The Familiars

by Halls, Stacey

  A warmly lit scene met my eyes. The sconces were glowing around the walls, and the glass above the fireplace cast light back into the room, which reflected again off the chandelier. At the great fireplace that measured ten feet across – the one I used to walk inside and be scolded for, ruining my slippers on the ash – a woman was seated. I felt as though I was dreaming, floating, as I approached her, for she did not seem to get any closer. She noticed me, and stood. She was older than me by a few years, and her dark head was uncovered. She looked afraid, and I did not understand, and then I did, and my heart fluttered and stopped.

  A noise in the passage behind should have startled me, but did not, so when James appeared there, breathless and steaming from the galloping journey from Gawthorpe, I barely reacted. My eyes were fixed on the woman before me, because her cloak had fallen open when she stood. Her stomach was round like mine.

  The floor tilted. The stone flags rushed to welcome me as their old mistress, and I was grateful for their embrace as my world came crashing down, and my body with it.

  PART TWO

  WESTMORELAND (NOW CUMBRIA), MAY, 1612

  Laws [are] like cobwebs, where the small flies are caught but the great break through.

  Sir Francis Bacon

  CHAPTER 10

  James had escorted me back to Gawthorpe, through the wind and rain, and as soon as I reached my chamber I locked the door. It stayed locked for a full day and night, and I grew used to the sound of Richard pounding at it because it was difficult to mind anything with my stomach so empty. Prudence, Justice and I waited, for what, we didn’t know, but then late on the second day, when I began to think seriously about having my fire lit and some food sent, one of the chambermaids came to the door and said there was a messenger arrived from my mother.

  Through the keyhole I bade her tell him that I wished to be left alone, and her voice became more anguished as she returned and introduced a male voice I did not know.

  ‘Mistress Barton wishes me to inform you that a carriage is waiting outside Gawthorpe,’ the voice said. I waited. ‘She insists that it will not leave until you are in it.’

  ‘Then it will be there until it rots,’ I said.

  The man cleared his throat. I wondered who else might be standing with him in silence.

  ‘Mistress Barton is inviting you to stay with her at Kirkby Lonsdale. She thought you might wish for a change of scenery.’ There was a deferential pause. ‘I am to wait here until you are ready.’

  I returned to the bed for quite some time, sprawled in and out of the bedclothes.

  Eventually, my voice choking, I said, ‘Are you there, Richard?’

  After a pause the messenger said, ‘I am quite alone, Mistress.’

  With an almighty effort I dragged myself back to the keyhole. All I could see was a clothed thigh and sword sheath. Even after a day and night, I still had not been able to comprehend the scale of betrayal. It began in my bed and spread down to the brewery that was sending her beer, the study, where our loyal servant James committed each individual blow to ink. It had travelled to the Hand and Shuttle, where I assumed Alice had heard of it. And it even seeped into my past, spreading its stain on my already unsentimental childhood. That was almost worst of all: that Richard was keeping his woman in the house I grew up in, that was handed over to him like a parcel the day we married because he knew I would never go there again.

  That was when the thought occurred to me: did my mother know about the dark-haired woman with her full belly? As the afternoon wore on the question hummed in my ear like a fly, and then I heard Puck barking on the other side of the door. He scratched and whined outside it, and I realised I had not given him a thought, concerned with only myself. I knelt closer to the door.

  ‘Puck,’ I said in a small voice. ‘Puck, stop. I am here. I am here.’

  Tears streamed down my face as he howled, a sound that felt as though it was ripping me in two, and no matter what I said he would not be quiet. The need to hold him overwhelmed me, so I turned the key in the lock and he fell inside, knocking me to the floor. His huge tongue wiped my face and I could not help but laugh as he climbed all over me, whining and panting and making noises of pure pleasure. When he had quite finished I pulled myself up to sit. The messenger stood away from the door, waiting diffidently.

  ‘I will come but only on my terms.’ I said. He bowed graciously then stood up straight, expectant. ‘I will bring my dog. And there is somewhere we must stop on the way.’

  ‘Should I send for a servant to pack your things?’ he asked.

  ‘I will pack them myself.’

  During the journey north, Alice and I came up with a plan. So Roger could not find her, she had left her position at the Hand and Shuttle, telling the landlord her father was ill, and needed caring for. I waited a few streets away in the carriage, so as not to be seen. There was a nervous urgency about us both, because she was running away in all but name – I’d asked if there was anything she needed from home and she just shook her head. As the road fell away behind us, we decided she would come to my mother’s as my companion Jill, which she told me was her mother’s name.

  ‘Would you like something to eat?’ I asked.

  We were waiting in another inn yard while the carter changed horses, the smell of supper cooking and roasting meat wafting over. It was a pleasant May evening – warm and still – and we listened to the sounds of the yard, of horses’ hooves and people chatting and going about their normal lives, with the curtain drawn across the carriage door so nobody could see in.

  Alice shook her head.

  ‘You said your mother was a midwife,’ I said. ‘Is she …’

  ‘She died.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It was years ago.’

  Alice sat very straight; she had good posture even without a corse.

  ‘How did she die?’

  After a moment, she replied.

  ‘She had a fever. She was ill for a long time, then that carried her into the next life. There was nothing I could do.’

  ‘Did you learn about herbs from her?’

  She nodded. ‘She had a garden … her kitchen, she called it, because we did not have one. She grew things to eat, herbs … I try to keep it going because I know how she loved it. She told me the names of everything. We would go out walking and she would show me things and tell me what they could do. She said it was useful for a woman to know, for a wife and mother to keep her family together in this world. She loved to think of me with a family,’ she finished softly.

  ‘Where did she learn her trade?’ I asked.

  ‘Where does any woman learn it? By doing it, I suppose. She and her friend Katherine did it together, they would go where they were needed. Mould-heels, they called Katherine, because she took so long over everything, making sure it was all right. She always got her things out carefully, even if the mother was screaming to high Heaven.’ She smiled at some private memory. ‘She would build a fire as if she had all the time in the world.’

  ‘And you would go with them?’

  Alice nodded.

  ‘How many babies have you birthed?’

  ‘I don’t know … Twenty? Maybe more?’

  Her answer surprised me – I had thought her more experienced, but then I hadn’t asked. After a while I asked if her father would miss her while she was away. She thought about it, then shook her head.

  ‘No. What I do, perhaps, but not me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Cooking. Feeding the chickens. Keeping the house. Earning money.’ Her voice was flat.

  ‘You never thought of marrying and having a house of your own?’

  Her face darkened so briefly I wondered if I’d imagined it. She appeared to consider her answer, then said, ‘There is no difference in it, really. It’s the same life for a daughter as it is for a wife – just a different man telling you what to do.’

  ‘I suppose you are right. But you would have infants of your own.
Every woman wants that; it’s our purpose in life.’

  She lowered her eyes. ‘Children are more trouble than they are worth.’

  It was a strange answer, especially for a midwife. Then the carter climbed up on to the roof, jolting us in our seats, and we set off again.

  When Alice did not speak again, I thought I may have offended her, until a few miles later, when I’d begun to doze, and I heard her say in a quiet voice, as though to herself, ‘I have never been in a carriage before.’

  Darkness had fallen when we arrived. The manor itself sat high on the side of a hill in the midst of a copse of thick woodland, and the ride up was steep, so I had to press my feet against the seat opposite to prevent sliding down. The park stretched to the top of the valley, where scree and heather met the sky. Puck was asleep, as was Alice. She was an odd sleeper and still somehow looked alert, her neck long, her face impassive, as though she had just closed her eyes.

  The carriage drew up and I climbed exhausted from it, dog-tired after my second long journey in as many days. Puck dropped to the ground behind me, yawned and stretched, and Alice after him. Henry unloaded my trunk, and at the top of the steps the wide front door opened, spilling light on to our strange party and framing the unmistakable silhouette of my mother.

  ‘Fleetwood,’ she said, her thin voice carrying into the night. ‘I thought you would never come.’

  I glanced at Alice and together we ascended the steps.

  The house my mother lived in was owned by the Shuttleworths, bought by Richard’s uncle some two decades before as a place to rest or hunt on the road to Scotland. I had been only once before, when my mother was ill with a bad chest and Richard persuaded me to visit.

  I decided I would get straight to business. Before my trunk had even been set down on the stone flags of the entrance hall, I turned to face my mother.

  ‘Did you know of Richard’s woman?’

  ‘Of course I knew, Fleetwood. Now get inside before you are dead on your feet.’

  Though she’d only confirmed what I suspected, still I felt as though she had driven a sword through me then pulled it straight back out again.

  Alice took my arm and almost carried me through the stone-flagged corridors to a snug room that was sparsely furnished. There were no books, vases or jugs, just bare surfaces, as though they were waiting to have their things replaced after dusting. Mary Barton had always taken a Calvinist approach to furnishing, but here the carpet needed replacing, the fire sweeping, the windows washing. She took her seat by the fire and indicated I take the one opposite – even these were old and tired. I wondered if the furniture had been updated since Richard’s uncle bought the place twenty years ago. But the room was warm, and a low coal fire burnt in the grate. There was a mildly unpleasant smell, cloying and meaty, and it took me a moment to realise the candles here were tallow, not wax.

  ‘My midwife will need a chair,’ I said.

  My mother stared at me, then looked Alice swiftly up and down, before rising and striding from the room. Alice was taking no interest in her surroundings, staring absently at the threadbare carpet at her feet. My mother returned with a servant behind her, carrying a sturdy chair, which he set against the wall before bowing and quietly closing the door on his way out.

  There was complete silence as we both waited for the other to speak. It did not take long for me to lose my temper.

  ‘You invited me to travel fifty miles but have nothing to say?’ I snapped.

  No matter how rude I was, my mother’s face remained inscrutable. She was white as chalk and I noticed she had more lines at her eyes and lips than the last time I saw her.

  She sighed deeply, closing her eyes.

  ‘I hoped this day would not come,’ she said.

  ‘Did you think I would not find out?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said simply.

  ‘Why? Why would you not tell me if you knew? Richard has betrayed me, he has broken me and our marriage, and you knew. My own mother!’

  ‘I was trying to protect you,’ she said slowly. Her eyes were dark.

  ‘How can I trust you? I cannot trust anyone. Not one person,’ I said.

  Apart from Alice, added a voice in my head.

  I started to cry, and my mother watched, her expression awful, as I held my face in my hands.

  ‘I hate you!’ I screamed at her. The sound ripped through the small room, bouncing from the wooden walls. ‘I hate both of you. You have both betrayed me.’

  She allowed me to gather myself and I slumped back into my chair, a sullen child again. My breathing slowed and I wiped my face dry.

  ‘You will stay here,’ my mother said eventually.

  ‘Until when? Until she has the child?’ I asked.

  ‘What child?’

  Understanding dawned on my mother’s face. She reached for the arm of her chair with one white hand and her face turned paler.

  ‘She …’

  ‘She will have his child,’ I said.

  She closed her eyes. ‘The stupid fool,’ she whispered.

  I did not know which of us she was referring to.

  ‘And you know she is at Barton?’

  My mother nodded. Absently she flexed the finger that held her plain gold wedding band. I saw her mind working. From the corner of my eye I was aware of Alice, silent and perfectly still. My mother had not asked her name or even acknowledged her presence.

  ‘Do you know the woman’s name?’ I asked finally.

  ‘Judith Thorpe.’

  ‘How did you learn of her?’

  ‘It is not important.’

  ‘It is to me.’

  ‘What is important is that you succeed in carrying this child, as you have not done before.’

  My stomach dropped. ‘Why?’

  She licked her teeth. ‘Fleetwood, listen to me. If you do not produce an heir, she will.’

  Her voice rang clear in the room, and we stared at one another, reaching an understanding for possibly the first time in our lives. I felt suddenly cold all over.

  ‘But she is not his wife.’ Alice spoke, surprising us both.

  ‘An illegitimate child is as good as an heir,’ my mother said darkly. ‘They may not be able to inherit directly, but a man can bequeath all kinds of things to his bastard: estates, land, property. Especially if there are no others. The only other way a bastard can be legitimised is if his father and mother marry,’ she added dismissively.

  James’ writing swam before my eyes: William Anderton to bring marriage licence from York.

  I covered my mouth with my hand.

  ‘He means to marry her. He knows I am to die.’

  ‘Die?’

  I told my mother about Dr Jensen’s letter, about the order of a marriage licence I found in the ledger. I was shaking violently now.

  ‘Fleetwood!’

  My mother was shocked and appalled as I twitched and shivered.

  Alice was suddenly at my side.

  ‘Have you rosa solis?’ she asked my mother.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Brandy and cinnamon. Have it made for her, it will help.’

  My mother fled from the room and Alice took my hand in hers: pink flesh against grey. Presently my mother returned with a servant bearing a tray on which sat a pewter cup. Alice took it and handed it to me, and I choked back the drink, the pewter clattering against my teeth. The concoction fired my throat and warmed my insides, and gradually the jittering slowed to a gentle twitch. My mother replaced the cup on the tray and asked for bread and wine to be brought.

  ‘Mistress,’ the servant said softly, ‘there is no more manchet, just cheat.’

  ‘Bring it whatever,’ my mother snapped. Then she turned to Alice, and her dark eyes were interested. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Jill, Mistress.’

  My mother nodded once, to indicate both approval and dismissal, and returned to her seat before me.

  My head was thick with thoughts. I felt the child in my stomach m
ove, as though reminding me it was still there. It felt like when a carriage runs over a dip, not entirely unpleasant, and I cupped my stomach with my hands and rubbed as though to warm it, remembering the spidery words of the doctor’s letter that were now as familiar to me as my own name: Her earthly life will end.

  CHAPTER 11

  Alice and I shared a room at the top of the house because it was warm – the start of summer had not yet reached this far north. She was on a truckle bed brought in and set next to mine, and she slept in a peculiar way, curled around on the mattress, without using the pillow. I knew because I barely slept. Not wanting to wake her with my rolling and creaking, I eventually got up and sat at the window.

  All I could think of was Richard’s woman. The more I tried to picture her, the less clear her face became, but I was sure I had never seen her before that moment, that she was not someone I had met. I wondered if she slept in my old bed at Barton, and if Richard did too when he was there. All the times he had kissed my forehead before going away, and I had watched from a window as he departed on his horse to Halifax, Manchester, Lancaster, and further: Coventry, London, Edinburgh. But really: Barton, Barton, Barton.

  Tears came easily now, and I tried not to sniff too hard or make much noise. I could not imagine going back to Gawthorpe but I could not stay here either, forever a guest in my mother’s house. I was stuck in the mud, and sinking. But for now, sat at the window looking out while it was still dark outside, I would not think of the next day, or the day after that. And I was still alive, and my child too, for it was squirming like a newborn kitten now, and I felt it all the time – I was never truly alone. Then I realised that if it was born, and if I lived and became a mother, I would never be alone. The thought came like a ray of warm sunshine on my face. I may have lost Richard – or a part of him – and my marriage was no longer what I thought it was, but I would have a lifelong friend.