The Illumination of Ursula Flight

by Anna-Marie Crowhurst

  V

  LESSONS

  In which I begin my education

  I had got what I had prayed for on so many nights, on my knees, in my chamber. I had promised the Lord our God in heaven to do many things in the getting of it too: I would not chatter at dinner, I would put away my toys (the peg dolls would get out and roam about the house), I would practise my scales at the spinet and I would be obedient for my mother.

  How fervently I had murmured with my eyes fast shut, my hands clasped together over my head: O Christo Jesu in caelo, da mihi sor rem. I had a brother already – Reginald had come along when I was two – but I knew I needed a sister too: I wanted someone to play with, and to tell my secrets to, and she would look well in the pudding cap I myself had worn which had been sewed by my mother in her confinement and was trimmed with gay yellow ribbons.

  My sibling-lack was not for the want of my mother’s trying. She oft grew stout and round about the middle, and went about in a loose-laced gown, groaning when she got off the couch, and grumbling at my father about the pains in her back – but she could not get a babe to live. Every twelvemonth or so there would come a time when I was hushed in the parlour or bade to play in the nursery, from where, roused by the strange sounds that echoed in the house, I would slip out to see a white-shrouded little bundle laid out on the table by the servants, which would then be taken off and put into the ground with the others while my mother wept and my father prayed to God in heaven, send me another son, O Lord, amen.

  By the time I got my sister, Reginald was a burly little boy of six; a whiny child who could never lose a game and was only sunny when being praised. I had given up trying to play with him, for he would not charade at prince and princess, or cruel king and pretty maid, or any of the other entertainments I devised for us with costumes. Neither did he like to stay out of doors and roam about Bear Wood, as I did. I cut us both branchlets for swords and tried to make him have a duel (he was supposed to be the Dutch, and me the King’s man waiting to run him through at Lowestoft), but he went off and cried to Mother that I beat him, so I gave the whole thing up for lost, leaving him to lurk about the stables with the queer gleam in his eye that usually meant he was about to do a mischief to the cats.

  My sister finally came, at the end of a mighty storm that tore the roof tiles off the stable and uprooted three saplings in the orchard. What I first took for the moaning of the wind around the gables was in truth my mother’s wailing, a strange unearthly noise that lasted all the morning and frightened Muff, so that she leapt about the house, knocking over with a clatter the silver candelabra that my parents had got as a wedding present. I crept about the corridor, listening for the usual sound of women’s tears and the appearance of the midwife with yet another tiny bundle – but the weeping did not come, and the midwife neither.

  I tip-toed up to the door of my mother’s chamber and pressed my ear to it. Through the thickness of the oak I could dimly perceive the tap and creak of several pairs of feet moving rapidly across the floor, and the rise and fall of voices, the cries of my mother, and then – oh wonder! – there started up a set of lusty infant yells which seemed to shake the very door and made me step quickly away from it. My father must have heard the crying too, for he came bounding up the stairs two at a time on his long legs, and crashed open the door.

  An exclamation. The sound of voices. More footsteps.

  My father came out again, ruffling my hair as he went. I knocked and was admitted by Mistress Knagg the midwife, a stout lady with burly forearms beneath her rolled-up sleeves and a kindly looking face. My mother’s complexion was wan and her hair stuck fast to her cheeks with sweat, but she whispered that God be praised I had a sister, and showed me the babby, who was dark haired and fiery red all over, with a slimy, scrunched up face that could not be called beautiful and looked somewhat like my father, with the same bulbous nose and cupid’s bow lips that he had, in miniature. She slept soundly while I kissed her hot little head and whispered in her ear that though she was ugly, it did not signify, for I was her big sister and would love her all my days.

  Catherine was still a babe in arms, and become quite bonny, when I was told I should begin my education at last. We were playing cribbage after supper and my father handed me a hornbook on a thin leather strap. It was a thing of great significance, for he had decided – here he looked up at my mother, but she was chucking the babby’s face, fussing and scarlet-cheeked in her swaddling – that at eight years of age I was old enough to begin my schooling. Today would be our very first lesson.

  How I clapped at this! I had often wandered into my father’s study and run my fingers along the leather-bound volumes on his shelf, before leafing through their pages and wondering at the meaning of the black letter-shapes, which I knew would be greatly interesting, if only I could make them out. My father was a very learned man who had taken a degree at Cambridge before marrying my mother, and it pleased me to be following in the family tradition. I had also been musing on my duties as an elder sister and it seemed fitting that I would be educated and could teach Catherine in turn.

  Father’s quill was too long for me; I could not get hold of it and flicked ink in a great arc that landed as a long dark spray across his face, his shirt, and the table. He said an oath, and the next lesson he had cut me my own quill. I liked the dipping of it into the ink pot and the clicking, liquid sound as the nib hit the pot.

  The first task my father set me about was to write my name and the name of our family, so that I would always be able to sign documents and contracts, such as the one pertaining to my marriage portion, when I was a grown-up lady. He drew my name out for me in a fine hand, with a flourish on the end, and set me about copying it, which I did painstakingly, but making many mistakes, and sighing over them, my lower lip caught between my teeth all the while. My childish blunders were many: I pressed the nib too firmly into the paper, and tore it, my hands grew clammy at the effort and I dropped the quill, and the shapes I made looked crude and ill-formed against my father’s, but by Ascension Day I had mastered the thing at last.

  I discovered, too, that there was nothing I liked more than to see my own name drawn out by my own hand, and so I wrote it everywhere I could, including places I knew were forbidden:

  on the end papers of my prayer book, the inside of my left arm (it lasted for six days), and behind the door on the wall of my chamber (where perhaps it may be still, for I do not believe the current owner would distemper it).

  ‘Mary cannot spell out her name as I can,’ I said to my father at the end of a lesson – we had started on the counties of England, and the dukedoms and the Kings and Queens of England too; these I was to chant and scratch them over and over in my hornbook, to better commit them to memory. It gave me great pride to do what I knew none of the village children could and the tools of my trade were precious to me: I sewed my own quill-case and, after carefully wiping the nib, stowed it there safely after every lesson.

  It was coming on for summer; the windows were pushed wide open, and the scent of the lavender bush floated in. There was a bee buzzing near the top of the plant; he went from flower to flower, clinging onto each one and humming there for a while.

  ‘Is he making honey?’ I asked.

  ‘He is,’ said my father. ‘And next week we shall drink it in our honey wine.’ He moved around the things on his desk – sticks of sealing wax and the stamp with our family crest, a silver candle-snuffer, and books and scrolls, held open with weights. I liked to watch his hands, with their moon-shaped nails bitten down to the quick. I had started nibbling at my own nails, but Mother slapped my hand away and threatened a whipping. Hands were important to a lady – not so much to a man.

  ‘Mary could have lessons with her father,’ I said, returning to my original topic. ‘And then she might write her name out too. And we could write other things and send each other secret messages in invisible ink, such as ladies and gentlemen do in an intrigue!’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said
my father, moving his books about.

  ‘But is it not a good idea, Father? I think it is. I shall run and tell her now and she can ask Mr Goodsoule to begin. He is not often at home as he works in the fields, but she will have to ask him nicely.’

  I got down from my stool and began to wipe my inky hands. I was always being scolded for it.

  ‘I do not think Mary’s father will be able to give the lessons, as I do. He is in the fields all day, for his duty is with the cows.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘But p’raps it would do no harm to ask him. He might spare an hour, after supper, as we do when we swap verses. Even Mother likes that game.’

  ‘But I do not think Mr Goodsoule can make the letters himself, child. So he cannot teach it.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, digesting this. ‘Well, then Mary must join in our lessons. Could she not do that?’

  ‘She might.’ He had moved over to the window and was watching the bee as it zig-zagged over the lavender. ‘But I do not think she would want to. Book-learning is not the thing of servants, for they do not need it. You will comprehend it better when you are older, child.’ He came back to me and put his hands on my shoulders. ‘Next lesson we will learn the habits of the honey-bee and his ways of making honey for our puddings.’

  ‘Aye, Father,’ I said.

  IN THE NAME OF GODDE,

  HERE ARE THE RULES

  of

  OUR CLUB

  (If you are Reggie GO AWAY)

  Written down by URSULA FLIGHT

  &

  helped by MARY GOODSOULE to do it

  On the 15th day of JULY, in the year 1673 A.D.

  Rule the 1st: Do not tell about the S E C R E T S, on pain of a grisly, lingering death at Tyburn!

  Rule the 2nd: Practise the dance steps and song every morning, even if your mother scolds you for it.

  Rule the 3rd: Reginald and Johnny are the enemy!!! They smell of dung!

  Rule the 4th: Our motto is Singulare Aude.

  Rule the 5th: Our pass-word is ‘Blue Boy’. (For he is our favourite horse!)

  Rule the 6th: Our uniform is bonnet straps undone and the nut-shell necklaces (to be kept in the secret box – shhh).

  Rule the 7th: On washing day we meet in Bear Wood by the great twisted root and speak the solemn vow and wear the vizards and when we do this we bring great luck upon us and we will be happy all our days and be rich and marry well and live next door to each other for ever when we are grown.

  Rule the 8th: We are best friends and Grisella cannot speak to us.

  Rule the 9th: Huzzah for Muff!

  Rule the 10th: Huzzah for the King and Queen of England!

  I soon began to take such pleasure in my expanding knowledge that I grew to anticipate my lessons as I once had my mealtimes. I remember now too well the feeling that my young mind was opening up and enlarging with each new subject we began. I developed a craving – to read more, to absorb more facts, to memorize more verses, and to understand mathematics, which we had started with an abacus, and which was a great puzzle to me, though I slaved at its understanding and spent nights after bedtime wondering aloud over complicated subtractions and the great eternal mystery that was algebra.

  My father had started me on the Classics as soon as I had got my reading and writing to a standard that he was pleased with, and this I greatly enjoyed. The Greek myths were my greatest discovery – I begged my father to read them to me aloud, for listening to his low, measured voice was another pleasure of my lessons: he was a great story-teller, and could speak well, and so had the knack of making things seem diverting. During the telling of these tales I liked to creep up to him and lean my head on his arm, enjoying the vibrations of his voice and the comforting heat of his nearness while he told of the cyclopes and the Titans and the Argonauts. I shivered to hear of the horrible minotaur burrowed deep in his underground lair, and Medusa with her undulating snakes’-pit hair that was cut off by Perseus. I liked to draw as he told me these stories, filling my hornbook with strange gods, coiled serpents, and armoured warriors in golden winged sandals. We moved from myths to the languages of the ancients, reading Homer and Ovid and Virgil together, my father patiently correcting me as I traced my finger over the unfamiliar characters and recited my verbs aloud: amo, amas, amat, amanus, amatis, amant. We began to use Latin as a private language between us, to my mother’s irritation, for she had never learnt it beyond her prayer book, and though my father offered to teach her, she did not have the patience to try.

  ‘Salve pater. Quid agis?’

  ‘Bene. Esurio.’

  ‘Mihi placet lingua latina!’

  At my father’s encouragement I spent much of my time roaming about his library finding books to devour – even when he was away, I had his permission to take what I would, though my mother was always calling me to come to her to do some task I thought very dull – for in comparison to reading, there was no joy in mending my stockings or practising my music.

  It was with great joy one rainy morning that I came upon a high-up shelf near the window which was stacked with volumes of plays bound in calfskin and, opening their pages, found tales of other worlds, of pretty maids and fearsome kings; of enchanted islands and avenging wizards – I took them one by one and read them at a fevered pace. It was my habit to creep off into corners of the house where I could not be disturbed: on my chamber window-seat, half-hidden by the curtain; under the vegetable store in the scullery; in the low crooked branch of the apple tree. It was here I had Shakespeare, and Fletcher and Jonson and Marlowe and, when no one was watching, Dryden. I copied out great speeches and committed them to memory, reciting them for the assembled company after supper, with my hands clasped behind my back and my voice rattling a little in my throat, for I was nervous at first, before I grew used to the thing and became bolder. All the while the actress at the inn floated into my mind, and as I declaimed and struck poses or when I took my curtseys in the parlour, I did it all as I imagined she would do it, with pearl drops in my ears, a toss of my head and a bright, pleasant voice that floated on the air.

  As I grew in confidence at these charades, it seemed natural to include Mary in my games, for as my ever-constant companion, she was the loyal audience to all my recitations, and, I soon realized, could play the parts I could not. There was the difficulty that she could not read to contend with, but she was as good a mimic as any child and, after diligently learning her lines with me by rote, spoke her part as well as any I had heard.

  We had the orchard as an outdoor stage when it was fine, and when it rained we had the parlour, if we pushed back the side tables and set the vases on the floor against destruction. On these occasions it was often the habit of my brother and sister to creep in and be our audience, and for their sake we began to costume ourselves.

  We gave performances of Tamburlaine in which I strode about in Father’s cloak making extravagant heroic gestures which seemed to increase twofold at each playing – for I well enjoyed my part as the Scythian shepherd who seemed to me a bold and dashing fellow. We acted The Alchemist and The Maid’s Tragedy and Cymbeline and Macbeth, though we had to get Muff to stand in as Third Witch, and she would not keep still, and barked. When we had run through all we had and the children clamoured for something new, I began to devise us our own little scenes, which I scribbled down in my hornbook. To encourage Mary’s involvement – for at first she was wont to say that my mother would not like the playing – I let her be the princess or the queen or the chaste and pretty maid, while I took the roles of nursemaid, tavern keeper, rake and hobbling serf. I discovered in these roles that I had a flair for comedy, and the thrill that came from making people laugh; there was no greater reward for my scribblings than my sister Catherine’s shrill little peals when I crept out in disguise as a washerwoman, and even Reginald’s scornful yelling at the sight of me in breeches and a turban was a paean to my endeavours.

  VI

  STARS

  In which I watch the sky at night


  ‘Pssss. Ursula. Wake, child!’

  I flicked my eyes open and felt my dream, of riding Blue Boy backwards in a thunderstorm while trying to eat a great sugar-pudding, float away. My chamber was still in darkness, save the fuzzed triangle of light which came from between the curtains. They had been hastily drawn together at bedtime by Joan, who had been in one of her tempers, because her sweetheart had grown disdainful and was not like to ask for her hand.

  ‘Ursula!’

  My father was pushing at my shoulder. I sniffed his leathery father-smell. Blinking, I felt for his arm; touched the sleeve of his nightshirt.

  ‘Wha’?’ I said thickly.

  ‘’Tis time,’ he said, patting my arm. His voice was merry-sounding.

  ‘Father?’ I was still groggy with sleep. I flung out my arm. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Past the witching hour, so you are quite safe from ghouls and goblins. Mother slumbers and will not disturb us. Get up now, child. We are to have our lesson. In astronomy.’

  ‘Now?’ I cried, sitting up. ‘In the middle of the night?’

  ‘But of course, child – ’tis the middle of the day for the stars, and we shall catch them at their business. I will go before you now and find a suitable spot for our observations.’

  He crept away and was disappeared into the darkness of the house.

  I pushed the sheets back then and got up and clad myself in what I could get on quickly – woollen hose under my nightgown, and my cloak over the whole – and stepped quickly down the stairs, my shoes in hand, so as not to wake the whole house. I stole into the hallway and paused a while to get my bearings – in the thick dark of the house everything looked different, and I was afraid to fall. I felt for the bannister and then for the smooth wood of the panelled wall. The clicking sound of claws on wood and Muff was brushing against my hip, nosing my hand for treats, her breath wet-hot on my palms. I was glad to have her, for though I was too old to be much afraid of the dark, I did not like ghosts, and it was hard to make out what was in front of me, or behind me, or what lurked in the recesses of the hallway.