Everyone, it seemed, knew more about child-raising than I. Surely I was the worst, least-equipped mother in the world; where were my examples?
With thoughts such as these, I sank into a depression darker than a crow’s wing, but once again my story took an unexpected turn.
The letter arrived on a cheerless day; a simple, folded sheet of parchment, sealed with wax, it was forwarded to me by Master Scroggs, to whom it was entrusted that previous spring. I took it to the window seat, to read in the soft morning light, but later I read it aloud to Rufus, for he was surely the person to whom that letter should have been addressed. It was an apology of sorts – thirty years too late – and although it was written to me, it would mean far more to the man they had all wounded.
He was silent as I read it to him, staring into the fire, his face warmed by the glow of the flames.
"As I leave on this latest trip, I feel a strong sense in my bones that I will not return. I am rarely wrong about such things. I face my end with tranquility for, whatever my past sins, I have tried to pay penance. I entrust this letter to Master Scroggs of Yarmouth, who, I am advised, is a man of honest intentions; a rarity in this world. In the event of my passing, I ask that he deliver it into the hands of Mistress Genevieve Carver, my daughter.
Sadly, I have nothing of value to leave her, but this explanation of my history and hers."
The door at the foot of the staircase creaked and there went the familiar thud against the wall.
I read on.
"My father was an architect of great gardens – a man with a love of the earth and an understanding of water; the skill to conjure it, even in dry places where no water should flow. But we were Moors living in Spain at the time of the Inquisition. We were to be forced out of the country. My father, a stubborn man, refused to give up his home and his gardens. Rather, he would face death willingly, so strong was his spirit. However, he arranged for me to escape on a ship bound for England.
On that ship I met Rufus Carver, a man of easy charm, also gifted with slight of hand. Within days of our departure, he won from me all my coin and an opal ring my father had given me as a parting gift. Yet I bore him no grudge. I was a shy young man, very much his opposite. Always he had laughter on his tongue and a way with the women. I, less fortunate, was allowed to bask a little in his light, besotted with it in a way, like the women whose hearts he poached.
Over the years that followed, we formed a bond, but no brotherhood could withstand the force of nature that came between us."
My father-in-law had no visible reaction. His wooden hand rested in his lap.
"Owen Sydney, Baron Deptford – a man with a fondness for strays, took us under his wing and welcomed us into his home, where we met his sister, Grace. I cannot say, what it was she had in her power that held us captive, but it was surely a dangerous weapon in the hands of a woman. She was not a beauty, in the sense that it might be recorded by an artist’s brush. Her eyes were not loving, but darkly mischievous and full of secret thoughts. Her lips whispered no sweet words, but scorned without mercy. Yet there was something inside, like a trapped bird – a spirit that wanted out, perhaps – and few men would fail to notice her, even in a crowd of milder-mannered beauties.
When those curious eyes turned to Rufus, I watched with bitter jealousy. I warned her brother of their growing love, but Owen still thought of his sister as a child and refused to believe she would betray him.
One evening, the three of us sat down to a game of dice. While the wine flowed, Rufus persuaded Owen to wager the deed to Souls Dryft. When he won, Owen accused Rufus of playing with weighted dice. A fight ensued, after which they never spoke again, but it was not just the house that caused this rift.
Rufus and Grace became lovers. I resented their happiness, for I thought I deserved her more than he did. I knew how he conquered women with so little trial and surely this was just another. I began to plot how I might steal her away from him. I laid out my plans just as my father once laid out his seeds, but where my father created new life with his plans, I wrought destruction with mine.
In my ruthless mission I had one ally – Suzannah Percy. For many years she had lived there, sent by her family to marry Owen, but he continually delayed the marriage and she had become little more than a companion to his sister – a task she plainly resented and one made all the harder by her own unrequited love for Rufus. Like me, she watched the two young lovers, her heart heavy with envy, so together we formed a plot. Under some pretext, Suzannah lured Rufus to drink with her. She made a potion concocted of herbs, which she slipped into his cider that night and then, when it took effect, she stripped herself naked, and invited herself into his bed. At that moment, I was charged with bringing Grace to the house, so that she would see them together.
It was a clumsy, childish ploy, but it succeeded. We knew their weaknesses and preyed upon them – Rufus enjoyed his cider to excess and Grace had a jealous temper that raged hot when prodded, often running away with her sense of reason.
Thus it was done.
The room was quiet, but for the hissing fire and the gentle sighs on the staircase behind me.
"Grace ran away and I followed. I hoped she would come to love me, as she once loved Rufus, but it was a fool’s dream. She stayed with me some years, but I could not keep her. In the end, she left me.
I later learned that she meant to return to her brother, but when she found herself with child, thinking he would not accept her back, she stayed in Yarmouth. I heard she had a daughter – a healthy child. She was left in Owen Sydney’s charge, and so I swore never to interfere. He could surely do more for her, than I.
Now, I come to the end of my story. Some years later, I met a son of Rufus Carver. I never wanted to like this young man, but he has become as much to me as a son of my own. When he sought a bride, I sent him to find my daughter. In old age, you see, I looked back with regret and wished to make amend for my sins.
I hope, with this explanation, I have answered some of the questions I saw in her eyes on the one day we met.”
To sign the letter, he marked a cross below the scribe’s words and below it, in very uneven letters, made an attempt at the word "Quill".
Chapter Sixty-Seven
On May Day, I sat at my chamber window, dwelling on life’s many injustices, while a sparrow mocked me with its cheerful song. The babe slept — having deprived me of the luxury all night long – and my only entertainment was that sparrow, until Tewke’s cart rattled along the lane. Thanks to Tilda Gawtry, the blacksmith recovered with surprising haste from the desertion of his wife. Since Nan left, Tilda took it upon herself to cook the blacksmith’s meals and wash his clothes. After all my work, they came together of their own accord, proving my schemes not only incompetent, but utterly unnecessary. My pride would never recover.
When I saw Tewke’s cart, I leaned out of the window, calling his name. He drew his horse to a halt. I grabbed the sleeping babe and ran down to find Tilda, who was cleaning out the pantry shelves. Thrusting the child into her arms, I ran through the door. We had marigolds hanging there to ward off evil spirits, as was the custom on May Day, and their yellow petals brushed over my hair, like motherly fingertips, warning me to slow down, but I was in no mood for any kind of caution, my mind set stubbornly on the way ahead. These days, more than ever, I was aware of time passing me by, and I did not want to suddenly find myself old, burdened with regrets. I would not spend my last days writing a sad letter to recompense for my sins.
"Where do you go, Tewke?" I demanded, running up to him.
"Back to the village. Want to come?"
I climbed up, before the words were all out of his mouth.
"You out and about already?" He reached over to rescue a yellow petal from my hair.
"I merely gave birth to a babe, Tewke. Women do that all the time."
"A girl so I heard."
"Yes." I sighed. "Make haste." I took the reins from his hands and urged the horse on, rapidly click
ing my tongue. After that we talked about the weather, spring planting and the new lambs — anything else. It was wondrous to speak again of matters other than the Imp that sought to destroy me.
The fresh air swept through my hair, as I urged his horse faster until we were rolling along at a good speed. The cart horse picked his hooves up with merry pride, finally allowed to stretch his legs beyond the steady plod favored by the blacksmith.
"You’ll tip us out!" Tewke warned, clinging to his seat, scowling at me. Then he observed sourly that he thought "motherhood" was supposed to soften a woman’s reckless edges.
It was the very worst thing he could have said, for in my current mood, with my nerves stretched tight from lack of sleep, I did not want to hear anything about what motherhood should do to me. I felt quite deceived as it was, since someone obviously stole my angelic boy child and replaced him with that wailing, eternally angry girl who never looked at me without screaming, as if I stuck her full of pins. No indeed, I did not want to be reminded of motherhood and my failure at the task. I was terrified, each time I touched her, in case I did something wrong. I was frustrated, wounded because she screamed and squirmed away from me. So, as he continued his muttering lectures about my place as a mother and how that should change me for the better, my mind spun round and round, sorting through the many injustices I’d suffered.
Then, suddenly, I exploded, "You dare preach, Thomas Tewke? What do you think you are about with Tilda Gawtry? She is an innocent maid, and you blacken her reputation with scarcely a thought for it!"
Tewke was shocked, his expression fraught.
I continued, "You know it is seven years before you can claim Nan’s desertion and be free to marry again!"
A pink flush flooded his face.
"Surely you know how she has always loved you."
"I would never harm that girl," he exclaimed. "I did not think…"
I lifted my eyes to the clouds, pondering the stupidity of men. "Well, I am sorry to say it, Tewke, but it is only the truth and it must be faced, painful as it is. She loves you and would do anything for you, even at the risk of her own reputation. And then what will happen? What if your wife, Nan, returns? No other man in this village will want Tilda then."
He folded his arms eventually, having reached a resolution. "I’ll speak with Tilda. I can’t let her throw her life away waitin’ fer me."
My rage subsided, replaced now with wretched guilt. I did not mean to spoil Tilda’s chance for love. It was not my intention to make him spurn her. Alas my temper was so out of sorts, I had simply looked for anything to make him feel worse than I did. I slowed the horse to a gentler trot. A few raindrops had begun to fall like tears, and suddenly I did not know where I was going on that cart. The reins fell slack and I looked down at my hands holding the leather straps, wondering what I ran from?
"Poor Cap’n Will," he muttered.
The mention of that name woke me, like a splash of cold water in the face.
Sighing, he took the reins from my hands. "That feller had a softer heart than you might think from looking at him. It were his downfall when it come to you, for sure."
I turned my face away, watching the lambs in the nearby field.
"He were damned determined to win you over. Poor feller, he were struck by a bolt o’ lightening I reckon and could see naught else but you. He were a fool to his love as I were to mine."
"Why do you tell me this?" I gasped out. "What point is there now he is gone?" It was so unusual for Tom Tewke to be cruel in any way and I suppose that was why it smarted worse than it would coming from anyone else.
He shook his head. "And now there’s the babe. I suppose ‘tis hard fer you to love that little girl. She might leave you too, one day, whether she means to or not, eh?"
"Thomas Tewke, I will not have you speak to me like this."
His eyes were full of sadness. "Sorry I am, to say it, but ‘tis only the truth and it must be faced, painful as it might be."
I glared at him, but he was stoic, unimpressed by my fierce scowl. Finally, in a great huff, I turned away and leapt down from his cart. The rain quickened and so did my footsteps, back toward Souls Dryft.
Before I was far down the lane, what began as a gentle spring rain became a shower of cold, sharp spines. Very soon I was soaked through and, by the time I reached the house, I was in a temper so ill that even a bird looking at me the wrong way was likely to find itself shouted at. Flinging open the door of the house, I was ready to quarrel with the first person I saw.
Yet the house had changed. There was a small table and a man sat there reading. His head was bent forward, so until he looked up, I could not be sure. My heart faltered, stumbling over itself, just as my feet stumbled over a thick carpet by the door. It was Will. I could hear my own breath, louder now than the rain against the windows.
"Where have you been?" he said. "I’ve been waiting."
I tried to swallow, but could not.
He pushed back his chair to stand, and I saw his eyes were amused. "You killed me in your story. I might have guessed!"
Something behind me made a loud gurgle, startling me so that I jumped, spinning around. Backing away from that noise, I saw it was a plump glass vessel filled with steaming brown liquid that gave off a thick, acrid scent. The vessel sighed and coughed like an old man. I looked at Will, trying to make sense of all this. Before either of us could speak again there was another loud noise, a high buzzing squawk that set my heart to pounding like Tewke’s hammer. Will held a small object to his ear and shouted into it. I stared at him as I backed around that strangely unfamiliar room, and now I began to doubt that it was Will, after all. He was dressed in garments of a peculiarly tight nature, breeches that covered his entire leg. The scent drifting off him was far sweeter than his usual odor. His features were the same and yet different, like the house in which I stood. Now my gaze traveled to the papers he was reading as I entered. I saw handwriting there and recognized it as my own.
He approached me again. "What’s the matter with you now? Are you alright?"
I reached behind with both hands, searching for the toasting fork that hung on the wall. Praise Be! It was still there, even though nothing else was the same. I held the fork before me, poking at him to be sure he kept his distance.
"All dressed up for the Sydney Players?" He laughed. "I thought you were only prompting?"
"What demon are you to take my husband’s form?" I gasped. "Be gone, foul spirit!"
"Very funny. Put that down before you take my eye out."
Suddenly I thought of my daughter and panicked, looking around for her cot, which should have been there, by the fire. "What have you done to my child?" I cried. "Leave her be. She is innocent. You masquerade as my husband, but you are not Will."
"Of course not," he sputtered, throwing out his arms in a gesture that was familiar to me. "I’m Richard. At least I was, last time I checked. Put that down, please."
But I gripped that toasting fork even tighter and poked at his thighs until he backed away, slowly raising his hands. I hoped he would not see me tremble.
"Get out of my house," I hissed. "Cruel imp! Do not come back here. Ever!"
The smile finally left his face, as he saw I was not a woman to be trifled with. This wicked demon picked the wrong house to come calling.
"Okay," he said. "That’s enough fooling around."
"You think I jest, sir?" I lunged at him again with the poker and he dodged away. Suddenly that small object in his hand squawked again, a dreadful, unholy ruckus. I dropped my poker and it fell to the stones with an echoing clatter. Hands to my ears, I began to scream. I screamed until it hurt; then, exhausted, I had no anger left.
I heard him say quite calmly that I was a case in which to keep nuts. When I opened my eyes again, he was gone.
The house was back to normal. The odd smells and loud noises left with the demon. Sobbing, trembling, I found my daughter in the little wooden crib by the fire, where she should be.
She too wept, her little fists punching away at imaginary foes as she screamed and sobbed. I lifted her carefully and the crying faltered, changing tone. When I heard a thumping noise, I thought it might be the demon come back again, or else it was Grace, up to her old tricks.
"Be gone," I shouted, hugging my child tightly.
I live in a house full of ghosts, I thought sadly; I should be used to all this by now. But Rufus insisted they were not ghosts – just the house’s memories.
Calmed now, I lifted the babe so that her eyes were fixed upon mine. "What is all this fuss?" I whispered. "What would your father say to all this noise?"
Having worn herself out, she warbled gently and a little peevishly.
"Did you think you were abandoned?" I whispered. The thumping grew louder. Was it Grace? Perhaps she too was upset about the child being left. In my arms, the babe blinked; her mouth opened again. I feared she would resume her squawking, but, thankfully, it was merely a yawn. I rocked her gently and she cooed, reaching for a loose, wet strand of hair that fell within her grasp.
Hot tears rolled down my cheeks, as I hugged my daughter. "Bring him back to me, Grace," I whispered. "Bring him back to me."
I thought my heart was broke enough, and now I was to be tortured by visions like these? Is this how poor Rufus lived?
The banging, I finally realized, came from the pantry. A draft must have blown the door shut and it stuck fast in the damp, warped frame again, trapping Tilda inside. All the men were out fishing, leaving her to thump on the door unheeded.
"Look what I found under the shelves," she exclaimed, lifting the items for me to see. "I wonder what they were doing there, hidden away."
They were boots; almost brand new. Briefly, they belonged to Beth Downing, before my mother-in-law got one of those "bees" in her bonnet – as Rufus called it — and decided to take them off her feet. I told Tilda she may have the boots and so she wore them proudly, never knowing their history. Life goes on, and someone may as well get the use of them.
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