The Illumination of Ursula Flight
Page 1
First published in Australia and New Zealand by Allen & Unwin in 2018
First published in Great Britain by Allen & Unwin in 2018
Copyright © Anna-Marie Crowhurst, 2018
The moral right of Anna-Marie Crowhurst to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
Every effort has been made to trace or contact all copyright holders. The publishers will be pleased to make good any omissions or rectify any mistakes brought to their attention at the earliest opportunity.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events have evolved from the author’s imagination.
Allen & Unwin
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ISBN 978 1 76063 222 9
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Cover illustrations by Elzo Durt, www.elzodurt.com
For my mother, Rose,
who took me to the theatre
CONTENTS
PART THE FIRST
I BIRTH
II MOTHER
III FRIENDSHIP
IV HOME
V LESSONS
VI STARS
VII FACE
VIII KISS
THE ENCHANTMENT OF LADY CASSANDRA
IX MALADY
X TRYST
XI CONVERSATION
THE SIEGE OF BYNFIELD
XII CURSE
XIII CONTRACT
XIV PUNISHMENT
XV BETROTHAL
XVI SLIDING
‘TIS PITY HE’S A BORE
XVII ACCEPTANCE
XVIII DINNER
XIX DIFFICULTIES
XX MARRIAGE
PART THE SECOND
I LOVING
II DOMESTICITY
III SERVANTS
IV HUSBAND
V RELATIONS
VI CORRESPONDENCE
VII REGIMEN
VIII BEDDING
OBSERVATIONS ON A MOTHER-IN-LAW
IX SISTERHOOD
X TOGETHERNESS
XI ALLY
THE MAID’S FROLICK
XII FRUSTRATION
A DISCOURSE ON MATRIMONY & WIVING FOR NEW BRIDES
XIII AGUE
XIV CONVALESCENCE
XV DISCOVERY
XVI CONSEQUENCES
XVII EXPEDITION
XVIII METROPOLIS
XIX PALACE
XX FLIRTATION
XXI ADORATION
XXII ADAPTATION
XXIII ADULTERATION
XXIV ANTICIPATION
XXV DETERMINATION
XXVI VACATION
PART THE THIRD
I JOY
II DOMESTICITY
III CONTENTMENT
IV CHANGES
V TRIALS
THE REHEARSAL
VI ADVANCEMENT
VII TRAVAILS
VIII FELICITY
IX APPRECIATION
X INSPIRATION
XI LAPSE
XII TONIC
XIII AMELIORATION
XIV CONSTERNATION
XV EXERTION
XVI RECUPERATION
XVII CELEBRATION
XVIII JUBILATION
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I
BIRTH
In which I am born under inauspicious circumstances
On the fifteenth day of December in the year of our Lord 1664, a great light bloomed in the dark sky and crept slowly and silently across the blackness: a comet. The prating in the coffeehouses was of the evil the fiery star portended. Such astrological phenomena, it was known, brought war, famine, disease, fire and flood; the fall of kingdoms, the death of princes, mighty tempests, great frosts, cattle-plague and French pox. Every evening afterwards, though snow lay on the ground and the air bit with frost, men across the land threw open their windows and went out of their doors in cloaks and mufflers to gaze at the heavens, necks stretched up, hands shielding eyes, crooking long fingers to trace the burning thing that flamed across the night, while dogs moaned in their kennels and wise women chanted incantations against bright malignant spirits.
My mother, then in her fourth lying-in for childbed, had heard the tattle, by letter, from her sister, and begged her lady to open up the chamber curtains, the windows being tight fastened against ill winds. A fire blazed in the grate and bitter herbs got from the apothecary smoked in pots. My mother, taut and swollen, sweated in her night-shift.
It was hard to see at first, my mother said: that night the sky was so pricked with stars, the air so thick and dark. But as she gazed, wet-faced, propped full-bellied on her pillows, there broke out from under a cloud a great white star with a flickering tail. At the sight of it she cried out in wonder, and, I think, in fear, and doing so broke her water: her agonies began.
Thus began, too, my journey into the world: she, crying and clawing, as I strained, sightless and bloodied, to meet the wonder which that very moment was bursting through the empyrean. With a wrench, I was born, into the deepest part of the night, blinking, kicking, then so strangely silent they thought me dead, just as the comet ended its glowing travails and disappeared from earthly sight.
II
MOTHER
In which I assert my independence at three years old
‘Mother! Mother! Motherrrrrrr!’
I liked to call my mother, just to see if she would come. I had copied it from the way she called out to Joan, her lady, who always came a-scurrying and tripping on her skirts, before taking her orders with a heaving chest and a reddened, funny face. I wanted my mother to come and make me giggle. She could tickle me and it would be a game.
‘Mother!’ I yelled again, making my voice go up and down and twisting my face into a few silly grimaces for good measure. I liked the different things I could do with my voice, and it was funny because shouting was naughty. I put my hands to my face to feel it move. There was goat’s milk crusted on one of my cheeks. I scratched at it.
My mother did not come. There was silence in the parlour, save for the faint whistle of the wind down the chimney. I lolled against the wainscot, sniffing at the grown-up smells of wax and wood-smoke. I was afraid of the vastness and emptiness of the room when I was in it all alone, but I pushed at my stomach, feeling a bubbly thrill creeping up to my chest despite my fear at being in a place that was kept for visitors, and mostly forbidden to me. I had stolen in when everyone was busy. Now I could explore. I held my breath as long as I could then let it out in a great gust. If I did it three times then my mother would come.
I went around the room, holding out my arms, stretching my fat child’s fingers to touch each object. I stroked everything a little in turn, touching the precious things, as I was never allowed to do when there were grown-ups around. It was different from the nursery, where everything was brown and wooden and could not break. Here there was
a great black cabinet, painted with sea gods and mermaids, topped by two knobbly silver candlesticks with burned-down wicks; a glossy table with stout, spiralled legs, and in the corner, resting on a stand, my mother’s mandalore, with the fat face of a cherub carved into its neck. The tale of the mandalore was one of my favourites; I made Mother tell it to me at bedtime. Then she would whisper in her story voice of how it had been carved from the wood of a little pear tree by one Signior Testore, a gentleman from Venice with flowing black hair and shining eyes like conkers. It was given to her by my father as a present on their wedding day and she would treasure it for evermore.
The sunlight from the window threw bright oblongs onto the floor. I went over to the shapes and jumped onto them with a ‘Ho!’, hoping I might be transported to a faraway land, as in the stories told to me by Goodsoule, my nurse, who was a wise woman – but that must not be spoken of in company, lest somebody hear, and put her in the pond.
I jumped in and out of the squares, liking the way my body turned from light to dark as I moved. Singing a song about fairies, I hopped up and down on the spot and then stood stock still in an oblong and stretched out my palms, watching the light make them golden. I stayed there breathing in and out, watching the dust rise up, then lay down in the sun, as I had seen our big dog Muff do, and kicked out my arms and legs in a star shape. I was hot and bright all over.
‘Muuuuuuu-ther!’ I called, sliding my legs open and together on the floor. The swishing of the skirts of my gown as I kicked. ‘I am here, Mother! Oh Mother, won’t you come to me? Here I am in the parlour, Mother!’ I sang.
I held my body still for a moment and waited. ‘Mother!’ I screamed it as loudly as I dared, then caught my breath, frightened at my own naughtiness. I listened for the squeak of the stairs, the tip-tapping of running, angry feet... The clock chimed the hour in the hall, but nobody came.
I lay in the light-shape with my eyes closed. The sunlight was under my eyelids: there were purple spots and green swirls. I sat myself up and gazed out of the window. The sky was pale blue peppered with wisps of white. My father liked his turnips peppered and it made my mother sneeze. Children did not like pepper, as a rule, Father said.
I should have liked to go and play outside. It had rained in the night, but now there was only the whistly wind – and the sun looked as if it might be hot. There were birds’ nests and the drays of squirrels in the gnarled old oak, and I could make daisy-chains with Goodsoule and wear them as necklaces. We had a squat little crab-apple tree with low branches that could be climbed, if somebody helped, and stood by in case you fell.
The door creaked and Father’s wolf hound trotted in, making a noise in her throat when she saw me on the floor. ‘Come now, Muffy!’ I said, and threw out my arm as I had seen my father do. She came over with a solemn face and lapped at my nose and the salty place behind my ear. I tipped backwards, giggling, and Muff barked joyfully and began to worry at my shoe. I lay back in the oblong, laughing and tugging my foot away, while she nipped at my shoe leather, letting out little excited yips between each bite.
‘Oh Muff,’ I said. ‘You are a very naughty girl.’
The dog had got my shoe off and was joyfully eating it in a corner when Mother came in with a rustling of skirts, a stiff look about her face. I wiggled my stockinged toes and waved at her from my place on the floor. She might lie down in the bright square too, if she knew how warm it was.
‘Ursula, you naughty child,’ she cried, seizing my arm and dragging me upwards and giving me a few sharp pinches. She set about brushing the dust from my back and rubbing it out of my hair. When she got to the stuff on my skirts it felt much like smacking. But I stood still and leant my weight against her, as much as I dared. I liked being close to my mother and breathing in her mother-smell, which was roses and cloves and lavender, from the pomander she wore about her neck.
‘You are not to lie on the floor and get your smock dirty,’ she said. ‘And you should not be in the parlour, besides. Where is Goodsoule? Is it not time for your nap? Muff! Bring that here at once.’
Muff eyed my mother balefully, then, dropping her woolly head, spat out a piece of leather.
‘I wanted to see if you would come, Mother,’ I said, in a small voice, for I hated to be scolded. ‘And – and...’ I was thinking up a reason as quickly as I could. ‘And to tell you about Muffy who has been so good and sweet. We had a game and she took my shoe. I think it smells of dog-dinner to her, for she licked it most thoroughly.’
My mother had wrested the remains of my shoe from Muff ’s jaws and was now fastening it back on my foot.
‘It is wet,’ she said. ‘But ’twill serve you right.’
‘Yes, Mother,’ I said.
She took my hand and dragged me from the room. Muff, watching me go, started up a moaning, which echoed around the house and made the kitchen maids take fright.
III
FRIENDSHIP
In which I make my very first bosom friend
The drifting scents of spring were in the air. Bluebells and honeysuckle and sun-dried hay mingled with the piles of manure from the farm horses, who had carried the King and Queen of the May, but then forgot themselves and been naughty.
I spread my fingers out and felt the sharp stalks scratch against my palms. I had been allowed to join the cottage folk on their hay bales on the green to watch the maypole dance. After a week of being trapped indoors, I was mightily happy to be outside – Goodsoule had been busy with my little brother Reginald, who had suffered an attack of the mumps and was much given to screaming, and I had grown bored of wandering about the house in search of amusement. It was good to be basking in the sun, which was high and hot, though it was not yet noon. I touched my nose, feeling it might be getting pink, despite my bonnet. The admonishment of Mother to stay in the shade still rang in my ears; I knew she would scold me for sun-burn. In imitation of the village girls, I unlaced my bonnet and tipped it further over my eyes, loosening my linen collar which was high against my neck.
I liked the way the villagers clapped and smiled as the fiddler made merry. He had played ‘May Morning’ and was onto ‘Come Lads and Lasses’, bowing and taking a few jaunty steps in time. I followed the bright-haired dancers with my eyes as they circled the maypole in their white gowns, which had great sleeves and full skirts. I should like to be one of them, one day, if Mother would allow it. She liked me to learn dancing, at any rate, and was teaching me the gavotte. I loved to hear music and skip around the room, but could not point my toe high enough, though I practised stretching it each night in my chamber.
Mary Goodsoule came over to the hay bales, a bunch of daisies in her hand. She was taller than me by half a head and had light red hair the colour of the stable cat. I had seen her waiting at our garden gate for her mother to come home – I often knelt on the window-seat of my chamber to watch Goodsoule leave us for the day, for my night-times were lonely and I was loath to see her go.
‘Do you want one?’ Mary said, opening her fist to show the fuzzy stalks, warmed and wilted in her palm.
I hesitated. I felt shy of speaking to the child of a servant.
‘Go on,’ she encouraged, pushing back a lock of hair that had fallen over her face. Her cheeks were round and rosy as her mother’s, and she had the same kindly sweetness about her face, the same wide-spaced eyes.
‘Have you been dancing?’ I said.
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘My sister Kitty wouldn’t have it, for nothing is to spoil her day of being Queen. That’s her, with hair like me, threading ribbons on the maypole. I have been up over yonder’ – she flicked her arm behind her – ‘gathering blooms to make a perfume. My ma teaches me. Mayhap she will teach you, if you ask her. You crush up the petals and put them on your bosom for the gentlemen to sniff, and then they come a-wooing.’
‘Oh.’
‘Take a daisy,’ she said. ‘I picked them in a waxing moon, and that means goodness.’
‘Oh,’ I said again, feeling fooli
sh. But I took a flower from her, and held it between my fingertips. I twirled it a little in the air, uncertain of what to do.
‘How old are you?’ said Mary. She had fair, freckled skin and the same long nose as her sister, which gave her an elegant air, child as she was.
‘Seven years and one-hundred and thirty-eight days. I counted yesterday.’
‘I’m nine,’ she said. ‘I’m Mary.’
‘I’m Ursula,’ I said.
And that was how I made the very first bosom friend of my life.
One bright day in early summer, Mary came to me while I was playing a boisterous game with the dog in the orchard – Muff had a stick in her mouth that she would not let go of and it made me laugh ’til my belly hurt when I hung onto its end and let her pull me along the ground, she shaking her head and growling all the while; me kicking my legs and feeling the damp grass slime across my arms as she dragged me, the warm huff of her breath on my hands.
‘Ho,’ said Mary. ‘Where’s my ma? You’ll be scolded later, for you have covered your second-best gown in grass stains, and they are harder to get out than blood.’
‘What do you know about it, Mrs?’ said I, letting go of Muff ’s stick, so that she flew backwards with it, and danced about by a tree.
‘A great deal,’ said Mary, sitting down daintily beside me, ‘for Ma has been teaching me the work of the household, and that includes washing.’
I turned up my nose at this. ‘I do not need to know about it,’ I said, pulling up a fistful of grass and letting it shower upon my head. ‘For the servants do it, I think.’
‘Aye,’ she said, ‘but not for us, for we are the servants and must do it ourselves.’
‘I suppose that is true,’ I said, looking at her, for in truth I had not thought much about my Mary’s lot in life. We were both quiet then, I tugging evermore vigorously at the grass. Muff had seen a squirrel, and dashed off after it with a volley of joyful barks.
‘But do you not want to know why I am come to visit you?’ Mary said.