The Winthrop Woman

by Anya Seton

  At once at his nearness, Elizabeth was seized with quivering embarrassment. Without looking at him she was yet oppressively conscious of him—of his body; not very tall, but strong and well muscled, of his quizzical brown eyes set beneath arched brows—of the long thick Winthrop nose and cleft chin, the full-lipped mouth indented at the comers like her own. "I must trim my herbs before the dew falls heavy," she said making great play with her knife and the herb basket, though tonight, skilled as she was, she could scarce tell rosemary from verbena.

  "Bess—" said Jack smiling. "You've changed of late, little coz. You've grown into a woman." As she continued to stoop over the plants, he took the knife and basket from her, and putting his hand under her chin, raised her face. He looked long at her, while her color deepened, and she strove to stop the quivering of her lips. "A Winthrop face, but fairer than the rest of our women," he said musingly.

  "You think me so?" she whispered, smiling in a way she had learned would soften most men, looking up at him through her lashes with all the force of her yearning. But he came no closer, though he was troubled and removed his gaze with difficulty from her red mouth. "I have always been so fond of you, my dear," he said. His hand dropped from her chin. "Fonder than of my own sister ... Before I leave on this long journey I'd like to know that you have prospects of happiness ... my Uncle Fones mentioned that you've several suitors..."

  She stiffened and turned from him. "I think not of marriage yet!" she cried. "Do you?"

  "N-no." He was discomfited by her question but he answered it with his usual consideration. "I've thought once or twice to change my state, there was a lady in Dublin while I was there at Trinity, and last year the daughter of Sir Henry—"

  "Yes, I know," she cut in. The whole family had known of Jack's transient courtship, and it had cost Elizabeth many an hour of anguish, crying by stealth in the night so that she would not wake Martha. "And why did you not marry her, Jack?"

  "I'm scarcely sure," he said, puzzled by her vehemence. "We both cooled, I think, at least I found myself grow tepid—then her father had a better offer for her. I'm restless, Bess—I wish to see something of the world before I settle to a squire's life at Groton like my father ... nor do I wish to go on with the law, as he has—though I will always try to do his bidding."

  "Aye," she said softly, anger leaving her. She moved from him and rested her hand on the wall, plucking and twisting at a clump of orange wallflower that grew in a cranny. It was that which kept him from seeing and perhaps returning the love she felt for him. Not the nearness of their blood, an impediment which could be surmounted by special license or indeed without it, by going to one of the dissenting ministers who found nothing in Scripture to forbid the marriage of cousins. It was his father's influence, the authority of John Winthrop who was ambitious for this favorite son and heir, and who had never truly liked or approved of Elizabeth since the day he flogged her in Groton Manor eleven years ago.

  "Bess," said Jack coming slowly up to her with a diffidence unlike him, "How is it that of late we seem to jangle when we talk together? I feel you out of temper with me ... all I wished to say was that my friend Edward Howes, if you have set your heart on no one else—he loves you much, and..."

  "Edward Howes..." she repeated bleakly. "My Uncle Downing's clerk. A dabbler in alchemy. A pettifogging lawyer. Is that what you'd have me marry?"

  "Indeed you do him wrong, Bess. He has a brilliant mind, and property in Essex. I thought you liked him."

  "I like him well enough—" She tossed the shredded flowers on the ground. "But—oh—I too am restless, Jack, I too yearn for freedom and far places and adventure ... but I yearn more for something else ... something that's in my bones and blood..." She held her breath, looking up at him through the dusk. Her long hazel eyes were dark with tears, the white kerchief which bound her hair had loosened and her black curls fell on her shoulders.

  "What is it you want so much, little coz?" he whispered.

  "You don't know?"

  He shook his head. "But I pray that God will give it to you, and perhaps it is God that you want ... I think you've never yet found him."

  After a moment she managed to laugh. "So farewell, Jack. Farewell on your journey to the far Levant."

  "The Lord be with you, sweet, I'll pray for your happiness." He bent and kissed her on the lips, as he had a hundred times, unthinking, but now he felt the lips part beneath his own and warmth as from a draught of strongest mead rushed through his body. He drew back, dismayed, and unbelieving.

  "I'll write to you, Bess," he said quickly. "Aye, I'll write to you, as soon as I'm aboard the ship." And he walked from the garden.

  She had hoped that he might have tried to see her again before he set off for Gravesend. where his ship, the "London of London" would sail, but he did not. She lived then for the letter he had promised, thinking that surely in it there would be some recognition of the moment when their lips had met in a different way. But there was no letter—and I am a fool, thought Elizabeth, standing by London Wall in the snow, nearly seven months later. What greater folly for a woman than to love without requital.

  Love. So it was to be a lean diet of that for her. Those who had truly loved her were dead, long ago. She thought with a forgotten ache of her mother, but she could remember nothing clearly except that once they had stood together at a window and looked at the moon. She thought of Adam, her grandfather; he had not died until five years ago, and always with him there had been a feeling of safety, and cherishing ... but he had stayed in Suffolk and she had seen him so seldom. What of your father? said conscience. Surely you love your father, and family? Her mind slid past them all rapidly, without acquiescence or denial, then checked itself on Martha. Yes, for that little sister there was love.

  Even as she thought of Martha the house door opened and the girl appeared calling anxiously, "Bess! Bess! Where are you? Are you out there?"

  Elizabeth answered and started down the path, her feet numb with cold. Martha came running towards her, a small gray figure in her workaday homespun gown, her baby-soft brown hair bound tight by the linen kerchief. "Bess—Lady Carlisle's come herself for the mithridate! At least she's waiting in her coach. We couldn't find you. Father's so upset!"

  "Oh Lud!—I'm sorry," said Elizabeth. "I but went out for a breath of Christmas air. Don't look so worried, poppet, the mithridate's ready."

  She ran into the hall, retrieved the flask and rushed upstairs to her father's bedroom to show him the potion. "I followed the prescription precisely, Father, I'm sure it'll do." She held out the flask of brownish liquid. "Aye, to be sure—I'm sorry," she added to Thomas Fones's burst of querulous reproaches. He sat in his dressing gown huddled in a large court chair by the fire, his nightcap pulled down over his ears. He took the flask in his gouty fingers, sniffed and tasted the potion. "It must do," he said dolefully. "Hasten, Bess, her ladyship'll be angered by waiting."

  "And if she is!" retorted his daughter. "What loss? Since she's paid nothing in years and already owes you nine pounds! She'll at least pay for this, if I can make her."

  "No—no. Bess!" the apothecary cried, knowing his child's headstrong ways. "I forbid it. Say nothing. We can't afford to lose her patronage. Why, she is dose to the Queen, we may yet have a royal purveyorship!"

  "Ha!" said Elizabeth shrugging. "Can't eat that! If the Queen pays no better than her lords. I know what the shop book says—'Desperate' next the accounts of the Earl of Ormonde, and Lady deVere, and Lady Carlisle..."

  "Elizabeth!" Thomas pounded the floor with his blackthorn cane, the moisture of helpless anger in his sunken eyes.

  "Never mind, Papa," she said in some contrition, patting his shoulder. "Trust me—pray don't fret." She ran downstairs to the shop, where a supercilious footman in the Carlisle livery was bullying Martha.

  "So, Mistress—" he greeted Elizabeth, "'ave ye brought it at last? 'Tis 'alf an hour gone, by St. 'Pulchre's bell thet 'er lidyship's been waiting," but his face softened as h
e stared at Elizabeth. "Naw then—ye couldn't 'elp it, no doubt, sweet'eart."

  She pushed past him and opening the shop door stepped outside. The magnificent Carlisle coach and four restive black horses blocked the street. A baker's cart was drawn up patiently behind the coach, a crowd of urchins and beggars surrounded it. A postilion stood at the horses' heads, soothing them. Elizabeth glanced at the gilded coach with its glass windows, at the coat of arms emblazoned on the door. Lucy, the Countess's, own arms—Percy impaling Carlisle, for she was the daughter of the great Earl of Northumberland. For a moment Elizabeth's courage failed her, then she tapped resolutely on the windowpane while the coachman looked around in astonishment, and the footman came hurrying out of the apothecary shop.

  A dim figure moved inside, a face covered by a fashionable black velvet mask peered through the window. Then the door was opened. "What is it, young woman?" asked a cool pretty voice, tinged with the Border accent.

  "I am Elizabeth Fones, the apothecary's daughter, m'lady," said the girl, curtseying. "I've brought you the mithridate, my father being ill, and we crave pardon for the delay. There is one new secret direction for the taking of it that your ladyship should know."

  "Indeed?" said the voice. The moment the coach door opened the beggars had rushed forward, and were now whining in chorus, with outstretched hands. "Alms, your noble ladyship, Christmas alms for the love o' God..."

  "Come in here, mistress," said the Countess to Elizabeth, motioning with an ermine muff; as the girl obeyed and entered the coach, the Countess called impatiently to her footman, "Throw that rabble some farthings and be rid of them!"

  Elizabeth sank nervously onto the purple velvet cushions beside the Countess, for there was no other place to sit. There was warmth in the coach, from a foot warmer of live coals, and it was deliciously perfumed by the jasmine which exuded from the great lady's furs and from her ringlets of gilded hair half concealed by a rose satin hood. Elizabeth sniffed appreciatively, knowing from experience in the stillroom the difficulty of extracting scent like this, and she kept respectfully silent, bearing as best she could the scrutiny of unseen eyes.

  She knew that all court ladies wore masks when they went abroad, but she found the nearness of one slightly disturbing, and wondered if it hid any ravages of the smallpox from which Lady Carlisle had suffered some months before, when the apothecary had filled prescriptions frantically sent in for the Countess by the Queen's own physician. At least the pouting rouged mouth and white chin below the mask were flawless.

  "Give me the mithridate," said the Countess, stretching out a gloved hand on which sparkled three diamond rings. "It has great efficacy as your father makes it, and I wish to take some now for plague preventive since I am driving into the City."

  "It is a powerful preventive, madam," said Elizabeth, while her heart beat fast, "but only under certain conditions ... if they are not fulfilled it may prove quite useless." And she held the flask tight on her lap.

  "Ah...?" said the Countess. "And what condition makes the potion sure of success?"

  "That before it is taken, it is first paid for, my lady."

  The Countess started. "Why, you brazen baggage," she cried, the sparkling hand raised to box Elizabeth's ear.

  The girl moved back quickly. "It is not from brazenness I speak, but from justice. My father is ill, times go badly with us, the mithridate is very costly to make, and so were all the other remedies we've sent you these past three years. Were we wealthy folk we would deem it honor to serve your ladyship for nothing, but we are not."

  The Countess's anger ebbed, and the lightness of spirit which so endeared her to Charles's little French Queen now bubbled up. She began to laugh. "My dear lass, do you think I occupy myself with petty tradesman's accounts? My steward attends to those."

  "But he hasn't, my lady," said Elizabeth.

  "Belle sainte vierge!" cried the Countess, using the Queen's favorite expletive. "Here's a wee terrier that'll worry a bone till Doomsday. How much do I owe you?"

  "Ten pounds, your ladyship—including this." She touched the flask.

  "So much?" said the Countess faintly surprised. "Well, child, I'll instruct my steward to pay you after Twelfth Night. You may send your account again." As Elizabeth made a sound of disappointment, she added, "Come, you don't think I go abroad with a pocketful of sovereigns like a money changer, do you?—Look, my dear, here's a Christmas handsel for you, as earnest of my intent." She drew from her muff a small scented handkerchief, embroidered with a coronet and edged with Mechlin lace. "Now give me the flask."

  Elizabeth murmured thanks for the handkerchief and surrendered the flask, for there was nothing else to do, but there was a hot baffled feeling in her breast. The Countess had been kind enough; no doubt she meant to speak to her steward, but this would be the end of it, Elizabeth was sure. Elizabeth revered King Charles, and was fascinated by the few glimpses she had had of Queen Henrietta Marie, who was of exactly her own age; she would, indeed, have described herself as a passionate royalist. And yet, the discontent in London, the feeling of oppression and injustice in the air, had affected Elizabeth too, and this encounter with Lady Carlisle seemed smothering and inconclusive. It was like trying to make a permanent dent on a swan's-down cushion.

  St. Paul's bells began to peal for noon service, while Lady Carlisle tilted the flask and swallowed some of its contents. Though the great cathedral stood on the other side of London Wall, they heard the melodious clangor through the coach windows.

  "I must hasten," said the Countess. "I wish to hear our good Dean, Master John Donne, preach—the King is so fond of him. If you go to the service, mistress, you may ride in my coach as far as Paul's."

  "Oh, no thank you, my lady, we don't attend church on Christmas."

  "Indeed?" Elizabeth felt the sharpened attention behind the velvet mask. "Why not? Are you dissenters, then? Puritans?"

  Elizabeth winced at the term, though of recent years it had been so often applied to anyone who opposed Bishop Laud's Papist tendencies that the Winthrops and many others no longer resented it.

  "In a way, perhaps, madam," she answered uncomfortably.

  "But that is very wrong!" cried the Countess with anger. "Wrong-headed and disloyal to the King who knows what's best for all of us. Do you dare to question the Established Episcopal Faith of England?"

  "Oh, I do not—" protested Elizabeth a little frightened. "I was raised partly in the old ways, at least our Parish Church, St. Sepulchre's, I think conforms to what the Bishop says."

  The Countess was not listening. "That's enough, mistress," she said coldly. "Had I known the Three Fauns Apothecary Shop was owned by Puritans, I'd never have granted it my patronage. Good day. No," she added as Elizabeth unhappily made to give back the handkerchief, "you may keep that because it's Christmas, no matter how you stubborn fools deny the spirit of Our Lord's Day of Birth."

  So Elizabeth descended from the coach. She watched the postilion mount the off leader and sound his trumpet, while the footman climbed behind on the box. The coachman flicked at the four horses, and the huge gilded vehicle lumbered off down the Old Bailey towards Ludgate. The traffic penned up behind gradually began to move. Elizabeth re-entered the shop where Martha had been crammed against the window, watching.

  "What happened, Bess? What took so long? I thought you'd never come out of the coach. Fancy talking all that time to the Countess of Carlisle!"

  "Far better if I hadn't," said Elizabeth mournfully. "She'll not use us again for her remedies. Father will be ... will be..." she sighed, sinking down on a stool. "Though 'twas not because I tried to get the account paid, 'twas because we're Puritans. Oh Lud—" she sighed again, and put the little handkerchief on the counter. "At least, I got this ... as a Christmas gift. And the beggars got a few farthings too," she added with bitterness.

  Martha did not understand. She gave a cry of delight and pounced on the handkerchief. "Oh, 'tis so beautiful, how can thread be wove so fine ... and the lace; like f
rost flowers!"

  Elizabeth looked at her sister. "Take it, Matt, dear, if you like it. "Pis yours, a Christmas gift."

  "Oh, Bessie, you're good to me!" Martha kissed her sister "How Madge and Dolly will envy when I show them this. I'll put a mask on my face and wave this handkercher and pretend I am a Countess!"

  Elizabeth smiled, thinking how easy it was to please Martha, whose chief happiness still lay in pretending ... and in playing with the waxen doll baby her stepmother had bought for her at Bartholomew's Fair years ago.

  The door opened and Richard Fitch stamped in bearing a wooden keg. "Whew, it's cold!" he said to the two girls. "Water's near froze in the conduit ... Mistress Bess, your lover's a-coming up the street, I saw him turn the corner." He gave Elizabeth a malicious look.

  "I've told you not to speak of Mr. Howes like that!" she snapped. "I presume you mean Mr. Howes since he's coming here for dinner."

  "Well, he'd like to be your lover," said the apprentice, "and from what I hear, the Master's going to give you to him, lessen ye can quick snare yourself something better like a knight or baronet."

  Elizabeth bit her lips and turned away. She was accustomed to Richard's baiting, which she knew sprang partly from his resistance to the attraction she had for him, but his words now gave her a shock, for they exposed something she had avoided facing.

  Thomas Fones was inclined to accept the offer Edward Howes had made for her hand two days ago, and unless she could muster a more convincing reason against the match than her disinclination, she was like to become Mistress Howes before long. And live at Aunt Lucy's! she thought with increased gloom. Lucy Winthrop had long been married to the prosperous attorney Emmanuel Downing, and Edward was his law clerk. But it was not her father's command that Elizabeth dreaded; though he was stubborn enough, she knew how to manage him. This marriage proposal was backed by John Winthrop as well. Which was a very different matter. Since old Adam's death nobody in the family had ever questioned her Uncle Winthrop's decisions, and least of all Thomas Fones.