by Betsy Tobin
As we leave the library she turns to face me on the landing. “Are you unwell?” she asks.
“No, mum. I am quite well,” I say, blushing anew.
“Your color is excessive,” she declares. “Perhaps we should send for Lucius to bleed you.”
“That will not be necessary,” I say. She knows that I have only just been bled not three weeks earlier. Indeed, the entire household undergoes the ritual regularly at her expense, with the exception of Cook, who like my mother has no time for doctors and their regimens. Lucius bleeds us each in turn in the Great House kitchen, using one of Cook’s earthen bowls to catch the spoils. The first time Little George was bled he fainted straightaway. Alice, on the other hand, appears to relish the procedure, laughing with delight when her vein is opened, as if the whole thing were part of some sideshow at a country fair. For my own part, I do not look forward to the process, but find that once the vein is opened and the blood has started to flow, a curious light-headedness sets in which is not entirely unpleasant. But now I gather my wits about me and steer her toward the stairs.
“Come,” I remind her. “It is nearly noon.”
Upon our return, the painter awaits us—a fact which embarrasses me but pleases her. He is examining a painting on the wall outside her chamber, a leather case tucked discreetly under one arm. He turns to face us as we enter and nods politely, and immediately I am struck by his youth, for he cannot be more than thirty. His face is clean-shaven, like that of a child, which is unusual these days but not unbecoming in his case, for his skin is smooth and free from scars. His hair is dark and combed straight back from his forehead, falling neatly to his shoulders, and his nose is straight and long. He wears a coarsely woven tunic of deepest green, adorned with only the simplest of collars, black woolen leggings, and brown leather shoes that have begun to show their age. But what strikes me most about his appearance are his eyes, for they are a deep and wondrous green, the color almost luminous in the half-light of the chamber.
My mistress crosses over to his side and nods at the painting on the wall. If he is impressed by her fine dress he does not show it, merely bows to her formally as she indicates the painting with one hand. It is small and rectangular and shows the landscape lying to the west of the house.
“Does it meet with your approval?” she asks with a smile.
“It is very accomplished,” he replies politely.
“My husband commissioned it especially the year before he died. The painter was from Holland, and was among the first to do this sort of work. Perhaps you know of him?”
“No. I have not seen his work before, though I am familiar with the style.”
“He was very talented. We had intended for him to complete a set of landscapes of all the land surrounding the house. But he was dissolute, and in the end we were forced to terminate our association with him.” She smiles then, benevolently. The painter says nothing, though I can sense his unease. “Do you paint landscapes?” she asks.
“No, madame. I only do portraiture.”
“A pity, as I thought to have a study made of the gardens while you were here.” She pauses to see if he will offer his services, but he does not, a fact which surprises me, as most would have been more obliging.
Her smile fades and she bids us follow her inside her chamber. Once inside she lowers herself with some difficulty into a chair and nods for him to be seated.
“I trust your journey was not overtiring,” she says in measured tones.
“It was uneventful,” he replies. His English is fluent but not without an accent. According to my mistress’s cousin, he is from Flanders, having come across to England some years earlier to escape religious persecution in his own land.
“You travel unaccompanied?” she inquires.
“I have no need of servants,” he says simply.
“You do not fear our highways then.”
“I have no cause to.”
At this she raises an eyebrow. There has been much talk of danger on the highways of late, of vagabonds and thieves who for a loaf of bread will slit your throat as easily as beg. My mistress canceled a visit to London only last month for fear of such outlaws. She continues after a moment.
“My cousin speaks very highly of your talents.”
“He is a generous patron,” says the painter. They eye each other for a moment, and I can sense a tension in the air already, as if by his brevity he is somehow taunting her. She clears her throat and smiles a little artfully.
“And your rooms. I hope they are satisfactory?”
“Yes,” he says. “The light will be useful for my work,” he adds. It is the first comment he has volunteered, and it pleases my mistress.
“You have my lady-in-waiting to thank for that. The tower room was her idea. She thought the aspect would be beneficial.”
He turns to me and for the first time acknowledges my presence with a small nod. I am instantly reminded of my mother’s belief that men are only interested in that which furthers their vocation.
“I am grateful,” he says, turning his eyes full upon me. My mistress looks from me to him, then back at me.
“You may go now,” she says somewhat pointedly to me.
And, thankfully, I do.
Chapter Eight
We did not have a looking glass when I was young, as my mother did not countenance their use. But some others in the village did. Dora had one hanging on her wall, and to a child it was a marvelous object to behold, not large but framed in richly dark wood that was carved with leaves and ornamental scrolls all around. The first time she let me gaze upon it I was fearful of my own reflection. Though I had seen my face shimmering in still water, the clarity of my features took my breath away. But in that instant I also felt a sense of disappointment and curtailed possibility, for I was forced to admit the limits of my being. Even as a child I knew immediately that my face could hold only so much in its future, and nothing more: it instantly defined me in a way my own imagination did not.
Dora stood behind me that day and read the disappointment in my face. At once I laid the mirror facedown upon my lap, and we both stared at its carved wooden back.
“What is it?” she asked gently.
“I do not wish to see,” I said. She reached across and laid her large, warm hand upon my own, and then grasping the handle of the mirror, slowly turned it round to face me once again.
“What is it you do not wish to see?” she said. Once again I stared at the girl in the mirror. Her eyes were hurtful.
“That I am plain,” I blurted out. I looked away again, could not bear the sight in front of me. And then she brought her face right next to mine, and lifted my chin to join me in the frame of glass. And simply by her presence my own face improved, as if she’d cast a sympathetic light upon me. She smiled at me in the mirror.
“What part of you is plain?” she asked.
I looked again. My features were small and unremarkable. The things I so admired about her—her walnut-sized eyes and fleshy full lips—I did not find in my own reflection. This seemed to me an indictment of some sort—an outward sign of my inner shortcomings. I had not her spirit nor her courage nor her strength, and this was written plainly on my face.
“I am not you,” I said finally. She smiled a little ruefully, and shook her head.
“No.” She laid the mirror down again and rose, turning me to face her. “And one day you will be glad of it,” she said, no longer smiling. And then I saw a trace of something alien in her eyes: a part of her I could not reach. In that instant I longed to be her more than ever.
After that day I did not ask to see the mirror again. Indeed I went some years without so much as a glimpse of my own reflection, until I came to the Great House where the profusion of mirrored panels and vanity glasses meant that I was forced to confront myself at every turn. And though I was relieved to find that my face was not as unpleasant as I’d remembered, it still did not hold the power nor the intrigue of hers.
Now
, as I cross the great hall toward the kitchen, I am once again reminded of this fact, for the girl in the panel opposite me stares blankly out like some mute farm animal. As if by reflex I look away, avoid her eyes and her damning absence of expression, and disappear inside the reassuring warmth of the kitchen. When I enter Cook is putting the finishing touches to a pigeon pie, and I can tell from her demeanor that she is still angered by my mistress’s visit. She hands me a bowl of onions and a paring knife, and I take my usual seat on a bench near the fire. Little George is there, carefully turning a spitted hare, and the three of us carry on in silence for a time. Gradually Cook’s mood lightens, and after a time she begins to hum a little tune under her breath, and even Little George looks relieved.
A knock sounds on the garden door and when Cook opens it my mother stands outside. Cook bids her come inside but my mother refuses, so I rise and go to her. We stand outside the kitchen door, my mother looking around her nervously. She does not like the Great House, indeed has never set foot inside its walls. It is her custom to send messages via Cook whenever she wishes to see me.
“How is the boy?” I ask her.
“He is much improved,” she says with a nod. “But I must attend a birth across the river. It is a first child, so I may be gone some time,” she explains. She does not want to ask me directly, but I know she wishes me to look in on him in her absence.
“I’ll go to him this evening,” I say.
“I’ll return as soon as possible,” she says.
“He will be fine,” I say to reassure her. She does not thank me, merely nods and turns away. I stand and watch as she hurries out of the yard, her dark shawl pulled tightly round her shoulders.
It is a sight that echoes my earliest memories. As a child I used to stand at the window and watch her disappear down the lane. She was often called away and almost always at short notice, so that I came to dread the midnight knocks upon our door. When I was still small I would be bundled up in my nightclothes and taken to the house of a neighbor. Goodwife Wimpole was an elderly widow who lived alone in the village and had agreed to harbor me at such times for a small fee. My mother preferred this sort of arrangement to any other, as she had no living relatives, and did not wish to be beholden to the women of the village. Goodwife Wimpole was short and gray and hard of hearing, with a thistle of hair upon her chin that reminded me of a goat. Her breath smelled of ale and pickled onions, and her house was small and cold but tidily kept. I had my own makeshift bed in one corner on the floor, with a lumpy straw mattress and an old wool coverlet that smelled of mice. It was there I lay at night listening to the whistling wind and Goodwife Wimpole’s whiskered breath, awaiting the return of my mother, who was sometimes kept away for days. I did not understand the reason for her absences, nor why I could not accompany her on her journeys. I knew only that birth was a mysterious and difficult process that required the presence of many women, my mother foremost among them.
That babies came from women’s bellies I’d been told as soon as I could speak. How they came remained a dark secret that my mother refused to divulge. As I lay in Goodwife Wimpole’s cottage, I imagined all sorts of ways in which such a thing might be achieved. But the more I dwelled upon it, the more I decided that the birth of a baby could not occur without the aid of some sorcery or magic. From this I was forced to conclude that my mother was a witch.
One morning after a particularly sleepless night I shared my thoughts with Goodwife Wimpole over breakfast. She blanched and nearly choked upon her bread, than upbraided me severely for speaking heresies. When my mother returned, her face drawn and weary from her own nocturnal laborings, Goodwife Wimpole drew her aside and whispered in her ear. I saw my mother sigh and shake her head, and Goodwife Wimpole crossed herself, before both turned to glower at me. My mother was particularly quiet on the way home, but when we arrived she sat me down at the table and explained as clearly as she could to someone of my age how babies were born. She told me that she did the Lord’s bidding, and forbade me ever again to speak of witchcraft to anyone outside our house. The very fact that my mother addressed me in such a serious manner impressed me deeply, though the explanation she gave struck me as highly fantastical indeed, and I was not entirely convinced that what she described could take place without some sort of magic. But I kept such doubts to myself, concluding that if my mother was indeed a witch, then she must have her own reasons for her secrecy.
From the age of eight or nine I pleaded with her to allow me to remain at home, complaining of the draughts on Goodwife Wimpole’s floor. My mother lived in fear of draughts and so she finally acquiesced. From then on I was left to tend myself, with only the promise of a neighbor to check upon me from time to time. I relished my newfound freedom and took to wandering about the village after dark, peeping through the cracks of windows at the doings of my neighbors. It was in this way that I came to know of men and women for the first time—of noisy couplings and frenzied tumbling that happened quickly and without warning. The sight initially alarmed me, but soon my reaction turned from fear to fascination, and finally, to amusement, for there was often laughter within, and I somehow imagined myself to be part of the joke.
But it wasn’t long before I came to feel excluded. For as long as I could remember, our house had been empty of men. My mother rarely spoke of them, and when she did her comments were terse and vaguely critical. I knew that other children had fathers, but as a child it did not occur to me to ask after my own. Something in my mother’s manner cut short even the possibility. Much later, when it became obvious to me that she had not acted independently, the question continued to baffle me. For to this day, I cannot conceive of her together with a man.
My first real brush with men came when I was taken on at the Great House. Indeed for some months I was tongue-tied in their presence, not just that of my master, but the likes of Josias and Rafe as well. Rafe especially, as he was nearest to my age and very forward in his manner. Of course I was not schooled in the ways of women when it came to dealing with men. But it was not long before I perceived that these were numerous and varied. For a time we had a serving girl called Anne to whom I am much indebted for my education. Anne was four years older than I and, owing to her pleasant face and spirited nature, drew much attention from all quarters. She was clever and quick-witted and could be coy or sharp-tongued, depending on her mood. The men of the Great House succumbed to her each in turn, and even my master appeared to alter in her presence, becoming strangely solicitous and even benevolent. Oh, how I marveled at her powers! That my mother had renounced any claim to this particular sphere of influence puzzled me further. For my own part, while I could not hope to rival Anne’s abilities, it struck me that they might one day prove useful.
Anne’s final lesson to me, however, was one of prudency. For Anne herself was not, and within a year had fallen pregnant at the hands of a soldier and had run away to London, leaving half the house bereft. To my surprise it was Josias who suffered most, as if some vital part of him had been excised. He was stunned by her absence and went about his duties with the look of an abandoned dog; we even feared for his health for a time. This impressed me even more than Anne’s artfulness: that men like Josias, indeed that any man, could suffer so acutely at the hands of a woman, this was a secret my mother had concealed from me.
Perhaps she’d also kept it hidden from herself.
After my mother’s departure I am summoned by my mistress. The painter has retired to his room to prepare his canvases, having completed only a few preliminary sketches, and my mistress is tired and irritable. I help her remove her headdress and cumbersome outer garments and she retires to her bed, saying she will not partake of the midday meal. I leave her to rest and go below to take my supper with the others. The painter has asked to eat alone in his room, and when I arrive Alice and Lydia vie with Cook for the honor of taking up his tray. Cook rolls her eyes at me and hands the tray to Rafe instead, who frowns but acquiesces, as he is remarkably compliant where
Cook is involved. Alice pouts and pulls a face as soon as Cook’s back is turned, but the matter is soon forgotten.
The presence of a stranger in the Great House often causes ripples of disruption, as if we are a closed circle of stones.
That evening, I hurry along the lane to Long Boy’s cottage, anxious to be rid of my newfound wealth. The night is clear and bitter cold and by the time I reach his door my face is numb. But when I enter the room is empty, though a few charred embers still glow in the fireplace. My first thought is of my mother and a wave of panic sweeps across me as I contemplate her disapproval. Perhaps the boy has gone in search of food, though one glance tells me that my mother has left him with sufficient provisions for some time. Perhaps he has simply gone out to take the night air, as the shroud of his fever still hangs heavy about the room. I stoke the fire and take a seat beside it, thinking to wait for his return, but after nearly an hour I can stand it no longer, and go in search of him.
I walk the length and breadth of the village, stopping to peer into the forest at several points, as I know that he spends much of his time lost among the trees. He has no boyhood friends that I am aware of; always I have seen him on his own, so I am at a loss for where to search. Finally, I venture to the alehouse, where I can at least inquire whether anyone has seen him. As always at this time of the evening, smoke bellows forth from the chimney, and when I push the heavy wooden door open, the warmth and smell of woodsmoke buffets me. The room is dark and full of red-nosed men with tankards in their hands, and no one takes much notice of me as I cross the floor. In the back is another room where I go in search of Mary, the tavern owner’s daughter, an old friend of mine, now heavy with child. I find her preparing a plate of stewed onions and bacon in the kitchen, and her shiny face lights up when she sees me enter. She is a large, good-natured girl who married young and has done nothing but bear babies since, but she shoulders her burden with ease.
