Awakening (27 page)

*

‘It's a form of parricide,' Mrs Elias says. ‘What if all our people should rise against their pastors and sing psalms against them? It goes too far, the democratic spirit in our free churches. How is dear Antigone, Anna?'

‘Very ill, I'm afraid. You know, Mr Kyffin truly believed that he was one of the favoured saints who'd never taste death. He expected to be caught up in a whirlwind with the rest of the justified, to meet Christ in the air.'

‘But did he know he was dying?'

‘I'm afraid he did and it was a bitter disappointment. He felt betrayed.'

‘Oh
dear.
'

Anna goes back upstairs to Antigone, who keeps to her bed and does nothing but weep. Her husband, who was in debt, has left her destitute and she will soon be forced to vacate the house for another minister's family.

‘I'll pour us a drink,' Anna tells her. ‘You are to drink it. You mustn't have it on an empty stomach though so I've brought some cake.'

‘Must I?'

‘You must. It's medicinal.'

‘Where is Ellen, Anna? I need her.'

‘I sent her over to her cousins.'

‘But I depend on her so. Don't send her away. What shall I do?' Antigone's tears begin to flow again. ‘I rely on her.'

‘Yes, but you mustn't. She's a child. It's too much. Charlie can support you.'

‘Charlie can't stop crying.'

‘He will have his cry out, darling, and then he'll be ready for the world again.'

‘He's a child too, though.'

‘No, dear, Charlie's a man. But Ellen is a child.'

‘What will become of us? What shall I do? I'm alone in the world.'

‘You're not alone, Antigone. The first thing to do is to eat and drink.'

‘I cannot.'

‘Well, try.'

As she drinks, Antigone repeats the story of her husband's deathbed. Cheerful nearly to the last, John Kyffin assured everyone that God would not let him die. The children were brought in and requested to kneel in prayer, to welcome the coming Saviour. Nothing. The dying man lapsed into sleep. The family scrambled up from its knees and rubbed them. Every time the door opened, Mr Kyffin awoke expecting an angel visitor and every time was disappointed.

‘He did not make a good death. So where is he now?'

‘In Paradise. A good death, whatever's that? My poor father did not make a good death. God is not so petty as to judge us
in extremis
. His own son cried out in despair on the cross.'

‘My sister Sophia is coming from Bradford on Avon,' says Antigone. ‘To look after me.'

‘That's good, dear. A comfort to you.'

‘Not really,' Antigone whispers. ‘I'll be a poor relation, of small account in Sophia's house, with none of my lovely things around me. We must sell everything. Not that I care about my china and linen any longer.' She gestures round the room. ‘My possessions became worthless when all this started. But when did it start? I've no idea. Where is he, Anna? Do you know?'

‘At peace,' Anna says. ‘Mr Kyffin is at peace. That's what we need to remind ourselves.'

‘They called him a drunkard. He was not a drunkard. We both found that brandy on occasion would calm our nerves. But inebriated? Never. I will not say that Mr Prynne is a wicked liar – who am I to judge? – but this was a wicked lie! Oh, but Anna, I'm forgetting my manners. When is the wedding?' asks Antigone with a jolt. She remembers that the world goes on and that there'll be marrying and giving in marriage. ‘Do try to ensure that your husband – for the life of a minister is enormously
taxing
, Anna, and many die in harness, they
crumble
in the pulpit – as witness my dear late husband – they go off with heart attacks and strokes, often in their prime – I do not mean to alarm you, I'm sure your betrothed is of hardy Welsh stock and he feeds himself well; I've noticed how congenial he is in company and how he enjoys his food and drink, that will be a comfort to you – what was I saying? Yes, whatever you do, Anna, guard Mr Anwyl against
obsession
– try to cajole him from too dedicated a study of St John's Revelation, this is what I wanted to say. Even dear Mrs Spurgeon confesses that she keeps a close eye on Mr Spurgeon whenever he seems apocalyptically inclined.'

*

Nobody at Sarum House is up and about except Amy who, yawning her way into the parlour with a hod of coals, greets Anna with vague surprise as she passes through. Anna puts her finger to her lips:
Shush
,
don't let's wake anyone.
Amy grins, nods. There can't be much that goes on in the Pentecost house that Amy doesn't turn over in her mind while scrubbing and scouring.

The dew's on the grass: the rising sun makes prisms in water-beads hanging from every branch. Appetite for a ride is a thirst that must be slaked. Wearing thick woollen breeches beneath her skirts and a close-fitting jacket, Anna is proof against the chill in the air. She leads Spirit out of the dim stable and saddles up. No one's around to help her mount, so, hoisting her skirts, she uses a pile of timber as a mounting block; flounders as Spirit wheels round in protest; struggles to swing her right leg around the pommel and fit the other beneath the leaping-horn. When Anna's foot finds the stirrup, Spirit steadies to her will.

One day she'll do as Max Hays did in Tenby: ride astride. Max was a tiny creature, fey and boy-like, cutting a caper with everything she did, making a joke of her transgressions. But when the womanly Anna rides astride, she'll need courage. Perhaps when I'm married, she thinks. One good thing about Will is that he's pliable, he'll let her do as she wishes.

The pony's hooves leave a dark trail in the grass. As Anna glances back the way they've come, she spots – surely – Joss sitting in the bay of the parlour window. The back of his head. Whatever's Joss doing up at this time? Amy will be laying the fire in there. Was he seated there silently as she rushed through? Slug-a-bed Joss, so slow to rouse in the morning?
Taugenichts
,
Lore called him fondly:
Good-for-nothing
, in jest, for there was no harm in Joss, Lore insisted, none in the world, he was more innocent than anyone in this house.
Perhaps Joss couldn't sleep.

Something tugs at Anna's mind. To do with Joss. Still waters.

So long since she rode. Walking Spirit out into the lane, past farm workers with cart horses, Anna moves to a canter so as not to get shaken to death by the trot in the side-saddle. She presses into the saddle; the body doesn't forget its knowledge. An elegant rider Anna always used to be, and fearless. Too fearless, Papa used to say: ‘You'll come a cropper.' Of course she was thrown several times but Anna would remount immediately, keeping the telltale bruises to herself. She could not forfeit the pleasure of it, the freedom, the sensuous contact with the creature.

She enjoys the bulk of Spirit's body against her thighs, swaying and circling in the canter – the intimate contact between one life and another, the rider's mastery. There's always the element of risk, for full skirts can so easily entangle with the pommel and break the backs of riders.

On the downs Anna gives Spirit his head and is quickly gasping for breath, muscles burning as she holds her seat. But there's a moment when you pass through exhaustion to what lies on the far side of effort – a sensation of gliding, or stasis even. It's as if she and Spirit weren't moving: no, they are still and the green world races past. They flow and an early morning shadow flows alongside, stretching half a mile.

Anna dismounts at the Endless Pit, the opening of a deep hole in the chalk. The gentle, rolling landscape of the Chase contains ancient earthworks and barrows and tumps encircled by ditches. This is the mouth of the underworld, said Lore: an opening into our mother the earth, a sacred country. Does it disquiet you, Anna, she asked, to think that we are always treading on the heads of the dead? They picked up a bone pin at the Endless Pit and several flint tools. The land shelves beneath Anna's feet so steeply that she feels off balance, as if the hole were sucking her down. She lays her cheek against Spirit's shoulder, taking in the scent of sweat and leather as he crops grass. Years ago the mare Lore rode sickened and died but Spirit has plenty of life in him yet.

It has to be enough, living in the here and now. Let Lore go, she tells herself. She'll drag you down into the underworld. The places that remember her are reminders of absence. She had your soul and you gave it willingly but take it back now. It seems a brutal thought and Anna's tempted to feel guilty. Why would I be angry with Lore? But I am. It rears up in her while the pony bends peacefully to the grass.

I was angry with you for abandoning me.

The dying: there comes a moment when their eyes become remote. You're crouching beside them, loving them, you'd do anything for them: they just turn their backs. I've had enough of you now. I'm going off duty and I'm not coming back. You'll not see me again after this. The moment when Lore turned her eyes to the wall, away from Anna and Magdalena, has gnawed at Anna ever since, for she read in that gesture a capitulation. Gratefully, Lore laid down the burden of consciousness. She sighed deeply, it seemed with relief, putting out from shore, as if to say, I'm done with you now, I couldn't care less, stop bothering me with your distress and demands.

One of the last things Lore said was, ‘I am going into the friendly dark.'

Up to that moment she'd been nervous of the dark. There must always be candles, even when she slept, a wasteful expense. A room with no candles she could not enter.

A flock of birds dithers this way and that on the skyline as if collecting its thoughts, skittering in an ellipse, a spiral. Anna takes from the saddlebag an apple for herself and one for Spirit. The pony's tongue rasps against palm and wrist and Anna shivers deliciously.

Mourning must have … not quite an end, but a completion.

Then there's Will. Anna, yes, loves him. Didn't I always? It's in some ways an uncomplicated affection. For years she's been the one he came to when Beatrice repulsed him, knowing that the younger sister wouldn't salve the wound with lies but speak an astringent truth. Since their engagement, they've walked and talked with an easy intimacy that may grow into something deeper. I can bend him to my will, Anna thinks. But only if I can shake myself free. And if he's free of his obsession with Beatrice.

Goodbye to you, Lore. I'm going to seal you up in the Endless Pit.

I'll mourn the loss of my mourning, Anna acknowledges. Even so, no more of it. I'm young, with all my life ahead of me.

All the while she knows that Lore will fight to keep her. The Lore in her mind, a creature that hangs on blindly with hooks and suckers, will not give up. Anna heaves herself up onto Spirit's back; keeps to a walking pace for she's weary and already has a premonition of tomorrow's aching muscles. She'll be hobbling around like an old woman. Worth it, though. Their shadow has shrunk. Even without the tampering by Quarles, she would have felt trepidation. How to love Will as a husband when it's as a brother that she's always seen him?

Can I love a man? In
that
way? Max couldn't; Eleanor can't.

Chapter 15

Will must be seen as a brother now. He comes and goes in nearly his old easy way and once more makes Sarum House his second home. His first home perhaps, for the Fighelbourn lodgings are cramped and drab. Although nothing has been said, there's a greater ease and kindness between the two of them. They've resumed something of their old jesting banter, in a minor key. And yes, Beatrice's heart quakes frequently, as now, observing the two of them walking in the garden, Will's arm in Anna's, their heads inclining to one another. She knows how it feels to link arms with Will and feel his hand on yours, stroking it as you walk. Accept it she must. Make the best of it. For she wants the Anwyls to live here with her; they must be courted. They bend to the orphaned lambs, Will's palm on Anna's shoulder.

Twisting his head, he looks back to the house: does he sense that she watches him?

Beatrice turns to her husband; smiles.

‘They are happy, aren't they?' she says, voice steady, face unclouded.

‘I'm sure they are. But not as happy as the two of us. Except that I am so often away. I'm sorry about that, dear. Especially now, when you're unwell.'

‘I am well though, Christian. Flourishing. Truly. And, you know, I'm a minister's daughter. I understand the priorities.'

‘Our Saviour helps and supports you. He is with you while I cannot be.'

‘Of course He is.'

But her well-being has little to do with her faith. For all the while Beatrice knows that Christian's absences are a condition of her happiness. Not that she wills him to be gone. When he's due to leave she dissolves in tears, clinging to his hand as he leaves their bed in the dawn light. Then she awaits the letters. Beatrice has fallen in love with Christian less through his attentions to her than through his letters, his marvellous letters. His handsome Germanic script, with its frequent enigmas, keeps her guessing. Some words seem at first indecipherable. Others she construes wrongly, as it turns out, and the mistakes somehow colour the correct interpretation even after the riddle is solved.