The Honey and the Sting

by E C Fremantle

  ‘I’m going up,’ she says, with a yawn, opening the door to the staircase.

  ‘Will you look in on Rafe?’ She studies my face to see if I am worried. I smile but I am worried. Despite myself, I, too, have a niggling fear of the house going up in flames. My mind snaps back again to the day our father died – the terrible look Melis had worn.

  ‘Goodnight, then.’ The old stairs creak as she mounts them, disappearing into the dark.

  ‘I’ll be up soon. Melis had better sleep with me tonight.’

  Back in the kitchen Melis hasn’t moved. I put a few leaves of lemon balm, her favourite, to infuse in hot water, pour a measure for each of us and take the chair beside her, picking up my needlework. I can hear the trickle of rain outside, comforted at the thought of the thatch soaking through.

  The light is fading, so I take a candle, touching its wick to the low flames in the hearth. Melis watches me, alert, as I press it into the holder. It burns with a steady clean flame.

  ‘I’ll keep a close eye on it,’ I say, as I squint to thread my needle.

  ‘I’m so very grateful to you, Hessie.’ The distraught look in her eyes is dissipating. ‘You take such good care of me.’

  ‘What happens to you when you have one of your turns? What is it like?’ I want to understand the nature of her torment.

  ‘It’s as if I go to another place.’ She fixes me with an intent gaze. ‘Voices draw me there. They show me things …’ She falters and I reach out to touch her hand. It is stone cold, despite the proximity of the fire. ‘I fear one day, Hessie, that I will not find my way back from there.’

  ‘You always do return. You must trust that.’

  We are quiet for a while, just the sound of the eaves dripping and the whisper of thread pulling through fabric.

  ‘Rafe hasn’t a candle in his room, has he?’ She sounds a little less anxious but has clearly been pondering this.

  ‘No. Hope’s made sure of that. You’ve nothing to worry about.’

  ‘It was terrible. I could hear him screaming for help. It was such a relief to find …’

  ‘I know.’ I reach for her hand again and sense her slowly returning to her normal self.

  ‘Do you remember when you discovered you were pregnant with him?’ She is half smiling, as if it is a good memory. At the time, she was so angry on my behalf, but perhaps she doesn’t remember that. Perhaps it seems a good memory to her because it marked our departure from Lady Buckingham’s household: a grim place indeed for two parentless girls who were not quite well enough bred to fit in.

  It is not a good memory for me.

  I kept my suspicions to myself for some weeks, creeping towards the edge of an abyss, as every day I expected my monthlies, which never arrived. Each moment was lived in the hope that I was mistaken. I struggled to complete my household duties, explaining away the morning sickness and the encroaching fatigue as the results of sleepless nights. I hadn’t told a soul, not even Melis, but she became increasingly concerned for me, so reluctantly I confided in her.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ She was deeply upset on my behalf, her pale eyes stuttering. ‘How could he do such a thing?’

  ‘It is what happens. Men have appetites they cannot control.’ I believed this at the time. It was what he had told me. If pretty little creatures like you will smile at me, how can I be expected to prevent myself? I hadn’t wanted his attentions, had tried to refuse him, but I was too young then and too afraid.

  ‘But it is wrong … so unjust.’ Melis had always struggled to accept the inherent unfairness of the world. The sudden loss of our father had affected us in different ways: where she railed against injustice, I immersed myself in responsibilities. ‘He must be made to pay.’ Her upset was transforming into anger and I regretted confiding in her.

  She insisted on coming with me to his study, where we household servants were forbidden to go. The door was of polished walnut and smelt strongly of beeswax. I stood before it, nipped with dread, waves of nausea buffeting through me, wishing myself anywhere else on earth. Eventually I mustered the courage to knock, but Melis pushed it open before I had the chance to stop her and marched in. She was too young to understand that her well-meant support of me risked making things worse for us both.

  He was inside with his elderly mother, who cast us a glance, sharp as a serpent’s tooth. ‘What do you think you are doing?’ She was outraged by our insolence. ‘You haven’t permission to be in here. Get back to where you belong. I will not tolerate disobedience in my household.’

  I girded myself, dropping into a deep curtsy, pulling Melis down with me, an apology on my lips, explaining that I had something important to discuss with her son. He was leaning against the wall, watching, seeming faintly amused by my distress.

  ‘Important? I hope at the very least someone has died.’ There wasn’t even a fleck of kindness in that woman.

  ‘I’ll see to this,’ he said to her.

  ‘As you wish. I was leaving anyway.’ She heaved her considerable form out of her chair, departing in a rustle of black silk and making a comment about the ills of taking in girls of the wrong breeding. ‘Orphaned daughters of a country physician. I should have known …’ The door swung shut with a clunk.

  ‘So?’ He stepped towards us, sweeping his hair back with an equine toss of the head, and stood, legs apart, arms folded, lips twisted into a sneer.

  I couldn’t find my voice but Melis spoke into her collar. ‘You’ve got her with child.’

  ‘Speak up.’ His voice snapped like a whip.

  She repeated it, but louder, with a snarl in her tone.

  He took her by the scruff, as if she was a dog, lifting her from the floor. ‘If I was you, I’d watch my tongue. Bad things can happen to girls who tell tales.’ He let her go. She stumbled backwards. I grabbed her to keep her from falling. ‘Now get out of here. Wait outside. This is between your sister and me.’

  She turned, slicing him with a sharp glare as she left.

  Once the door was shut he confronted me. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘It is.’ I kept my eyes down, fixed on his shoes, which were of kid, tooled in an intricate pattern of vines and fastened with elaborate silver buckles. A new wave of nausea racked me and I feared I would spew all over them.

  ‘There are powders you can take to get rid of it. They work in some cases if you catch it early enough. I shall make arrangements.’

  ‘But that is a sin.’ I was horrified by his suggestion, made without so much as a turned hair, as if the life growing inside me was nothing more than an inconvenience.

  He spat out a laugh. ‘One more sin for a little hussy like you won’t make much difference when it comes to Judgement Day.’

  I found my courage then and firmly said, ‘Never!’

  ‘Don’t claim I haven’t tried to help you.’

  ‘I don’t want your help.’

  ‘Why are you here, then?’

  ‘I thought … I thought …’ In truth I didn’t know what I thought. If I had expected his sympathy or kindness I was mistaken and should have known that.

  ‘You seek payment?’

  ‘No … no.’ I was dismayed that he thought me so mercenary.

  ‘You do understand that you can’t remain here? There is no place for pregnant whores in my mother’s household. How am I even to know that the child is mine?’ It was impossible to see even the smallest vestige of his famous beauty. The cold, hard creature before me, father of my unborn child, had become repulsive.

  It was the moment I grew up.

  ‘You and your sister will leave first thing in the morning.’ He swiped his arm over the piles of papers on his desk, scattering them across the floor and, looking directly at me, said, ‘See what you’ve done.’ I knew better than to contradict him. ‘Pick up this mess and make yourself scarce. I have things of importance to see to.’ As he was about to leave, he turned to me with a disturbing huff of laughter. ‘If it’s a boy, and I like the look of him, I might wan
t him for myself when he’s grown.’ The door slammed and I was left to crawl around the floor retrieving his paperwork.

  That was nine years ago, the last time I saw George Villiers. Even though I told myself he had said it only to taunt me, those words – when he’s grown – had sat niggling at the back of my mind, like a debt to a wicked fairy.

  Hope

  Hope flings open the kitchen door. The morning is clear after the rain and everything smells fresh. The little pasture beyond the orchard is a brilliant green and she is infused with relief that the night has passed without mishap.

  She can hear Hester upstairs, getting Rafe dressed and ready to go to Littlemore for his lessons with Ambrose. She prods the hearth to see if she can find any embers still alive to rekindle but it is dead. Melis must have ensured so last night. She sweeps out the ash and lays a new fire, setting herself down with the tinderbox as Rafe and Hester clatter in.

  Hester sits Rafe at the table, buttering a slice of bread for him and pouring a cup of milk, then goes to let the hens out, returning with a clutch of eggs.

  ‘Can I go to Littlemore on the pony?’ Rafe asks, between mouthfuls.

  ‘I don’t see why not. Now sit still.’ Hester is attempting to tug a comb through his tangled hair. He is complaining, ducking away from her, refusing to sit still.

  ‘Very well, then. As you wish.’ Hester puts down the comb with a sigh. She rarely refuses Rafe anything and, secretly, Hope has opinions about that. Even she, who has little knowledge of such things, knows that a child shouldn’t be overindulged.

  Melis comes in, still in her nightdress, rubbing her eyes.

  They all turn, regarding her anxiously.

  ‘No need to look at me as if I’m a lunatic. I’m perfectly well.’ She sits beside her nephew and begins to slice the loaf, asking if anyone else wants some, taking a drink from Rafe’s cup and tickling him when he protests, making him laugh. ‘This butter’s on the turn.’ She sniffs it with a grimace, the vivid yellow reflecting on her pale skin. ‘Didn’t we buy some yesterday?’

  Hope can’t help but remember the fallen pat of butter that had been filthy and crawling with ants when she’d finally gone to collect the basket of produce. She shrugs, saying they must have forgotten it, not wanting to drag yesterday’s worries into today.

  She goes out to saddle up the pony, has just put the bridle over his head, when she sees one of the Littlemore servants striding across the meadow, skirts bunched in her fist, waving with her other hand. Hope crosses the orchard to meet her, racking her mind for the girl’s name, unable to remember it.

  ‘Dr Cotton asked me to come and tell you that there will be no lessons today.’ There is a smudge of dirt on her apron, her shoes are scuffed and her hair is escaping untidily from her cap. ‘The mistress is ailing and he doesn’t want Rafe there in case it is contagious.’

  Hope is remembering Bette’s hacking cough the other evening. ‘Oh dear. It’s kind of you to come. Will you tell her we send our best?’ The girl is about to turn on her heel when Hope adds, ‘In fact, would you mind waiting? I’m sure Hester would like to write your mistress a note.’

  As they enter the house, the maid casts her eyes around with disdain. She seems surprised by the mean dimensions of the Orchard Cottage kitchen, as if she’d expected them to be more elevated, the family being such close friends of her employer.

  Melis, who is carefully pouring hot wax from a pan into candle moulds, must have noticed the girl’s expression too. ‘Are we not grand enough for you?’

  The girl looks down, hot red blotches blossoming on her throat. The forgotten name springs into Hope’s mind: Joan. Now she has remembered it seems obvious: she looks like a Joan, with her red face and bitten nails. She sits, nervously tapping a foot against the table leg, while Hope fetches Hester, who writes a hasty note to Bette. Hope can’t help but notice Joan’s shoes are dirty and each time she taps a little chip of dry mud breaks away to land on the newly swept floor.

  ‘Do you mind?’ says Melis, pointing to the scattering of dirt. ‘That floor was clean.’ The girl mumbles an apology. Hester frowns at Melis, but Hope is just happy that her sister is back to her usual outspoken self.

  Hester, ever the diplomat, seeks to put the girl at her ease. ‘Never mind. It’s just a bit of dust.’

  Once the visitor has gone, the three sisters settle to their mending. Rafe is restless with the day’s plans thwarted, fidgeting and taunting the cat. Hester suggests he tidy the needlework box. He sits on the floor, tipping it to spill the jumble of contents onto the flagstones, at last becoming absorbed in sorting the buttons and hooks, untangling the spools of thread and arranging all the pins in the pincushion.

  ‘You’re such a help, sweetheart,’ Hester says, watching him fondly. He basks in her approval. Hope wonders if it is good for him to lead a life so mollycoddled, whether it might be better for him to go to school and meet other boys his own age. It is not the first time she has thought about it, and once she had brought it up with Hester, who said she’d consider it but never mentioned the subject again.

  A squeal shatters the peace and the sound of buttons skittering over the floor. Rafe has flung the newly tidied box to the flagstones and is holding his thumb aloft. A bead of blood is swelling where he has managed to prick himself on one of the sharp leatherwork needles.

  ‘Why don’t we take the pony up the lane, get some fresh air?’ Hope suggests, to distract him.

  Rafe kicks the piebald into a trot. ‘Don’t go too far ahead,’ Hope calls. ‘Wait for me at the oak.’ He is a confident rider, looks good in the saddle, straight-backed and taller than he really is. Hope ambles in his wake, collecting scented herbs into a posy as she goes.

  At the oak there is no sign of the previous day’s incident, not even a slick of butter in the grass. It makes her question whether it happened at all. The hole in the tree gapes. A bee wavers nearby, disappearing inside. An involuntary spasm runs through her and she feels compelled to get away from the place. ‘Let’s go back.’

  They arrive home to find Hester and Melis outside the front door, laughing about something, heads thrown back in happy abandon. The feeling is infectious and the unease she had felt only minutes before wanes.

  ‘Someone’s coming,’ says Rafe, craning his neck to see over the high yew hedge, as they become aware of the jangle of horses approaching down the lane. Two eventually come into sight, not the nags usually to be seen around Iffley but great big beasts, glossy with long, crimped manes and silver-beaded browbands that catch the light. The two riders are as fancy as bishops, one in a scarlet suit with an ostrich feather in his cap. As for the other, Hope has never seen the like. He is garlanded with pearls and his jacket gleams with gold thread, as if he is a god.

  Hester’s eyes narrow.

  The air thickens – you could almost ram a pin into it.

  Something is amiss.

  ‘Take Rafe to the back.’ Hester’s voice is reedy.

  Hope doesn’t argue, though her curiosity about the visitors is almost too much to contain, and pulls Rafe, protesting, towards the kitchen door.

  Hester

  I recognize George Villiers immediately, dread dropping into me, rooting me to the doorstep as, speechless, I watch him dismount and saunter up the front path.

  I can’t find my voice. It is Melis who speaks. ‘What are you doing here?’ There is no need to ask: he can be here only for Rafe, who is now, thankfully, out of sight.

  He ignores her. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’ He walks past us over the threshold, taking claim of the space. His head almost brushes the low beams of the parlour. I wish he would crack it against one.

  I feel the pulse, deep within, of a monster so far buried I had forgotten its force. It stirs, opening an eye to watch him, bedecked in jewels and pearls and gilded gewgaws, as if an ember has broken off the sun and fallen into my home, threatening to burn it to the ground.

  ‘Ah! Little Hessie, quite the woman now.’ His smile m
ocks.

  I would like to take my pet name out of his mouth and smash it to pieces on the floor so it can never be used again.

  He removes his hat and shakes out his hair. He was always proud of his chestnut curls. Now grey strands run through them and I notice, with a shameful jolt of satisfaction, that he has become a little paunchy.

  ‘What brings you here?’ I can’t bear to say his name. It’s all I can do to prevent myself spitting on the floor by his feet and sending him packing.

  Melis steps forward to stand beside me in sisterly solidarity. We both know there can be no good reason for this visit.

  He looms between us and the door with the light at his back.

  Beyond him I can see Hope trying to contain Rafe, who has broken from her grasp and is running towards the horses. George’s man is leaning against the wall smoking a pipe, eyes on Hope, who gives him a flirtatious smile. He is wearing a foppish jacket the colour of raspberries and blows out an ostentatious chain of smoke rings, seeming the type to be exactly aware of how good-looking he is. Rafe is gazing up in awe at the imposing pair of Holsteiners, slurping loudly from the trough, putting our own stocky piebald pony to shame.

  ‘I’m here to see my boy.’

  My hackles rise. I don’t respond and will Rafe to return round the back, out of sight.

  ‘He must be growing up.’ George says this in a manner that suggests he means something by it.

  ‘He’s eight!’ I understand the implication. Keeping an eye firmly on Rafe, I watch him stroking one of the animals, a vast hunter, black and shiny as tar. Hope is distracted, deep in conversation with the foppish manservant.