by S. D. Sykes
Mother was tucked into the largest bed I have ever seen, seemingly lost between the linen sheets – not unlike a small child who has crept into her parents’ bed. Flector settled down beside her, splaying his squat legs out behind him like a pair of oars. As I held Mother’s trembling hand, I noticed that the four posts of the bedstead were carved with cardoon and acanthus leaves, though on closer inspection I also saw snakes amid the twisting boughs. And though the light was poor, I could discern small faces peeping through the tangle of foliage. They were puckish and grinning.
Eloise observed my interest in the carvings. ‘This was my marriage bed,’ she said.Then she flexed her long fingers and admired her nails. ‘Such a gift to a young wife,’ she sighed, ‘from an old man.’ A silence fell and I was unable to think of any response to this melancholy statement. Eloise must have sensed my unease, for she then laughed and bade me join her downstairs in the solar, where we might continue our conversation.
I left my mother’s bedside feeling awkward, as if I were walking up a dark corridor. Is it childish and cowardly to admit that part of me wanted to creep into bed with Mother and curl up beside her in the sheets?
I fear it is.
Chapter Seventeen
The downstairs chamber was empty upon my return. It was late afternoon and the candles had been lit already. Shadows played upon the walls, and though the fire remained low, the room was warm and stuffy. This was a pleasant and unusual experience for me, since it was always cold and draughty in our own grand house. Mother often berated me for complaining about the lack of heat at Somershill, saying that a true nobleman hardly noticed a cold home. It was a sign of his breeding. His noble blood was warm enough to heat his body. In that case, my blood was showing its modest colours – for I was as contented in this hot and airless room as a cat upon a sunny step.
Waiting for Eloise to join me, I sat myself in the chair that faced the window to the street and rested my head against its high- backed wings. As I stared through the window at the gathering dusk, I suddenly had the impression that somebody was looking back at me. Their face only just the other side of the bevelled glass. I caught their outline, but not their features and when I jumped from my chair to look closer, they quickly walked away.
‘Have you seen something?’ I turned to find that Eloise had come into the room.
She had surprised me by her silent entrance. ‘I don’t know.’ My heart was beating soundly against my chest. ‘I think somebody was looking in.’
‘Should I ask the guards to go out and check the street?’
I shook my head. ‘No, no. They’ve gone now. Probably just an inquisitive passer-by.’
She swept towards me, her gown brushing the floor. ‘We are so very close to the road here, that people will sometimes look in.’ Then she gave a wry laugh. ‘I expect you find it strange that I live next to a street?’
I didn’t know quite how to answer this, so muttered something meaningless.
She smiled again. ‘I know how you feel. I was raised at Versey Castle. I was accustomed to a moat about my home. Not a street outside the window.’
‘But the Strand is hardly a usual street, is it? We passed a whole host of bishops’ inns.’
‘Yes. And here I am amongst them. A mere merchant’s wife.’ She lifted a pewter goblet from the table and took a long sip. ‘Not that such people would ever associate themselves with me.’ She placed the goblet back onto the table, though I might say she even banged it down. Petulantly.
‘But you don’t seem in want of company,’ I said.
She smiled. ‘If you mean Thomas Dukinfield, then the man is a horrible bore. Don’t you agree?’
How to answer this question? I decided to be honest. ‘Well. . . yes, I do.’ I coughed. ‘Is he coming back?’
She shook her head. ‘No, no. He has a terror of any sickness. Your mother has done us quite a favour.’ Then she sat down upon the bench and stretched her long and beautiful neck from side to side. ‘But his company and my husband’s are still linked, so I must humour the man to be sure of my fortune.’
The awkward silence returned, until she smiled at me. It was both a sweet and an odd smile. Unguarded for once. ‘Oh listen to me,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to burden you.’
She motioned for me to sit down near her on the bench, and as I did so, I had the chance to admire her closely. She had changed her dress to a red kirtle, which once again was tailored to fit very tightly to her waist and breasts. A gown edged with miniver provided the dress some level of propriety, though I was still able to see the shape of her body beneath the cloth. The candlelight sat softly on her face, showing a fine grid of lines across her forehead, which made me realise that she was older than I first supposed. But it didn’t matter. She was so very handsome.
She asked me to call her Eloise, and I asked her to call me Oswald. Then I felt a warm stirring in my braies – which only became worse when she let her fur-edged gown fall back to reveal the skin of her breastbone. This skin was white and lightly freckled and I wanted more than anything to touch it.
‘We should discuss Mary and Rebecca,’ she said. I nodded, though my mind was not fully on the subject.
‘I think they should return with you to Somershill,’ she said.
This woke me from my trance. ‘You do?’ I said, sitting up.
‘Yes.The Pestilence will return to London in the summer.They say there are already some new cases in Greenwich. This city is not a place to raise children.’ Then she gave an unexpected sigh and closed her gown about her. ‘You’ve heard I had a daughter, no doubt.’
I reverted to mumbling.
She gave a scornful laugh. ‘I know what people say about me, Oswald. That I killed my own daughter.’ She fixed me with a glare. ‘Do you believe such a story?’
‘Of course not,’ I answered.
‘Good.’ Her face relaxed into a smile. ‘Because it matters to me what you think.’
‘It does?’
She lowered her brow and looked up at me. ‘Of course it does. You’re an intelligent man. Not one of these fools who will lap up any drip of bilge water that spills at their feet.’
She had called me a man. ‘I don’t like gossip,’ I announced, as if the sweet smell of hearsay had never tempted me.
She nodded in agreement. ‘My daughter died of the pox. I merely kept others from the room. I did not murder her in some darkened solitude as they say. I was trying to stop further contagion.’
‘Then you were lucky to have survived yourself.’
‘There was no luck involved. I had suffered the pox already.’
This surprised me, since no pockmarks had burrowed their ugly potholes into her beautiful skin. My face must have betrayed my scepticism, since she answered me immediately. ‘In truth, what I suffered was more similar to a cow pox. I caught it as a child, after being sent to work in the dairy.’
‘Really?’
‘My father held daughters in poor regard. We were often made to work with the servants.’
‘I meant how does cow pox offer protection?’
Now she laughed. ‘You must have heard such stories. From the village healers.’
I shook my head. ‘No.’
She smiled. ‘You should listen to these women, Oswald. They often know more about medicine than any monk.’ I went to answer, but she interrupted. ‘And don’t tell me you’ve never noticed the unblemished complexion of a dairymaid?’
I blushed a little. ‘No. I haven’t.’
She giggled and put her hand on mine. ‘You’re such a sweet boy, Oswald.’
I coughed, both excited by the hand, whilst at the same time disappointed to be called a boy. Only moments ago, I had been a man.
Eloise suddenly withdrew her hand, stood up and began to pace the room, and the genial mood of our conversation turned. ‘Will you give me your assurances that the girls will be better treated when they return to Somershill?’ she said, as she strolled behind the bench on which I was still si
tting. ‘They’ve told me some alarming stories.’
I turned my head to try to look at her. ‘Clemence can speak harshly to the girls, but she didn’t mistreat them. It’s just that she has a new baby. And she has been in poor health since his birth.’
Eloise stopped by an elegant tapestry and began to roll her fingers over the stitching, tracing the image of a white horse as it charged into battle. She did not turn to face me. ‘Ah yes. Lady Clemence and her new son. How is my brother’s child?’ she asked. ‘Is he a healthy boy?’
‘Oh yes. Very.’
She began to pick at the stitching. ‘I believe Clemence has called him Henry.’
‘That’s right.’
A snort. ‘Named after my father.’
‘No. I believe he is named after mine.’
Another silence followed. Stiff and pointed. Somewhere in the distance the bells of Saint Bride’s rang for the evening curfew.The gates to the city would soon be locked. As I listened to their plaintive chimes, Eloise swept her gown about her, floated across the floor, and fell to her knees in front of me. It was both an unexpected and vaguely alarming act, and in truth, it felt a little like one of Mother’s performances. Even so, and I am ashamed to admit this, it gave me the perfect opportunity to look down her gown.
She took my hand. ‘I love the girls, Oswald. Very much. So I must be sure they will be safe and well cared for.’ She paused. ‘If I am to allow them to return with you.’
Her eyes were wide and pleading. Her hand trembled touchingly in my own.
‘Mary and Rebecca will stay with me, Eloise,’ I said. ‘They won’t return to Versey with Clemence. That way I will ensure their care and happiness.’
She squeezed my hand a little tighter, and leant forward so far that I was able to look right down the neckline of her dress. ‘What about their education?They can barely read.’
‘I will attend to it, immediately.’ I spoke softly. ‘Though you should know it was your brother who is to blame for neglecting their lessons.’ She stiffened at this remark, but I carried on, for it was important that this particular criticism was not laid at our family’s door. ‘When Clemence married your brother last year, I discovered the girls running about Versey like a pair of savages.’
She gave a short, mocking laugh. ‘Then nothing had improved by the time they arrived here,’ she said. ‘In fact, I barely knew them. With their butchered hair and filthy clothes I nearly turned them away as beggars. The poor creatures must have been very unhappy to degrade themselves in such a way.’
‘It won’t happen again. I give you my word. I will keep the girls safe.’
She withdrew her hand and leant back, so that I was no longer able to spy upon her breasts. ‘And what about this murderer I hear of. This butcher bird.’
This question took me by surprise. ‘There is no butcher bird. It’s been dreamt up by the villagers.’
‘But a child has been murdered on the estate. And Mary tells me you have a man under your protection. A madman.’
‘I do. But only because I refuse to let the village mob set upon him.’
‘And you are certain he’s innocent?’
‘Yes.’
Eloise raised an eyebrow. ‘I hope so. As I hear he is kept in Somershill itself. And I would hate to think he posed a danger to Mary and Becky.’ She then got to her feet, before slipping gracefully into the comfort of the wing-backed her chair by the window. ‘Very well, Oswald. The girls will return to Somershill with you and your mother.’
‘Thank you, Eloise. We can set off tomorrow.’
She smiled, a little distantly. ‘If Lady Somershill has recovered.’
I bowed to her. ‘Of course.’
The remainder of our evening was spent in more pleasant conversation, as we discussed philosophy and astronomy. Eloise was more interested in the trajectory of Venus and the writings of Pope Pius than any other woman I had ever met, though when I expressed this opinion, she scolded me for dismissing the mental capabilities of her sex far too easily. At last I was unable to stifle a yawn, and she bid me retire to a bedchamber on one of the upper floors. I had rarely been to a house with the advantage of so many separate bedchambers. It was a modern design, which allowed for such privacy – not at all like most manor houses, where the servants slept in the great hall, and the family kept to the solar.
It was a welcome luxury after the long day to wilt upon a feather mattress, and to be given a basin of hot water to wash the scum and stink of London from my hands. From outside I could hear the screams and shouts of drunkards and vagrants as they wandered along the Strand. The calls of the men on the river, as they delivered wine to the waterside cellars of the palaces. The occasional squawk of seagulls as they fought over scraps of food on the many rubbish pits that lined the streets. London was a dangerous and hostile place – but no less thrilling for it. I pulled open the wood of the shutter to look out through the latticed frame to the street below, and saw people moving along in the darkness. Some carried horn lanterns with the soft glow of the candle flickering through the translucent bone, but most scuttled along in the dark like beetles – hooded and anonymous.
Then, once again, I had the impression that somebody was standing perfectly still and looking up at me from beneath the jetty of the house opposite. Quickly drawing back, I extinguished my own candle so I might better see their form, but there was no moon that night, and the sky was as dark as a vat of treacle. All I could make out were the wagons parked at the side of the road, and the struts and the fancy herringboned work in the frame of the house.
I closed my shutters and retired to bed, but sleep failed me. My eyes scanned the room, running along the beams and panelling, until they were drawn to a small sliver of light in the wall. It came from the neighbouring room. I turned on my side and pulled the sheet over my head in an attempt to ignore the light, as I prefer to sleep in complete darkness, but soon heard the sound of water being poured into a tub.
At first this sound prompted a desire to visit the garderobe. But then I heard a woman singing – a soft, melodic sound – and suddenly I was tempted to look through the hole. I ignored this ignoble thought for a while. I buried my head back under the sheets, but could not ignore the arousing images that were now running through my mind. I had once secretly watched a girl washing in a river – the whiteness of her skin and the rounded shape of her naked body had both shocked and excited me. It was a memory that I called upon regularly – particularly on the nights when I was unable to look at my book of obscenities. Now, it seemed, I had the opportunity to spy again.
But it was wrong. I would not do it. I kept my head beneath the sheets.
Then the singing became slightly louder. The splashing of the water became more vigorous. I could ignore this temptation no longer. Now I crept from my bed, as stealthily as a thief, and peeked through the hole, to see it was Eloise sitting in a small tub of steaming water – her body naked, her dark hair tied into a knot on top of her head. I should have looked away. But I could not. Instead I watched with greedy fascination as Eloise dipped a large jug into the water and then poured it over her shoulder, letting its steaming warmth run down her long and graceful back. Then she looked to the ceiling and this time she arched her spine as she poured the soapy water over her naked body. Her breasts small and firm. Her nipples hard and stiff to the air.
I was transfixed by the sight – an image I had only ever imagined in the privacy of my bedchamber, or seen crudely drawn in a manuscript – so when Eloise looked to the wall and blew me a kiss, I did not flinch from staring at her. I was neither embarrassed nor guilty, instead I was drunk – not with wine, but with lust. When she called my name, I went to her chamber without the slightest hesitation.
I will not write on this subject for long, but I will say this much. Our nights together while Mother recovered from her sickness were the most enjoyable I have spent in my life. If it were a sin, then I do not repent. How could I? It was joyful. Pleasurable. It offended nobody.
So why should I feel any shame? At a dark time in my life, Eloise offered light. Something that was good at last. I can never regret it. Not even given the way it ended.
During these days I attempted, when not otherwise occupied with Eloise, to speak to Mary and Rebecca, but the girls had adopted a regime of dogged silence in my presence – an act that they tried to pass off as bashful obedience. They had, no doubt, been informed that they were to return to Somershill, but they would not discuss the matter with me, other than to nod their heads sullenly and then find the quickest excuse to disappear.
Eventually I asked Eloise to organise a discussion between the three of us at an appointed time and place, so that the sisters could not avoid speaking with me. I only wanted to assure them of my good intentions for their continued education, future happiness, and provision of good marriage offers.
The girls were waiting for me in the chamber that overlooked the street, but as I walked into the room they were both staring out of the window, so did not notice my entrance. This gave me the opportunity to overhear a conversation that was neither harmonious nor genteel. Mary had Becky by the ear and was twisting it enough to cause her younger sister to wince. ‘Don’t you dare tell him,’ she said. Her teeth were gritted.
Becky was shaking. ‘But I don’t want him any more, Mary. Please.’
Mary twisted her ear again, causing the girl to squeal. ‘I’ll kill you, if you tell. You promised to keep him a secret.’
I coughed, noting how admirably each girl now dropped the disagreement and presented themselves as two loving and devoted sisters. Becky held Mary’s hand as if she had never had her earlobe pinched in her life, and Mary smiled at me with angelic innocence. What a pair of seasoned performers these girls were.