The Conjured Woman

by Anne Groß

  Elise sucked in a breath, now sure of the diagnosis. Despite her intense and sudden pity, she couldn’t help but lean forward to marvel at the closed puncture wound in Mr. Tilsdale’s shoulder. Things were happening on the inside. Bacteria, hidden deep in his flesh, was releasing toxin that was wreaking havoc on the man’s nervous system. Mrs. Southill’s words echoed in Elise’s mind: you’ve turned an easy death into a difficult one. This was worse than a wound infection, worse than even influenza.

  The truth of the old woman’s prophecy was suddenly too heavy to bear. She placed Mr. Tilsdale’s lunch tray on his lap, handed him his spoon, and quickly left the room.

  In the hallway she found Mary bent over at the waist, mumbling at a long trail of whatever she was sprinkling on the floor. Elise groaned, “What are you doing? I already swept the hallway. Now I have to do it again.”

  “You can’t sweep until Mr. Laroque comes back up to his room. He’s got to walk on these seeds.” Mary smiled conspiratorially at Elise. “It’s a love spell. My granny taught it to me. Hempseed I sow, hempseed I sow,” she chanted, “the man I love come after me and mow.”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Elise grumbled. “You can’t sow seeds on a hardwood floor.” Mr. Laroque was the new tenant everyone, with the exception of Elise, had been hoping for. All Elise could think of was the fact that she now had one more room to clean. The man kept to himself by sitting in dark corners of the dining hall at mealtimes. He peered warily at everyone, spoke only when spoken to, and generally behaved in a way that made Elise nervous. Elise had been dumping his chamber pot for two days before she ever actually saw his face. Mary, on the other hand, swooned over his accent and convinced herself he was a French duke and a refugee from the Revolution. The Ferringtons had come to the same conclusion. As a result, the morning after he had appeared, Mrs. Ferrington had suddenly found a renewed interest in managing the operations of the Quiet Woman, much to Mrs. Postlethwaite’s irritation.

  Elise raised an eyebrow at the pretty barmaid. “You think he’s going to fall in love with you because you made him walk over pot seeds? If he crushes those into the floor it’s going to be a pain to clean up.”

  Mary’s smile turned sour. “You sweep that up before he’s come and I’ll make your life a misery.”

  “You already make me miserable,” Elise sniffed. “Fine. I won’t get in the way of your magical seduction, but you can clean your own mess. I’m not doing it.” She sidled along the wall to the stairs and was careful not to disturb the trail.

  Passing through the dining hall on the way to the kitchen she saw all the usual men eating their breakfasts. Mr. Laroque had seated himself close to the bar and looked up when she entered the room. She felt his eyes follow her as she walked towards the kitchen so she turned and smiled. In return, he gave her a barely noticeable nod before returning to his newspaper.

  “That man gives me the heebie-jeebies,” Elise said as she entered the kitchen.

  “The what?” asked Mrs. Postlethwaite.

  “Which man?” asked Thomas. He was sitting on the low stool in his usual corner next the hearth, the ever-present pipe clutched in his teeth.

  “That guy, Mr. Laroque.”

  “I’ll have none of your strange talk regarding our tenants,” Mrs. Ferrington called from the open door of the larder where she was taking inventory. She didn’t seem to notice how the fumes from the basement were seeping slowly into the kitchen. “The Quiet Woman always treats each of her guests with dignified hospitality. That’s what makes us renowned in London.”

  “I suppose that’s why I caught Mary scattering seeds in front of Mr. Laroque’s door.”

  “Seeds? Hemp seeds?” Mrs. Postlethwaite laughed. “She’ll get no husband that way.” She stepped aside to let Mrs. Ferrington stomp out of the kitchen, presumably to check on Mary. “Lord knows I tried it myself when I was young. Does Mary still think he’s an exiled duke?”

  “Any duke renting a room here wouldn’t be any better than the rest of us. It’s been at least five years since Nappy gave amnesty to the French noble class.” Thomas sniffed.

  “You take care as to who’s listening to your Republican opinions, Thomas. You’ll get into trouble one of these days with your talk.” Mrs. Postlethwaite turned to Elise, “Did you check in on Mr. Tilsdale? How is he?”

  The reminder of the old tenant caused Elise to reach out to the kitchen table to steady herself. All week Mrs. Postlethwaite had asked the same thing and up to now, he’d been improving. “Not good,” she said. “He’s taken a turn. I think he has tetanus.”

  “There you go again with those words. Are you even speaking English?”

  “Lockjaw. He has lockjaw.” Elise said simply and Mrs. Postlethwaite dropped her knife. “I’m hoping the willow will bring his fever down, but I don’t think there’s anything else I can do.”

  The room was strangely silent for a moment as Elise’s words soaked in. Then the stool scraped as Thomas stood up somberly.

  “You sit right back down again Thomas MacEwan, do you hear me? You aren’t to be deciding who lives and dies in this house, so you sit.” Mrs. Postlethwaite picked up her knife and waved it at him. “Sit! God may yet choose to spare him. Besides, we just got the house filled. What would Richard think if you made us one tenant short again?”

  Thomas blew out a puff of smoke and took back his stool. “Poor bugger,” he grumbled.

  “You’re right, Elise,” Mrs. Postlethwaite said. “There’s nothing for him now. We just have to wait it out. You might as well go fetch the water, since Mary forgot.” She pointed to the empty buckets near the courtyard door.

  Despite her excursion with Thomas, the idea of going out into the city was still frightening. “I don’t know where the pump is,” she said. “Maybe you could show me?”

  “Show you? What makes you think I’ve time for that? Did you hear, Thomas? Our Queen needs to be escorted to the pumps.”

  Elise rolled her eyes and looked away into the dining hall as she tried to come up with another task she could suggest doing instead of leaving the safety of the pub. Scrubbing the floor or washing the breakfast dishes would require water, she thought. Mrs. Postlethwaite didn’t trust her to help prepare the meals, and stoking fires and sweeping was already on her docket. She noticed Mr. Laroque was looking at her through the kitchen door. She smiled thinly and he looked away. Her smile turned more genuine when Richard walked through the door. “Did you just say Elise needs to be shown the way to the pump? I’ll show her,” he said cheerfully as he headed towards the larder.

  “You, Mr. Ferrington?” Mrs. Postlethwaite seemed surprised. Elise looked over at Thomas when his stool scraped again. He was scowling around the stem of his pipe.

  Richard came out of the larder with his mouth full of apple and the jar of pickled eggs under his arm. Mrs. Postlethwaite dutifully stepped to one side to let him place the heavy jar on her table and remove the lid, but as he reached in to pull out an egg she erupted. “For goodness sakes, be careful. You’ll stain your cravat.” She waved her knife at the young man who was dripping pink brine from his wrists. “At least let me slice that apple for you.”

  “No time, Mrs. P,” Richard said, spraying egg on the table. Miraculously his cravat remained unstained. He grabbed Elise’s arm and drew her out into the dining hall, leaving the open jar on the table.

  “Take the buckets, you nit-wit,” the cook shouted at Elise.

  Elise circled back and hauled the heavy yoke onto her shoulders and nearly knocked Mrs. Postlethwaite in the head as she hooked on the buckets. Then she walked sideways through the door behind Richard. In the dining hall, Mr. Laroque’s eyes followed them to the front door. “Do you know I haven’t fetched water since I was a boy?” Richard said. “My father used to send me out every morning. Then Thomas came around and took over the job.” He held the front door open for Elise and she banged the buckets on the doorframe. “It’s quite amusing to be carrying water again after so
long,” Richard called back to her as he walked down the lane ahead, “brings back old memories. We were both boys then, Thomas and I.”

  Outside, Elise took a deep breath and then coughed from the soot. The temperature was slightly higher from the summer sun than it was inside, which reminded Elise just how gloomy her life had become. She scurried to keep up with Richard’s long stride while the buckets swung awkwardly at her sides. “How long has Thomas been here?”

  “Oh, he was just a skinny gutter-boy when he arrived on our doorstep and it was Mrs. P what took him in and fed him up. Why do you think he’s such a big man now? It’s all Mrs. P’s doing. Of course, she was much younger back then too and mothering everyone, her own children as well as anyone else she could feed. I can tell you we all benefitted.”

  “I think if I had been Thomas, I’d think twice about hanging around a pub with a headless woman for a sign.”

  “Ah yes, the martyrdom of Saint Juthwara. She just wouldn’t pipe down about her religion, so they cut off her head. Either that or it was a jealous lover who took her head. In any case, a headless woman can’t keep talking, can she?”

  Elise looked at Richard to see if he was serious. He was. “That’s awful,” she said.

  “I suppose it is. Never really thought about it much. It’s an ancient legend.”

  “It must have been fun, growing up with so much going on all the time,” Elise said changing the subject. She tried to imagine Thomas and Richard playing together in the great kitchen, getting underfoot and dodging Mrs. P’s motherly smacks with the broom.

  “Well, there was plenty of hard work for us too. Make no mistake, we were pouring ales and rolling kegs before either of us could read.” Richard paused while a cloud seemed to pass across his face. Elise was surprised by the gloomy look and wondered what memory caused it, but it was gone as quickly as it had arrived. “Enough about old Tom and me. Have you been able to remember anything about your own past? I’m most anxious that you heal completely. I’m sure that there is a capital story somewhere in that head of yours and you just need a good rest for it to come tumbling out, but I’m very much afraid we’re not allowing you enough rest. Mrs. P. and Thomas can be such taskmasters. I’ve been trying to get them to stop bothering you about sleeping late in the mornings. You should be allowed to sleep as long as you’d like so that you may fully recover.”

  It was hard for Elise to argue with that line of thinking. “I haven’t remembered a thing yet,” she said innocently. “Maybe I do come from a wealthy family. That would explain why it’s so hard for me to scrub the floor the way Mary thinks I should scrub it.”

  “Don’t listen to Mary. She was nothing but a costermonger before she came to us. Mrs. P. caught her in the dining hall selling flowers from a basket and figured if she was so good at getting the lads to buy something they didn’t need, she’d be excellent getting them to buy more beer. But Mary doesn’t know anything beyond enticing men to open their purses, and certainly nothing about scrubbing floors. In any case, we’ve had no response as yet from the advert mother posted about you, but I’m sure your family will claim you soon.”

  Elise smiled to herself. He really was a sweet man, she thought. She just wished he wouldn’t walk so fast. They had been passing women and boys carrying full buckets of water for a couple blocks, so they had to be getting close. She was now constantly dipping and sidestepping to avoid tangling with others as Richard fell through the crowd like sand through a sieve. Suddenly the street dead-ended in a small square where a line of people with empty urns and buckets all faced a wall.

  Elise started to feel anxious as they approached the back of the line. At the bar the only questions she ever got were “Why aren’t you as jolly as Mary,” and “Where’s my beer?” Here, where women gathered every day, sometimes three times a day, Elise knew the conversations would be more personal, more pointed. As she approached, people turned to her in curiosity to view the new girl. Elise braced herself for the questions she felt sure would come, worried she might say the wrong thing, flub her story, or otherwise draw attention to her questionable sanity. She was grateful to have Richard with her to play interference. Having the proprietor of the Quiet Woman join them in line to fetch water wasn’t a common occurrence and Richard seemed delighted at the attention as people nodded and smiled. A young girl directly in front addressed them sweetly, “Good morning, Mr. Ferrington. How’s Mrs. Ferrington faring?”

  “Mrs. Ferrington’s faring well,” he replied.

  Richard was really good at this, Elise thought to herself as she listened to his polite conversation. He seemed to know everyone and could ask about the health of Great Aunt Tilly, or Poor Little Billy. Those he didn’t know received his wisdom regarding the weather. In response, the women blushed and tried to reply just as politely without giggling or stammering. Afterwards, they tittered amongst themselves and flicked their skirts like little brown sparrows. She couldn’t blame them—for Richard to be able to enquire on the health of so many strangers by name was a compliment. All the nice little things everyone said to each other were so rehearsed it almost seemed sincere. It was as though everyone had memorized their lines and Elise was the only one in the drama club still asking for prompts at the dress rehearsal. It also made her realize how tiny the big city of London really was, which made her feel even more like an outsider.

  As their turn at the pump neared, others were still stepping into line at the back. Richard resolutely ignored all the newcomers even though it was clear that a whisper went through to the back of the line he was amongst them. Elise saw eyes linger on Richard, then flit curiously to her. Just before they reached the pump, a woman approached with a baby wrapped in her shawl and a toddler clinging to her skirt. She was nervously and carelessly swinging an empty water bucket back and forth and it just barely missed hitting the top of her little boy’s head. “Mr. Ferrington? I’ve been paid a visit by your man, Mr. MacEwan,” she said abruptly.

  Richard blushed and smiled. “Have you? I trust you had a pleasant conversation,” he quickly turned away while motioning to Elise to step forward in line.

  “Mr. Ferrington, Sir, I can’t say that I did.” Elise caught the woman’s toddler when he staggered forward after finally getting clobbered in the back of the head with the bucket. The boy’s yowling was earsplitting, but the woman continued as though nothing had happened. “My husband is paid on Fridays and by Sunday morn all his wages have gone to drink. Can you not send him home before the money’s gone?”

  “Madam, I am not at liberty to tell your husband how to spend his wages.”

  “We’ve got five little ones, Sir. All needs to be fed, Sir.” The little one at her side was rubbing his head with his tiny hand. His wailing was still loud and as a result, the woman had to be even louder. It was impossible for anyone not to hear the conversation, especially since everyone had stopped to stare and listen. Richard’s face was beet red and he shifted from one foot to the other in an embarrassed dance as the woman dropped her bucket to fish coins out of her filthy apron pocket. “Tell your man not to hurt my husband,” she pleaded. “If you send him back home to me on wage days, you’ll have what he owes soon enough.” She pressed the coins into Richard’s hand. “You’ll give Mr. MacEwan this money? Tell him it’s to be put against Robert Elliot’s tab.”

  Richard took the money and pocketed it, “I am sorry that Mr. MacEwan frightened you. Let me assure you that I will speak with him forthwith to curtail his overly enthusiastic methods for helping our customers settle their debts. The Quiet Woman is always happy to help her neighbors. We strive to offer friendly smiles and a warm place to visit.”

  Mrs. Elliot looked confused at Richard’s strangely loud and florid speech, and looked at Elise for clarification.

  “Robert Elliot is your husband’s name?” Elise asked. When the woman nodded she said, “I’ll give Mr. MacEwan your message.”

  “And give him those coins, if you please?” Tears started to roll down Mrs. Elliot’s
cheeks. “Don’t let Mr. MacEwan hurt my husband, Miss. He’s a good man to us, my Robert. He’ll pay what he owes.”

  “Oh look at that! It’s already our turn at the pump,” Richard said with an artificial smile and a tip of his hat.

  She took the hint and picked up her bucket. “I’ll just go to the back of the queue then,” she said uncertainly. When no one responded, she slouched away with her kid still howling and clutching the back of her skirt.

  Richard couldn’t work the pump handle fast enough. When the buckets were full, he insisted on carrying them both and somehow managed to grab Elise’s elbow at the same time to hurry her away from the whispering crowd, sloshing water as he went. “What on earth was that all about?” Elise asked as she trotted behind Richard.

  “I’ve told Thomas time and time again he needn’t threaten people for them to repay the Quiet Woman. He just needs to remind them of their debt. A reminder is all they need.” Richard was agitated and as a result, more of the precious water sloshed out of the buckets.

  “Threaten?” It was difficult to believe Thomas would ever threaten someone as pitiful as Mrs. Elliot. Elise pictured his blue eyes glaring at her through the mantle of his black hair. It was hard to believe others couldn’t see through the act.

  “I try to remember that he loves the Quiet Woman as much as I do but that he may be more brutish in his methods for protecting her. It all comes from his earliest years I’d wager. A thing like living on the London streets with that dreadful woman can’t be wiped from a person’s character, not to mention his questionable parentage.”

  “You mean Mrs. Southill? I don’t think he knew his parents.”

  “Yes. As I said: questionable.” Richard slowed to a stop and waited for Elise to catch up. “But one mustn’t dwell on such things.” He smiled reassuringly as he hung the buckets on Elise’s yoke. “I presume you can find your way back to the Quiet Woman from here? It’s just two lefts and a right at the haberdashery.”