After she left I napped, then took out my book. I found a line Shakespeare had stolen from my favorite poet, Bartas, about all the world being a stage. Then I turned some pages and beheld:
“Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.”
Such a pain in my heart. I knew that John had not really cared for me, but this poem had been a kind of gift, one of the few loving things that he had said. But he was untrue even in this. My face grew hot as the tears flowed. My chest heaved, but I did not cry out. I did not want Marianne to come. This was my own grief, and no one could share it, not even Patience. I cried and cried.
And then curiosity won out over sorrow. I opened the book again to see the rest of the poem. Shakespeare’s rhymes were so much stronger than anything I had been able to create. At least John had recognized a beautiful poem. When I reached the last lines,
“So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”
the hair stood up on my arms, and tears came to my eyes again, in a different way. I read the words again and again, to see what made them wrench my insides. They were two lines of the simplest of words, all one syllable, most of them three or four letters. It was not a poem about a pretty woman, it was a poem about how poetry can give life to things that die. I said the words over and I felt comfort.
I knew then that reading poems was not enough. I wanted to write them.
I tried to get up to find a quill and paper. I pushed myself out of bed and onto my feet for the first time, but I was immediately dizzy and fell back onto the blankets. I could not write yet, but I would. I would practice and I would learn.
For the remainder of the day, I made up rhymes in my head. Later, I did manage to push myself out of bed to go to the necessary. My legs shook under me, and I laughed to myself, thinking I could never climb the castle wall now.
But I am getting better, I told myself. As I got back into the bed, I heard unfamiliar steps outside and wondered if they were coming towards me. Everyone had visited me except Simon and Sarah and Baby Mercy. I saw Mother and Patience every day.
It was Mercy, looking different somehow. Taller? Thinner? Had she grown up in the few weeks of my illness? She gave me a hug and kiss.
“Such gladness I feel at your recovery,” she said, and even her voice sounded less high-pitched. It was “such,” not “thuch” gladness.
“What happened to your lisp?”
She shrugged and ran her hands over her skirt.
“Went away, I guess.”
“Has Sarah stopped bothering you?”
She nodded. “Mostly. Next time we go to Boston, will you take me to get a new bonnet? Mother is so old fashioned.”
“Yes, we will find something with a frill.”
She danced out of the room.
SIMON, LAST OF my visitors, came the next day. His hair was well brushed, and he seemed uncomfortable. I felt awkward myself. I wondered how ugly my scabs looked. I did not know, as I hadn’t looked in the mirror since Patience brought it the first time. I was glad there was not too much light in the room.
I made some comment about his empty hands, and how I had expected him to bring me something to study. He did not respond, and said only,
“You’re better, I can see.”
“I have survived, but I am scarred.”
“You have always been a comely lass and you are still.”
His eyes were even finer and darker than I remembered. His voice seemed strained. I felt even more uncomfortable, and asked him to sit on the stool beside the bed. The legs were not quite even, and for a moment the only sound was the rocking of the stool as he tried to make it settle.
“I was hoping you would come,” I said, and blushed. “I wanted news,” I added.
“What would you like to know?”
“Mother said our visitor escaped.”
“That beggar in Boston approached me, asking for money. He said he had paid his own money to put John on the boat to Holland.”
I made a doubtful noise.
“My thought, also. I asked him why I would give money to a scoundrel who had left my employer’s daughter to wander through the fens.” He began to imitate the beggar’s Scottish tones.
“‘Ay, she’ll have done fine. A stout-hearted lass. Isn’t she fine, then?’”
“I hope you told him I drowned in the swamp.”
Simon snorted. I was beginning to feel more comfortable.
“I told him you had the pox. That turned him pale, all right.”
I laughed. “So you did not give him any money.”
“In the end I gave him a bit. I think John probably had money.”
I nodded. “Maybe not quite enough.”
There was another silence. Simon had stopped trying to settle the stool.
“You have asked about John and not about what will happen to the family. Do you have tender feelings for him?”
I blushed again and shook my head, and then realized I must account for the blush.
“I did when he came. He was handsome and charming. I was alone with him after never knowing any men.”
“You knew me.”
I was surprised when he said that. It took me a long time to answer. “You never acted like a man with a woman. I was always a pupil to you. A silly, sentimental pupil,” I added bitterly, quoting his words. I looked down and began to run the fringe of the coverlet through my fingers.
“I was angry when I said that. I’m sorry. I always admired your ability, Anne.”
This seemed a difficult topic for both of us, and I returned to our original subject.
“Anyway, in the end I saw John as he is, and I do not like or honor him.”
Simon nodded. “He should not have left you.”
“No.”
We were silent again. I was still busy with the coverlet when I asked him what would happen to the family.
“The Sheriff reported everything to the King, of course. The King needs money so badly for his wars that he said he would not prosecute the Earl or your father if they lent him a large sum of money.”
“Not so different from lending money to the beggar man,” I said.
“Yes. No hope of its return.”
“That is what will happen?”
He hesitated. “You know how your father is about money. He actually asked me how much I lost when I spilled my purse at the guard house.”
“He repaid you? And for what you gave to Davey?”
He laughed. “Not yet.”
I noted that Simon was stealing glances at me, and I wondered what he was thinking of my pockmarks.
“Will he pay the money to the King? He must, I think.”
“We shall see. I think he plans to delay for a while.”
At that moment Marianne entered the room, color in her cheeks and very pretty. She must have known that Simon was there.
“Is all well?” she asked.
I said yes and found I did not want to introduce her to Simon, she so fresh and blond and I so gaunt and pocked. There were many things I could have said about her, how well she had cared for me, her good humor, her intelligence, but I said only that she was Arbella’s private servant.
Simon had risen when she came in.
“Good to know your name. I have seen you, of course. I’ll come back another time, Anne.”
And he was gone, leaving both of us disappointed.
Marianne left as well, but I saw her again when she came back to bring my supper. As she laid the tray upon my lap she did not look me in the eye. She helped me put the napkin on my neck and took the cover off the porridge, all without a word.
“I am sorry,” I mumbled, as I took a drink of milk.
“You talk so grandly about tolerance. Simon would not care that I am Catholic. And then you introduce me like that. You have no tolerance yourself, you think because I am a servant I should not have ideas above my stati
on—”
“If I thought you were only a servant I would not allow you to speak so to me.”
She paid no attention to my reproving words. However angry she was, she knew we were friends. She looked at me sharply. “I thought you did not fancy him.”
“I thought he was handsome but, as I told you, he always seemed to care only about books and ideas. When he rescued me we became closer. But now he again seems to have no feeling for me.”
“Ha,” was all she said. There was more silence as she waited for me to finish eating. I tried to spoon up the porridge quickly, but I was still not myself, and I had to take small mouthfuls and swallow slowly.
She turned away from me and looked out the window. It was still light, though the day was gray and overcast. She began to hum softly.
An idea flashed through my mind. “Marianne, do you know Davey the baker?”
“No. Why would Arbella’s maid go on errands to the bakery?” She sounded distant.
“Well, you should.” I explained who Davey was and how he had helped me, and how handsome he was, and about his wife’s death, and how she had hummed.
“Find a reason to go to the bakery. Tell Davey I need one of his rolls for my recovery. And hum.”
Marianne had gone back to looking out the window, though she turned to answer me. “Your notions about men are not likely to excite me again. Do I want a baker, so I can live in a hovel?”
“It is not a hovel. It is clean, and warm all winter from the oven, and has pictures on the wall.”
I didn’t say that there was one old picture of Queen Elizabeth and a small wall hanging of wool.
“And I suppose he told you he is Catholic?”
“No. But he is brave, and if he were a strong Puritan he would not have Queen Elizabeth’s picture on the wall. She was tolerant of Catholic and Puritan alike, and he admires her. What other men will you meet here at the castle, especially now that the Earl is gone and there are no visitors?”
“That last part is true. There are no men for me here except laborers covered with mud from the fields, or smelling of eels from the fens, and spending their few farthings at the tavern.” She snatched my tray, though I had several mouthfuls of porridge remaining, and took it away as I protested that Davey did not go to the tavern.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THAT NIGHT I began feeling better and practiced getting up and walking down the castle passageways. I felt so accomplished. I was reminded of when Baby Mercy was an actual baby, beginning to walk. We all clapped, and I wrote down how many steps she had taken each day, until there were too many to count.
Mother observed me staggering along the castle wall and decided it was time to reclaim her room. I was able to walk to my room by myself, though Mother held one elbow and I pressed my other hand to the brick.
It was fun to sleep with Patience again, and we stayed up late talking about what Simon had told me and whether Father would pay the King the money he wanted. In the morning, I tried to get up for breakfast, but fell back into the bed. Marianne brought me my porridge and said that Arbella needed her and that she must return to her care. I thanked her. My voice felt strained, and she did not look me in the eye.
THAT NOON I got up, put on a skirt over my shift, straightened my hair and put on a bonnet, and took my place by Sarah at the table. Everyone was there, including Father, though Simon did not appear. Everyone greeted me gladly, and even Sarah said, “Welcome.” I saw her staring at my pockmarks, and when I looked back at her, she flushed and looked away. At least she did not whisper, “How ugly you are!” the way she might have in the past.
Father said the grace. I had been savoring the thought of my first real meal and I took an immediate, large sip of ale. The servants served us the food, then left. The leg of lamb looked heavenly. As I prepared to cut into my slice of meat, my head already buzzing from the ale, Father tapped the table.
“Now that Anne has joined us and we are all here, I have an announcement to make.” He was using his important voice.
He began as though he was telling one of his stories, but it was our story, the story of what had happened to our family since Sarah had posted Simon’s paper on the board in Boston market. He told about John and about how I had foolishly accompanied him. He knew many details of the trip that Simon must have told him.
“The consequences of all these events are the following: The King has demanded large sums of money from us, Anne’s reputation has been damaged, and she may never marry.”
Once again I waited for Sarah to whisper, “It is because you are so ugly,” but she restrained herself.
“I was planning to send you away,” he said, looking at Sarah, “but I have found a better way to punish your wayward soul.”
He paused and looked around the table with a satisfied glance.
“We are going to the New World.”
It was as though he had said, “We are going to fly to the moon.” We hardly reacted because we could not believe it.
Mother finally said, “What nonsense is this?”
I could see how upset she was, calling Father’s words nonsense. When he did not reply with anger, I was astonished.
“I am not joking, Dorothy. We are going to New England, in the New World.”
“Why, when?” She stammered, not able even to ask what she wanted to know.
“There is no other solution. We can join the other Puritans in that land and worship without fear. This country will soon be broken in two by a religious war, Puritans against Catholics. You do not want your son killed in battle and your daughters slaughtered for their religion.
“Then there is the matter of the money the King is demanding. It will not take long for him to take everything the Earl and I have. We shall call the ship the Arbella.”
That detail somehow made it real. We were going to get into a ship called the Arbella and sail, who knew how many miles, across the ocean.
“It will be good for our souls. We will have to leave most of our things behind. There will be no more fancy hats, or frills on bonnets and petticoats, or silk, or leg of lamb and sugar cakes.”
He gestured to our meal, lying cold on our plates, as we gaped at him.
“Very little sugar at all.” He looked hard at Sarah.
Her lower lip trembled and she jiggled her foot under the table.
“May I be excused?” she said, in a low voice.
“No, I want you to sit here and see the pain you have caused.”
Mother’s face was drawn and white. I was surprised that Father had not told her earlier.
“My beautiful house in Boston...” was all she said, and then the tears began to stream silently down her cheeks.
“Will Simon come with us?” I asked.
“He will have to decide,” Father replied.
I realized later that it was of Simon that I thought, not John, though I knew John was going to the New World.
Sarah could no longer hold her tears, and they burst out. She rose and went to the other side of the table, where she threw her arms around Mother’s neck.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed.
Mother, stiff at first, melted and put her arms around Sarah.
“Enough,” she said to Father. “She is only a child. You may all leave the table.”
And we did, although we had barely touched the meal. Mother had her way over Father in one small respect.
I WENT BACK to bed while the others resumed their day’s activities. I thought all day and could barely wait till Patience came to bed. Would we survive? Would we be killed by Indians or by wild beasts? Would there be servants or could we manage without them? Would I have any time to write? How would my health be in a different climate? I had heard the winters of New England were fiercely cold, while the summers were much hotter than here in England.
When Patience came to bed, we talked mainly of what could we bring. It was less frightening than these other questions.
How many bonnets? Could we bring stiff
ones that needed to sit on a frame? Would we need warmer clothes? Or more clothes for warm weather?
I had ruined my best dress and then burned it in Davey’s oven. I could smell the burning silk in my mind, yet. Would I ever get another best dress? Father had said no silk. Would we bring only practical clothes, bonnets to cover the head rather than to look fetching, boots rather than shoes, colors that didn’t show the dirt?
“Father will probably let us bring our chest with our clothes in it.” Patience was optimistic, as always. We looked over at the chest. We knew it to be completely full, and many of our things did not fit into it. Shoes and boots lined up along the wall, and bonnets stood in boxes.
“We will need new things. At least we can shop. I saw the most beautiful green wool bonnet in Boston last winter,” Patience said. “Or we could see what New England is like and buy things there. Oh.”
There was silence as we both realized that we could buy nothing there, that there was no merchandise that did not come from England. We would have to bring everything we would ever need, unless goods came later on a ship from England.
We stopped talking then, but it was a long time before either of us fell asleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
WEEKS PASSED. I regained my strength quickly, now, and went back to life as it had been. Some things changed, however.
Father insisted that we do more of the servants’ work, so that when we got to the New World we would know how to care for ourselves.
“Think like a peasant! Look about you in the village! Soon you will be living in a hut with animals and vermin, and the smell of the hearth always about you and your clothes.”
Father seemed to delight in the prospect. I was not sure whether he thought of it as mortification, like Catholic saints do for their souls, or whether he saw it as an adventure. A little of both, I thought.
We would take some servants, but nothing like what we had at the castle. I spent hours with Cook, learning the herbs of the garden and the castle village. We seldom ate greens, but we would rely on them in a new country. Most I already knew, but there were a few — borage and orach and southernwood and salad burnet — that I confused with other plants. I learned which mushrooms could be safely eaten.
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