A letter came from Meg, enthusing about her new home, praising the excellent lady’s maid that George had found for her and saying that she and George meant to plant a rose garden like the one at Hawkswood. She sounded happy. I took comfort in that.
Everyday affairs moved in. I decided to keep Dorothy Beale on, because despite her thoughtless rush to see her aunt in Priors Ford, she really was very skilled and I wanted to overhaul my winter gowns. John Hawthorn pleaded with me to keep the Floods on as well. Hugh demurred at first, saying that although they were good, they were also far from cheap, but finally he agreed to retain them for a while. Christmas was still a long way off, but we knew from experience that it always crept up faster than expected and there would be any amount of entertaining then. ‘They can stay till the new year,’ Hugh said.
A little more than a week after the wedding, an invitation came from Jennet Ward and Margery Seldon, inviting Hugh and me to dinner on the morrow at their Woking home. Woking was nearly as far away as Cobbold Hall, but Hugh, whose health had improved, said that we would go.
It was a beautiful early September day when we arrived at their home, which proved to be a large thatched cottage. Our hostesses, however, had dressed as if to receive royalty, Margery in pale peach silk while Jennet was dignified in rust coloured brocade. The cottage had no spacious hall, no fine furniture, no Turkish carpets or tapestries to adorn its walls; no family portraits. What it did have included a comfortable living-cum-dining room scented with the polish that made the oak stools and benches shine, and numerous cushions in beautifully embroidered covers. There was also a shelf of books ranging from accounts of expeditions to the New World and serious works on English history, to Sir Thomas Malory’s Morte d’Arthur, Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and several collections of poetry. There were gleaming pans on the limewashed kitchen walls, and musical instruments were everywhere. Jennet and Margery were clearly the kind of musicians who can get a tune out of almost anything.
Bessie was now noticeably pregnant. Margery shared the cooking with her, and while they were in the kitchen, clattering pans and dishes, we could hear Margery warning her not to stretch up to that high shelf, and to leave that heavy saucepan alone.
Jennet smiled at us. ‘We intend to look after Bessie. The child will be brought up here – all going well, of course. That’s in God’s hands. I never had children, and poor Margery lost hers. She had two, but they both died when they were small. We’re both over forty now and neither of us want to marry again, so we have no more chances to produce our own. We shall look forward to having Bessie’s little one to watch over.’
‘We will buy it a christening gift,’ Hugh promised. ‘Bessie is a lucky lass to have fallen into such kind hands.’
‘Mr Ferris – Margery’s late husband was his bailiff at one time – said just the same thing when he called on us last,’ said Jennet.
She saw our surprise and added: ‘It was a few days before your daughter’s wedding. We wouldn’t want him to call on us now, and he hasn’t tried. We were so horrified at what happened! Had he been drinking, do you think? But the last time he was here, we told him that we were fond of Bessie and wouldn’t let harm come to her. Do you know, it was his idea that we should invite you to dine? We wouldn’t have presumed otherwise. Our house is so much smaller than yours and our circumstances very different. But he said he had heard that we were invited to your daughter’s marriage feast and why did we not return the compliment afterwards? He was sure you would like our house.’
‘Master Ferris said these pleasant things?’ I asked, bewildered.
‘Well, that was before his son met Christina Cobbold at Hawkswood, wasn’t it?’ said Jennet. ‘It seemed to me that that was what set him off. That feud has been part of life hereabouts for generations! Ah. Here comes my dear Margery to announce dinner! Margery is gifted with herbs and flavourings, though I do most of the work in the garden.’
‘We grow most of our own herbs and vegetables,’ Margery said, setting a tray on the table. ‘Jennet weeds them. Where do dandelions and thistles come from? They shoot up overnight, as if by magic.’
‘We’re proud of our herbs,’ Jennet said. ‘Margery is clever with herbal remedies. Some of our neighbours come to us regularly for her horehound linctus for coughs and her ointment for chapped hands.’
It was an excellent dinner, well cooked and served with an admirable wine. Afterwards, we all joined in singing to spinet and lute. Bessie sang too and proved to have a very sweet voice. We gathered that the two ladies earned quite well from giving lessons in music and singing, and that, in addition, each had property outside Woking which they rented out: a smallholding in Margery’s case, and some pasture and woodland in Jennet’s. They reared chickens as well as growing herbs and vegetables, and Jennet, who turned out to be the one who had embroidered the cushion covers, taught embroidery as well as music. It seemed to be a happy household, and by no means poor.
When we had tired of singing, we partook of a last glass of wine before going home. Bessie had finished the washing up and been sent to bed by Margery, who told her she needed her sleep. Hugh had wandered over to the bookshelf.
‘And when you’re not playing music, or doing embroidery, or tending your hens and your garden, you read,’ he remarked, scanning the titles. ‘You have wide tastes.’ He pulled out the Morte d’Arthur and stood leafing through it. ‘This is a very fine edition of the King Arthur legend – beautiful printing. Tell me, is one of you very serious, with a liking for travel and history, while the other likes legends and poetry? And if so, which is which?’
Jennet once more gave us her smile. It emerged only now and then, but it lit up her good-looking but austere face as though the sun had come out to transform a rocky landscape. ‘We both have wide tastes,’ she said. ‘We are trying to teach Bessie to read, though it’s quite an undertaking. She isn’t a good pupil. But it would be useful to her; anyone ought to be able at least to write their own name and do labels for jars of preserves, so that when you’ve left them on a larder shelf for months, you can still tell plums from cherries.’
‘We never do well with cherries, for some reason,’ Margery remarked. ‘The birds always get them. They seem to go for the cherries more than the plums; I don’t know why . . .’
Hugh turned from the shelf with a slim book in his hand. ‘Mrs Ward, Mrs Seldon,’ he said. His voice had changed. From light and friendly, it had become very grave. ‘I have just found this. It had slipped, or been put, sideways on behind the other books. I saw it when I pulled out the book about King Arthur. What is it doing here?’
‘What is it?’ asked Margery, setting down her glass.
Hugh was turning the pages. His mouth had taken on a shape of distaste. ‘It’s an old book – over half a century old, by the printing and the kind of paper. It’s a handbook of instructions for making some very strange things. Such as, for instance, a spancel and a hand of glory.’
Margery looked puzzled. ‘What is a spancel? And I’ve never heard of a hand of glory!’
‘I’ve heard of them,’ said Hugh, staring at the page before him, ‘and this book contains instructions for making them. A spancel is a tape made of a dead man’s skin, taken from the outline of his body – difficult to do, I should think, if it means cutting in and out between fingers and toes . . .’
‘But whatever for?’ said Margery.
‘It’s used in witchcraft,’ said Jennet. ‘I’ve heard of it too. And the hand of glory is the left hand of a hanged man, with—’
‘Ugh!’ said Margery. ‘Please don’t go on.’
Hugh turned back a page or two. ‘It’s here. The hand, in use, is fixed upright, and to each finger and to the thumb is attached a candle made of fat from the man the hand belonged to.’
‘Ugh!’ said Margery again.
‘Did you know this book was here?’ Hugh asked quietly.
I had sat silent throughout this exchange. After all, we did not know Jennet and Marge
ry well. I found myself looking at the two of them, at Margery’s round, ingenuous face, at Jennet’s countenance, so grave and yet with that underlying charm that showed only in her rare smile. They were both so attractive in their different ways. But did the faces truly reflect the minds behind them, or did they hide something very different? There had been too much talk of witchcraft lately; Ferris’s accusation at Meg’s feast had shocked me more than I knew. To my horror, I caught myself wondering. Doubting.
But then: ‘No!’ said Jennet and Margery together, in tones so appalled that I was reassured.
‘Of course we didn’t know!’ Jennet’s indignation rang true.
‘I would urge you to get rid of it, at once.’ Hugh closed the book and laid it down on a nearby stool. ‘If such a thing were found in your house . . . you can imagine what might be said. I advise you to burn it.’
‘Mr Stannard,’ said Margery, ‘the kitchen fire will be banked for the night, but can easily be woken. Please would you burn the book for us? I don’t – I really don’t – want to touch it. Do you, Jennet?’ Jennet shook an emphatic head. ‘Neither of us knows how it got there,’ Margery said earnestly. ‘That shelf is emptied and cleaned every spring and that . . . that thing certainly wasn’t there last time. Please, Mr Stannard!’
Hugh obliged. After that, there seemed no more to be said. We bade the ladies farewell, promised that we would never mention the mysterious book, now turned to ashes, to anyone else, and took our leave.
Our senior groom, Arthur Watts, usually acted as our coachman these days, since his predecessor, John Argent, had died during the winter. We had left Arthur with the coach and horses at a nearby inn, which had stables. He had already harnessed up when we returned to him that evening, and we set off for home at once. As we jolted along – if only there were a way to cushion the ruts in a road – I said to Hugh: ‘If Jennet and Margery are telling the truth, someone planted that book on them. But why?’
‘God knows,’ said Hugh. ‘But it’s what anyone might say, who had such a book and had kept it hidden, and then had to explain it away because someone else had found it.’
I remembered my moment of doubt. ‘Hugh, you don’t think those two nice women could possibly . . .?’
‘It seems very unlikely, but we shall probably never know. I don’t think we’ll pursue the acquaintance, though. Forget it, Ursula. The book’s gone. That at least has been done.’
‘The things in it were revolting! I’d never heard of a spancel or a hand of glory either, and I wish I hadn’t heard of them now.’
‘Don’t think about them,’ said Hugh, and I was glad to feel the warmth of his hand, laid over mine.
We travelled on in silence. And then, as we came into the Hawkswood courtyard, a worried deputation, consisting of Adam Wilder, John Hawthorn and Roger Brockley came out to meet us.
I looked at their faces as I descended from the coach, and said: ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘It’s Abel Forde, madam,’ said Adam. ‘Master Hawthorn here will tell you. Abel is ill.’
‘He wasn’t well yesterday,’ Hawthorn said. ‘Complained of a headache and didn’t want to eat. Midday today, he said he was feverish and aching all over, and he’s taken to his bed. Might be just a chill, but somehow I don’t like the look of him. He’s been throwing up, too.’
Jennet, Margery, Bessie, music and embroidery, good food and good wine and the accoutrements of sorcery went out of our heads at once. It is never wise to take chances with unidentified illnesses, in case they’re contagious.
Above the outbuilding where Hugh’s coach was kept, and reached by an outside staircase, were two rooms where visitors’ servants could sleep. They were also useful if anyone developed an infectious malady.
‘If he’s that unwell,’ I said, ‘he’d better be separated from the rest of you. Get one of the rooms over the coach house ready. Make him as comfortable as possible, and I’ll come and see him.’
‘Should we call the physician from Woking?’ Brockley asked.
‘I’ll see Abel first,’ I said. ‘Within the hour, if you please!’
When Brockley fetched me to the coach house, I found the invalid settled on a well-stuffed pallet with a light coverlet over him, a jug of water to hand and a basin on the floor at his bedside. He was flushed and sweat-soaked and quite clearly in a high fever. When I entered the room, he was moving uneasily and mumbling that his back hurt.
I had seen it all before.
There are things, details, that you don’t forget, not if they concern the death of someone dearly loved, as my first husband, Gerald, had been. I had no fear for myself. As a small child, I’d had an illness which could have been either a mild attack of smallpox or the much less serious cowpox. I am inclined to think it was cowpox for it hadn’t damaged my complexion. It was common among milkmaids, and as I did sometimes help with milking the cows at Withysham (it got me away from Uncle Herbert and Aunt Tabitha and was approved because it was making myself useful), I was quite likely to get the illness.
Whichever I’d had, my mother had told me that I was probably safe from smallpox for the rest of my life. I was sure that she was right, for though I had nursed Gerald, I hadn’t caught it. Meg had had cowpox too, and I was thankful, for she hadn’t sickened either. As a precaution, I’d sent her away as soon as I knew what was wrong with him, but she had been in contact with him at the start. Standing by Abel Forde’s bed, I was afraid, but it was for him, not for myself.
I knelt down, murmured something soothing, and asked Abel to open his mouth to let me see inside. He did so, and I saw that his mouth and tongue were covered with small red spots. Gerald’s mouth and tongue had looked exactly the same.
‘You can close your mouth,’ I said. ‘Lie back and rest.’ I stood up. ‘I think I know what the trouble is,’ I said to Brockley and drew him away towards the door. ‘Have you had smallpox or cowpox, Brockley?’
‘Smallpox as a boy, madam. Not badly. I’m not marked. And Fran’s had it too.’
I nodded. Fran did have pockmarks, though they were not too noticeable.
Brockley said: ‘Is that what Abel has?’
‘I think so. I remember how it was with Gerald.’ It hurt, even now, to remember Gerald’s death; the ugliness of the disease which had destroyed his good looks so completely before finally destroying his life. ‘We must make sure that no one comes near him who hasn’t had one of the two diseases I’ve just mentioned. I know the queen has had the illness, and I know what treatment was given to her. Her doctor was more competent than Gerald’s! We need red flannel . . . Oh, damn!’
Brockley looked shocked. He always did if a lady swore in his presence.
‘We haven’t got any,’ I said. ‘There’s some back at Withysham, but not here.’ It was used very often to make petticoats for the women servants, and at Christmas, Hugh and I always gave them new lengths of the material. We bought it in November. This was September, so we hadn’t stocked up on it yet. ‘Brockley, you’ll have to ride to Woking in the morning and buy some. Buy plenty. We don’t know who else may go down with this.’
‘Red flannel, madam?’
‘If someone with smallpox is wrapped in red material, it helps to bring out the rash, and people stand a better chance then. The queen once told me she thought it helped to prevent scarring as well. It’s said to be useful for measles, too. This could be measles, but—’
‘He’s had measles,’ said Brockley. ‘We talked about it one day, comparing notes on childhood maladies.’
‘Then this has to be smallpox. Saddle up first thing in the morning and go and get that flannel, Brockley! The Woking mercer, Bryant – I’ve often seen red flannel on that stall he puts outside his shop door. Try there.’
It was over six miles to Woking. The roads were dry, but all the same, Brown Berry must have toiled to cover the distance so fast, for next day Brockley was back within three hours, with one thick bundle of cloth on his back and two more sticking out of his sa
ddlebags.
‘I took all Bryant’s stock, madam,’ Brockley said, dismounting. ‘He wouldn’t have let me have it except that he has another consignment coming in tomorrow, by river barge. He said, what if this is the start of a local epidemic? If it is, there’ll be a run on the stuff.’
‘At least we have enough,’ I said. ‘Let someone else look after your horse. I want you to help Wilder wrap the flannel round Abel.’
It would be pleasanter for Abel, I thought, if those who had the task of stripping him and wrapping him in red flannel were men. But in the event, it was neither here nor there because poor Abel was unconscious.
We did all we could. He was swaddled in red flannel, and we also hung it over the one small window. We did our best to get nourishment into him in liquid form, coaxing him to swallow water and mulled wine and chicken broth; we made sure someone was always with him, day and night. The rash did come out, monstrously and horribly, but the attack was too severe. Two days later, he died.
By then, it was clear that Hawkswood had another casualty. Dorothy Beale had got it, too.
SEVEN
A Whisper in the Night
Disasters fell upon us like a hailstorm. No sooner had we got Dorothy into bed in the second of the rooms over the coach house, than a sad letter came from Meg’s Aunt Anne. Uncle Ambrose had been seized with an apoplexy one hot afternoon and had died the same evening.
‘His own fault,’ said Hugh brusquely. ‘Drinking too much and riding about in a heatwave, dressed for a blizzard!’
But Ambrose was family, whether or not I liked him, and I was sorry to have to pass such sad news to Meg. But I knew I must, so I reluctantly wrote a letter for Brockley to take the next day. He couldn’t set off at once as he was on an errand to the Cobbolds. We had promised them one of Marigold’s puppies, and as they were now old enough to leave their mother, Brockley had ridden off with a pup in a basket strapped to his back. He had looked thankful to be getting away for a while from the miserable atmosphere in the house, but he came home with a grave face and told us that Christina had smallpox too.
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