“Shall I bring more next month, Sir?”
“If you like.”
“Then I shall.” A pause, then: “You didn’t answer my question, Mr. Godwin—if you believed what you preached.”
“I believe that Christ died for our sins, if that is what you want to know.”
“Why then do people continue to sin? Does Christ need to be sacrificed every day in order that we may live without sin?”
“We remember His sacrifice when we receive Holy Communion. We remember His new commandment and honor it every time we break bread and take the cup and share it—His words are but a paraphrasing of that which His ancestors spoke when they recalled their deliverance from Egypt, and reminds us that His coming to Earth was for but one purpose: to take our sins and transgressions upon His shoulders. It is our deliverance out of Egypt.”
“What if he came to Earth to show us a new way to live? A way to love one another as he loved us?” Mary asked, coming closer. “I still do not understand, Mr. Godwin, that if we are washed white and new in the blood of the Lamb, and are free of sin, then why do people continue to sin? To hate and to do harm to one another? That is what I want to know.”
“I don’t know.” This was said after a long, painful moment while Nathaniel studied the perfect face staring up at him. A face so exquisitely beautiful and enchanting it had been in his mind’s eye for weeks. The lips he had no thought of but to kiss and kiss again.
“Let me posit this, Sir, if I may.”
“Of course.”
“Could it be that we were gifted with Free Will? That men will always want and want and it never be enough? And that all a woman ever wants to is to have her say, and perhaps to be given her own way if the argument is sound?” She frowned and looked as if studying the pattern of shadows on the floor. Her eyes were raised and then dropped to her sides. “It is all I have ever wanted.”
“I’m sorry, Mistress Burnley. I don’t know.”
“At least you are honest; which is more than can be said for many. God keep you safe this night,” she said.
“Mistress Burnley!”
She turned, her eyes questioning.
“I do not know why Mr. Talbot will have none of your work, but continue to bring it, but on Wednesday evenings—he is in Ludlow on Wednesdays.”
“We have an agreement then,” she said, nodding and the hint of smile crossing her lips.
“May I accompany you home? It’s late, and…”
“I can find my way, Sir, but I thank you. Besides, Mr. Lawton will have laid your supper in The Castle and Motte, and you wouldn’t want it going to spoil, would you?”
Another smile, and she was gone.
Nathaniel saw the hems of her skirts as she passed through the church door. He walked down the nave, picking up prayer books and hymnals, stacking them neatly at the ends of pews. At the statue of the Virgin and Child he paused and took one of the roses, inhaling its perfume. Then he reached out and touched the cold, purbeck marble face that seemed to glow with life…
Chapter 4
Mary’s talent as a weaver and seamstress may not have been favored by Charles Talbot, but they were appreciated by Charlotte Wainwright, who commissioned a christening wardrobe for her infant son Henry. Such a business transaction would have gone unnoticed had the child been someone other than Sir Martin Frankewell’s first grandson.
Sir Martin was the district’s only landed gentry. Lady Isobel, his finely boned, frail-looking wife was the youngest daughter of the Earl of Salisbury. Though Lady Isobel looked as if a good wind would snap her in two, she proved sturdy enough to bear Martin five sons and two daughters. No one knew what Lady Isobel thought, for she was the most circumspect of women in Knowstone. The only woman who could equal her was the young lady who now stood in the morning room of Saltfield Manor and listened quietly as praise was heaped on her.
Lady Isobel ran a delicate finger along the more delicate stitching of the tiny christening cap in her hand. “You should return to London, Mary. The ladies of the court would undoubtedly offer you more commissions than we do here in the country,” she remarked and offered one of her rare yet beautiful smiles when Mary did not answer. “I know what you’re thinking: I have offended you by supposing you are nothing more than a shopkeeper and women from your station of life are not expected to keep shops.”
“It isn’t my station in life to let others know what I’m thinking, Lady Isobel.”
Another smile graced those perfect red lips and then Lady Isobel laughed, her delighted reaction bringing her eldest son, Erland, to the morning room door. He looked in, and when Mary turned at the sound of his boots, he departed just as quickly, never bothering to find out what amused his mother.
“You shall do well to spite all of us!” Lady Isobel laughed.
“I only wish to make my living and to be left alone.”
This admission sobered Lady Isobel and she nodded. Now she placed a hand on Mary’s cheek and out of the corner of her eye, Mary could see the brilliant diamonds in her wedding band. “Dearest Mary, I regret all that has happened. But know this: it had to be done. I pray you will forgive me?”
Mary smiled sadly. “You’ve done nothing that requires forgiveness. I beg your forgiveness,” she whispered.
“It is given. Now, do come and see us again. We have missed you all these months!”
“I shall try, Lady Isobel.”
“Do you have the books I gave you? Edmund Spencer and Donne? Petrarch?”
“Yes, and I thank you.”
“Good.”
Mary was dismissed then, and as she left, Lady Isobel said, “Never give up hope, Mary Burnley. That alone sustains us.”
Erland was standing at a window, a book in his hands, when Mary passed through the salon to the staircase. She dipped into a neat curtsey when he looked up and forced a smile.
“I have kept the book of sonnets you gave me,” he spoke up. “How are you, Mary?”
“Well. As you see me.”
“Uncommonly beautiful as always,” Erland remarked bitterly.
“I believe that would be the fault of my parents.”
“And always clever.” The book was snapped shut and tossed on a window seat. “Perhaps more thanks to a year at university with a husband, surrounded by the best minds and the most adoring friends.”
“Why is it thought I attended university? And if it were so, why should that be a fault, or something to be ashamed of?”
“Because my dear,” Erland walked towards her, his eyes locked on hers, “it is bad enough to possess beauty that men cannot have, worse still to be more intelligent than those who worship you and dream of you, and want you in their beds.”
Mary was ready to speak, but thought better of it, and made another curtsey, eyes downcast, as he brushed by her on the way out, his hand skimming her cheek and shoulder.
“You know it will be the greatest sin of your life if you touch her again, or if you renew that sentiment.”
Erland glanced down at his mother and offered a smile he knew would soften that hard line of her porcelain jaw and remove the flint from her violet eyes. Of all her sons, Erland resembled Isobel the most, from the fairest of gilt blond hair, deep, darkest blue eyes, so blue they appeared violet, and the stature and carriage of ancient Danes: the tall, beautiful northmen who conquered England before William the Bastard had even been born.
“Do you know me so well, Mother?” Erland asked, planting a kiss on her honey-scented cheek. “Because if you did, you’d know that it would be the least!”
Isobel was about to speak, but drew her breath inward and watched as he sauntered out, shouting for a footman and groom.
No matter Lady Isobel’s kind disposition toward Mary, she was not invited to Saltfield for Henry’s christening. Mary stayed home as if it were any other day and as soon as her mother hurried off, spent most of the day at the loom, leaving the house only to stretch her limbs and soothe an aching back. Her innocent search for freedom f
rom tedium started a row of the worst kind when Emily returned home late in the afternoon, eager to gossip with her daughter. She was disappointed when she returned and found the girl gone. At a quarter past five, the door closed with a slam and Emily assumed her most indignant pose.
“Where’ve you been, girl? I want to tell you about the christening party.” Emily’s was not a question but a demand. She glanced over her copy of Punch and sighed, noting the muddy hems of Mary’s frock and petticoats. “Look at you! Even at twenty years of age, you refuse to look respectable. The milkmaids at Charleston’s dairy spend more time before a looking glass than you—ah! Now there’s a pain I’ve not felt before! Give me my shawl. The ride to Saltfield and back must have given me a chill. The shawl, girl!”
Mary dutifully brought a woolen shawl from the settee and draped it over her mother’s lap. For a moment, their eyes met. Mary removed her glance quickly and if Emily hadn’t seized her arm, would have escaped into the far parlor.
“Do you know what is being said?” Emily growled. “The most unkind of things! The very worst kind of things! And you are being made a whore, a slut!”
Their eyes, similar in shape and size but not in color nor clarity, now locked. Mary gently wrested free of her mother’s grasp and rubbed the sore spot on her forearm where a bruise would rise by morning.
“How fortunate for you; had I been painted a martyr or saint in their imaginations what would you have to say?”
“Remember yourself my girl! You are not a mistress of Oxford here!”
I never was to begin with, Mary thought as she retreated to her sanctuary of the far parlor. What would they all think if they knew the truth?
Soon the house echoed with the slow, comfortable rhythm of the loom; Mary was lost in the routine of leading the bobbins back and forth across the warp threads, a song from her childhood in her head that kept time with the beats of the heddle against the new fabric. Even Cook and the maid hummed along as they went about their chores. Emily spent the hour before dinner settling into her discontent. She glanced about her parlor and sighed. It was not what she had wanted.
Emily was by no means destitute. She lived comfortably on her widow’s pension and she had inherited a comfortable sum of seventy-two pounds and seven from her brother. Her house was large and she kept two servants. The furnishings were immaculate, simple, evidence of the owner’s desire to be better placed in society. Just last Christmas, her sister in Chester gave her a new pianoforte, which now held the place of honor in the great parlor where she held court. The mantle over the hearth in the sitting room was cluttered with trinkets and framed portraits. The stairwell was decorated with paintings of ancestors, all them dour and oppressed. Emily Witherslack knew she was out of place in that provincial setting. She had been born to a respectable London family with an equally-respectable fortune and place in society. With this thought in mind, Emily soon nodded off to sleep, certain her daughter’s shameful life had brought her to old age early.
What her daughter thought was of no moment.
“Oh dear, Miss—she’s fallen asleep again,” the maid sighed after discovering Emily snoring in her chair. Mary came from the parlor at the ringing of the dinner bell and paused on her way to the dining room.
“Leave her be. You know how cross she’ll be if you wake her. She’ll have a tray in her room when she wakes.”
For the first time in months dinner was pleasant and quiet for all concerned. Without Emily’s constant harping and complaints Mary ate an entire meal and the maid had no reason to fly from the dining room in tears.
“Cora, your apron is frayed,” Mary commented when she looked up as the dishes were taken away. “Your dress is twice turned, is it not?”
The maid blushed and wiped her hands on a worn patch of the apron. “I’ve almost saved enough for a new dress, Mistress. I’m sorry. Missus Witherslack chides me so about the way I look, but it isn’t a fault of mine; Cook and I haven’t seen a month of wages.”
Mary shoved away the dish of fruit placed before her and left the room, returning minutes later with a handful of coins that she pressed into the maid’s unsuspecting hands.
“This should be enough for two good dresses and an apron. And your livery. If Cook needs anything, tell her to come to me.”
“Thank you, Mistress!” The maid cried and took a step closer as if to embrace Mary for her kindness and thought better of it. She made a neat curtsey and hurried out. While Mary finished her meal, she smiled as she listened to the excited and happy conversation between the cook and the maid. One of them had a suitor. It had been some time since Mary heard laughter in the house.
The moment of happiness lasted only a while longer. After dinner, Mary brought her mending to the kitchen and enjoyed the company of the maid Cora and the cook while they did the cleaning up and she darned her best stockings. The pleasant warmth of the hearth, the sound of the pots and pans clattering and the occasional conversation about everyday things, little things, were comforting. With every stitch Mary relaxed and told herself it was a good decision coming home…
“What’s this?”
Cook and the maid bobbed down and up in curtsies as Emily entered the kitchen, her face sleep-heavy and cross. They barely glanced at the unfinished dishes in the sink and quietly disappeared up the back stairs while Emily watched just as quietly and as soon as they were gone, she strolled past the table, the countertops, and the hearth to make an inspection of this room she seldom visited.
“Have you no regard for your mother that you allow me to sleep through dinner and have no thought to see to my comfort?” Emily sighed, a hint of trembling in her voice.
“I instructed Cora to bring a tray once you’d been to your room. You were sleeping so soundly,” Mary replied, not glancing up at her mother. “Would it not have been thoughtless to disturb your dreams?”
“You have the far parlor for that!” Emily responded, jabbing at the stocking. She took it in her hand and clucked her tongue in dissatisfaction, tossing it back. “There’s no reason to hide here with the servants.”
“I only thought to leave you in peace. The light is much better here at this time of day and to light the lamps in the far parlor seemed a waste of oil,” Mary continued as she made several more careful stitches and then folded her work in her lap. Finally she looked up at her mother and tried a smile that was met with a disapproving scowl.
“Ever the perfect daughter and child! I wonder what people would say if they knew the truth?”
With that, Emily marched out, the door to the stairwell slamming shut and echoing through the house. Mary waited a moment and then sighed, taking up the stocking and studying the almost invisible, perfect stitches. How she wished she could disappear into the fabric of life.
Indeed, she thought. What would anyone do or say if they knew the truth? She pondered that while washing the dishes.
“Here, now! Mistress, you oughtn’t spend your evening doing this,” Cook spoke up an hour later when she returned and found Mary stacking plates in the rack above the counter. She smiled nevertheless, for the kitchen was as spotless as it should be, as she, Cook, would make it.
“I had neither cook nor maid when we lived in Oxford and London,” Mary replied, untying the apron and putting it carefully on a hook. “Of course, if I am intruding in any way I’ll stay clear,” she added with a sweet, genuine smile.
“Oh, it’s no bother to me, Miss,” Cook replied as she lit a fire under the kettle and invited Mary to sit at the table. “It’s Mistress Witherslack. If you don’t mind my saying so, she goes out of her way to find fault with everyone and everything.”
“True enough. I have no desire to make life difficult for you, Meg. Let’s have our cup of tea and decide how we should go about our days and we’ll never say a word to her, shall we?”
The cook nodded in agreement.
From that evening’s conversation, a routine settled in the Witherslack household. As soon as it was light, Mary rose and he
lped Cook light the fires and start breakfast, then shut herself up in the far parlor to work until noon, when she emerged flushed and exhausted to take a meal, listen to her mother’s gossip, and then went out for a walk, returning at dusk. After supper with Emily, Mary returned to the parlor and worked well into the night.
One afternoon someone knocked at the door and Emily started from her nap, calling for the maid to see who it was.
“Lady Isobel! And Jane!” Emily exclaimed loudly. “My goodness, to think—why this is a surprise! To what should we owe this visit? Mary, Mary! Mary, come and see who’s come to call!”
Mary continued the push the heddle and pass bobbins to and fro, watching a new pattern emerge. She threw the heddle harder as the voices rose and fell in polite, feminine conversation.
Emily was suddenly there in the parlor, pulling the curtain closed behind her. “Mary, put away your things!” she whispered excitedly and then giggled, adding, “This is quite unexpected! I did not think to have visitors ever again. Mary, Lady Isobel Frankewell and Jane are here! And Mr. Frankewell himself! Did you know that Jane is engaged to Lord Marchmont’s youngest son Robert—one hundred pounds per annum and a house near Bath! Three servants and a carriage and driver! And that is just in honor of the engagement! Mary! Do you hear me? Come at once!”
“Why should they want my company?” Mary’s reply was bland and bored, her concentration on a warp thread that had gone askew.
“You think too highly of yourself, to think they’ve come all this way for you! Perhaps they’ve not come to see you, my dear! And do not presume too much upon their kindness, Mary, but accept it, for you have none from any lady of standing in Knowstone! Now do come, and do something with your appearance—ah! Your boots! Where do you go, Girl, when you take your walks?”
Emily disappeared, chirping sweetly for Cook to set a tea worthy of the Frankewells.
By the time Mary came from the parlor a proper tea had been spread, presided over by Emily who simpered and giggled at their perplexed guests, instructing the maid in her most empirical voice to offer little cakes and sweetmeats and fragrant tea on the finest bone china plates and cups. Mary was appalled at the sight of Erland standing at the hearth with Maeve Pinkerton, who smiled sweetly and bobbed in a curtsey as she did the same.
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