by Mary Hooper
Our ma birthed six children, but two had died as babes before Jane and I were born, and our brothers, Jacob and William, were both working as grooms on a big estate in Banbury, which, being some distance away, meant we hardly saw them. Jane had news of whom they were walking out with, however, and gossip from Steeple Barton, and although Mrs. Williams frowned at our chatter, she couldn’t make much objection because we continued to work hard the whole time. Besides, she was pretty much occupied with the wash, and also not only with insuring that the four extra girls were fed, but with fiddling the accounts: marking down that we’d eaten meat for our dinner when we’d only had a dish of peas and some buttered eggs. (I found this out when I heard her whispering to Susan that she’d made two shillings on that week’s accounting, so Susan was allowed to buy herself a ribband from the next pedlar who came to the door.)
When the first big sheets had been rinsed and wrung out hard, with Jane and I twisting them between us with all our strength, we folded them, loaded them in a basket, and carried this between us to the drying ground—the orchard at the front of the manor house—to hang them on bushes to dry. This being done, we were about to go back to the house to begin again, when there was a sudden yapping and yelping, and, before we could move, two puppies ran in under the front gate and, jumping and clawing, pulled our sheets onto the ground.
Jane and I shouted and hastened to snatch up the puppies, and would have thrown them back over the hedge (which is not such a tall one), when John Taylor came running around the corner, still wearing his blacksmith’s apron and as red in the face as if he’d been supping ale and pickled oysters all night in the Barley Mow.
“Ladies! My apologies!” he cried. “I was minding them for my master, and they got out of their kennel and ran amok!”
I didn’t reply, for I was staring in dismay at two of our best linen sheets, which now lay on the ground with mud and paw prints all over the fancy embroidered R lettering. John ran over to pick them up, but this made matters worse, and I could not but scream when I saw him do it, for his hands were black with soot from the forge.
“Oh, no! A hundred pardons!” he said, looking down at the new marks with surprise and dismay. Jane gave a frightened shriek, and I burst into tears, for I knew Mrs. Williams would be furiously angry with us.
John Taylor picked up the puppies by their scruffs and shook them, and seeing as Jane had joined me in weeping then, became flustered and confused and did not know how to deal with this situation at all. On questioning us, however, as to what he might do to make recompense, and discovering that it was Mrs. Williams I was afeared of, he arranged to have the two sheets taken back to his ma’s house and have her wash and blue them again, then return them to the bushes so that no one would be any the wiser.
This he did, and because of this we became good friends. Sometimes—when Mrs. Williams was what she called “checking stock” with Mr. Peakes in the cellar—I would go out on the excuse of collecting eggs from the dovecote and call over the hedge to him, or sit in the nearest apple tree and play jests (one morning I imitated a robin’s call and had him looking in the branches for the bird), for his smithy stands just outside our gates and he was there most days a-striking and a-twisting of iron, carrying on his blacksmith’s trade.
Dearest John. I know now that a man must not be judged by his appearance and his means, but by how he treats others, and I wish with all my heart that I’d continued with him as my friend, and not been so stupid as to believe the lies that led to my downfall.
After I’d been sharing banter with John for some three weeks, and he’d made me a present of a little candlestick wrought in iron to go in the bedroom I shared with Susan, he came to ask Mr. Peakes’s permission to walk back with me after church on a Sunday. As St. Mary’s, however, is less than a stone’s throw from the back door of the manor house, John and I would extend this to walking around the village together and once, when we found the door of the Barley Mow open, we went in and he bought me a small tankard of beer. I was very happy that afternoon, for the men in there were giving the two of us smiling and knowing glances, and old Tom Hawkes once referred to me as John’s sweetheart, which pleased us both very much (though we didn’t say a word about it).
Although the rest of the household would sometimes tease me about John, calling him my beau and making me blush by saying that blacksmiths were strong and lusty men that it took a deal to satisfy, neither Mrs. Williams nor Susan ever said a thing about our courtship, but always seemed busy when I returned from my walks with him; bent over an awkward bit of mending or deep in a whispered conversation. Even when John gave me the candlestick and, finding the stub of a candle, I lit it and stood it on our nest of drawers, Susan didn’t say a word or even appear to notice.
It was about June, then, that Master Geoffrey returned from his studies and began acting strangely. At first it was jokes—crude jokes, when I was alone with him (for he seemed to have an instinct as to where I was working in the house and would come and seek me out). He would ask made-up riddles: what was the difference between a harlot and a pair of gloves? a beaver and a pock-marked whore? a prick and a burn? And of course I never knew the answers and so would repeat the question, which delighted him so immensely that he would ask me to say the words once again. It was then that I realized what was on his mind. And it was then that I should have stopped.
I did not, though, and from the riddles, which grew ever more outrageous and had me laughing and blushing, he moved on to paying me compliments. He’d say how rich my hair was, how blue my eyes, how shapely I appeared, how soft of skin.
“Dressed in silks and satins, Anne, you’d pass for a lady,” he’d say.
I’d try to be modest, but couldn’t help feeling flattered. “I’m sure I know my place, sir,” I’d reply.
“But wouldn’t you like that, Anne?” he would persist. “Wouldn’t you like to wear a gown in the latest Paris fashion, and have servants of your own?”
“Yes, but I don’t think that will happen, sir, so it’s best not to even think about it.”
“And you could have jewels in your hair and a necklace of sapphires to match your eyes! And it could all happen if you are a good and generous girl to me,” he’d say, and I’d get on with whatever I was supposed to be doing and pretend not to know what he was talking about.
One morning, when I was sent to the dovecote to collect eggs, matters advanced between us. Egg-collecting is one of my favorite duties, for it’s softly dark in the dovecote, and very warm and close, and the cooing of the doves surrounds you so that you feel you’re in a nest of your own. I began stretching up to the boxes to collect the eggs within reach, and my trug was almost full when I heard a movement behind me and felt someone’s hands on me in the darkness. I knew immediately that it must be Master Geoffrey, and I gave a scream of fright that startled the doves so much that, with a frantic beating of wings, many flew up and away.
“Hush, Anne,” Master Geoffrey said, putting one hand about my waist and the other on my bosom. I was very affrighted then, for until that time I might have persuaded myself that although his manner was a little too familiar, it was mere words and nothing that I couldn’t manage. Now, though, I knew exactly where his mind was set.
“I have to take the eggs back for a syllabub, sir,” I said, and I lifted my trug up across my body and so shrugged off his hand.
“Just stay a little longer.” He spoke softly, pleadingly. “You must call me Geoffrey.”
“I cannot!” I said, shocked.
“And I shall call you Annie.” He gave a little whistle, then sang under his breath, “Annie Green, Annie Green, the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
I should have pulled away then (I have heard of maid-servants bold enough to slap a man—even a gentleman—for getting too familiar), but I didn’t. Instead, I am ashamed to say that I stayed to hear more.
“Annie Green, Annie Green, the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” he repeated. “Annie Green, Annie Green,
her kisses are like honey.”
And so saying, he knocked my basket to one side (causing about five little eggs to smash on the floor) and placed his lips hard on mine.
I didn’t move or push him away, for I was struck with astonishment and also—as I must be truthful at this time—took not a little pleasure in knowing that a young gentleman of such standing should find me attractive.
When, after a moment, I did break away, he spoke breathlessly. “Annie. I could raise you in this world. Make you a lady!”
“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” I said, very flustered.
“When my grandfather dies, I will come into the title and the estates and will be able to do anything I like.”
“But how can that affect me, sir?”
“Why, it is then that I can marry you!”
I began to shake with giggles, for such a thing was so nonsensical that it could only be laughed at, but at the same time my heart was beating very fast. It was as if I could see a great treasure trunk opened before me full of gold, silver, glittering jewels, and ropes of pearls, which could all be mine for the taking.
“I mean it, Annie,” he said earnestly. “I have a strong desire for you. Oh, such a strong desire! If you let me have what I want, then as soon as I get my title I’ll see that you rise in the world. You can become mistress of this house.”
I stopped giggling then, for I was dazzled by the dream of myself as Lady Anne of Dun’s Tew, of commanding the staff, presiding over dances . . . and docking the wages of Mrs. Williams and Susan and dismissing them without a character.
But I was not so much of a jack pudding that I fell for this line of Master Geoffrey’s straightaway. Instead I looked into my basket and began to rearrange the eggs. “Please don’t trifle with the feelings of a poor servant girl, Master Geoffrey,” I said, and I whisked past him, knowing my way better than he in the darkness and moving before he could make a grab for me again.
I didn’t say anything to anyone about this, for I had no one to tell, but I made up my mind I would inform Jane and Ma of it on my next afternoon off and see what they had to say.
The following Sunday after church I was, to my deep shame, pert with John Taylor, saying that I was bored with village life and might seek amusement elsewhere, perhaps in Oxford or even London. I was encouraged in doing this naughty thing after seeing Master Geoffrey, from his position in the first pew of the church, turn around and give me a look—such a look that when Susan saw it and realized it was for me, she gasped aloud. She never said a word to me after, though, and I know she regretted that gasp as much as I couldn’t help but take pleasure in it.
Oh, but I should not have done, and I should not have suffered, what came after. I should have stayed on the path of righteousness and kept my soul unsullied.
Chapter ~ 4
As the notes of the tolling bell died away, there came a stamping and a shouting from outside and, skirting around the coffin with as wide a margin as she could, Martha went to the window and looked down. Walking across to join her, Robert saw that this window overlooked the apothecary’s herb garden and its tall fence, against which a collection of people had gathered. Shouts and loud thuds could be heard as they banged their fists and cudgels against the wooden gate, through which the body of Anne Green had lately been carried.
“See? They’re trying to get in to rescue yon corpse!” Martha said with some satisfaction. “They want to give her a Christian burial.”
“B . . . b . . . bu . . .” Robert tried. He wanted to say that although dissection might seem unpalatable—even barbaric—to the ordinary people, if bodies weren’t cut up, how was a physician to understand how they functioned? How could a surgeon work without knowing the best place to make an incision for the stone, how to cut out a cancerous growth with minimum blood loss, or where to sever someone’s gangrenous arm?
“They’re fearful angry; they don’t like this a-cutting up of bodies,” Martha said.
“N . . . n . . .”
“An’ it’s always someone poor they cuts to pieces,” she went on before Robert could get out a full word. “The gentry don’t get flayed! Don’t they ever commit murder? I vow they do!”
Robert gave up trying to speak and shrugged, thinking that what she said was true enough. The poor had precious few rights, and the bodies granted for dissection were always those of the lower classes; convicted felons whose families had neither the astuteness nor the necessary means to make a better offer to the hangman. Sometimes, there being no family to consider, the convicted man would sell himself to the dissectionist before he died and then drink away his body weight in ale and sack, for a corpse in good condition was worth a full two pounds. Three pounds, perhaps, if it was an exceptional one—as the fresh young corpse of Anne Green surely was.
There were noises in the hallway downstairs, and Martha’s face brightened. She set one last candle in a holder, lit it, and went out. There was some laughter, a male voice was heard to say, “I swear I’d swing for those freckles, Martha!” and she replied, “Go to, young Master!” and came back into the room with her cheeks blushed pink. She was followed by two gowned scholars, both of whom Robert knew by sight and reputation. First, Edward Norreys from Christ Church College, followed by Christopher Wren from Wadham College. Wren, although only eighteen, was being hailed as something of a genius; he already had the degree of Bachelor of Arts and was held in high esteem by the masters both for his remarkable intelligence and also for his most beautifully precise drawings of body parts. Both of them wished Robert a civil good morning, but he only nodded and smiled by way of reply, G being another of his bad letters.
“As you see, good sirs, I’ve made the room all ready for you,” Martha said with a curtsy, looking at Edward Norreys from under her lashes. Robert smiled to himself and, glancing at the fellow, could not but admire his style, for Norreys affected the curling lovelocks of a Cavalier and, with his old-style frilled shirts and plumed hat, cut a dashing figure. It was said that he lined his study with oil paintings and silk hangings, and even kept a harp in his bedroom so that, in times of anxiety, a musician could soothe him to sleep. “If you need aught, let me know,” said Martha. “Some refreshments later, perhaps. Some bread and cheese?”
“Thank you, Martha,” Wren said, and Norreys flicked her a coin. She caught this and curtsyed again before she went out. Wren immediately drew closer to the coffin, looking at it keenly, as if he could already see the body through the wood.
Norreys stared out of the window. “Bit of a crowd down there, but all seem to be of the lower classes—whores and harlots, pimps and panders.”
Just the dead girl’s friends and relatives, Robert thought, good citizens all, and glancing once more at the coffin, he could almost feel their affection for her. If she was his, he probably wouldn’t want her dissected either. He closed his eyes momentarily, trying to remember the other coffin he’d recalled but dimly. Had he seen it in a dream, perhaps? If so, it seemed an old and familiar dream, one that had perhaps recurred over the years—but, strangely, he couldn’t recall it coming to mind in his waking hours before now.
“Perhaps peasants don’t feel the cold,” Norreys mused. “Seems there’s snow about to fall, but they’re not going to be put off.”
Wren snorted. “Are you going to be put off, Norreys? I trust you’re not going to faint during the dissection this time.”
Norreys grinned. “No, indeed. I’ve been steeling myself for this, and I cut up two toads and a dog last week in readiness. I would have had a cat, too, but another fellow got to it before me.”
“Y . . . you . . . you . . .” Robert began, and they turned to look at him. He wanted to say that Norreys might have had the body of the tramp under St. Clement’s bridge if only he’d been quick enough. “Y . . . you . . .” He could feel his color rising; if he could just get a little further into the sentence, he might be all right. “Y . . . you . . . you . . .”
“Never mind, old chap,” Wren said after
a moment. “Must be blasted annoying.”
“Bad enough for us,” muttered Norreys, and they all laughed, Robert included.
Martha came back in carrying a shovel of hot coals, threw these onto the fire, then smiled at Norreys and went out again.
“I heard that it’s damned cold in London,” Wren said, walking up and down the room in an effort to warm his feet. “Even worse than here. There’s such a hard frost that the Thames has frozen over and hucksters’ tents have been erected on it. The ice was so solid that a coach and six was driven right across it without so much as a creak!”
Norreys drew a pen and bottle from inside his gown and frowned. “But how are we supposed to make notes when the ink is frozen?”
“Use a pencil!” Wren said, and he held up his pad of drawing paper. With his other hand he pinched the end of his nose. “And I tell you, good friends, I would rather have this weather for dissection than a stinking August.” The others nodded agreement, and then all turned and looked once more toward the coffin, in which reposed the corpse of Anne Green, who would presently be sawn, dismembered, divided, cut, pared, sliced, peeled, and flayed. No part of her would go untouched, unseen, or unrecorded. Even her brain—Dr. Willis having a keen interest in cerebral tissue—would be exposed to the world, weighed, analyzed, pondered over, portrayed in charcoal, and eventually preserved in vinegar.
Robert took a deep breath. This was his first dissection—such was the paucity of bodies and the demand to attend their cutting that a scholar had to take his turn. He’d seen a pair of feet dissected, it was true—for these had been the only parts of a hanged man that his tutor had been able to obtain—but these would not count toward his degree. For this he had to witness two complete dissections and also carry out two himself, as well as directly cure three maladies completely unaided.
