I had not realized Richard’s criticisms of him had cut so deep.
“Listen to me.” I put my hand under his chin and lifted his face to mine. “To my mind, there is something wrong with a world that rewards women only for being modest and pretty, and men for their courage on the battlefield. I once met a fine physician, who had led the cavalry, but decided he would rather save lives than take them. You tell me which is the more heroic.”
“Thank you, Mama.” He kissed my cheek, smiled. “I have the worst of fathers, but the very best of mothers.”
And yet his father, the man he called the worst of fathers, had just such a smile, gentle and charming and utterly adorable, and I missed seeing it, I missed having him smile that smile at me, even though I feared he was a murderer.
I grabbed Dickon and hugged him tight again, so that he would not see that I was crying, and he went off, happy and excited, down the river steps, to join James and the others on the barge. He sat toward the back of the boat, behind the raised, crimson damask–covered chair that was reserved for the master of the company, and he turned and lifted his hand in farewell to me, as the drum started to beat a rhythm that sounded to my ears very somber and ominous. The rows of watermen took up their oars and started to pull out onto the swirling gray water. They were sailing with an incoming tide and the barge moved swiftly upstream and away. I stood and watched, long after Dickon had stopped waving, long after his face was just a pale shape against the gray of the river. I gripped the railing at the jetty and strained my eyes, dreading the moment when he would disappear entirely. I watched the barge grow smaller, until it was as tiny as a toy boat and the expanse of water between us seemed wider than the widest ocean.
I had the strangest superstition that I had said good-bye to Dickon forever. That I would never see my son again.
IT HAD TURNED COLD, and as the coach rocked through the village of Nailsea and into the mire of the Tickenham Road, ragged curtains of thick fog whipped passed the windows. It was so thick as to almost obscure the other travelers on the road, the ubiquitous fishermen, a woman with a brace of duck and a boy on a scraggy skewbald nag. I could not really see their faces, and so I was not particularly perturbed that they did not trouble to smile or wave or doff their caps when the coach swayed by and they caught a glimpse of my face at the window, half hidden in the dark hood of my cloak.
Down on the moor, at the edge of the floodwater, they were finishing building the Gunpowder Treason Night bonfires and I could hardly believe the fires would be lit in a few hours, that it was November already. In London, with James and the butterflies, winter had seemed so very far away.
The ghostly figures, moving to and fro in the mist, looked almost sinister as they carried branches and armfuls of brushwood and fagots to add to the shadowy skeleton of sticks.
Maybe it was time we stopped celebrating the Gunpowder Plot. It happened nearly a century ago, after all. Though I had loved the festivities once, when it was the only celebration Oliver Cromwell did not ban. He forbade Christmas and the May Revels, but he had encouraged this dark festival that bred hatred against Catholicism. It was a gruesome celebration though, when one thought about it, centered as it was around the burning of an effigy.
I had left my daughters in the care of Catholics, the kindest-hearted people I had ever known.
I saw the church tower dimly in the mist. To the right was the lane that led to Folly Farm, at the foot of Cadbury Camp. We were almost there now, and as if she guessed my anxiety, I felt Dickon’s hound trembling against my legs. At Hackney, Cadbury had sensed my imminent departure and had attached herself firmly to my skirts. In Dickon’s absence she seemed to have transferred all her slobbering and unconditional devotion to me and I was glad that I had brought her with me, was glad of her company now. I reached down to stroke her floppy ears and let her lick my fingers. “There, girl.” I patted her side. “I promised Dickon I would care for you, and I shall. There’s no need to be afraid,” I said, thinking how her blindness was a fate almost worse than death, confining her to the terror of perpetual darkness.
The coach lumbered into the cobbled yard but nobody came out to greet me; not even the groom was there to attend to the horses. Smoke was rising from the chimneys, but otherwise the house had a strange, abandoned air about it. I was surprised that everyone had been given leave to attend the bonfire before the festivities were properly under way, and it was with a sense of foreboding that I walked up to the heavy door leading into the great hall and opened it.
Will Jennings, the footman, was coming out of the cross passage, with a salver of steaming roast pike.
“Where is everyone, Will?” I asked. “Where is my husband?”
He hesitated, looked right through me. He carried on through to the parlor, as if he had not heard me, as if I were a ghost. I stared after him, dumbfounded, followed him into the parlor, with Cadbury trailing at my heels, and when I saw that there was nobody there, I turned and ran up the spiral stone stairs to my chamber. The clothes chest had been removed, I noticed, and the washstand had been shifted to the opposite corner of the room. A man’s shirt was tossed on the bed, not one of Richard’s.
“If you’re looking for him, you’ll not find him here.” I spun round to see Forest, leaning lazily, with his arm braced against the door frame, his stockinged ankles casually crossed. “Richard has left me in charge,” Forest said, using his stepfather’s given name, as if they were equals, as if the two of them were accomplices. My husband, whose claim that I was mad could enable him to wrest control of my estate, and my son, heir to that estate, who would inherit it all once I was gone.
Forest was head and shoulders taller than me now, and he had grown a soft black beard and mustache. In a new tailored coat and fawn breeches, tight over his muscular thighs, he was no longer a boy. It did not seem so long ago that he was a babe in arms and I was sitting with him under the apple tree and whispering to him how I wanted him to grow to be a good, kind man, who made me proud.
“Why are you not still in Flanders, Forest?”
“I asked Richard to pay my passage home and he did.”
“You saw no reason to tell me that you were back?”
“You should not have left him,” Forest said with startling passion. “It is not right. You are his wife. You are supposed to love him. But you don’t care about him at all, do you?”
I could not help but be moved by such ardent loyalty, even while it unnerved me. I knew Forest had always been almost slavishly devoted to Richard, but until that moment, I don’t think I understood just quite how much he loved him. I could not blame him for taking his side now, when he had not been here to witness what had passed between us.
“Forest, please understand that I had no choice but to go. Your stepfather made . . . allegations against me, allegations that made it impossible for me to stay.”
“He said you were mad,” Forest said flatly. “I know. And I agree with him.”
It felt as if my legs would give way beneath me, and I put my hand out to the bedpost to support myself. “How can you say that?”
“I speak only as I find.”
I turned my back on him, went to the window, pressed my hands down against the ledge and took a deep breath. “Your real father was such a good man, Forest. I wish you could have known him.”
“Well, he is dead,” Forest spat. “And you are as dead to me as he is. I no longer have a mother. And in future I will thank you not to come into my chamber uninvited.”
I spun back to face him, felt the blood surge up into my head, pounding behind my eyes, so that I could almost see it, a haze of red. “I am very much alive, Forest. So help me God, you do have a mother. This is my chamber, my house, and it will remain mine until I do die, and unless you are willing to murder me, there is nothing at all that you, or your stepfather, can do about it.”
“Oh, isn’t there?” He pushed himself into an upright position and his face was hardened in a cunning and steely resolve.
>
“I could ride to Bristol right now and draw up a will to disinherit you.”
“You could.” His tone indicated I would be wasting my time. He smirked, unperturbed, as if he knew something that I did not, as if nothing I did could make any difference, as if nothing I did could stop them.
“Where is he, Forest? Where is Richard?”
His smile was full of malice. “You will know soon enough where he is.”
THE KITCHEN WAS a hive of activity, everyone busy in preparation for the great bonfire feast. Pots bubbled over the fire, above which hung rabbits, ducks, geese and fish, waiting to go in them. The vast room was warm with aromatic steam. On the long table there were puddings and pies, bowls of sugar and spices and great slabs of butter. Trenchers were already set out with roast pike and trout and baked eels. The maids chattered gaily as they chopped piles of apples and rolled pastry, scurrying to and fro from oven to table, while Mistress Keene shouted instructions above the din.
They all stopped when they saw me, frozen in motion like a tableau.
“I’d like a plate of bread and cheese,” I ordered. “And some warmed ale.”
For a moment nobody moved, and then they resumed their tasks and their chatter, as if I had not spoken. Nobody even acknowledged my demand. Only Mistress Keene looked at me, still standing there. She wiped her liver-spotted hands on her apron, grabbed a loaf of bread and came bustling round the table. She thrust the bread at me, as if I was a beggar.
“You should go,” she mumbled aside. “While you still can.”
She had turned away, but I grabbed her arm. “What do you mean?”
“I didn’t do it,” she said, looking back at me with pity. “I might not approve of some of your ways, but I’d not betray myself, for one thing.” She glanced furtively round the kitchen, as if to check who was listening to what she was saying to me. They all were, but were trying to pretend they were not, eyes down, ears open. “Only a fool would sign something, when they could not read what had been written. How do I know if it is even close to what I said? They could have writ down any answer and asked me to sign it as gospel truth and I would not know any different.”
“What are you talking about?”
She shook her head, took up her wooden spoon and went back to her post.
I snatched a quarter round of cheese and a flagon of cider, like a thief in my own kitchen, and I ate and drank as I walked down to where the flat-bottomed boat was tethered by the humpbacked bridge. Cadbury seemed determined to come with me, so I guided her aboard, and as I rowed between the drowned trees and reed beds, she sat upright in the bow, her nose high and sniffing the air and her ears flicking back and forth to the noisy honking of the swans and the geese and the eerie cries of the marsh birds.
Bess was stirring a pot over the fire in her cottage, wading about in half an inch of silt and water that had seeped in under the door, as the floods had risen. She was thinner; her once lustrous hair hung lank and her apron was grimy. I had always relied on her to be sharp and direct but she would not look at me now.
She laid three wooden bowls and spoons on the table. One for herself and one for her son, Sam. The other was for Thomas, I presumed. There was no fourth bowl for her mother.
“She died a month ago,” Bess volunteered.
“I did not know.”
“How could you? You were not here.” There was recrimination in her voice, as if she thought I had stayed away too long. It seemed that I had, but I was beginning to wish I had not come back at all.
“She will be much missed.”
Bess went back to her stirring. The broth was thin and pale and did not smell good. “Thomas and Sam are both out at the bonfire, but they’ll be back soon and in need of something to warm them,” she said.
“Bess, tell me what is going on.”
She seemed reluctant. “Mr. Glanville left Forest in charge and, as you no doubt have already seen for yourself, he’s acting like he’s already the squire and having a high time of it.”
“And Richard?” I asked. “Where is he? Do you know?”
She glanced up at me from her stirring. “No. But I do know this. He’s not been moping for you. He’s had someone to warm his bed for him at night.”
I felt my stomach clench. “Who? What do you mean?”
“Sarah Gideon. Floozy from Bristol, near as damn it moved herself into the big house, as soon as you were gone.”
It was as if an icicle had been driven like a spear into my heart, dripping cold ice into my blood. Sarah. The woman in the red dress, from the Llandoger Trow. From so many years ago. In how many ways had he betrayed me? Had our marriage been a complete sham?
I was sure I did not want Richard anymore, that he was a villain, a murderer. But if I no longer wanted him, why did the images that rushed into my head cause me such agony? Why did the thought of that woman in bed with him make me want to be sick? Why did the thought of him touching her, of her touching him, make me want to weep, to scream, to kill them both? Why did the thought of him kissing her, of her kissing him, make me feel as if my heart was being ripped out of me? Why did the image of him making love to her make me feel that the world was an ugly, ugly place and that life was hardly worth living anymore? Above all, why did the thought that he might actually care for her fill me with the most terrible emptiness and loneliness and despair?
“Is she with him now?”
Bess shrugged. “She left for Elmsett. About two days ago. Good riddance to her, I say. Don’t like her much. Nobody does.” She flashed me one of her bold looks, her face red and moist from the steam coming off the pot. “They’d not oblige the likes of her. They’d not even do it for Mr. Glanville, much as they liked him, before all this turned him sour. They do it for Thomas.”
I frowned. “Do what for Thomas?”
“She’s been visiting us all, with a man who makes us swear an oath. They have a sheet of vellum with a list of questions on it. She goes through the questions one by one, writes down the answers that people give her, writes and writes and writes, every single word we say. Then she has us put a name to it.”
“What are the questions about?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yes, lamb,” Bess said. “You.”
“Richard’s mistress is collecting sworn affidavits against me?”
“If that’s what they are called, then yes.”
“But why?” I was sure Sarah Gideon hated me, but what did she hope to achieve by gathering testimonies against me? It seemed a lot of trouble to go to just for spite.
Bess stirred more vigorously. “God’s blood, don’t tell me I need to spell it out for you.”
“It seems that you do, Bess.”
“Your husband and his harpy want to prove you are of unsound mind and take charge of your estate. Thomas helps them and in return he gets the share he’s always felt he was owed.”
My head was hurting, felt dulled, as if I had suffered a blow to it, or drunk too much wine. “Why do they need him to . . . help them?”
“Some oblige because it makes ’em feel important, or because they have some ax of their own to grind with you. But a lot are afraid of putting their name to what they cannot understand. But they do it for Thomas. They trust Thomas. They will do as he asks them.”
“And what exactly does Thomas ask them to do?”
“Answer the questions just how she wants ’em answered. Give her what she wants to hear.”
“What does she want to hear?”
The stirring slowed, until it had almost stopped and she rested the handle of the spoon against the side of the pot. “She wants to know all about your butterflies. About how you chase after them and what you do with them.”
“What do people tell her? Let me guess now. Communing with the dead? Witchcraft? Shape-shifting?”
Bess looked scornfully at the dog trailing at my heels. “They say you care more for butterflies and even for a blind bitch than for your own children. They
say only a madwoman would prize butterflies as if they were jewels, would take more interest in the hunting of butterflies than fish or fowl to fill the larder shelves. They say that you’d rather pay servants to lay sheets beneath bushes on the moor rather than on beds, and that you pay more for worms than most would pay for a round of cheddar.”
“What did you tell her, Bess?”
“I refused to talk to her. Got the sharp end of Thomas’s tongue for it.”
“Thank you.”
She shrugged. “Makes no difference what I say or what I don’t say. Add a few whispers together and they’re as loud as a shout. And there always were plenty of whispers about you.”
IT WAS ALMOST DARK. Down on the moor people were gathering round the great beast that was already turning slowly on the spit over the flames. Soon they would be lighting the bonfires. I found my feet taking me down toward the crowd, toward these people who had been my friends, but who had now spoken out against me.
I stopped short when the stuffed effigy of the Pope began to be slow-marched to its pyre across the dark, flat wasteland, to the menacing beat of a drum. I pulled my hood up and walked the rest of the way to the edge of the crowd, as all eyes watched the effigy hoisted atop the bonfire. The fire itself was being set alight with flaming torches. The flames caught and flared and leapt triumphantly higher. Dark figures moved around it like specters, their faces phantasmagorical in the flames. I looked to find my half brother amongst them, but I could not see him.
As I moved through the midst of the crowd, I felt hostility like a knife in my back. Mistress Keene, Mistress Jennings, Mistress Bennett and Mistress Hort: these women had known me since I was a child, had been with me in the birthing chamber when my own children were born. They and their families had served at the house and worked the land for generations. They were my family, and yet they treated me now as an outcast.
The Lady of the Butterflies Page 54