The Wilding (9 page)
I helped him load a cart with apples for our mill. It was my second day at home after finishing the last few pressings and I was feeling the lack of sleep, the nightmare having dogged me all round the villages and right back into my bed again. I told myself there was no help for it; I could hardly return to my aunt’s house before her late apples were ripe, and besides, I perceived that Father had been hanging on, braving the risk of his crop turning to vinegar, for the pleasure of the two of us making our cider together. I must therefore stay where I was and defy the apparition.
We pushed apples into the mill, my father pressing them down.
‘Ready, Jon?’
‘Aye, Father!’
I turned the handle with a will.
‘Sure and steady,’ he said. ‘Remember me holding you up so you could reach?’
‘I can’t have been much help.’
‘You are now.’
Where I was concerned my father was easy to please. All I had to do was labour alongside him; such simple companionship could win his mind, for a short while, even from his brother’s death. I reflected that it was a thousand pities that I must set off again for Tetton Green just when our own late apples would start to come to ripeness. It seemed to me that my father needed more sons, and my mother needed daughters to talk with in the kitchen and at the fireside. There was a sad dearth of children in our family: though my father and Robin had been two out of six, the other four died in infancy, while Aunt Harriet had no children at all.
‘If only Robin could be here,’ my father said, chiming with my own thoughts. I glanced at him; the familiar haggard look was once more stealing over his face.
‘Did he enjoy cider-making, Father? I never thought of him in that way.’
‘I mean, I wish he were still with us.’
I nearly said, ‘Perhaps he is,’ but held back. My father claimed not to believe in ghosts, but he had failed to carry out Robin’s last wishes and had not forgiven himself. To tell him of my dreams could only give him pain.
This seemed a good time, however, to ask about the cart. Had the idea come a few minutes earlier I would not have spoken, for fear of spoiling his mood; since, however, he was already grown melancholy, it could do no harm. I dropped the handle so that the mill grew quiet.
‘Father, was Uncle Robin ever hurt by a cart or a coach?’
‘Hurt?’ Father exclaimed.
‘Didn’t you say once that he was?’ As I spoke, I wondered too late if he, too, was plagued by the dream and I caught my breath. His face, however, showed nothing but puzzlement as he shook his head.
‘Not as far as I know. Somebody else must’ve told you that.’
‘I was sure it was you. Oh well, I dreamed it, then!’ I laughed and again began to mill, turning the handle faster and faster while the apples hopped about inside.
* * *
Tamar and I were lying bundled together in the blanket. She said, ‘Won’t you look?’ and began sliding up and out of it so that I could see she was naked, her red-gold hair tumbling down over her shoulders and front. She parted the locks of hair like curtains and showed off her breasts to me: hard, unripe little things, the teats long and very red. She was thin and curved, like those figures carved on the fronts of churches, with a pale sheen on her skin, and rough, reddish patches under the arms and between the legs. She sat astride the bundle, with me still wrapped within, and rocked back and forth on her patch of tawny fur. I struggled against the blanket, trying to push her off, but she held onto me with her legs, jiggling and laughing at my attempts to free myself.
I woke with a soiled nightgown.
8
I peered at the direction: my name did indeed appear there, along with instructions that the package be left with ‘Mr Simon, that keeps the horse Bully’.
‘From my aunt?’ I asked.
Dunne grinned. ‘A word of advice, Cider-Rat. Don’t be a fool, and don’t take me for one.’
‘I never have, Simon.’
Just the same, I hurried home without telling him my thoughts and managed to get upstairs unseen by my parents. My hope was that the package might contain a letter from Tamar. Ever since that dream I had found myself thinking of her, wondering if her nakedness had anything in common with my night visions, lost in this fancy until with a shock I recalled the real Tamar: she of the bluish feet, who skulked in a cave and stank like a polecat, she who had not even a comb for her hair. Yet I had seen a man come away from her, wretched as she was. Surely he must desire brutish pleasures! And drive a harsh bargain, too, so that she feared and dreaded him even as she hoped he would return.
I had begun to mull over the idea of a rescue.
One way was to bring her back with me and throw her on my parents’ charity. I did not think this would succeed. My mother was generous to the honest poor, but Tamar did not come under that heading. Besides, even if Mother should embrace her, which was far from my expectation, what of Joan? She could not be left behind, which meant I would be saddling my parents with two beggars to feed and sustain. It was impossible; they had not the means.
In my chamber I put a chair against the door and unpicked the outer wrapping. The package was a fair weight. What could they have sent me? Some magical thing, perhaps – a pig’s heart studded with nails, some foul charm that I would have to smuggle out of the house before my parents saw it. By the time I got it open I was shaking. There was nothing inside but a good many sheets of Aunt Harriet’s paper, covered in an uneven hand and disfigured with splotches and scratchings from the pen. I unfolded the first sheet and read on, as follows:
Master Jonathan
,
You will be surprised, Sir, to receive this. Not an amulet,
you see, but a letter. You did not believe I could write one,
perhaps, but then I never had paper from you before so now I
will try my hand, see what I can do. I trust you can read this,
I lose all my trouble else. It is hard going with the paper on
my knee and the draught moving it about, but I have all the
time in the world and I persevere
.
My daughter wishes me to say why she had the ring from
Mr Robin and why she should get it back. She must be
patient, I have other things to tell first. I am so frail now in
my body that they must be told or else they will be lost with
me and then the rest cannot stand by itself. Be patient, Sir, if
*
I came into this world in 1623, not far from the place you
know of where I am now so reduced. I was not born a beggar.
My father was an educated man, respected by all that knew
him
.
My mother was his second wife. When they met he was a
widower with one child, a daughter, and my mother a quiet,
homely sort of person, with a good dowry but not in her first
youth and not much given to reading or conversation.
However, in time they made a good match of it and I believe
they were happy. I was born within a year of the wedding; his
first daughter was at that time four years old
.
When I was about three a little boy was born to my parents,
and then a girl when I was five. Both these babes died.
My mother had no more children and when I was eight she
died of a swelling in the womb, so my father was now a widower
twice over. He loved both of us children tenderly and
chose not to marry again so as to protect our inheritance
.
Two years passed, during which I mourned my mother. At
the end of them I was only ten and still a child but my sister
(for so I called my half-sister) was now fourteen and greatly
admired by a local man. What is more, she claimed to return
his affection
.
Father was against it from the start. His first wife had set
aside money in her will so that my sister might have a dowry
that would attract men of substance and reputation. This
man had not the land or the wealth that must join with my
sister’s fortune. It was whispered that he was in love with that
fortune, and not with my sister, and Father refused to let her
throw herself away
.
Oh, she was in a rage! She wept and screamed that our
father had married whom he wanted, twice over, and she
should be allowed to do the same. He told her he was a grown
man, and rational, whereas she was a lovesick girl. She
threatened to kill herself. I begged her not to, it was a terrible
sin, and she called me a little cringing fool for my pains. We
went on like this for days, my sister calming down and then
breaking out again, until Father was driven to slap her face
good and hard. Then she shut herself up in her chamber.
Food was brought to the door but she refused to come out and
take it.
My sister had always bullied and belittled me; I was not
displeased to see her nose put out of joint. Hearing her sob
behind her chamber door, I walked away and out into the
garden where I sat listening to the tinkle of a fountain, thinking
how pig-headed she was and wondering when she would
come to her senses
.
You see how violently my sister set her heart on this man,
and how little I entered into her feelings. She was half a
woman, while I was still a child incapable of understanding
what ailed her. More than this, we had always been different.
My sister took after her mother. This lady had been very
beautiful (though my sister was not exactly that) and clever,
and also pampered and indulged from a child, so that she
could not bear to be crossed, and so it was with my sister. As
for me, I took after my own mother, and my nickname was
Miss Mouse. I was not so forward as my sister in courage or
understanding, and (as she often reminded me) I had an
inferior dowry. I desired nothing so much as to please everybody
– I would have pleased even my sister, had she consented
to be pleased. I never pictured myself accepting or rejecting a
bridegroom, but always as being submissive to another’s
choice
.
The battle in our house continued for weeks. Hunger soon
obliged my sister to begin eating again but neither she nor our
father would give way. Perhaps my sister would have buckled
under in time, but in December Father fell ill. She was frightened
then, and tried to make up, but he wanted her to promise
she would not marry the man after he died, and she
refused, sticking it out to the end, so that she and Father were
never reconciled. We buried him three years after my mother.
His two wives were laid in the same grave and he went in
with both of them
.
Father had threatened to write a will that would leave her
penniless should she marry the man, but we found he had not
carried out his threat. Instead, he had appointed an uncle as
our guardian. Uncle Toby took much the same tack as Father
had done: he was all for my sister marrying into wealth. He
spoke to her most unkindly, saying that her wicked disobedience
had killed Father. She wept so piteously at this that even
I was sorry for her
.
Something changed, however, and within a few months
Uncle Toby announced that my sister (who had just turned
fifteen) might marry whom she would, provided she would
wait until she was twenty-one so that nobody could say he
had slacked his duty. I will not say my sister rejoiced, since I
saw her crying, but she was a step closer to liberty. As for me,
I could not understand why our uncle had set aside his
brother’s dying wish. My belief now is that he received money
from my sister’s lover in return for consenting to the match.
Perhaps Uncle Toby hoped to have his bread buttered on both
sides, as they say, for it was six years off and should my sister
change her mind, he could keep the gift and perhaps get
another such from another man. But this is all fancy and
supposition
.
From fifteen to twenty-one is a dreary long time, to be
sure. Offers were made, some of them most advantageous, but
my sister was adamant in refusing every other man as long as
her sweetheart continued to court her. I sometimes hoped one
of the disappointed suitors would turn a tender eye on me,
but none ever did. They could not excuse the smallness of my
dowry or the plainness of my features. I was not so very plain,
neither, except when I was standing next to her, but that was
most of the time
.
My sister was married in the February of 1639. Apart from
Toby we had an Uncle Jeremiah, an Aunt Susan and an Aunt
Elizabeth, all on Father’s side, all of whom declined to attend
or help in any way since they said my sister’s wilfulness had
put Father in his grave. It made a shabby, shameful business
of the wedding, but my sister said she did not care: she was as
lawfully wed as any of them. Our only visitors were her
bridegroom’s brother and a sister-
in-
law who turned out to
be respectable people, civil to my sister and gentle towards me.
They treated us better than our own kin had done and I was
sorry to see them go
.
My sister’s husband now ruled our household. I will own
that at first I disliked him, partly because it seemed insolence,
even after six years, to step so easily into Father’s shoes, and
partly because I was jealous. Though a tyrant, my sister had
always been one of the pillars of my young life, more often
than not my sole companion. Now she was forever with him,
doting and whispering, and for hours I wandered about the
house alone
.
Our new master was a handsome young man, big and
strong in body but lazy, fond of the table, good-natured as
long as his wishes were met. I say now that he was handsome
but I could not see it then. I found his face too red, his breath
too meaty. He tried to coax me into friendship and would
pull me onto his knee. I would blush and wriggle away, leaving
him laughing. Then my sister (who barely acknowledged
me at other times) would be angry at both of us, and he
would call her his jealous little wild-cat, and kiss and
embrace her until they made it up
.
He was not one for bickering. If the food was not well
sauced he would shout and swear – eating was a great thing
to him – but give him a good table and a good cellar and he
was always in humour. I had expected him, as a fortune-
hunter, to gather up my sister’s goods – all her coin, jewels,
and bills – in a sack and run off with them, yet he was still
with us, seemingly content to carry out his side of the bargain.
He behaved kindly to me, unlike my sister, who showed
only too clearly that she found me an encumbrance
.
A year after the wedding I was persuaded my father had
been mistaken about him; two years after that I spoke as
trustingly with my brother-
in-
law as I had once talked with
Father himself
.
I was now nearly nineteen, but still babyish and shy, with
no notion of putting myself forward. Most of the time I stayed
at home, practising my music and embroidering in wool. I
would have liked to go into the kitchen and talk to the cook,
but that was forbidden, and we made few visits to local families.
When I did meet with young men, their manners
repelled me. They were often loud and boisterous and I preferred
the easy-going company of my brother-
in-
law. Had my
mother lived she would have taken thought for me, plotting
likely matches among her acquaintance, but my sister was too
wrapped up in her own concerns to bother about getting me a
husband
.
Now, however, my sister decided it was time to bring me to
market. My brother-
in-
law said, ‘Certainly,’ but took no trouble
over it, and this angered her
.
‘She’s not pretty,’ she said. ‘All she has is freshness, and it’s
fading already.’
She said this as we were finishing up our dinner. It was a
cruel and wicked speech but I did not notice that then. I
thought only that I was ugly. My lip quivered and I bit it to
keep it under control
.
My brother-
in-
law whistled as if to say she was too harsh
.
‘I wish to help her,’ my sister cried. ‘You should do as
much.’
‘As much as what? Have you settled on a man?’
She had not, and he knew it. She turned the question on
me. ‘Miss Mouse? Have you someone in mind? Or shall I
hawk you round the market cross in a basket, like stinking
fish?’
I could not bear it. I went to my room, where I cried a good
half-hour
.
*
The best excuse I can make for my sister is that she was then
with child. She had already lost a boy, stillborn, and the
dragging pains in her back were coming on again. She spent
much of each day lying down with her feet higher than her
head, drinking concoctions to strengthen the womb. (They did
her no good: that child was also lost, like the one before it.)
And at this very time, when a woman most craves peace
and protection, my sister had another cause for fear
.
I am not sure when I first realised that my brother-
in-
law
no longer loved his wife. Ah! you will say, your father was
right, he was a fortune-hunter, but (if you will forgive me,
Sir) you are mistaken. We heard tales of these men, coming
down from London to the country places, dazzling silly
wenches, flinging their dowries about in a fine show and then
running away from the ruin they had made. Nothing in our
house smacked of that. Leaving aside his eating and drinking,
my brother-
in-
law was not extravagant. He cared nothing for
finery, horses, gaming; you could even call him close-fisted. It
was as I have said, he did not love my sister and that was all.
I mean it was ALL, the coupling without which nothing else
holds; but I would have taken my Bible oath he loved her
when they were first wed. You are thinking, perhaps, that a
Bible oath can mean little to a woman like me. It was a heavy
matter to the girl I was then – and I would have sworn
.
