The Wheelwright's Daughter

by Eleanor Porter

  ‘Well, what a mess they’ve made,’ the Widow said, making no sign of moving on.

  ‘This is how the Good Lord humbles pride,’ Goody Reynolds added. ‘I might be new here, Walter Dynely, but I know how to respect folks. You’ve no business flouting the plough like that. There’s no good will come of it, you mark my words.’

  I pressed his hand to urge him not to answer.

  ‘Now come, sister, show a little kindness,’ the Widow put in, then bent her head to me. ‘Don’t you fret about the rumours, dear.’

  I looked at her. ‘About Will Leigh? That’s a cold story. You know as well as I do that his wife says he got soaked digging out the ditches in the Sling and came down with a chill from it.’

  ‘Not Will Leigh, dear, though Heaven alone knows what possessed you to wander the red field under the moon last November, sooted like a demon, scaring up the old man.’ She turned to my father. ‘Forgive me, neighbour, but we have lived so close I feel like an – auntie – to your poor motherless girl, and it’s my duty to look out for her. As soon as I heard the tittle-tattle I said, “For shame, the Dynelys have their strange ways, but that girl would not cause harm to an old man who has a lairy way about him but has never hurt a soul in all his life…”’

  ‘Of course I would not, even if I could.’

  ‘And so I said, “If she would not harm an old man, why then would she want to harm a baby?”’

  My father started forward. ‘What do you mean?’

  She stepped back a little under his gaze and enjoyed a pause. We must have looked a sight, the pair of us, shivering and mud-caked, though at the time I barely thought of that. I was shaken by the morning’s events, but on the watch as always to curb my father’s raging. It would not do to make a public enemy of the Widow today.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said again. I glanced at him, surprised, for his voice was low with worry.

  She flustered a little as though she’d gone too far. ‘I am just telling you what I’ve heard, as it’s my duty to do, because I am your neighbour and a friend. There are those who’ve been saying Martha traded the mother for the baby. That the baby was well enough until she came.’

  ‘Who is saying this? Who?’

  The Widow gave a little nervous laugh and glanced at the grimy hand he’d outstretched. Her sister pulled at her sleeve.

  ‘We’d best be getting along, Judith. We’re expected, you know.’

  ‘Goody Reynolds,’ my father said, ‘I was not addressing you, who has barely unpacked her bags and has no business telling me my business in this place or any other. Give your sister leave to speak and hold your tongue.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t mark me, Walter Dynely,’ Goody Reynolds went on, ‘but I marked you. Soon as I came here, I marked you. Blood don’t wash away, do it?’

  It was the Widow’s turn to pull. ‘Oh, it’s something and nothing, no doubt,’ she said to my father, pushing her sister aside. ‘Just an idle word dropped by a gossip. Pay it no heed, sir. I wish I had not mentioned it, I’m sure. You’d best warm yourselves or you’ll catch cold.’

  But my father was staring at Goody Reynolds. All the colour had drained from his face and a look of horror or hatred or fury, or all three, was gathering. His fists were clenched. He looked on the old crone as if he would wring her neck. I stepped between them, afraid that the drink and the shame of the morning had fogged his wits or sent him a devil. It seemed a while before he shook himself and ducked into the house. Goody Reynolds, who’d been stepping back anxiously, paused and gave me a satisfied little smile.

  ‘Look to the Lord Jesus, girl. Only He can restore you.’

  ‘What does that mean, Goodwife Reynolds? What do you mean, restore me?’

  She stopped and fixed me with her squinty eyes. ‘Pray, girl. Get down on your knees in the mud and pray to the Lord Jesus, lest the bad seed bears foul fruit.’

  I stood in the ripped earth and watched them go, while the clouds grew heavy and rain began to fall in earnest.

  14

  Rain, More Rumours

  All January we walked through the rain to the chapel and walked through the rain back to our houses, and in between we sat on our benches in the nave, whilst Father Paul talked to us of the flood. He leaned forward and tapped the Bible as he spoke and thrust a long arm out to point at every one of us.

  ‘I, even I, do bring a flood of waters upon the earth, to destroy all flesh, wherein is the breath of life under heaven, and everything that is in the earth shall perish.’

  We barely dared look at one another, but glanced at the floor nervously, afraid of his shining eyes. As he spoke rain pelted the high windows. We had been undone by pride, he said, and by desire. There were those among us who had forgotten the commandments and who indulged the sins of the flesh. People glanced around eagerly in hopes of a scandal. We were corrupt, Father Paul went on, we were worms’ meat, the meanest things alive would crawl over our graves. Nay, they would crawl in us and through us, they would be our brethren, closer than a husband to his wife. There had been no king on earth, no mighty warrior, but the worm was his Fortune.

  ‘I look about me,’ he said casting his gaze this way and that, ‘and I see those among us who are not content with the lot the Good Lord has granted them, who seek wickedly to take His powers, even the power of life and death unto themselves.’

  He paused and held us all in his silence. I prayed for my face not to redden; he was speaking to me, directly to me. Surely all eyes were upon me. I did not know – perhaps they were not – I hadn’t the courage to look. When I did, Father Paul had raised his eyes to heaven and lifted his arms; all that could be heard was the patter of the rain and the gurgle of an infant. Then he crashed his two fists down and his voice came worse than thunder.

  ‘BEWARE THE VENGEANCE OF THE LORD. Yes, I say it again. Beware the vengeance of the Lord and remember His power. Listen to the rain. It gathers in the fields and washes away the roads. It seeps through your thatch and your clothing; it wets your skin. It is your wickedness made manifest. The earth itself is sodden with your sin, it is revolted, you are soaked through with the filth of it. And only the flame of faith can save you. Remember His words: And I will rain upon the earth forty days and forty nights: and all substance that I have made will I destroy from the upper face of the earth.’

  I looked up at him. His whole body thrilled with the words and his face was in rapture. That is how I had felt, I thought, when I’d thrilled with the wild dance of the Fool. But that was not faith, it did not feel Christian at all; it was curling in my stomach, as though my belly was grinning. And there, in that holy place, with the threat of damnation in my ears, I suddenly knew I had wanted to rip his fox’s head back and kiss his lips. I blushed at the thought of it. It was fitting that I was cast down into the mud. I looked at my hands and felt yet more confusion. Were they wicked? When I rubbed and dried the herbs my hands felt powerful. It was like reading. I could read letters and see the meaning in them, and I could read the plants, too, and see the meaning they held and how I could use them. I had thought it innocent. But now I was afraid of what was in me, what was working through me.

  Everywhere I went now I felt I heard a murmuring, constant as the rain. It would be starting as soon as we left the service. I was impatient for Owen’s mother to be churched for I felt sure that if she stood by me at the chapel door it would put an end to the slander. I glanced at my father, who sat with lowered lids, but whether half asleep or ironical, I was not sure. He had little patience with ministers, though he knew the Bible better than most of them, and knew the devil too, and feared him. I dared not tell him how I had become afraid of my own soul. Perhaps I should have done. Perhaps it would have roused him from that long slow stupor of despair and ale, and saved us both.

  That night I stayed a long time praying, till my knees ached and all the village was quiet around me. The rain ceased at nightfall, and I leaned out to look at the stars, which were glistening as though fresh washed. The line
of the hill was solid and black, and the moon was as crooked as it had been the night I’d been stuck at the Hall. I could not free my mind of the words from Genesis: ‘and all substance that I have made will I destroy from the upper face of the earth.’ But looking at the stars comforted me. They were such a long way off. They looked down on all of the countries of the world. Even now an Indian girl would be looking up like me and seeing the same stars. One day I might walk over the hills all the way to India, where the air was scented with spices. I would be a servant to a princess and help her thread her hair with gold.

  How did the stars hang there without falling? When I was very small, my father used to crouch down beside me and tell me their names. I remember the rough feel of his face, level with mine as he pointed.

  ‘That long bright arrow,’ he said, ‘that’s named for a princess who was chained to a rock, food for a sea monster.’

  ‘Did the monster eat her up?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ he answered, ‘a prince called Perseus saved her.’

  Then he pointed to a single star, the brightest of all, that marked the princess’s head. ‘Look. That’s where your mother is, in that white light. She’s waiting for us, ever so patiently, and she’s watching over us, too. Look for her just before winter. She loved the weeks when the fields were still warm with summer and the orchards full of apples; that’s when she’s brightest in the sky. Wave at her, Martha. See how she blinks and twinkles? She’s waving back.’

  This was a strange way to talk about heaven, but it felt very safe, standing between his arms and looking at my mother’s star, though I knew it made him sad. I told myself it was because he wished he had been like Perseus and freed my mother when they chained her, but instead she had been eaten by the monster.

  It was years since I’d searched out my mother’s constellation, and now when I looked I could not see it. Had it gone from the sky? Had I forgotten how to find her? It worried me that I could not find her. It seemed to me an ill omen, so much so that I thought of waking my father to help me, but I did not want to seem foolish and he had a long walk in the morning to fix a wheel at Caplor farm. I pulled the shutters close and lay down, humming softly to push aside my unquietness.

  15

  Candlemas

  At Candlemas, Judas is let out of hell. He goes to soothe his burns in the sea and even the whales flee his howls when the saltwater finds out his wounds. But still the cold water comforts him. How must it feel, I wondered, to be Judas, hated by God and the whole world, with only cold saltwater for a nurse and hell your only fortune? For days I walked the fields and lanes, saying goodbye in my head to all the places of my childhood, but I could not rid my fancy of the thought of hell. Sometimes when I closed my eyes I half saw – or thought I saw – a goblin laughing; for the first time in my life I felt sick with dread that I was not saved.

  The weather was fine at last. There were bright cold days with the sun slanting towards spring. I knew it was a false hope. Good weather at Candlemas is a sure sign of more cold to come, and yet I was glad of the break in the clouds and the glancing light on the snowdrops in the woods. My fingers were cracked and sore, though I rubbed them with butter each morning. When Miss Elizabeth visited the schoolroom she wore gloves of red leather, and while she talked about knowing the word of God I could not help staring at them and nor, I noticed, could the boys. I wished that she would take them off and carelessly drop one so I could pick it up and hand it to her, saying, ‘Here is your glove, Miss Elizabeth,’ crumpling the leather in my hands so that the smell of it lingered.

  There were no stragglers at the Candlemas service. Even the sick dragged themselves out for Mass. The late growlings from the hillside had reawakened our fears and all were eager with hope that the procession would purify the village. I think we were the only parish hereabouts to cling to it: Rushall did not, nor Marcle. I dare say Father Paul would have put it down, but for the particular wish of Sir William. As I kneeled to say the five prayers I felt very light, almost dizzy, as though I could feel the power in the spoken words. I clutched my candle, with its flickering light. If the devil has touched me, I thought, this candle will banish him back to hell. We walked around the chapel, each with their own light, and the dozens of little flames against the bare branches and the desolate sky were beautiful. I held up my hand to protect my flame and my heart felt full of love towards the world. The procession paused and I was bumped into a man who had come up beside me. I turned to smile at him with apology, but then I started with surprise, because the eyes I met were Jacob’s. He opened his mouth to speak, but just at that moment his mother gasped and pointed. Hot wax had dripped across my fingers onto the damp grass. She did not dare cry out, for it would have disturbed the singing, but she grabbed the elbow of the woman next to her and whispered in her ear. They both turned round and looked at me and at the ground. There in the clear print of her foot on the grass lay drops of candlewax, quite as though I sought to lame her.

  ‘It is nothing,’ I said. ‘It was an accident. This is the light of Our Lord – how could it harm you?’ Both women looked at me and turned away. ‘It is nothing,’ I said again, this time to Jacob, but he had leaned forward to talk to his mother, patting her shoulder in comfort.

  ‘Please,’ I said, grabbing at his sleeve, ‘believe me. I wished her no harm.’ He turned then briefly, and raised his brows, but just as he did so his mother gave a little cry and clutched at her leg and he jumped back to take her arm. Already I could feel the rumour rippling through the crowd, with only my grim-faced father oblivious to it. Martha dropped wax into the Widow’s footprints, the rumour said, and see how Judith Spicer squeals already. She’ll soon be limping.

  I set my face against caring and continued in the shuffling, slow progress round the chapel.

  It was in vain for Father Paul to tell us not to take the candles home. ‘Do not worship wax,’ he proclaimed, ‘only your prayer will deliver you. The evil that is stirring will be vanquished by righteousness and faith in the Lord. I will write down the names of those who burn the candle against the coming storm.’

  Even as he said it he knew well enough that every house in the village would light the blest flames tonight and every night that we heard the dragon stirring in the hill.

  Everywhere I looked there were sidelong glances and pursed lips. It frightened me. I wondered if I should approach Miss Elizabeth as she lingered in the graveyard, dispensing kindness in her lovely leather gloves. At the last I walked up to her, but by then she was turning to get into the waiting carriage and my nerve failed. I glanced at my father. He would laugh at me for minding such idle superstitious chatter. I recognised the grim set of his jaw, which meant he had decided once again on the alehouse. Sure enough, when we had returned home he bade me leave him food enough and not wait up.

  ‘Don’t go,’ I dared to say. ‘Please, Father, stay here with me. What of our plans, what of Hereford?’

  He gave me a shallow smile. ‘Today I need to go. No amount of little flames will banish the demon in me, Martha, not today. Ale alone can do it. This month is sick with death.’

  ‘You hate the men you drink with.’

  ‘Quiet, girl. Not quite. It’s true they are ignorant brutes, but we are all brutish at some time or other, even the daintiest lady in the land. That’s the call of the tavern. I drain my pot of double beer in the hope it will find my knot of pain and loosen it. And with each pot it is so nearly found, but just not quite, and it is only by unravelling myself utterly, till I don’t know day from night or friend from foe, that I will be free. Don’t look so scared, girl. The demon must be fed, is all. But not for long. See if I don’t slay him outright. I think I will leave him behind when we leave. We will be rid of this whole place soon enough.’

  He turned to go. ‘Soon, Martha,’ he said, as he ducked out of the door.

  I sat amazed at this talk of his drinking. It frightened me a little, but there was nothing I could do. I swallowed down hard and turned my thoughts t
o the events of the day. I must appease the Widow for the accident with the candle wax. I poured out a quart of milk, which we could ill afford to spare, and walked the few steps to her cottage. For several minutes I was left standing on the step, till I was afraid I would not be let in and the whole village would witness the refusal, but after I had called again that I brought something, her greed got the better of her play of hurt and she opened the door. She did not ask me in, but stood there, proud as marble, waiting for me to humble myself, Goody Reynolds fidgeting behind her like a shadow. Jacob was in the corner of the room, his back to us, busying himself with some ropes or suchlike. He said nothing to me, nor I to him. My resolve wavered. I can flounce as well as you, I thought, you eel-faced crone, and I was near to turning on my heel and leaving, but I called to mind the muttering round the chapel. Even though we were surely leaving in a month or two it would not do to let this spread, especially after the other talk of Ann Simons and her baby.

  ‘I am heartily sorry, neighbour, that I grieved you today,’ I said. ‘I swear to God that I did not intend the wax to fall in your footprint and I laid no words on it. May the Good Lord strike me down if I lie. I have brought you the cream of our milk as a pledge of my good faith.’

  ‘Well, Martha, I am sure I never did anything in my life to cause you to hate me. I have ever been good to you, you being a poor motherless child with precious little kin. Perhaps there was no ill will. I will accept your apology, but I warn you, girl, you had better stop these games of yours. There are those who are not as forgiving or as generous hearted as I. There’s been plenty of talk against you.’