The Wheelwright's Daughter

by Eleanor Porter

  ‘Miss Elizabeth,’ I said, ‘I thank you for honouring me with your story today. I did not think it possible to be even further in your debt, but I find I am. I would like to bring my father home, ma’am, if I may, so that I may look after him.’

  ‘Martha, my dear, of course you do, but how will you fare, child? How will you provide for him and for yourself?’

  ‘Miss Elizabeth, ma’am,’ Ruth Tranter put in, ‘I am very happy to keep him here, but it is natural for the girl to want to tend her father. Perhaps if young Jacob could help with heavy work until her leg is mended…? He has been here near every day to look in on Walter.’

  ‘Jacob?’ I was amazed, but I dared not show it.

  Miss Elizabeth looked closely at me. ‘Of course, his mother, I am sure, asked it of him. She has been most attentive to you, has she not, Martha? I will send over the cart for Walter, if he is well enough tomorrow. Come, child, don’t let the cold air blow in. I will give you a ride back.’

  Miss Elizabeth stepped lightly into the carriage and waited serenely while I laboured up at the back. I was glad there was only old Bert at the reins to see me hauling my awkward body. No sooner had we rumbled off when Ruth Tranter came out of the cottage, waving at us to stop. My heart went to my mouth at the sight of her flurry, but there was no crisis, only a batch of oatcakes, warm from the griddle, which she thrust into my lap.

  29

  Violets

  My father did not come home the next day, nor the next, and I had word by the Widow that he had been so weak they feared to move him. On the third day, Bert brought me to him, but he did not wake the three hours of my visit. He had grown feverish again and at times he’d fling his head about from side to side, muttering constantly. All I caught of it was mad and wild, and I feared Miss Elizabeth would call again and hear him.

  ‘Go fling your prayers to hell. I say, I’ll none of them. What! Is the devil on the bench again? Curse the lot of you. Our true villains wear purple and velvet. Come close, pray you, I’ve a secret to tell you. It was an angel whispered it in my ear. The priests know it already, those that know Greek, but they are all of them at the trough, and besides, they must have us obedient. Jesus was a liar, the angel said, the meek shall inherit nothing and the rich man belches through grace, for his mutton means more to him than mercy.’

  It was good the Tranters had poor ears. When he started on this talk I got down on my knees right away and prayed faster than he could mumble for the Good Lord to forgive him. For a while he’d subside and be quiet, and I’d feel the fever fall again. All the time his fingers trembled between my own, like the wings of a sparrow when you hold it in your hand.

  There were a couple of rabbits hanging up at the door. Ruth Tranter saw me glance at them. ‘I expect you can guess where they came from. He was here not an hour since and stayed a good while, staring down at your father while he slept, just as though,’ she smiled, ‘he were looking for a resemblance to someone.’

  I felt myself blush, and it was not just the pain her mistake caused me. Jacob was not deaf; he’d have heard every bit of my father’s blasphemies. Please, I thought uselessly, I do not think like my father. I pictured him standing just where I stood, only an hour back. I could almost sense the echo of his spirit in the air, but I had more chance of grasping the light that fell across my hand than sensing what he felt.

  ‘Master Jacob is very kind,’ I said at last, and with some effort, ‘but you are mistaken if you think it anything but courtesy or his mother’s bidding. He is attached to Aggie Simons.’

  ‘Is he so?’ Ruth Tranter replied. ‘Then I’ll say no more on that subject.’

  I turned back to my father. He was deep in his dreams and all this surface world was lost to him. What did Jacob want here? Why did he come? All I could think was that the Widow had sent him, to be at the ready for any change, so as to not lose ground in claiming our cottage. He had no wish to see me. That had been clear when I hailed him from the cart on my last visit.

  Two days later I came again. My father was no better. Goody Tranter made me up a bed on the floor and plied me with food and pity, so that I could hardly keep from weeping and that grieved me for I knew that half my tears were wicked and for myself. She wanted to call for Father Paul, but I would not believe it was time. I asked her to brew him tea from cherry bark. I gave him feverfew and spoke the charms over him that my grandmother taught me. Perhaps it worked, for in the morning he opened his eyes and smiled and chided me for sitting around by his bedside when I could be working.

  ‘Take me home, Martha,’ he said. ‘These are good people, but when all’s said and done they are not kin, and I don’t want to die among strangers.’

  ‘I’ll not move you if you talk of dying,’ I answered, but I bent myself to persuading Goody Tranter he should go home and by the third strike of the Hall bell we were in the cart.

  Bert carried Father to his cot while I lit a lamp, and then he abruptly left. I thought he had gone without our thanking him, but after a minute he returned with a load of wood, which he dumped down by the fire.

  ‘Come by soon,’ I said to him, ‘if you want to be rid of that wart. I’ll charm it off for you.’

  ‘Happen I will,’ he said. ‘Good night, young Martha. Keep him sat up and make him up some broth. That’s better nor all your potions.’

  It felt good to be at home, making potage for my father; I could pretend, at least for a little while, that all was as it used to be, or as it should have been. Light from the lamp and the flames flicked and danced around the walls, and I saw something I had not noticed: a pot of violets on the table. But who had placed them there? Was Owen perhaps recovered? They must be near the first of the year. I picked one up and held it against the firelight. Veins threaded the petals, the colour was a cloudless day sliding towards night, a promise of the summer in the spring. But who had brought them? I could not help smiling and smiling, for it had to be Jacob. He had brought me violets: violets, my own flower. Violets that clutch and mat themselves into the earth, even on the rocks and banks that would seem to offer them no purchase. They grow little and dark and then they throw up flowers more delicate than silk, finer than the bluest glass.

  I was afraid my father would worsen in the night, but the fever stayed down and in the morning he was still himself. We talked of the Wonder. He knew of what had happened from the Tranters – the horror of the chapel – but he had heard nothing about Owen, that he had been lost and found, or found at least in body.

  ‘But you must go, Martha, if you can walk as far as their cottage. Will you go? It may be you can treat him. You owe him that.’

  I was loath to leave my father, but eager to see Owen, and for once I was grateful when the Widow lifted the latch with barely a knock and marched in. I think she had not expected to see my father alert, for she checked her advance when he saluted her.

  ‘Walter,’ she said, ‘I heard that you were brought back. I have brought some butter, not much, and indeed we can scarcely spare it.’

  I thanked her, from my heart, I think, and begged her to drop by again as I was going to visit Owen with the remedy I’d promised Agnes.

  ‘Is that wise,’ she said, in a low voice so that my father did not hear, ‘after all that’s happened between you and them? I mean, I know his mother never gave any credence to the evil talk about the babe, but there’s those who say you have not brought that family luck, Martha Dynely, that’s all I’m saying.’

  I did not want to quarrel. ‘I promised Agnes,’ I said.

  ‘We’re talking of Agnes Simons,’ she exclaimed in a loud voice as though my father were an idiot as well as weak. ‘Such a sweet, pliant way she has. Not headstrong at all. My Jacob is that taken with her – I don’t mind admitting, neighbours, I’ve got hopes in that quarter. Of course, they’re both so young, but no use waiting for grey hairs, say I. It may be Agnes will want you for a bridesmaid, Martha – you were always such friends.’ She turned to me again. ‘Well, doubtless you’ll
take no regard of my counsel. I’ll send Jacob with the long barrow to fetch you back – he’ll be willing enough – any excuse to visit that particular house.’

  I tried to argue that there was no need, no need at all, but she insisted. ‘There’s a change in the weather, girl, lately. Maybe it’s the warden meeting that’s done it, maybe something else, but you’ll be safer coming along with Jacob. You do as I say, now. I made a promise to Miss Elizabeth for you and I’ll thank you not to cause trouble.’

  I barely heard a word of what she said. I was thinking of the violets. They made me so bold and sentimental, and I reached out and grabbed both her hands. She flinched a little and looked at me in alarm. Perhaps she thought I’d caught some of my father’s madness.

  ‘I need to thank you, good neighbour, for sending Jacob round to my father. Ruth Tranter said he’d been near every day and Miss Elizabeth, for she was by, said she was sure you must have sent him, that it was all of a piece with your concern for me.’ And to cap it, I leaned forward and pecked her on her chapped cheek, as though I thought it true, and she smiled, endeavouring to make it seem so.

  30

  At the Simons’ House

  It was barely any distance to the Simons’ house. I could have hopped it before the slip, but now I was slow, so slow, lurching from step to step with my twisted foot pushing me always to the left. More crooked than the crooked moon, I thought bitterly, but not so alone. The violets, fragments of the evening sky, filled my thoughts. Warmth tickled me from my belly to my toes. I was beloved. The further I walked, the more the pain in my ankle tugged me down to earth. What had she meant, ‘safer’? What new mischief was being put about? It struck me I’d not passed a soul, though it was near dinnertime. Were people lurking behind their windows? A silly, foolish thought. There was Mary Tucker, out in her front garden across the lane, tending to her herbs.

  ‘Good morning to you,’ I called as soon as she looked up. ‘I am going to visit Owen Simons. I have to thank you for the fine batch of cakes you gave me when I was ill.’

  Mary smiled warmly enough, though I fancied her eyes darted up and down the lane. ‘You are welcome, Martha. Your father does well, I hope? I am surprised to see you out alone so soon. Your leg still ails you, I see.’

  ‘I am much better, and I have faith he too will mend in time. I must accustom myself to a roll.’ I tried to sound light, but my voice betrayed me a little.

  Mary darted to her gate and leaned forward. ‘Have a care, child. Best not stir about too much at present, unless it is to Mass,’ she whispered, glancing around and patting my hand. ‘It will pass. Ezekiel and I, we are praying for you and your father.’

  With that she scuttled back into her cottage. There was some evil stirred once more about me – that was evident enough – but I told myself I would not mind it. Jacob had given me violets. My father lived and Owen would get well.

  Aggie opened the door almost before I had knocked and plucked me inside faster than my lame leg could manage. But then she hugged me hard.

  ‘So, you have brought your father back? And he is recovering? We heard that you had almost called for the priest. See, Mother, see, Father, here is Martha. She can tell you how miracles happen every day. Her father has pulled through.’

  ‘He is not out of danger yet, Aggie, but please God he grows stronger.’ I would have said more, but Ann Simons came running down from the sleeping loft and grabbed me.

  ‘Oh, Martha,’ she said, ‘how good it is to see you. And have you struggled here on your bad leg? I have prayed for you every day. I have not had chance to thank you, for Owen. Without you we should have lost him. Richard, it is Martha come. We are both so grateful to you, are we not, Richard?’

  Richard Simons was standing grave in the shadows behind the door, watching me without smiling. He came forward and bent towards me. ‘My wife tells me that without you and your visions we should have lost our son. Perhaps she is right, although I rather think it is the Lord’s mercy we have to thank, is that not so, Martha?’

  ‘It is, Master Simons, and what I saw was sent me in answer to a prayer.’

  ‘And your prayers carry more weight in Heaven than a desperate mother’s, an anxious father’s, could?’

  ‘No, no,’ I began, feeling my leg grow unsteady beneath me.

  ‘Richard, dear husband,’ Ann put a hand on his arm, ‘Martha has always been a good friend to Owen…’

  But Richard put a hand out to bid her be quiet and she closed her lips and looked down with the air of someone used to doing so, though unseen she took my hand and squeezed it.

  He did not take his eyes off mine. ‘I walked the fields back and forth for hours for my son, for a sign of him, with the snow blowing in my eyes and the wind mocking me with its whining. And God’s house torn up and the dead mangled where they slept. So, no more talk of visions, girl.’ He seemed to smile and tapped me on the shoulder as if he was done and he half turned away, but then he whipped back and said with a slow deliberateness that frightened me, ‘But what I should like to know is, why was my son out in the fields at that hour with you? What did you want with him at that hour of the night?’

  ‘I was not out with him, Master Richard, I was gathering cherry bark for my father and – and stealing wood, too, truth be told, and I came across Owen. He had been tumbled from his bed by the earth’s shivering and he’d run out afraid. I swear it by all the saints.’

  ‘And we believe you, Martha,’ Ann put in, though not without an anxious glance at her husband. ‘Richard, dearest husband, the poor girl speaks the truth. Come and sit down, Martha. It will do Owen good to see you. He always has loved you like a sister.’

  ‘Better,’ put in Agnes.

  All at once Richard Simons seemed to soften a little. ‘I am sorry if I have been harsh, Martha. I scarcely know what to think, the whole world is so out of joint. I found my boy but I have lost him all the same. I’ll say good day to you all. I have business to attend to.’

  ‘Don’t mind him, don’t mind him,’ his wife said as soon as the door closed. ‘He has aged twenty years this last month. He cannot bear to look at Owen any more, or when he does it seems more in anger than in love.’ She turned to the loft stairs but did not at first go up, just stood there, and patted her hands, rubbing the skin of her knuckles back and forth, back and forth. Presently she turned and gave me a quick sad smile. ‘Owen has much changed, Martha. He barely eats. It’s like his whole body is shrinking into his eyes.’

  Owen was huddled in a long cot with his head near the window. At first, in the dusty light, I thought he must be sleeping, but as we drew nearer I saw that his eyes were open. I couldn’t help but gasp at the sight of him. He barely looked like a child any more, for his skin was papery and flaking on his face and his lips so pale his mouth looked like a wound. He did not seem to notice us at all and I wondered if he was blind as well as dumb. His mother bent down to him and stroked his thin pale hair, then found his hand and pressed it.

  ‘Owen, here’s Martha come to see you.’ She smiled at me and gestured me forward, but for a moment I was locked in sorrow at the sight of him, and couldn’t move. Oh, Owen, I thought, oh, my beautiful boy. I don’t know what I had imagined, but not this staring shadow.

  He’d not responded, either to his mother’s touch or to my name. From behind, Agnes nudged me forward.

  ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘He’s better when people go up close. At least that’s what Mother says; he’s made no sign for me.’

  ‘Ssh, Agnes. It is true,’ Ann Simons put in, ‘you have good hours, don’t you, Owen love, when the world comes into focus. He’s just gone in so deep, Martha, he can’t seem to find a way out, is all. But he can hear and he can see, I know it. He’s still there, aren’t you, my boy? You will help us find him, Martha, I know it.’ For the first time her voice was not steady. ‘Agnes, come down and help me. You’ll sit with him a while, won’t you, dear? He can’t be doing with too many people at once.’

  I nodded, and d
ucked forward to the bed. Behind me Agnes was muttering to her mother. ‘I know that, but what if Father should come back… he made me promise… not alone with him.’ Then Ann Simons was gone and only Agnes remained.

  I threw Agnes a look and she giggled awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t go against my father. You can understand that, Martha, can’t you? I know you wouldn’t do anything to hurt him. Poor Owen,’ she looked across me to where he was still staring straight ahead. ‘I don’t believe there’s anything anyone could do to make things worse, in any case. Mother declares he looks right at her sometimes as though he is about to speak. Or at least he did. The last couple of days, though… Look at him, he seems barely alive at all.’ Her voice slid into a wail and she slumped down on the floor beside the bed. ‘I’ve not got any tears left, Martha. It’s worse than a death.’

  I sat myself on the cot and reached for the hand his mother had held. It was thin and small in mine and lay limp as though he were sleeping. ‘You must not talk so, Agnes, not with him by and listening.’

  Did I feel his fingers stirring when I spoke, just a little, just a little? I pressed his hand against my chest where my heart was beating.

  ‘Owen, it’s Martha,’ I said, with my head bent down to his face so that my mouth was at his ear. ‘It’s Martha. Owen, come back to us. Owen, I’m calling you. The hill fell on you, all the earth fell down on you and it carried you with it and you thought you were in the grave and it was so cold and so lonely, and the clay is so bitter and sticky in your mouth, and the ewes pressing into you so you could hardly breathe, and each time you woke the screaming earth was in your ears and the hot quick heartbeat of the ewe so heavy you thought it would crush the breath from your body, and all you could see was the striped slit eye of the sheep that panicked and clouded and was dead staring back at you, and then there was just the greasy wool and the weight against you, and the cold and death coming, but it didn’t come, Owen, it was your father and Jacob that came – I sent him, Owen – and he lifted you out and lifted you up. Come up, Owen, the dead are in the earth and you are here. Come back, Owen, listen to my heart, yours is beating too, it’s beating.’