The Cursed Wife

by Pamela Hartshorne

  ‘I don’t—’ I began, but he interrupted me.

  ‘Drink,’ he said softly so that only I could hear. ‘It will be easier for you.’

  ‘Now, undo your laces,’ said George.

  ‘No,’ I said, understanding at last. ‘No, I—’ I began to struggle up from the cushions, but George’s expression stopped me. You will say I could have got up and walked out, Mary, but you were not there. You did not see his face. He might as well have had a dagger to my throat.

  ‘Undo your laces,’ he said again.

  So, God help me, I did.

  ‘Smile,’ he said, and I did that too, though my mouth trembled.

  From his chair, my husband directed Anthony to help me as I fumbled with my laces. He bade his secretary press his hot mouth to the swell of my breast as my bodice fell open.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ Anthony breathed against my skin. ‘You are so beautiful, Cat. I will be kind to you, do not fear. Pretend he is not there.’

  Over his shoulder I could see my husband’s avid stare. He had pulled his yard from his breeches and was rubbing himself, touching himself with another of those cursed feathers as Anthony groped beneath my skirts. He pushed them up until they bunched around my waist and he touched me beneath my shift, between my legs. It was still summer then, not yet dark, and in the distance I could hear a peacock screech.

  My head was reeling from the wine and I closed my eyes. I could feel Anthony unpinning me, unwinding me, stripping off the layers you had dressed me in that morning. I jolted at the heat of his mouth, the wetness of it against my privy parts. I could hear the rustle of clothes being removed, George panting, Anthony grunting as he pushed into me. I wanted to be horrified at what was happening, but do you wish for the truth, Mary? I wasn’t horrified at all. I was excited. Eyes tightly shut, I imagined looking down at myself, knees spread wide on the cushions, Anthony’s bare buttocks bucking up and down between them, and my husband, his mouth ajar, breathing furiously as he watched us and fondled himself, and my blood pounded and there was booming inside me that beat harder and harder until it roared and I tipped my head back with an inarticulate cry. I was still floppy as George shoved Anthony aside and rolled me roughly onto my front so that he could enter me.

  ‘A son!’ he gasped. ‘A son, a son, a son!’ He collapsed on top of me with a grunt so that the three of us lay tangled stickily together.

  When I opened my eyes, still with my husband’s damp weight on my back, I saw Anthony lying next to me, his face pressed into a cushion. He was breathing hard as he turned his head and our eyes met. ‘It will get better,’ he mouthed.

  And it did. The next night we did it again, and the next, and before long I had been sucked into a dangerous game that I craved as much as I feared. It wasn’t always the same. Sometimes George liked me to resist, and pretend that Anthony was forcing me against my will. Sometimes it was I who had to take the feather and seduce Anthony. George liked that. He would bid me get down on my knees before his secretary and take him in my mouth. But whichever way we contorted ourselves to his twisted desires, it ended with my husband’s few pathetic thrusts. The only way he could bring himself to consummate our marriage was by watching me play the whore with Anthony first. Imagine how that made me feel, Mary! The more he watched and panted, the more I loathed him, and he loathed me back. I might as well have been a toad that he forced himself to pick up. If it had not been for his longing for a son, he would have never had a wife at all.

  You have no idea how I suffered. There were the jewels, of course, and the gowns. I could buy what I liked, and so I did. I earned every pearl, every diamond. All that silk and velvet and gold embroidery was paid for in humiliation. I took pleasure in them, yes, but what else did I have to enjoy?

  I wondered sometimes about George’s other wives, if they had had to endure what I endured, and I vowed to myself that I would not be like them, vanquished in childbed or trailing down to the river in despair. I had suffered for my position as the mistress of Haverley Court, and I was determined to have it for myself – and for Anthony. My husband had created a craving in me that I could not satisfy. I was in thrall to Anthony’s touch. I yearned for it, but I wanted him without George’s gaze crawling stickily over us.

  We had hardly any opportunities to be alone. George was jealous. He did not want us to exist if we were not performing for him alone, and he kept Anthony with him as much as possible. Once or twice I was able to lurk outside the study and if Anthony emerged on an errand I would grab him and we would pull each other behind a door or into a shadowy corner and go at it in frantic silence.

  ‘We must be careful,’ Anthony breathed in my ear. ‘If he suspects that we do this without him, he will dismiss me.’

  ‘No, he must not!’ I clutched him to me in panic. George would find another secretary and pay him to service me, and how could I bear to do that with a stranger? ‘I love you!’

  ‘And I you, but we must be patient. If you could but conceive,’ Anthony said, pressing his forehead against mine. ‘With a son, you would be secure, Cat. If anything happened to George, your son would inherit Haverley Court and you, of course, would stay here to care for him. And perhaps you would need me to look after the estate for you . . .’ he said. ‘You might even marry again. If you were a widow.’

  I knew what he was suggesting, and my eyes must have been brilliant as I looked back at him.

  ‘How may we manage it?’

  ‘First you must have a son. Your maid seems skilled in the still room,’ Anthony said. I had not realised until then that he had even noticed you, and I felt a flash of resentment that he could look at anybody but me. But his suggestion was sound: you were skilled, and I knew that you would help me if I asked.

  So I drank all those vile concoctions you came up with and when I conceived, I was overjoyed. I told George that I feared hurting the child and that I would not play his games any more. I hoped that he would leave me be for a few months so that Anthony could pleasure me alone, but I had reckoned without my husband’s cruelty. He took Anthony and they went to London. What they did there, I never knew, but I could imagine all too well. I had to stay at Haverley Court growing bulkier and bulkier and picture George watching Anthony with another woman. Or with another man. By then I knew there were no limits to my husband’s depravity.

  My hatred of George deepened with every passing day. Do you remember how we would sit together in the parlour and I would watch you sewing? Sometimes you would look up from your needle and see me looking dreamily into the fire, and your face would soften.

  ‘I am happy to see you so content,’ you used to say.

  And I would put my hands on my belly and smile, knowing that you thought I was picturing the babe, while my mind was busy planning how to kill my husband once my son was installed in the new cradle I had ordered.

  ‘Do not forget me,’ Anthony whispered before they departed. ‘It will be worth it if you can only have a son.’

  I did everything I should, did I not? I did not ride and I walked sedately up and down that long gallery until I thought I would scream with the tedium of it. I sat quietly and ate and drank what I was told. I listened as you and that fat old laundress assured me that I would have a son. I writhed and screamed at the pain of labour, and after all that, it was just a girl! Do you wonder I could not stand to look on her?

  George was as disappointed as I when he came home, and he took it out on me with ever more depraved games. His eyes were aglitter with temper and lust as he ordered Anthony to bind me and take a whip to me, as if I were no better than a whore dragged through the town at the cart’s arse! Anthony was as gentle as he could be, but oh, Mary, how can you judge me so when you do not know half of what I have suffered?

  You stilled when you lifted my shift and saw the welts on my buttocks, the bruises under my ribs. You brought me warm water with herbs and a soft cloth and salves to sooth the welts. And you busied yourself brushing my skirts, adjusting the creases in my ruff
.

  ‘I know what this feels like,’ you said, and I stiffened.

  ‘You? What do you know?’

  ‘Your brother used me like this,’ you said painfully.

  It would not have been the same, Mary. I dare say you enjoyed it really. Avery might have been a dolt, but he was a fine-looking man. He was not vile like George. He would not have made you take another man’s yard in your mouth, would he? He would not have had to watch before his own would rise. He would not have taken pleasure in your pain.

  I saw how Avery watched you, and it was with lust, not cruelty. You should have played your cards better, Mary. You are clever enough to have managed Avery, aye, and Jocosa too if you had put your mind to it.

  ‘I could give you something to calm his temper,’ you said quietly. ‘To make him sleepy.’

  Do you remember that, Mary? It was your idea.

  ‘How?’ I asked without turning around. ‘I have to drink the wine too. We cannot put it in that even if Daniel were not to see.’

  ‘I will put it in a dish,’ you decided. ‘Something savoury so that he may not smell it. A potage of sand eels, perhaps, or a mutton pie . . .’ I could see you planning dishes in your mind.

  ‘He likes duck or capon the way you prepare it.’

  You gave a brisk little nod. ‘Duck then. But do you not eat any of it,’ you warned. ‘Leave it for the men to eat and then they will leave you in peace for the evening at least.’

  I warned Anthony of course. We both declined the duck that you sent in, and George gobbled it all up himself. And while he slept later, Anthony and I went at it joyfully in my bed with no one to please but ourselves, and I put back my head and gasped and groaned with delight.

  A year went by, and then another, and still I did not conceive again, though no one could say that Anthony and I did not try. We were mad for each other then, and George’s cruelty just made us want each other more. After that first time, I asked you to give me the potion so that I could slip it into George’s wine more easily. You warned me to be careful. ‘Too much and you will kill him,’ you said.

  ‘That is useful to know,’ Anthony smiled when I told him. ‘We must remember that for after your son is born.’

  It was so tempting to use the potion more and more often so that Anthony and I could be by ourselves. We would lie naked together in my bed, the curtains pulled tight around us. I would eat sweetmeats off his belly, while he licked the sugar from my breasts, and we would plan. Oh, such glorious plans! We would wrap ourselves in velvets and furs, and wear rings on every finger. We would go to France! There would be nothing to stop us leaving the child with a nurse and travelling. I longed to leave that horrible house and see something of the world. When we were married, we might find a place at court, even. We would be rich. Why should we not do whatever we wanted?

  ‘Oh, my dove, I cannot wait!’ I sighed, but Anthony always cautioned patience.

  ‘We can do nothing until you have a son.’ He threw himself on his back. ‘After that, we can put an end to George.’

  ‘Why can we not act now?’ I asked petulantly. ‘I am so tired of him. I am raw from his whippings. I begin to see why his last wife took herself to the river!’

  Anthony laughed. ‘You are nothing like her, Cat. She was a poor thing. George might as well have been torturing a little mouse.’

  ‘Did you service her the way you do me?’ I asked jealously, and he rolled himself on top of me.

  ‘What do you think?’ He slipped his hand between my legs, making me squirm with lascivious delight. ‘But there was no pleasure in it, the way there is with you, my heart. And no chance of making a profit from it. For that, a woman of spirit is necessary, and that is you, Cat.’

  I was mollified. ‘I wish we could rid ourselves of him now.’

  ‘If we do that, the estate will go to George’s nephew. His heir,’ Anthony reminded me with an edge to his voice. I knew it was because he had explained it so many times before, but I was impatient for this time to end. ‘Your daughter will have a dowry, but nothing more. As for you, you will have to go back to your brother.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘But with a son . . .’ Anthony’s eyes gleamed as he gestured around the bed. ‘This bed, this chamber, this house, this estate . . . it would all be ours, to do with as we will. So be patient a little longer, love – and do not give George the sleeping potion too often. I fear Daniel may be growing suspicious.’

  ‘He is just a servant,’ I said dismissively.

  ‘Not so. Have you not seen the way Daniel looks at George? Everyone else looks at him with loathing, but Daniel’s eyes hold only yearning.’

  I made a sound of disgust.

  ‘It is true,’ Anthony insisted. ‘George uses him when he feels like it. Daniel will do things even more degrading than you can imagine. What we do, we do for duty so that he – and we – can beget a son, but Daniel would do anything for George’s love, and he asks nothing in return.’

  Unlike Anthony, whom George showered with gifts. I guessed that I was not the only service Anthony was called on to perform for my husband, but I closed my mind to what else he might do.

  So I did try to leave days at a time before giving George some more of your potion, but it was too tempting to use it when I saw George’s temper was particularly bad and I could not face whoring myself for his pleasure one more time. Your potion was powerful and I was careful not to give him too much, just as you said. It made him sleepy and listless without feeling ill.

  That night, I slipped it into his wine as usual, and indeed, George soon began to yawn and slur his words. He fell asleep in his chair, his mouth open, his legs splayed and the empty goblet dangling from his fingers. Anthony and I tiptoed out to my bedchamber. I was straddling him, and we were going at it so hard that neither of us heard the latch. Neither of us heard anything at all until the bed curtains were wrenched open with a roar.

  ‘What is this?’ George’s face was congested with rage and great flecks of spittle gathered at the edges of his mouth, as we gaped at him in shock. ‘Daniel whispered that you were cuckolding me and I boxed his ears for his insolence. You would not dare, I said. I sent him away. But tonight I woke and the fire was cold and my head was spinning and you were both gone. I came to find succour, and see what I find instead!’

  ‘You are unwell, husband,’ I tried, clutching at the idea that the potion might take hold again and that he would remember nothing in the morning.

  ‘Unwell, am I?’ George’s hand closed cruelly around my arm, pulling me off Anthony and sending me tumbling to the floor. ‘Not so unwell I cannot whip you until your blood runs, madam wife! And as for you, Anthony,’ he went on, and his voice was low and vicious, his eyes rolling with vengeance. ‘You have betrayed me . . . after all these years, you do this to me! I will kill you now.’

  ‘No!’ I scrambled to my feet, horrified as I saw his hands around Anthony’s throat. ‘George, please, it is not what you think!’ I tried to pull at him, but he was too strong. Anthony was choking and flailing, at a disadvantage lying in bed. Frantically, l looked around for something to stop him killing Anthony, and that is when I saw the poker by the fire. It was in my hand before I knew it, and heavier than I thought, but I hauled it up with both hands and brought it down on George’s head. He cried out and fell sideways, sliding off the bed with a heavy thud, but he was roaring still and struggling to get up, vile words pouring from his lips. He would wake the whole house. I knew most would pretend they heard nothing, but what if Daniel came?

  I had to quieten him, you must see that. I had to, but it took four blows before I felt his skull crack, and he stopped roaring and vomiting at last. I was breathing hard, and Anthony was still clutching his throat.

  ‘You’ve killed him!’ he wheezed, his eyes wide and staring.

  I let the poker drop from my nerveless hand. ‘I had to,’ I said in a small voice. ‘He wouldn’t be quiet.’ I stared at him. ‘What are we going to do?’

&
nbsp; Anthony struggled up against the pillows. ‘You’ll have to get help. Call that cool maid of yours.’

  ‘You can’t be here,’ I said, calming down. ‘This is Mary’s fault. She cannot have made the potion strong enough tonight. Or she has made it wrongly, and it has driven him to madness at last. Yes, that is what must have happened.’

  ‘He is dead!’ You turned a horrified face up to me. I had run to scratch on your door, whisper to you to come and help. You dropped to your knees beside him and pressed two fingers to his throat. ‘Cat, what have you done? You have killed him!’

  ‘I didn’t mean to.’ I was shaking violently. ‘He would have killed me otherwise. That potion you made. It drove him mad.’ I clutched my robe around me. My toes were sticky with blood and vomit and I rubbed them desperately against the floorboards to rid myself of the feeling. ‘What are we going to do?’

  I saw you work it out, click, click, click in your busy brain as you massaged your neck, as if already feeling a rope there. What would happen if I were tried for killing my husband? Would you be implicated for making the potion? I know you were not thinking of me then, Mary. You were thinking of yourself, and the child perhaps. You were besotted with her, and treated her as if she were your daughter, not mine. You were in a panic lest you and she should find yourselves with nowhere to go. You did not care what would happen to me.

  ‘We must make it look like an accident,’ you decided, rubbing at your scarred hand the way you do when you are thinking, and you took control. You called for Anthony, who gave a very good impression of a man roused from sleep, and made him help you push George to the bottom of the stairs. You spoke quietly to the servants, and were solicitous to Daniel, the only one who had cared anything for George. You gave him something to help his grief, and it made him dull when the coroner came. You had George’s corpse carried to the church. You arranged the mourning.