by Deryn Lake
Now he said, ‘You would not consider divorce, Elizabeth?’
‘Joseph, how could you ask? We were brought up in the same faith. It could not be done.’
He smiled at his sister.
‘I think I am a very bad example. Do not listen to me. And yet it seems to me as sinful to dislike John as much as you do and not make a final break, as it is to rid yourself of him.’
Pope interposed.
‘Every man — and woman — must be allowed to deal with their own conscience in their own way, Joseph. If Elizabeth’s belief is stronger than yours it is her affair.’
‘Surely, indeed,’ said Joseph and his heavy eyes closed with the rocking of the coach and he appeared to drop asleep before them, his hand still grasping the bejewelled walking stick.
In an hour they had reached Malvern Wells, a small village with no particular distinction except for the beauty of its countryside. In no manner rivalling any of the other health resorts — least alone Bath which was the most pleasurable city in the kingdom — it was small and unpretentious and a place where one was unlikely to run into anybody from the fashionable world. For this reason Pope had chosen to go there. With his distinctive looks and early success he was an easily recognizable young man and the last thing that either he or Elizabeth wished was any further breath of gossip.
But, as fate would have it, in the one small lodging house which at its maximum could only accommodate twelve people, there were two other guests who knew them. The first of these was a small, vicious widow with artistic leanings, a deep plum-toned voice that seemed constantly to be masking antecedents of a less high-vaulting nature than she would care to pretend, and an inability to complete sentences; the other was a thin, pale girl who had known Elizabeth since childhood.
The widow encountered them on the stairs, even as Clopper was sorting out the boxes, and said, ‘Why, it is Mr Alexander Pope isn’t...? You will remember me I...Mrs Mire. My late husband knew your dear father and I have always enjoyed your work so...I am very interested in poetry, you...In fact I have been known to put pen to ...Perhaps you would care to...Over a glass of claret...This is such a dreary place, Mr Pope. One meets nobody of...But then I come for the smallness of my waist and...They are the smallest in England I dare to...Will you not agree with...?’
She laughed archly and her eyes, as warm as marble, took in the fact that a woman and child stood behind the poet. The glutinous voice dropped a few notes.
‘Owh! Owh!’ she said. ‘Mrs Pope? I didn’t realize you were...’
‘News travels slowly,’ said Alexander bowing. ‘Good day, Mrs Mire. I do hope we will run into one another again.’
Elizabeth’s friend was a different matter entirely. She was so quiet and shadowy that the two women had stayed in the same house three days before they came face to face. Elizabeth was alone taking the waters, Pope having stayed in his room to write and Melior Mary being despatched to walk with Clopper. Thus she was greatly startled to hear a voice say ‘Elizabeth? It is Elizabeth, isn’t it? Elizabeth Gage?’
She turned and looked into a face of such haggard beauty that it frightened her. Through sheer emaciation the eyes — dark and haunted — seemed three times their normal size and the white skin was drawn tightly over the bones of the cheeks. It needed no stretch of the imagination at all to picture the skull beneath. And yet the woman was lovely, with the exhausted splendour of a dying butterfly.
‘Amelia?’ said Elizabeth. ‘It can’t be Amelia FitzHoward?’
‘But it is,’ said the girl laughing breathlessly and putting a thin white hand to her throat. ‘Or rather it was. I am Amelia Hart now. My husband died two years ago. I am a widow. And you?’
‘A wife,’ said Elizabeth wistfully. ‘But a wayward one. I am separated.’
Amelia smiled but it seemed as if doing so drained her for she gasped and said, ‘I am here for my health as you can guess and have discovered a very small but very nourishing chocolate house — though it could hardly boast the name anywhere else — have you time to join me?’
Though the request was in no way pressing it was obvious by the look in the deep eyes, that had been so fine and bold when they had both been girls, that loneliness had been her companion frequently since the death of her husband.
‘What a pleasurable suggestion,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I am here with a poet friend who likes nothing better than to shut himself away and create works for posterity and a daughter who equally likes nothing better than to drag me round looking for trinkets.’
‘You have a daughter,’ said her companion excitedly, ‘why so have I. How old is yours — my girl is nine?’
‘Melior Mary is eight,’ answered Elizabeth and they embraced each other for the sake of meeting again in that small village with its therapeutic spring, remembering as they did so the joys of girlhood and the sweet memories shared.
Settled in the funny little chocolate house which was really the back of the pastry maker’s shop glorified with ornate paintwork, they turned to appraise each other.
‘Oh don’t look at me,’ said Amelia, ‘I know I am but skin and bone and yet I eat as much as I am able. But something wastes me away. It is an ugly illness that will one day catch me up.’
And indeed, on seeing her without her cloak Elizabeth had been distressed at the skeletal quality of Amelia’s frame.
‘How long have you been like this?’
‘Since Sibella was born. I believe it to be a consumption.’
‘But do you cough?’
‘No, there’s the mystery. Anyway don’t speak of it. I always seek the miracle cure and perhaps Malvern water will be it. Now tell me of your doings. How long is it since we met? Fourteen, fifteen years?’
‘At least. But what of you? Did you not go to your Aunt in London?’
Amelia pulled the corners of her mouth down.
‘I fell in love with a soldier. Didn’t you hear the whisper? He was hot for elopement and they forced me — away.’ She paused for a moment and then said rather hurriedly, ‘I didn’t really go to London. They sent me to France to keep me from him.’
‘It sounds very romantic. Why didn’t they like him?’
Amelia stared into her cup.
‘I believe he was married already and just fancied himself more the man by maddening little girls with love.’
‘Oh!’
‘Oh indeed. Anyway I eventually came back with my sin atoned and was married quietly to Mr Hart, a childless widower twenty-five years my senior. A quiet man, not romantic at all, and for some reason the object of my undying love. I do miss him you know.’
The thin fingers were suddenly brushing at her eyes which over-spilled tears.
‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth, ‘love is found in all the unlikely places.’
‘I have observed that often. Perhaps because sometimes so little burns between me and death — I do not speak for sympathy, Elizabeth — I see more than the proud mistress of Bath or the elegantly heeled of London. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘That — and the fact that my early life was so hard. I thought all feeling was dead in me till Richard Hart taught me of the gentleness and tenderness of the human spirit.’
She put out her hand and touched Elizabeth’s arm.
‘My friend, I believe you to be a good woman. May I entrust you with something — something more precious to me than life?’
Elizabeth stared at her and the dark eyes were suddenly fever hot in the tired white face.
‘Do not hesitate. Time is on the side of no-one. Will you do as I ask?’
‘Yes. Tell me what it is.’
‘If I die — and that I surely will before another ten years is out — take my daughter Sibella and treat her as your own. Her father had no family and I will not in all conscience see her go to mine. They used me ill, Elizabeth, they used me ill — and I will not allow my child to be put in their bigoted hands.’
She paused and a sudden smile transformed her s
erious face.
‘Do you remember that old story of how my family was originally descended from the Dukes of Norfolk and that our ancestor was a great astrologer and his daughter a powerful witch?’
‘Yes, you told me once.’
‘That is how we came by our name — FitzHoward. Anyway my daughter has that gift, I believe.’
‘Second sight?’
‘I think so. But she doesn’t know it yet, of course.’
Amelia stopped, short of breath.
‘I have talked far too much and far too selfishly. Tell me what became of Elizabeth Gage.’
‘She led a boring life in comparison with yours. No soldier lovers, no elopements, only an unkind guardian who forced me to marry money in the shape of a handsome enough man — John Weston — by whom I had a child three years later.’
The next day they found the spring that forced its way up from the dark flower-covered hills and sparkled amongst stones that had known the touch of both men and things immortal. They had walked long and slowly for Pope and Amelia found it hard in their different ways. And so it was with the shout of explorers that they first sighted the crystal brook and Pope dropped down beside it to plunge his hands into the clearness — raising the water, untainted since time began, to his lips.
‘Drink this, Amelia,’ he said, ‘it has the look of magic about it. Perhaps we have stumbled across the panacea we are both seeking.’
She knelt beside him, her breathing rasping painfully in her chest.
‘If it were not for my child I would not bother,’ she said. ‘I have not been fond of living since Richard died.’
Pope smiled wryly. The war between his fragility and his genius never ceased to torture him and on days when he simply had no strength to pen the thoughts that teemed in his mind he often contemplated suicide.
‘This long disease, my life,’ he answered.
She smiled humourlessly — one of the few people who understood what he meant.
‘Is it cold?’ said Melior Mary running up to join them. ‘Mother, may I put my feet in?’
Elizabeth nodded, at the same time beginning to remove her own shoes so that they could go in together. The little stream gurgled joyfully.
‘How I wish I had brought Sibella,’ said Amelia. ‘She would have loved this. She is so happy in water.’
The sun seemed to have gone and a wind had come up from nowhere. The words ‘in water’ inexplicably echoed over again and Melior Mary shivered till her teeth shook. It was a strange, cruel feeling and Amelia obviously experienced it too for she added, ‘You will always look after Sibella won’t you, Melior Mary?’
‘I don’t know,’ the child answered truthfully, ‘for I have never met her.’
‘But when you do you will be as sisters.’
The sun had come out again yet Melior Mary still felt uneasy.
‘Was that an omen, Clopper?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘That echo just now — and the coldness.’
‘You stuff your head too full of stories. Now help me unpack this basket — and put your stockings on.’
*
That evening the lodging house gave its one public dinner of the week for the guests and Pope found himself seated next to Mrs Mire at the long table. Her affected plum voice gushed relentlessly into his ear.
‘My dear Alexander,’ she said. ‘I may call you...I am a great lover of the arts I have...I know every play...Do you believe that William Shakespeare’s actors were...I myself perform you...My late husband was moved to tears and...I am, if I may boast, versatile and, so it is said...’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes, yes. Perhaps you would recite to us a...Or could I do...That would be...’
‘Impossible. We are booked for cards.’
‘Then I shall play with you,’ she said, at last completing what she wanted to say.
With Pope dealing she, Elizabeth and Amelia sat down to a game of ombre but soon grew tired of playing and it was then that Elizabeth said, ‘Amelia, do you remember the fortune telling you did when we were girls? Would you do it for us now?’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Mire. ‘Are you ...? I am supposed to be...When my dear late husband was...I knew, I tell you I knew.’
Amelia laughed.
‘It is a tradition in our family that some of us have clear sight but I think it has eluded me.’
‘But nonetheless it’s fascinating,’ said Pope. ‘Please do read the cards.’
He held the pack out to her and she in turn passed it to Elizabeth.
‘Shuffle well and cut into three.’
Though not truly gifted Amelia saw at once from the seven card spread that Elizabeth would never marry Pope, that for some unclear reason she would go back to John Weston and that a sinister force was forming itself round Melior Mary. She did not know quite what to say.
‘I am very poor at this,’ she started with a deprecating little laugh, ‘but you will always be loyal to Melior Mary, Elizabeth.’
‘And my future? Will I be happy?’
‘As happy as anybody ever is, I think.’
‘Oh dear, that does not sound very bright.’
‘You must ignore me. I do not have the family gift.’
But Mrs Mire was clamouring fruitily, her lady-of-ton accent growing suspect in her excitement.
‘Do me, please do. Aim sure Ay ’ave a...Oh, lauk!’
Amelia laid out the cards.
‘More husbands for you, Mrs Mire. Two at least.’
‘Owh! How shocking.’
But her wicked little eyes looked gleeful and she shot Pope a meaningful stare. And now it was his turn. Amelia saw that he would fall in love — and several times — after Elizabeth returned to John but that nobody would take his broken body to their heart forever. He would die unmarried.
‘You are to be greater than you are now sir,’ she said. ‘You will be quoted for centuries to come.’
‘And will children be forced to learn my poems in school — and hate me for it?’
‘Yes.’
They all laughed and Amelia’s reading was discreetly ended.
‘Then truly,’ said Pope, ‘I may be said to have succeeded for I shall be detested as Homer and Shakespeare and walk amongst giants.’
A few days later Amelia waved goodbye as Pope and his party climbed aboard the public stage. Elizabeth turned to look at her where she stood, a gaunt wild loveliness about her, and one thin arm saluting them in farewell.
‘Will I ever see her again?’ she said.
Unexpectedly it was Melior Mary who answered. ‘No. But we will see Sibella.’
The month of July 1711 was drawing to its close and John Weston was unnervingly quiet, his sole interest appearing to be a deer that he was keeping for Pope’s friend Caryll which was ruining his fruits and fences.
The poet thought this a good sign but each day of silence found Elizabeth more and more nervous.
Eventually they grew irritable with one another and on one occasion when his head was throbbing with the aches to which he was a frequent victim Pope snapped, ‘Oh what is the matter with you? You see that damned tyrant in every shadow. Master yourself, Elizabeth.’
She had made no reply, simply getting up and leaving the room. And, after disconsolately pleading with her to join him again, Pope eventually gave up and went home. After this coolness he did not visit her for several days and so she was alone when the knock that she had dreaded for so long came at last to her front door.
Clopper’s fearful exclamation as the bolts were drawn back confirmed all. Standing in the doorway of her little saloon, shrinking the house to a joke by his stature, was John Weston.
‘Well?’ was all he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Where is she?’
Elizabeth burst into violent tears.
‘No, John, no. You can’t have her. You have no right.’
‘I have every right, damn you. Melior Mary is the heir to Sutton Pla
ce and that is where she should be. Not in this miserable cot. Now where is she?’
But a cry from another part of the house told Elizabeth that John’s coachman, who had been but a stride behind him, had found the child and that she was kicking and struggling to defend herself. But help was at hand, for looking beyond Weston’s massive shoulders Elizabeth saw the fierce blue squint of Tom advancing silently, coal shovel in fist. Her eyes betrayed him. John shot round and sent the boy flying with a kick from his boot. Clopper appeared, nursing a bruised arm.
‘You damned bully,’ she said.
‘Bridget Clopper, be silent,’ he roared. ‘Don’t start your familiar tricks with me.’
‘You’ve been familiar enough in the past, John Weston,’ Clopper shouted back. ‘God damn you for a bastard and a hypocrite.’
Elizabeth couldn’t believe what she was hearing but had no time even to think because Melior Mary — her cloak over her head so that she looked for all the world like a poor kitten doomed for drowning — was being carried past the door over the coachman’s shoulder. Elizabeth flew at John.
‘Leave my daughter alone, you monster,’ she screamed, hitting with every ounce of her strength. But to her annoyance he only laughed, picking her up by her hair and swinging her off her feet.
‘You shall never set eyes on your child again, madam. Sir William Goring and I will see to that.’
