The Cursed Wife

by Pamela Hartshorne

  I laughed as I laid down the lute. ‘Of course he is not dead! I saw him ride out not an hour ago.’

  ‘His horse stumbled, and he fell.’

  ‘No.’ I shook my head very definitely. ‘No. Pappa never falls.’

  You swallowed and came towards me. You tried to take my hands but I snatched them away and put them behind my back. My pappa was not dead. I had no need of comfort.

  ‘No,’ I said again. ‘Why are you lying to me?’

  ‘They have laid him in the chapel and sent for your brother,’ you said gently.

  ‘Oh, this is absurd!’ I jumped up and marched down the stairs and out to the little church that had been built on the corner of the courtyard by some long-distant ancestor in the time of the old religion. It was plainer by then but still a place of worship. I would tell Pappa what wicked lies you had been telling me and he would punish you for frightening me so.

  A group of men were huddled together, talking in low voices, but they fell silent when I appeared and stood back to let me see how Pappa lay on the floor at their feet.

  ‘Pappa?’ Why did he not get up? ‘Pappa!’ I remember how my skirts rustled against the stones as I moved towards him as if in a dream. ‘Pappa!’ I dropped to my knees beside him and stared into the eyes that were filming over, emptied of warmth and merriment. A terrible keening cry filled the chapel, so chilling that at first I did not realise that it came from my own throat. ‘No! No, no, no!’

  You had to prise me away from him in the end, and you made me a drink with some poppy seeds to ease my torment so that I slept a little and then was dull and sluggish when I woke. We kept vigil together over my father’s body while we waited for Avery and Jocosa to come back. I forget where they were – London, perhaps? – but that night we were alone with Pappa and the flickering candles. You knelt behind me. I wasn’t even praying. I was just staring at Pappa in stunned disbelief that he could leave me.

  ‘You must marry now, Cat,’ you said in a low voice. ‘You cannot stay here without Sir Hugh to care for you.’ I thought you meant because of the memories, but you were thinking of yourself, weren’t you, Mary? You did not want to stay with Jocosa as mistress. She liked you no more than she liked me, and she had seen no doubt how Avery followed you with hot eyes, as we all had, though I never understood why, such a severe, plain thing you were. Pappa always protected you, but with him gone, you knew she would try to send you off one way or another. Your only hope was for me to marry and take you with me as my maid, and George was my only suitor.

  Jocosa would not want me to stay at Steeple Tew unmarried. She would want me gone, you said. George had a great house, you reminded me. He was a nobleman. I would be mistress of my own household and I would have servants and jewels and pin money. I would be safe from Jocosa’s spiteful temper. But what you meant was that you would be safe.

  I believed you. When George came to pay his condolences, he asked me if I was of a mind to wed, and I said that I was. And so it was done.

  I blame you, Mary.

  You made me believe that all would be well. George sent me costly gifts – a jewelled bracelet, a gold ring, a silver picktooth – and once a poem he had written himself which I thrust into your hands. ‘Read it to me.’

  ‘A love sonnet?’ you said, looking as relieved as I felt at this first evidence that he cared for me. But your voice faltered as you read: it was a poem of love, yes, but the object of the writer’s love had dark hair and dark eyes, not hair of gold and eyes of blue.

  ‘He has forgot what I look like,’ I said flatly when you had finished.

  ‘Men do not pay notice to such things,’ you said after a moment. ‘What matters is the sentiment, is it not? His desire is clear.’

  I let myself be persuaded. I reminded myself that I would be a lady, mistress of Haverley Court, where I would entertain in style. My husband-to-be was generous with his gifts. What matter that he could not remember what I looked like? He would not marry me if he did not want me, would he?

  I was dull with misery in any case. I missed Pappa so! Steeple Tew was not the same without him. Avery cared nothing for me, Jocosa even less. I could marry, or I could stay unwanted in my own home.

  You did your best to make my wedding day special. We were in mourning still for Pappa, so there would be no gay procession through the village. No flowers strewn in my path. No cup held aloft or attendants with their bridelaces. No music. But you tied rosemary to your sleeve and threaded pearls in my hair, and you walked with me to the chapel where my pappa had lain only weeks before.

  George had come to Steeple Tew the night before and had no friends or supporters with him. He was waiting for me in the porch, laughing with one of the Steeple Tew stable boys, a darkly handsome lad I had often noticed myself, and my heart lightened to see him smiling, though you frowned. We exchanged rings, and when he kissed me, his lips were cold and lifeless against mine.

  Afterwards, I saw him wipe his mouth and hoped you hadn’t noticed. We went into the chapel for the nuptial mass, and I kept thinking of that, and of how his smile had vanished when he saw me.

  Of how I belonged to him now.

  I’d dreamt of my wedding feast for years. Pappa would be there, beaming with pride for his darling Kitten. Mamma would at least have seen to it that the feast was the best that could be produced, and all the neighbours would be invited to gaze on my good fortune with envy. There would be dancing and feasting and jollity, and through it all I would shine as the most beautiful bride anyone had ever seen. But Jocosa was jealous still that I should have captured a husband as wealthy as Lord Delahay and begrudged spending a groat more than she must on my wedding. ‘We are in mourning,’ she told Avery. ‘Your neighbours are lubbering country louts in any case. We cannot ask Lord Delahay to so demean himself.’

  So the banqueting house stayed shut up, and we ate a mean dinner in the hall instead. I smiled brilliantly throughout. I would not give Jocosa the satisfaction of knowing that she had humiliated me. I talked instead about my plans for entertaining when I was mistress at Haverley Court. George said nothing, but Jocosa did not like it at all, I assure you.

  And then, my wedding night. I never told you about that, did I, Mary? You primped me and primed me and lifted a smock over my head, of lawn so fine that it slithered over me like a sigh. You left me propped up against the pillows, awaiting my husband. I was eager to lose my virginity, to know what made the village wenches tip back their heads and gasp, and when the door opened and George came in, I smiled invitingly.

  He did not smile back. Instead, he crossed to the chest and picked up a peacock feather. When he turned back to me, he was pulling the feather between his fingers, and his expression was glazed.

  It was only a feather, but all at once I was afraid. I wanted to run for the door, to call for you to help me, but what could I have said? My husband has a feather? I could not explain to you how my skin crawled as I watched him.

  He dragged the chair over to the bed and bade me pull up my shift and touch myself with the peacock feather for his pleasure. I did not tell you that, did I? Or how I did as he asked while he fondled himself? How I kept my eyes squeezed shut the whole time until he pushed me roughly onto my front and entered me from behind: one thrust, two and a third – just – before he gasped and collapsed on me.

  That was my wedding night.

  The next morning, you came to me after George had risen and gone out hunting with Avery and the other men. You brought me warm water scented with healing herbs and a soft cloth, and you helped me clean myself before I dressed.

  ‘Are you happy?’ you asked me, but I could not tell you what it had been like. What could I say? I hardly knew how to describe what had happened myself. George had not hurt me. I was not beaten or bruised, just humiliated.

  So I smiled my gayest smile. ‘Of course,’ I said.

  I was glad you did not ask me what it was like, as I half expected you would. You were a virgin as I had been, and you must have been c
urious. I wanted to feel that I knew more than you, but I was not at all sure that I did.

  Two days later, we set off for Haverley Court. George had sent for his coach. I told myself that it meant that he had a care for my comfort, but I think even then I knew it was so that he did not have to converse with me. I was not sad to say goodbye to Jocosa or Avery, but Steeple Tew had been my home, and my throat closed as the coach lurched and lumbered down the track. I was very glad you were with me then, quiet and familiar in the corner of the coach. You said nothing, but you knew how I felt, didn’t you? After a while, you crossed to sit beside me and you took my hand. You held it in your cool, capable one, and I felt better.

  By the time the coachman pulled his horses up outside Haverley Court, I was stiff and queasy from the journey. We both sat still and stunned for a moment, hardly able to believe that the coach had stopped at last. Then the door opened with a creak and a young man stood framed in the doorway. He was gracefully built and fair of feature, with dark, dancing eyes, a neatly trimmed beard and a smile that was dazzling.

  ‘Welcome to Haverley, my lady!’

  Pathetically grateful for the warmth of his welcome, I let him help me down from the coach and I leant on him as I wriggled as discreetly as possible to release the stiffness in my limbs.

  ‘I am Sir Anthony Cavendish, your husband’s secretary, Lady Delahay,’ he told me when I could stand straight at last. He flourished a bow. ‘Permit me to congratulate you on your marriage, my lady. Haverley Court is in need of a mistress, but I did not expect Lord Delahay to bring home quite such a fair one.’

  I blushed a little, pleased, and Anthony offered me his arm. ‘Let me take you inside.’

  It should have been my husband escorting me into my new home, but I did not think of that then. I was just glad that Anthony was welcoming, and I took his arm once more and let him lead me up the stone steps. Beneath my fingers, I could feel the strength of his muscles through the stiff fabric of his sleeve. I had a brief impression of looming bricks and the glint of glass, and then I was stepping into a vast hall with an imposingly carved fireplace and a staircase grander than I could have imagined.

  George was already there, slapping his gloves against his thigh, but his expression lightened as he saw Anthony. ‘Come, let us have some wine to celebrate my marriage!’ He sounded more good-humoured than I had ever heard him, and I let myself be ushered into a chamber that I took to be my husband’s study. No one thought that I might wish to wash my hands or use the privy after the journey.

  I saw a chest, its lid propped open, full of books, and a desk with an inkpot, some papers and more books, and I felt a flicker of pride at last that I had married a man of such abilities. Perhaps, I thought, we could start again with our marriage now that we were at Haverley. Perhaps George would be different there, I told myself hopefully, and I could put the dismaying experience of my wedding night behind me.

  And look, did not George cut a fine figure in a gorgeously embroidered doublet and slashed Venetians to show off his good legs? What if he was not talkative? He was refined. He had good teeth. He was not disfigured. I should be leaping for joy at my good fortune.

  Anthony took the wine from the servant and poured it into precious glasses. George had drained his almost before I had taken my first sip and held out his glass for more.

  ‘So, here you are at Haverley, madam wife,’ he said to me. ‘I hope you will soon feel quite at home.’ It was almost the longest speech he had ever made me.

  I smiled uncertainly. I was trying not to look at the naked figures that romped across the sumptuous tapestries. They portrayed classical themes, that much I realised, but I did not recognise the stories. Without thinking, I looked for you to enlighten me, as you had more book learning than I, or just to raise an eyebrow in that way you did, but you weren’t there. Did you jump down from the coach yourself? Did one of the servants take you into the house the back way? All I know is that your absence hit me as if I had stepped into a hole without warning. It made me realise that I was all alone with a husband I barely knew and a man bound to do whatever my husband said. My gaze flickered nervously around the room until it jarred to a halt at a jug on a windowsill.

  It was full of peacock feathers.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mary

  There were still curls of sawdust in the upper chambers when we came to Haverley Court. When I climbed down from the coach that day we arrived and saw it looming above me, I could not help a gasp that was part awe, part fear. I had never seen a house so big or so new, all raw bricks and glittering glass and thrusting chimneys, while around it were left sad stumps of trees and expanses of mud where the gardens had yet to be built.

  No expense had been spared. There was a magnificent oak staircase, lavishly carved, and a long gallery with a dizzyingly ornate plasterwork ceiling. There was a chimney for every room, and tiles on the floor. Everything was new and of the best, and yet already there was a tawdriness to it all. In spite of the light pouring in through the great glass windows, the air always seemed dense, almost spongy, and dank. A torpor lurked in the turn of every step, in the dimness of every corner.

  The old house had been demolished so that the new one could be built in its place, but its presence seemed to crouch still in the air, as if Haverley Court had been but poorly painted over a ruined building, cracked and fissured with sadness and despair.

  To me, the house was a living creature, watching me slyly. Its shadows tiptoed behind me as I walked through it. I would feel them like a breath on the back of my neck and my skin would prickle. Sometimes I would even stop suddenly and jerk round as if to catch them, and I could swear that walls had leapt silently back into position just in time, the tapestries faintly fluttering as the shadows slipped behind them.

  The kitchen was equipped to create great feasts, but Lord Delahay never entertained. He had alienated his neighbours, insulting them and turning away their attempts to court him for the great wealth he had inherited from his uncle, a wealth he squandered on the new house and the jewels he showered on Cat. There was a deep, unpleasant coldness to Lord Delahay, but he seemed generous to his wife, if not to anyone else, and though I worried about her, Cat liked to preen in a new gown or a new necklace.

  The servants were slack and slovenly, and went about their business blank-faced. It was left to me to run the household. I tried to encourage Cat to take on her duties as mistress but she just waved me away.

  ‘You do it, Mary. You know what should be done, and you are so much better at these things.’

  So I did my best to keep house in her place. I kept the accounts and I oversaw the kitchen and the dairy and the garden and the still room. I chivvied the servants to clean and tidy, to bake and to boil and to brew, to scrub and polish, and although they dragged their feet at first, in the end they liked the new sense of purpose their duties gave them. They might have grumbled about the morning prayers in the hall that I instituted while Cat and Lord Delahay were still abed, but they came. Gradually their expressions grew less blank, their manner more confiding.

  ‘Did not the previous Lady Delahay order the household?’ I asked Sindony once. Sindony was one of the laundresses, her hands were cracked and red from years of washing in lye.

  ‘Which Lady Delahay?’

  My brows rose. ‘There was more than one?’

  ‘In the old house. An unhappy place, that was.’ She spat on the grass where she was stretching linen to dry.

  Cat, it seemed, was George’s third wife. The first had seven babes, all dead, Sindony told me, and an eighth that killed her too. The second Lady Delahay could not conceive. ‘She were a thin, whey-faced lass,’ Sindony said. ‘Jumped at shadows. One day she went down to the river and drownded herself.’

  My hand crept to my mouth. ‘But . . . why would she do such a thing?’

  ‘They said it were an accident,’ Sindony admitted. ‘But it’s a strange accident that ties stones around your waist, don’t you reckon? ’Cou
rse, Lord Delahay would’ve greased the coroner’s palm for him to look the other way.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s a kindness to her, in a way. It meant she could be buried in the church.’

  I shuddered. What kind of man would casually pay off his wife’s terrible sin? What sort of unkindness had driven her to the river in the first place?

  My great fear was that Lord Delahay would turn out to be like Avery. As subtly as I could, I asked if any of the maidservants had been forced by him, but they only looked at me out of the corner of their eyes as if I was a simpleton. No, they said, there had never been any of that.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Screaming,’ one called Jane told me. ‘Groaning. Like there’s a great beast in there. Nobody knows what goes on at night, ’cept that man of his, and he ain’t telling.’ She leant closer. ‘There’s some as says Lord Delahay summons Old Nick himself.’

  Devil worship. I knew how overblown servants’ chatter could be, but still, I crossed myself without thinking.

  ‘Every now and then, we hear that one of the servants has been called in and next we know, they ups and offs, and we never see them again.’

  ‘Maidservants?’ I asked, dry-mouthed.

  ‘Men too. Lord Delahay, he’ll mount any horse.’

  I thought of the stable boy George laughed with on his wedding day and I worried for Cat, although she brushed all my concerns aside. It was impossible to talk to her then. There was a feverish gaiety about her, and she was so brittle that I feared the slightest tap would shatter her into jagged fragments, like a fine dish cracked on a stone floor.

  ‘Why do you stay?’ I asked Jane, who shrugged.

  ‘Nowhere else to go,’ she said. ‘I heard as when the old lord was alive, the servants came from the village, but since Lord Delahay came, they won’t send their sons and daughters here no more. Lord Delahay, he don’t care. He just sends his man out to pick vagrants out of the hedgerows and offer us a crust and some cloth for our backs in exchange for keeping our mouths shut. And we do,’ said Jane. ‘I got nothing and nowhere to go back to.’