by Betsy Tobin
Chapter Seven
When I was a child, I went often to the great-bellied woman’s house, to sit upon the hearth and listen to her stories. She was an accomplished teller of tales who could spin whole worlds with only a few long strands of words. The stories she told were strange and exotic, unlike any I have heard before or since: tales of people and places far across the sea, and of animals unknown within our shores. These stories lingered with me, and many are buried still within my mind. They come to me now in fragments, often when I least expect them, like uninvited guests. But they are not unwelcome, as they bring with them part of her: a sense of mystery and of possibility, coupled with that peculiar blend of strength and calmness that was her hallmark. For she was all these things to me, and I suppose to many others as well.
I remember a tale of a great plumed bird who lived high upon a mountain above the treetops, whose feet never once came to rest upon the soil. The bird was proud and kept to itself, only occasionally allowing the people who lived in the village far below to catch a glimpse of its rare and beautiful plumage. One day a great hunter came to the mountain, and hearing of the marvelous bird, determined to capture it for its beautiful feathers. He told the unwitting people of the village that he would like to see the bird, but when he asked them to describe it, each gave a different account of its beauty. Some said its feathers were green and luminescent, like those of a peacock, while others said it was bright red with streaks of yellow and orange, like the setting sun. Still others said its body was black as coal, with snow-white tail feathers that flashed among the leaves when it flew. The hunter was confused and, deciding that the people were deliberately misleading him, resolved to find the bird himself. He climbed the mountain and for three days and nights remained hidden in the underbrush. On the fourth day he gave up hope and began his descent, when suddenly he caught a glimpse of a winged creature of such extraordinary beauty it made him gasp. He nearly forgot his purpose as he watched the bird soar and dive among the trees, but finally came to his senses and took aim with his bow and arrow. He heard a cry and saw the bird plummet toward the ground, but when he reached the spot where it should have landed, he found only a crow, pierced through the heart by his arrow, dead as a stone.
He picked up the crow and descended the mountain with great sadness, knowing as he did that the bird of his dreams was lost to him forever. When he reached the bottom, he hid the dead crow in his pack, and gathered the people of the village around him. He told them they were indeed blessed to have such a thing of beauty in their midst, and instructed them to revere it always. The people nodded and were relieved, secure in the knowledge that the bird would remain with them forever. The hunter left that land and never returned, and the people of the village kept their pride in the wondrous creature that lived among them.
Dora spun her stories with such intensity that she often left me breathless. Her pale eyes flashed with the excitement of the telling, and her long fingers rose and fell before her in an animated fashion. At these times she seemed to carry the hear beat of armies within her ample breast—she seemed more alive to me than anyone or anything I had ever encountered in my own barren corner of the world. But what struck me most was how she differed from my mother, who though capable was unfailingly taciturn and circumspect, and did not trust the world beyond her threshold. My mother had no vision of life outside our little village; she did not dream of faraway lands or foreign peoples, nor did she aspire to any other life but the one she inhabited. She accepted Dora for what she was, but granted her no other past. Once when I asked her why Dora had come across the sea, she looked at me a little strangely, as if I had spoken some heresy, and said that Dora had found her place within our village. “But what of her own people?” I persevered. “We are her people,” replied my mother, and with that she rose and turned her back on me, as if to stifle any further questions in my mind.
So I took my questions to Dora herself, asking her why she’d come so far across the water to settle in a strange land. She looked straight at me then, and her expression deepened, as if I’d vanished right before her eyes—for suddenly her face was taut with memory. She stayed that way for several moments, and then she blinked and looked at me anew. “The world holds many lives for us,” she said finally. “And in the end, I chose to lead this one.” She spoke slowly, choosing her words with care, as if the truth was too fragile to reveal. Or as if she must temper her words for my ears.
As a child of nine or ten, the idea that one could choose one’s destiny made me almost dizzy with desire. I was too ignorant, too naive, or perhaps too stubborn to see how uncomfortably this notion sat within my mother’s understanding of God or man or the nature of things. I knew only that it was strange and desirable. Now the idea frightens me, for I have learned with age that it contains seeds of truth and possibility. And there are times when I feel the stirrings of my childhood swell and rise within me, but always they are accompanied by fear, so much so that I often think that there are two people who dwell within me: my mother and myself.
I wake in the predawn light feeling stiff and uneasy. Half asleep, I grope beneath my cushion for the purse of gold, but my fingers scrape the empty sheets and claw at nothing. I sit bolt upright, rubbing my eyes, wondering if I dreamed of its existence. And then I check the floor beside my bed, where I see that it has fallen during the thrashings of my sleep. I reach out to retrieve it, and clutch it to my breast, my heart beating wildly. For the first time it occurs to me that to have so much wealth in one’s possession is perhaps a mixed blessing. What will it mean for the boy?
I rise and dress, stowing the purse deep within my petticoats. I have no other alternative for its safekeeping, as I will not have an opportunity to take it to the boy until that evening, and I do not wish to leave it in my room. Then I smooth my skirts and go below to take my breakfast with the others, the money brushing up against me like a whisper. When I reach the great hall the others are already hovered over breakfast. A bitter draft buffets their faces this morning, curtailing the normal talk and laughter at the table. The two girls are seated together in their usual place at one end, heads bowed and shoulders just touching. They remind me of two rodents worrying a biscuit. Alice, the elder of the two, is one year my junior but carries on as if she is half my age. The eldest daughter of a yeoman farmer in the village, she is short and heavyset with a ruddy round face and eyes set deep within their lids. She wears her straw-colored hair in a long thick plait down her back, and likes to toss her head about for emphasis, causing the plait to jump and writhe under her cap, like an angry snake. Lydia, the laundry maid, is two years younger, though much the more sensible of the two. She is not unpretty, though her face already bears the burden of hard labor, and her hands are rough and reddened from overuse of lye.
Little George, the turnspit, sits next to her, his eyes still filled with sleep. He wears a long knitted scarf wrapped round and round his neck which reaches nearly halfway up his face. He is an orphan whom my mistress rescued from the poorhouse, though he appears not to notice and persists in his misery. The youngest of the lot, he is not yet twelve, the same as Long Boy, though the two could not be more different. For a moment, I see Long Boy seated in his place, but the image quickly fades, for I cannot imagine Long Boy taking orders, much less carrying them out. He is far too much her son. I take a seat next to Little George, who shifts uncomfortably, then resumes eating.
The menservants, four in all, group themselves round the other end of the table. Nate and Joe are barely more than shaving age, stable hands who have been here less than six weeks and may not last the winter, judging by the restless look in their eyes. From time to time they leer at the girls, who pull faces in return, and then dissolve into giggles. My master’s manservant Josias is much older and has lived all his life in the Great House. Indeed he was born within its walls and would no doubt perish were he forced to live outside them. He is quiet-spoken and loyal, like his father before him, but is not without some influence, as be
fits his position. Finally, there is Cook’s nephew Rafe, a sort of Jack-about-the-house, who is smarter than the rest, and not to be trusted. He and I have crossed swords on more than one occasion, normally when I have caught him out for some wrongdoing. But he is under Cook’s protection, though someday he will no doubt push her to the limit, as she frequently reminds him.
In all we are a motley crew, and I cannot help but wonder as I take my breakfast what would happen were I to spill the contents of the purse upon the center of the table. Josias would pay no heed, as he is more than happy with his station, but for the others it would constitute an open door. And yet, what would they make of it, or more importantly, it of them? It would not alter their person: Alice would remain rough-skinned and heavy-set with her nose a little upturned; Nate would still carry the scars of pox, and Joe his crooked teeth. And what of Little George, would it relieve his misery? I doubt it, for all the gold coins in the world could not raise his parents from the grave. Perhaps Rafe would make something of it, for he has more imagination than the rest. But he is also impetuous, and it might well lead him down a path of wickedness and sin.
And so I keep the money stashed beneath my skirts, for it is safe there, and can do no harm.
My mistress rings her bell and I quickly finish my breakfast and rise. Cook has prepared a tray for her, and now I take it up with me. When I reach her chamber she is seated in front of her dressing table with a frown. She wears only her nightclothes, with a loose velvet dressing gown for warmth, and her hair is uncombed. When she sees me enter she makes a face of mock horror at her own reflection, then sighs and turns to me with a rueful smile.
“They say he is accomplished in the art of camouflage,” she says. “He will have to be, in my case.”
It takes me a moment to realize whom she is referring to. The painter arrived late the previous evening, and is due to start work almost immediately. He will paint two miniatures of her, and a larger portrait for the great hall, and another of my master, if he will allow it. My mistress has not had her portrait done since her marriage, more than thirty years ago. It is customary for ladies to have their portraits painted with their children when they are still young, but it is said my master’s father would not allow it, owing to his son’s disfigurement.
I place the tray on the small round table by the window. Indeed we will have a task transforming her, but what makeup and fine garments cannot conceal, no doubt a paintbrush can. I stand behind her at the mirror and place my hands on her shoulders, concentrating on the look I should like to achieve before morning is out. She bites her lip and eyes me nervously: she is entirely in my hands, a feeling I must admit to liking. I smile a little to reassure her. “We had better get to work,” I say. “We have much to do.”
I begin with her hair and makeup. The gown she has chosen is heavily embroidered, and no doubt it will overtire her if she is forced to wear it long. And the lace ruff she has chosen is so absurdly tall as to be almost unwearable. She has seen a similar one upon a portrait of the queen, and had it copied by her tailor especially for this occasion. I begin to coat her cheeks with ceruse, mixing it with white of egg and applying it in layers until it entirely conceals the true color of her skin. The process takes some time, as each layer must dry before the next is applied, and she passes the time in between by nibbling gingerly at a roll. When the base has been laid, I use henna and a fine brush to do her eyes, giving her eyebrows a slightly higher arch than usual, which pleases her enormously. I also paint a small discreet mole on one cheek, the fashion at court these days, and with a blue crayon I trace a vein snaking down her neck toward her bosom, which will be partially but discreetly exposed by the squared neck of her bodice. Finally I rouge her cheeks ever so slightly with cochineal, as she is not overly fond of color, and paint her lips a bright crimson. The entire process takes me nearly an hour, and when I am finished she is still uneasy, as her hair and garments remain undone, and the success of one without the other is limited at best.
“Trust me,” I say, patting her hand in reassurance. She gives a small embarrassed wave of her hand in response.
“I feel like a bride,” she says a little sheepishly.
“And you shall look like one before I’m through,” I respond.
We both know that I am lying.
The hair and headdress come next. First her own hair must be oiled so that it will lie flat upon her skull, then the wig must be applied and dressed. She has several and today has chosen her favorite, a very pale shade of auburn that, it must be said, becomes her. Once the wig is on she begins to relax a little, as it is now possible to foresee the final outcome. I tease and comb the curls into place, then carefully pin the headdress, a delicate tiara festooned with jewels that she has borrowed for the occasion, as her own failed to please her. She can barely move her head once it is on, as it sits rather precariously atop her curls, but her movements will be further hampered by the lace ruff.
We pause when I am through with her hair. It is past mid-morning and the sun is shining, which will no doubt please the painter, who is scheduled to arrive in her chamber at noon. She rings for some refreshment, which Alice brings on a tray, and the girl is nearly struck dumb by the sight of her mistress in jeweled headdress. I pour out ale for us both and when she takes a sip of hers she leaves faint marks of red upon the cup. Her gown and underskirts have been newly pressed, and we begin the laborious process of removing her nightclothes and putting them on, taking extra care not to disturb her makeup or hair. First I carefully slip her best chemise over her head. It is finely spun of bleached white linen and will protect her elaborate outerwear from bodily secretions. Then comes a flannel petticoat for warmth, as she is bone-thin with age and suffers acutely from cold in winter. Her corset is extra-fine, made of satin and linen with whalebone stays and a long central pocket into which I insert an ivory busk. Her body stiffens as I do so, and she draws in a breath at the effort of remaining erect. The corset is cut long, as is the current fashion, and has little loops at the bottom that will hold her farthingale in place. She prefers a French farthingale to the Spanish type; it too is made with whalebones, the skirt falling in a dramatic A from her hips. Finally I attach the bumroll just above her hips. Hers is larger and more pronounced than my own, and dwarfs her measurements, but the effect pleases her. My mother has no time for such accoutrements, and is forever lecturing those in confinement to abandon them.
Next my mistress dons her partlet and kirtle, the latter with an elaborately embroidered front section to match the bodice of her gown. The gown itself is made of ivory-colored silk and is ornately beaded and decorated in a floral pattern. She has worn it only twice before: once to a ball on a nearby estate and once when she traveled to view a royal progress. The sleeves are full and trimmed with exquisite French lace at the cuffs, so delicate it reminds me of spun sugar. She has chosen an uncharacteristically simple ivory brooch with matching earrings, a wedding present from her husband. I suspect its selection is due more to piety than fond remembrance. Finally I attach the ruff, an elaborate cloudy concoction that rises from the point of each shoulder and arcs across her back, towering well above her ears. Once it is in place we both draw a breath in admiration. The effect is indeed regal, and I can see from her demeanor that it pleases her. I glance at the timepiece on her mantel; there are still thirty minutes before the painter is due to arrive. She raises one hand as if to rise and I grasp it firmly in order to assist her. She stands and once again admires her reflection, then suggests that we take a turn about the house. It is a somewhat ludicrous notion, as there is no one but servants about, and this the likes of Little George and foolish Alice. But she is not to be deterred, and so I take her arm to steady her, and we begin our little progress.
We go first to the kitchen, so she can instruct Cook about the midday meal. This is entirely unnecessary, as Cook has complete run of the kitchen and takes orders from no one, and anyway my mistress has no interest in culinary matters, but we both know it is the h
ub of the house. When we enter Little George is duly turning meat and Cook is patting out some pastry for a pie. Both freeze at the sight of her, Little George’s jaw dropping slightly and his eyebrows arched in wonder. Cook misses only a beat, then clears her throat, nods a greeting, and carries on with her work. Just then Alice and Lydia enter through the rear door, Alice’s hands filled with kindling from the yard and Lydia carrying an iron cauldron of water for the fire. Alice gives a squeal of appreciation, which draws a sharp glance of admonishment from Cook, and Lydia nearly stumbles in surprise, then excuses herself with a little curtsy of embarrassment. My mistress nods to them all and briefly addresses Cook, making up some nonsense about yesterday’s soup and its disagreeable impact on her constitution, which registers like a dark cloud on Cook’s visage. We then remove ourselves, leaving Little George bewildered and Alice wide-eyed with appreciation, and Cook predictably out of humor.
From there we proceed to the library where my master is immersed in his books. I have no wish to see him after yesterday, but as it is her desire I have no choice in the matter. He receives us somewhat stiffly, but whether this is due to the previous day’s events or the formality of his mother’s clothing is not apparent to me. Once again I feel the purse beneath my skirts, where it has been forgotten during the morning’s ravails, and it suddenly feels overheavy and awkwardly situated. To my great relief my master does not look at me during the entire conversation, which is just as well as I felt the heat rise in my face as soon as we entered. My mind plays out a fancy in which the purse slips from its position and falls to the floor, the contents spilling out around our feet. I imagine my mistress turning to me with a look of puzzlement upon her painted face, and my mouth goes dry at the thought of it. I cannot seem to stop such thoughts from coming, and I close my eyes and give a little cough to shake the image from my mind. When I open them my mistress is indeed regarding me with a sharply inquiring look.
