Though her aunt must have been surprised at our sudden appearance, she did not show it and accepted our presence with a quiet forbearance. She seemed to give no consideration to the prospect of turning us away and listened as Mother told her tale. When Mother finished and begged her aunt for shelter, Aunt Bennett simply replied, “Family is family. Of course, you will stay”
Mother offered to sell the pewter tableware and two skeins of cloth that she recovered from our house in Lavenham to help pay for our upkeep. She took them to market in the nearby town of Eye the week following our arrival. With the help of Aunt Bennett, she raised enough money to pay for our board for a short time. We knew the money would not last and would need to be supplemented soon. Aunt Bennett was too frail to mind the younger children and Patience was incapable, so Mother remained at home and I was sent to work at the tender age of eleven.
I hated it. Not the work, that is, but the invisibility of being a domestic servant. I, who could read and write, shackled in servitude to the uneducated and ignorant. My employers were a loathsome family, squeezed into a ramshackle farmhouse on the edge of the village. Their dwelling was configured so the livestock were half in and half out of the habitable accommodation. It smelt, they smelt and I was employed to keep it clean, a futile waste of energy.
I learned to appreciate the invisibility I had initially detested. Suki Watts, two years my senior, frequently came to the notice of the family for her misdemeanours. They were never serious offences. She would be chastised for breakages or general carelessness, all unintended. Mrs Page would box her ears and leave her without food all day for the smallest perceived transgression. None of them were kind. Mr Page was a small, sinewy man with a big voice and a rough beard. He should not have been a farmer, for he hated the animals and treated them with contempt. He might wring a chicken’s neck in the usual manner or he might stamp upon its head, depending on his mood that day. His equally repugnant son, Samuel who was about my age, watched him mistreat the animals with an expression of rapture upon his sly face. The dogs were good judges of character and cringed when he came near them.
Mrs Page was a rough, ugly woman with a sharp tongue. I never saw her hurt an animal for she satisfied her sadism in her treatment of the farm servants, Suki in particular. We laboured all day, from daybreak to dawn. She parted with the least amount of food and water possible. It was enough to keep us from passing out with hunger during the long day, but never more. Apart from Samuel, she had two other children, a boy of two and a girl of six, both too young to exhibit their parent’s cruelty.
The farm employed many labourers. We saw them come and go but rarely spoke. There were also two farm boys who assisted in the yard, who we came to know. The youngest of these was Thomas, a boy of thirteen summers. He bore the same name as my dead father and became my close friend for the best part of the four years I worked there.
Our acquaintance grew over time as I did not see much of him when I worked inside the home. But as I grew older, I was set to work in the dairy and our paths crossed more often. He lodged with his widowed mother as I did with mine and we would rise and walk together to the farm most days. Thomas could not read or write but he was wise to the ways of the world and it was Thomas who told me to stay invisible. He said I should be quiet, never answer back and be dutiful. If I kept to these rules, I would not suffer at their hands even though they were the most unpleasant of people. Sure enough, we did not come to their notice in the early days, though we often witnessed extreme cruelty to others.
Our lives continued in this manner for several years. At home, my younger siblings grew and contributed to the household by picking stones in the fields. Our elderly Aunt weakened as she grew into her dotage and Mother kept house, committed to her obligation to care for Aunt Bennett for taking us in when we were almost destitute. It was far from ideal. I earned little as a farm servant, and my brother and sister even less. My wages did not go far in supporting a household of five and food was always scarce.
Part of me died in my fourteenth year. My cloak of invisibility was torn asunder. I stood exposed and vulnerable, unable to stop an evil which I should have seen coming. I thought I was still a girl and had not noticed how much my body had changed, not considered the alteration as I transitioned from child to wench. I had not noticed, but he had.
His eyes were always upon me. At first, I thought it to rebuke me for a task poorly done. But I was diligent and worked hard so I could not account for his constant presence. My duties remained betwixt farm house and the dairy parlour and wherever I was, so was he.
One market day, the mistress was not at home. She had gone to Eye to purchase household wares and had taken Samuel to carry for her. She left her two younger children in my charge. They cavorted between home and yard while I carried out my daily tasks. By mid-morning, I had completed most of my work in the dairy and was cleaning in the kitchen, when I fancied I was no longer alone. Fear crawled up my spine like an army of ants as the suspicion became a certainty. I carried on blacking the cooking pot, determined not to turn around, knowing it was him but wishing him away. I thought he would leave as he always had if I did not acknowledge his unwanted presence.
A shout came from the yard. One of the children was quarrelling with the other. I thought him gone and believed myself alone again but I was wrong. As I cleaned the last of the pots and made to place it down, an arm snaked around my waist and I stepped backwards in fear. A second arm pinned me against the chimney, forcing my arm behind my back.
I cried out and turned my head towards the door. He pushed my neck, scraping my cheek against the rough-hewn stone and my neck stung as he bit into it. Hauling my skirts to my waist, he defiled me, never speaking a word, but grunting like a boar in rut. It was brutal but swift, and when he was spent, he pushed me to the floor and walked into the yard as if it was a normal day.
The pain and humiliation were so intense that I could not tell one wound from another. My neck and shoulders were a mess of torn flesh and blood from the bite marks. My shoulder ached where he had held it against my back while he assaulted me. I smelt of him, an odour of dirt and desperation. His rancorous, feral scent bore deep into my skin. But I did not weep. Not one pitiful tear loosed from my eyes. I would not give him the satisfaction, for only then would he would win.
I picked myself off the floor and limped into the barn. I washed him off me with a wet rag moistened from the trough. I scrubbed at my skin until it was red sore, but his smell never left me. Not that day or any day. I swore that if he ever did it again, I would kill him.
I told no one of my ordeal. What would have been the purpose? I could not quit the farmhouse for we would have starved. I could not tell the mistress for she would not have believed me. Nobody else at the farm would have cared, except for Thomas and I could not tell him for he would care too much. Who knew what Page could do to Thomas if he could do that to me.
So, I continued in my slavery to the Page’s, hatred festering in my chest. I crept warily around the farmhouse for the next weeks, hoping my mantle of invisibility would return. I was lulled into a cautious security when he did not repeat his actions. He still watched me but did not touch, nor could he meet my eyes with his after that day. As time passed, I grew bolder and stared him full in the face whenever the opportunity arose. I would not be cowed or subjugated by this man because he was strong and I was only fifteen and too weak to fight back. Too weak physically, but he would never break my spirit.
Four months passed without incident, then one frosty morning while I was churning in the Dairy, it happened again. A dirty hand clapped over my mouth while the other mauled my breast. It was him come to take me once more. He did not have the good judgement to wait until the mistress was gone, for she was in the farmhouse as always. His depravity and want had overcome all semblance of caution. He threw me on the hay bed and mounted me like a dog. I fought him with every part of my strength, scratching, clawing, biting like a feral cat. He pulled my arm back until I fe
ared it might snap, and I reached behind with my free arm and gouged his manhood with my nails.
He screamed as if the devil had skewered him with a pitchfork and released my arm. I grabbed my churning stick and hit him across the side of his head. His temple cracked and blood spurted from the wound seeping down his jerkin. He dropped on the floor to his knees clutching his wound, momentarily stunned. The barn door flew open and Samuel entered, followed by his mother.
William Page knelt there, stripped of dignity as he had stripped me of mine. Wounded and immobilized, his breeches about his knees, wife and child looking on, his humiliation was complete.
Martha Page stood stock still, jaw agape. It took her several moments to comprehend the meaning of the sight before her. And when the light of understanding spread across her face, her brows furrowed in anger. She grabbed the sweeping broom from the wall and thundered towards me, face contorted. I scrambled to my feet, still weak from the assault and shrank against the wall. She swiped the broom towards me, hitting until the blows rained down on my shoulders. I crumpled against the stone wall, my will to retaliate almost gone when a voice cried ‘No’ from the open barn door.
It was Thomas.
He lunged at the mistress and yanked the broom from her hand then broke it in two parts across his knee. “Leave her alone,” he cried.
Martha Page recoiled in surprise. “Get him, Samuel,” she barked.
Samuel moved towards Thomas, but Thomas was quicker. He brandished the broken broom pole in his hand and held it towards Samuel. Backing towards me, he grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet. I stood, trembling then Thomas and I stepped backwards, towards the barn door. Samuel glared and inched closer.
“Run,” Thomas commanded, and reaching deep beyond the pain, I picked up my skirts and ran beside him until the farmhouse was small in the distance.
We collapsed in a wooded area on the outskirts of the village. Thomas held my hand, as I caught my breath. “You cannot return,” he said, “neither of us can.”
I asked him what he would do and he told me that he had an uncle in Diss in the county of Norfolk. He would go and live with him for a while. He asked me if I would join him, but I could not forsake those members of my family so dependent upon me and I said that I could not. We left the woods and parted. I never saw him again. He was one of the few people ever to show me kindness. I hope he had a good life.
I waited until nightfall to return home for I had cuts and bruises all over and would not be able to hide them as I had before. My skirts were covered in blood. I could not imagine how I would be able to keep this thing from my mother, but I was determined to try. My efforts were in vain. It did not remain secret for one moment, for my mother was waiting up for me. She must have sensed a problem for she usually retired to bed far earlier.
I unlatched the door, trying to prevent its usual squeak. She was sitting on a wooden chair, staring fixedly ahead, her face illuminated by the faint light coming from the stub of a candle. She rose to greet me, touched my face and held me close. She stroked my hair over and over, asking no questions, making no judgement of me. It was as if she knew. Finally, she asked me if it was William Page and I told her it was. She stripped my clothes from me and tended to my wounds as best she could. When she had finished, she sat beside me, jaw set and shaking with rage.
I was angry too, but not in the same way. Hatred had simmered inside for many months. Now, it poured through my veins, swept through my heart and clung to me like a fog, filling my nostrils with the stench of its all-consuming power. That night, as I lay awake feeling my mother’s hurt wash over me in waves, I allowed the hatred to make a permanent home, welcoming the evil that grew within.
Chapter 11
The Basement
Lawrence rose early, washed, shaved and dressed then made his way to the dining room. He found Michael sitting alone with a copy of the Times spread across the table in front of him.
“Good morning,” said Michael, looking up from the paper. “Here’s a rum thing.”
“What is?” asked Lawrence.
“A bear turning up in a chapel,” said Michael, pointing to an article. “It escaped from a travelling show and wandered into a chapel in Mortlake. That must have been a sight.”
Lawrence laughed. “An unusual member of the congregation,” he said, “talking of which, have you written something worthy of your Sunday congregation?”
Michael grinned. “It is almost finished,” he said.
“Excellent,” said Lawrence, “in that case, would you consider helping me?”
“Happy to,” said Michael. “How can I be of service?”
“It is a somewhat delicate matter,” said Lawrence. “which would be uncomfortable to explain if you were not an old friend and a man of the cloth.”
“It sounds intriguing,” said Michael, folding the paper. “What does it entail?”
“It concerns Loveday,” said Lawrence, “do you find her rather forward?”
A slow smile spread across Michael’s face. “I understand,” he said, “She is an unusual girl.”
“I am not sure I would choose that particular adjective,” said Lawrence. “I have been acquainted with her less than a day, yet she has engaged me in conversations I would not have with women or men I have known considerably longer. And wherever I am, so is she. Though she is pleasant company, she is much younger than I am. The whole thing is made still more awkward because we are both residing under the roof of our good host, The Reverend. I do not know whether to be flattered or worried.”
Michael nodded, “I understand your concern,” he said, “but I am not sure how I can help.”
“Loveday plans to visit a friend in Wingfield today,” said Lawrence, “and she asked me to walk with her.”
“Is that so very awful?”
“No, I do not mind walking with her, but I fear she will see it as a sign of encouragement.”
“Quite likely,” said Michael. “Could Miss Emily not join her?”
“She says Emily will not go, but it would not altogether surprise me if she had not asked her in the first place. So, she will go alone unless I join her.”
“It is not uncommon for young ladies to walk alone from time to time,” said Michael. “It is safe around Fressingfield, although I expect the Reverend would prefer that she travelled in company while in his care.”
“I agree,” said Lawrence, “but she particularly wants me to join her. She has declared that any mishaps she suffers from travelling alone, will be entirely my fault.”
“She is very good at getting what she wants,” said Michael. “She is not likely to come to harm. You could call her bluff and say no.”
Lawrence rose and studied the view from the dining room window. A low mist hung over the garden. Crow caws drifted faintly from distant nests.
He turned to Michael. “I do not feel comfortable with the thought of any young lady walking alone while this talk of witchcraft abounds,” he said solemnly.
Michael raised an eyebrow, “you do surprise me.”
“It is not that I believe in the supernatural,” said Lawrence, quickly. “You know I do not, but I have spoken to rational people who believe in irrational things. They are frightened, and fear can make people behave in dangerous ways.”
The door opened and Anna McElliot entered carrying a wooden tray. She placed it on the sideboard and unloaded a toast rack, teapot and jars of preserves which she placed on the table. She held the door open and Mary followed bearing two plates covered with silver domes which she deposited on the sideboard.
“Thank you,” smiled Michael, lifting a lid and helping himself to scrambled eggs and bacon.
“Have you decided to escort Loveday to Wingfield?” he asked.
Lawrence collected his own plate of food, then added buttered toast. “I feel obliged to,” he said. “Besides, George Corbyn works at one of the farms there so I may have an opportunity to speak with him.”
“I could join you if it hel
ps,” said Michael. “One of my parishioners has recently been released from a tuberculosis asylum. She is temporarily dwelling in Wingfield with a relative while she recovers. I would have waited until she returned home to Fressingfield but I could call upon her early. Violet might like to join me if Mrs Harris can spare her as she knows my lady a little.”
“That sounds ideal,” said Lawrence, relieved.
“In that case, I will go to the village later and arrange to hire a cart. We can all travel together,” said Michael.
Lawrence smiled. “Thank you,” he said. I knew you were the right person to ask.”
Michael finished the last of the bacon and placed his cutlery on the empty plate. “If that is all you need, I will retire to the study and put the finishing touches to my sermon.”
“One small thing before you go?” asked Lawrence, “I need some information. It will not take long.”
“How can I help?”
“Have you ever heard of the Fressingfield Witch?”
“A little,” said Michael, “But not enough to be sure whether she was real or a myth. The Reverend Raven will be better informed.”
“Is he around?” asked Lawrence.
“He is probably at the church,” said Michael. “You will need to leave rapidly if you want to catch him. He is going to Norwich later today and will not return for at least a week.”
“Thank you,” said Lawrence. “I will look for him now.” He put his hand on the door then turned back. “Thank you for Wingfield. It would have been awkward…” His voice trailed away.
“Think nothing of it,” said Michael rising from his chair.
Lawrence left the breakfast room and walked the now familiar path between Vicarage and church. As he approached the porch he saw that the door was open and heard voices from within. He pushed the door wider. Two women were arranging flowers in the aisle. He recognised one as Hannah Roper and walked towards her.
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