Able had the dress on his Ivy now. He sat her on a rock and showed her the shoes, brushing her small feet clean and remarking on their whiteness, their well-madeness, their lack of use. He slipped the shoes on and tied their stiff new laces, explaining all the while.
‘They do feel strange,’ she said politely. ‘This all feels strange, to be so bound inside, away from the weather.’
‘Exactly,’ said Able. ‘Warm against the weather and the wind. And the shoes, against stones, you know, on the ground, and sharp shells, and thorns should you walk in grassed places.’
‘Grass?’ she said uncertainly, and looked around. ‘My sisters might swim out without me,’ she said, her hands in her skirts. ‘And our king. Then who will protect me?’
‘I will protect you, my maid. It will be my role and duty, and my pleasure also, once we’re wed. Come, we must walk to the wharf and catch the boat to Cordlin. I have sent ahead a letter to the parson there; the banns are out this long month, and by tonight, we will be man and wife.’
This settled her, though it would not have settled me. Who the gracious are you? I’d have wanted to know. And who says I’m to marry you?
‘Ready, Misskaella?’ said Able; he couldn’t tear his eyes away long enough to grace me with a glance.
Ivy looked at me curiously, but he did not seem to think it necessary to introduce us.
‘Let us go, then,’ said I drily, to show him I was steering this, not he. ‘Are you content with the young lady, Able?’ I reminded him.
‘Oh. Yes and yes! Most content, Misskaella. Here.’
And there on the shore the moneys crossed, notes with the wind in their edges, coins with their music. And all was transacted, and I put my pocket away. This was how it was done, then, and this was how it would be, each man buying his misery from me, believing it would be his wedded bliss. Now that Able had his Ivy, no Rollrock man would be able to settle for a redwife. And all those girls who flung their skirts and hair and laughter about, and curled their lip at me or wore their pity so loudly in their eyes and voices, they would know first-and-freshly the treatment I had always got from men, the scorn, the overlooking, the making-invisible.
I patted my pocket. ‘Thank you, Able. And the rest whatever happens.’
‘As agreed. Hold tight to that coating there, though. Who knows her yet, and what she might do?’
So up the cliff path I followed that pair of clasp-handed lovers. Able was alight with pride and satisfaction, the sea-maid learning to manage her feet and skirts as she went, struggling and reliant as he wanted it.
I walked with them to the waterside, as we had also agreed; seeing me there, folk would not ask Able what he was about. So long as no one fetched the parson, Able and his Ivy should be able to put off without hindrance or protest from any man or woman.
But of course, our standing there together would show me for what I was, for what I could do, and had done. Everyone would know, from this day forth, that I was not just Froman and Gussy Prout’s daughter, the unmarried one, the one that came out last when there were no looks left for Prout girls. In part I was proud to have made this seal-girl and this bargain on my own, and out of my own powers. But the idea of folk knowing, and judging, and fearing or scorning me — that gave me the chill it always had.
I held tight to the bundle of money under my skirt-band, the only consolation I had. The Fey put out, the two heads red and black in the window. The little crowd left a space around me and a silence; the men and especially the women cast glances of What are you? at me, and What manner of evil have you wrought? and What will you conceive of next, witch-maid? I stood in the sun and the blow, with the parcel of the seal-skin in my arms. That can only be one thing, that bundle, they would be thinking. And the boat chugged away.
We were about to go to bed when she knocked. Indeed, Geedre was already abed, getting that ‘beauty sleep’ Mam said she needed now. (You certainly do, I’d told Geedre. You need a lot of beauty sleep. Then while she pinned me down and slapped me, You ought to be sleeping every hour of the day! Seeing if you can work up some beauty for yourself!)
Even the knocking was anxious. ‘That’ll be Sophie,’ I said. ‘She’s been bothering Mam all afternoon.’
‘Why’d Nase marry her,’ said Snell, ‘if he wasn’t going to stay home with her?’
‘I don’t blame him,’ said Byrne. ‘Two screaming babs and her twittering.’
‘Quiet, you boys.’ Mam came through thin-lipped, opened the door, then stopped the doorway with her own body, hiding Sophie from us. ‘What is it, Sophie? You can come right in, you know. Don’t stand there knocking and making us run to you. You’re family now, you know.’ Which she’d said a hundred times. But Sophie would never do it; she was too afraid of us, and of Mam the worst. She was afraid of everything. Her wedding day was the only day I saw her happy and settled-seeming.
‘Only, is he here? I won’t bother you if he’s not here.’
Snell sat forward and wrung his hands with an anguished look, just like Sophie. Byrne snorted and covered his face.
‘Of course he’s not here,’ said Mam. ‘Why would he be, this time of day? He’s a wife and two babs.’ As if Sophie might not have noticed, she was so dim.
‘He’s not at Wholeman’s either.’
‘Well, that’s a blessing. Speaking of which, who’s minding them? The babs?’
‘Knitty Thomas across the way, just while I look. She’s got an ear out.’
‘Get home, you silly girl. A man doesn’t want his wife bleating about after him in the town. If he goes to Wholeman’s now, they will chaff him half to death because of you. Go home and don’t be an embarrassment.’
‘Only, he’s so late,’ said Sophie. Snell made a mawkish face and Byrne rolled around on the floor.
‘Of course he is. Why would he want to come home to your miseries? Get home and calm yourself, girl, and prepare to greet him with some cheer for a change. What’s that?’
‘He wouldn’t notice,’ Sophie said more strongly. ‘He’s been so wrapped up in himself lately. I dare say he’s worried about money, as everyone is.’
There was a little silence, then, before Mam started in again. ‘Go on home, I tell you. He’ll come to you in time. Just getting a breath of air from that house, no doubt. Go on, Sophie.’
She all but shut the door in Sophie’s face, and then she stood with her back to it, as if she was worried Sophie would push it open and ask again, Is he here? Is he here? Snell turned to look at her and Byrne lifted his face dewy-eyed and hilarious from his hands. You can hear when Mam has a thought. She is such a bustler that when she falls still, everything falls still with her and you need to know why.
‘What?’ said Snell.
‘Do you know where he is?’ said Byrne.
‘Were you lying to her?’ said Snell.
‘Mam?’ I said.
But she was off in her own thoughts. Her face went faraway and stony. I was suddenly frightened of her.
Dad came to the hallway door. ‘Sophie again?’
Mam did not seem to see him.
‘That’s three nights running,’ he said.
‘Do I not know that.’ But there was no heat in her words.
‘What’s he up to?’ said Dad — not as if he cared, but as if he might soothe her by speaking what he took to be her mind.
‘Has he been borrowing money from you?’ she said suddenly, coming out of her calculating.
He took a shocked step back into the hallway. ‘No! Why would you think that? Why would I give him money and not say?’
‘I don’t know. Why would you? What was it for?’
‘I swear I never. I swear.’
Snell and Byrne were all eyes and no laughing now, trying like me to read this.
Dad looked as if he was telling the truth, sounded like it, but Mam was making that mouth at him, pulled in at the corners.
She took her coat from the back of the door. Fear jumped up my throat — was she leaving us,
the way Frog Davven’s mam walked out on them? I was on my feet.
‘Where are you off?’ said Dad accusingly.
‘To fetch that boy and haul him home.’
‘He’s always had friends.’ Dad stepped out of the hallway again. ‘He used to go up Fernly’s for a session, Fernly with his fiddle and Nase singing. What’s wrong if he goes back to that?’
I edged towards the door, looking from one to the other.
Mam put the coat-collar up with sharp tugs; she might take her own head off with it. ‘Nothing. Except he’s not at Fernly’s.’
‘And you so sure.’
‘Yes,’ she said hard at him. ‘And me so sure.’ And she was out the door.
‘How? He told you?’ But she slammed it behind her. He swayed back as if she had struck him.
I leaped for my coat while he was still recoiling.
‘She’s taken leave of her senses,’ he said.
I pulled open the door. ‘I’ll bring her back,’ I said, to their three faces, Snell and Byrne’s echoing Dad’s on the other side of the room. Then they were gone, and I was out in the night and running.
Mam was already far up the main street. She heard me coming, turned and saw me, made an exasperated movement, hurried on.
I caught up. Her mouth was closed up tight and she stared ahead as if I were not there. I ran-walked along, panting, pulling the coat on, for the cold bit right through my blouse and woolly, my skirt and stockings. I kept up and kept up, and she kept striding along as if she were quite alone, until finally, up by Nickels’ place, she said, ‘You won’t like where we’re going.’
‘I don’t care,’ I said.
‘You’ll care when you see.’ And she swung right, along Marksman Road.
I followed, afraid already. ‘I’ll not fuss,’ I said. ‘I won’t get in your way.’
‘I won’t even see you if you do, girl. I’m as wild as that.’
The last house reared up, the tallest and finest in the town, and the most frightful. Its gardens lay around it in ponds and rows and mazes of moonlight. The house was mostly dark, but some low windows at the back glowed alive.
When Mam drew up at the gate, I had to stifle a whimper. This was the only moment in which I could choose; I could turn back now or I must go right in with her. But when she was through the gate and on the path, she didn’t even check to see if I was following, and that, more than anything — that she might expect no better of me than to be such a coward — drove me after her. I closed the gate behind us, just as if we were visiting a person of manners. I followed her up. Some waxy flowers beside the path swayed in the breeze of Mam’s passing; they looked as if they ought to have some strong, strange scent, but it was too cold for them to give it up. Then we were mounting the broad steps, with their sweeping balustrades like the welcoming arms of some aunt I didn’t want to kiss. Mam lifted the doorknocker, and rapped five times firmly.
I restrained myself from slipping my hand into hers — I was thirteen, after all. And I had promised not to get in the way. Instead I stood as far to one side as the balustrade would let me. Mam would want to flee, and I must not stand behind her and obstruct her. Or perhaps, if the witch pounced, I could fling myself over into that nicely clipped shrubbery there. I could not believe we were standing on this step. I could not tell what was my heart-thumps and what was the footsteps of Misskaella, coming towards us up the hall of her house.
Her lamp lit the glass in the door; her shadowy figure could have been any harmless person’s. The key ground in the lock, but I felt as if it turned in my stomach; soon I would be face to face with that dreadful woman, so ugly and so angry. I had never spoken to her, never even looked her in the eye — I had only ever seen her stalk up the street preceding another cartload of goods and gewgaws from Cordlin. Like the other people watching, I hadn’t known whether to fall away in fear or stand and stare in fascination.
Now the latch was lifted, and Misskaella opened the door and shone her lamp on us. Look at her; she was just a person. Perhaps Mam could deal with her as she dealt with any other person, Fisher down the shop or that craven parson, or Hatty Threading and her ravings in the street.
Sweet-spicy smoke curled thickly from the long-stemmed pipe the witch held, and fumed from her skirts and hair; she must have been sitting in a cloud of it. She was dressed darkly and finely, as she always was; her skirts swung clear of the floor and showed a pair of shiny little black boots, buttons all up them as if they were nailed to her shins. Stout, she was, but her dress was tailored to her stoutness; a deal of lacework lay on her bosom to distract the eye from the absence of waist below. Her hands were like a child’s, but the nails were better kept than any child’s; her hair was piled up and pinned into a soft crown. But for all this she was the witch, and her face was a witch’s face, ugly, suspicious, and with a witch’s mind behind it, thinking who knew what?
‘What is it?’ She shone her lamp at me, dismissed me and returned to Mam simmering on her step.
‘My name is Nance Winch. I’m wondering if you’ve had any dealings with my son Naseby.’
‘Why would I have?’ She looked Mam up and down as if any children of hers must be well beneath contempt.
‘He has gone missing from his wife and children, three nights running, at full moon. That sounds like your work.’
‘Ah, sounds like it. Which is Naseby Winch?’
‘Very tall,’ said Mam. ‘Thin. His hair is nearly golden.’
Misskaella thought on that, but only to tease us, I felt. She touched her chin with two fingers of her pipe-hand. ‘So many come, you see. It is not easy for me to keep account of them all.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you never forget to take their money.’ Mam looked pointedly up at the mouldings over the doorway, and at the lace bosom-trimmings. ‘Just think — is he one of the one’s who’s paid you, or one who still owes half his family’s livelihood for the favour you’ve done him?’
As Mam flung all this, the witch’s face, far from reddening and enraging as I’d feared, broke open, open and opener, into a kind of pleasure. She leaned against the doorpost, took a pull of her pipe, swung the lamp a little. ‘Let me consider now, your golden-haired boy, tall, slim, wife and children — though of course he wouldn’t mention those to me, for I might turn out to have scruples.’ The smoke popped and puffed out with her words and then rose free and hovered over her forehead. ‘Hmm,’ she said and smoke streamed from her nostrils. ‘I cannot say, really, that I remember a golden Naseby. No, I really cannot say.’
‘Can you say — ’ Mam leaned closer into the lamp-light, ‘that without doubt you do not remember him?’ I would have found her dangerous in that stance, in that light.
But the witch didn’t. She began a laugh, which then caused her to cough. She finished the cough smiling. ‘You know? I cannot exactly not remember him, either. But this is a small town, Missus Winch, Naseby’s mother,’ she said as if she found the names delicious. ‘I would have seen him about the place, without a doubt. Only I can just not quite put my finger on whether he has appeared on this step as you and…’ She waved a smoky hand towards me. ‘Your daughter?’
‘My daughter.’ I saw Mam try to be rude and withhold my name, but Misskaella looked so expectant there, perched curious above her neat boots like a fat thrush on a fencepost. ‘Bet. Elizabeth.’
‘Just the way you and Elizabeth Winch here have appeared. Or perhaps he was less polite, coming to the back door, if he felt he had something to hide? I cannot recall. I just…cannot…’ And she grasped after the memory with her few free fingers in the smoke.
‘And such a pretty daughter, Nance,’ she said over Mam’s next question. She cast me a dark look, as if prettiness were something regrettable. She might well reach out the doorway, I thought, and peel off my prettiness like a mask.
She turned back to Mam, spoke very softly suddenly, almost in a whisper. ‘Just as you were pretty yourself, when you married… Who is your good-man?’
Agai
n I could tell that Mam did not want to give her the name. ‘Odger.’
‘Odger, of course. Odger Winch,’ she said in a breathy rush, and I thought of my old dad, his face after Mam slammed the door, and I felt for his defencelessness, and Naseby’s and Snell’s and Byrne’s — and even Mam’s standing there, with the witch extracting humiliation after tiny humiliation from her, the pair of us at her mercy in the night, her whole house behind her, her whole beautiful garden around, calculated, laid out, paid for. ‘Do give my regards to Mister Winch.’ She rocked as if that idea were so funny that it hurt. She might be a little drunk, I thought.
Mam turned to me. ‘Come, Bet.’ She started down the steps.
Misskaella pushed herself off the doorpost, raised the lamp, and made a grotesque face of wounded innocence at me. I swung away from the insult and started after Mam.
‘Goodnight, Nance Winch! Goodnight, Elizabeth!’ There were many humiliating notes in that farewell, but the overriding one was of great satisfaction.
By the time I had closed the gate — Misskaella still at her door, rocking, smoking, watching, very possibly laughing — Mam was well along the street. I had to run to catch her. ‘Where are you going now?’ I muttered as we crossed the top of the main way.
‘Only out of sight of her, to collect myself. Don’t look back.’
But I already had. The witch bowed this way and that in the lamp-lit doorway.
Out we went along the top road. At the first stile, Mam sat, head bent.
We caught our breath. When we were recovered, still she sat and thought.
‘You really think Naseby would go to her?’ I ventured to ask.
‘We should have left. The minute Able Marten bought his Ivy, we should have gone as the Summerses did.’
Sea Hearts Page 9
