by Nicola Upson
God willin’, this is the last new book I shall begin. The Missis cannot go on as she is in this big house all alone, and when her daughter fetches her away and she is settled with her family, I will be Samuel Kyte’s wife.
Josephine looked at the page in astonishment and read the lines again. The further she got with the diary, the more frustrated she had become with its anonymity; she had longed to know the author’s name, but never in a million years would she have guessed at Kyte. Excited now, she rifled through the booklets on the floor until she found the diary for 1828, and double-checked that the name was exactly as it had appeared in the original. It was, and she tried to put her tiredness to one side and think clearly about what that might mean. Was the Lucy Kyte in Hester’s will a descendant of the woman who had written the diary, or the writer herself? Had Hester actually made a bequest to a dead woman? There was no way of knowing at the moment, and Josephine read on, hoping to find another clue.
I must say goodbye to my little books when I am wed. There will be no need to dwell on my own thoughts for company when I have a family, and I know there is nothin’ I w’d wish to hide from Samuel. But I will keep these pages to read when I am old.
12 February
Samuel brought me snowdrops for my birthday, enough to fill my tiny room. I do not know if they are the last flower of winter or the first of spring, but today they are a beginnin’.
Tom Martin was in the Cock tonight, talkin’ about his wife. He says she is not sleepin’ and has not been herself since their Maria went away, and now Mr Matthews has stopped sendin’ money for Thomas Henry she has taken a turn for the worse. Maria’s sister says her stepmother is goin’ out o’ her mind, wi’ visions of Maria at night, knockin’ on the door and cryin’ for help. I suppose it w’d suit her if Mrs Martin was put away – with Maria gone, she w’d be free to rule the household at last. But if anythin’ upsets Mrs Martin’s sleep, it will be her conscience. A proper mother w’d have stopped Maria goin’ with William when she was so low after the baby. If she is sufferin’ for that now, I am glad.
18 April
Tom Martin came to the house and ask’d to speak to the Missis. I heard him ask leave to go to the barn and look for clothes that he thought Maria might have left there on the day she went away. He did not mention William. The Missis said Pryke w’d take him to the barn tomorrow. Later, I begged Samuel to take me but he said only William and Pryke have a key. He promis’d to watch for them tomorrow and told me not to worry, but there is more to this than lost clothes. I shall not sleep tonight.
19 April
Saw Pryke go off this mornin’ to meet Tom Martin. The Missis watch’d him from the window, and we both waited for news. It was Samuel who came back to the house. He was a few minutes wi’ the Missis, then he came to me and I knew by his face that they had found her. He c’d not speak at first, but I begged him to tell me and he knew that if he did not I w’d go up there and find a way to see the truth myself.
They found her in one of the bays, not a foot down in the earth. She was tied up in a sack, her poor body bent double and a handkerchief around her neck. I scream’d at Samuel to stop, to tell me that it was not Maria, but they are sure. They have found earrings and shoes and a pair of combs. Her family say they are Maria’s. Nothin’ more is left of her to know.
She is still there, lock’d in the barn. They are waitin’ for the coroner to come from Bury. She is found and her misery known, but she must wait another night in that place. Tomorrow, the men of the village will stand over her body and look and point and talk about her as tho they care. It is Maria who will be judged, and Thomas Henry will never truly know his mother. If she is remember’d at all, it will be as the poor murder’d girl or the whore. Where is William? How c’d he live on here and smile and lie so easy, passin’ that barn every day, all the time knowin’ she was inside? And I have been happy in that cottage, laughin’ and talkin’ with Samuel, never knowin’ that she was so close, and so alone.
Tonight, Samuel walk’d with me up to Barn Field. The flowers I left for her look’d sad in the fadin’ light. He says we do not know what happened and I must not judge for the Missis’s sake, but I know. She is dead, and I have bow’d and scrap’d to the man who killed her. I c’d have wash’d her blood from his clothes, and the thought of him makes me sick to my stomach.
Maria. She is here now, in front of me, her face black and swollen, and she stares at me, unforgivin’ because I have let her down. I can still hear her voice in the silence, and she is tellin’ me that if I had been in trouble, she would have found a way to save me.
Josephine rubbed her eyes and stared into the light of the lamp, but the image would not go away. She remembered how she had felt after dreaming of Marta’s death, but this was not a nightmare that Maria’s friend could ever wake from. ‘Nothing more is left of her to know.’ She imagined those words spoken about someone she loved, someone she had grown up with, and felt their pain as if it were her own. For a moment, the sense of loss inhabited her so strongly that it frightened her, and she had to put the pages down.
When she was ready to go on, she brought another candle forward to give herself more light. Its flame enlivened the delicate greys and browns of the photographs on the wall where she was sitting, and she looked at Hester’s face in one of the many stage shots of Maria Marten. How must she have felt when she read the diary for the first time and learned that – for all its heightened drama and excessive thrills – the play could not touch the truth for sadness and horror?
20 April
I heard the cart as it was beginnin’ to get light. From my window, I c’d see the men makin’ their way slowly across the fields towards the barn. The procession was ghostly in the mornin’ mist, and I wish’d I c’d wipe their purpose from my mind as easily as I c’d imagine the sight of them to be a dream.
I left the house and waited on the edge of the village for them to bring Maria back. They were gone a long time. Word had spread overnight and a crowd gather’d on the green and along the path to the Martins’ cottage. For once, the village held its tongue, and the silence when the cart came back was broken only by the sound of the wheels on the stones and the heavy footsteps of the men who walk’d behind it. Their faces told me what they had seen, but all I can think of now is Maria on that cart, cover’d in a sheet, as slight as a bundle of rags. How can that be the friend I loved? Her father walk’d with her all the way. As they lifted her body from the cart and into the Cock for the inquest, I thought his grief would break him but he found the strength to go inside.
I went back to the house to wait for news. The Missis ask’d me what was happenin’ and I told her what I had seen, but she said nothin’. At 6 o’clock, while I was clearin’ away a supper that had never been wanted, the church bell began to toll. It was late for a funeral, but they c’d not wait to get Maria back in the ground. To lay her to rest properly in the mornin’ light is more than our shame will allow. Samuel was one of the six who carried the coffin and the Martins walk’d behind, with Thomas Henry cryin’ in his grandfather’s arms. Mrs Martin star’d at the Corder house as we pass’d it. She look’d back at me as if I was to blame. There will be some who think the money the Missis pays me to serve her family is stronger than my love for Maria. It is only a matter of time before the village takes sides. But I will not be given lessons in loyalty by Anne Martin, and I hope my face told her so.
As we climb’d the hill to the church, I look’d back and saw hundreds of people followin’, far more than had known Maria while she was alive. Why did she have to die to matter? I caught myself wishing for her sake and mine that she c’d have been happy wi’ less, but why sh’d she not have dreams?
They buried her near the wall at the back of the churchyard, in sight of the Hall and away from the Corder graves. Reverend Whitmore has never had such a congregation, and he seem’d very pleased with himself, but all his talk about the power of spirit c’d not comfort me after the sight of that cart this morni
n’. I stood under the sycamores, the wind rustlin’ their branches and mixin’ with the sobs of family and strangers, and forgive me, Maria, but I c’d not cry. Time will come when I turn to you as I always have and you will not be there, and I will weep for the loss of you, but until he is found and punish’d my anger serves you better than my tears.
23 April
All the talk in the village is of Mrs Martin’s dreams and how Maria was found. She is makin’ quite a name for herself, and does not like to be outdone by a dead Maria any more than she did by a livin’ one. Went to their cottage this afternoon to take some treats to Thomas Henry. He was playin’ under the cherry trees and I pick’d him up and told him how his mother loved this garden, but Mrs Martin snatch’d him away and snapp’d at me not to upset him by talkin’ about Maria. Started to answer her back, but I c’d see that our shoutin’ was troublin’ him so held my tongue.
I swear to you, Maria, I will make sure your son knows who you are. He will never forget you as long as I live, and when he is old enough, I will read him this diary so that he knows what your life and your death have meant to someone who loves you.
24 April
William is married. The newspapers say he has been found in Brentford, at a school where he lives with his wife. All the time he was writin’ to the Martins and spinnin’ lies about bein’ happy with Maria, he was courtin’ another woman and Maria was rottin’ in the dirt of a barn.
A letter came for the Missis today from Colchester. It was in William’s hand. She lock’d her door to read it, and I c’d hear her cryin’. When I clean’d her room, I found it in the grate and I know why she has lost her strength. In all his talk of shame and disgrace, there was no denial of what he is charg’d with. They are bringin’ him back here for the inquest, and he asks that she receive his wife and her brother. Their name is Moore. I hope the Missis turns them away. I will not serve tea to the woman who wears Maria’s ring.
25 April
No one sleeps in this house any more. I wonder if the Missis will ever rest again. It has been like livin’ with a ghost since Maria was found. She fades more each day and does not notice when I speak to her. Her face is pale, the sorrow of each of her men written as clear there as it is on the stones that mark their graves. I can hear her now, movin’ around next door, a ghost too tired to disturb the livin’.
There have been people in the village all day. They stand outside the house, revellin’ in our scandal. Some have even come to the door and only turn’d back when Samuel threaten’d the dogs, but it will take more than dogs to protect her. She is at their mercy, and her shame will break her where her grief could not. They brought him back in the early hours of the mornin’. I heard the chaise just after 2, the horses strugglin’ up the hill. Her footsteps went to the window and she stay’d there long after the sound of the hooves had died away. God forgive me, but I want William to suffer for her pain as well as for Maria’s.
I was call’d to the inquest this morning, and Samuel came with me. There was hardly room to breathe inside the inn. They kept William upstairs while the evidence was given. The man who made the arrest said that William denied knowin’ Maria, but he had Maria’s reticule among his things. I was with her when she bought it on one of our visits to Bury, and I c’d not breathe when I saw it, rememberin’ how happy she was that day. Her stepmother was shown her clothes, torn and cover’d with soil. She cried as she was examin’d, cried for her ‘poor Maria’, and it was all I could do to hold my tongue.
Then they called my name and all eyes turn’d to me. The coroner ask’d me what I had seen when I clean’d William’s room the week after Stoke Fair. I told him about the box wi’ the shoes and gloves and he ask’d me to describe them. Then I was dismiss’d. I tried not to listen as a surgeon describ’d Maria’s body, but there was no escape from the horror of it. He spoke of the eye and the cheek and the heart as if they had never sparkl’d or glow’d or lov’d, as if Maria was an object and only matters to the law because she is dead. When the surgeon had finished, they brought William down. He saw me and smil’d – that smile that always charm’d Maria – and all I c’d feel was hate. I look’d at his hands and remember’d what the surgeon had said – her bones fractured, her neck strangled. I c’d not stay to hear any more.
Went back to the house and scrubb’d William’s room. I will not touch anything that he has touch’d. Did not see the Missis. Her meal had not been eaten, and when I knock’d at her door she did not answer. To my shame, I was glad. I c’d not think of any words that w’d bring her comfort.
As far as Josephine could recall, James Curtis had given a full account of that inquest in his book and she took it down from the shelf to consult. Sure enough, all the witness testimonies were reported in full and she scanned them eagerly to see who had given the evidence about William’s room. It only took her a few seconds to find the name she was looking for, and she slapped the desk in triumph. Lucy Baalham. The maiden name of Lucy Kyte. The village constable had been called Baalham, too, she remembered, and wondered if they were related, or if it was a common Suffolk name.
It proved nothing, of course. This Lucy Kyte had probably had children and grandchildren who were named after her, and it might easily be a living, breathing relative who was to take whatever would bring her peace from the cottage, but somehow Josephine doubted it. She remembered what Bert had said about Hester living in the past, about her ghosts being more real to her than her neighbours, and she knew in her heart that Hester’s legacy was to Maria’s friend, whose diary she knew so well. The revelation raised as many questions as it answered, but she set them to one side until she had finished the story. Lucy’s story, as she now knew it to be.
8 May
His wife came today. I wanted to hate her for Maria’s sake, but there is no evil in her. She speaks well and she is pretty, tho’ if Maria was in the room, you w’d not notice her. And I c’d not help feelin’ that Maria was in the room, that she had come out from the shadows of the back corridors to look at her rival. And I felt her pain when I saw that William’s wife is carryin’ his child.
A child, Maria. How will you rest, knowin’ that there will still be somethin’ of William on this earth? And she will have her child to love, when yours was taken from you and buried where you c’d never find him, when William stole out at night with his shame in a box and got rid of it as if it was nothin’ to him.
18 May
It is a year to the day since Maria went to the barn. I cannot stop thinkin’ about what I was doin’ at the time she died. Was I cookin’ the dinner or cleanin’ the parlour or scrubbin’ the stairs? I sh’d have known she was dead.
Hundreds of people have been to the barn since Maria was found, wantin’ to see where she died. They are takin’ it down piece by piece for keep-sakes and soon there will be nothin’ left. I w’d take an axe to it myself if I c’d bear to go near it. I have not been to Red Barn Cottage since they found Maria. I cannot be easy there, seein’ that place from the windows, thinkin’ about that day.
It was a cruel trick of fate that had brought Lucy to a new home so close to where her friend had died, Josephine thought, but there would have been nothing she could do about it. It would have been a tied cottage, linked to Samuel’s position on the farm, and there would have been no question of moving, even if Samuel had understood how hard it was for her. She must have been cheering inside when someone set light to it, although its horror would not have been so easy to erase.
19 May
Voices woke me in the night and I saw two men walkin’ past the house wi’ spades and ropes. I watch’d their lanterns up to the church, and I knew what they were doin’. There has been talk, altho’ I did not want to believe it.
When I got to the churchyard, they had put burnin’ torches by Maria’s grave. There were three men I did not know and the parish clerk. I stood by the Gospel Oak and watch’d, not able to bear what was happenin’. I open’d my mouth to shout, but the sound died in my throat.
There was nothin’ I could do. There is evil at work and Maria will never rest.
They lifted her coffin out and plac’d it by the side of the grave. They forc’d the lid off and pull’d at her body with handkerchiefs over their mouths, and one of them took somethin’ from her coffin and put it in a sack. When they had seen all they wanted, they left the dead to themselves. I waited until they had gone and put Maria’s flowers back on her grave. Then I lay down on the earth and wept for her until it was light.
15 July
Seven days in a row it has rain’d from dawn to dusk. The rivers burst their banks, and the meadows are deep in water. Samuel came to see me at dinner time. The pond has flooded and the cottage, too, so I went to help. Tried not to think about the barn but all the time it was in my mind. I had to draw the curtains over the window. Molly thought it was a fine old game, all the moppin’ and buckets and rain, and she tired herself out by teatime. Took her up to bed because Samuel said she was missin’ me. Her window looks to the barn, and I remember’d her face there on the night of the harvest, watchin’ us, before Maria was found and we knew what we were dancin’ on. I sat in the window and told her stories until she fell asleep, then watch’d as the barn faded into the darkness. If it rains for forty days and forty more, that place will never be cleans’d.
