The Illumination of Ursula Flight

by Anna-Marie Crowhurst

  In honour of our guest, a great fire blazed in the hall, and soon Tyringham’s cheeks were as rosy as our own. He did not seem to favour the heat: as we sat at table, passing dishes and being served by Lisbet (who had washed her apron for the occasion and was much given to bobbing), Tyringham set about a great series of scratchings, at his periwig and his face, and twitching in his clothes, which I thought to be his finery, for they were different to what I had seen him in before.

  He had wide petticoat breeches and a long waistcoat, but it was plain dark cloth, and without gilt threading, I thought it very drab, and his boots had great buckles, though they were not jewelled, but of a fine wrought silver. Father, confessing that being above five-and-thirty he did not follow modes in the slightest, said he looked very well today, and asked after his tailor. I think Tyringham saw me smiling into my sleeve then, so I coughed to cover it and sipped at my cup of mum, which I had in place of wine, for I had discovered it from Grisella’s brother, who drank it at home like it was ale.

  Our meal seemed to go on for many hours, for Eliza had been up all night cooking every dish she had a recipe for and had filled the larder with sugared concoctions and hot spiced pies. We had fried oysters, boiled carp, chine of veal and buttered apple tart, but Eliza mistrusted French cooking, and so there was not a kickshaw or fricassee to be seen. I thought all of it very bland and some of it cold, and I blushed to taste it all, for what Lord Tyringham might think of us. I exchanged glances with Mother, who whispered for Lisbet, and she hurried out of the room with a red face, and everything else came up hot.

  As Mother had instructed me, I sat at table very meekly, speaking only when I was spoken to, for Father and Tyringham’s conversation was mostly very dull and of war and of the King and of men that I did not know. I stole glances at Tyringham as he spoke and saw that he often had a frown creased across his forehead, and that he shook his cuffs out before cutting into the mutton, ate with his mouth open on one side, and made a liquid noise as he chewed. My betrothed, too, had a habit of wiping his moustaches between courses and I saw that his chin quickly became shiny with gravy. When the calf ’s-head pie came out, my Lord looked at it disdainfully and scattered anchovies all over his cheese curd-cake.

  I was spooning potatoes into my mouth in a scornful way when I felt Tyringham’s eyes upon me. Pale and toadish they were, swivelling about from me to my parents’ chatter, and I thought them very bulbous and yellow-looking in the candlelight. He had hair creeping out of his collar and up his thin white neck and there were little pearls of sweat clustered at his temples. His periwig was coming uncurled. I looked at my plate.

  Midway through the feast, Father excused himself from the table. I thought he had gone to piss in his pot, but he came back with a little bow and a proud look upon his face, bearing a jug of tea, a dish of which was served to Tyringham with a flourish, while Father told his favourite tale of how he got it and how much it cost.

  ‘You will like this, Ursula, for I have heard it at Court,’ Tyringham said, making a small bow at me over his cup. ‘Queen Catherine takes her tea with cream and sugar lumps as sure remedy against the sweating sickness.’

  This set Mother’s jaw hanging open and her ringing all the bells on the table to get some cream brought up from the kitchen, but there was only milk.

  Tyringham set about asking me many polite questions, in his rumbling voice, about who were my friends and what I did, my mother prompting me with sharp little pinches to talk of my embroidery and my singing, as we had practised. I said I liked to read and to write, and my mother frowned at this, saying:

  ‘Ursula reads the Bible and Foxe’s Martyrs very well.’

  ‘And my almanac, every day – and I have been reading plays – and writing them too,’ I added.

  Mother’s face twitched.

  ‘Do you watch the stars, Tyringham?’ said my father, sloshing hock into his glass. He was becoming merry, as he only did with guests, for he didn’t usually take much wine, believing it bad for the constitution.

  ‘Ursula was born at the time of the great comet. But happily, she has turned out quite auspicious and is a very good girl indeed.’ He chuckled at this, raising his glass to me.

  ‘The comet brought the plague – and the fire, ’tis well known,’ said my mother. And then seeing my father’s face, she added: ‘But we were blessed that our eldest girl came to us with it besides.’

  I felt Lord Tyringham’s eyes upon me for a moment, then he laid his spoon down and said: ‘It is my belief we would all do well to better heed the teachings of the bishops over the astrologers and apothecaries who make much mischief with their charms and chantings.’

  ‘Aye,’ said my father evenly. ‘Aye.’

  The quaking pudding was brought in at last (it was runny and had not enough rosewater) and I felt him watching me again as I dipped into it with my sugar-biscuit. I lowered my lashes and shifted in my seat.

  ‘Do you like pudding, sir?’ I tried, in a jovial tone.

  ‘As well as I might,’ he said, flicking his eyes away.

  As we all made to leave the room, Tyringham came close to me and, giving his thanks for my company, touched my hand. Then, with both Mother and Father’s backs turned to the doorway, he slipped his fingers up my arm, and, so gently it made me shiver, tickled at my wrist, and then my forearm, and caressed me all the way to my elbow, where he found my sleeve, and tried to force himself into it, but he found he could go no further, and let me go.

  I, who had been frozen to the floor, stared at him with a thudding heart and shook my arm away but he only chuckled and made some riposte to Father, and went with him to the library, for they had been talking of the New World, and needed the atlas.

  I said to Mother: ‘Did you see him touch my arm? He stroked it most strangely and tugged at my dress.’

  Mother raised her eyebrows. She looked at the ground. She coughed. Then she said:

  ‘There is not time for acting the dolt, Ursula. Go into the parlour now, we will have some music.’

  ‘I don’t feel like singing,’ I said.

  She pushed me out of the room, but she did it very gently.

  XIX

  DIFFICULTIES

  In which I am faced with many troubles

  HERE BE THE

  MOSTE SECRETE

  DIARY

  OF

  U. FLIGHT

  1680 A.D.

  MAY

  10th

  ’Tis now but three MONTHS – there I have written it down – ’til I am wed. Some days my fingers quake to think of it, others I feel a wriggling in my body. Grisella says it is heart fluttering and a lover’s complaint, but it is not a feathered, bird-like thing, but a squirming sensation, more like a fish; like my innards have been twisted about.

  13th

  HE came to call again today and we walked out of doors although it looked like rain. Mother did not send Mary to follow me this time and he gave me a posy he had bound up from his garden and said he could not wait for me to walk in it and pick the blooms with my fair fingers! He took my hand in his, and called me sweetheart, and told me, with a few little coughs, that he thought me very pretty and he was impatient to be husband and wife together. I was nervous at this, but he did not notice and told me about his mother who wants so very much to meet me, and his sister, Sibeliah, who says we will be bosom chums!

  15th

  I am having a daily posset of valerian and geranium and other pungent things from Goodsoule that I know not what they are, but it is for my nerves. Today Mary came in and told me not to get up for it was an inauspicious day and no good would come of anything and so we lay together talking of my wedding gown. Father has taken the ague and goes about coughing into his kerchief.

  20th

  Mother says I must put my almanac down and nothing will come of poring over it. I have been trying to ascertain what might happen in my first few weeks of marriage. The weather will be stormy, then fair, then wet. September is certain to be fine, an
d there are many godly days for romance then. We might walk about the grounds of the Hall, with his hand about my waist, as I have seen lovers do.

  24th

  Grisella and I have been talking of the marriage bed and how I may bear it. I do not want to be hurt, but Grisella says that is the point. She watches the animals on the farm and says none of them seem to mind it much. She says the male gets away as soon as possible after the act. I think I would like it if Tyringham went away – the idea of sleeping in a bed with him is too horrible. Father looking very ill at dinner and took little food: the ague will not leave him, though he has slept every night with the window shut fast. Goodsoule says it is the worst time of year for miasmas, which will come down the chimney if they cannot come in at the door. I hope I shall not catch it; for I do not like to be unwell.

  30th

  I told Goodsoule about the worsening of Father’s cough and she has made him a remedy that will surely cure him. It has liquorice and willow bark and fennel, which, all things combined together, is a sure remedy for afflictions of the lungs. I went to his chamber (he has now taken to his bed) and showed him what I had brought – I had a little pot covered with a cloth. ‘Oh my Ursula,’ he said, reaching to stroke my head, and his hand felt hot and clammy as he did it. ‘My nurse has come to cure me and I suppose I must do as she says.’ He took the cup from me and threw it back with a brave sort of look, complaining after that it was most bitter (I did not tell him about the catgut or the weasel tongue, for I thought he would not have it if he knew). After, I began to read to him a little from The Mistaken Husband, doing all the parts, but he said his head was aching and he would sleep and so I went away.

  JUNE

  5th

  A dull day. Went out walking with Muff dancing at my skirts, but she would bark so, and so I sent her home again.

  7th

  Since Father took ill, Reginald has become very naughty; he has been shouting about the house, when Mother has asked us to be quiet for Father’s sake; he will not stop teasing Percival and he was caught by Mary pulling at the stable cat’s tail and he got a scratch for his efforts which serves him right. I took him by the hand and tried to scold him, but he twisted it away from mine and went off singing a rude ditty about doing a po’ in the pot.

  12th

  Found Mother crying by the backstairs. She pressed me to her. ‘My daughter,’ was all she said. I find myself most given to weeping.

  15th

  I have a strange feeling that will not leave me – as if something heavy is pressing on my back. It is hard to breathe deeply, and instead of dozing until the sun is up, I wake before the dawn most mornings, straining my ears for Father’s wheezing.

  19th

  Father is took much worse and is feverish and so Mother sent for Mr Meek, who has the apothecary shop at Oakingham. He trotted in, a stout fellow in a tricorn hat, and set about emptying a great case of vials and philtres. After feeling my father’s feet and looking at his ears, he declared him bound up with choler and, the moon being safely in Pisces, an advantageous phase for the letting of blood, purged him a little, for it seems he is hot with humours and that is the only remedy. My father’s skin was deathly pale as the instrument was inserted into the soft flesh of his inside-arm, and he grunted a little as the blood began to flow and pour into the flagon Mr Meek had brought for the purpose. Mother had to look out of the window and was breathing very heavy, but I was curious to see the insides of my father, which were red and sharp-smelling, though I was sorry that it pained him. Afterwards, Mr Meek said Father had bled very well and would be cured within the week, but though he smiled at me weakly and said he felt brighter, he looked to me very much worse, and he has been drowsing ever since, while Mother paces about the hall, wondering aloud if the man was not a quack.

  21st

  With my father in his bed there is a void in the house. I cannot run to him with my questions: why does Muffy turn before she sits? What should I read next? What bird is that? – as once I did. I go often to the Goodsoules’, for it comforts me, and they do not mind my sulks.

  24th

  A message from Tyringham, who has heard of Father’s sickness, and an offer to send his own physician, who cured his mother of the small-pox. Mother said he might as well come. I sent back to Tyringham and went in to tell Father of the doctor’s coming, and held his hand, but it was burning hot, and he seemed not to know me, his breathing very laboured, with a sort of whistle that I did not like. A strange tangy smell hung in the air, and so I sprinkled some lavender water on the bedsheets, but he did not rouse. I write this with my candle burning as I cannot sleep and lie awake praying to God in heaven that my father get better soon.

  29th

  It took four days for the doctor to come, by which time Father was very yellowish-looking and with flickering eyelids, and much quieter than before. Mother and Joan and I take turns to mop his brow, as he is very hot, and the scars of his blood-letting bright and burning to the touch, the bad odour much stronger and sharper now. Doctor Pink naye is a grave sort of man with a long white beard and an eyeglass. He sent all of us away while he examined my father and then called for Mother who went in and closed the door. The little ones and I waited outside, Percival clamouring to go in and give Papa a kiss, Catherine very quiet. After a little while I heard Mother give a great cry, and I took them away to the nursery, despite Reginald kicking at my shins and screaming that he would not, all the while feeling sick and shaky in the limbs myself, for I knew in my heart that the news was not good and afraid to hear it from my mother.

  30th

  I find that I fall to weeping at the slightest provocation. This I do in secret so that Mother will not hear and be more distressed, for her eyes are always red, and the hollows beneath them so deep and grey that I am greatly afeard she will take ill herself.

  JULY

  2nd

  My father will not live. The doctor says he is too weak, and has something on his lungs. His poor lungs, which whistle so. They are infected with bile. I do not want him to die. I do not want him to die. Oh God in heaven, save my blessed father. Oh Jesu, I will do anything. I will be good all my days and say my prayers every night if he live. I will be a wholly obedient wife to Tyringham and agree with his prating and simper and curtsey and let him touch my arm. Oh please God. Oh please God.

  3rd

  My mother told me yesterday the doctor said had we got him sooner he might have effected a cure. I could have wrung his fat neck with my hands, but he had already gone off on horseback, fortified by our bread and ale, so I made do with pounding my pillows and screaming into them so that no one might hear me.

  5th

  My father labours. Mother is took to her bed, she has sat up with him all the night long, and only went away when Joan came in at cock-crow. I sat by his bed watching his chest rise and fall and took his hand and petted it, and told him of the goings on of the house and how we all wished him well and he had the prayers of the Blacklocks and the Shadforths and Rector Thistlethwaite besides, who has written to the Bishop to get the monks at the case. I asked him to get up soon so we could finish my lesson on Pythagoras, for I was getting on very ill without his instruction. Catherine came in then and we sang him a lullaby, but though his eyelids flickered, he did not open them. It is very hot today: there were bright little blue-tits on the branches of the sycamore tree outside his chamber window, twittering a gay sort of song, as if all were well and good in the world, but it is not.

  7th

  This is what it is to have a heavy heart. I feel that I cannot bear the pain of what must come, and pray every night to Jesu that he will take my cup of suffering away from me and bring about a miracle. I shall pray every hour on the hour, for it cannot do harm, and there is nothing I would not do, if it would bring my father back to health.

  9th

  The Reverend Whale came and gave my father the last rites, we children all on our knees at his side and Joan and Goodsoule and Mary too. The good pries
t says we must sing him on his blessed journey but I cannot give him up to God. O my poor father!

  13th

  I do not want my father to go, but I do not want him to suffer, as I know he does. Last night I crept into his chamber to sit with him – Mother drowsing in the chair, and I held his hand, so thin and cool it is now, the veins purple-blue. It is like the hand of a much older man. ‘You must not stay for us, Father,’ I whispered in his ear. ‘You must go to God now for he calls you back to Him.’ My voice broke with the effort of this; the tears rolled down my face. But he did not stir, and Goodsoule came in, and sent me to my bed.

  14th

  My fa -

  He has

  My father has gone to God. My mother was with him and he did not rouse, but went away to Glory before the sun came up. I woke up to a great wailing, and found his chamber door flung open, and all the servants in the hall, and he lying quite still, the little dancing dapples of sunlight on his hand and pillow being strange with the set of his face; the sombre feeling in the room, as if the very air was heavy. He did not look much like my father any more – I think his soul had taken flight and gone to heaven, to live with the angels. I crushed his hand to my heart and bent over him and put my arm around his body and wept my heart out on his still and silent chest.

  XX

  MARRIAGE

  In which I go to church

  The morning of my wedding dawned chill and bright and the sun made rippled diamond shapes on the floor. Tonight I would be in Tyringham’s house, in his chamber and he my master in all things, for all my days hence... I lay abed, shivering beneath the coverlet. I would not get up; not yet. I often liked to stay in bed these days, for now Father had gone from us, the feeling in our household had changed – and there was little to get up for without my lessons. Mother had receded into herself and become even quieter than she was before, and even the children, it seemed, played less rambunctiously than they had done, and the house felt sombre and strange for it.