A Country Marriage

by Sandra Jane Goddard

  ‘What makes you so certain, then?’ If nothing else, it would be useful to know what her mother considered to be the signs, even if, on this occasion, she was entirely wrong.

  ‘Well, it’s hard to pin down to just one thing but you’ve got a bloom about you.’

  She laughed. Something that simple was easily explained away.

  ‘That’s more likely from being out in the cold air.’

  ‘No, girl, it ain’t that sort of bloom; it’s more than just rosy cheeks. You got a sparkle about your eyes, too an’ you look bigger in the chest. And your face is rounder.’

  Her mother’s comment about her chest did strike a chord; a few days back she had noticed her bodice feeling oddly tight but had paid little heed. Woollens had a habit of shrinking in the wash if you weren’t careful.

  ‘Well, ’tis proper lovely to see you, Ma. And to see you looking well, too. How’s everyone at home?’ If nothing else, her question might at least change the subject.

  ‘All quite well for once, it gladdens me to say. And your Pa’s got a good piece of work at last, so that’s a help, too.’

  ‘Well it pleases me no end to hear it.’ She said it warmly, leaning to kiss her mother’s cheek as she did so. ‘Give my love to everyone, then and I beg you, don’t go spreading stories about babies because believe me, when I do fall, I’ll be sure to let you know!’

  *

  All the way home, despite not wanting to admit it, Mary had the unsettling feeling that her mother might be right. As she walked the wintry lanes, with the stiff wind stinging her eyes, she tried to think calmly, only to find that the past weeks seemed quite blurred. For a start, she could no longer be entirely sure of how many weeks she had even been wed.

  Pulling her shawl closer about her, she tried to quell what felt like panic spreading outwards from her stomach. It was far too soon to be pregnant; after all, she had barely got to grips with being a wife. Looking after George and the cottage was already taking all of her time but now it looked as though she might have a baby to cope with as well. Lifting her eyes from the short stretch of track in front of her feet, she looked out across the fields to where, a little below the advancing ridge, the features of Keeper’s Cottage were just coming into view. How isolated it looked, standing there on its own above the meadows; not that dissimilar to the way she herself felt right now. If she was pregnant, though, she thought to herself as she continued along the lane, she could at least console herself with the knowledge that unlike being married, she knew a fair bit about babies. After all, she had helped her mother to take care of Beth and Robbie and David when they were born. Nevertheless, she still wished that her mother hadn’t put the daft notion into her head to start with because now she would be able to think of nothing else.

  Back at home, she set about preparing supper but still couldn’t rid herself of the idea that she might actually be pregnant. Indeed, finding it impossible to fully address her mind to anything, she put down the ladle and placed her hands on her belly. Truth be told, maybe it didn’t feel quite as flat as it had when her mother had fitted her wedding dress but as she hadn’t seen her face recently, she couldn’t pass opinion on whether or not, as her mother had suggested, it was more rounded. And then there was the matter of the sickness. Thinking back, she was fairly certain that it had been two mornings running and not just one – but surely if you were pregnant, you had sickness for longer than that? Then there was her mother’s suggestion to go and see the baby-catcher. How, though, was she going to do that? Firstly, she would have to find out who it was and that alone would no doubt be difficult to do discreetly. Offering her hands to the fire, she let out a long sigh. Perhaps for the moment at least, there was no need to do anything. After all, it was early days and so there was no need for haste. Surely she could afford to leave it another week at least? Yes and if she was fortunate, by then she would have proof that her mother was wrong.

  Much as she had feared, though, another week passed with no such sign and since the watching and waiting was becoming unbearable, she was forced into admitting that she would have to do something. The time to be certain had come. After all, it was still possible – although increasingly unlikely, she now conceded – that she was worrying for nothing. Having had several days to mull over the matter, she had decided that the best thing would be to ask Ellen. But fine an idea though that was, she would still need to be able to catch her alone.

  Her chance, however, arose unexpectedly on Wednesday afternoon when she arrived at the farmhouse to find that all of the other women were in the dairy wrapping pats of butter in dock leaves and whole cheeses in muslin ready for market the following morning. Ellen, by contrast, was alone in the pantry, staring into the stockpot.

  ‘You on your own?’ she asked her, peering hopefully on along the hallway beyond.

  ‘Aye, just me for the moment. Come down for a bit of a hob an’ nob, have you?’

  ‘In a way, I have, yes, although…’ Clearly, this was going to be every bit as difficult as she had imagined but when she looked up, it was to see Ellen looking at her thoughtfully.

  ‘You all right? Only to my mind, you look a mite peaky. This weather don’t help, though, do it? Mild and soggy one day, avroze the next.’ To Ellen’s matter-of-fact assessment she raised a smile. If only it were that simple. ‘There might be the dregs of some tea in the pot, if you want to stop a while, that is.’

  ‘No, thank you all the same but I won’t dally.’

  ‘Tell you what, then,’ Ellen said in a tone that suggested she was aware of her unease, ‘help me fold these linens a moment.’

  Following Ellen across the kitchen, she stood with her hand on the edge of the table, recognising it for the first time as elm – one of her father’s favourite woods – and paused to trace the outline of a dark and complicated knot with her forefinger before eventually mustering the courage to break the silence and say, ‘Ellen, I need some help.’

  ‘Righty-o, lovey.’

  Perching on the edge of one of the chairs, she glanced quickly towards the back door, certain that if she didn’t get on with it now, then there was a very real possibility that she might lose her chance until after Christmas. And that was something that she was suddenly desperate to avoid. So reminding herself that she really had to do this, she took a deep breath and before she had the chance to think better of it, blurted out, ‘Last week, in the market, I saw Ma… and she told me that I looked… pregnant. Course, I told her straight off that she was wrong. But now I think about it, she might just be right and I don’t know what to do.’ She paused and looked up; surprised at the relief she was already beginning to feel for having told someone. ‘Ma said there would be someone in the village who could tell me.’

  A warm smile was softening Ellen’s face.

  ‘That will be Martha Troke. She’s the one you want for that. You go up to the cross and turn to the right. Hers is the last place before The Stag: Cordner’s Cottage. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘Cordner’s Cottage. Martha Troke. Right.’

  ‘How many months have you missed?’

  She shrugged her shoulders, her initial relief replaced now by a horrible feeling that having set events in motion, there could be no turning back.

  ‘I don’t rightly know; three maybe, although I lost count a while back and so maybe I’m completely mistaken.’

  ‘I doubt it, love. But if as you think, you’re three months along, then almost for certain Martha will be able to tell. She has a way of recognising the signs and as women around here will tell you, she’s not often wrong. Why not go up and see her now? I’d gladly come with you but supper ain’t that far off and I’m a good bit behind, what with being on my own.’

  ‘Oh, no, that’s all right. I wouldn’t ask you to do that.’ The prospect of taking Ellen with her somehow managed to feel both comforting and alarming at the same time.

  ‘You must be excited,’ she heard Ellen comment as she flapped a large cloth and then folded it smartl
y into shape.

  ‘Um…’

  ‘I mean, I know it’ll be summat of a worry as well, what with it bein’ your first but just think how pleased George will be.’

  Goodness. There was a thought. In all of her fretting over it she hadn’t once stopped to consider what George would say.

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Course I do. It’ll be the very thing he’s been waiting to hear.’

  ‘Hm.’

  ‘You’ve not talked of it between you, then?’

  She shook her head. She didn’t think they’d ever discussed the start of a family. But then in all truth, what was there to discuss? Babies came along.

  ‘No, we haven’t but between you and me, Ellen, lately he isn’t at home all that much.’ Then realising how easily she had been lulled into disclosing something so intimate, she bit her lip. ‘What I mean, is that we don’t see each other during the day like you and Will do. And then of course, come evening, he’s oftentimes up at The Stag.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  With hindsight, maybe she would have been better off not telling Ellen that part.

  ‘Oh, but he don’t go up there to drink ale.’

  ‘No, I know, although to my way of looking at it, it might be better all round if he did…’

  ‘I don’t see what you mean. He goes there to meet people… and talk to them; important people, he says. Like-minded, he calls them, all out for the same thing.’

  ‘Aye, I know well enough why he goes there,’ Ellen replied, her expression suggesting that his purpose for being there was somehow distasteful and something she would prefer not to talk about.

  ‘But surely there’s no harm to be had from just talking to people? ʼSpecially if it’s as he says; that they help him understand things.’

  ‘Would that it were just talking.’

  ‘Well what else would they be doing?’

  ‘Nothing, love, I’m sure. Pay no heed. Like you say, there’s little harm to be had from talking.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Quick enough to agree, she nevertheless felt put out. It was unlike Ellen to cast aspersions, especially where George was concerned. Tom and Annie, yes but this was the first time she had heard her with anything derogatory to say about George.

  ‘So, you’re off to see Martha, then.’ She was also, it seemed, unduly eager to change the subject.

  ‘Well, maybe I’ll go up there tomorrow, since it’s getting a mite late now,’ she replied, bothered as much by what Ellen had obviously chosen not to say about George and The Stag as the little that she had.

  ‘Mary, listen to me; don’t put it off. You needs to know. Look,’ she said, lifting the pile of linens from the table, ‘you know that feeling you got right now; all nervy and anxious? Well, the only way to be rid of it is to go and see Martha.’

  She stood up. Ellen was right, of course; having come this far, there was nothing to be gained by delaying any longer.

  ‘Very well; I’ll go up there now then. But please don’t say anything to anyone until I know what’s what.’

  ‘Believe me, Mary, there’s little I’d like to hear more than the news that you and George are starting with a family but you can still trust me to act all surprised when the time comes for you to tell everyone.’

  *

  After church on Christmas morning, George and Mary walked down to the farmhouse with the rest of the family but when they stepped inside, Mary was disappointed to find that although there was plenty of evidence of preparations for the meal, there were no festive touches; a tradition she had always loved at home, with Ma bringing indoors great boughs of evergreens to scent the room and then complaining about the plague of sowbugs that came in with them.

  ‘Annie, fetch more water if you’d be so kind. Ellen, be careful with that, love, it’s heavy. Tabby, check on them turmits,’ Hannah was instructing, wasting no time in ensuring that everyone was set to work. ‘And Mary, love, take these bits of cutlery along the way there if you would. Ellen says we’re short a few on the table.’

  ‘Right away.’

  To Mary, ‘the dining room’, as Hannah liked to call it, had always seemed a gloomy and uninviting place but today, as she pushed open the door and went in, the transformation took her breath away. The long table had already been covered with a linen cloth and set with knives, forks and spoons. And running down the centre was an arrangement of foliage; sprays of bright green holly, yellow at the spikes; strands of dark ivy leaves tinged with their wintry touch of purple and armfuls of glossy laurel leaves, all filling the room with the sharp and tangy smell of freshly cut vegetation. Positioned precisely in the middle, holding tall, white candles of wax was a silver candelabrum and against the end wall, on top of the dark wood cabinet, were stacks of plates, bowls and an assortment of glasses. Above the fireplace, sprigs of holly were poked behind the looking glass and on the mantel, tallow candles posed in a hotchpotch of holders. With the sensation that she had mistakenly intruded into a far grander mansion, she tiptoed around the table, careful to lay the missing knives and forks neatly in the gaps, and then, fearful of disturbing something, she left the room and closed the door behind her.

  Back in the kitchen, the cosy chatter that usually accompanied the cooking of a Sunday dinner was absent, there seeming to be simply no time or space for it. Instead, Hannah called out instructions, which were followed without question. Pots were stirred, plates were set to warm and any vessel or utensil no longer required was despatched to the scullery to be dealt with later. Clearly, this was going to be feasting on a scale that she had never seen before, and although her part in it amounted solely to fetching and carrying for the others, her feeling of truly being a part of this big family had never been stronger.

  Whenever she had a second to do so, she glanced around. Ma Strong had barely a clean inch left on her apron, Annie kept blowing at a strand of hair that repeatedly fell across her eyes and Ellen’s pale complexion was flushed almost beyond recognition to a becoming shade of pink.

  ‘Are we about done, then?’ Ma Strong finally stood still long enough to ask.

  ‘Reckon so,’ was the general consensus.

  ‘Fetch in those boys, then Tabitha. And make sure they know to be quick about it.’

  And so, proceedings began with each of the women carrying to the table one of Hannah’s best serving dishes piled high with vegetables, while behind them, Tom and Will were entrusted to ferry the two enormous platters of steaming goose. Soon, rich, meaty aromas were tickling her nose and as Ellen took a taper to the candles, she noticed how the dining room seemed to sparkle into life.

  Seated where Hannah had indicated, she followed the others in helping herself to buttery mashed turnip, crisply roasted fingers of parsnip and chunks of potato still bearing flakes of wood ash from baking in the fire. And noticing how everyone seemed awed to silence, she took the chance to glance around the table. Was it the magical effect of so many candles or was it something more that seemed to be softening the cares from every face? Accepting a helping of forcemeats from George, she caught his eye and he grinned at her; not truly a boyish grin nor even a mischievous one but certainly a benevolent one. In all likelihood, though, she reflected, his expression was in good part ale induced, since despite Hannah’s earlier warnings she was pretty certain that somewhere, well out of sight of the kitchen, the men had already been enjoying several draughts of Pa Strong’s best ale. However, when Thomas began to offer grace, they fell to a respectful stillness – but no sooner had they chorused Amen than the room was filled with chatter and the sound of clattering cutlery. To one side of her, Robert and Tabitha immediately bent low over their plates and set about devouring their food as though it might at any minute be snatched away from them, while opposite, Will and Ellen appeared by contrast to be savouring every mouthful. Seated across from George, was Tom, chomping in his usual eager manner and next to him was Annie, the gold-coloured chain at her neck glinting in the candlelight. Unlike the other women, her appearance g
ave little sign that she had been toiling in the heat and bustle of the kitchen for the last couple of hours but seemed to have rather more in common with the ladies she sometimes saw disembarking from the London coaches to dine at The King’s Head. From the dazzling whiteness of her blouse, she adjudged it to be new. In fact she was certain that it had to be because the puffed sleeves were too eye-catching to be easily forgotten and the frilled neckline was cut so low that even a saint would be unable to resist admiration for the way that it presented her cleavage. And how was it that not a single hair on her head looked to be out of place? Whatever the woman’s secret, such flawlessness made her feel like a sparrow beside a peacock, her long sigh at the realisation bringing an enquiring look from George. But since there was no earthly point even trying to explain, she simply fanned her face with her hand and affected a smile.

  Eventually, with everyone finished eating, the dishes were cleared and Hannah and Annie took charge of the puddings, bearing them into the room with haloes of blue flames and placing them in the centre of the table. And as Hannah started to slice into the dark, glistening mounds, everyone seemed united in their anticipation. That she herself couldn’t wait to taste the pudding was true enough – it had been one of the things sustaining her through the rector’s lengthy sermon – but at the sight of Annie ladling thick cream generously into each dish, she was struck by a sobering thought: in all her finery, she looked like mistress-in-waiting of Summerleas Farm. Her faultless appearance and confident manner seemed to highlight her position as Hannah’s successor, and woe betide anyone who doubted it. Of course, she wasn’t naïve enough to think that it was by accident. No, for certain it was precisely what Annie had intended and for that – and her plan’s success – she had to be admired. The thought of what it meant, though, made her shudder, a response that was quick to bring another inquisitive look from George and one that she met with yet another smile. Not that it was a particularly sincere one because in her mind was the dawning recognition that if she thought Annie unpleasant towards her now, then just what would she would be like when Tom one day inherited all of this, and as his wife, she actually did become mistress of Summerleas?