I do not think my mother ever understood the extent of my father’s grief. She was so consumed by her own loss that his anguish escaped her notice. Instead, she occupied herself with running the house and raising her other four children. He walked the streets alone, grieving for his eldest son. They carried the burden of their loss privately. If they spoke of Thomas to each other, I never heard it.
But my mother should have remembered how low his spirits fell when Patience was born. His sorrow that Patience had not thrived as she ought, was a millstone about his neck. The dawning realisation that she would be forever a child sapped his joy. He felt himself responsible for her condition. Small wonder that his mood grew blacker at the double blow. His eldest daughter an imbecile and his first-born son dead before his sixteenth birthday.
Away from the comfort of home, the mood of the land was changing. Men watched and waited, knowing that harder times were coming. The once thriving clothing industry was in sharp decline. Some men were destitute. Others escaped the poverty by emigrating to strange and foreign lands. Two of my uncles left to start a new life in Virginia with countless others across the shire. Only my aunt remained in her home county. Father did not speak of his loss, but we knew he missed his brothers. We wondered whether he would have gone with them, were it not for his obligation to his wife and children.
Elsewhere, the risk of war loomed. The Scots had threatened to invade northern England and Charles I was demanding greater amounts of money to repel their army. Father worried about our future. He was convinced that Parliament was on a collision course with the King.
He fretted about the Suffolk clothing industry. It was failing, but Father still clung to the hope that the Royal Commission would succeed with their plan to improve matters. It was around this time that we noticed our food becoming plainer. Our threadbare clothing was not being replaced. The household income had diminished and father grew ever more preoccupied.
One day he returned from the Guild Hall in an evil temper. As he strode through the door, I could smell spirits on his breath. He sat down at the dining table with his head in his hands, demanding mother fetch him wine. I peered around the corner and watched as she placed a pewter cup in front of him. He clutched her arm and spoke without meeting her eyes. “It is all over,” he said. “Manufacturing is to be aided in some Suffolk towns, but not Lavenham. It is too late anyway. We have more debts than I can ever pay”
Next day Mother dismissed Elizabeth but Father carried on in the same vein. He spent increasing amounts of time at the Guildhall, often inebriated by the time he came home. He took the record books away from my mother and compiled his own accounts. She, in turn, took on those chores that Elizabeth used to perform.
Father made no mention of our changed lifestyle, except once, the week before he died. Mother entered the dining room as he was writing in a ledger. He snapped it shut upon sight of her. She offered him a cup of water which he declined. Then he stood, faced her and stroked his hand against her cheek. “I am so very sorry that I have failed you, Faith,” he said. Four days later he was dead.
Mother found him in the garden when she was feeding the chickens. He had not gone to the Guild Hall as he had told us. Instead, he tied a rope to the old oak tree at the bottom of our land and hung himself while we were inside. He dangled there swinging until she found him. We knew nothing of it until she rushed into the house, white-faced, and trembling. She took our hands and lead us to the Guild Hall. In her shock, she had not known what to do or how to cut him down, so she sought help from his merchant partners. They returned with her, leaving us at the Guild, then cut him down and left him laid out dead on the table.
Worse followed. Father died in debt, insolvent and in shame. He must have known they were coming for within days of his death, the bailiffs arrived. Mother watched helplessly as they carried furniture and silver from our house. I could not contain myself when they tried to take my father’s silver tankard. I snatched it back but they wrenched it from my grasp so I scratched the bailiff’s man until he struck me across the face. I reeled and fell beside the doorway, staring at them, willing their lives away. I would have given anything to punish them at that moment. Mother picked me from the floor and gathered her younger children in her arms. The men continued with their task as if they had not a care. My sister, Patience, rocked back and forth by the fireplace moaning pitifully at the disruption to her normal routine.
When they finished and the house was devoid of anything of value, they left. We waited together, wondering what would happen next. It was not the end of the invasion. A sharp rap at the door proceeded the portly form of Mr Fiske. He stuttered awkwardly as he informed my mother that the rent was in arrears. He explained that she must clear the outstanding balance immediately. She told him that she wished she could, but did not have the means to do so. He said that he was very sorry and gave her four days to arrange matters, then he exited the premises.
Mother left the younger children with me and walked the four miles to my aunt’s house in Thorpe Morieux. She begged my aunt for help, imploring her for shelter. She later told me that my aunt was sympathetic, but my uncle was not. He was not prepared to sacrifice the comfort of his own family and told her to find another means of help. My aunt muttered her apologies before pressing a few farthings in Mother’s hand. She trudged back to Lavenham, arriving as dusk fell.
The next day, Mother visited every one of her friends and acquaintances. There was no lack of kindness from them. Indeed, many of her friends were similarly troubled by their own decline in fortunes. They donated food, clothes and coins but none could offer us a home. By the end of the day, it was evident that we must leave Lavenham or risk ending up in the House of Correction. Then, Mother remembered that she had an elderly aunt still living who she might be able to prevail upon.
We left town at dusk the next day. Our scant possessions were piled into a cart Mother had hired with some of the donated coins. Little remained following the bailiff’s visit. Everything we owned could be fitted into a single cart. We managed to keep some pewter and two rolls of cloth which had been stored in the outhouse. By good fortune, the bailiffs had overlooked them. When the cart was full, we climbed aboard, next to four chickens and an old house cat. A well-meaning friend thrust a basket of food into mother's hands for the journey ahead. She stammered her thanks, eyes misty with tears. As we moved away, she watched the timbered house fade into the distance. The cart rumbled through the street towards Fressingfield and we contemplated our new lives. As the town disappeared and day turned to night, my thoughts were otherwise occupied. All I could see in my mind's eye was the vision of my father’s body swinging from the tree.
Chapter 8
A Sensible Woman
“We meet again. So soon,” cried Loveday, “what a nice surprise.”
Lawrence flinched. Having recently left William in the churchyard, he was engrossed with thoughts of decaying crows and the credulity of men. He had thought himself completely alone.
“Did I startle you?” asked Loveday. “I did not mean to, but I saw you ahead and thought I would catch you up.” Her cheeks were flushed and she was breathless with exertion.
“Hello, Loveday,” he said, thinking how much he would rather be alone. Since the tragedy, he needed silence to process his thoughts. It took an act of supreme concentration to weed the bearable from the relentless negativity that had consumed him in the earlier days. This business about the crows unnerved him. He was unsettled, anxious; the mantle of gloom threatened to overwhelm him again. He wondered if he should have accepted the investigation in the first place. Still, social conventions warranted a reply. “Where is Emily?” he asked, by way of conversation.
“I gave her the slip,” she smiled. “Honestly, Lawrence. There are only so many books a girl can read and only so many dull conversations she can have without becoming a dullard herself.”
“That is no way to speak of a friend,” said Lawrence.
“Do not scold me,�
�� complained Loveday. “She is a dear girl and I am fond of her, but we have been thrown together so much, that she begins to irritate. I have removed myself from her presence for the sake of our friendship.”
“How kind of you,” smiled Lawrence. “And where are you removing yourself to?”
“I thought I would call into the haberdashery. They are expecting some new textiles and I need more dresses before my return to India. Will you walk there with me?”
“If it pleases you,” murmured Lawrence.
“It pleases me very much,” she laughed, “but am I taking you away from your intended route?”
“Not at all, though you are very inquisitive, Loveday,” he said. “To tell the truth, I do not know where I am going until I find out where certain people live. I dare say the local shop keepers will know.”
“Or you could ask me,” she said.
“I thought you only recently arrived here yourself,” said Lawrence.
“I have been here long enough to familiarise myself with the village. I am very good at making friends.”
“Very well, then. Where does Elijah Scoggins reside?”
“I do not know. Is he a store keeper?”
“No. He is the Parish Clerk.”
“Well I cannot be expected to know where he abides,” she frowned. “Try another.”
“Mrs Hannah Roper?”
“I know that one,” she exclaimed. “Am I not helpful, after all?”
“I cannot say until you tell me what you know.”
Loveday put her hand on his arm. “I will tell you where she lives if you do something for me.”
Lawrence sighed. “What do you want, Loveday?”
“Walk to Wingfield with me tomorrow. An old family friend lives there and I promised to look her up. Emily does not know her and will not come with me.”
Lawrence turned to face her. “Loveday, we have been acquainted less than four hours. Why do you want me to come with you? It is hardly appropriate.”
“I told you, I care nothing for social conventions.”
“Well, you should.”
“I will go anyway, with or without you,” cajoled Loveday. “I could be set upon travelling alone and you would be guilt-ridden for the rest of your life. It would be much better if you walked with me. You could tell me all about yourself. It would be fun.”
Lawrence laughed. It was impossible to be angry with her, despite his reservations about her maturity. She was refreshingly honest, captivatingly frank and with an enticing spark of danger. But she was young and there was over twenty years between them. An image of Catherine flashed into his mind, unbidden but not unwelcome. Catherine. Three years was not enough time for her influence to wane. Would she approve, or think him an old fool? It gave him pause enough to give a considered response.
“I do not think so,” he said.
Loveday’s face fell. “You would have me murdered on the roads?” she asked mournfully.
“I have a better idea,” he said. “But I need to speak to Michael first. Promise you will not go walking to Wingfield alone in the meantime.”
She sighed. “I promise I will wait twenty-four hours, but that is all.”
“It will do for now,” he replied. “Now tell me where I may find Mrs Roper?”
“She will most likely be at the Post Office with Mr Lait,” replied Loveday. “She is lodging with the family and helps at the post counter.”
“And where may I find the Post Office?” he asked.
“There,” said Loveday, pointing directly ahead. “It is next door to the drapers.”
They walked towards the terrace of red brick buildings. Lawrence tipped his hat and murmured goodbye. Loveday barely noticed him leave. She stared distractedly at the fabric-clad mannequin in the drapery window.
The bell jangled as Lawrence entered the Post Office. To the right, a mahogany counter ran down the entire length of the room. Directly opposite was a smaller counter containing a large metallic till. Tiny wooden drawers filled the wall behind the smaller counter from the ground to chest height. All manner of bottles were displayed above the cabinets and an over-powering smell of moth balls emanated from that direction. A man, sitting on a stool by the left-hand counter, was spooning white powder into the bowl of a set of scales. A tiny weight had been placed on the opposite bowl and he watched studiously while the scales re-balanced.
The man looked up as Lawrence entered. “Potion or post?” he asked.
“I am sorry…” Lawrence replied.
“No, I am sorry,” said the man good-humouredly. “Only my little joke. Do you need the services of the Chemist or the Postmaster? It is Hobson’s choice, either way for I am both.”
“Neither actually,” said Lawrence, “I was hoping to speak with Mrs Roper.”
“Of course, she is around somewhere. Please wait a moment and I will fetch her.”
The shop keeper disappeared through the door at the end of the room. He emerged a few moments later, accompanied by a matronly woman wearing a dark dress of indeterminate colour. Her greying auburn hair was swept tidily under a small lace bonnet.
“Your visitor,” said the Chemist, gesturing towards Lawrence.
Mrs Roper wiped her hands on a tea cloth. “Are we acquainted?” she asked.
“Not at all,” said Lawrence.
“Then, how can I help you?”
“Forgive me if this seems insensitive after such short a short period of mourning, but I need some information about the late Mrs Mary Corbyn.”
Hannah Roper looked towards the floor. Her lip trembled. “She was my friend,” she said.
“I know,” said Lawrence gently. “That is why I would like your opinion.”
“My opinion on what?” she asked. “There has been so much talk about Mary, there is little left to say. Who sent you?”
Lawrence scanned the room. Mr Lait had returned to the other side of the counter and was decanting pills from a bottle into a paper envelope. He whistled as he worked.
Lawrence lowered his voice. “I am here on behalf of the Vicar,” he said. Rumours abound and I need to know more about Mary, how she really was….” His voice tailed away as he struggled to think of a single reason why the woman standing before him should feel any obligation to help.
“You mean all that talk of witchcraft, I suppose,” she said. Her accent was strong; a deep, rich Suffolk twang, long languorous vowels, gentle and soft. He prepared himself for another barrage of superstitious ignorance.
“I do not believe a word of it,” she said. “it is all nonsense.”
Lawrence raised his head and smiled. He studied her face. It was plump and plain, no-nonsense and sensible. A rational woman. Good.
“You appear to be alone in that view,” said Lawrence. “It would be refreshing to hear an account of Mary untarnished by talk of witches. What can you tell me about her?”
Hannah nodded. “Come into the parlour and I will tell you what I know.”
He followed her through the door and into a warm room containing a large range. It was in use and pots and pans bubbled productively. A square table covered in empty jam jars occupied the mid part of the room. Hannah lifted a heavy kettle from the range. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked.
Lawrence nodded and watched as she dispensed hot water over the tea strainer and into the pot. She put two cups and saucers on the table and poured the steaming brew. Then, she sat on a wooden chair at the opposite end of the table. She gestured towards the chair facing her. “What exactly do you want to know?” she asked.
“Why was Mary disliked by so many people,” asked Lawrence. “Gossip and rumours are commonplace in villages, but they do not always stick. Why do people believe in this talk of witchcraft?”
"I see,” replied Hannah. “there is no easy answer to that question. There has always been gossip about Mary, almost from the first day she arrived in the village.”
“Why?” asked Lawrence.
“Because she was so inv
olved with everyone. She cared for them and looked after them.”
“That does not sound like much of a reason to be disliked. Quite the contrary.”
“It was the manner of it,” Hannah replied. “You are well-dressed, sir, and probably do not want for money. When you suffer an ailment, do you seek the services of a doctor?”
“Naturally,” said Lawrence.”
“It is natural for you,” said Hannah, but it is not always an option for poor people. When times are difficult, they must decide between health, heat and hunger.”
“I suppose they must,” agreed Lawrence, “but what has this to do with Mary Ann Corbyn?”
“She knew a little of medical matters. She treated ailments with herbs and poultices and the like. If a young girl got into trouble, she went to Mary.”
“Then she was performing a useful service,” said Lawrence. “Your account does not explain the animosity towards her.”
“No, but her behaviour altered after a while. It began after her first husband died. I suppose you could say both our lives changed, for my dear Harry died the same year.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” murmured Lawrence.
“Thank you,” said Hannah, clenching her jaw, in an obvious attempt to control her emotions. It failed and tears pricked her eyes. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at the dark circles beneath.
She composed herself and continued. “Mary and I grew closer,” she said, “united in grief as we were, helping and consoling each other through our loss. Mary kept busy dispensing her potions and powders, and I began working at the Post Office. But over time she became less interested in medicine and more involved with scrying.”
“Scrying?” asked Lawrence.
“Fortune telling,” said Hannah. “She helped silly young girls find husbands by making charms and reading cards. All nonsense, of course, but she came to believe she had a gift for such things.”
The Fressingfield Witch Page 5
