St. Edmund Wood

by Caitlin Luke Quinn

  It was Mary clutching him; Mary was clutching and gasping as they met in the supreme union and moved as one until the senses were indistinguishable but acute, tantalizing and powerful, as the explosion of physical love made them both cry out in ecstasy and fall to the bed exhausted, spent.

  “There’s tuppence if you want it.”Maeve ignored the gesture of payment for her service and seeing that her bright gold hair was once again in its prim coif she bade Erland a good night. She would be of service again tomorrow night if he so desired. She left him seated at his desk and wrapped in a dressing gown. He paid no attention as she left, and he continued to read what he’d just penned.

  Downstairs the clock rang three in the morning. Erland emptied the rest of the bottle into a cup and stared over at the fire while he ruminated over thoughts. What more could be said? He turned back to the letter. Now the words came easily and by dawn he had said all. The letter was sealed and placed in the silver tray for the butler to find.

  “It’s better this way!” he said as he applied the hunting knife to his wrist and watched as the drops of blood multiplied and fell to the antique Turkish carpet.

  No one noticed his absence at breakfast. Lady Isobel and Sir Martin were used to their son’s escapades and errant ways. He was a lazy son of nobility, wasn’t he? Bored. Waiting for the old man to die so he might inherit the wealth. Martin often commented that he looked back on his own misspent youth and wondered how he survived.

  “Perhaps he spent the night in Knowstone—you know how he drinks to excess and plays cards at The Castle and Motte,” Martin said reassuringly to Isobel, but the screams of one of the maids brought him to his feet and upstairs where he found the servants gathered outside Erland’s bedroom. They parted and Martin nearly swooned when he saw his son’s pale, ashen body slumped over the desk, the pool of blood surrounding the chair and trickling towards the door. He turned away to wretch and was face to face with Maeve, taking deep breaths to control the nausea rising from his gut. He was the master of the household and must be strong.

  “Do not let your mistress come near this room!” Martin cried hoarsely, trying to contain his emotion. He turned to the footman and shouted, “Find Wells and tell him to send for the doctor and the constable and be quick about it! Maeve! Do not enter that room!”

  Maeve ignored the order and went in, showing a pretense of restoring calm and order and knelt at the chair, touching Erland’s cold, lifeless face, mindless of the blood and the metallic, rancid stench.

  “You foolish boy! How can this be? Only yesterday evening—” She caught herself when she noticed the other servants looking at her suspiciously. She looked about carefully, hoping to find nothing that would implicate her in this tragedy or reveal anything of the liaison, and saw the diamond necklace in Erland’s hand and scooped it into a pocket when no one was looking. After a moment’s hesitation she took the letter and handed it to one of the trembling maid. “The master will want this. Bring it to him straight away.” . Hours later Maeve approached Martin while he sat in his study.

  “How is his mother?” Martin inquired, his voice slurred by fatigue and whiskey.

  “The doctor has given her a sleeping draught,” Maeve replied, standing quietly before him with her prim hands at her waist. “Is there anything you require, my lord?”

  “The housekeeper has seen to everything?”

  “Everything, my lord.”

  “Her ladyship will have need of you, then.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Martin sat quietly for a moment and noticing she was still there, looked up with eyes swollen by grief and tears. He held the letter in his hands.

  “How simpler it would have been to let him marry the Witherslack girl! This could have been prevented,” he sobbed then.

  “Oh my lord, I think not!” Maeve crooned, kneeling before him. “Mary Burnley despised him.”

  Martin glanced at her, puzzled. “Is this true? But I thought…”

  She nodded slowly, the words coming easily. “They quarreled yesterday, Mary and Erland—openly in Knowstone, on Whitecastle Street; Mr. Godwin is paying court to her and when Master Erland wanted an explanation of her conduct, they quarreled violently. Begging your pardon, my lord, it is all very odd indeed. It is a curious event…”

  “Are you saying that Mary Burnley—?”

  “Who am I to say? She is as timid as a mouse, or seems to be so. But old habits die hard, don’t they?” Maeve took from her pocket the necklace Erland had taken from Mary in their quarrel and handed it to him. “You must know, sir, that she came to beg his forgiveness yesterday evening; I saw her here, in his rooms.”

  Martin took a moment to comprehend the implication of Maeve’s words and the look in her eyes. He shook his head and muttered, “Impossible, not her!” as he stormed out of the room. Maeve glanced down at the necklace he’d dropped and studied the workmanship, the cool brightness of the diamond pendant.

  “God and His saints, forgive me the lies I’ve just told!” she whispered; “but someone always has to pay, Mary Burnley!”

  Chapter 9

  The news of Erland’s suicide made the rounds in the village and only two people in Knowstone were still ignorant of the tragedy by nightfall, the two people most affected by it.

  No one at The Castle and Motte said a word to Nathaniel when he came in for supper. Erland was suspiciously absent and Nathaniel thought nothing of it until he asked Dorcas, and she began to weep.

  “Is Erland away?” he asked innocently.

  “Didn’t y’know, Father? Haven’t you heard? Erland Frankewell killed himself yester night.”

  The news stunned Nathaniel, as it should have. Immediately he mouthed a prayer. “Why did no one tell me? I should go to Saltfield—” he cried.

  “Begging your pardon, Father, they might as not would want you there.”

  “I was his friend! I am his friend!”

  “That’s as may be, but they do blame you.”

  Nathaniel threw two half-crowns on the table and hurried out.

  Charles Talbot was just as cryptic as the serving girl when confronted.

  “Sometimes, Nathaniel, I feel as if I am a father looking after his errant son,” Talbot sighed, putting away his letters and folding his hands neatly on the desktop.

  “I’m not to be looked after like a spoiled child or heir, sir.”

  “Of which you are both!”

  “One, but not the other, and not my fault entirely. Have I done something wrong, Sir?”

  “Perhaps you should tell me! Since your arrival in Knowstone you have gone out of your way to show your disapproval of provincial spirituality and to remind us that you had a better place in Canterbury!”

  “Never have I done that! Why do you hate me?”

  “I hate you for what you are: a son of privilege who is given a place in the Church of England only because his father has an income large enough to bestow a chantry! A man who is given an appointment with the Archbishop of Canterbury only to keep him quiet and out of trouble! And when he abuses these privileges and appointments, he is sent away to a provincial parish to be hid from sight!”

  “I can’t deny what you’ve said; it’s the truth. But tell me why I am blamed for Erland’s suicide.”

  “Several men of the town saw you meeting with Mary Witherslack.”

  “Mrs. Burnley?”

  “You know what I’m talking about, Nathaniel. I don’t want to make myself plainer.”

  “What you imply and what happened are two different things.”

  “Have you lain with her?”

  “No!”

  “Do you expect me to believe that? You were seen in the wood lying together!”

  “It is a lie! A damnable lie!”

  Talbot’s face grew redder until it was quite apparent that he would explode from the rage within him. “You protest too much, Nathaniel. You tremble. Is your vocation and your soul worth the Jezebel, this Whore of Babylon? Because of your assignatio
n, Erland Frankewell bled to death. Your betrayal of his friendship and his understanding with Mary Burnley brought on this most unfortunate and unhappy event!”

  Nathaniel felt the air rush out of his lungs and he gasped, feeling faint and sick to his stomach. “I do assure you, Sir,” he said when he had recovered; “I do assure you! We are no more than friends. When has taking a walk in plain sight of the village become a carnal sin? You wrong an innocent lady! I have no doubt you are the author of these vicious lies! For that is what they are: vicious and cruel lies meant to disgrace and damn someone who has done nothing to anyone in this village!”

  Nathaniel’s impassioned denouncement came as no surprise to Talbot, who was inwardly glad that the stupid fool was falling in love with Mary Burnley. It was a means to rid himself of the educated, liberal pest.

  The news of Erland’s suicide reached Mary at the same time Nathaniel learned of it. Emily took it upon herself to tell her daughter and was disappointed that the girl showed no grief. Perhaps, she thought, looking around the neat little cottage, the stories of Mary becoming Nathaniel’s lover were true after all, for when Mary came from the shed the shining brightness of her eyes and her radiance, her happy smile, all of which faded when she saw her mother, made Emily think that Mary was expecting Nathaniel.

  To Emily’s morbid delight, Nathaniel appeared almost as soon as she was settled in the cottage with a cup of tea and biscuits.

  “Mr. Godwin, I suppose you have come to share the unfortunate news of Erland Frankewell’s death?” Emily said without preamble or greeting to him when Cora brought him into the room.

  “He’s dead?” Mary gasped. “I heard that someone in the village died, but I did not think…” She sat hard on the settee and waved away Cora, who moved to comfort her.

  “That’s not all,” Emily sniffed. She took great delight in recounting the numerous stories she’d heard (and embellished) of Mary’s illicit love with the curate of St. Ælfgyva’s Church, how they met in St. Edmund Wood and lay together like pagans and how they conspired together to break Erland’s heart.

  “And what do you say to these charges? To these lies?” Mary demanded of Nathaniel quietly. She had not shed a single tear and he noted that with some satisfaction. Knowstone would be put off roundly if Mary put up a show of grief.

  “I refute them, of course.”

  “And will you deny them openly?”

  “In church on Sunday if you’d like.”

  “That is the shortest way to suspicion, Nathaniel. Protestations mean guilt. I would rather you say nothing.”

  “Then I shall say nothing if that is what you wish.”

  “You must do it for yourself.”

  Emily cleared her throat now to remind them they were not alone. She watched their faces and how their eyes blazed and how Mary’s breast rose and fell quicker every moment she looked at him. She couldn’t take her eyes away. They were both lying; she knew it!

  Nathaniel wanted so much to take Mary in his arms and tell her she was not to blame, and nor was he, that the truth would prove their innocence, but he prudently kept his distance. “I will go now. If you have any need…”

  “I shall be fine, Mr. Godwin.” She didn’t look at him.

  “Good evening, then.”

  Once he was gone, Emily sighed and in that sigh were a thousand words. “I wish I could believe you, but after all that happened in the past…”

  “I am nothing of what you make me!” Mary snapped. “You shame us both!”

  “The fool is in love with you. Don’t you see it?”

  “I see what I want to see.”

  “And so does all of Knowstone, my dear. Perhaps now you will leave for good. It would be best. You can go to Chester to live with my sister—or wherever we might find a remote corner of England that has yet to hear of you!”

  The door slammed behind Emily and Cora crept over to bolt the door. She turned to clear the tea and Mary took her hands, looking up at her with sad, frightened eyes.

  “I’ll leave tomorrow evening when the London coach arrives,” Mary whispered, holding back her tears.

  “It’s what everyone wants, Miss!”

  “Of course it is. It is one battle I have lost.”

  “Where will we go?”

  “I shall go alone, Cora. Please don’t cry! I will give you an allowance to keep you for many months. I still have money put aside,” Mary consoled the weeping girl with an embrace. “I will go as suddenly as I returned, and there won’t be a soul in Knowstone who won’t know it and secretly rejoice!”

  Cora sniffed back her tears and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “There is one who will mourn, Miss, someone other than me…”

  “Yes,” Mary whispered as she reached for the pebble in her apron. “I know.”

  Chapter 10

  She would go as suddenly as she returned and there wasn’t a soul in Knowstone who didn’t know it and secretly rejoice. But, as Cora hinted, there was one who would not.

  The London coach would be at the inn by six o’clock in the evening and Mary spent the day of her departure going about business as if nothing had happened, as if it were an ordinary day. Chores and meals were shared with Cora. She worked at her loom and embroidered Jane Frankewell’s wedding linens, went over the account books and finally, packed for her journey. She decided to take only a small satchel of her belongings. The rest she would send for when settled, for Mary decided that she’d only stay with her aunt for as long as necessary and then find her own lodgings and make her own way, begin anew. When farewells had been exchange among her neighbors in Bottle Street, Mary went to the church.

  She slipped into the church and walked to the sanctuary through the haze of candle smoke that hung in the air, the scent of incense and tallow sickeningly sweet. She knelt on the sanctuary steps and for the first time in many months she actually prayed. “Holy Father, you know what is in my heart, you know my desperation; you know before I even ask what it is that I desire most.”A door closed somewhere in the church and then footsteps echoed, growing closer and then ended at the steps. Nathaniel was there and in his hands he carried her fair linen.

  “Mary? Is there something the matter?”She remained on her knees, keeping her eyes fixed on the dull windows, whose brilliant colors were muddy from the fading light, trembling as he knelt beside her. “No,” she replied simply. “You are here now, and for the first time in many years, I feel God’s presence with me.”Wordlessly, he draped the fair linen about her neck like a shawl and then drew her closer with it in one torpid, sensual movement.

  Mary’s soft and perfumed hand was pressed gently against his mouth as he tried to kiss her.

  “Do you truly love me?” she whispered.

  “I love you! God’s life! Need you ask? I do love you, Mary Burnley. I know that you love me.”

  “Yes, and that is what I’ve come to tell you, though I wish I did not,” she sighed; “leaving this place would be less of a burden.”

  “Stay. You once said that leaving was what everyone wanted and you’ve given in to their will.”

  “If I remain here, Nathaniel, how many nights would it be, how many weeks, until I took a blade to my own wrist? Surely you can see the wisdom in my decision.”

  She allowed him to kiss her and leaned into his arms. They held each other in a silent embrace and listened to the beating of their hearts, their tremulous breaths, the sounds of the village outside.

  “What will you do?” he whispered between kisses.

  “I will stay with my aunt in Chester for a time and then I will return to Oxford, to weave and sew, perhaps.”

  “Or take up your studies. Let me come with you.”

  “History will repeat itself.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “It will be said that we ran away together for an illicit liaison, to live as lovers without the benefit of a marriage; it will be said that once your passion dies, or my passion for you dies, I will be left alone and a woman damned a
nd scorned for her many sins.”

  “Stop!” he scolded, kissing her again. “You are not what these stupid people say you are! You are kind, and good, you are beautiful and passionate about life! You follow your heart’s calling! You are not afraid.”

  She took his face in her hands and kissed it, saying: “Look what all those good virtues have brought me. It will be said that I seduced you the way I supposedly seduced Erland, and Justin—”

  “You didn’t!”

  “I did not. But what is my word against anyone’s? They believe what they think is the truth.”

  “Do you care?”

  “No.” And then, sighing, “Yes, unfortunately I do, and very much. That is why I am leaving.” Mary stepped away and dropped her hands to her sides and then threw them up and clasped them anxiously. “I am a fraud. I am a contradiction. I came here before leaving to say that I do love you and to say goodbye if only for a short while.”

  The London coachman’s horn in the distance shattered the moment. Nathaniel scrambled to his feet and peered through the stained glass to see a distorted coach in blues and purples roll out of Knowstone.

  Mary joined him at the window. He trembled at the touch of her hand on his shoulder as she stretched on tiptoe to look round him. “The London coach!” she moaned.

  Nathaniel slipped an arm around her waist and held her tightly now as they watched the carriage lights dance and grow smaller until they were like fireflies in St. Edmund Wood.

  “It was the only way out of town,” Mary said. “Perhaps I can borrow a horse from Simon or Mrs. Galthwaite and ride to Chester. I won’t stay here another night.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “Nathaniel, please, no!”

  “You cannot go alone, and I’ll not allow it. The roads are dangerous enough for a man let alone a beautiful woman. Besides, I never really liked it here, anyway,” he said and smiled, shrugging.