‘I’ve made this journey several times in recent months and I’ve taken note of the landmarks,’ he said. ‘I will admit that I allowed myself to be distracted momentarily today, but I’m sure we haven’t strayed too far from my preferred route.’ He did not turn to look at me as he spoke but kept his gaze fixed on the land below him.
‘I have no need of landmarks,’ I said. ‘I have walked between the village and Newlyn many times since I was a child, and I know the way by feel alone.’
He made a sound, a kind of laugh. It was the only time I’d heard anything like a laugh come out from him. ‘I am sorry, but relying on “feel alone” is not sufficient,’ he said. ‘If we lose our way on this moor and cannot find the route by nightfall we will find ourselves in dire circumstances. I imagine the temperature drops considerably.’
I suppose he was thinking about the scandal it would cause, the pair of us huddled together for warmth while we lay in the darkness and the midges bit us raw.
‘Since you won’t take heed, I will not waste my breath,’ I said.
‘Well, we shall see. Let us go down and cross this brook.’
I knew ill fortune would follow a man who took a woman across water but I kept my own counsel, and followed him, step by painful step. The further we walked, the more barren and rocky the land became. My ankles turned and I tripped over hidden stones. Now and then my feet would sink into a foul-smelling mire. After a long while our route was blocked by a high ridge. It was steep and when I reached the top I had to rest a long while until my light-headedness eased off and the blood stopped thumping in my ears. From the top of the ridge we looked down on a world so grey, bleak and Godforsaken, that it might have been the moon. Only the hardiest flower could show its face in such a wilderness. Great marshes choked with reeds stretched as far as the eye could see. Put a foot wrong down there and a quagmire would swallow you up to your chest and devour you bit by bit while you clung to the weeds for dear life. Only a fool would try to cross such land. Further along, the ridge was smothered in low cloud that threatened to wrap itself around us and take away all hope of ever finding the way home. I could still hear the skylark overhead, but now its song was fretful and forlorn. A fear gnawed at my gut, the worry that I had not enough strength to make it either to Newlyn or back to the cove. I didn’t say to the minister that we were lost and that we should turn back. It would only make him more fixed on following his own hopeless route.
‘Were I alone, I would continue down this hill and find a path through the marshland over there,’ he said. ‘However, given the difficulty you are having in those boots, I think it better that we retrace our steps.’
We finished the last drop of water. I was loath to get back on my feet and put my weight on those blisters, but had no choice. Down we went, the way we had come, and it was even harder on my poor aching calves inching down that breakneck hill than it had been climbing up. After a while I saw a livestock trail that passed by an old ruined barn and a dry tree, an old hollowed-out elm. I recognised the place and knew it led to the highway. I called to the minister who was walking on ahead of me. The long silence that had passed between us was broken. This time he didn’t gainsay me, but agreed to follow my route with a nod and a far-away look in his eyes, like one whose mind was on higher matters. I was almost beside myself with weariness and agony, a martyr to those pretty boots. The sight of Gideon marching ahead, too high and mighty to walk alongside me and show companionship, inflamed my wrath. He stood waiting for me at a place where two tracks crossed, unsure which path to take.
‘We might be the only people on this earth, like Adam and Eve,’ I said.
He ignored me, which spurred me on.
‘I’ve always thought men were awful hard on poor old Eve. Didn’t Adam bite the apple too? And suppose Eve hadn’t bitten the apple, then where would we be? Walking about naked as the day we were born and not even knowing it, or caring.’
He gave no answer, but I fancied his shoulders hunched a little.
‘Look there,’ I said, wishing to goad him further. ‘Perhaps that’s where the Serpent is waiting, in that ash tree.’
‘I think you’d be better conserving your strength,’ he said. ‘You’re beginning to rave, Sister Blight.’
I told him which way to go and he walked on. We were silent a while. ‘Aha!’ he cried, of a sudden. He’d spotted the road up ahead of us, the highway that led to Newlyn. I struggled on till I reached the roadside then threw myself down on the verge.
‘We’ll wait here until a vehicle passes that can take us the rest of the way,’ he said. ‘You needn’t walk further.’
I took off the boots and sat in a slump, letting the cool grass calm the stinging sores on my feet and ankles. For a long while I waited, willing a Penzance-bound coach to appear on the horizon, or a jig that might at least take us part of the way. My parched throat longed to swallow cup after cup of cool water. In the distance I saw black puddles glimmering on the road, but it was only a phantom of the low sun and the dust. Likewise, ghostly vehicles took form in the distance before melting into the shimmering air. The long grasses whispered as the breeze rippled through them. Near where I had laid down my head, a red ant slowly climbed a tall blade of grass. The creature took an eternity to reach the top, and dangled there as the grass swayed in the breeze, the bristles on its head trembling. It seemed the minister and me had stepped outside of time and that we were truly as alone in the world as Adam and Eve had once been.
When I’d forsaken all hope and the sun was looking to set behind the far-away hills, I heard the tinkling of a distant bell, thinking at first that I’d dreamt it. I prayed it was a horse’s neck bell. A little later the clattering of wheels was heard and a farm wagon appeared, laden with hay bales, slowly lumbering towards us. It was heading the right way, towards Newlyn. Eventually, it pulled up and I heard the voices of Gideon and the farmer conversing. The minister came over and told me the man was heading for Paul but he would make a detour to Newlyn for a small fee. I tried to raise myself, but the searing pain was too great, and I burst into tears, whether in thanksgiving or suffering or confusion I couldn’t have said.
Gideon came over to me, holding out his hand to help me to my feet, but when I tried to stand my legs went from under me and I dropped back on the grass, sobbing with vexation.
‘I regret that we have been at odds with each other,’ he said. ‘On reflection, I believe you were correct about the route. I fear I allowed myself to become distracted and forgot to take note of the landmarks I’ve followed so faithfully at other times. I hope you’ll forgive me. Now, Mary, will you allow me to help you over to the wagon?’ I wiped the tears from my face, got up and grasped the minister’s hand, which was wonderfully warm and dry. We took a step or two towards the wagon, but my legs shook under me and I almost fell. The minister caught me in time, and put an arm round my waist to hold me up. In this way we made it over to the wagon. He stooped and lifted me up, holding me under my knees, so that my feet dangled like a child’s for a moment, and then he set me down, almost tenderly, our faces close together. We looked at one another – his eyes were black as sloes. I turned from him and lay my head on the prickly hay, closed my eyes and waited for my heart to slow to its usual beat.
I woke up, curled up on the hay and shivering. It was night and we were in Newlyn. This time Gideon gave me no help in getting off the wagon, but leapt off himself to pay the wagoner. It was dark but for the murky light of the window of a house where we had pulled up. The minister knocked on the door and soon a plump woman appeared.
‘Poor Mrs Stone is sick with worry, sir, you being so late,’ she said. Gideon sighed and went inside, leaving me to climb down and follow him. Every step pained me in those boots. Once in the narrow hallway, I saw the woman take the minister’s coat from his shoulders. She looked me up and down, leaning backwards as if afeard to go anywhere near me, before leading the minister through a door into another room. I didn’t dare follow them, but stood there,
wishing I was back in my own home.
A woman’s high and peevish voice cried: ‘I’ve been frantic with worry, we expected you hours ago.’ She sounded like a true snot. I supposed it must have been Gideon’s wife. ‘Rebecca is here. I sent Susan for her, not knowing what else to do,’ she said.
‘Heaven knows, poor Mrs Stone have been some brave,’ said another voice – the woman who had opened the door to us.
‘And where is our Sunday school teacher? Are you hiding her?’ said the woman with the peevish voice.
‘Sister Blight, please be so kind as to enter the room,’ called the minister.
I had no choice but to limp in. The candle light dazzled me at first after being in the dark so long. After a while, I picked out a standing clock, too big for the cluttered little room, and three women huddled together on a settle. I couldn’t help but gawp at the woman in the middle, knowing it was Mrs Stone. She looked dressed for a ball in her blue silk dress, wide across the shoulder with padded sleeves, the skirts frilled and plumped out all about her. I had never seen the like, not even in Penzance. On one side of her was the plump woman who had let us in and on the other a big girl with buck teeth. I supposed they were Mrs Stone’s maids. Mrs Stone stared at me, wide-eyed, holding a handkerchief to her bosom as if she might faint away at the sight of me.
I looked to Gideon for help, but my gaze fell upon a distressful vision in a round gilt-framed mirror on the wall behind him, hanging over the fireplace. I saw a bedraggled, drooping woman, who looked as if she’d been dragged by her hair through a hundred gorse bushes. She might easily have been taken for a wild woman in a sideshow at the fair. It would be hard to find anyone who looked less fit for the role of teacher.
The women around me sighed and mewed with pity at the state they found me in, and Mrs Stone shook her head to let the minister know it was shameful of him to have put this sorry creature through such an ordeal.
‘Why, the poor thing! Is she lame?’ asked the plump woman.
‘We’ve had quite a journey of it. Miss Blight’s feet are somewhat blistered,’ said the minister.
‘Oh, Susan, go and fetch a bowl of warm water, quickly now, and salt,’ said Mrs Stone to the buck-toothed girl, who rushed out of the room. ‘Miss Blight, do please sit down, I hope my husband has not been too severe. He forgets we women aren’t as robust as he is. This is Mrs Gurney,’ she said, meaning the plump woman at her side. ‘She’ll look after you during your stay. Now, Mrs Gurney, help me get these boots off this poor woman.’
They brought a chair out to the middle of the room for me to sit upon, and I let them peel the bloody boots off me while I wailed.
‘Oh, wisht! Look at the state of her poor feet. They be cut to bits and seams,’ cried Mrs Gurney.
On a straight-backed chair across the room, another woman watched me. She had long sharp features, and sat very upright in the chair. She smiled, but her eyes looked sorrowfully over at me, and seeing how she pitied me made me sorry for myself and brought a tear rolling down my cheek. Seeing that, she put both her hands over her mouth, then stood up and crossed the room to stand before me.
‘My dear woman, I do hope to make your acquaintance soon, but fear I am only in the way here tonight,’ she said to me. ‘I’m sure you will make an excellent Sunday school teacher under Ellie’s instruction, and I greatly look forward to finding out all about you.’ She smiled and put out a hand for me to take. ‘Rebecca Vyvyan.’ I gave Rebecca Vyvyan’s hand a quick shake, before looking back at my bleeding feet, shy at being spoken to in such a familiar way by a proper snot and unsure what I was supposed to do.
‘I was on the point of taking my leave when Mr Stone arrived,’ said Rebecca Vyvyan, hugging Mrs Stone. Then she gave Gideon a little nod and went out. Was she the kin of Dr Vyvyan who often came to our cove, I wondered.
With her gone, Gideon at last went over to his wife where she sat on the settle. She turned away from him as he kissed her on the cheek. I smelt her perfume from across the room. She said nothing to her husband, but stood up and walked over to me. Mrs Gurney positioned an upholstered footstool so she could sit by me.
‘I expect my husband has told you all about me,’ said Mrs Stone, sitting down. I shook my head, as Gideon had told me nothing at all about her. ‘Really, Gideon, what is the matter with you?’ she said. She wrinkled her nose and I wondered if it was because she could smell my sweat and the foul bog water that stained the hem of my skirts. As for her, every part of her seemed to twinkle in the candlelight.
Susan pushed through the door with a bowl of warm water in her hands, slopping half of it over the rug as she squeezed through the doorway. All three women stared at me as I put my feet into the water, closed my eyes, threw back my head and moaned. When I opened my eyes again, the water in the bowl had already turned brown.
‘Perhaps Susan should take you upstairs where you can scrub yourself clean at my wash-stand?’ said Mrs Stone.
‘That can wait until tomorrow,’ said Gideon, quickly. ‘At this moment, what Miss Blight needs is a good night’s sleep.’
‘The nursery is prepared,’ said Mrs Stone.
‘Oh, don’t you think of climbing they stairs now, my dear,’ said Mrs Gurney to Mrs Stone. ‘I’ll help the lady up to the room.’
‘Might I trouble you for a glass of water, pleasing you, ma’am?’ I said. How rough and country I sounded, after Mrs Stone.
‘I am going to wash in the kitchen,’ said Gideon. ‘I’ll see to everything, so you needn’t trouble yourself, Susan. It’s late and I expect you ladies will want to be getting on your way.’ And without another word he left, closing the door behind him.
With him gone, the smile fell from Mrs Stone’s face.
‘Nothing at all to say about the new dress I was wearing, from my father’s shop,’ she said to Mrs Gurney. ‘Cornflower blue is the colour of the season, although I wouldn’t expect my husband to know that, or to recognise genuine Macclesfield silk when he sees it.’
‘You look charming, my dear,’ said Mrs Gurney. ‘Even Miss Rebecca said so, and heaven knows, she cares little for fashion – you need only look at her to see that.’
Mrs Stone glanced at me, all her twinkle gone, before turning to the buck-toothed girl. ‘Susan,’ she said. ‘Would you be so kind as to take my husband’s teacher up to her room?’
9
The next morning Mrs Stone let me go into her bedroom to use her wash-stand. I knew this was because she couldn’t abide the smell of poor people, but I’d have put up with any slight to get my hands on her scented soap. Standing in her little tub in clean, warm water from the kettle, I lifted my shift and rubbed myself all over with a glassy lavender soap-ball. I didn’t spend as long at it as I’d have liked because there was no lock on the door. When I was done, I used a linen towel that hung on the wash-stand to dry myself. It was damp from Mrs Stone’s own bathing. She even had a little brush for cleaning her teeth, and a dish of soot she used for it.
Her bedroom was like Heaven itself, all dressed in white, the walls, the window curtains and the bed curtains. Even the dresser and the wash-stand were white, with a white basin and pitcher on top. On the dresser she had bottles of scented hair oil which is where her nice smell came from. I drew back the curtain to peek at the bed, and saw it was just wide enough to fit Gideon and his wife snugly.
As I stepped away, I saw something on the floor behind the hem of the counterpane, the corner of a book that had been pushed under the bed. Treading ever so softly I went to the door, opening it a crack. The house was quiet, the door to the parlour shut. I got down on my knees and pulled the book out. It was called Virtue Rebuked by Mrs Catherine Fitzherbert. Afraid someone would come before I got a good look at it, I didn’t get dressed right away, but knelt at the bedside and leafed through the pages, almost sick with the thrill of it and the fear of being caught.
It was a book of letters from Lady Rosemount, a woman who was in the first bloom of youth, but who had experienced a disappoin
tment in love and had gone to Italy, a dark country of great mountains, castles and forests full of howling wolves. She was writing to her friend in England, and the pair of them wrote such grand words I couldn’t make sense of the half of it. Lady Rosemount was in a frenzy of passion which the strong chains of prudence could not hold, and was having an intrigue with a Count from that land, which meant they were lovers, I supposed. Such fine words Lady Rosemount used, even if she was a strumpet, and afterwards I remembered some, such as I was ever feelingly alive to the beauties of nature, and, What is a woman when she neither loves nor is loved? But I had no time to dwell on her story, so I went straight to the last pages to discover what became of her. Before I could find out, I heard a door open down below, and pushed the book back under the bed.
When I’d dressed, I went downstairs and was about to knock on the parlour door when I heard muffled voices. It was Mrs Stone and Mrs Gurney.
‘No, ma’am, not what I expected at all,’ said Mrs Gurney. ‘She’s quite a beauty, though, wouldn’t you say, in a common sort of way?’
There was a peal of laughter from Mrs Stone. ‘Perhaps you mistake her species of gypsy glamour for true beauty, my dear, but she has none of the self-restraint and dignity of a lady.’
‘Oh no, of course not . . .’
‘She displays all the rude simplicity of a country girl, with a freedom in her movements that isn’t at all becoming.’
‘I was just about to say the very same myself, Mrs Stone.’
‘She has no waist to speak of, did you notice? And wears no stays.’
‘I imagine that’s to allow her to move about free when she’s at work.’
‘In any case, she’s so straight and narrow that stays would do little to improve her figure. From the rear, you might easily mistake her for a boy, apart from all her red hair, enough to set a hay rig on fire. And Blight? What a name! One hopes it is not symbolic. Now, where is the woman, for heaven’s sake?’
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