Trying to keep calm, I said, ‘I do not think he found the charm, Bridget.’
‘What do you mean? Who has it, then? Where is it?’
‘I do not know.’
The suspended women had all grown still, some of them turning slowly with the light breeze. There were cheers and whoops for the hangman from the front of the crowd. I was aware of the eyes of the manservant, and folk dispersing around us. Matthew stood talking to John Stearne: either of them could turn at any moment and see Bridget.
I reached into my sleeve, and brought out Joseph’s letter. ‘I am only sorry I kept it so long,’ I said, but you must go now.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘You take this.’ She opened my hand, and I felt Mother’s gold ring in my palm. ‘For her.’ She gestured to Rebecca.
The crowd was thinning around us, and Rebecca had managed to lead the manservant a few paces away.
‘Sometimes,’ Bridget said, ‘I think what would have been, if I had never saved him.’
There was so much left to say, but there was no time. I felt Bridget stepping away from me; I wanted to reach out for her, but I could not. ‘Take care of yourself,’ I said, and watched her dark covered head move through the press of eating, drinking, talking people. By the time I lost sight of her, Matthew had come back, and I heard him telling the manservant to escort Rebecca and me to the inn. When I turned, for the first time I could see the gallows properly. What hung on it looked from a distance like fifteen cloaks on their pegs, discarded only for a short time, until their owners should need them again.
40
I could scarcely keep Rebecca West from hurting her own cause, through the strained days of waiting that followed before the Manningtree executions. At the inn at Chelmsford I had given her the gold ring, and advised her to be gone; that her mother could follow her, when she was freed. But she said she would not go, that she must wait, so I waited with her. I half hoped that, with her testimony done, Matthew would send Rebecca back to her own house and forget about her, but he did not. And if he did intend to get Anne West pardoned, he was waiting for the last possible moment.
Matthew kept mostly to his chamber, writing, or a few doors away at John Stearne’s house, so it should have been easy for Rebecca to do as I had advised her, and keep out of his way. But Rebecca did not take my advice, did not keep to her room and out of his sight: she seemed not to be able to leave it alone, to refrain from seeking the constant assurance that all was well, even though evidently all was not well, the not-wellness loud enough, that fortnight, to deafen you. The Thorn was like a bell-tower with a bell that is ringing and flinging itself to pieces, and you can feel it in your teeth, but all you can do is wait for it to cease.
Though I feared for Rebecca, I found myself thinking often of Joseph: it felt almost selfish to notice it, but the date was almost upon us that would have been my time to give birth. I found myself remembering Joseph’s hesitation in putting his hands on me. I thought of what Bridget had endured from my father, and wondered what advice she would have given Joseph, as a boy, as a young man, about how to approach a woman. The uncertainty that had distanced me from my husband, I saw it now in a new light, and I wept over it more than once in those days of waiting, and wept, too, at how helpless I felt, to halt what was happening.
For Rebecca had begun to take on a carefully pious look whenever my brother was even mentioned, and she began to refer to him, around Mary Phillips and the remaining scullery maid, not as ‘Master Hopkins’ but as ‘the master’, as if she, too, were a servant at the Thorn. She was frightened, that was clear, though perhaps in a way she did not dare admit to herself. Frightened of what would happen to her, if Matthew did not spare her mother.
Rebecca was sitting in the kitchen, three days before the executions, when the scullery maid expressed the mildest inclination to learn to read. Rebecca pounced on it. ‘I’ll teach you,’ she said. Matthew was just outside in the passage, talking to Mary Phillips. ‘I’ll teach you in the evenings,’ Rebecca said loudly, and sat the girl down there and then. ‘No, look, that’s a b,’ Rebecca said, as Matthew followed Mary Phillips into the room. ‘Do you see the difference, from a d?’ She dusted smooth the flour she had sprinkled on the table, and drew the two letters next to each other with a shaking finger.
That evening, the firelight moved over Rebecca’s hair, over the frown on her face as she bent to correct the girl again, as Matthew stood watching her for just a minute too long. She was acting in those few days, acting the virtuous servant to save her own life and her mother’s, as if by playing her part well enough she could stretch their time out further than it wanted to go, like a piece of cloth you convince yourself is enough to make a shift, an apron, enough to make a cap: but, in truth, it is not enough for anything. For I feared she would win no mercy from Matthew.
It made me think of Thomas Witham’s daughter, how badly that had ended: how, soon after the day I had seen Jane’s grazed palms in church, she had admitted to me that she had taken Matthew’s arm as they walked together, but when they had reached a secluded part of the path she had stopped, and tilted her face, for she knew that was what other young men most wished you to do. But then my brother had clutched at her, and his hands were colder than she had been expecting, and she had made a sudden movement, or else Matthew had, and she had pushed him away, but as she did so, slipped and fallen. And before she could even pick herself up, she told me, half ashamed, half derisive, he was running away. I had seen for myself his face when he came home that day: had glimpsed his frozen rage.
†
In the daytimes, as before, Mary Phillips delegated me to give Rebecca tasks. But since she would not let Rebecca near hot things or knives, I had to invent work that did not truly need doing, such as polishing the banisters until they shone, and when she reached the bottom beginning at the top afresh. Rebecca set to with a will at whatever I gave her, but with no guests, it was clear that if Mary Phillips would not trust her in the kitchen, there was no need for another servant at the Thorn. Once, I heard Matthew and Mary Phillips talking about the almshouse at Colchester, and I was sure they were discussing whether a bed could be found for Rebecca there, where she would ruin her health with ropemaking.
The day before the date appointed for the hangings, I went uninvited to Matthew’s chamber, where I knew he was sitting. I knocked firmly, and I think he mistook me for Mary Phillips, for carelessly he shouted, ‘Come.’ I went in. He was sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves and stood up when he saw that it was me. It was odd to be in that room: it was the first time I had seen it since I had crept in secretly. I noticed again Father’s daily books on the shelf, the sparse emptiness of the rest of the chamber. I did not look Matthew in the eye.
‘I have come to speak to you about Rebecca,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
‘What about her?’ he said evenly.
‘I have been thinking. Whether or not you mean to spare her mother –’ I stopped, took a breath. ‘I wanted to say that, if I were you, I would let her go. Not back to her mother’s house, perhaps, but I could find her a place in London, I am sure of it.’ I tried to slow my breath.
‘I will think on it,’ he said, turning away, almost as if it bored him, as if it were only one of a list of things he had to do.
‘But do think, Matthew. What do you lose by letting her go? You lose nothing. But you may gain a reputation for mercy. For keeping your word. For everyone knows how she has served you. No one can doubt what you must have promised her.’ He had turned back towards me. His eyes were dark as always, their meaning veiled. I thought perhaps I had won him round.
‘I will think on it,’ he said again. And I had to restrain myself almost from dipping him a curtsy, before I turned and went quietly out of the room.
That night, I told Rebecca that she need not come down for dinner, that surely my brother would excuse her, but still she appeared, and took her seat opposite me, as the three of us ate in silence. Rebecca kept her ey
es on her food. Matthew watched her ever more closely now: watched her chew and swallow, watched the hand that held her knife tremble.
After dinner, Rebecca went upstairs. I sat in the parlour for a time, trying to guess my brother’s mood from how he frowned over his papers. Soon Mary Phillips came in, to see whether anything was wanted. Matthew asked her to bring him another bottle of wine. I excused myself and went up to my chamber. I sat in my chair by the fire, and perhaps for a few minutes I dozed; I heard feet on the stairs, which I took for Rebecca going to bed.
But I was soon wakeful again, and took up my sewing, in order not to think. Somehow it did not seem right to go to bed, knowing the women appointed to die the next day would be awake and watching. My task was easy enough: picking out Mother’s initials from my brother’s linen, and sewing back an RH, ahead of his wedding, which, though he had not spoken of it, would soon be approaching. Before long, though, I needed my thimble. Remembering that I had left it in the parlour, I opened my chamber door. Hearing nothing, I went carefully down the stairs, but when I was halfway, I caught the note of Rebecca’s voice. Clearly she had not gone to bed.
The parlour door was slightly ajar. I crept nearer, and saw a glimpse of Rebecca by the fireplace, standing beside my brother’s chair, her hand close to where his own rested on the wooden arm of the seat. He was looking at it, his face pale and set. I saw him breathe out, slowly.
‘What I mean is, we could make terms, master,’ I heard Rebecca say softly, and then I could not believe what I saw, for she lowered herself into his lap. Matthew’s hand did not shift from the arm of the chair, but his fingers twitched. Her hair was loose, and obscured his face. I thought, Rebecca, you foolish girl.
She had taken his other hand, and seemed to be rubbing it between her own. ‘You’re chilled, master,’ she said. Then she placed his hand flat on her chest, below the collarbone, above the breast. Over her heart.
I could not think what else to do. I stepped away from the door. ‘Mary!’ I called loudly. ‘Mary, have you seen my thimble? I must have put it down somewhere.’
Mary Phillips came out from the kitchen. As she did so, Rebecca slipped out of the parlour door, her face flushed.
‘Here it is, mistress,’ Rebecca said. She held out her hand, and tipped the thimble into my palm. ‘I borrowed it, and forgot to give it you back.’ Then she was gone, clattering up the stairs, Mary Phillips watching her retreat.
‘Thank you, Mary,’ I said. I wanted to look in on Matthew: I could not believe that he had not taken Rebecca by the throat and thrown her out into the yard. But, thank God, he had not; and with Mary Phillips regarding me suspiciously, I had to wish her goodnight, and go slowly upstairs myself.
41
The next morning, I watched Rebecca eat a good breakfast, watched her try to be confident of the reprieve that she hoped was coming. I myself could not stomach any food. Matthew seemed preoccupied, and scarcely broke off eating to assent, when I said that I would take Rebecca to the square. Perhaps he meant, after all, I thought, to give her a position at the Thorn. He had not punished her for her behaviour the night before and, for certain, he looked at her a good deal.
‘You go on ahead,’ Mary Phillips said. ‘Get a good place, before the press grows too great.’ She waved a hand towards Rebecca. ‘It will be a good lesson for her, to see it.’
Rebecca was quiet as we walked into town. Wisely, she had worn a cap that, when she ducked her head, mostly hid her face. I thought again of asking her whether she would not just come away with me, there and then, but I knew what her answer would be. The streets grew thick with people, all going our way, so that all I could see were the backs of heads, hunched shoulders. As we drew near the square it was the stink of roast hog you caught first, and then, as you rounded the corner, the noise of the crowd.
By the steps of the assembly rooms they had built the scaffold. The crossbeam looked strong, smooth and unflawed, as if it had been the mast of a ship, or was on its way to being; suspended from it, the four nooses waited. Off to the left side, on the further edge of the square from where we were standing, a low platform had been built, from which the great men of the town might stand and watch.
I tried taking Rebecca’s arm, but it was too awkward: instead I took her hand, and began to thread us through the already tight-packed crowd. Some were folk up from Harwich or Colchester for the day, and these I had to push between. Others, though, were Manningtree or Lawford people, mostly sober and plain-dressed, not passing meats among themselves but rather only a clipped word or two, there to see it done. They did us the service of shrinking back as we came near, twitching their children out of our path. When we reached the crude step that led onto the low platform, I pulled Rebecca past it to a place at the edge of the crowd.
After a time, I saw my brother arrive, and climb up to the platform beside Richard Edwards, deep in talk. Without meaning to, I caught Matthew’s attention, before I turned back to Rebecca. As I moved, though, another face snagged my gaze, small in the crowd on the other side of the square, and I shaded my eyes to see Bridget. What is she doing? I thought. Close by her I saw the minister, his face grim and contained.
‘Alice,’ Rebecca said, suddenly, as the crowd moved and murmured.
They were bringing the women out from the assembly rooms, rather than risk disorder by walking them through the press of people. The four were led out in a row, wearing identical smocks that someone must have troubled themselves to sew. First came the woman from Ramsey, and the woman from Great Clacton after her: those two were there to show the reach of Grimston’s influence, hailing as they did from the eastern and southern limits of the hundred. Next down the steps came Helen Leech. Her mother had hanged in Chelmsford, and Helen, at any rate, expected no reprieve. Near the bottom she tripped and fell hard, forwards: a man hauled her up, but the front of her smock was black with mud. Anne West came last, her face withdrawn.
‘Now it will come,’ Rebecca said, turning to gaze up at Matthew on the platform. ‘He will call out now, or make some sign.’
I watched the executioner point and speak. I watched each of the women climb up onto the four stools set there for the purpose, four stools that would afterwards return to their accustomed use, for the merchants striking their deals at the assembly rooms, or breaking their midday bread. Anne West seemed eager, almost sprightly, as she climbed up onto hers.
The executioner was tall enough, once he had tied the women’s arms, to reach up unaided to place the loops about their necks, and as he did so, the crowd filled with whispers that made a rushing sound in the air. It has sometimes been the practice for folk on the scaffold to be permitted to speak, that their contrition might make an example for those come to look on. This time, though, it seemed not.
I felt Rebecca gripping my hand, twisting to watch not what was unfolding in front of us, but Matthew. She was still waiting for a sign, while I watched the executioner knock the stool from under the Ramsey woman’s feet, like a little boy playing a nasty trick, a painful trick, and the crowd gave a great angry cheer.
The woman must have dropped right, because she fell like a stone and was still: likewise did her neighbour. Rebecca turned, her face slack with shock and dismay. My eyes moved to Anne West, where she perched on her stool, gazing out over the crowd, face by face. The executioner kicked out the stool of Helen Leech, and then it was Anne’s turn.
For what happened next, I do not remember any sounds. It cannot be true, but what I remember is perfect silence. The executioner kicked Anne West’s stool, and it fell soundlessly on the platform. But he had placed the nooses too close together, and Helen Leech’s arms had come untied. As Anne West bucked and writhed, her face a red dot, Helen Leech swung too near and began to climb her for air, and the executioner had to beat her arms away.
Beside me, Rebecca gasped. ‘No – no …’ she said, softly at first and then louder. ‘Help her! Someone help her!’ I took hold of her arms, as I saw some folk in the crowd turn to look,
in curiosity or disgust.
The feeling went from my hands. I felt the prickle of it going as Rebecca gripped me tight. Perhaps Anne West knew only a blur of light and darkness, a roar of sound, in her last thrashing. But I have heard some say that in those final moments all things are sharpened, and if that is so, perhaps she might have seen her living daughter leaning on me, and taken comfort.
Rebecca was weeping, keening loud in my ear, turned into my shoulder as the executioner took Helen Leech’s feet and added his weight to finish her. Then it was over, the four still shapes hanging in a row.
Behind me, I heard Matthew’s voice, furious, saying he would see about docking the man’s fee. Minutes must have passed; I remember part of the crowd drifting away, but all the time Rebecca weeping as I stood with my arms around her. I felt as if she was trying to burrow inside me.
When I saw my brother coming down from the platform, he looked pale, as though he was about to be sick. As he reached the foot of the steps a woman moved into his path, and he made an irritated gesture. But then she put back her hood.
Matthew stopped still on the last step, as he recognized Bridget. ‘Get out of my way,’ he said. He spoke quietly, but everyone heard. She did not move.
‘No,’ she said. And then, more loudly, ‘You do not own Manningtree, whatever you may think, sir.’ She spoke out clearly, and some in the crowd turned to look. ‘And I’ll tell you something else,’ she said, as the men on the platform broke off their talk to watch, ‘which is that if you think Grimston is your friend, you are mistaken, and if you think Edwards here is your friend, you are mistaken there, too. And if you think his sister will marry you, well, then, you are triply mistaken, for all they do, all this town does, is think on how to be quit of you, sir.’
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