by Maria McCann
* * *
The day after that I was in Brimming. Their apples were not of the best, but my labours went smoothly enough. I was permitted to sleep in the barn of one of the wealthier inhabitants, one whose own press was in use but who would help out his neighbours if asked.
‘You’ll not sleep with it next to you,’ the wife said, handing me a lantern.
I was grateful for the allowance and swore I would not. Faithful to this promise, when I retired to rest I hung the lantern on a nail and stood beside it in order to open Joan’s letter. It was as I had thought, a single sheet folded over and sealed. Weariness, cold and the faint light made it hard to decipher her cramped writing, but I was determined. I wiped my tired eyes and read on.
You will remember, Sir, how I left off: I was in a wretched condition, infatuated with my brother-in-law, and the soldiers on their way to us. I come shortly to a most terrible part of my tale, and I warn you, you must have a strong stomach to read it, but first you must learn how we were discovered, for we were, as wickedness always comes out, or so they say.
My sister, as I told you, went on living with us day by day, watchful and patient as a spider. I cannot say how many times she netted us without our knowing it, and let us go again; but she hauled in her web at last, and was mistress of all.
Do you wonder at my hard-heartedness, Master Jon? Surely you must. Yet I was full of remorse, and not only through fear of my sister. Pray remember that our father, who in our youth had guided and taught us, was a God-fearing man. I knew full well that I had taken what was not mine, and was a trespasser in my sister’s bed. I had but one excuse, a bad one, for beginning, namely that I had thought my sister as good as dead, and I had another (a worse) for continuing, which was that I could not leave off. My heart seemed pierced by a cord, and the end of the cord in my brother-in-law’s hand, so that he could pull me along with him wherever he chose. With all this, I was yet sorry for what I had done, and often cried myself to sleep for very hopelessness, and came to breakfast with eyes as sore as if they had been poxed, and still my sister said nothing.
I have not cried for my sin these many years, and never will again. My heart is like hers now, a stone.
In a few weeks my sister was restored to health. No sooner could she walk about than she developed a trick of losing handkerchiefs and gloves. She would send one servant to seek through the house, another to search the outbuildings and a third, the orchard, while she herself prowled about scattering more trifles, that she might cry out upon their loss later. Thus was I thrown into a constant terror, afraid not only to exchange loving words or touches with him, but also to speak of the most innocent matters, or even to be observed close by where he was. I was brought near screaming at this but hid it, telling myself the work was as disagreeable for her as for us, and full as wearying, and that the servants must in time be sent about their duties, and her gathering of intelligence cease.
We had one sweet day when my sister was laid low with a painful vomit. My brother-in-law at once played her at her own game. He sent our manservant for the physician, for (he said) nobody else could be trusted with such an important task, bidding him wait if Doctor Tanner was not there. At the same time he set my sister’s maid to remain by her side, and ordered all the rest of them to their duties. Then he and I went to my chamber. It astonishes me that we ran the risk, but we were desperate and not a little mad. In any event, it was our last time together. The next day my sister, having questioned the servants, rose from her bed in a savage humour.
Things having reached this pass, the arrival of the King’s troops was at first a blessed distraction. That is, it was to us; the poorer villagers obliged to provide billets were soon singing to another tune, but my brother-in-law had his paper signed by the quartermaster and none could gainsay it. And when I heard about their antics, such as smashing all the crockery in a widow’s house and throwing her harp into the pond, I concluded that my brother-in-law had shown great foresight in this, if not in other matters.
Now, however, I had troubles of my own to be thinking of, since a few days after the arrival of the men I began to fear that I was with child. My woman’s bleeding was not come and one morning I was sick in my chamber upon rising. As soon as I understood what this might be, I fainted dead away from terror. Luckily I was resting on my bed at the time, but I came to in such a trembling that going down to breakfast I stumbled and almost fell on the stairs.
My sister was sitting at table. I said I was sickly and could not eat; she took one look at me and her eyes seemed to blaze up. And: ‘You must try this, you must have that,’ says she, and she had the maid bring fried meat, and eggs in butter, and I could not touch a thing; though I tasted some broth I could not swallow it. My brother-in-law, who was ignorant of her meaning, said I was bilious and should not be forced, but my sister had the whip-hand now and she had blood-sausage brought, and grilled tripe, until my brother-in-law (still at a loss) sat astonished at the tyranny and waste, and I broke down crying.
‘Now,’ she says, ‘now we see your wickedness, you little whore!’
At this my brother-in-law leaped up. ‘What?’ said he, ‘For shame, your own sister,’ and she turned on him, screaming ‘I see you defend her, will you own her bastard too?’ and my brother-in-law dropped back into his chair as if his legs had failed him. Then we all fell silent, I snivelling like the fool I was and the husband and wife glaring hatred at each other, and I thought it was as though Satan had put his fist through the world and rent it.
From that time she was wild to be rid of me, Master Jon, and I will tell you what she did. But I must first tell you something else. You have perhaps wondered why, while unveiling offences, I should veil the offenders. The answer is, had I given you names at first, you would not have read the rest – and now you know that, you can surely guess my secret. This gentlewoman who behaved so inhumanly to her own flesh and blood – this weak man who could not hold off from his wife’s sister – are no strangers to you. They are your near kin: your uncle, Robin Dymond, and his wife, Harriet.
I cried out and threw the paper to the ground. Guessed her secret? We were not accustomed to such foul and disgusting secrets in our family – and here I shook, actually shook, for it came to me that ‘we’ and ‘family’ no longer meant what they had. If this dreadful tale were the truth, Joan was my aunt’s sister, and Tamar – God have mercy on us, had I only known it at the inn! – was my bastard cousin, my father’s brother’s child.
And then, how could this happen? How could one sister cast out the other under the eyes of – I was about to say, her husband, should I not rather say, her sister’s seducer? – and the cast-off sister vanish from the sight of decent people while Robin Dymond continued in comfort and respect? She had lost her name and her honour, to be sure; she would never be able to marry – but were allin, and all her neighbours, so lacking in charity towards this lost lamb that none would help her to a crust of bread? She should have been brought before the minister, counselled, made to repent, punished and reclaimed, before she vanished down the broad road that leads to destruction.
What of my own father? This account, if true, made him Joan’s brother-in-law. But then I pictured his kindly, honest face, and I knew he would never share in anything so wicked.
I snatched up the paper again and turned it over. There was no more writing. With trembling hands I thrust it into my shirt. That there had been a sister I knew from my aunt’s own lips; Aunt Harriet had called her a fool. I could think no more, only that I must go home with all speed and talk with Father. I put out the lantern and lay down in the straw, waiting for the cart dream to come and crown my misery. Would I had never read that scrap of letter from my father’s pocket, never gone to End House, never set eyes on the maid there, never gone into the wood and most especially not to the inn, because in doing so I had put my fist through the world, and rent it.
* * *
Thanks to my clever trick of reading Joan’s letter while at Brimmin
g, I found I could not go home just yet. I was a prisoner until the apples were pressed, and passed the next two days hopping from one foot to the other, eating without tasting, conversing without hearing, drinking without getting drunk. I even tried to dismantle the cheese before it was dry, causing an outcry among the people: ‘We’ve not waited all year for you to squander our apples,’ they said, so fiercely that I had to pretend I was mistaken and in short, to back down.
‘You’re looking sickly, Cider-Rat,’ said one of the more peaceable men. ‘You’re wanting to get home, I reckon.’
I said that was it and set myself to wait their miserly pleasure. Only when the last few wretched drops had been squeezed out, and the cheese was ready to scatter over the fields, was I permitted to leave. The villagers were constrained in their farewells. I did not even return them; I was onto the cart and gone before the words died on their lips.
11
None So Deep as a Dymond
‘Lord, Jon, what is it?’ My father half rose from his beloved account books as I came stumbling into the room. ‘Has your mother seen you, child? You’re green.’
‘I’ve heard something very bad, Father.’
‘Bad? What?’
‘About Aunt Harriet – Uncle Robin.’
The warmth faded from Father’s face. He seated himself and indicated that I should do likewise.
‘Now, son,’ he said, pressing his fingers into a steeple, ‘start at the beginning. First tell me who spoke to you.’
‘Yes?’
‘That my Aunt Harriet had a sister –’
Father nodded, his eyes never leaving mine.
I stammered, ‘And this sister was – was –’ Why didn’t he help me? Why didn’t he take over, telling me it was true, or lies, instead of watching and waiting? ‘Was ruined,’ I finally brought out.
‘Ruined?’
‘By my uncle – Uncle Robin.’ I brought out the words in a rush, expecting Father to cry out in rage at the insult to Robin’s name.
‘Did he say any more?’
‘There was a child.’
Was it my fancy, or did his eyes flicker there, as if I had hit him a blow in the face?
‘A child,’ he repeated.
‘A daughter.’ I wondered should I tell him that this daughter was even now – no, God, no, that might lead to further revelations. I flinched from the idea of those as from the flames of Hell.
‘And did your drunkard say anything else?’
I shook my head.
‘Yes, surely. Surely he did.’
I took a deep shuddering breath. ‘He said this sister and her child were cast out. Aunt Harriet – and Robin – left them to perish.’
‘So my brother and his wife behaved with pitiless cruelty while your mother and I stood by and let them? Is that the story?’
‘Yes.’ I put out my hand to him, touching him on the arm. ‘Don’t mistake me, Father, I know you’d never be cruel, nor Mother. But my aunt had a sister. She said as much herself.’
‘If you weren’t told, you can be sure we had our reasons.’
I waited for more, but nothing came. At last I said, ‘Then what this man said is right?’
He regarded me a moment, then said abruptly, ‘Your aunt’s half-sister was debauched.’ The ground seemed sinking away beneath me as he went on, ‘Harriet’s father married twice. Don’t think I …’ He paused, picking his words. ‘Don’t think I know it all. The younger creature, Joan, continued to live with Harriet after she and Robin were married. She was a strange girl: meek and downcast in appearance, but spiteful.’
I recalled Joan’s mention of the kindly in-laws who had talked with her: my own mother and father. Trivial matters that had seemed tedious in the reading now loomed like Fate. ‘How was she spiteful?’ I asked faintly. ‘What did she do?’
‘Oh, not much, at first. But your aunt warned us of her nature, and in time we witnessed it for ourselves. The thing was, she envied Harriet – envied her sister’s superiority, and also her being married. As I’ve told you, Robin was an exceedingly handsome fellow. Women pined for him.’
‘Why would he marry Aunt Harriet, then? For property?’
A melancholy smile gleamed on Father’s face. ‘I won’t say he hated the property, but he married for love. Harriet was an excellent match for him, you know: she was a beauty then, and, as far as a woman may be, a wit.’
I was willing to take that much on trust, but as Father himself had said, he did not know everything. Joan had written that Robin went to her as Harriet lay dying. A corpse is not beautiful or witty, and grief makes any comfort precious. By the time Harriet recovered it was too late; the lovers were infatuated with one another. None of this could be revealed without revealing who had told me of it, and that would lead on to the lewd act I had committed, so I held my tongue.
‘Joan was nothing by the side of Harriet,’ my father continued. ‘You wouldn’t look at her; such a mousy little thing!’
‘Somebody must’ve looked at her, if she was debauched. If you please, Father, I should like to know what happened. Truth is best, after all.’
‘Dear boy!’ my father exclaimed. ‘You don’t know what it is, yet!’
‘Then tell me. Let me judge.’
‘Very well,’ said Father, with an air of taking up the gauntlet. ‘Joan was not cast out, as you put it. She left the protection of her home and went along with the soldiers.’
‘Went along with them?’
‘As a camp follower, a whore, a drab. You understand those words, I daresay.’
I stared at him. ‘I understand.’
‘But you don’t believe me,’ he said, almost triumphantly.
That something of the kind must be Joan’s fate, once she left home, was only too plain; yet I had never pictured her embracing it of her own free will. ‘She could’ve married one of them,’ I suggested. ‘Wives also follow –’
Father shook his head. ‘She wasn’t among the wives. She was one of the other sort, and she departed with the rest of that crew.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I went after her as soon as I heard from Harriet. I thought the girl might be reclaimed.’ He shook his head. ‘The men had broken camp so I hi horse and overtook them. I spoke with officers, with the men, with the wives. Joan wasn’t married, that was plain as day. She’d already parted company with the army, or didn’t want to be found.’
‘So you –’
‘We never saw her again.’
There was a silence. I felt as if someone had gripped my head and swivelled it right around on my shoulders, like an owl’s.
I said at last, ‘I cannot conceive why a woman should degrade herself so horribly.’
‘Who knows?’ he replied. ‘Perhaps the cravings of a diseased appetite, perhaps to bring disgrace on Harriet.’
‘And did she have a child?’
He shrugged. ‘As I said, we never saw her. She lived such a life … who can tell?’
* * *
I stayed at home after that. My excuse, a good one, was that having neglected our earlier crop, I would make it up to my parents by pressing our ‘lates’ before other people’s. The truth was that I shrank, as if burnt, from contact with anyone outside our house. I needed time to reflect.
My father’s revelations had shocked me, not least the fact that he had kept quiet until now. I understood his reasons, of course: since Father himself was blameless, why should he polish up and display such a shame attaching to his family? Then I recalled that it would be remembered only too well by some of the neighbours, regularly brought out and polished up by them; it was a measure of how well my parents were liked at Spadboro, or perhaps of the distance between there and Tetton Green, that my first inkling of all this had come from Joan. And yet I was a man, and had been for some years; surely Father might have told me before! And I remembered that when Rose, the cook at End House, told me of the saying, ‘None so deep as a Dymond’, I had laughed, and said they could n
ot know my father.
I shall not conceal that from the very first, a feeling of selfish relief was mingled with that of shock. Whether Joan had run away with a single soldier or had been the common property of all, the outcome was the same: there was every chance that Tamar was some trooper’s child, and consequently not blood kin to me.
Which brought me back to Joan. What – what – should I think of her? What a figure she cut, now I had spoken with Father! Yet I could not deny that in places her account chimed with his, or might be made to do so. While reading her words I had been convinced of their truthfulness, the more so because she took no pains to hide her hatred of Aunt Harriet or her unlawful passion for Robin – or, for that matter, her fear and dislike of the soldiers, though that might be a lie framed to cover up the truth of her dealings with them.
In one way she was only too easy to understand. Uncle Robin had no legitimate offspring; now he was dead, she wished to present Tamar, honestly or dishonestly, as his child. Had she heard somehow of Robin’s illness and returned to Tetton Green, or was she already settled nearby? Whichever it was, dug in behind End House the mother and dghter were well placed to receive silly women and lustful men, to pick up village gossip and to spy, under guise of begging, on Aunt Harriet. It was just as the laundress departed, leaving my aunt desperate, that Tamar had fallen foul of the authorities. Was this by accident, I wondered, or by design? At any rate, my aunt had seized on this seemingly helpless creature and from that point onwards the enemy were within the gates. Here it came to me that Robin’s illness might not have been chance, that Joan might indeed have powers I had failed to reckon with, but I soon rejected this notion since in that case she would surely have killed off Aunt Harriet many years ago.
