The Cursed Wife

by Pamela Hartshorne

  ‘But there is so much to do here,’ you protest.

  John looks around him as he bounds down the last steps. ‘Women’s work,’ he says. ‘What else are maidservants for?’ His eyes meet mine briefly, and I acknowledge the hit with a quirk of my lips.

  ‘Oh, John, don’t go!’ Cecily rushes over to him and clings to his arm. She pouts up at him adorably. ‘It is so dull when you are not here. Can we not go to the parlour and be comfortable?’

  John barely glances at her. ‘I am sorry, chicken,’ he says carelessly as he removes her hand from his arm. ‘I have promised.’

  The door clunks behind him as he goes out, leaving us standing in the empty hall. There is a defeated slump to your shoulders, you who have always been so straight-backed, and you look weary, though in truth you have done nothing tonight. I organised everything. If anyone has a right to be tired, it is I.

  Cecily’s face is thunderous. ‘I am exhausted,’ she says when you direct her to fold up the tablecloths.

  ‘We are all tired,’ you snap.

  Mary, you must be worried. Cecily never receives the sharp edge of your tongue. You treat her always like a little princess.

  ‘What did you say to Joan Parker? Did you slap her?’ you ask her, and Cecily’s face crumples.

  ‘She is hateful!’

  ‘I thought you liked her?’

  ‘Well, I don’t. She is rude and jealous and spiteful!’

  ‘In other words, she made the mistake of telling Cecily the truth,’ I murmur at your shoulder. ‘Joan told her that it was obvious she was only flirting with Sir Anthony to get John’s attention, and that it wasn’t working. I have noticed Cecily does not care for uncomfortable truths, but then, few of us do, do we?’

  Cecily stares at me. For a moment I think she is going to burst into tears and flounce off, but no. She laughs instead. ‘What nonsense is this?’ she cries. ‘Joan said no such thing.’ She dances over to you and winds her arms around your neck. ‘Do not listen to her. Forgive me, Mamma. I am sorry I am so cross, truly I am. Joan was jealous and I was scratchy. It is just that I miss Pappa so! I wish he would come home and make everything right.’

  ‘So do I,’ you murmur tiredly, your arms closing around her to hold her tight. ‘So do I.’

  Over your shoulder, Cecily’s eyes meet mine in triumph. She knows how to manage you to a nicety. Nothing I can do or say will ever make you see what a little madam she is. All she has to do is smile or press her cheek to yours, and you let yourself be blinded to her selfishness. You are a fool where Cecily is concerned, Mary, I tell you that.

  ‘Come,’ you say after a moment. You let her go and rub the back of your neck, and I can almost see you pulling together the tattered rags of your strength. ‘We will all help. Amy and Sarah can clean up properly tomorrow, but for now we will leave everything tidy. It looks . . .’ You look around as if the mess pains you. ‘It looks debauched,’ you say eventually.

  I almost laugh. A few crumbs, a few spills? You have no idea about debauchery, Mary dear.

  I am longing for my bed too, but no, we have to toil backwards and forwards, carrying dishes, sweeping up crumbs of sugar, collecting goblets.

  ‘What about Anthony?’ I ask you, low-voiced, when we are alone in the hall. I want to know what is in your mind. ‘What can we do?’

  You are mindlessly gathering up discarded goblets. ‘Get word to him tomorrow,’ you say. ‘Tell him that I want to meet him, after dark.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘No.’ You hesitate. ‘At a tavern. Near the docks.’

  ‘Near the docks?’ I echo, astounded. ‘It is too rough an area for you.’

  ‘It is near Gabriel’s warehouse. I go there often.’

  ‘Not at night,’ I say bluntly. ‘You cannot go there by yourself.’

  ‘I must.’ You look at me. ‘He knows enough to hang the both of us,’ you say, and you put your hand to your throat as if you can feel the rope there already, and for a moment, I can almost feel the hemp tightening against my own skin.

  ‘I know,’ I say with a shudder. ‘But what can we do?’

  ‘I will talk to him,’ you say.

  Talk to him? Is that it?

  I wrinkle my brow. ‘What good will talking do?’

  But it seems you are not going to confide in me any more. Mary, Mary, could you be growing suspicious?

  ‘Just get him to meet me,’ you say.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mary

  I half expect Anthony to refuse to meet me, but no. Cat comes back from who knows where and tells me that he will be at the Cock and Pie at nine of the clock. I do not ask how she knew where to find him. I do not want to know.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ she asks. ‘Anthony is not a man to cross.’

  Nor am I a woman to cross, I think. Anthony has crossed a line, from greed to cruelty, and he has threatened what is mine. There will be no easy end to this. It is not just about my safety, and hers. He knows enough to hang us both, but he knows too how to destroy my family. He will ask for more and more and more. There will never be enough money to satisfy him.

  ‘I am sure,’ I say.

  At nine it will be almost dark, I think. That will suit my purposes well, but I will need a good excuse to be out at that time of night. I send Cat out again, ignoring the tightening of her lips. She does not like it when I treat her as a servant, but there is no one else I can trust with this and her sour expression is the least of my problems.

  ‘Find a boy who will bring me a message tonight to say that I am wanted,’ I tell her.

  ‘Wanted for what?’

  ‘You can think of a reason,’ I say impatiently. ‘I am needed at a childbirth, or a sickbed, or some such reason.’ Cat knows that I am rarely consulted since Peter Blake’s death, and I stare her out, daring her to say so. ‘The boy does not need to know. He needs only knock at the door and speak to you. Then you will come to me and say that I am needed urgently. All I need is some reason to give in case anyone should question why I put on my cloak and hurry out. Surely that is not too hard to arrange?’

  I am too tired, too sick with anxiety, to be tactful.

  I pretend it is a normal day. I shop and cook and direct the servants. I go to the warehouse, as I often do. There is nothing remarkable about that, except for the fact that it is so hot. Few folk are out unless they have to be. We are all sluggish and scratchy, and it is an effort to draw in the thick air. The streets lie slumped beneath the suffocating torpor that lies over the city like a discarded cloak.

  I am glad of the linen smock that soaks up my sweat as I walk down to Gabriel’s warehouse at Three Cranes Wharf. It is a long walk with my basket over my arm, and were it not for Anthony, I would turn back for the shelter of my garden which at least is calm and well ordered.

  But there is Anthony, so I set my mouth straight and stick to the shade, much good that it does. Flies lift and fall in clouds over piles of stinking filth as I walk down Wood Street to Cheapside. Their buzz accompanies me all the way along Bread Street, past the Vintners’ Hall and then at last into Three Cranes Lane, where the stench of rotting fish mingles with the briny smell of the river.

  I usually like being by the river. I like the noise: the bellowing between ship and dock, the raucous squabbling of gulls, the shoving and shouting, the creak and groan of ropes and the slap of palms as bargains are struck. The quays reek of the scent of fish and salt air, and the refuse stranded on the beaches at low tide. Beggars pick over the debris in the mud, or snatch at scraps around the stalls. Tall ships and sturdy cogs jostle at the quays, sailed in from who knows where, destined for somewhere far from here. They set sail across the wide seas, the seas I have never seen, ploughing through the waves, bucking and rearing like horses in the wind, or so Gabriel tells it. They anchor in distant ports and fill their holds with exotic spices, with peppercorns and cinnamon bark and nutmeg. They bring wine and salt, oil and dyes. So much of what brings savour and colour to our lives must c
ome on a ship. And when it comes to London, the mariners roll barrels down their gangplanks before hoisting great sacks of English wool onto their shoulders to run nimbly back up and load the ship once more. The crane hauls heavy weights on and off the ships, the loads dangling precariously. I always give it a wide berth, remembering what happened to Jacopo and how easily it might have been Gabriel lying on the dockside.

  But I mustn’t think of Gabriel, not with what I have to do tonight.

  Today, though, the Thames lies oily and still at the end of the lane, its mud banks slimy. There is none of the usual activity. Even the gulls cannot summon the energy to screech and swoop as they usually do and perch surly-faced on stewps and posts. The great ships are pinned down by heat, their sails slack, and sailors lounge on the docks, waiting like the rest of us for a stir of breeze.

  John is slouched on a barrel outside the warehouse, tossing dice twitchily from hand to hand. He stops and rises when he sees me noticing him so idle, and a dull flush rises in his face.

  ‘Mother, I did not expect you today. You said nothing this morning.’ There is a sheen of sweat over him. ‘It is too hot to be out.’

  ‘Too hot to stay inside, too,’ I say. It is true. The shade offers little coolness now. The heat has spread into every crack and crevice, even the deepest, darkest cellar, and there is no relief from it anywhere. ‘Is there news of that shipment of cinnamon?’ I ask John, but he shakes his head.

  ‘No wind, no ships. Pray God this heat ends soon. There is a bad feeling in the city at the moment. Everyone is on edge.’

  I know what he means. Folk are too hot to be courteous. They snap and snarl at each other like dogs and will pull a knife as soon as move out of the way.

  ‘They say we will have a storm later.’ We both glance up at the sky which has the same glazed glare it has held for what feels like weeks. There is no sign of any clouds, but the air is twanging like a lute string. It may come. Please God, let it come soon. Let it come tonight, I think.

  ‘I may as well take a look at the account book while I am here,’ I say.

  John ought to ask me why, he ought to care, but he doesn’t. ‘If you wish,’ he says indifferently and settles back on his barrel.

  The warehouse is dim but the heat is suffocating and pungent with the spices that once filled the empty barrels lined up against one wall. The smell of hessian tickles the back of my throat, and all at once I find myself remembering the sacks stacked on the cart behind me on the way to Steeple Tew.

  May you never be safe, never.

  I push the memory of the curse away. As with Gabriel, I cannot think of that now.

  At the back of the warehouse is a little counting house with a locked chest where Gabriel keeps his accounting books. The key is hidden in a jug. Time after time, I have chided Gabriel for his lack of security, but the last time I mentioned it, he only lifted his shoulders. ‘If a thief is determined to steal, the lock will not deter them. I keep what is most valuable safe at home. And that includes you, wife,’ he said, smiling, and the memory rises up my throat and lodges there, crowding out my breath with the pain of it.

  I must not think about Gabriel. It will undo me.

  Wiping the sweat from my face, I draw out the book from the top just in case John follows me in after all and asks what I am doing. I learnt to cast accounts at Steeple Tew, and for the look of it, I open the book and run my eyes down the figures. I frown. It looks as if we made great profit on the sale of wine from Gascony, but where has it gone?

  Was this where John found the hundred sovereigns I gave to Cat to give Anthony? Or has it gone on gambling?

  Oh, Gabriel, I think bleakly. I have done badly by you.

  I have a bag of coins and some oats in the bottom of my basket. The air in the counting house is so thick and taut that it presses against me like a body as I twist my head jumpily from side to side and hide the bag in the chest. It is a relief to have it done. I put the book back on top, drop the key into the jug with a chink and go outside again.

  John looks up from the barrel. ‘Done already?’ he asks without interest.

  I nod. ‘We should sell that salt,’ I tell him. ‘The accounts do not look good. We have had too many losses lately,’ I say. ‘Your father will be home soon and we have not given a good account of ourselves lately.’

  John’s eyes slide from mine. ‘I will make it good,’ he mutters.

  ‘Have you seen Richard Martindale today?’

  John shakes his head. ‘I’ve seen no one.’

  ‘I will go to his lodgings. I promised him this remedy for his gout.’ I gesture to my basket, not that John cares. I am talking too much, I know. It is almost as if I want John to get suspicious, to question me, to stop me. But he says nothing, just nods, uninterested.

  Richard has lodgings hard by the Cutlers’ Hall. I walk back up Three Cranes Lane, my basket lighter without the coin. As I hoped, Richard is out, but Jacopo is there, squatting by the door, smoking his pipe. He straightens as I approach, and I think about what Richard told me, about the tricks Jacopo learnt in prison, about the innkeeper who quarrelled with his master and was found the next day, about the ferocious, unquestioning loyalty to those to whom he feels he owes a service. He is a small man, but wiry, quick. A dangerous man to have as an enemy, a good one to have as your friend.

  I look him straight in the eyes. ‘I am come to call in your debt,’ I say.

  The air is tense and wavering when I say goodbye to Jacopo on the doorstep, and at last, dark clouds are boiling up behind the rooftops. Jacopo glances up at the sky, eyes narrowed in his monkey-like face. ‘Best stay here, mistress,’ he advises. ‘The storm will break at any moment. You should wait until it passes.’

  ‘I will hurry,’ I say, anxious to get home.

  I bid him farewell and set off up St Thomas’s Lane, but the air thickens with every step that I take, and the tension winds tighter and tighter as the light gets blacker and blacker until it is almost dark. I see candles hurriedly being lit as shutters are sparred, and the countrywomen keep a wary eye on the clouds as they gather up their vegetables and herbs. Thunder rumbles ominously. All this time we have been longing for rain, but now that the storm is here, its power frightens us. I keep looking over my shoulder as if it is stalking me, prowling along the streets in search of sacrifices to its rage. If I can just get home . . .

  But I am only at St Mary-le-Bow when the darkness splits with a deafening crack and a jagged dazzle of lightning, then another and another, and at last the rain comes, emptied out of the sky as if from a bucket. It cascades onto my head, bounces off the dust, swirls furiously along the gutters. I turn my face up to it, welcoming the sudden cool, and I am drenched to my smock in no time at all. Is this what it is like to fall into the sea? I wonder.

  By the time I get back to Little Wood Street, my sodden skirts are dragging in the mud. Sarah clucks when she sees me. ‘Oh, mistress, look at the state of you! You’ll catch your death, and no time since you were so sick.’ She hurries away to bring me a cloth to rub my face and hair as I stand dripping in the hall. She helps me off with the sodden gown and promises to send Cat to me as soon as may be. I climb the staircase to my chamber, abruptly cold and very weary. I am so wet, I will have to strip to my smock.

  My fingers fumble with the knots of my bodice and I am glad of Cat’s help to untie them.

  ‘What have you been doing out in the rain?’ she asks in a low voice.

  ‘Business,’ I say shortly. Over her shoulder, I can see Peg. She is leaning in her usual place on the chest, but her expression is worried, and in spite of myself, I shiver.

  ‘Get into bed,’ says Cat, dragging back the covers almost crossly. ‘It was foolish of you to go out in this weather,’ she scolds me. ‘You have been ill, Mary. You must get warm.’

  I almost protest, but then I realise that I will not be able to deal with Anthony if I am unwell, so I climb meekly into the bed and close my eyes while Cat fusses around, ordering Sarah to take a
way all my wet clothes and bring a warm wine. I would like to tell her that she has turned into a good servant, but I don’t think she would like it.

  ‘Have you made arrangements for the message?’ I ask instead when Sarah has gone, and Cat clicks her tongue with annoyance.

  ‘It is done, but you will be in no state to go anywhere if you do not stop being foolish.’

  I lie in bed all afternoon, listening to the rain crashing onto the roof and remembering how it rained when Amy had the toothache, and I insisted on going out into it. Remembering how Gabriel had told me not to go, to send Sarah instead, but I hadn’t listened. And so I met Cat. If I hadn’t gone out that day, there would be no Cat fussing around my chamber now. No Anthony, rubbing his hands with greed.

  But I did go, and now I must go out into the rain again, and Gabriel is not here to tell me to stay at home.

  The rain has dwindled to a light patter by the time I get up and dress in an old, dry gown and pull a cap over my still-damp hair. It is cool inside and out now, and a breeze moves busily around the streets, knocking at shutters as if announcing – too late – that the weather has turned. Hard to believe that only hours ago we were waving our hands in front of our faces, plucking at our collars and barely able to move for the heat.

  I have no appetite, and my drenching earlier gives me a reason to stay in my bedchamber while Cecily plays the virginals next door in the great chamber, banging peevishly at the keys, and John, who came home nearly as wet as I for dinner, has gone out again, no doubt to some tavern where he will dice away Gabriel’s business if he is not careful. I must take him in hand, I fret. But first, I must deal with Anthony.

  When the message is brought to the door, Sarah is at first inclined to turn the boy away, but Cat intervenes just in time, and says she will take me the message and allow me to decide. So I override Sarah’s concern for my health, and Cecily’s fretful complaint about being left alone, and announce that a fellow wife is in sore need of my help.

  ‘I will take a basket with some herbs and remedies,’ I tell them, acting the part. The basket I have prepared earlier, and it lies covered with a cloth so that no one sees what it holds.