‘No,’ I said, which was often my instinctive answer to questions. She pursed up her face in the cross way she had. ‘Yes, yes of course,’ I said quickly. ‘For who is looking after your brothers and sisters while your father is in the fields?’
‘Old Mistress Claxton is with them, and I have come to be your companion,’ said she, peering at my face. ‘I am now old enough to earn my living. Your ma asked mine to see if she might set about finding a village girl to keep you company and be your playmate, for she is afeard,’ – here she jabbed me playfully in the ribs – ‘that you are growing up strange and wild...’
‘Wild!’ I cried.
‘You cannot argue with it,’ said Mary. ‘And you are lonely – so here I am come to play with you and to keep by your side.’
‘Faith, can it be true?’ I cried, getting up and pulling her with me into a stumbling sort of passepied about the orchard, and kissing her face. She pretended to push me off, and we romped about between the trees then in a topsy-turvy game of tag.
Goodsoule came out and I ran to her and put my head in her skirts, and she patted my back with her rough hands, the hands I knew and loved, though they had slapped me when I was naughty. I lolled in her embrace feeling the fabric of her apron on my cheek. ‘Now, now,’ she said in her deep voice, and bade us both smooth our hair and come into the parlour, where my mother was waiting by the window, stiff-backed on her favourite chair. Goodsoule pushed me forward and I stepped reluctantly away from the comfort of her nearness.
‘For shame, child – can it be that you have mussed your gown again?’ said Mother, darting at me and flicking at my skirts, smeared irrevocably with green. ‘Lo, ’tis all up one sleeve, and your bodice too.’ She slapped at my arms, and I tried to dodge her hands.
‘Ow! It was a game with Muff, who...’ I began.
‘Goodsoule,’ Mother said, ‘see that Ursula does not drag herself along the ground, for it makes too much work for Lisbet – and you besides.’
‘I beg your pardon, mistress,’ said Goodsoule.
I turned my face to look at her. ‘’Tis not her fault,’ I began, but seeing Goodsoule’s eyebrows rise, I kept my peace, and went and sat on the little footstool my father liked to rest his feet upon in the evenings.
‘Come here, child,’ said my mother to Mary, and my friend went to her, and was turned around by her shoulders, and peered at by my mother in a way which made me feel strange. I wondered at Mary being able to bear it.
‘Are you a good girl?’ said my mother.
‘Yes, mistress,’ said Mary in a docile voice, so different from the one she used when we called to one another, which was high and light as a bird’s.
‘And will you work hard and be a helpmeet to my daughter, and keep by her side, and see that she is safe?’
‘I will, mistress,’ said Mary.
‘Very well,’ said my mother, in a cold sort of way which made my belly churn. ‘Your mother is run off her feet, what with Reginald and his maladies and the nursing of the babby. So we will try it and see how we fare.’
‘Oh thank you, sweet Mother!’ I said, jumping off the footstool and rushing at her, at which she put her arm around me, quickly bent her head towards mine then straightened it again, before releasing me and pushing me off.
‘You must be a very good girl now, Ursula, or Mary will be sent away.’
‘Yes, Mother,’ I said.
‘Thank you, mistress,’ said Goodsoule.
IV
HOME
In which I meet an actress and get a head pain
Viewed through the eyes of the approaching traveller, our village of Bynfield, in the southerly county of Berkshire, is a pleasant and countrified place, with its rolling hills, gurgling stream and wild moors of waving grasses, which are dotted with the oak and beech trees characteristic in those parts. It was then, and is now, bordered by a forest to the west, and by a small wood to the north: a shady place carpeted with needles and bracken, which turned orange in autumn and gave camouflage to deer.
This place was known to Bynfield children as Bear Wood, which, we told each other, was on account of the wild and hungry creatures that roamed there. I passed many happy days here as a child – there were fleshy fairy rings of toadstools which sprang up in the shade and wildflowers to gather and weave into our hair. I never did see a bear, or anything more frightening than a vixen, but the older children knew stories of the ancient days and told them to us in such whispering tones, I had strange and unquiet dreams: of dark, waving branches and outstretched, catching claws.
Few travellers, in truth, came to Bynfield for its own sake – its inhabitants were mostly farmers and a few handy folk who made stockings on looms. The place comprised but a dozen scattered dwellings, some cottage farms, a church, and a few heaths and copses on which cattle roamed. We therefore saw few strangers, save for the summer months when the Court was at Windsor. Then, a few courtiers travelling eastwards to the castle came to the inn, which perched on the edge of His Majesty’s Great Park and, being just behind the eight-mile stone to that royal town, was convenient as a stopping place.
My family had a good sort of house, for we were the nobles of that parish, and kept Bynfield Hall, a sprawling brick and timber manor which was built by my great-grandfather who had had a sickly wife in need of country air. It was a godly sort of place, with a pleasing aspect across the bright fields of corn to suit the invalid, and fresh water from the spring that flourished just beyond the garden wall.
When my grandparents went to God, my mother and father took it up and, because Mother was rich and brought a great dowry, added a wing, and a stable block, and a kitchen garden that grew thick with thyme and lavender. They were young and true sweethearts when they married (or so my mother said) and so they were merry as the day is long at Bynfield, or as they could be, for the age was a hard one under Cromwell.
My father had been a loyal supporter of the King and, through all the misery and the darkness of the time, kept himself strong and true and proud, being part of a sworn-secret faction with a band of other local men, who had vowed a lifelong allegiance to the Crown. To this end they met every Thursday at the All Saints church, where they whispered morsels of news from the Continent and drank the King’s health out of earshot of the vicar.
When Old Rowley was Restored, my father prospered, being rewarded with a contract to build His Majesty’s ships, for he had grown up near Norwich, and had spent many years inland, dreaming of the sea, which had got to the King’s ear and tickled him. How pleased my mother was at my father’s frequent absences I never knew, but she was kept busy enough in the bearing of children, for every time he came home he got a babby on her, and she had given birth to three that did not live, before I came, with the comet.
Having been released from chores and sewing, and not inclined to begin one of our woodland games – for though it was an unseasonably fine day in March, it was not yet warm – a group of us children – Grisella and Nicholas and Mary and I – were sitting on the tumbledown stone wall that ran opposite the inn, hoping to catch sight of a stranger. We had all but given the game up for lost, and were debating Nicholas’s suggestion that we make for Bear Wood to look for nightjars’ eggs (it was ever our ambition to raise the chicks of wild birds, which could then be tamed and taught to do tricks and carry messages) when Mary heard the tell-tale thumpings and clatterings of a carriage coming down the way, and we stood up to better catch the first glimpse of the finely dressed lady or gentleman.
It was our habit on such occasions to clutch at each other as the approaching traveller pranced up on horseback, at which the boldest of us might call out a saucy greeting, which was usually ignored. Then we would watch agog as the mud was brushed from cloaks and Mr Sprogget the innkeeper was bidden to water the horses, tarrying until the travelling party had retired to their chambers to fortify themselves with sack in preparation for Mrs Sprogget’s cooking. In the morning they would primp their hair with sugar-water and ribbons, so that they could go
before the King looking their best – all the better to get a royal favour or a pardon for a misdeed. And we would never see them again, but go home very well satisfied that we had had a peek at another sort of life.
On that particular day, the sound of approaching hooves was accompanied by the jingle of a carriage, and a coach and four drew up in a cloud of dust. Mary clutched me and Nicholas gave a whistle as a foppish gentleman in velvet emerged from within, and supported a masked lady in a shell-pink gown, who seemed to be weeping and dragging her feet. That the man had the lady by the elbow as he led her into the house, and that the lady was twice prevented by him from removing her vizard, caused a rumour that ran the breadth of the village that she was an heiress and kidnapped by a scoundrel with designs on her portion.
By eleven o’clock the bruits reached Rector Thistlethwaite, who, feeling it was his Christian duty, if it was anyone’s, went to enquire, while we children crowded round, chattering. Presently the slamming of a door was heard, and the rector came down the front path with a face as red as roast beef, stuttering that she was a married lady after all, and all was as God would wish it. On further questioning by Nicholas, who hung on his sleeve and worried at it, the rector said that it was his own belief that the lady was an actress, which was not godly, but he did not make the rules.
After he had gone off in the direction of the rectory mumbling about the whimsies of the gentry and the liberties of the age, my friends challenged me to go and enquire after the lady and see if she was an actress and to discover, if I could, what an actress might be.
I could hardly get out of the dare, as Grisella had thrice turned around and touched the ground, so to go against it would mean seven years’ bad luck. And so, after some argument, I consented.
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Nicholas.
Mary cried: ‘Good luck to ye, Urse!’
I could hear their giggling as I crossed the path, approached the inn, lifted the latch on the door and passed inside it.
It was dim and cool in the inn, and the yeasty smell of hops rose up to my nose; my feet kicked the straw that lay strewn on the ground in readiness for spillages. There was a fire blazing in the large and oft-blackened hearth, but no one warming themselves by it, or tending the bar neither, so I swiftly crossed the room to a stout-looking door and turned the iron handle as slowly as I might.
A staircase lay behind the door, with a high-up mullioned window casting a dim pool of light that fell in a scatter of shapes across the steps. ‘Hello?’ I whispered – I half wanted to be found and sent back to my friends with a twisted ear.
No reply came, so, remembering the challenge, I crossed my fingers and stepped slowly up the stairs, going mighty carefully to avoid squeaking, and pausing on each step, my ears pricked for the coming heavy tread of furious grown-ups. I heard nothing to frighten me but the groan of boards overhead, higher up in the house.
I had almost got to the top, and was wondering what to do next and whether I might in all conscience go back outside and pretend the inn was empty after all, when I caught the sound of laughter: a woman’s voice, bright and pleasantly musical. It floated out to where I stood, one hand on the newel, one toe pressed on the very top step.
‘Confound thee, Mistress Minx!’ came the rumbling voice of a man, and with it more laughter, and muffled sounds, and the creaking of a bed.
‘Nay,’ came the woman’s voice. ‘Not until we are wed, Felix. For I did not miss two performances to hole up in a low tavern and act as your concubine.’
‘Hush, madame!’ was all I heard before the voices dropped to murmurs that were beyond my hearing. I stood stock still on the landing knowing not what to do, for I knew ear-wigging to be a wrongdoing that was often punished with a spanking. I had turned back towards the staircase once more and was stealing my way down the first of the steps, when the door was flung open and the man emerged, still wearing his velvet breeches, his periwig askew.
‘What’s this?’ he said, sweeping past me as I pressed against the wall, but took no more notice of me, and went down the stairs, banging the door behind him, so that it sprang open again with the force. I stood not knowing what to do, but then the woman’s voice came.
‘Who is there?’
I could hardly disobey a grown-up, and so I went meekly to the open chamber door and dropped one of my best curtseys (I had been practising but was still unsteady about the knees and very much given to leaning).
‘’Tis I, mistress,’ I said, with my eyes politely pointing floorwards. ‘Ursula Flight. But I did not hear a thing I oughtn’t and will be on my way now, if it please ye, mistress.’
‘Strange, bold child!’ said the lady, coming towards me, and I saw she was very pretty, with a coil of chestnut hair and pearls at her ears and throat. She looked me up and down, with her painted lips twisted into a queer little moue. ‘What do you mean by lurking there? Do you live here, at the inn?’
‘Nay, but at Bynfield Hall and I do beg your pardon, mistress. For it was a challenge by my playmates,’ I said, knowing now the fat was in the fire. ‘And I am very sorry for troubling you.’
‘’Tis no trouble,’ said she, with a toss of her head, which rattled all the pearls. ‘Come in and tarry awhile, for I am apt to grow bored, and you amuse me with your strange, fierce face, child.’
I went in as she had bidden and stood with my arms crossed behind my back.
‘What do you wish to be when you grow up, Ursula Flight?’ said she.
‘Why, a dashing adventurer, and if I cannot be that, a nun, and if I cannot be that, a mother to ten children, all of them twins and with bright golden hair.’
‘Is that so,’ said she, with a twisted sort of smile. And then she looked at me. ‘Tell me, child. What age do you think I am?’
‘Why, I do not—’ All grown-ups looked famous old to me.
‘I am three-and-twenty, but I am a fool,’ she said, going over to the window and looking out of it, running her white hands up and down on the window-sill all the while. ‘And that man you saw just now is not my husband,’ she said, watching my eyes. ‘Does that amaze you, Ursula Flight?’ She had a pink look about her cheeks, and a restlessness about her person.
‘A little,’ I said. ‘For the rector said so and that you were not kidnapped after all.’
‘Nay, I am not kidnapped,’ she said. ‘But I am not wed. I told that man a falsehood when he came, and do you know why, little maid – aside from the fact he is a great sticky beak and should not be poking it hither and thither?’
‘Nay,’ said I, being mightily confused by the conversation.
‘Because I am an actress ’pon the stage in London, and ’tis not respectable. At Court I am much admired by the King – and, ooh, well everyone admires me, in truth. I am a great beauty, you know. I have silks and jewels and a little servant boy called Peregrine and a green parakeet in a golden cage brought from foreign lands, and I dine with duchesses and make merry all my days.’
I shuffled in my place. I was growing troubled that my friends would by now have run away and Mother would surely be cross at my staying out past dinner-time.
‘Forgive me, mistress,’ I said. ‘But what is an actress?’
‘What is an actress!’ cried the lady. ‘Are we that far from Court? But I see we are,’ she said, looking at my face. ‘An actress is a lady actor, who goes ’pon the stage and acts in plays, taking the parts of ladies – or of gentlemen if it is required – and in truth my own performances in breeches get the most applause of all. But never mind about that.’
‘The rector said ’tis not godly,’ I said.
She laughed at this and twirled at a lock of her hair. ‘I can find nothing in the Bible against it,’ she said. ‘And I have read many books, for I greatly delight in the written word as much as I do the spoken. But there are those that cannot abide change, nor the freedom of women neither, and will do anything to keep us down, and the whole world caught in the Dark Ages besides. And it is for us as women to put th
em in their place, and do as we will, though many would prate at us for it.’
‘I see,’ I said, though I only half did.
‘Acting is a wondrous career for a woman, in faith,’ said she, a brightness coming into her eyes. ‘For it means applause, and wages, and fame and flirtation – and if you play the thing right, jewels and marriage, for there are always noblemen who will call ’pon the ’Tiring Room, and are spun about the head by a cream-skinned wench half out of her shift. Such as he…’ She tossed her head towards the doorway. I followed her gaze.
‘But I gave it all up to let myself be driven in a draughty, rattly coach to this ghastly backwater because I thought by the end of it I would be a Marquess. Now it has become apparent that I have not got him by the nose as I had thought.’ She began to walk up and down the room a little, with a dainty, light-footed tread. ‘Unless I can get him to the church I have wasted my time, and have lost my career and my place besides.’
There did not seem to be much to say, and I did not understand the half of it, but I knew enough to say: ‘I am sorry, mistress.’
‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Aye.’
We stood still like that, her eyes fastened on the window, mine on the floor, waiting on the moment when I might make my escape. I was growing evermore uncomfortable that the man who was not her husband might return at any time, and cuff me for my intrusion, or worse.
I coughed.
‘Go now then, child,’ she said, turning to face me again and waving her hand at me. ‘But remember this. Ware the man that says he loves you – for it means nothing without the marriage contract. Nothing but tears.’
I ran then, caring not who heard me, but that I got away from the sad, beautiful lady and dark inn. Nicholas was the only one still waiting on the wall and he let out a low whistle when I told him what had transpired and that I had met the lady and gone into her chamber, though I did not say she was not married after all. I ran home wishing with all my might I was an actress ’pon the stage in London with a shell-pink gown and a green parakeet. I scrunched up my eyes so many times in my imagining, I woke in the morning with the first head pain of my life, which Goodsoule dosed with a posset made of nutmeg, orange peel and the burnt foot of a rabbit.
The Illumination of Ursula Flight Page 2