The Lady and the Poet

by Maeve Haran

  My eyes met my father’s, warm brown locked onto chilling grey. ‘He took no advantage of me. From our first interview I was lost and wanted none other than he, though I did not at first perceive it. Indeed it was often I who did the persuading.’

  At that he could contain his fury no more. Silently he approached me and hit me hard across the cheek, with all the strength he could muster, so that I reeled and almost fell.

  Behind me I saw Mary start forward.

  ‘Want you that I should strike you also? Go home to your spendthrift husband and be lucky this is not you who transgresses for I will not take you in. Nor you,’ he turned to the unfortunate Frances who cowered back. ‘Nor you either!’ he lashed at Margaret. It would have been almost a jest, the thought of Margaret sinning against her Thomas, but for the terrifying anger in my father’s eyes, as he stood here as pitiless as the Archangel Michael casting out Lucifer and his band from Heaven into the fires beneath.

  “‘At her lying in town this last Parliament,’” he read, waving the letter at me, ‘“I found means to see her twice or thrice; we both knew the obligations that lay upon us and we adventured equally…” What about the obligations to your father or your family?’ He turned towards the Earl, including him in his all-encompassing fury. ‘How could a libertine and an innocent maid adventure equally? He tries but to cover himself against the accusations he knows will surely follow.’

  ‘He does not, Father,’ I spoke at last. ‘We did indeed adventure equally. We are two souls joined into one by love.’

  ‘Hah, this is the kind of versifying nonsense he has bewitched you with, two souls in one. Two dowries in one, perhaps, for it is more like your inheritance that he covets than your eternal soul. That he will leave to God.’

  He turned back to the letter. ‘Yet I must be grateful to him, for here he assures me the reason he did not tell me of this outrageous marriage was because he stood not well in my opinion. Indeed, sirrah! I wonder why it should be that I think not well of a debt-ridden Papist, a scurrilous poet and a deceiver of gentlewomen who wishes to advance his own prospects by marrying into my family?’

  ‘Father,’ Mary intervened, ‘that is not just!’

  ‘What hand had you in this, Mary? More than you are saying, I’d wager. Your own husband is thick enough with Papists himself. Did Ann paddle in this felon’s palm when she stayed under your roof? Perhaps you brought them spiced ale and plumped their pillows?’

  Wisely Mary said naught, but this incensed my father yet further. ‘Go! Back to your weak-willed husband. Leave!’

  ‘I will not abandon Ann with you, defenceless, when you are in such a disposition!’

  ‘Indeed, yes,’ his voice rose shrill again in fury, ‘her husband shares the same concern, that she should not feel the sudden terror of my anger.’ I recoiled in fear he would strike me again. ‘Worry not, daughter, for she comes to London with me. I would have her tell her uncle the Lord Keeper face to face how she crept between the sheets with his secretary when his own wife was dying of the smallpox…’

  ‘Father, do not say so…’ I cried in anguish at so cruel an accusation.

  ‘Do you deny it?’

  ‘I do absolutely, Father. I loved her like my lost mother. When she was so cruelly taken I sought solace with Master Donne yet there was no impropriety between us. Indeed he would not have it so…’

  ‘Yet you would have lifted your skirts willingly?’

  He did not wait for me to defend myself. ‘See, there is one final insult in this choice letter from Master Donne. He wishes I should not incense his master, the Lord Keeper, for that would destroy both him and you—as if seducing his master’s niece in his own house were not enough to do it! Well, I have a plan.’

  Of a sudden my father smiled, and yet his smile was more chilling than his anger. ‘If he fears losing his position so much—then I will do all I can to deprive him of it. I will have him dismissed from his employment.’ He looked narrowly at me, showing no pity. ‘And fear not, Ann, I will get this marriage decreed null and void. You may be Mistress Ann Donne today, but you will not be so for much longer!’

  He thrust the letter into my shaking hands. ‘Here, read it, see the letter your husband sends me—too much the coward to come in person, he dares only to write!’

  I ran back to my chamber, tears blinding my eyes, attempting to read the words even as I stumbled up the stairs. I knew at once that my clever, witty husband had erred in conveying such news by letter. In person he might have charmed or reasoned or shown the true sincerity of his intentions. The letter sounded bold and defiant, as if the act were all complete and naught my father could do to help it. Could my father indeed overturn our marriage as he threatened?

  I gathered up an armful of clothing and thrust it into a pannier, not caring what I chose, for what did it matter since, married though I might be, I was not to be allowed to join my husband?

  We could have gained London at much greater speed on horseback, yet my father had ordered his coach, and summoned liveried grooms to accompany us. It occurred to me that London might be gossiping about me, the spiteful Court ladies enjoying the spectacle of my public ruin. I cared not a jot, for I hated the life they led, pampered and yet tied like servants in their service to the ageing Queen. Yet my father cared greatly. And so we would approach the city with all the pomp and ceremony befitting Sir George More of Loseley, Knight, Sheriff of Surrey and Sussex, and Chamberlain of Receipt in the Exchequer.

  The journey was a silent one. The servants had not come out to see us off, and the grooms accompanying us looked deliberately away from me, lest their gaze locked onto the red weal across my cheek.

  I could have worn my vizor but chose not to. Let my father and others also see the glorious effects of his paternal hand.

  Mary waved to me, silent for once. I knew she feared for my safety and the future of my marriage yet I felt naught but a cold, hard anger. I would not let my father break me.

  At last we were at York House, and alighting here was almost my undoing for all the memories of our courtship overwhelmed me, the amorous doves, our stolen hours together, and at last the deep love which led us to that secret assignation before Christmas, and made us man and wife. And yet for how long?

  We were greeted, with some surprise, by my uncle’s groom of the stranger’s horse. And while he saw to the team, my father insisted on seeing his master the Lord Keeper with no delay.

  York House rang with the shouts of merry laughter, the sweet sound of lute songs from the musicians in the minstrels’ gallery, and the buzz of chatter from the Countess, her daughters and all their great entourage as they sat, dazzling in their expensive finery, around the supper table.

  My uncle, usually the most serene of men, looked like one who has been on his feet all day and sees no sign in his own home of a peaceful fireside.

  ‘What is this urgent matter, brother-in-law, which takes me from my supper table? I must tell you, you have not chosen the most auspicious day to bring me your difficulty. My wife entertains her newest acquaintances from Court with roast swan painted with gold when I have often bid her ban such gross extravagance.’

  ‘I think you will grant me your precious time when you hear the import. For the matter is one that touches your honour also.’

  The Lord Keeper sighed and rubbed his tired brow. ‘Tell me, then.’

  ‘It concerns my daughter, Ann, and your own secretary.’

  ‘Not Gregory Downhall?’ A small smile played about the Lord Keeper’s lean face, which had grown leaner and more lined with care since his marriage. ‘I would have thought him too old and studious to make a young girl’s heart race.’

  ‘No.’ My father’s voice rose shrilly, so that one or two of the revellers glanced in our direction. ‘Not Gregory Downhall. Master John Donne. And he has not just made her heart race, but wooed her and bedded her under your very nose while my sister, your wife, lay in her bed, her face covered in pustules, gasping for her dying breath!�
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  At this Sir Thomas’s face paled and grew waxen, so that he had to hold onto a chair for support.

  ‘And worse still than that…’

  ‘What could be worse than such betrayal?’ the Lord Keeper demanded, his eyes stricken. ‘Worse than so cruel an abuse of my sweet wife’s trust and generosity? She is not with child?’

  My father cast me a look of venom. ‘That at least we have been spared. Yet he has secretly married her three weeks since in the liberty of the Savoy Chapel, against all the canon laws and in breach of every rule of honour and decency.’

  He thrust the letter confessing it into the Lord Keeper’s hand.

  The blood rushed from my head and thundered in my ears until I thought I must faint away. Yet I must be strong. And so I willed myself to speak.

  ‘My lord uncle, it was not thus! We did not betray your beloved wife so! We two fell in love almost since ever we first met, some three years since. And yet we acted not upon our strong desires, but waited patiently to see if this was a flower that would bloom or wither on the stem. And despite all, respect for you, difficulty of meeting, the difference between our ages and our estates, our love grew stronger and more blessed and so at last we sanctified it but a short time ago.’

  ‘Never say sanctified,’ cut in my father. ‘This union is not blessed but cursed! An aberration!’ He grabbed the Lord Keeper’s embroidered sleeve. ‘Master Donne must pay. He abused your sacred trust. You must deprive him of his office! Indeed, he should be flung into the Fleet and the key be lost forever.’

  ‘Calm yourself, Sir George, you were ever too passionate.’ Sadly he turned to me. ‘And yet, Ann, if he is indeed in breach of my confidence and the law there is no choice in the matter: Master Donne must indeed face a sojourn in the Fleet.’

  Chapter 27

  I WAS NOT present when they took him to the Fleet Prison.

  Thanks to the good offices of the Lord Keeper he was not escorted in front of the crowds at Chancery, but quietly from his chamber.

  Wat told me after that he went proudly, and was polite to his jailers, yet I could but imagine the pain and fear that beset him. Did not his own brother, Henry, die of the plague in Newgate Prison but eight years since?

  When I heard of his imprisonment, I threw myself upon my father’s mercy.

  ‘How can your conscience allow this, when you know he will languish and even die in such a place?’

  The Fleet Prison, as he well knew, was greatly feared for its nearness to the plague districts.

  ‘Talk not to me of conscience!’ My father’s fury lashed at me, as painful as a whip across my still-reddened face. ‘You, who pretended sweet innocency while all the while crawling into his bed like a stewhouse drab!’

  ‘He is my husband. May I at least send food or clean linen to him in this frightful place?’

  ‘No!’ I thought he might strike again and stood my ground, unflinching, my eyes level with his, if not somewhat above, for I am taller by some inches. ‘He is no husband of yours until the Archbishop of Canterbury himself decrees it at the High Commission. And since I have applied for an annulment, he may never be such!’

  ‘Do not say so.’ I tried to keep my eyes from letting me down by weeping. ‘He is my husband before God and none, not even you, can undo God’s holy ordinance.’

  Of a sudden he laughed hollowly. ‘And you are his destiny, or so he has told the Lord Keeper. Until he met you his life was no more than a waking dream. Well, now it will be a nightmare. And if ever he is released that will be an end to his advancement. The Lord Keeper has dismissed him.’

  ‘I will not listen to this venom. He loves me and I love him in return. I care naught for worldly advancement and no more does John.’

  He laughed in derision. ‘All men care for worldly advancement, your husband more than most. You believe your hearts to be so strong? That you will live on love and air?’

  ‘If need be. Yes.’

  Though it pained me sorely, I dared not try and visit my husband in the Fleet, for I knew that it would bring but greater ire upon his head from my father. Yet I did get a message to Wat that he must go and take some small necessities.

  The tale he told fairly broke my heart.

  My husband was detained in dank and cramped surroundings not many yards from the Shambles, where my aunt and I had bought the suet for my uncle’s malady so long since. Now he was in a cell choked by the stink of the tanneries, next to the foul Fleet river which was full of refuse flung into the stream by furriers and butchers alike.

  And for this privilege, Wat explained, he must pay £3. 6s.d for his commitment and 20 pence to be allowed to feel the fresh air on his face by walking the yard.

  ‘He is not alone, mistress. His friends visit, and he writes to the Lord Keeper and your father, hoping that one or the other will show him mercy. And also, mistress, he sends you this.’ He handed me a parchment, scrawled in the familiar beloved hand.

  My husband’s letter bid me keep my spirits up and said that he knew, in the end, our love would triumph over all adversity.

  Yet it was his postscript that made me wipe away a tear for he had added the mournful message: John Donne, Ann Donne, Undone.

  And I swore that to my last breath I would not allow it to be so.

  Six whole days had passed since my husband’s imprisonment in the Fleet and hourly I waited for the news that he had succumbed to some dread sickness or affliction.

  Another letter arrived from him addressed to my father, this one as humble as the first had been bold and defiant.

  ‘Master Donne learns some humility at least,’ my father shrugged.

  At that my heart soared with sudden hope. ‘What will you answer him?’

  ‘That his fate lies not with me but with the Lord Keeper.’

  I had almost to remind him that it was he, and not the Lord Keeper, who had caused the imprisonment a week ago. Indeed the Lord Keeper bade him think it over, yet my father would have none of it; Master Donne must be imprisoned and his livelihood lost. And now here was my father washing his hands of my husband’s fate, like Pontius Pilate.

  And then, unexpected and unannounced, with only her groom to bid her company, about her neck the double chains that made her resemble the Lord Mayor of London, my grandmother arrived from Surrey.

  My father had decided to sup early for the day’s business in Parliament had been long and tiring. The servants had already begun to clear away the dishes when in she strode, riding crop in hand, just as Mary had come into the church on the day of my marriage. Yet where Mary was all lithe beauty and elegance, my grandmother had the bustling strength and courage under fire of a great warhorse that naught, not even vast cannons packed with gunpowder, could alarm.

  ‘Well, George,’ she thundered, stopping not even to remove her overgarments, ‘I am come to discuss this nonsense of throwing Master Donne in prison.’

  My father jumped up from his gilded seat. ‘My lady mother, you know nothing of these proceedings.’

  ‘I know enough. I know that this man has married Ann.’

  ‘Precisely. In secret, without my consent and in breach of canon law, and she a minor.’

  ‘Thousands marry in breach of canon law. The Lord Keeper for one, who has come to richly regret it, and serve him right for wedding that shrew with my dear daughter hardly cold in her grave.’

  ‘Mother, you forget, Ann was but a maid of fourteen years when he began this cursed courtship. The libertine abused her innocence.’

  ‘They had no relations until she was near seventeen, Ann swears, and the law allows marriage at twelve. Indeed, you betrothed her sister Frances when she was twelve years old without her even meeting the gentleman.’

  He turned angrily away. ‘The present case is different. They courted secretly. They had relations.’

  ‘And for how long has this courtship run its course?’

  ‘Three years.’

  ‘And after three long years, and many separations, one be
yond a twelvemonth, they still risked all to marry secretly, knowing the weight of your displeasure would fall upon them. Is that not proof their love endures?’

  ‘She is but a child, what knows she of such things? And she has chosen a man who some suspect of coveting her portion or her position, a man sullied by gossip, from a family of known Papists, who has few prospects, and you wish me to celebrate such a union?’

  ‘Ann is no mewling babe in arms, she is a woman, yet you have failed to see it. She has made her choice and proved the steadfastness of her love through much adversity. She even starved herself to show you. Have you not marked how she lights up like the summer sky when Master Donne’s name is talked of?’

  ‘I have no time for such women’s nonsense.’

  ‘You refuse her own choice, tried and tested by time, yet offer her to a man who would have defiled her if he could, and would do worse to punish her when they were wed, because it suits your ambitions for this family?’

  ‘Mother, I…’ He seemed at last defeated as if he could think of no further arguments.

  She dropped a hand onto his shoulder. ‘George, you are a man of extreme passions, yet you love your daughter, do you not?’

  ‘How can I hand her to a man who has taken advantage of her innocence, of whom all London gossips, the air beating with all their wild surmisings like the flapping of some evil bird?’

  ‘Is it not your daughter’s life that matters more than idle chatter, which will last no longer than a puff of smoke in a strong wind? Besides which, the race is run. She is married to him, for good or ill.’

  ‘That has not yet been established.’

  ‘My son, he proves it with a petition lodged at the Court of Audiences which they say he is very like to win.’

  At that my father seemed suddenly to hunch up, his shoulders sagging as old men’s do. ‘What world is this, then, when a father’s consent counts for naught and a girl of ten and seven years can marry whom she pleases?’