‘He did know of her, Father! He and Joan were known to one another long after she left Tetton Green.’
My father pursed his lips.
‘And if he put Tamar in a will he’d have to name her, and her name can only be Seaton. So I don’t think Harriet can have seen any will like that, or she’d never have let Tamar into her house.’
‘But did Harriet know her as Tamar Seaton?’ Father asked. ‘What name did she go under?’
I had not thought about this and could not remember if I had ever heard Tamar’s surname. ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted, crestfallen. My father looked long and hard at me. When he spoke again it was to say quietly, ‘You do realise you’re Harriet’s heir?’
‘How can you think so? She loathes me!’
‘Too strong, child. Young folk imagine everything is to do with them. Your aunt’s always been prickly, but who else would she leave to? Besides, your mother and I have helped her, in our way, over the years. Now’ – he dropped his voice for effect in a way that reminded me of Joan herself – ‘if this woman’s Joan Seaton – which she may not be – she’s a thieving whore. Why cut yourself out of an inheritance for her?’
‘This is my inheritance,’ I said, gesturing at the walls around us. ‘You come from Tetton Green and it’s natural you should think of it, but I belong in Spadboro.’
‘Yes,’ Father said impatiently, ‘but you can live here and still inherit.’
‘And I want to sleep well at nights.’
‘Sleep?’ Father’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why shouldn’t you? Has this woman threatened you with something – some hocus-pocus?’
‘Nothing like that. The thing is, Father, there must be a will.’ I thought my father would contradict me, but he waited to hear me out. ‘You remember my dream about Uncle Robin – the one with the cart and the paper?’
Father nodded.
‘I’m still having it, only worse. Don’t you see, Father? The paper is the will.’
‘You never said this before,’ he pointed out. ‘First you decide there’s a will, then you say it’s in your dream; but when you first had the dream you never thought of any will.’
‘I didn’t understand at first.’
‘You don’t now. It’s your fancy, nothing else.’
‘Forgive my asking, Father, but are you sure you’ve never had this dream?’
‘Quite,’ said my father with the simplicity of truth.
‘And yet you’re his brother, and he wrote to you.’
He half smiled. ‘Are you asking me to account for your dreams?’
‘But do you believe me?’
‘I believe you to be in earnest,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘You said you’d brought the woman’s writing.’
I nodded.
‘Show me, then. I’ll read it and point out the lies.’
‘Father.’ I reached out and touched his arm. ‘Uncle Robin wanted to see you on his deathbed. Suppose this were the business, wouldn’t you do everything possible to carry out his wishes?’
‘I’ll read the writing,’ he repeated. ‘Let that content you for now. What did you tell the daughter?’
‘That I won’t marry her.’
‘There you showed some sense, for once. But she won’t let go so easily, I’ll be bound.’
‘She doesn’t want marriage, only money for food and childbed.’
He groaned. ‘Jon, Jon! A bitch of this sort’ll couple with anybody. Most likely she doesn’t know who the father is, but she’s cunning; she looks round for an honest fool. My life on it, she was with child before you boarded her.’
‘No, she –’
‘Did you importune her? Or she you?’
‘Well –’
My father smiled knowingly and said no more. I will not conceal that his shrewdness gave me a pang; a young fellow naturally takes pleasure in believing himself desirable and desired. Father poured himself more drink, sipping in a leisurely fashion now, as if to say we had passed the crisis. I had never seen him drink in this room before, and certainly nothing so strong as brandy-wine, but if he kept it there he must have taken it from time to time, and he did not appear at all intoxicated. My news was of a sobering sort, no doubt. At last he said, in a voice like the tolling of a bell, ‘Give. Her. Nothing.’ At the nothing I was ready to argue again, but he went on, ‘Put your hand in your purse just once and it’s all up with you; you’re marked as the guilty man. Besides, the babe won’t come for months yet – may never come at all.’
‘But they’re shivering even as we speak,’ I said. ‘Our own flesh and blood.’
‘We don’t know they’re our flesh and blood. First let me read. And Jon, pray remember: whatever they say to you, this child isn’t yours.’
He was sure to be right. Why, then, as I nodded my head, did I feel so wretched?
‘What’ll you tell Mother?’
‘Precisely what you’ve told me.’
‘If you please, then, I’ll speak with her first.’
‘Very well.’ He placed his hand on my shoulder, turned and began rolling up his diagrams of seedbeds and trees. ‘So, where are these papers?’
I took them from my bag and laid them on the table, then went, sick at heart, to break my news to Mother.
15
Attempts at Reasoning
At the kitchen door I paused, listening to the talk within. Mother and Alice were in there together washing something, probably the kale, in a bowl. Alice was grumbling that she wished she could sleep out the time between Christmas and Easter, for there was nothing worth eating between.
My mother gently rebuked her: if God had so ordered things, it was not for us to wish them different. We should rather be grateful for our daily bread.
But in some countries (said Alice) there was warmth, and sweet fruit to harvest, all year ro. Everyone in the village was talking of Jim Partlett, who had run off to sea and was now returned. He had served with black fellows, who said that in their country there was fruit even in March. It was a pity God had not seen fit to give England such early fruit.
At this my mother remarked that Jim Partlett was dishonest, as was shown by his running away; but even if what he said was true, it was not for us to know better than God. She added that He had placed autumn conveniently before winter, and not the other way round, so that we might store up provisions; she poured scorn on Alice’s blackamoors, who had probably lied (such being their nature), for it was not possible that any nation enjoyed God’s favour more than England. It therefore stood to reason that we enjoyed the kindest weather and the best suited for crops.
‘For kale, certainly,’ said Alice, who could be saucy on occasion. From being with us so long, she was grown almost into a member of the family and (I thought, now that I had attained to manhood) too easy in her ways; though a good loyal servant, and devoted to my mother, she was inclined to get above her station. Just then, however, I could have wished this petticoat theology to continue all day, and all night too, since there was no sadness in it. The sadness was about to enter with me, the poisoner of their innocent world.
‘Mother, I must speak with you, if you please,’ I said, stepping up to them. (Alice dropped me a curtsey; I nodded, but no more, by way of hinting at the proper distance between us.)
‘I’m listening,’ said my mother, who had not forgiven me for brushing her off earlier.
‘It’s important,’ I hinted, glancing at the door.
Mother put down her knife and pushed her heap of kale towards Alice. ‘You know what to do?’
Alice harrumphed. ‘Aye; but it’ll be late.’
We went to my chamber. Mother kept glancing at me as we climbed the stairs, but I would not say more until the door was closed behind us. She sat on the bed, her face stony, as I told her as much of my stupidity as was fitting for her to hear, and also of my discoveries since. Though her expression grew steadily sadder, and at times she touched her bosom as if I had struck her there, she did not interrupt me until I came to reveal
that Tamar was the daughter of Joan Seaton, when she stifled a cry.
‘Are you sure she’s the daughter of that – creature?’
‘As sure as I can be,’ I said humbly. ‘Have I done wrong to tell you? Perhaps you’d rather have heard from Father.’
‘I’d rather not hear from anybody – oh –’ Her sigh here cut me, there was such disappointment in it. ‘I thought better of you, Jon! And Joan Seaton’s girl! You couldn’t have chosen worse.’
‘I didn’t choose, exactly – I mean –’
‘Oh, for shame!’ Mother exploded. ‘The woman tempted me and I did eat. Is that how we brought you up? To have no will of your own?’
At this I felt myself disgraced almost beyond redemption. Unable to bear her look, I rose and went to the window just in time to see Simon Dunne, with a face like thunder, leading away Bully, whom in my perplexity I had forgotten to return.
Mother went and opened the chamber door, pausing to say, ‘Well, your father must deal for you now. I don’t know what he’ll do, I’m sure. We hoped to see you married this year.’ With that she walked out of the room, leaving me the lowest worm in Creation.
* * *
Come now, and let us reason together, saith The LORD: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.
I felt, rather than saw, the glances of my father and mother as this text was given out. I would not return their looks; instead, I studied the head of the fellow seated in front of me, through whose thinning hair showed streaks of naked scalp, pink as a newborn mouse. The preacher began to urge us to repentance, for each and every one of us was a sinner. Had I known this was to be today’s sermon, I would have feigned sick and stayed at home.
It was now a day since I had made my revelations and if anything, the atmosphere in our house had worsened. My mother was grown less angry, my father more so, but neither was in good humour with me.
Mother was on the watch, hoping to detect in me a fuller penitence; to her way of thinking I was too inclined to blame the woman. Granted, she was a whore (Mother had said to me only that morning) but this was no excuse, since I must have known her for one from the start. I could not argue the natural tenderness of a lover, since I was unwilling to marry what I had been willing enough to lie with. I could answer nothing to any of this except that she was right.
My father, on the other hand, was less concerned that I should adopt a humble demeanour, but spoke of ‘a dog returning to his vomit’ and insisted I should sever all connection with the Seaton women, leaving them to take their chance. Whenever he said this, I fancied I saw Tamar writhing in childbed, deprived even of water to drink and with no companion but that useless old trot. At this, my conscience whispered that there must surely be some other way. Father said there was none. Though agreed that I had done wrong, we could not agree about how I should go right.
Let us reason together. The gentleness of these words had long endeared the prophet Isaiah to me. There was something delightful in the notion of a loving conversation with the Lord; perhaps it would be a little like those childhood talks I had enjoyed with my earthly father, a man ever ready to persuade rather than beat.
Now, however, I was unable to ‘reason together’ even with him, and the words, once so comforting, struck fear into me. How, reason? Reason in what way? How could a blind, sin-crazed creature bandy ideas with the All-Knowing? What arrogance, to imagine that Isaiah had meant anything of the sort. I had nothing to teach God. My part was surely to be silent and listen while God reasoned His way into my soul, but what if I was stubborn and opposedto His arguments, as I was to those of my father?
‘Help,’ I prayed. I had not meant to beg for mercy (I wanted to do right before asking God to interest Himself in my misfortunes) but to open myself to the Divine Reasoning, so that I might see my way. This had been my intention, but my prayer, crushed out of me by the sheer weight of misery, was a childish cry of fear. I closed my eyes and continued in the same vein: ‘Dear Lord, only help. You best know how. Help them, help me, Christ our Lord, have mercy; Christ Jesus, have mercy.’
I waited, inside the darkness of my skull, for some sense that God was listening, but there was none. Opening my eyes, I again noticed the head of the man sitting before me. God cared as much for him as for me – perhaps more. Why would my prayers induce God to alter His intentions? Only pride and folly suggested they might.
It was not a new idea to me that devout prayer is a submission to God. I knew it well; the parson (at that moment rejoicing over the lost sheep found again) was the same man who had catechised me in youth, correcting my selfish, childish efforts to pray: not I want but Thy will be done. Yet as soon as I began to suffer, a suffering brought upon me by my own wickedness, I grew as corrupt as any Papist. I would be praying to the Virgin and saints next, demanding that for the price of a candle they would tinker with God’s Eternal Will.
What it came down to was that I wanted the Lord to abandon his plans and set up anew. As I grasped this, something happened to me that has never happened before or since: I had a fleeting experience of faithlessness. The notion of God going about His business, without reference to my likes or dislikes, suddenly removed Him far away, and I saw that I should have to get through life as well as I could without His meddling in my affairs, which in some respects came to the same thing as His not being there at all. As I have said, my mind had grasped this long before, without difficulty. I was familiar with the notion that while God cares for each sparrow, each wandering sheep, it is our souls, not our bodies, He cares for. He wishes us to reach our safe haven, our eternal bliss, but He does not undertake to smooth any man’s road thither. It is for us to climb the rocks and ford the rivers. I cannot say why it was then, sitting in church listening to a sermon on repentance, that I began not to understand but to feel this great distance between me and God – but thus it happened. It was the difference between knowing that fire burns and taking a white-hot poker in my hand.
Around me the parishioners obediently fell in with the responses while I sat motionless in the pew. I had no more to plead. My conscience must direct me now, and what I most needed was a sheet of paper, to set things down, so that I could think.
* * *
Tamar – child
Robin. Left to J in will?
Aunt H
There. I stared at the scribbles as if expecting wisdom to spring from them fully formed, but I was not an inch further forward. I groaned, sprawled full-length on the bed and buried my face in the covers.
Someone tapped at my chamber door. I thrust the paper beneath the bolster and called, ‘Come in.’
Father entered, clutching what I took to be Joan’s writings, done up in a bundle. The bundle had a forlorn, rumpled look. I thought how easily it might be tossed into the fire, and how much trust Joan reposed in it – how to her, this pitiful production was nothing less than the Great Amulet, charged with the power of turning Fortune’s Wheel. At that moment there seemed little to choose between her and me.
I moved along the bed so that Father could sit next to me, but he remained standing.
‘Have you read it all?’ I asked.
‘Fearful. Fearful.’
My heart leapt. ‘So you believe her?’
He slowly inclined his head, as if a nod would be too emphatic. ‘In part.’
‘And you do see that Tamar’s kin to us?’
‘She may be.’
‘Joan certainly is.’
‘By marriage,’ he corrected me. I perceived that just beneath the surface of his calm and cautious manner, something within him was softening, collapsing. As if to prove it, he sat down suddenly on the bed next to me.
I said, ‘I could ask her to write down the rest.’
My father turned to gaze into my eyes. ‘Jonathan. Do you know what you’re about? Let loose snakes like these’ – he shook the papers – ‘and they’ll sting every one of us. For a start, they put all the wome
n, Joan, Harriet and Tamar, under suspicion for Robin’s death. Have you thought of that?’
‘I have,’ I admitted.
‘As for what Joan told you about Harriet handing her over …’ He spread his hands to signify helplessness. ‘It’s a beggar’s word against a gentlewoman’s.’
‘I know that, too. But how can it hurt us?’
My father’s face assumed an expression of weary patience. ‘The best that can happen to you, if you go on like this,’ he said, ‘is that Tamar Seaton inherits some small thing that might’ve been yours. More likely, your aunt cuts you off without a shilling – a needless loss – and sends this scandal to our own door.’
‘But she can’t, Father. We’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Are you a suckling babe, that you think misfortune never lights upon the innocent?’
‘No,’ I muttered.
‘Then don’t talk like one. Now, are you sure there’s nothing I don’t know about – no more little Dymonds tucked away in the woods?’
Though blshing, I was able to look him in the eyes as I said, ‘I give you my solemn word.’
‘In that case, I have a proposition and I suggest you think it over before deciding. If you stay away from this girl, I’ll pro vide for her and her child.’
‘Father!’ I made to embrace him but he shook his head.
‘I said to think it over! You must stay right away from her, mind – and whatever I give them comes out of the savings for your wedding. If’, he added drily, ‘that blessed event should ever take place.’
‘Agreed,’ I said at once, while my father tutted to find me still so impetuous. ‘Only, if you pay something, shouldn’t Aunt Harriet pay more? What about her?’
‘Nothing about her.’
‘But –’
‘Nothing, Jon! You can never prove what’s written here. There are no witnesses.’
The Wilding Page 19
