftops. She shivered and wished she had brought her muff. Her hands grew cold so easily. She glanced behind her. It wasn’t just the cold which made her reluctant to leave the church. In there, she was one of God’s perfect children, not despised for her faults: Jesus smiled at her and her heart was at ease. Out here she was a cripple and a simple. A fat woman bumped her from behind, so she limped out of the way and joined her sisters on the street.

  “Oh, your poor hands,” Deborah said, taking Anne’s hands in her own and rubbing them. “Look you, they’re quite red and blotched.”

  “Put them in your placket, Anne,” Mary said. “Nobody will mind.”

  Anne inched her fingers into the pocket at the top of her skirt.

  “Where are Father and Betty?” Deborah asked.

  “They were speaking to Master Allard when I left,” Anne said.

  “Well, I wish they would hurry, for I should like to be inside by the fire with Max in my lap,” Mary said.

  An elderly man in rich clothes walked past, and Mary smiled at him sweetly, eyelids fluttering.