Gates of Paradise

by Beryl Kingston

  She tried to argue William’s case, pointing out that he had always suffered from nervous fear, ‘as so many artists do, Mr Cowper among them,’ and that he often said things he did not truly mean. But Mr Hayley was adamant. The rift had occurred and the rift would continue. He would remunerate Mr Blake for the work he was doing and pay her to run off the copies he required, but that was all.

  The walk back to the cottage took her considerably longer than the walk out because she was so dispirited and, when she rounded the bend in the path and saw that William was waiting for her outside the wicket gate, her heart contracted with distress. He was in a black temper, demanding to know where she had been, and when he was told, he erupted into such a vitriolic attack that she recoiled from him as if he was spitting fire.

  How could she belittle him so? What was she thinking of? There was no talking to Hayley. She must know that. He was a man without compassion, a man full of spite and jealousy. Bad enough he should be imposing his will upon a fellow poet, is he now to be allowed to come between a man and his wife?

  She retreated from him, withdrawing to the kitchen where she busied herself preparing supper. It was impossible to reach him in a mood as deep and black as this one and she had more sense than to try. She peeled the potatoes and listened. And presently she heard him stomping into his work room, where he thwacked at the logs with the poker, scraped a chair into position before the table, rustled a paper. Then, to her relief, there was silence, and she knew he was working and hoped that his work would heal him.

  But the words he wrote in the days that followed were bitter and dripped from his pen like gall.

  God is not a Being of Pity and Compassion

  He cannot feel Distress: he feeds on Sacrifice & Offering

  Delighting in cries and tears & clothed in holiness & solitude

  But my griefs advance also, for ever and ever without end

  O that I could cease to be! Despair! I am Despair

  Created to be the great example of horror & agony.

  To be all evil, all reversed & for ever dead.

  For the next few days the cottage was shrouded in his misery. Then he roused himself sufficiently to write to Thomas Butts, his dear old friend who had stood by him through the lean years in London and was often the only one who had commissioned work from him. The first letter was hard to compose because he owed his old friend at least two pictures and hadn’t written to him for more than a year, so he began with an apology. But that done, he wrote with greater fluency, although with extreme gloom, telling his dear Mr Butts what unsuitable employment Mr Hayley had provided and how he was constrained to do the work, insulting though it was, and how exceedingly unhappy it made him. ‘I should be employed in greater things, he mourned.

  Thomas Butts wrote back by return of post, like the good man he was, and offered a commission for two more paintings, tactfully neglecting to mention that the two he had ordered before the Blakes left for Felpham had yet to be delivered. ‘You must not despair,’ he comforted. ‘You are a great artist and one day the world will know it.’

  His friendship was so staunch it began to lift Blake’s depression. He wrote again. And again, swinging from despair into a mood of exaggerated bravado and self-justification. ‘I have Spiritual Enemies of formidable magnitude,’ he wrote. ‘I have travel’d thro’ Perils & Darkness not unlike a Champion. I have conquer’d and shall still Go on Conquering. Nothing can withstand the fury of my course among the Stars of God. I am under the direction of Messengers from heaven, daily & nightly.’ And when that letter was written, he walked down to the empty beach, where his messengers were waiting, and listened to the power of their voices and was comforted.

  But now the first snows of winter were beginning to fall and, even with Mr Butts’ commission, he was still parlously short of money and his poor dear Catherine was suffering from aching bones again. ‘We will stay here until our tenancy has run out,’ he told her. ‘The rent is paid and we cannot afford to waste twenty pounds. Then we will go back to London, I promise you. You will have better health there and I shall be beyond the power of my enemies.’

  The first snowfall brought misery to Johnnie and Betsy too. They had been happy lovers all through the summer and far into autumn, sneaking into any barn that lay open to them, but now the farm dogs were ready for them wherever they went and the barns were too cold for comfort and they were facing another winter of enforced celibacy.

  ‘It aren’t to be endured,’ Betsy said, just as she had the previous year. ‘We can’t go on like this, Johnnie. We must do somethin’ about it.’

  But what? That was the problem. There was nowhere that either of them could think of, except the stable room and that had a new tenant now in Sam the stable lad, who wasn’t disposed to be friendly, not since Johnnie had been preferred as the second coachman. The evenings passed in a misery of frustration. They were back to drifting about the garden shivering and complaining.

  In the end Betsy said she thought they should risk the stable room. ‘He’ll never know,’ she said. ‘We could be gone long afore he come back, now couldn’t we. What’s to stop us? He don’t want it in the evenin’s. He’s always in The Fox.’

  Johnnie tried to be sensible. ‘I can tell ’ee what’s to stop us,’ he said. ‘He could come back unexpected an’ catch us, that’s what’s to stop us.’

  ‘No fear a’ that,’ she said. ‘He spends every evenin’ in The Fox, drinkin’ hisself silly. I knows on account of I been watchin’ him.’

  ‘But what if he don’t?’

  ‘We’ll keep an eye out for him,’ Betsy said, ‘through the little window. Anyways he won’t come back. He’s too fond a’ porter for that.’

  It was risky, even so, and Johnnie knew it, but she was so persuasive and so pretty and he wanted her so much that, in the end, he stifled his fears and, two nights later, which was the next opportunity they had, they sneaked up the ladder to their old love nest, she pink-cheeked with excitement, he shivering with anxiety and repressed desire. The place was almost exactly as they remembered it. They snuggled into the welcoming mattress as if they were returning home, loved long and lustily – and were back in the kitchen, calmed, satisfied and tidy, a clear half hour before the stable lad came whistling into the garden.

  ‘There you are, you see,’ Betsy said, when Johnnie strode into the kitchen with the vegetables next morning. ‘I was right. Nothin’ ventured, nothin’ gained.’

  ‘There’s no stoppin’ you,’ he said, admiring her, and was just about to suggest that they went to the stables again that evening when Mrs Beke brisked over to check the potatoes so the arrangement had to be left till later.

  Now that they’d proved they could take risks with impunity, they used the stable room whenever they could. Johnnie was still worried about it because they hadn’t asked permission and were probably trespassing, but as the weeks went by he stilled his conscience with argument. ’Tweren’t as if they were doing anythin’ wrong, now was it. ’Tweren’t as if they were harmin’ anyone. All they were a-doin’ was just usin’ an empty room when nobody else wanted it. Betsy was right. There weren’t no harm in that. As the days shortened and the regulars at The Fox drank deeper and longer, they stayed in their nest for longer and longer too, reluctant to step out into the cold again for their dash to the house. They were so happy there, so warm in one another’s arms, so sure of themselves.

  Christmas was celebrated with a Twelfth Night party that kept them all up and hard at work until two in the morning, and two days later there was a heavy fall of snow which lay so thickly outside the stable door that they were afraid of leaving tracks and had to postpone their happy evenings until the horses had come out to churn everything up and the paths had been marked by hooves and footprints. Even then a visit was more risky than usual, for, as Johnnie pointed out, if fresh snow fell while they were inside, they would leave tracks when they left.

  ‘We shall have to walk backwards, tha’s all,’ Betsy said, laughin
g his fears away. ‘Then ’twill look as if we come up here an’ went away again.’ She had an answer for everything.

  So the cold nights passed in warm delights and the snow thawed and no footprints had led to discovery. ‘’Twill be spring soon,’ Johnnie said one evening as they lay recovering in one another’s arms.

  ‘It don’t sound much like spring to me,’ she said, as the wind roared in the elm trees. Then her body tensed and her voice changed to whispering alarm. ‘Oh, my God! Oh, my dear good God!’

  There was a head protruding through the trap door, its face creased with malevolent triumph. They could smell the ale on its breath and the grease on its cap, feel the heat of its anger, see the gleam of its eyes in the too-revealing moonlight. The stable lad had come home.

  ‘Ho,’ he said. ‘Oi know’d there was somethin’ a-goin’ on. Well now, Oi’ve caught ’ee. Caught ’ee good an’ proper. You wait till Oi tell Mrs Beke. She’ll have somethin’ to say, you see if she don’t.’

  Johnnie tried to find an excuse. ‘We came in out the cold, Sam,’ he said. ‘Tha’s all. ’Twas onny for a minute.’

  ‘Out the cold moi oiye,’ Sam said. ‘Oi ent green. Oi got my wits about me. Oi knows what you was a-doin’. You was up to no good. She got her skirt right up round her waist, this minute. An’ ho yes, you can pull it down now miss, but Oi seen what Oi seen. You don’t fool me. Oi shall tell Mrs Beke, tha’s what. See what she thinks.’

  ‘No,’ Johnnie said, ‘there’s no need for that, Sam. I can explain.’

  ‘You comes in here,’ Sam said, ‘you takes moi job off a’ me, drivin’ that there carriage, what Oi ent forgot, an’ now you thinks you can come in here an’ take moi room an’ all. Well, ’tis moi room, Oi’ll have ’ee know, an’ you ent welcome in it.’

  Johnnie was in command of himself now, his breeches fastened, sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning forward towards his adversary. He would have stood up if such a thing had been possible but sitting straight was the next best thing. ‘Now look ’ee here,’ he said. ‘I haven’t took your job. I was asked to drive the carriage, just the once, on account of I knew the horses better than you did. You’d onny just arrived, which you got to admit.’

  Sam sneered. ‘If you thinks you can fob me off with a load a’ fool talk about hosses,’ he said, ‘you got another think comin’. Oi’m off to see Mrs Beke an’ then we’ll see.’

  ‘No,’ Johnnie said. ‘Wait.’

  But it was too late. The stable lad was already running through the stable. They watched through their little window as he sprinted across the black lawn, dark legs scissoring.

  Betsy was still lying on the bed, too stunned to move. ‘What are we goin’ to do?’ she cried. ‘Oh, Johnnie what are we goin’ to do? I shall be dismissed sure as eggs is eggs.’

  Johnnie was surprised by how calm he felt. ‘We’re goin’ back to the house an’ up to bed, same as usual,’ he told her. ‘There’s nothin’ we can do to stop him now. We’ll just have to weather it out.’

  They tiptoed back to the house and crept up the main stairs in their stockinged feet, because the servants’ stairs led out of the kitchen and it was quite possible that Mrs Beke was in her parlour, listening to the stable lad, and the one thing neither of them wanted at that moment was to have to face her. They knew it was wrong to retire without her permission and wrong to use the main staircase, but they were in so much trouble already, two more, lesser sins were easily committed. But there was a night to get through, and the night was hag-ridden and full of stinging questions. What would she say? And worse, what would she do? What possible excuse could they offer?

  Betsy tossed and turned so often it was a wonder she didn’t wake her companions, but no amount of restless movement provided her with any answers. She knew their lovemaking was right and proper and that it was only a sin according to the priests, but she could hardly expect the housekeeper to agree with her, and using Sam’s room without telling him was definitely wrong – Johnnie had said so all along only she wouldn’t listen. They’d be punished as sure as eggs was eggs. She couldn’t see any way to avoid it.

  Johnnie had an even worse night than she did. He should never have agreed to use Sam’s room. He’d known it was wrong all along. You can’t go breaking into someone else’s room. He had an unpleasant feeling that using the stable was trespassing and there were laws to cover trespass. He didn’t know what they were nor what the penalties would be but if you crossed the law you always suffered for it. By the time the dawn broke he was haggard with anxiety and lack of sleep.

  He put on his jacket and his gardening boots and apron and went out into the grounds. If there was a punishment waiting for him, the sooner he faced it the better.

  Mr Hosier was up early too and busy in the outhouse, gathering implements. He didn’t seem particularly cross and gave his helper a grin. Was that a good sign or a bad one?

  ‘So wha’s all this I hear ‘bout you bein’ up to no good with our Betsy?’ he said, but he spoke amiably and didn’t wait for Johnnie to answer. ‘Find a better place next time. Tha’s my advice to ’ee. Never piss on your own doorstep. Now then, see if you can find the twine. ’Tis about here somewhere onny I’m danged if I can see it. That ol’ wind’s done a power a’ damage last night. All his honeysuckle’s throw’d every which way an’ what he’ll say if he comes down an’ sees how ’tis, I dreads to think. Ah! Tha’s it! You found it. Good feller.’ He picked up a pair of shears, ready to start work. ‘If I was you,’ he advised, ‘I’d marry the girl.’

  Johnnie swallowed hard. ‘I have asked her,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, well, tha’s settled then,’ Mr Hosier said, smiling at him. ‘Come along. No time to loose.’

  Johnnie was weak with relief. It was all right. A storm in a teacup, that’s all. No real harm done. Praise be! He’d get the honeysuckle tied up and then he’d find some excuse to go up to the house and tell poor Betsy. He followed Mr Hosier into the garden feeling quite light-hearted.

  But he was wrong, of course. Harm was being done at that very moment. Betsy had risen early too and come down to the kitchen to show willing by lighting the fire, fetching the water and setting the table. It didn’t do her any good as she could see the minute Mrs Beke walked into the kitchen, for that lady was wearing her sternest face and her breath streamed before her in the cold air like a dragon breathing smoke.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Betsy Haynes,’ she said, rubbing her hands to warm them. ‘And what have you got to say for yourself, pray?’

  Betsy winced. It was no good pretending she didn’t understand. ‘We didn’t mean no harm, ma’am,’ she said.

  ‘I wonder at you, Betsy,’ Mrs Beke said. ‘I truly do. I thought you had more sense. What your mother will say when she hears of it, I cannot imagine.’

  Betsy’s heart took a palpable lurch downwards. The one person she didn’t want to hear of it was her mother. There’d never be any end to the scolding if she heard. ‘Please don’t tell her, ma’am,’ she begged. ‘’Twon’t happen again, I give ’ee my word.’

  ‘No,’ Mrs Beke said sternly. ‘It won’t. An’ I’ll tell ’ee for why. It won’t on account of I shall make sure it don’t. I can’t have that sort of carry-on in this house an’ there’s an end of it. The master won’t stand for it. I don’t know what you were thinking of, I really don’t. You’ll get yourself a reputation you go on like this and then what’ll happen to you? Have you thought of that?’ She was into her stride now, happily unleashing her anger. ‘To say nothing of falling for a baby. If you haven’t all-a-ready. Which wouldn’t surprise me given what young Sam was telling me last night. ’Tis a scandal and if we’re not careful ’twill be all over the village. You should be ashamed of yourself. You’ve been acting like a common slut.’

  ‘I haven’t fell for no baby,’ Betsy said, trying to defend herself.

  Mrs Beke snorted. ‘We all says that and a fat lot of good it does us. You could ha’ fell last night. Have you thought a’ that? No, cou
rse not. You young girls are all the same. You haven’t got a happorth a’ sense between the lot of you. Bit a’ sweet talk and you give in directly. An’ don’t think he’ll marry you, neither, for they never do. If they can get what they want without benefit of clergy, why should they bother making vows? Oh no, you won’t be walking up no aisle and don’t ’ee think it.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ Betsy said stung by so many insults. ‘He’d marry me tomorrow. He said so.’

  ‘Ho, yes?’ the housekeeper mocked. ‘I don’t exactly see him a-standing there beside you, though, do I? If he loves you he should be here standing up for you.’

  It was true. He should. Oh, why isn’t he here?

  ‘Oh, no,’ Mrs Beke went on, ‘you mark my words, you won’t see him for dust now ’tis known. You’ll be dropped and forgot, same as all the others. You’ve let yourself down and your mother down and me down and Mr Hayley. You’re a bad wicked girl, that’s what you are. A bad wicked girl. I don’t know what’s to become of you.’

  There were feet approaching on the servants’ stairs, a murmur of girls’ voices. The rest of the household was arriving. The sound of them panicked Betsy into instant and active alarm. ‘I’ll tell ’ee what’s to become of me,’ she said wildly, striding to the coat cupboard to find her cloak. ‘I’m a-leavin’ this house. Now, this minute. Tha’s what I’m a-doin’. I ent staying here to be insulted. I’m off.’

  ‘Go then,’ Mrs Beke said. ‘Best thing.’ But she was talking to the air. Betsy had already flounced out of the door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  By the time Johnnie Boniface walked into the kitchen with three cabbages and a string of onions as peace offering and excuse, Betsy’s departure had been discussed at length and with great excitement for the last two hours. Most of the kitchen staff had heard the row on their way downstairs and the boot boy had run over to the stables to see if Sam knew anything about it and had heard the whole story. There hadn’t been such excitement in Turret House since the master cracked his head open the last time he fell off his horse and came home streaming blood.