The Edge of Dark

by Pamela Hartshorne

  On her other side, Jeff seemed reluctant to take her hand, and thinking that he might be shy, she reached out and took his instead, but the moment his fingers closed around hers, a warning shrieked through her, a shock that made her flinch but was gone so quickly that afterwards she thought she must have imagined it.

  Charles was mixing a little of the salt with the water, and drawing circles in the air with his wet finger. ‘Spirits of this place, we summon you,’ he said, his voice sonorous in the hall. ‘Please, come, move among us and communicate with us.’

  Silence. But a silence that hummed and twanged with warning. Roz glanced around the table. She wanted to get up, to break the circle and leave, but how could she? Nobody else seemed to notice anything amiss.

  ‘Is there anybody there?’ Charles asked.

  A muffled thump. There was a stir around the table, quickly shushed. Helen’s face was tightly set, her eyes screwed shut as she clung to Adrian’s hands. She looked terrified, thought Roz, who had suspected her at first of making the noise.

  ‘Do you wish to speak to someone here?’

  This time, there was no noise, just a puff of air, a breath on the back of Roz’s neck that had her jerking her head around. When she looked back at Charles, he was watching her steadily.

  ‘Where are you, Jane?’ he asked, and Roz felt her lips part as the words were pulled out of her throat.

  ‘I am here,’ she said.

  At the sound of Margaret’s voice, Jane straightened from the cradle with a puzzled frown. It wasn’t like Margaret to come in search of her. She normally sent a maid with a summons to her chamber, and she had little interest in Geoffrey.

  Robert had accepted Jane’s excuse of sickness in the village without demur. It was enough for him to know that he had a son, and he was glad for her to stay away, but when the chill seeped into the air and the wind lifted the dead leaves in the courtyard in little eddies, she had returned reluctantly to the city with Geoffrey and Annis before the roads became impassable. They left Juliana behind in the village churchyard, where she had been buried with only Jane, Annis and the midwife as witnesses to her passing. Poor Juliana, Jane had thought sadly, who had longed so for the excitement and bustle of London, laid to rest for eternity in an obscure hamlet.

  Robert came with his mother to inspect Geoffrey in his cradle when they returned to Micklegate. Margaret insisted that Jane unswaddle him so that she could check that he was indeed a male child. ‘Good,’ she said, covering the baby indifferently. ‘He is healthy?’

  ‘Yes, he—’

  ‘Then we have what we need.’ She and Robert smiled triumphantly at each other.

  A son gave Robert access to his fortune at last, and he was well pleased. Had his father known of the warped relationship between his wife and his son? Jane often wondered. Was that why he had arranged matters so? Perhaps he had hoped that a wife and a child would lessen Margaret’s malign influence.

  If so, he would have been disappointed. Geoffrey’s existence changed little in Micklegate for Robert and Margaret. At least Jane now had a child to care for, and she lavished attention on him as if to make up for the fact that she did not, could not, love him as she had promised to do.

  Geoffrey was a good baby, she told herself again and again. He ate, he slept, he soiled his swaddling. He grew. He rarely cried. But there was something furious she sensed in him, as if he resented his baby form, and was contemptuous of her endearments. When she tried to cuddle him, he lolled his head away in distaste and his black eyes stared flintily back at her, and she would find her voice trailing off, feeling foolish and uneasy. The only time his face brightened was when she held a candle over the cradle to check on him at night. She had noticed that he was captivated by the flickering flame. It was the only time Jane ever saw him smile.

  She had longed so for a child, but she had never imagined it would feel like this.

  Now Juliana was dead, and her child looked back at Jane with a black, blank stare.

  Be careful what you wish for.

  I will be a mother to him as if I had borne him myself, she had promised Juliana. I will care for him and love him, and I will never abandon him, not while breath is in my body.

  Perhaps she might not be able to love Geoffrey as much as she wanted, but she would keep the rest of her promise to her sister, Jane vowed. So she continued to sing as she sewed, pushing the cradle with one foot, and she was trying to coax a smile from him with a rattle when she heard Margaret calling for her.

  ‘I am here,’ she said.

  Margaret didn’t even glance at the cradle as she swept in, her skirts so wide and stiff that she grazed the doorway.

  ‘We will have a feast to celebrate the birth of Robert’s son,’ she announced. ‘It will be Christmas soon. Robert will invite his friends to a Yuletide feast, let us say on the feast of St Nicholas. See to it that the best dishes are prepared. Let no expense be spared.’

  Jane inclined her head. The Holmwoods, it seemed, were determined to flaunt their change in fortune. Her dowry had been welcome, but it was Geoffrey’s existence that unlocked the coffers of the estate. ‘I will make sure that all is arranged, but I must beg to be excused the feast itself. I am still in mourning for my sister.’

  She did not expect Margaret to care, but to her surprise Robert’s mother looked concerned. ‘But you must come!’ she said, frowning. ‘You are Geoffrey’s mother. To be sure, it is sad about your sister, but is your son’s birth not something to make you rejoice?’

  Jane was torn. She grieved most sincerely for Juliana, and it did not seem fitting to carouse at a feast, but was Margaret’s insistence that she attend not an olive branch? Perhaps she and Robert had been moved by Geoffrey’s existence after all, and were trying in their own way to include Jane and the babe in the household.

  ‘You may ask your father too, if you wish,’ said Margaret as Jane continued to hesitate.

  He would not come. Henry Birkby was a broken man since learning of Juliana’s death. Jane had hoped that news of a grandson would console him in some way, but her father refused to see Geoffrey or Jane, whom he blamed for taking Juliana to the country. They had told him Juliana would keep Jane company in her confinement. Jane would not distress him further by telling him the truth, and besides, she had promised Juliana she would keep her secret.

  But Margaret’s invitation, careless as it was, seemed to suggest that they were prepared to include Jane more. It would be churlish to refuse such a gesture.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I will be there.’

  ‘Good.’ Margaret’s smile warmed only for Robert, and when she summoned one now it struck Jane as more like a baring of teeth. ‘Buy yourself a new gown too,’ she said. ‘The black does not suit you.’

  Juliana would have said the same. Jane did her best to shake off her sadness. Here, at last, was a chance to make things better. She should not waste it. So she set the maids to work in the kitchen and took Annis to Coney Street to buy cloth for a new gown.

  The draper, Christopher Harrison, had already sniffed out the change in the Holmwoods’ fortunes and served Jane himself, pulling out roll after roll of costly fabrics with his stubby fingers and spilling them across his counter in a jumble of blues and reds and greens so rich they hurt Jane’s eyes. She and Annis fingered velvets and broadcloth, taffetas and scarlets, damasks and satins.

  ‘It is too hard to choose,’ sighed Jane, remembering Juliana with a pang. Her sister had ever had an eye for colour. This one, she would have said instantly. This one, not that one, and this for the sleeves. Not black or white for you, Jane. You must have colour.

  In the end Jane chose a shot taffeta in a dazzling blue for the gown, with a creamy damask to embroider for the stomacher, and slashed satin for the sleeves. In a giddying moment of extravagance she ordered velvet for trimming and coloured threads and the finest lawn for a new ruff too.

  ‘Oh mistress, it will be beautiful,’ said Annis, stroking the satin enviously under Mr Har
rison’s hard gaze. ‘You will be beautiful.’

  Jane laughed and gave Annis’s arm an affectionate squeeze. ‘I fear it would take more than a gown to make me beautiful, Annis. I know well I am plain, but I will feel fine indeed in this lovely blue.’

  ‘Where will you take it to be made up?’ asked Annis as they left the shop, their breath puffing in white clouds on the frosty air. ‘They say John Harper in Stonegate knows how to ply a needle,’ she smirked, only to look puzzled when Jane’s face clouded. She did not know Jane was thinking of Juliana, and of John Harper’s hairy hands and lascivious red mouth making merry with her sister, ruining her reputation without a thought.

  ‘No,’ she said sharply. ‘Not there.’

  The servants would have their own feast after the main meal had been served and would be dancing in the yard. Jane couldn’t help thinking wistfully that she would rather spend the evening with them than with her own husband and his gentlemanly friends. Annis was looking forward to it. She had renewed her flirtation with Jack, whose master lived next door and who would be one of Robert’s guests. ‘Jack says he’s a clodhopper but I will wear my best kirtle.’ Annis mimed tugging down her bodice to reveal more of her breasts with a mock lascivious roll of her eyes. ‘I’m hoping he’ll dance “John, Come Kiss Me Now” with me!’

  Jane smiled at her maid’s antics. ‘Annis,’ she said impulsively. ‘I am to have a new gown, and you should too. The red kirtle I wore for my betrothal is barely worn. You have it,’ she said. ‘You can furbish it with new sleeves and buttons and Jack will not be able to resist you!’

  ‘Oh mistress!’ Annis came to a complete stop in the middle of Ousegate, her eyes round like an owl’s. ‘Oh Mistress, do you mean it? But it is too good for me!’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Jane briskly. ‘It is just sitting in a chest.’ She hadn’t been able to bear to wear it since Juliana had told her she was with child. It made her think of John Harper sewing it, his fingers stroking the fabric, the lewd gleam in his eye. ‘I will not wear it again, Annis,’ she said. It was too cold to stand still, and they set off walking again, their clogs skidding on the icy cobbles. ‘I would like you to have it.’

  Margaret had said that no expense was to be spared, and Jane took her at her word. Outside the city glittered with frost, and the cold made Jane’s teeth ache whenever she stepped outside, but in the house on Micklegate the kitchen was so hot the door into the yard had to be kept open all day. Jane laboured with the maids to make the great feast she had planned.

  For the first course, a pig roasted on the spit, roasted veal and roasted beef. Geese and chickens. Pies and stewed meats and custards. Then there were to be capons and coneys, peahens and larks and pigeons, all roasted. A baked venison and tarts, and at last, sugar dainties in the shape of goblets. Jane made those herself, shaving the sugarloaf and shaping the goblets carefully.

  In spite of the heat she was sorry to leave the kitchen where the maids were chattering excitedly about the dancing to come, and blushing and giggling and nudging each other whenever any lad came with a message or a delivery. But Annis came with her to help her dress and together they checked that the hall was ready for their guests.

  Two long trestle tables lined the hall, adjoining the top table, and all were laid with damask cloths and linen napkins. Robert had insisted on glass goblets for everyone, and Jane straightened one nervously. ‘Finger bowls . . . salt . . . pepper boxes . . .’ She put a hand to her head. ‘The chafing dishes! Annis, are there coals ready?’

  ‘Everything is ready,’ said Annis firmly. ‘Everything except you! Now come, mistress, and let me dress you or you will be late for your own feast.’

  The tailor had wrought a small miracle with her gown, Jane thought, swaying her hips this way and that to feel the fabric rustle luxuriously over the French farthingale. She had embroidered the stomacher herself with scabious and pinks and wild strawberries, and Annis helped her pin it into place before fixing pearls around her waist.

  ‘I’m not sure I can breathe,’ said Jane, putting a hand over the bodice. ‘You have laced me so tight!’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Annis tsked. She tweaked the pearls into place and stepped back, eyeing Jane critically. ‘Oh mistress, you look a perfect pippin! Tonight, you’ll see, your husband will realize what a treasure he has in you.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  At first it seemed as if it might indeed be so. ‘You are in good looks tonight, wife,’ Robert said, loudly enough for others to hear. He took her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers. ‘Friends, you must let me present my wife to you,’ he said, turning to show her off to four young gentlemen about his own age. He gabbled off their names, so that Jane couldn’t catch them properly. ‘Sir Francis . . .’ he said, waving vaguely,‘. . . Charles . . . Mortimer . . . Sir Thomas Parker. Gentlemen, my wife,’ he said, an undercurrent in his voice that Jane couldn’t quite identify.

  Jane sketched a curtsey, uncomfortable beneath their avid gazes. For once she was pleased when Margaret appeared beside her. ‘That colour becomes you,’ she said to Jane, looking her up and down, and even producing a thin smile. ‘Something has put a glow in your cheeks!’

  If she was glowing, it was from being in the kitchen all day, but Jane bit back a tart response. Margaret and Robert were making an effort to be pleasant. She should do the same.

  ‘Come, sit.’ Robert waved his friends to a place at the table, but insisted that Jane sit beside him. This was how she had once imagined marriage to Robert, thought Jane, puzzled but pleased. Sitting next to him, feeling welcomed, and valued.

  It didn’t feel quite real.

  The great hall was soon ringing with noise and laughter. Jane nodded to Annis, who supervised the bringing out of the first course, and there were murmurs of appreciation as dish after dish was laid on the tables. Other servants moved up and down the room refilling goblets with wine, replenishing finger bowls or replacing crumpled napkins. In the fireplace at the other end of the hall, the Yule log spat and crackled.

  The feast was a triumph. Everyone said so. Jane could tell it for herself as the volume rose and the faces along the tables shone with grease and gluttony, and she felt bad for longing for it to be over. She had worked so hard to prepare everything that she was weary now, and self-conscious in her fine new clothes. The ruff around her collar was growing limp in the heat, and the farthingale bunched behind her. Her laces were so tight she hardly dared eat anything.

  Catching Annis’s eye, she gestured for the second course to be removed. Soon the sugar surprises would be brought in, and then the tables would be cleared and pushed back; she would just have to get through the dancing and then she would be able to go to bed.

  The sugar comfits caused more murmurs of delight. ‘You have done well, wife,’ said Robert to Jane’s surprise, and she turned to see him pouring more wine into her goblet. ‘Come, have some wine and let us drink to our son.’

  Another unexpected compliment! Was it possible that this might be the start of a new relationship between them? Jane couldn’t help the flicker of guilt as she accepted the goblet. He would not be so pleasant if he knew that she had lied to him, that Geoffrey was not his son, nor hers, but a cuckoo in the nest.

  But it was too late to confess now. She was bound to keep Geoffrey safe. And Robert was pleased to have a son. All was for the best.

  So she smiled a little stiffly and raised her goblet to Robert. ‘To our son,’ she agreed, and drank.

  The hall grew hotter and hotter. Heat piled upon heat, noise upon noise. When the guests had eaten their fill, Jane signalled to the servants to clear away the dishes and dismantle the tables, and the waits began tuning up for the dancing. She was starting to feel dizzy and a bit sick, but she couldn’t leave her husband’s feast, not yet. She plastered a smile to her face and prayed that she would not faint.

  She was just wondering if she could slip outside to cool down when Margaret appeared by her side. ‘The babe is crying in your chamber,’ she sai
d. ‘You’d better go and see to him.’

  Jane was too relieved at the chance to leave the overheated room to wonder why Margaret was concerning herself with Geoffrey, or why she hadn’t sent a servant. She’d hoped that the dizziness would clear away from the heat, but it seemed to be getting worse, and she had to hold on to the wall as she climbed the stairs. Every step was an effort and she was breathing heavily by the time she got to the top. Swaying slightly, she stood holding on to the newel post. If she could just get to the chamber, she could lie down for a minute. Perhaps that would help.

  Geoffrey was sleeping, his face screwed up in furious concentration, but with no sign of distress. Jane frowned, but her head was fuzzy and she groped her way over to the bed, practically falling onto it when she got there.

  ‘Aha, at last, my partridge!’

  There was someone in her bed. ‘Wha . . .?’ Her farthingale was tipping her off balance and she struggled to right herself, but the chamber was spinning around her; her eyelids were weighted with lead, and she couldn’t make sense of anything.

  She was dreaming. There couldn’t be anybody in her chamber, in her bed. But if it was a dream, it was a nightmare. Greasy fingers were fumbling at the neck of her smock, ripping her lovingly embroidered stomacher from its pins and scrabbling determinedly into her bodice to expose her breasts.

  ‘No . . .’ From somewhere Jane summoned the strength to open her eyes. Thomas Parker, gentleman, was kneeling over her, fumbling at the ties of his breeches. He stank of stale wine and unwashed linen. His face glistened with sweat and grease from the meal and his eyes were glassy.