Gates of Paradise

by Beryl Kingston

She sprang back from him as if she’d been stung, pushed his hands away and wrapped her cloak around her, pulling it tight for protection. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, Johnnie. You mustn’t.’

  He was baffled. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘We aren’t doin’ nothin’ wrong.’

  She stood before him, shielded by her cloak, her face flushed but stubborn. ‘We are.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘The Reverend Church for a start.’

  ‘He’s the vicar,’ Johnnie said, dismissing him with a sniff. ‘He would. That’s what vicars are for, to tell you off an’ say you’re sinners an’ everything. You don’t want to pay him no mind. Anyway, ’tis none of his business. Tha’s just atween you an’ me. Private like.’

  He was persuasive but she was still worried. ‘I shall get a reputation,’ she said. She knew very well what happened to girls who got a reputation. They were outcasts. They couldn’t get work and people talked about them and said they were no better than they should be and they’d come to a bad end. ‘Is that what you want?’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ he said, lovingly, ‘on account of I won’t tell no one. I’d never do nothin’ to hurt you, you know that. I won’t tell a living soul.’

  That was reasonable and what she’d half-expected him to say, but she was still bristling. ‘No,’ she said, ‘you won’t, on account of we won’t do it.’

  That made him smile. ‘What never? How about when we’re married?’

  ‘It’s different when you’re married.’

  ‘No,’ he said, trying to convert her with argument, ‘’tis the same thing, married or single. There’s no difference.’

  ‘When you’re married you’re allowed.’

  He’d opened his mouth ready to argue on, but she was walking away from him. ‘Time we was gettin’ back,’ she said. The set of her shoulders was all straight-boned determination. There was no more to be said. At least for the moment.

  But they had bitten the apple and now they would be tempted every time they were alone together. At first he merely stroked her lovely straight back, since that seemed to be permissible, but on the next occasion, when the wind blew cold and he was allowed to put his hands inside her nice warm cloak, he ventured to stroke her shoulders and her nice rounded arms, and the following Sunday, in a moment drowsed with desire and saturated with pleasure, he gentled his hands towards her breasts and was allowed to fondle them. This time she didn’t push him away or make any protest. She hardly said a word, could barely keep her eyes open, she was so caught up in sensation. It was too sweet, too wondrous, too exciting to be a sin. The Reverend Church was wrong.

  So their lovemaking continued and grew steadily bolder and was a joy to them both. They were careful not to touch one another when there was anyone around to see them and were pleased to think they were being so discreet. And the villagers told one another that young Boniface was sweet on Betsy Haynes and nodded with approval when they saw them walking out together.

  Chapter Six

  Felpham April 20th

  My dearest Annie,

  Your letter arrived this morning and made welcome reading. It is a great relief to me to know that my notes are being stored in such good order, particularly as I have no way of predicting which of them will prove to be significant when I come to write this biography. You are entirely right, my dearest, the only sensible way to deal with all the material I am gathering is to keep everything in a place where it is readily to hand.

  I have spent the morning being entertained – and that truly is the word I must use for it – by a garrulous old woman who admits to being the village gossip and says she once worked as a housemaid in Turret House in Mr Hayley’s time. Her name was Susie Howe in those days, but now she is Mrs Farndell and was very proud to tell me so, for the Farndells are bakers hereabouts and held in high esteem, having been the very first to follow that trade in the village.

  She talked at great length about all manner of things and had a fund of stories to tell, most of them, I fear, apocryphal, but I wrote them all down and you will find them enclosed for what they are worth. My favourite is her assertion that Mr Hayley had two wives and kept one of them chained by the leg to a tree in a wood near his house in Eartham. She kept saying ‘He was a poet you see, Mr Gilchrist, sir, so you have to make allowances. They aren’t the same as us ordin’ry folk. ’Tis on account of bein’ poetical you see.’

  I pressed her to tell me what a poetical person was like, for I couldn’t resist the chance to tease, but she took my request perfectly seriously and said ‘they look poetical, sort of noble and dreamy-looking’ and volunteered that Mr Hayley often sat in his library in his dressing gown until gone midday, ‘thinking up his poems. I daresay.’ I asked her whether Mr Blake was poetical too but she said ‘not in the least’ and declared that he was ‘a very ordin’ry man, funny looking, same as everyone else in the village’ although she had the grace to add that he was a ‘hard worker. I’ll give him that.’ It is remarkable that all those who remember him here speak of him as a hard worker.

  Having hit upon the topic I most desired to pursue, I pressed her to tell me what else she could remember about him and she thought for a second or so and offered that he had a terrible temper. ‘Many’s the time I seen him storm out the house with a face like thunder.’ I questioned again to see if she knew the reason for it, but she simply said he and Mr Hayley didn’t always get on, so I asked her whether she thought it might have been poetic rivalry, which made her laugh out loud. ‘No.’ she said. ‘How could there be rivalry atween ’em? Mr Hayley was a celebrated poet know’d for it all the way to London, and your Mr Blake was just a journeyman. They wasn’t equals.’ As we were talking so easily I asked her if she knew that Mr Blake wrote poetry too and she surprised me by saying that she’d heard of it. ‘That don’t make him poetical though.’ she said, ‘do it. Not with a face like thunder.’ You see what prejudice there is against our William.

  However she was far more sensibly forthcoming when I asked her about the mysterious Johnnie Boniface and talked about him for nearly half an hour, waxing quite lyrical about how handsome he was (tall and fair apparently and ‘strong-looking’ with the finest grey eyes you ever saw). If you had been here to hear her, my darling, you would have suspected a romance but apparently he was a one-woman man and only had eyes for another one of the maids, who was called Betsy. Naturally I asked her if Betsy still lived in the village but she said she’d gone away long since and she had no idea where she was. ‘People comes and goes.’ she said, and then (I am not making this up, my dear, it truly happened) she closed her mouth and her face, as if some inner voice was warning her not to tell any more, and refused to say another word. It is such a pity, for I had begun to hope that she might tell me the present whereabouts of the handsome Mr Boniface. I cannot bring myself to believe that he is dead although I must accept the fact that it is a possibility. But whether he is or no, one thing is certain. This odd behaviour is one more reason to believe that I have stumbled upon a mystery that keeps mouths shut all over the village.

  Meantime there is the newspaper office to visit, where I hope to learn more about the trial and I have arranged to call in at Turret House tomorrow morning, so there is much to keep me occupied.

  Write back to me soon and tell me what you think of Mrs Farndell’s outpourings, for, if nothing else, I know you will be amused by them and I value your opinions.

  I am your most loving husband. AG.

  Spring 1801

  The poetical Mr Hayley was inspecting his garden, his long face turned towards the vegetable plot, his elegant head full of plans for his good friend and secretary, Mr Blake, now that the portraits were progressing so well.

  ‘I shall find other commissions for you when the heads are completed,’ he said. ‘You will not be idle, I promise you. Not for a second. Have no doubt about that. And first you must come with me to Lavant and meet Miss Poole. That is imperative.’ The long rows of beans and peas were already in place, the f
resh cabbages set. ‘There are plenty of onions, I trust, Mr Hosier,’ he said, pausing to address his gardener. ‘Young Boniface working well? Good. Good.’

  William waited until his patron was ready to continue his tour. He knew that further commissions were unavoidable if he was to earn a living here, but he had hoped they would take time to arrange. Even though he’d sat up late into the night and worked by candlelight, very little of his poem had been written. As they resumed their inspection he smothered a sigh. This man might walk with a limp but he rushed at everything he did like a bull at a gate. ‘I would be honoured to visit your friend,’ he said diplomatically. ‘When would you wish it to be?’

  ‘Why Tuesdays and Fridays of course,’ Mr Hayley told him. ‘I breakfast with the lady on Tuesdays and Fridays. You will find her the most agreeable company. The most agreeable. I have no hesitation in saying that of all the ladies who live in this county, she is the wisest and most agreeable.’ They had followed the path to the extreme end of the vegetable garden. ‘I am glad that is settled,’ he said. ‘I shall expect you at six o’ the clock tomorrow morning and we will ride over together. You shall have Bruno. He was Thomas’s pony and you couldn’t want for a better ride.’

  William didn’t complain until he was back in the cottage with Catherine. But then he opened his mind at long and bitter length. ‘How am I to work when he crowds my life with visits and commissions? Is it not enough that I toil in his library and slave over his portraits every hour of the day? Am I now to be required to breakfast with him, too? His demands are endless, Catherine. He acts as though he were an emperor, and I his slave. Now I am to ride horseback through the village and be made mock of, for I never rode a horse in my life and will fair badly at it. I tell you truly, I wish we had never come to this place.’

  Just as he’d predicted, he found that first ride to Lavant very difficult and very uncomfortable, even though the pony was the gentlest animal alive. It stood still and patient while he struggled to mount, which he did with stomach-fluttering anxiety, feeling envious of his patron, who swung astride with irritating ease, despite his limp and the fact that he had a large black umbrella hanging over his left arm. They set off cheerfully and Blake was relieved to find that the pony plodded amiably along the bridle paths without need of a prodding heel or the slightest tug of the reins. Even so, he was ill at ease, aware of his lack of horsemanship and afraid that he would be mocked for it. To make matters worse, the dawn was only just beginning so it was cold out there in the fields, and the emanations that rose from the sleeping earth were dark and disquieting and writhed like serpents. He was glad when the sky developed streaks of pink and orange cloud and watched with relief as they lengthened and brightened until the sun finally blazed above the distant downs. He remembered the vision of angels he had once seen clustered about the risen sun and was heartened by the memory.

  ‘We make good time,’ Mr Hayley said to encourage him. ‘Another half an hour and we shall see the house.’

  And suddenly as they rode over the brow of a low hill, there it was, a large square red brick building with stabling to the north of it and well-tended gardens all around it, a rich, imposing, classical house, as fine as anything that Blake had ever seen. It was no distance from the inn where the London stage changed horses and he and Catherine had said goodbye to his sister. He’d noticed it then, but hadn’t imagined he would ever be visiting the place.

  They rode their horses up to the front door like princes, dismounted by means of a mounting block, for which Blake was heartily thankful, and handed them over to a groom, who doffed his cap and called them both ‘Sir’. Then Mr Hayley gave the iron bell-pull a tug and a footman in full livery and with a white wig, no less, opened the door and admitted them into the wonders of the house. They were led up a curving stairway and ushered in to an elegant reception room where they stood, Blake awkward and Hayley beaming, as the lady of the house rose from her seat in the wide bay window and walked forward to greet them.

  She moved with the total ease of one born to money and position, her propriety and grace as natural as breathing. She looked intelligent and was plainly kind, completely at ease and beautifully dressed, her brown hair unpowdered, curled above her forehead and caught up in an elegant Grecian bun above the nape of her neck, her hands long, white and unsullied by anything as unseemly as housework. Her day-gown, which was in pink silk and the very latest fashion, whispered as she walked across the room, the air that wafted before her was full of the scent of flowers. She had pink satin slippers on her feet and a kerchief of fine blonde lace about her neck. She emanated golden hospitality, a lady to her elegant fingertips, which Mr Hayley bent to kiss.

  ‘My dear William,’ she said to him. ‘How very good to see you. And you have brought your friend, I see. How delightful!’

  Blake was introduced, the footman ushered them into chairs at the round table that filled the space of the bay window, the teapot was laid reverently before her, a dish of milky coffee was provided for Mr Hayley since that was his preference, covered dishes were carried in, emitting succulent steam, and their meal began.

  At first Blake sat quietly eating bacon and eggs, sampling the three kinds of bread provided and listening to his patron as he described the ‘immeasurable improvements’ he had made to his library. ‘Ten of my eighteen portrait heads are completed. Mr Blake has done the most excellent work. The library is transformed. Quite, quite transformed. It looks exceptionally fine. You must visit me, dear lady, when ’tis all done, and see it for yourself.’

  She turned to smile at her silent guest. ‘Are you pleased with your work, Mr Blake?’ she asked.

  ‘’Tis not everything I would wish, ma’am,’ Blake said diplomatically. It was easy to be diplomatic in the company of such a lady. ‘But I believe I have executed the commission to the best of my ability.’

  ‘There speaks a true artist,’ she said.

  The talk and the meal continued gently. The used dishes were discreetly removed by two footmen in white gloves. A dish of fruit was quietly provided. Mr Hayley, declining any further sustenance, offered to read his latest work, and took up his pose by the window ready to declaim. He made a fine figure, with the sunlight snow-dazzling on his grey hair, his maroon coat princely, his stock immaculately white and well folded, and the rolling countryside spreading behind him like a backdrop to his eloquence. ‘Epitaph to a departed friend,’ he boomed.

  Blake listened with apparent politeness but now that he’d satisfied his appetite, his mind was busy taking in the detail of his surroundings – the silver teapot and patterned china, the expensive curtains, thick carpet, duck-egg blue walls with their large oil paintings, the row of chairs set neatly against the skirting boards, the high ceiling with its elaborately carved coving, even the number of new wax candles set about the room, ready to be lit that evening. It was, as he saw through all his senses, a well-ordered, comfortable home where this lady lived lapped in every luxury, and although he envied her good fortune, he acknowledged that it was probably deserved for she was gentle and kindly. It was a new experience to find himself admiring someone in the ruling class, for his usual angry view was that the riches of the great had been gathered at the expense of a half-starved workforce. But this woman was almost making him reconsider his views.

  The talk turned easily from Mr Hayley’s poetry and the trivia of domesticity to national and political events. ‘I hear they have plans afoot for much building hereabouts,’ the lady said. ‘There are to be towers raised all along the coast to warn us of any approaching fleet and an army barracks outside the north gate in Chichester, not very far from here. The duke was telling me only the other evening. There are renewed fears that the French may invade.’

  The emanations were sudden, dark and full of foreboding. They rose like black fire clouds, acrid and thickening, pierced by scarlet flames, bringing the sight and smell of blood, the screams of battle, twisted agony, unnatural death. The very light in the room was darkened by oncomin
g horror.

  Mr Hayley spoke at once to reassure them all. ‘Fear not, dear lady,’ he said. ‘I cannot imagine we shall ever see fighting upon British soil, not while we have Nelson and the Channel to protect us.’

  ‘’Tis thought likely this time, notwithstanding,’ Miss Poole told him, ‘and we should take cognisance of opinion.’ She smiled at him and began to tease. ‘You are like to have soldiers billeting upon you in Felpham, so I am told, or to lose your servants to the militia.’

  ‘Arrant nonsense,’ Mr Hayley said, stoutly. ‘I defy any man to deprive me of my household and there’s an end to it. If any come asking I shall send ’em packing.’

  ‘I have always held it unwise to argue with any man who has a pistol in his hand,’ the lady teased. ‘I have seen how brutal soldiers can be, on many occasions, when they have been called to restore order to the streets of London, and highly unpleasant it was. You must have seen something of it too, Mr Blake, for you lived in Lambeth I believe before you moved to healthier climes.’

  Blake admitted that she was right in both matters, having once seen a soldier shoot an apprentice boy through the head, but that was hardly a fit subject for a lady’s breakfast table. ‘I saw the Gordon riots when I was bound apprentice to Mr Basire,’ he told her. ‘The rioters ran down Long Acre as I was walking to his shop in Great Queen Street. I was caught up in the rush and swept on to the very gates of Newgate.’

  ‘So you saw the riot itself,’ Miss Poole said, looking at him with increased interest. ‘Not a thing you would easily forget, I’ll be bound.’

  He was remembering it as she spoke, the dark hands swinging sledgehammers and pickaxes at the great barred gate, as flames leapt into the sky, roaring like beasts, the prisoners screaming in fear of being burnt alive, and crawling blackened and terrified through the broken gate, iron fetters still fastened to their ankles.

  ‘I kept within doors on that occasion,’ Miss Poole said, ‘discretion being the better part of valour, and I have endeavoured to be out of harm’s way on every subsequent outbreak.’