by Mary Hooper
“Did either of you see the dispatching of this girl?” Wren asked. Robert nodded, but he could not, of course, give his observations.
“I missed that, and the trial,” Wren went on. “Was she hanged for murder or theft?”
Norreys shrugged. “Who knows? All I heard was that she was a common trull who was servicing her employer’s grandson.”
Wren asked who her employer was and Norreys answered that it was Sir Thomas Reade. “Who is rumored to be coming along to the dissection today,” he added.
Robert listened to this with interest. He’d heard of Sir Thomas Reade, of course, and had even glimpsed him at various meetings of the city fathers, for not only was he a justice of the peace, but also a wealthy and influential landowner with vast estates nearby.
“But his grandson—young Geoffrey—is only sixteen or seventeen,” Wren interposed.
“Aye,” said Norreys with a broad smile. “I’ve heard it said that he’s a forward youth.”
“And he’s also Sir Thomas’s heir and close to the old man’s heart.”
Norreys nodded. “So young Geoffrey could have had his pick of fair wenches—why should he bother with a grubby servant?” He shrugged and added, “But I suppose she was near to hand.”
“And one never has to try too hard with them,” said Wren. “Though we should take care—that fellow Montgomery was expelled last year for attempting to ravish his housemaid, and now his father’s cut off his allowance and he has to beg his bread at the Rainbow.”
“So we mustn’t get caught with our hands in the maid’s milkchurn . . .”
They laughed at this retort, and Robert, eager to know more about Anne and the crime she’d committed but knowing the impossibility of asking, laughed with them, looking from one to the other and envying them the ease and precision of their speech. Once he’d spoken so; he’d been told that before he was breeched he used to make the household laugh with his prodigious use of words he didn’t fully understand. Being an early reader and gaining access to his father’s library, he’d memorized long pages of prose with which to entertain visitors. He couldn’t remember those times now, though, those babbling, easy-speaking times, for something had happened in the intervening years that had thwarted his vocal cords, made them strangely unwilling to respond to his wishes, caused his words to choke in his throat and stutter on his tongue. Only in his head and in his reading was he lucid of speech—to the outside world he sounded like an idiot boy. And that, he thought, was what many people believed he was; even his father often lost patience and shouted at him, or tried to finish his sentences. His stepmother—well, she was tolerant enough but had more concern for her own eight younger children than to bother with the one that she’d taken on merely to gain a husband.
The fire caught at last, and the three students stood with their backs to it, surveying the coffin.
“When we have done, will what remains of her be buried?” Norreys asked, nodding toward the corpse of Anne Green, and Robert looked at him gratefully, for this was what he’d wanted to know.
Wren nodded. “If there’s anything left then the family—that’s probably them waiting outside—can claim it. Though often there’s barely enough to make a dog’s dinner.”
There was a sudden noise from the crowd outside, a long-drawn-out wail of despair that went on for several moments, and Robert thought to himself that it could be Anne Green’s mother, that bedraggled wretch of a woman who’d clung to Anne in the prison yard. Neither of the scholars commented on it, however, or showed that they’d even heard it.
Chapter ~ 5
Summer continued, and I had some respite from Master Geoffrey’s entreaties when he went to stay with his grandmother’s family, who live in a great house called Brocket Hall, in Hertfordshire. ‘Twas immense hot for two of those weeks, and we sweltered in the heat; indeed it became so very close that the cesspits stank day and night, the poultry died in their boxes, and we maids took to leaving off our heavy aprons and sometimes even our day dresses and sitting about in our shifts. We would only do this latter thing when we worked in the sewing room, however, and there was no risk of being seen by the men.
One sultry afternoon, Mrs. Williams talked at the door with a fellow who’d come around the back of the house wanting to buy old pans and dishes. She told everyone that she’d sold him a battered dish for scrap, but I knew ’twas not battered at all, but a good pewter one with a lid, and what was more, she’d hidden two live ducklings inside that could be fattened to sell. Very pleased with herself, she then took half a bottle of claret and Mr. Peakes, and went to the storeroom.
The other servants being employed elsewhere, I finished the work I was on, which was seaming pillowcases in the sewing room, and decided to go outside and find some flowers of feverfew to take with a little bread, for I had a headache from the heat. But first I had to put on my day gown—a patched and worn affair that I had bought secondhand from the rag market in Woodstock—and I retrieved this from the back of my chair and threw it up and over my head.
Oh, what a shock I had then, for I hadn’t even known Master Geoffrey was back, and he’d come up on me so stealthily that I hadn’t heard his footsteps. “I saw you in your undersmock,” he murmured, putting his arms around me, “and you looked quite delightful. I have long missed you, Annie! I yearn to have you in my arms and in my bed, and to kiss you all over.”
I was at a disadvantage, for I was caught up inside my gown, which had tight sleeves and a sewn-in petticoat, but did my best to wriggle out of the situation I found myself in. “Please . . . sir,” I said. “I am aware of the . . . the honor you do me . . . but . . .” As I was speaking, I had somehow forced my hand down the wrong arm, and now had to endeavor to tug it out again. I managed this, but as I did so the thin, over-washed material of the bodice ripped across, making me cry out with vexation.
“Desist!” he said. “I am mad for you, Annie, and I shall have you.”
“Please, sir!” I was all of a dither, as worried about the tearing of my day gown (for I had only one other) as about what might happen with Master Geoffrey.
“Don’t they teach you that you should obey your master with singleness of heart?” he murmured, his face pressed against my neck. “Don’t you want to be raised in the world—to have a house and servants of your own?”
I did, of course I did, and just for a moment I hesitated, and he pressed home his advantage and also pressed something else, which frightened me and—I must admit to it—excited me at the same time. “I mean it, Annie,” he said, very hoarse. “I shall love you and make you my own. I shall give you everything you want, and you can have a lady’s maid and fine clothes and whatever your heart desires.”
As he spoke, his hands ran frantically over my body, touching my private parts, and I thought to myself that it was not so very much, this thing he wanted. Not if, in exchange, I might become a lady. And I did not think about how stupid I was being, or how I would face John Taylor again, or what would happen if Master Geoffrey was telling me lies, but instead stopped struggling and allowed him to push me back against the linen press and have his way with me. And that was my first time. The first time with him and the first time with anyone.
Immediately following this, I became horrified at my lewd behavior, feeling myself only a step up from the meanest whores who, it is said, ply their trade under the bridges in Oxford. At this time, however, I truly believed that he cared for me and that I would sometime be mistress of Dun’s Tew Manor, so I made up my mind that I must at least act honorably toward John Taylor and discourage him. I felt sad about this, because our little conversations, our jestings, the clasping of our hands as we walked the lanes (for ’twas all innocence between us) had become a warm and happy part of my life. However, I knew that if I wished to obtain all that I’d been promised by Master Geoffrey, then for propriety’s sake I must disassociate myself from John. Accordingly, the following Sunday after church when he came up and offered me his arm as usual, I didn�
�t take it, but instead said very seriously that I had some important matter to speak to him about.
“Oh, so formal, Miss Green!” he teased, and he took up my hand just the same and linked it through his. I noticed that his hands were scrubbed Sunday-pink and his nails were clean, and thought to myself that it must take no little effort every church day to get them like that, and just for me. This touched me deeply, but also made me feel very sad.
I was conscious that, just ahead of us at the lych-gate of the church, Sir Thomas, Lady Mary, and Master Geoffrey were speaking to the Reverend Coxeter and perhaps congratulating him on the length of the sermon, which had almost reached two hours that day. As I glanced toward them, Master Geoffrey turned and looked straight at me. His eyes took in John Taylor and were piercing, accusing. I felt myself becoming flustered. What if he knew that John Taylor had been courting me? What if he thought he was bedding me? For certain he would withdraw his promise to raise me in the world, and what I had endured through his attentions would all be for nothing.
“We must walk around to the back of the church,” I said to John quickly, “and then I can tell you in private what I have to say.”
He looked at me, surprised at my tone, but we walked together to the old church garden. Some of the manor house windows look onto this space, but I was not apprehensive of being seen, for since our churchwarden was killed in the war it has become a mass of overgrown trees, tangled briars, and weeds, and we were well hidden from anyone in the house who might have wished to spy on us.
We stopped by a fallen statue while I detached my Sunday-best tabby skirt from where it had got caught on a cage of brambles. Nearby I could hear children circling the church and singing, “Well ploughed, well sowed, well harrowed, well mowed—and all safely carted to the barn!”—for it would soon be harvest time, and they were practicing the songs.
“Is something wrong, Anne?” John asked.
“There is.” I moistened my lips, but no words came. I’d not thought of how I should order the matter. I looked around, seeking inspiration but finding none. “It is just . . . just that I cannot allow our friendship to proceed any further,” I said after some moments. “I hope you’ll oblige me by your understanding.”
He smiled at me, looking almost relieved. “You are jesting with me, sweeting.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m not. I’m sorry for it, but I can no longer be your friend. I feel I must speak now, for already people are thinking of us as a couple.”
“And should they not?” he said, sounding bewildered. “I thought you welcomed my friendship. I thought . . . well, I’ve thought all along that you and I make a fine pair.”
“That’s as may be,” I said, which is what Mrs. Williams says and is to my mind meaningless and one of the most annoying phrases in the world.
“A fine pair,” he repeated warmly, “and that in due course we’d—”
“Please don’t say it!” I interrupted. “’Tis not to be.”
“But why ever not?”
I shook my head, then swished my hand through the weeds and, pulling up a long stem of chicory, began tugging at the blue petals. I felt horrid and wicked and ashamed of myself. Poor John, a kindly fellow, to be treated so when he’d done nothing wrong. To have scrubbed his blacksmith’s sooty hands and pared his nails for my sake, only to be cast aside.
“He loves you, he loves you not,” said John, taking the stem from me. “Count with me, Anne. See whether or not I love you truly.”
I straightaway dropped the stem, but he picked it up and began plucking the petals from one of the flowers. “You see—he loves you,” he said as the last blue shape fluttered to the grass (although I think he had made it come out so). “And you love me, do you not?”
“No, I do not, nor ever shall.” I swallowed through the dryness in my throat. “And therefore I must allow you the freedom to seek a sweetheart elsewhere.”
He gave a hollow laugh, for there are precious few single girls in the village, and I suddenly thought of Susan, and how very much it would pain me if he began a courtship of her with her sullen little mouth and peevish face. And it was then that I realized I didn’t want anyone else to have him, that indeed I loved him, and that even though I might become the mistress of a great manor house, I was going to have to make many sacrifices along the way. And this was the first.
“There’s more to this than I can tell,” he said, his voice low and gruff. “Is it that you’ve met someone else?”
I hurriedly shook my head. “No! Not at all.”
“No one has been acting improperly toward you, have they?” he asked harshly, his hands clenched into fists. “For I would not hesitate to fight for you, Anne. Even if the fellow was twice my size.”
“’Tis not that!” I said with haste.
“Could it be that you have your sights on someone higher placed than I?”
I shook my head, sweat standing on my brow, while the children’s voices encircled us.
“For although I am only a jobbing blacksmith now, Joseph Parnell has promised to sell me the smithy when he is too old for the working of it, and that should be in only two years’ time. And I already have a little money put aside for its purchase.”
“’Tis not that,” I said, and without thinking I tugged at another weed, which turned out to be a nettle and stung me badly across my palm. “’Tis just that I . . . I do not love you.”
He was silent for a long while, then he said in a low voice, “Hearing that fair breaks my heart.”
I did not reply and could not, for there seemed a lump in my throat as big as a dove’s egg.
“Do you want me to go now?” he asked.
I nodded, but kept my face averted, for I could feel the tears brimming and feared that at any moment they would spill over. I had made my choice, though, done the deed, and knew there was nothing else for it. Even if I changed my mind, I was used goods now, and no decent man would have me.
“I will say one more thing,” he said, his voice choked. “I’m a proud man, but would not hesitate to have you back if you thought you’d made a mistake.”
“I have not,” I said, shaking my head, “but I’m monstrous sorry if I’ve caused you pain.” With that I turned away from him completely, and a moment later heard the thud of his footsteps and the brambles scratching at his best serge breeches as he stalked off. I took up a piece of the chicory leaf and, bruising it, rubbed it across my palm where I’d been stung, as Ma used to do on our cuts and bruises when we were little, but it didn’t help the pain in my heart and the knowledge that I’d caused a strong man, a burly blacksmith, to have tears in his voice.
I stayed in the graveyard for some time, composing myself, and reflected that in some ways it was good that Susan and I didn’t speak, because I wouldn’t have to explain my discomposure to her or tell her that John Taylor and I were no longer walking out. I said nothing to anyone else, either, but the following day I asked young James, the boot boy, to take the candlestick that John had made me back to the smithy. When I asked him afterward what John Taylor had said, James informed me that he’d said nothing, but had thrown the candlestick the length of the smithy, then gone after it and kicked it into the street. That night I set my candle stub into a broken saucer again, and if Susan noticed that the candlestick was gone, she didn’t say a word. I didn’t say a word, either, about the fact that she’d bought a yellow silk ribband with the money from Mrs. Williams and trimmed her cap with it, but I was pleased to see that the color didn’t suit her doughy complexion a bit.
How strange a fact it is that I lie here not knowing whether I’m dead or alive, and instead of reflecting on the strangeness of the universe and the pity of my situation, think instead of such a petty and inconsequential matter as the color of a silk ribband.
I try to clear my mind, and address again the matter of purgatory. If I’m there now, where are the fires that are supposed to burn and cleanse? I can feel nothing of them. Maybe I’ve not reached the stage that
has the fires. How long before I get to these, then, and what will such heat feel like?
Ah, I remember now! The Reverend Coxeter once told us that the fires would be unbearable, for only then could our sins be burned away. But how can they be unbearable, when there is no option but to bear them? And how long will I have to endure them in order to burn away all my sins?
Chapter ~ 6
Five or six new scholars clattered noisily into the dissection room. Jacob’s Coffee House had opened in the High Street only that week, and some of them had been out celebrating the end of term with dishes of coffee and mulled wine, and were somewhat the worse for the experience.
“Move over there, you lot!” came the shout from several of them.
“You’ve been warming your arses for long enough.”
“Give someone else a chance!”
“Let the dogs see the rabbit!”
Robert and the others shifted to allow the newcomers to warm their hands at the fire and, once they were nominally heated, a hearty discussion ensued about the freshness and rarity of the corpse, its possible shapeliness, and who might be selected by the doctors to take notes or hand over instruments.
As they settled into their positions, a young boy, servant to one of the doctors, arrived with a heavy leather bag full of dissection tools, which he placed on the table.
“Don’t you want to look at the corpse?” Norreys asked him, and jeered as the boy paled and ran.
One of the newcomers, a Christ Church man, began to dance a little jig, his gown swirling around him. As he danced, he sang a bawdy ditty from a new ballad sheet, a song about a girl with skin as soft as apricots who’d serviced half the young men in town. As he sang the chorus he pointed toward the coffin in which Anne Green lay, thrusting his hips forward at the end of each line.
