St. Edmund Wood

by Caitlin Luke Quinn

  “The cat doesn’t deserve such treatment.”

  Dorcas pondered that for a moment, and then laughed aloud, which brought a rare smile to Mary’s lips. “There, Miss! That’s how I remember you, before you went away,” Dorcas said.

  “I didn’t ask for wine,” Mary commented.

  “No you didn’t, Miss, and more than like Mr. Lawton wouldn’t have spared a flask of vinegar for you. This here’s a gift from a gentleman.”

  Dorcas saw Mary’s nod in the twilight. “When you return to Knowstone, Dorcas, you may thank the vicar for his kindness.”

  Chapter 3

  The scars on Mary’s face were apparent but not disfiguring. Emily wondered why the girl thought nothing of them, for men would surely take account. And her hair! The burned hair was sheared off in a fringe above her eyebrows like that of a medieval page boy. Well, at least the scars and burn welts on her forehead were hidden, but Mary did have such lovely skin and a high, proud brow that set off her lovely, large eyes. What a pity it all was. If Mary wanted to find another husband, she would have to take greater care about her appearance. The girl rarely glanced in a mirror. Nor did she wear a bonnet or carry a parasol when she went out, which was every day, and she looked like a gypsy girl with the windblown hair, her tan face and hands.

  “I wonder why you do not speak to the parents of those brats,” Emily sniffed as she watched Mary fold yards of fair linen and place it in a basket.

  “It would do no good; if not the children throwing stones, then surely the parents. I do not wonder at that.”

  “Then you should denounce them!”

  “Shall I stand on the market cross and make a proclamation, Mother? Who would come to my defense? Who would be my champion?” Mary sighed. “People would jeer and laugh, be derisive; I would be called a great many things, most of which would not be true.”

  “I am sure you would be better situated if you returned to London, or Oxford.”

  “And there I should be no trouble for you.”

  “Mary! I said nothing—!”

  “How unfortunate that Justin’s parents are dead—I would have been welcomed in Liverpool.”

  “Are you saying that I hold no affection for you, Mary? You are my daughter!”

  “I am your burden,” Mary said as she opened the door.

  “Where do you go now?” Emily whined.

  “To market, and then to St. Ælfgyva’s. It’s Saturday, Mother.”

  “Ah! You shouldn’t trouble Mr. Talbot; it would be better to take your linens to Bath or Wells, even Chester where you’d fetch a good price—a better price than here. He doesn’t appreciate your work as it is.”

  “Well,” Mary sighed, “At least St. Ælfgyva’s knows the quality of my work and depends on our arrangement. Were I to ply my trade in Bath, Wells, and Chester I could easily find myself living on the streets for lack of money, for I’d have no clients. Would you like that, Mother?”Before Emily could offer several warnings or shove a parasol in her hands, Mary was gone.

  The church of St. Ælfgyva’s and its vicarage stood at the western end of Whitecastle Street, close by the market and guildhall. The church and its great medieval cross could be seen from Mary’s bedroom window at Hazelwick. So too could she see beyond the church to a tributary of the River Teme, the northern road towards Ludlow and Shrewsbury, the outcropping of forest that marked the Welsh border and the ruins of one of the many castles put here in the days of Edward Longshanks. How many mornings had she sat by the window combing out her hair and wondering if she should take that road? The journey into Wales, she thought, would be less onerous than the stroll through Knowstone Market.

  Mary headed east toward the market cross and was thankful the streets were more empty than usual. Most if not all the villagers were home for supper. When she noticed the young vicar passing through the lych-gate at the church, Mary brought her head up and rather than go along at a steady clip with head down as was her usual custom, she took her time and met eye for eye, stare for stare. She would not allow him to see her vulnerable to the opinion of Knowstone. Besides, the scars were on the face. They wouldn’t see those etched on her heart.

  Mrs. Galthwaite’s Holland tulips were growing nicely, as were the foxgloves and roses. The gardener herself nodded curtly when Mary passed and looked up from her hedgerow.

  “Mistress Burnley. How is your mother?” Mrs. Galthwaite demanded, stabbing at the earth with a trowel.

  “Well enough,” Mary answered.

  Mrs. Galthwaite sat up on her knees and frowned. “Don’t we look proud! That pale pink is best suited for a virgin, Mistress Burnley. And such a fashion! Mark my word, there are some who will think you’ve fallen in with the French! Where is your bonnet, child? Your fichu? And no corsets!”

  “I’ll mark that in my book this evening: corsets, bonnet, fichu, and I should not wear pink. I must tell you, ma’am, that no one of good society has worn a fichu for almost twenty years. Anything else I should mark?”

  “Better manners, I think!”

  “Good day, Mrs. Galthwaite.”Mr. Rede the baker removed the gooseberry pies and sweet buns cooling on the counter just as Mary’s shadow passed the door. She placed a new half-crown on the worn green paint of the counter and silently took a half-dozen sweet buns from Mr. Rede. “Nice to see you, Mistress,” he grumbled avoiding the disapproving stares of passers by.

  “Good of you to say so,” Mary remarked and taking a bite into the savory sweetness of a warm bun, continued on her way.

  The windows of the dressmaker’s shop caught Mary’s eye as she passed. Few things in a dress shop ever caught Mary’s fancy, but that afternoon she could not tear herself away.

  An evening frock of pale apricot silk stood on a mannequin with a matching pelisse. The fabric was unique in that it was decorated with embroidered gold stars and was iridescent, the light making the fabric apricot at one moment, golden another. The décolleté neckline, high waistline and short cap sleeves were still all the rage in fashionable London society.

  Mary wanted it, décolleté and all. She’d forsake her ideals and standards for that dress, to wear it in London or Oxford, even here in Knowstone, where they knew nothing about everything.

  “Yes, this is the frock I told you about, Caroline! From Paris, I’m sure.”

  Two women and their children had paused to gape in the windows and were now gasping and cooing at the fine dresses and things on display.

  “Surely Paris, look at the handiwork on the hems—the stars! One might think they really did twinkle,” the second woman chattered, pressing her nose against the glass to block out the late sun reflected on the panes.

  “And the pelisse! What do you think? Woolen or velvet? Yes, this must be from Paris.”

  “No, from London,” Mary now offered. “I saw something like this in London, at a concert. The Duchess of Norfolk wore a dress exactly like this. I remember—I remember that everyone in the house admired her, and my husband said he wished he could afford such a gown for me—”

  The women turned, recognizing Mary immediately. Without another word, they each took a child by the hand and led them away.

  Mary sadly watched them go, and then returned to her vigil on the dress. Yes, she had seen the Duchess of Norfolk in this dress! It was Christmas last. Justin had given her two frocks in this latest fashion.

  “We are the makers of fashion, my dear.”

  “But Justin, can we afford these? The work alone must have cost a pound, if not more!”

  “I’ve taken two students on, and I’m writing for the Historical Society, so yes, my love, we can very much afford to dress you in the latest fashion.”

  “Which one shall I wear to the Christmas Ball, then?”

  “The saffron. You will be iridescent.”

  Mary melted into his arms and kissed him. “Have there ever been two people more happy, my love?” she whispered.

  “Never…”

  “It’s a pretty thing, is it not?”<
br />
  The woman’s voice startled Mary out of her daydream and she looked around and saw Maeve Pinkerton, lady’s maid to Isobel Frankewell. She was a severe woman in manner and appearance; the way she carried herself and her deportment took away from the cool beauty of her face and form, for she held herself in high regard despite the fact no one else did.

  “It is beautiful,” Mary answered and glanced at Maeve, offering a smile and nodding towards the dress, continuing, “You would do this much justice, Miss Pinkerton, for the color suits your eyes.”

  “I thank you Mistress Burnley, but it is too proud and beautiful a thing for the likes of Knowstone!”

  “What are the likes of Knowstone, I wonder?” Mary commented.

  “Strange question you ask; since you of all people would know—a provincial, unkind, unloving place.”

  “There are some good qualities—is the castle not beautiful in its ruins? The houses and streets are well kept, and most of the villagers have the Gospel in their hearts.”

  Maeve took a step closer and offered a malicious smile. “And what of Erland Frankewell? Is he not a boon? Is he not one of Knowstone’s best qualities? Certainly that is the true reason you have come back, when someone with common sense would never give returning a second thought.”

  “A person must have a home.”

  “There are houses in Oxford.”

  Mary offered a curtsey and turned to go, then spun around, saying, “Often we do not have choices and so we return to the familiar against our own desires. We are reminded of our faults and never praised for our achievements. We are reminded constantly that men like Erland Frankewell are suitable for neither maid nor vicar’s daughter—no matter how much we try to persuade ourselves otherwise.”

  “He chose you, Mary.”

  Now it was Mary’s turn to smile. “Despite your best efforts to persuade him otherwise. You may renew your claim upon him. You shall not have a rival in me, Miss Pinkerton.”

  “And yet you wear the necklace he gave you even now.” Maeve gestured with a gloved finger at the diamond pendant around Mary’s neck, which made the other girl’s face blush angrily and a trembling hand clasped the tear-drop stone.

  “I had forgotten I still wear it. Good day to you, Maeve Pinkerton.”

  “Good day,” Maeve said as they both curtseyed and went their ways—Maeve into the dressmaker’s shop and Mary to St. Ælfgyva’s.

  The tenth-century church had always been Mary’s favorite place in Knowstone. Most thought it a dark and depressing place in spite of the restored stained glass windows—its chief beauty—but Mary found something more than beauty in the Romanesque architecture and smooth walls with its peeling, fading frescoes uncovered after centuries of neglect and disgrace; the pale, sweet faces of saints and angels staring down at her from the midst of plaster.

  She found serenity.

  Mary walked to the foot of the sanctuary steps and waited. It was five and she was late. The altar guild ladies always met her at 4:30 to discuss the linen needs of the church.

  The ambulatory door opened and Nathaniel Godwin came out with a prayer book and candlesticks, bringing them to the altar. He made an obeisance and as he turned, noticed Mary. She took a step backwards and stared as if she’d seen a ghost.

  The light from the windows fell across his face. It was a sad countenance yet with bright hair and light eyes, almost as if he’d stepped out of one of the frescoes over the altar. He was young, closer to her age than Justin had been. For all his youth, he looked weary and troubled.

  He was the most handsome man she’d ever seen; if a man could be beautiful, here was proof! Mary felt the color rise in her cheeks when he looked at her. His eyes burned into her and he stared the way the other men did. She was used to the gaze borne of lust and desire to possess wholly and completely, but from this man it made her uncomfortable.

  “Good evening, Mistress,” he said at last. The voice was soft and deep. Mary was pleased. Oftentimes the voice and the man did not go together. He stepped forward now and smiled and Mary shied away from this giant towering over her, for the priest was taller than most men in Knowstone. He was well proportioned and looked like a medieval knight.

  “Is Mistress Renfrew here?” she asked.

  “May I help you? Do you require alms?”

  She sighed. “No, I do not! Why does everyone suppose I am in need of charity? I have brought the fair linen,” Mary demanded, exasperated.

  “Fair linen, Mistress?”

  “Yes. I’ve furnished the linens for nearly three months now, since returning home.”

  Here she knelt and uncovered her market basket, taking from it three folded squares of embroidered white on white linen, unfurling and holding them out for inspection. She sighed again when he failed to notice the linen.

  “Perhaps Saint Andrew’s in Barkingham will have need of these.”

  “I didn’t—forgive me, Mistress! You’ve taken pains.”

  Now he took the cloth from Mary and inspected it, looking from time to time at Mary, who stared at him, just as curious.

  “Your courtesy surprises me, Sir.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I’ve come to expect a most unkind reception in Knowstone. Everyone has an opinion of me, and not at all kind.”

  “And who are you that I should know you? I can see you’re an excellent seamstress and weaver. That is all I need know.”

  “I am Mary Burnley, the Reverend Percy Witherslack’s daughter.” When he did not respond, Mary continued: “Does that not give you pause, sir? Are you not concerned?” She nodded toward the fair linen when he still did not respond. “Mistress Renfrew pays two and six for each, sir.”

  “Two and six for each? So little for so much! I’ve seen cloth as fine as this at Canterbury Cathedral.”

  “Two and six. Yes. Shall I come tomorrow to settle the account?”

  “Mr. Talbot will be here after supper, for Evening Prayer, if you would wait.”

  “I’d rather return tomorrow. He would prefer to see me in sack cloth and ashes, or walk through Knowstone stripped to the waist and carrying only a candle!”

  The reference to medieval punishment for women of ill repute made Nathaniel suddenly laugh. “How unlike the others you are! You are like the clean air after a storm.”

  “But I am not. Good day, Mr.…”

  “Godwin. Nathaniel Godwin.”

  “Mr. Godwin.”

  Mary took her basket, made an obeisance, and left quietly.

  He folded his arms across his chest, still holding the fair linen, and watched until she was lost in the blinding light of the open door. The scent of wild flowers that she brought with her still lingered.

  “Everything in readiness for evening prayer, Nathaniel?”Charles Talbot’s voice startled Nathaniel and he moved guiltily away from the altar. Talbot noticed the cloth still in Nathaniel’s hands and came forward. “What have you there? Don’t tell me those stupid sluts from the village have burned holes in the fair linen again!”

  “It is fair linen, Sir. Mistress Burnley brought it. Two and six for each. Most excellent workmanship, such as I’ve never seen. A rare blessing—”

  “Blessing it is not. That is something you may drop wax upon or burn!”

  “Burn it? But I don’t understand.”

  “Burn the cloth or give it back—but I’d rather you burn it. Well? Do as you’re told. You’re not Archbishop of Canterbury yet!”

  Talbot walked back the way he came, through the ambulatory and sacristy, and once the door banged shut and echoed through the nave, Nathaniel followed the same path, but closed the door more quietly, and went in to the sacristy. He held the linen over the dust bin for only a moment and then shoved it into the back of a small cupboard that had been in disuse for years.

  “‘The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost be with us all evermore.’”

  “Amen.”

  Seven heads bobbed re
spectfully as Nathaniel processed out of the nave down the center aisle. Only one person did not offer courtesy and that was Mary Burnley, sitting off in the dark shadows of the dimly-lit church, the purple light of dusk in her hair. The others left quietly, another evening prayer service done, whispering to one another and smiling back at Nathaniel as he took their alms.

  “Do you believe all that you said, Mr. Godwin?”

  Nathaniel was closing the church doors and all but slammed them shut at the unexpected sound of her voice.

  “Mistress Burnley! I was told you did not, that is, I mean to say, you would not…”

  She stood and came from her bench, a prayer book in one hand, roses in another. “That is to say, you have been told a great many things, I am certain.”

  “Yes.”

  His head was bowed shamefully as she approached. Thinking that she would come closer, he involuntarily closed his eyes and whispered a prayer. When he opened them, she was placing roses at the feet of an ancient statue of the Virgin and Child, a relic of the old religion that had been saved by the people of Knowstone in the days of Henry VIII, and was a curiosity for travelers to pause and marvel at en route to Wales. She once stood in the abbey. The proof of her worth was the alms box that was always full of shillings, half-crowns, tuppence and thruppence, a pound or two.

  “Well, I am here.”

  Nathaniel frowned.

  “To collect for the linens?” she asked, smiling. The smile he added to her list of virtues, for he’d never seen such beauty in a woman.

  “Ah! Come.”

  He could hear her quick steps on the flagstones as she followed him over the graves of the ancient and illustrious of Knowstone who were buried under the church floor, past the tomb of an unknown knight and his lady, through the sanctuary and into the ambulatory and sacristy. Nathaniel unlocked a drawer and sorted through coins and carefully placed them in her palm.

  “Two and six each, which would make six and eighteen, I believe.”