The Illumination of Ursula Flight

by Anna-Marie Crowhurst

  To stand in such a field three months after my wedding day was to be in need of a tricorn and cloak, or get drenched to the skin, for a great storm had lashed the countryside, and though it was no longer thunderous, a deluge of rain carried about on the current had filled every furrow with murky water. Mist rose up from the dark slickened grass and through the haze the field-mud looked black. The hedgerows trembled and rippled in the wind, their leaves turned inside out. Some were torn off and floated, across the hills and far away, to freedom.

  From the vantage point of the field, it was possible to perceive a large hole in the hedgerow, flanked by mud-patched grass. To clamber through this hole was to find oneself ankle-deep in the soft earth of a flowerbed, on the far side of which was the edge of a winding gravel path. This path, when followed eastwards, wound through a little copse of trees and past an ornamental fountain, before skirting the side of a great maze with vast, brick-like bushes. To hurry through the green tunnel of a bowered walkway, then, was to emerge breathless, wet, mud-flecked, at the back of a grand brick house, three storeys high, its parapets flanked by proud stone bustards perched on chequered shields: this was the seat of three Tyringham generations. This was Turvey Hall.

  Gazing up at this noble edifice one might observe then – through rain-blurred vision – rows of windows with rippled, lead-crossed glass, one lighted amongst them with a figure seated at it, a green and gold smudge. Coming closer to the window would let you see what I see now: a pretty girl in a green gown, her light hair pinned up on both sides, a row of kiss curls on her furrowed forehead. She has a book in her hand. Her skin is pale. Every now and then as she turns the pages, she sighs. There is a downturned look about her little face, despite her gay clothes, and the lushness of the window drapes, and the bright flickering of the light behind her, which can only be the product of dozens of candles, in chandeliers, sconces, candelabras... the whole room is awash with light. She looks up from the book and stares out into the darkness. She frowns. Behind her someone is approaching. A man’s voice, deep and low:

  ‘Ursula! I said to myself you were like to be reading again – and here you are.’

  My husband came over to me, and looked pointedly at my little book, which was bound in pigskin, and ugly-looking. I shut it with a clap, and gazed up at him. He petted my head and pulled at my curls. I found myself shy of his nearness, and the smell of him – the nutmeg of his wig powder and the leather of his boots. We had lain together last night and he had pressed his hot skin on mine and called me sweetheart, but now, here in the daylight, it seemed we were different people, and I could hardly look on his face. I felt myself blushing red at the thought of what we had done.

  ‘How sweet you look here in the window, wife.’

  I put the book down.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  I had not got used to his compliments and still did not know how to make my reply. I had discovered, too, that they often seemed to rouse his passions, and found the less I said in response, the less likely it was that the conversation would lead to lovemaking. I shifted in my seat.

  ‘Will we converse a little, wife? Or shall you play at the harpsichord to amuse me?’ he said. ‘Mama writes from my brother’s house that it will do you good to keep at your music practice and I concur, for the playing of melodies is improving for the female mind.’

  ‘I could read aloud to you a little, husband, if it will please you?’ I said, picking up the book. ‘This was a wedding gift from my Aunt Phyllis, and very pretty verses they are too. Shall I speak one?’

  He grunted at this, and went and sat himself in his favourite chair, a lumpen brocade thing that was ragged and patchy with moth. I shrank from it myself, for it had been his father’s, who had died in agonies of the plague.

  I smiled at my husband and began:

  A lonely maid sat on a hill

  And crowned herself with flowers.

  She waited for her lover there,

  And sang to pass the hours.

  The sky grew dark, the rain came down

  And still he came not to her.

  She tossed aside her sodden crown,

  And sheltered in the bower.

  She waited on, she called his name,

  She shivered and she moaned,

  At dusk she saw he would not come,

  And took herself off home.

  She woke at dawn with burning skin,

  At noon they started praying,

  She died alone as the sun went in,

  Still murmuring his name.

  She’s buried in the churchyard now,

  Her grave grows thick with roses,

  And hopeful maids with lovelorn eyes

  Anoint it with their posies.

  ‘What think you?’ I said, closing the book quickly so he would not see my handwriting.

  He scratched at one of his ears. ‘Yes, yes... Tolerable stuff, I suppose. Though having no taste for poetry, I cannot rightly say.’

  ‘Is it not pretty – and sad?’ I pressed.

  ‘Why yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘A love of verses is a thing that can be nurtured, as my father often said, when he taught me literature,’ I said brightly. ‘We shall read together and make a poet of you yet! You have a volume of Dryden in the library – I spied it hidden away on the highest shelf.’

  ‘I do not much wish to study poetry,’ said my husband, a little stiffly. ‘Nor recite Greek verbs or Latin conjugations, nor watch the skies at night when everyone should be in their beds.’

  He looked past me towards the window, and I saw his jaw was working a little.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Well, I am sorry. But perhaps you might teach me of all the things you know. I should very much like to learn about the Court, and the King’s ships, and more mathematics – my trigonometry is quite pitiful – for Father had not got onto that yet when he died.’ I swallowed the great lump that had grown in my throat. I knew already that a woman weeping irked my husband like no other thing. I had found that out at our wedding.

  ‘I know too,’ I added, ‘that counting is a most essential part of keeping the affairs of the house in order, and balancing the books and seeing that we have money to feed and clothe us.’

  ‘In Jesu’s name, will you not speak of money!’ he cried, in a loud voice, which startled me, and I jumped a little in my seat. ‘Or mathematics or ships! None of which are your concern.’ He seemed to get control of himself then, and his voice was quiet and steady as he said: ‘I should like to hear music, Ursula – if you will condescend to entertain me.’

  ‘I would not anger you, husband,’ I said, for I hated to quarrel, and was learning ways to pacify him. ‘I will play for you, verily.’ I got up and rustled over to the harpsichord, seating myself at the stool which had been re-upholstered just for me, in damson-coloured damask, and trimmed with tassels all around. I spread my skirts out.

  MY

  HIDING

  PLACES

  OR

  Where I stow my writing book since my husband began a-locking the library last week so that it is safe from the eyes of the servants and my husband & all who would think to stop me!

  1. Betwixt the mattresses on my side of the bed, under my back, near the middle. ’Tis a comfort to feel it pressing into me, at night, like a friend. Oh, sweet book of mine, thou art my only friend here!

  2. On the top of my cupboard, at the back, where no one can reach, even me, save when I stand on a stool. I must pick the stool up quietly, & not drag it, else the servants will appear & ask why I’m moving the furniture, for Gad, they are nosy creatures & watch me wherever I go.

  3. At the back of the parlour under the cushion at the bottom of the chaise which no one sits upon for ’tis uncomfortable and rickety – like every stick of furniture in this gloomy old house.

  4. In the under-stair cupboard, inside a sack. Fie!

  5. Inside the grandfather clock in the hall, which does not work, so never gets wound. Fie!


  6. At the bottom of the old linen press, underneath the bedsheets which are never got out, for they are full of holes and covered with yellow stains & smell of camphor. Pooh!

  7. Behind the curtain in the guest room that no one comes to, for no one is mad enough to come here. I wish they would.

  III

  SERVANTS

  In which I become accustomed to my new position

  I met the servants of the household the day I came to Turvey Hall, a new bride with a blue silk gown and a face that was given to blushing. I pulled at my earlobes, newly pierced and threaded through with pearl drops: they were sore and hot under my fingertips. It was a bright day in late August. My wedding band flashed yellow-gold in the low afternoon sunlight as I shielded my eyes to look into the blank faces of those who had lined up in rows either side of the driveway to greet the brand-new Lady Tyringham. That was me.

  The servants did not look much affected by my arrival; they were a sullen-seeming bunch, standing in the strange-shaped shadows of the house, which glowered over all who stood beside its bright brick walls. The maids whispered amongst themselves and I saw no kindness in the eyes of the cook or the kitchen wenches, who stood with grim faces and stained aprons. Tyringham took my arm in his, and spoke their names to me as we passed by them one by one, chanting the litany of Jack, Joseph, Sarah, Jane, Clara, Tizzy, Tom that I would come to know off by heart, as I did the books of the Bible, in order of rank, from my mother-in-law’s butler and my husband’s man right down to the boy who ran the errands. There were many more servants than we had at Bynfield, above twenty of them who toiled inside the house and many more out of it, and there was nowhere to escape from so many pairs of eyes. While we dined, they slouched against the panelled walls with downturned faces, awaiting the call for a dish of cream, a salver of buttered eggs, a fork. They were in every room of the house, it seemed, for I could not stir from my chamber without one creeping around the corner and asking me: ‘Help you, my Lady?’

  One of the chief sadnesses of my new married life was that I had not been permitted to bring Mary with me. In the weeks before our wedding I had asked Tyringham if she might come to live at Turvey, and be my lady there, but the answers that he gave were of the ‘we shall see’ variety, and my mother chided me for making demands, for fear that he would not have me after all. When I got to my new home, Tyringham told me – as we crossed over the threshold and into the darkness of the portico – that he had especially engaged me a woman, with help from his mother, who had a sharp eye for slovenliness and could spot a lazy servant from a good twenty paces. I did not know how the girl who was to be my companion could have been looked over with such an eye, for at nineteen years old, Beck was as slovenly a wench as I had ever seen, with a broad country accent, brown teeth and a strong odour of onions. She had stringy twig-coloured hair under her starched cap, and a high complexion, and knobbly hands with short stout fingers, which I saw were as rough and red as could be – they did not look like the hands of a lady’s maid.

  The first morning in my new home, Beck came to me, after my husband had gone off for his morning exercise, to help me with my toilet. Though I greeted her with a cheery, ‘Good morrow to ye,’ she only muttered ‘Mm,’ in return, and her curtsey was a dip so quick and shallow I barely caught it. Beck then made it plain that she had nothing but contempt for the process of my dressing, and me besides, for she hardly looked me in the face, and unlaced my frilled wrapper with a very rough tugging, holding out my skirts for me to step into with a sigh and a whistle of her teeth, which she kept up as she put on my sleeves and tightened my bodice. I sat at my dressing table and watched in the looking glass as she caught up my tortoiseshell comb and began dragging at my hair with all the grace and attention reserved for currying a mule.

  ‘How many hairstyles do ye know?’ I asked her, examining what she had done in the glass, which felt loose on my neck where it was pinned up at the back. I pushed at the curls on my forehead. ‘Ought we to set these with sugar-water, for they seem likely to drop?’

  She did not answer my questions, but gave a sort of shrug, and went to get the water, and took such a long time, that I had almost given her up. I was starting to feel cross by the time she came back, and took the bowl from her, and began to pat it onto my curls.

  ‘Cook says ye cannot be having the master’s sugar for your tresses,’ she said, with a gust of onion, ‘for he will not like it,’ and she pursed her lips in an insolent way.

  I was amazed at this, and said: ‘Why, it’s none of the cook’s business what I do with my hair,’ but she only shrugged again, and kicked at my chair leg with her foot.

  ‘Would you fetch my orange-flower water,’ I said, to cover my irritation, for no one had taken the trouble to unpack my trunk, and my things were still bound in their parcels. She grunted at this, and set about tearing at the bindings, and dropping things onto the floor, and I found that tears came very suddenly into my eyes, for Mary had packed for me, and lovingly bound each bundle with a ribbon, and a lavender sprig. Seizing the phial at last, Beck came over to me and banged it carelessly onto my dressing table. She stood there insolently, her mouth agape, a string of her greasy hair across her face, while I dabbed at my throat and wrists and bosom.

  ‘Unpack my things, now, Beck,’ I said, as boldly as I could, though my eyes were still brimming and my voice came out too high. She seemed to smirk to hear it, and did not make to move. I stared at her, and added: ‘My husband would have things tidy and so we must respect his wishes.’ This mention of her master seemed to stir her, for she began grabbing at the things in the trunk, and lifting them out, and laying them in the dresser, though she did it in a harum-scarum sort of way, and hummed a tuneless ditty all the while.

  I did not get my husband alone until the evening, when we had been put to bed and the servants gone away, and our prayers all done, and then I said to him as he was rolling back the feather quilt:

  ‘Husband, you said to come to you should there be anything I need... and there is, for I am not sure Beck will do.’

  ‘Why, what is wrong with the wench?’ he said, in the midst of pummelling the bolster. I had already observed he spent a good deal of time shifting about before laying himself down to sleep.

  ‘Well, she does not seem... willing,’ I said. ‘She is not neat in her habits. And she does not know any hairstyles.’ I looked to see how he was taking this, but he was still slapping at the pillow. ‘I do not think she has washed beyond her elbows for above a twelvemonth.’

  ‘Then you must point out her errors and chide her for them,’ said he, ‘for ’tis one of the duties of the mistress of any great house – servants must be taught to be good: they cannot know it on their own. Beck came to me with the promise of a good singing voice, and it was on that basis I engaged her, for I thought it would amuse you to hear her when the winter evenings draw in.’

  ‘Mary could sing too, and play the tabor,’ I said. ‘And she was always clean and tidy besides – and she was a faithful companion to me as well as an obedient servant.’

  ‘And?’ he said, and the tone of his voice had become hard.

  ‘Well, sir, I – I would not be lonely.’

  ‘You shall not be,’ he said, laying his head down, and pulling up the covers. ‘For Mama and my sister will soon be here. And ’tis well you learn now the difference between a lady and her servants. I did not like to chastise you for it in your father’s house, but now you are here ’tis best you learn. Your kind and Mary’s are not meant to fraternise together, for no good can come of it. She will pull you down, or you will pull her up, and neither is right, for every creature in this world must know their place before the King – and God.’

  I said nothing, though I longed to stick out my tongue at him.

  ‘Beck has come to us with the assurance that she is a godly girl, and you must take the trouble to show her how things should be done. I am sure, with your instruction, she can learn to be just as good a lady’s maid as your Mar
y was.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I said.

  ‘I am tired,’ he said, and snuffed out his candle.

  ‘Goodnight, husband,’ I said, stealing my hand under the pillow to feel the reassuring presence of my little wooden bear, for she had travelled with me to my new home, a talisman of my old life to comfort me in the new one.

  The very next evening I bade Beck to come to the parlour and entertain us after supper. She stood there with her red hands clasped behind her back and sang ‘The Merry Rover’ in a bland country voice which could carry a tune but nothing more. My husband watched her with his eyebrows furrowed and then bade her stop before she had finished.

  ‘Get away now, Beck,’ he said. ‘And learn some other songs, for the Dowager does not like a street ballad and I find that I do not either.’

  She slunk away with her face twisted up at the sides; whether she was apt to cry or laugh, I could not quite make out.

  The next morning was a fair one, and Tyringham had said after he had finished with his man of business that he might show me the grounds of the estate, and so I had put on my new bonnet. A trousseau gift from Grisella, it was trimmed with ribbons and bunches of cherries. I thought I looked very well in it, and my husband might be pleased to see me looking pretty, but he made no mention of the hat, and only nodded when he came to find me in the parlour, where I had sat myself on a low chair by the window, and was leafing through a book I had found in the library: A Treatise Concerning Enthusiasme. I liked the author’s foreign name, but nothing more about the tome: a very dry and dull thing it was.

  I shut it.

  Tyringham looked down at the book in my hands. ‘I see you have discovered my unlocking of the library. Did it please you?’