The Illumination of Ursula Flight

by Anna-Marie Crowhurst

  ‘How dreary the mornings are now it is coming on for autumn,’ she prattled, sitting herself down at the foot of the bed. ‘But as the good book says, “Through sloth the roof sinks in, and through indolence the house leaks.” That’s rather lovely, isn’t it? For who wants a fallen-down roof and a leaky house? Not I!’ She thumped at my legs under the bedclothes. ‘I do love to read the Bible, with Mama – well she reads it for me, for I cannot. It’s Ecclesiastes, I think. A strange sort of name, but then many of them are – Deuteronomy!’ She made one of her high-pitched giggles, pressing her fingers to her mouth. ‘Leviticus!’ She let out a hiccough of laughter.

  ‘It’s a Latin translation of the Greek translation of the Hebrew,’ I said.

  ‘What is?’ she said.

  ‘Ecclesiastes.’ I was waking up. ‘It means “teacher”. And not a name, but a nom de plume. The others aren’t names either, though my friend Grisella’s brother has a horse named Deuteronomy, a dappled grey with a habit of bucking him off at the first sight of a puddle.’

  She leant back and squinted at me, with the thin lips of her mother pressed together.

  ‘Yeeees,’ she said slowly. ‘Mama told me you had book-learning.’

  ‘I was taught by my father,’ I said, pushing at the bedclothes. ‘To read, and to speak languages, and of history – and other things.’

  ‘Pray, what does it feel like to be a woman with such things in your head? Mother will not have me learn anything beyond my needle and my harpsichord, which I play very well,’ she said. ‘And I can sport at cards too. But not chess. For that is a man’s game with all its knights and kings.’

  ‘Why, I do not know,’ I said. ‘For I have been learning since I was eight years old and I know no other way of being, in truth.’

  She did not look satisfied with this answer.

  ‘One thing I do know,’ I said, ‘is that there is no pleasure on this earth better than reading. I have been transported,’ I said, ‘to realms beyond my wildest imagining, to places I shall never see, for they are on the other side of the world, or do not exist at all. And I have been made to cry – and to laugh and to think and to be peaceful, and all of this I have got from books.’

  She stared at me, taking this in, and then said, ‘It sounds quite frightening.’

  ‘Why no,’ I cried. ‘For what is frightening about the discovery of bright new worlds? There are plays I have read which are droll enough to lift any temper. You would howl, I think, to see The Mulberry Garden or The Merry Wives. I shall read them to you, if you wish, after supper one evening.’ My voice was rising at this suggestion, for I had been yearning to do plays again.

  She looked shocked at this. ‘Oh no, Ursula,’ she said, in a low voice, as if someone might hear us. ‘You must not speak of such things. Mama would not like it. The playhouse I know is an ungodly lascivious place and not for gentlewomen such as you and I.’

  ‘But it is not,’ I said, ‘it is—’

  ‘Now, Sister,’ she said, putting her fingers to her lips. ‘Hush.’

  X

  TOGETHERNESS

  In which I enjoy a grand family dinner

  ACT I, SCENE III

  An oak-panelled room lit with sconces. Flames send darts of flickering light upwards. A long table spread with a white cloth is set for dinner. There is a sheep’s head on a pewter dish, and a round pie with a shiny, frilled crust with a cross pricked out on its top. There are tureens of stewed gurnet and dishes of apple cream; crystal goblets of sack and steaming jugs of hot spiced rum, the scent of which drifts in the air and mingles with the roasted meat and the burning wax.

  MAMA sits at the head of the table in a severe black gown, against the fashion. Her mouth is set into a line; she watches all that goes on and strokes the prongs of her fork. TYRINGHAM breaks a piece of bread and tears at it with his teeth. The crumbs fall all over the table. Beside him, URSULA watches him sideways. Her hand is on her goblet. She picks it up and sips it, but her hand is shaking, and as she sets it down, it spills; a black-red bead runs down the stem and falls onto the white cloth. She grimaces. Opposite her, SIBELIAH opens her mouth and titters.

  SIBELIAH: [Pointing] Ursula, you dolt, you have upset your wine again!

  URSULA looks down at the stain, which blooms outwards. It is the size of a pea, then a penny, then a shilling. She covers it with her hand.

  TYRINGHAM: Careless wench! [He taps at her hand] What shall we do with her?

  SIBELIAH: [Eagerly] Tweak her nose until she squeals and then lock her in the closet until she whimpers!

  TYRINGHAM: Ho, Sister! Remember when that was our punishment, Mama?

  MAMA: Aye, for you wailed fit to wake the dead the first time you went in.

  SIBELIAH: And our brother Joseph scratching at the door all the while to frighten Ossy it was rats come to gnaw him to death – or the Devil, with his long sharp fingernails!

  MAMA: I should have had all three of you whipped soundly, for all the good it did.

  TYRINGHAM: It did me good, I’ll warrant – why, look at me now.

  MAMA: A married man.

  SIBELIAH: It took you long enough.

  TYRINGHAM: Aye, but I had to find the right woman! A true lady. For I could not make do with any wench, now could I, Mama? You know your son.

  MAMA: You will be a father soon too, if it please our Lord Jesu...

  SIBELIAH: Amen.

  MAMA: ... and then our family name is secured and I may stop turning about in my bed at night, for fear you shall be carried off of an ague and all our fortune with it.

  TYRINGHAM: Oh, Mama. You must not derange yourself. We shall get a babby soon, I am sure, for we pray for it every night, do we not, wifelet?

  URSULA: Oh, aye. Most thoroughly. We pray for it so often I am quite fatigued, in truth.

  SIBELIAH: Christ Jesu watches us always, and knows what we do.

  MAMA: That he does. [Her eyes linger on URSULA, who is spooning stew onto her plate. Some of the juice slips from the ladle and runs down her arm] Tell me, Ursula, how does your mother do, in her widowhood? I dearly sympathize with her, for I have been alone myself so many years.

  URSULA: [Looking up from her mopping] Oh very well, I think. She writes that Reginald is to go away to school, for she cannot spank him any more times. [She guffaws] He does not turn a hair from it, so it is quite a waste of time. She is not too lonely, I think, for she has my sister Catherine, who is a sweet and good girl, and Mary, who is now her companion, as she once was mine, and so I know they must go on well together. How I miss my Mary!

  MAMA: ’Tis fortunate that you have Beck in her place.

  URSULA: I couldn’t be luckier if I had a gown made of four-leaf clovers and a rabbit foot for a head.

  MAMA: [Rapping on the table] It is time, children!

  SIBELIAH: Oh goody.

  URSULA: For what?

  SIBELIAH: To say what we did today.

  URSULA: Oh. Splendid.

  TYRINGHAM: I shall go first. On this gracious day of our Lord I... rode as far as the Bristol ten-mile stone. Clopper has got over her worm and is now running well, though she is still a little shy of jumping, so we practised putting her at the fallen oak at Windmill Corner. Then we rode about the village while the tenants doffed their caps to us.

  SIBELIAH: I do adore it when they doff! So sweet.

  TYRINGHAM: Then I went over the Fines Book.

  SIBELIAH: Hazzah!

  URSULA: What is the Fines Book?

  TYRINGHAM: Have I not told you of it yet? I am remiss! ’Tis a wondrous thing to control the servants that my father began called the Fining System, and we have stuck to it, for nothing keeps common folk honest like the threat of losing money.

  SIBELIAH: ’Tis one penny for a door left open. And one penny for idleness. And one penny for a dirty shirt or smock or hands.

  TYRINGHAM: ’Tis one penny for an oath. And if a servant strikes another. And so on. It all goes down in the book.

  SIBELIAH: [Excitedly] But ’t
is one shilling for being late to morning prayers. The rule is, they must be in their pews before the bells have stopped ringing. Oh how funny it is to see them running, red in the face and fit to burst into tears! Ursula, you will roll with laughter when you see it.

  URSULA: But what if they do not have the shilling?

  SIBELIAH: Then they are whipped soundly until they squeak!

  URSULA: But truly, they cannot have much, and what if they need it for bread?

  MAMA: [Deliberately] And so we go on. Sibeliah?

  SIBELIAH: On this gracious day of our Lord I... read from the book of Numbers with you, Mama, and tried to commit its passages to memory, though my brain is very weak and I am sure I will not remember it tomorrow. But never mind, for I am certain its goodness will soak into me. Ooh – and I worked on my Bible cover – I am embroidering it, brother, as a Saint’s Day gift for Sarah. I found I had a glut of red and orange and yellow, and I could not think what to do with them. And then it came to me, while I was gazing into the fire: I shall cover it all over with hell flames! And there will be the Devil, capering with his long spoon and shining hooves, and Lucifer too, but I shall need jet beads for him for his great black wings – for I am certain they turned dark as soot when he fell down from the heavens and went to live in the fiery chasm of hell. They would have been singed. The smell must have been awful, for there is no scent worse than burnt feathers.

  URSULA: [Aside] I can think of one.

  MAMA: On this gracious day of our Lord I... prayed to Christ Jesu and asked him to watch over our family. And I had Sarah distribute alms to the poor in the village, for I had heard that the Brownlow woman was begging again...

  SIBELIAH: Pooh! I have seen the old hag screeching for coins in the marketplace. Horrid-smelling thing! I dare not go near her, for fear she should bite me or cast a spell that turns me into a mouse.

  URSULA: [Aside] Or a shrew.

  MAMA: And I spoke to Mrs Jickell about us having more rabbit at table, for they are all hopping about the fields and I cannot fathom why they are not in the pot. I have got a book of French receipts coming from Cousin Agnes, and I am sure that will set her right, for it is said the French are very fond of cunny.

  URSULA: I have heard that.

  SIBELIAH: What did you do today, Ursula?

  URSULA: Why, I walked in the gardens and climbed up a hill, and then it rained, and my bonnet got wet, and so I came down again, which was providential for I just missed that great storm. Then when I had dried myself off, I went to the library and read a very interesting little book about the history of the Romans, who conquered the world and did a great many wondrous things, and ’tis strange that we should have forgot them all and become as stupid as we are, but that we did. And then I trotted up and down the gallery practising my Italian conversation with an imaginary friend who I have named Faustina Caterina Luchia di Piazza San Marco. [Gesticulating] Faustina Caterina, sono infelice qui. Voglio scappare! And then I sat down and worked at... my writing – by which I mean, my letters – to Mother and Grisella, for I am anxious to hear of them and how they do and to tell them about... you all.

  SIBELIAH: Faith, how do you think of such things? I know I should get a head pain if I moved my body as much as you do. Do you not feel weak from it, Sister? I fear you shall take a head-cold and be killed.

  MAMA: Did your mama allow you to romp all over the countryside at Bynfield? I hardly think it can be decent. At any rate, now you are a Tyringham, and a Lady, ’tis not.

  TYRINGHAM: You must be more sober, Ursula. And I would see you play the lute and work at your screen a little more. I like to see my wife making herself useful – and making the house beautiful besides.

  URSULA: But I am not—

  MAMA: That is your duty.

  URSULA: I do not know if—

  MAMA: With Jesu’s help you will find the strength to grow into goodness.

  SIBELIAH: Amen.

  URSULA: [Aside] Well this does not bode well!

  Curtain

  XI

  ALLY

  In which I am comforted by a friendly face

  Grisella had come at last. She arrived on a wet morning, her cloak stained with rainwater, her nut-brown curls frizzing in the damp. She had scarce come into the hallway, when I ran to her and squeezed her tight to my body. She smelt of lavender and oranges and road-dust.

  ‘Oh Grisella, my dear friend!’ I cried, kissing her face, and stepping back from her to admire how grown-up and pretty she looked. ‘You cannot think how pleased I am to see you at last.’

  ‘You said so in your letters,’ she said, pushing back her hood with hands that I saw were now adorned with gemstones, ‘all of them.’

  ‘You’re a rotten correspondent,’ I said, taking her arm and leading her through to the parlour.

  ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘But it takes me so long to write, and then I must have Frederick do it for me, and he tells me not to be a gossip and suggests very dull things I should put in, such as “The weather is very mixed.” And “I do hope you are enjoying excellent health.”’

  ‘Mayhap I should write to Frederick, instead?’ I said. ‘For your brother sounds a very pleasant young man on paper.’

  ‘Oh no, he is very dull these days,’ she said, throwing her arms out. ‘For he has a sweetheart called Philippa and goes about all day with a simple look on his face, and I do not know why, for she is quite plain and has a limp.’

  ‘Poor Philippa,’ I said.

  ‘Poor Frederick,’ Grisella corrected me.

  Grisella wandered about the room looking at all the objects on the mantelpiece with an appraising air. ‘I shall take you on a tour of the house presently,’ I said. ‘But let us sit and drink a dish of tea.’ I sat myself down on the chaise and patted the vacant space beside me. ‘You must be weary from your journey. And I cannot wait a minute longer to hear news of home.’ She sat down and took my arm and we bent our heads together and whispered.

  ‘And what of little Catherine?’ I said eagerly. ‘I think of her most of all, for she cannot write and Mother does not tell me everything as you do.’

  ‘She is coming on very well, I think,’ she said. ‘From what I have seen of her at church, but I do not always go, for it means getting up in the morning and I do like to laze in bed – which I expect you have been doing a lot of, with your husband,’ she said meaningfully, pinching my thigh. ‘Tell me, have things improved, or do you still have to lie like a statue with your eyes shut, as you wrote in your last letter – do not stir yourself, for I have burned them all, and Mumsy shall not see them. I’m sure that isn’t how it’s usually done, for I was walking into the village and I heard the most diverting talk betwixt Mistress Deerhorn and Mistress Bland, you know, the lawyer’s wife. And Deerhorn says (looking very flushed in the face, so I think it was God’s Honest Truth): “Gad, I am all undone this morning, for Roderick has had me every which way last night, and I am sauntering like a sailor.” And Mrs Bland goggles her eyes a bit and then says—’

  Somebody coughed. I started, and Grisella gripped my knee so hard I flinched. I swept my eyes around the room and saw that it was Beck, who had been stood by the window all the while, but we had not seen her, for the morning light was streaming in and had made her little more than a dark shape against the folds of the great baize curtain.

  ‘Oh,’ said Grisella.

  ‘Why, Beck,’ I said, angrily. ‘What, pray, are you doing there?’

  ‘Eavesdropping,’ said Grisella archly.

  ‘Yes, eavesdropping,’ I said. ‘And it will not do.’

  ‘My Lady,’ said Beck. ‘I was awaiting my orders. For Brignall said to stay myself here and wait on ye and your guest in place of Clara, my Lady, who is took ill, but then I had a cough.’ She licked her lips in her saucy way, and I felt my body clench with anger. How many other times had the crafty girl watched me without my knowing?

  ‘Go and fetch us the tea tray, for we shall try the new blend,’ I said, in what I hoped was a sha
rp, commanding voice. ‘And mind you are quick about it, for Lady Grisella is thirsty. Bring her some of Mrs Jickell’s ginger cake. And a flagon of raspberry wine, while you are about it. And if there are any of the roasted eels left, bring them too and we will have them cold with the quince jelly.’

  Beck nodded and rubbed at her eyes. She did not look chastised in the slightest.

  ‘And I will have words with the master about this when he is home.’

  ‘If it please ye, my Lady,’ she said blandly. ‘I will take my leave now, my Lady,’ she said, and stepped quickly into the shadows of the doorway and was gone.

  ‘’Pon my soul,’ said Grisella. ‘I have never seen the like! Why, you ought to have got her by the nose and pinched her roundly, for I know I would have done the same in your place. Mumsy has been plagued all her life with wayward wenches and she swears ’tis the only way a slut will take notice, and even then they likely will not, and will only be tamed with a whipping.’

  ‘Tyringham does not like to beat the servants overmuch,’ I said. ‘For we have the Fines Book, as I told you – I can see you sniggering behind your hand – and he believes it is God’s duty to give us our punishments, on the whole. “Slaves, in all things obey those who are your masters on earth,”’ I intoned.

  ‘God’s teeth, I swear I do not know you at all!’ she said, staring at me. ‘For you, married less than a year, are quoting the Bible at me where it used to be Margaret Cavendish, and drifting about this dark house all pale and drab...’ She touched my shoulder. ‘And where did you get that shawl? It looks like something my grandmother would have worn on her deathbed. And those collars went out with Cromwell, may he burn in hell for ever.’

  ‘The Dowager gave me the shawl and Sibeliah sewed me the collar, for I had admired hers...’ I saw her face. ‘I was being polite.’