by Mary Hooper
I protested that I was not, even though I had not seen my courses for nigh on two months.
“Are you sure, Anne?”
I began shaking my head but she said, “I know the signs! Have you lain with a man? Don’t lie to your own ma!”
Of course, I did no more than burst into tears and say that I had.
“Is it your young man’s? Is it John Taylor the black-smith’s child?” she asked, for I’d not been home since the beginning of July, and at that time John and I had been seeing each other regularly.
I didn’t reply to this, for I was too ashamed, and she must have felt pity for me for she reached over and took my hand. “Well, you needn’t take on so,” she said. “Many girls anticipate their wedding and you’ll not be the first. We can fix a date now, and when the child comes early, no one will say a word.”
I still did not speak.
“Take heart, my girl,” she said, squeezing my hand. “’Tis not what I wanted for you, but the Reverend Belchard will be sure to marry you, and we’ll give you a little feasting.” She paused. “Where will you live, though? What sort of dwelling can John Taylor provide?”
I continued weeping. “I’ve not set eyes on John Taylor these past three months,” I said between sobs, which was not exactly true, for I knew exactly where he stood in church and out of the corner of my eye had oft seen his strong and upright figure, face resolutely turned to the front with never a glance toward our servants’ pew at the back of the church. I would stare at what I could see of his head, note how his black hair touched his Sunday-white collar and went in a soft curl over it, and wish with all my heart that I had not given in to Master Geoffrey.
Ma gasped. “’Tis not John Taylor’s child?”
I shook my head.
She dropped the hand that she’d been holding so tenderly. “Someone else is the father? Oh, Anne, for shame! Who have you been a-tumbling with?”
I cried harder then and couldn’t look at her, indeed was so very much ashamed of myself that eventually she relented and, putting her arms around me, promised that she wouldn’t reproach or chastise me if I told her the truth. So I told her about Master Geoffrey and how he’d been so friendly and easy with me, how he’d promised me gold and silver and the tenure of Dun’s Tew Manor if only I’d lie with him, and how eventually I’d been persuaded.
She shook her head with each sentence I uttered. “Oh, Anne, you simple girl,” she’d said, sighing again and again. “To think you’d fall for such false and honeyed words.”
“But he’s a gentleman,” I protested, “and I thought ’twould be well enough to trust him.”
“The gent’men are the very worst.” She looked at me closely, then slipped her hand onto my belly to feel the shape of it. “When did this start with him?”
“About the first hay-making,” I said, for I remembered that there had been revels in the village on that very hot summer day and morris men dancing on the green, despite the new rulings that there should not be such tomfoolery.
“And when did your terms cease?”
I told her, and she calculated that I was perhaps three months with child.
“But all is not lost if we’re quick,” she said, “for there are certain plants and herbs which are said to bring down a woman’s courses.” She stood up and took her shawl. “We must visit the cunning woman at once and find out what they are.”
I should have been back at Dun’s Tew by five o’clock, for Lady Mary was having a musical evening, and there was a deal of dainty sweetmeats to be prepared for it, but we decided that, my absence being noticed, I would say that Ma had been taken ill and that I’d had to stay with her until Jane came home. Ma and I then went together to the cunning woman’s hut, which was on the common, close to the hoarstones where the goblins were said to be buried. For the excursion I wore Ma’s old cloak and had a shawl close around my head, for I didn’t want to be recognized going to such a place.
There are those who say that the cunning woman is a witch, but I don’t think she is; she’s just an old and bent woman who lives with three cats and a lame fox. Her hovel has a stamped-earth floor and a hole in the roof to let the smoke out, and she has only one chair and a planked bed to call her own—surely if she was a witch the devil would have seen to it that she had more comfortable surroundings? She said that I was with child for sure, and, judging from my tear-streaked face that I did not wish to be, picked hyssop and sage from the profusion of herbs that grew around her cottage in tangled skeins and pounded them together in some agrimony water, which she then bottled. She told me not to take more than a scanty amount of the hyssop mixture—a bare spoonful at a time—for the herb’s powers were so strong that an overdose could lead to poisoning. She also gave me a jar containing a decoction of the leaves and berries of the bay tree, saying that I should add this to a bowl of hot water and sit in it, for it was a sure remedy for a woman in distress. Ma paid by giving her a chicken and promising another come Christmas, and this seemed to satisfy her.
I went home with Ma, and she boiled some water over the fire and sat me in a washing bowl containing the bay mixture (for of course there was not the privacy to do such a thing at Dun’s Tew), and Jane, who’d been out earning money bird-scaring in the fields, came in by and by and laughed heartily to see me placed so in the bowl. I explained to her what was wrong, however, and swore her to secrecy—for Jane loves to gossip—and she went very quiet and serious. She listened to my tale but did not seem impressed with aught that Master Geoffrey had promised any more than Ma had been, even though I said I’d have taken care to raise them, too, and had Jane to come and live with me as my companion. As I said these words, however, they struck me as false, mere fancies, and I wondered how I ever could have believed them.
I sat in the water nigh on an hour but nothing happened, not so much as a gripe or a cramp, and afterward I dressed myself and took the hyssop cordial back to Dun’s Tew to drink before I went to bed. The cunning woman had said that I should stay close within the house after taking it and be prepared with clean rags to stem the flow that would ensue, so I couldn’t sleep that night for worrying about how bad the pains would be and how I’d keep the matter a secret from Susan. In the end, however, nothing happened, and my undersheet stayed unsullied.
In the morning I took another spoonful of the cordial, and then another, but was scared to take more because of what she’d said of its power. When, a day later, it was clear that it wasn’t going to work, I poured the rest of the mixture away and threw the bottle into the midden.
I was at a loss then, and thought about getting a message to Ma but decided against it, not wanting to make her anxious. After more sleepless nights I decided that there was nothing else for it but to carry on as usual and, should my condition begin to show, lace my stomacher and bodice tighter and try to be patient until Master Geoffrey came back at the beginning of December. He would know what to do, I told myself. He was young, but had been educated to deal with such vexing questions, so would surely order things and see that everything was well. Perhaps he’d pay for me to go away and give birth in London, where no one knew me and where, I’d heard, these matters were not of such great import. Lodgings there would not be difficult to obtain, and the child and I could live there quietly until such time as my seducer came into his inheritance. For at that time part of me still believed that he who had caused my condition would support and help me, and that I wouldn’t be left to bear things on my own.
Thinking on the future, then, I felt that all was not lost, and tried to put the matter to the back of my mind, content in the fact that Master Geoffrey was away and that I would not have to put up with his pleadings and fumblings for the next good while.
As I related, people speak of the cunning woman of Steeple Barton as being of the devil’s brood, but I’m sure she’s not. A more powerful witch, to my mind, is Mrs. Williams, for in the days following my visit home it seemed to me that she was always speaking of childbirth and pregnancy—se
emingly innocently, but with one eye upon me to ascertain my reactions.
One tale in particular was a favorite: the story of Sara Freeman, a girl from a nearby village who’d died after a long and painful struggle to give birth, for it was said that her bones were too narrow to let the child pass through. She’d been buried swiftly, for it was a hot summer, and then a day later a village crone, walking through the churchyard, had heard the faint crying of a baby. Thinking it a ghost, she’d fled the place, but then some sense had come to her and she’d returned and reported to the cleric what she’d heard. Already fearing some catastrophe, he called for the gravediggers, and the coffin was exhumed. When its lid was lifted, they found it contained not only Sara Freeman, but also the body of an infant, newly born and newly dead, for it seemed that, after burial, Sara had remained alive long enough to give birth.
Mrs. Williams would oft recall her, and tell of another woman some years before who was said to have been delivered of thirty rabbits, and yet another whose path had been crossed by a hare and who’d borne a child with a hare-shotten lip. She told of women who’d died in travail, and those who’d birthed children conjoined, and said that there was no telling what ill creatures might be born now, for God was grievously displeased with those who’d beheaded his anointed king, and this was his way of punishing them.
“The world is turned on its head now,” she said one morning when I was at the salting table in the scullery. “And all we can do is pray that God will not choose to punish us for Cromwell’s great sin.”
I didn’t speak, for I was concentrating on the job I was doing, which was rubbing salt into a dead sow’s skin, the better to preserve the animal over winter. ’Twas nasty work, for every so often the salt crystals would get into a cut or graze on my hands and cause me to wince.
“So we must carry out our jobs quietly and well in the station in which he has placed us,” she went on piously.
“Amen,” Susan said. She was chopping hard-boiled eggs for a garnish, and I knew without looking that she had a righteous expression on her flat face.
Mrs. Williams, who had been watching me critically for some moments, suddenly said, “Anne, you have dressed your hair differently this morning.”
“Have I?” I asked, although I knew full well that I had set my cap farther back on my head and waved the front part of my hair so that it fell curly around my ears. I had seen girls in Woodstock with their hair dressed so, and it had looked very well on them.
“Indeed you have. And the manner of your hair is not in keeping with your position—haven’t I just been saying that it does not behove us to try and rise above our stations?”
“You have.” I nodded. The smell of the eggs rose and hit me, and I was hard pressed not to gag at it.
“Well, then, ’tis not seemly that you should primp yourself up. You’re only a housemaid and should know your place.”
I didn’t reply, but noticed Susan glancing at me slyly to see how I was taking this.
“The fashioning of your hair that way makes you look saucy and impudent,” went on Mrs. Williams, “so go upstairs now, comb out your curls, and properly put your cap on your head.”
I went, of course, and was glad to get out of the egg-stinking room for a moment and rinse the salt off my hands, but I made sure that I pulled in my stomach and held myself tall as I walked out.
I didn’t know how much they knew or if they’d guessed my condition, but, aware that Susan had taken to staring at me as I undressed, I always turned away from her before taking off my gown at night. What I feared most was that it would be detected that I was with child before Master Geoffrey came back, for I would be dismissed of an instant. And how would I then be able to approach him?
With Mrs. Williams’s awful tales fresh in my mind I began to dream horrid dreams of giving birth to an infant that had no limbs, or of not delivering a child at all, but a silver fish. I never ever had a dream where the babe that was born to me was pink and plump and full of contentment. Not ever.
I began to pray fervently that God would forgive me my fornication and bless me so that I’d see my courses again. Even as I prayed, however, I knew it to be unlikely that he would forgive, especially as, wickedly, I now looked for any weakness or ill health in Sir Thomas, signs that he was going to die so that Master Geoffrey might all the sooner come into his inheritance. I saw none, however, and he continued as robust as ever.
About a month after I’d been to the cunning woman, I had a dreadful shock, and as they say that a shock can cause a woman to miscarry a child, I did hope for this (may God forgive me), but it was not to be.
This shock started off as seeming to be favorable news, for we heard that Master Geoffrey was returning briefly to Dun’s Tew. This was earlier than I’d anticipated and would enable me to see him the sooner, tell him of the trouble I was in, and have his help in the resolving of it. When, however, we were at our dinner in the servants’ hall two days before he arrived, Mrs. Williams landed a substantial game pie on the table and said, “Well, whatever news do you think I heard this morning from Lady Mary?”
Everyone looked at her, for we all loved hearing intimacies about the Reades, whom we knew just as well as—and indeed saw more of than—our own families.
When she had everyone’s attention she went on, “There is to be a special supper on Saturday for Master Geoffrey, and what do you think the family is celebrating?”
Thinking it was his birthday or that he’d had some success with his studies, I didn’t pay much attention, but looked eagerly toward the great pie, for after two days of sickness I was suddenly hungry.
“It concerns a certain young lady,” Mrs. Williams said, cutting through the pastry.
A young lady. I heard these words and at first didn’t register their import.
“Such a lovely young lady, so Lady Mary told me,” Mrs. Williams went on, deftly slicing and scooping. “Sixteen years old and heiress to a vast fortune.”
I went cold. As cold and still as I am now, for I knew then where this story was heading.
“Oh!” everyone cried, and, “There’s a fine thing!”
“Are she and Master Geoffrey already betrothed?” someone asked.
“They are! Or will be after the supper,” Mrs. Williams said, “for Lady Mary told me that a ring has been made from her own mother’s emeralds. Spiced peas, Mr. Peakes?”
Several of the servants around the table began exclaiming, and I knew some were looking at me, but I said nothing. I stared down at my plate and did no more than begin to count the number of peas I could see there. Betrothed. Oh, then I was truly lost.
We were all served. We lowered our heads, and Mr. Peakes said grace.
Susan trilled “Amen!” merrily, then cried, “Oh, how romantic! Master Geoffrey and—what’s the lucky girl’s name?”
“Her name is Clementine,” said Mrs. Williams. “Miss Clementine de Millet. When do you suppose they met? And when did he propose?”
“’Tis of no account when they met,” said Jacob dourly, “for most likely this agreement was forged between the families years back. ’Tis always that way for the nobility.”
“Not so,” corrected Mrs. Williams. “Lady Mary said ’twas a love match.”
“Aye. He loves her money,” said Jacob.
I burst out with a snort of laughter that was close to tears, and everyone turned to look at me and then looked away. I knew how their tongues would wag the moment I disappeared to bed.
“’Tis excellent news for Master Geoffrey and the family. Don’t you think so, Anne?” Mrs. Williams asked.
I opened my mouth and then shut it again. I swallowed. I began re-counting the peas. I knew I mustn’t speak in case I began to cry, for then everyone would guess my secret.
I didn’t care about him. Oh, not a jot. I didn’t care if he was betrothed to someone named Clementine, I didn’t even care that I wasn’t going to be the lady of Dun’s Tew Manor. What I did care about was what was growing in my belly an
d what would happen to me when everyone found out.
“Our Master Geoffrey!” said Susan, more animated than I’d ever seen her. “There’ll be young ladies aplenty who’ll be breaking their hearts when they hear the news that he’s betrothed.”
“That’s as may be,” said Mrs. Williams, “but they’d be silly young ladies if they believed that he’d ever choose one of nobility who was not favored by his family.”
“Indeed!” chimed Susan.
Mrs. Williams looked at me slyly. “Not eating your pie, Anne? Don’t say you’ve lost your appetite again.”
“No, indeed not,” I stuttered, and I forced down the food and sat there for the rest of the meal, and again as we sat mending stockings after, while such a deal of bibble-babble ensued about when the wedding might be and whether we might be issued new gloves and caps for the occasion, while pretending all the time that nothing they said was of the least concern to me.
That night I had my worst dream ever. I dreamed that I was trying to birth a monstrous strange tree with twisting, gnarled branches that snaked outside my body and tried to strangle me. I knew that I was dreaming, but was no less terrified for this, and tried my utmost to make myself wake up, pinching my arms with my fingers and trying to force my eyelids open. When I eventually did wake, there were tears wet on my cheeks and my heart was beating as fast as that of a dove.
It was still dark in our room, and I whispered across to Susan to ask if it was near morning, for I was fair desperate to speak to someone—even her—and be reassured that I was safe and back in the real world. She didn’t reply, though, just turned sharply in her bed with a squeak of the springs and an angry, impatient noise, which I took to mean that she was cross that I’d woken her with my tossing and turning.
Remembering that dream, that night, and how I’d endeavored to force open my eyelids and wake, I try to exert a mighty effort of will to do the same thing again. If I managed it once, then why can’t I manage it now?
Because, reason tells me, I was merely asleep then.
