Gates of Paradise

by Beryl Kingston

  So two nights later, when their work was finally done, and they’d watched Eddie ambling off to the inn, they took possession of their second love nest. It was a small cramped space above the stables, smelling strongly of horses, and just big enough for a straw mattress and a cane chair with its legs cut off. There was a shelf nailed to the wall where Eddie kept his candle and a hook next to the shelf where he hung his breeches and the ceiling was so low that they couldn’t stand up once they’d climbed through the trap door. But what of that? Why would they want to stand up? They had a small semicircular window at floor level through which they could see if anyone was approaching, it wasn’t exactly warm but it was private and, as Johnnie was quick and happy to say, looked like the perfect place. They flung themselves down on the straw and tumbled into one another’s arms. Let it rain, let the wind roar, let battles rage, let the whole world go hang, they didn’t care. They were alone and hidden and could do as they pleased.

  For the next two weeks they loved whenever they could. Their only problem was that there was so much work to do in the house that it was only on rare occasions.

  ‘I could do without so many a’ these silly dinners he will keep havin’,’ Betsy complained, as they walked round the empty dining room setting the table. Mr Hayley’s dinner parties were a weekly occurrence now that the celebrated poet had his new prestigious ‘Life’ to read to his friends, and they required a lot of effort from his staff. Every servant in the house, with the exception of the coachman and the gardener, was commandeered to cook, serve, fetch and carry. Even Eddie had to do duty replenishing coal scuttles and feeding fires and Betsy and the other kitchen maids were kept scouring the dirty dishes until well after midnight. ‘There’s too much of it altogether if you asks my opinion. It’s not needful.’

  But their master was in his element, declaiming his great work as he stood before the fire, with all his well-fed guests listening attentively, or at least with polite approbation, and ready to applaud when the reading was finished. It lifted his spirits to be acclaimed and especially on days when he had received yet another blast of disapproval from Lady Hesketh. She really was excessively difficult to please and she seemed to have taken against poor Mr Blake so thoroughly that he was afraid he would have to tell the poor chap he couldn’t continue with the portraits and that would never do when he’d gone to so much trouble with them. Her last letter had been quite vitriolic.

  ‘I have to say I have very serious doubts,’ she’d written, ‘as to Mr Blake’s abilities and I am not the only one. Those of my friends with pretensions to Taste find many defects in his work.’

  ‘We progress,’ he told his friends when their applause had died down. ‘My dear lost friend is a subject of the most affectionate interest to me and I am sensible of the honour I have been done by being chosen to write his life. I labour day and night.’

  ‘What a blessing that you have a secretary to assist you,’ Mr Cunningham said. ‘And to provide the illustrations, what’s more. Are they progressing, too?’

  ‘Oh, indeed,’ Hayley lied. ‘Yes, indeed. Everything is progressing most admirably. You would be amazed to see how patient he is and how open to suggestion.’

  ‘A good fellow,’ his friends agreed. ‘He is lucky to have such a patron.’

  ‘I am thinking of teaching him to read Greek and Latin,’ Hayley confided. ‘I believe it would afford him some amusement and might furnish his fancy with a few slight subjects for his inventive pencil, without too far interrupting the more serious business he has in hand, of course. The ‘Life’ must continue, as I am sure he understands. That takes precedence over everything else. But to study these languages of an evening would make a pleasant diversion. I shall mention it to him tomorrow.’

  The mention was greeted with such a long, stunned silence that for the blink of a second Mr Hayley wondered if he had offended his good friend in some way. ‘You are surprised, my dear fellow,’ he said kindly, ‘and cannot find the words to thank me. Have no fear. I do not look for thanks. That is not in my nature. ’Tis enough that I am able to provide you with suitable employment and to put some slight but, I may say, well-earned reward in your way. Let us start as soon as possible. Would this evening suit?’ And he waited happily for his reply.

  Blake was still too stunned to speak. To be offered the chance to learn Latin and Greek was such a wonder he could barely take it in. He’d yearned to know these languages for so long, and always felt that his way to them was barred and would remain so. And now this amazing offer had been dropped before him. If he applied himself well he could read the gospels in their original Greek, he could read Homer and Sophocles, Virgil and Ovid in the purity of their original languages, unsullied by translation. It was a gift of incomparable, unlooked-for richness and offered at the very moment when he’d been angry with this man for dominating his time with trivial nonsense. ‘I’m beholden to ’ee,’ he said at last. ‘This evening would suit me very well.’

  Chapter Ten

  The Fox Inn, Thursday April 22nd am.

  My dear Ann,

  It is seven of the clock and your letter has just been delivered. I must say your rebuke was both unexpected and surprising. I have not yet washed and dressed, in fact the day is scarce begun, but I feel I must I hasten to send you a reply, for there truly is no need for your concern. I have no intention of losing my temper on my next visit to Mr Boniface, as you put it. We may have been married but a short time as yet, but you should know me better than that. I may be angry from time to time – who would not when confronted by so much positively bovine intransigence as I have had to endure in this village? – but I am perfectly capable of keeping my feelings under control. You must understand that when a man is on a mission – as I have been ever since I saw our Blake’s wonderful illustrations of the Book of Job in that dingy print shop – he will feel all matters pertaining with some passion. I knew then, and am sure now, that I had discovered a genius and that it was my business – nay, my life’s work – to reveal that genius to the world. So is it any wonder that I react with passion when I hear yet another foolish person castigate him as ‘mad’. What is madness? Do not prophets and heroes invariably seem ‘mad’ to the respectable mob?

  On a happier note, I must tell you that, in the same post as your missive. I received an answer from the reporter who tells me he would be agreeable to see me tomorrow morning at ten of the clock, and will answer such questions as he can. This morning I have arranged to see an old lady who was taught to draw by William Blake. So much may come of that.

  I will write again this evening by which time I should be in a better humour. AG.

  Winter 1801/2

  William Blake spent a lot of his time teaching drawing that winter and enjoyed it far more than the mere copying he had been required to do until then. It earned him an extra wage, which was undeniably welcome, good invariably came from good teaching and true learning was a rewarding occupation. How well he understood that. Now that he was learning to read Greek and Latin, the very flavour of his life had changed. After the labours of their day, he and Mr Hayley spent as many evenings as they could in the scholarly seclusion of the library, where he astounded his patron by the speed of his learning, and on the rare occasions when they paused from their studies, felt bold enough to commiserate with him for the truculence of the formidable Lady Hesketh.

  ‘I believe it is her purpose in life to disapprove of everything I draw,’ he said one evening. The third sketch of Cowper’s head had been returned that morning with yet another furious letter. ‘Nothing ever suits. First she says I have made him look ‘too enthusiastic’, then it is ‘not a true likeness’, now she detects ‘wildness’ in his face and orders it to be removed, as if I can paint wildness in or out at her command. There are times when I wish she would draw the portrait herself and have done with it.’

  ‘She is a hard taskmaster, I allow,’ Hayley agreed. And added, lest his powerful patron be criticised too harshly, ‘Let us return to the
Iliad, my dear friend.’

  Homer was a perpetual delight to them. To sail the wine-dark sea with their familiar heroes, when outside the house an eldritch wind battered the thatched roofs of the village and howled down the chimneys and whipped the bare branches of the elms like flails, to fight with courage and passion before the walls of immortal Troy while the paths of the village were ridged with mud and manure and the water meadow was a soggy marsh, to be enticed by the sirens’ song when the Reverend Church could barely make himself heard above the coughs and sniffs of his congregation, was to enter a world of pure pleasure.

  There was a disadvantage to all this learning, of course, as Blake knew and acknowledged, especially late at night when he was striding home to his cottage. It meant leaving Catherine on her own for far too many evenings and, although she didn’t complain, he was aware that she was often lonely. Of course he was also aware that most of the village wives were lonely of an evening because their husbands were in The Fox. That was part of village life. But even so, he felt ashamed to be neglecting his loyal Catherine. They had always been partners and equals, and neglect was unkind.

  So he was relieved when he came home one night to hear that she’d had a visitor. ‘Young Betsy Haynes called in this evening,’ she said. ‘Said she’d come to keep me company.’ And feeling that she ought to explain who she was, she went on, ‘Mrs Haynes’ daughter, the girl that wears the red cloak, pretty girl, you must have seen her about. Works up at the house.’

  William remembered her clearly. She was the girl he’d first seen in the cart with Johnnie Boniface, the pretty maid who brought a pot of milky coffee to the library, when their studies were over for the night and Hayley had rung for sustenance. ‘That is kind of her,’ he said.

  It was also artful. And necessary. For although she and Johnnie had been most discreet, she was afraid that Mrs Beke was beginning to have suspicions about them. Three nights ago, Susie had reported that the housekeeper had been watching from the window of the front parlour just after Betsy went out. ‘All hid behind the curtains, loike she didden want anyone to see ’er.’

  ‘She might ha’ jest been a-lookin’ at the garden,’ Betsy hoped.

  ‘In the dark?’ Susie scoffed. ‘What for would she be lookin’ at the garden in the dark. She wouldn’t see nothin’ in the dark, now would she? Ho no, she was a-lookin’ out fer someone an’ someone pertic’lar, what’s more. Tha’s my readin’ of it, anyway. An’ there was onny one person what went out a’ the grounds that night, an’ that was you. Off to see your Ma or some such, wassen that the story?’

  ‘We must take more care,’ Johnnie said, when he was told about it next evening. ‘If you says you’re a-goin’ to see yer Ma you’d better go an’ see her in case she go a-checkin’ up on you. An’ I’d better nip down The Fox now an’ then, just to put in an appearance like. An’ we shall have to be altogether more slippy goin’ in an’ out the stable.’

  But their precautions were too late. Mrs Beke had already spoken to Betsy’s mother. She’d been pondering the situation for several days, ever since Betsy had asked her – for the third time – if she had her permission to ‘just slip out for a minute or two to see my Ma’. There’d been something so artfully innocent about her that the housekeeper’s suspicions had been alerted at once. She’d given her permission, as if it were of no consequence, but, as soon as the girl was gone, she’d left the kitchen and taken up a position by the window of the unlit parlour, as Susie had reported. There was enough moon to give her a clear view and that red cloak was as bold as a flag. She’d watched as Betsy trotted through the garden and slipped through the wicket gate. So she’s gone where she said she was going, she thought, which is something I s’ppose, but she’s up to no good, as sure as eggs is eggs. I shan’t say nothing to Mr Hayley yet awhile. He’s got enough to deal with what with writing that ‘Life’ and answering all those awful letters from that dreadful Lady Hesketh. There’s no point worrying the poor man needlessly. I’ll just keep an eye on things for the time being and have a word with her mother as soon as I can meet up with her.

  The meeting was contrived the next day, when Mrs Haynes came out of her door at the very moment Mrs Beke just happened to be passing by.

  ‘Good morning to ’ee, Mrs Haynes,’ the housekeeper said. ‘I trust I see you well.’

  ‘You do, Mrs Beke,’ Mrs Haynes said. ‘Thank ’ee kindly. I had a cold a week or two back but ’tis quite gone now.’

  ‘We were quite concerned about you up at the house,’ Mrs Beke said smoothly, ‘with your Betsy visiting you so often.’

  Mrs Haynes took this information as it was intended but she was too shrewd to allow Mrs Beke to know it and she certainly wasn’t going to quarrel with it. ‘She’s a good girl,’ she said, automatically defending her young. ‘She keep an eye on me, which is more than some young ’uns do. I hope it don’t trouble you that she comes down so often.’ She spoke calmly but her thoughts were furious. She’s up to something, she thought, an’ I’m bein’ warned of it. This is what comes of her buyin’ that dratted cardinal. I allus said no good would come of it. It’s give her ideas. She smiled at her adversary. ‘An’ are you well yourself, Mrs Beke?’

  ‘Mustn’t grumble,’ Mrs Beke said, smooth as butter. ‘We all have our troubles in cold weather, do we not.’ And she too was thinking, Well I’ve warned her. Now she knows an’ ’tis up to her to keep her daughter in order. ‘I mustn’t keep you, Mrs Haynes.’

  So the two women parted, each bearing her secret knowledge away from the encounter, Mrs Beke with satisfaction at a job well done, Mrs Haynes with considerable bad temper, thinking, Oh, won’t I have something to say to that minx on Sunday.

  She fed her bad temper for the rest of the week and by Sunday she was primed to scold. ‘And where was you when you was s’pposed to be a-visitin’ me?’ she said crossly as her daughter came tripping up the church path to greet her, bright in that dratted cardinal. ‘Tell me that.’

  The attack was so fierce it took Betsy’s breath away, as her mother’s outbursts very often did, but at least she was prepared for this one and had an answer ready. ‘I was with Mrs Blake,’ she said sweetly, ‘a-keepin’ her company.’

  Her mother was so surprised her mouth actually fell open. ‘An’ why on earth would you want to do that, child?’

  ‘She’s on her own, with Mr Blake allus up at the house,’ Betsy explained. ‘I thought she’d like someone fer to talk to.’

  It sounded so plausible Mrs Haynes could almost believe it. ‘Well, why didn’t you tell Mrs Beke all that, instead a’ lettin’ her come down to me to tell tales?’

  ‘I didn’t think she’d like it,’ Betsy said. ‘We’re s’pposed to be in the kitchen of an evenin’.’

  ‘Then tha’s where you should be,’ her mother said, ‘instead a’ gaddin’ all over the village.’

  But at that point Mrs Beke strolled down the path towards them, stout and impressive in her own red cloak, and the conversation had to stop so that they could pretend to be neighbourly. The two cloaks dipped towards one another, swaying like red bells, bonnets nodded, smiles were fixed and held, polite greetings murmured, then Mr Haynes arrived at his usual speed and they all filed into the church and took their places on the pews. There was barely time for Betsy to send a warning eye-message to Johnnie before they were singing the first hymn.

  It was a difficult service for the text of the sermon was ‘Honour thy father and mother’ and the Reverend Church was in full flow, threatening hellfire for the least trace of disobedience. He went on so long that Reuben Jones fell asleep with boredom and snored so loudly that his wife had to jab him in the ribs to wake him. And then when they were finally allowed out into the chill air again, and Betsy was looking forward to a few minutes alone with her lover, her mother spoiled it all by saying she was sure Betsy would want to walk back with her parents for once, ‘If you’re as concerned about the state a’ my health as Mrs Beke was sayin’. I see she’s a-watchin’ us.’<
br />
  Mr Haynes was rather alarmed. ‘You’re not poorly again are you, Mother?’ he said, his broad face wrinkled with concern. ‘I thought you was over that cold long since.’

  ‘I’m as fit as a flea,’ his wife said briskly, and gave Betsy a meaningful look, ‘as well she knows. Well, come along then, don’t stand about.’

  So Betsy had to leave her Johnnie waiting by the yew tree and walk home with her parents with as good a grace as she could muster, which wasn’t easy. Fortunately they passed Mr and Mrs Jones at the corner of Limmer Lane and Mrs Jones was in an entertainingly bad mood, berating poor Reuben for snoring in church. ‘Did ’ee ever hear the loike?’ she said to the Haynes. ‘Snorin’! What people must think of ’ee Oi cannot imagine. You ought to be ashamed, so you should, not a-standin’ there loike a noddle, with that stupid grin on your face. Oh, Mrs Haynes what must you think of us?’

  Mrs Haynes was diplomatic. ‘’Twas a mortal long sermon,’ she said. ‘I was about ready to drop off mesself.’

  ‘You ask me,’ Reuben said, defendin’ himself, ‘our Mr Blake’s got the roight oidea. You don’t see him in church. An’ fer why? On account of he’s a non-affirmist or some such an’ he don’ reckon to the clergy. Tha’s why. He say they’re jist human same as all of us an’ they ’aven’t allus got the roight of it, an’ we don’t need to pay ’em no mind.’

  ‘An’ if you ask me,’ his wife said, ‘tha’s blasphemous. Oi wouldn’t ha’ thought our Mr Blake would go around sayin’ such things. He’s too gent’manly fer such a carry-on.’

  ‘An’ so he is,’ Reuben said. ‘Onny man Oi ever met what’ll tell ’ee the truth straight out. Which is more than can be said fer some. Are we standin’ about here all day, woman, or are we gettin’ back? My chilblains are killin’ me.’