Gates of Paradise (18 page)

‘I believe it is her purpose in life to disapprove of everything I draw,' he said one evening. The third sketch of Cowper's head had been returned that morning with yet another furious letter. ‘Nothing ever suits. First she says I have made him look ‘too enthusiastic', then it is ‘not a true likeness', now she detects ‘wildness' in his face and orders it to be removed, as if I can paint wildness in or out at her command. There are times when I wish she would draw the portrait herself and have done with it.'

‘She is a hard taskmaster, I allow,' Hayley agreed. And added, lest his powerful patron be criticised too harshly, ‘Let us return to the Iliad, my dear friend.'

Homer was a perpetual delight to them. To sail the wine-dark sea with their familiar heroes, when outside the house an eldritch wind battered the thatched roofs of the village and howled down the chimneys and whipped the bare branches of the elms like flails, to fight with courage and passion before the walls of immortal Troy while the paths of the village were ridged with mud and manure and the water meadow was a soggy marsh, to be enticed by the sirens' song when the Reverend Church could barely make himself heard above the coughs and sniffs of his congregation, was to enter a world of pure pleasure.

There was a disadvantage to all this learning, of course, as Blake knew and acknowledged, especially late at night when he was striding home
to his cottage. It meant leaving Catherine on her own for far too many evenings and, although she didn't complain, he was aware that she was often lonely. Of course he was also aware that most of the village wives were lonely of an evening because
their
husbands were in The Fox. That was part of village life. But even so, he felt ashamed to be neglecting his loyal Catherine. They had always been partners and equals, and neglect was unkind.

So he was relieved when he came home one night to hear that she'd had a visitor. ‘Young Betsy Haynes called in this evening,' she said. ‘Said she'd come to keep me company.' And feeling that she ought to explain who she was, she went on, ‘Mrs Haynes' daughter, the girl that wears the red cloak, pretty girl, you must have seen her about. Works up at the house.'

William remembered her clearly. She was the girl he'd first seen in the cart with Johnnie Boniface, the pretty maid who brought a pot of milky coffee to the library, when their studies were over for the night and Hayley had rung for sustenance. ‘That is kind of her,' he said.

It was also artful. And necessary. For although she and Johnnie had been most discreet, she was afraid that Mrs Beke was beginning to have suspicions about them. Three nights ago, Susie had reported that the housekeeper had been watching from the window of the front parlour just after Betsy went out. ‘All hid behind the curtains, loike she didden want anyone to see 'er.'

‘She might ha' jest been a-lookin' at the garden,' Betsy hoped.

‘In the dark?' Susie scoffed. ‘What for would she be lookin' at the garden in the dark. She wouldn't see nothin' in the dark, now would she? Ho no, she was a-lookin' out fer someone an' someone pertic'lar, what's more. Tha's my readin' of it, anyway. An' there was onny one person what went out a' the grounds that night, an' that was you. Off to see your Ma or some such, wassen that the story?'

‘We must take more care,' Johnnie said, when he was told about it next evening. ‘If you says you're a-goin' to see yer Ma you'd better go an' see her in case she go a-checkin' up on you. An' I'd better nip down The Fox now an' then, just to put in an appearance like. An' we shall have to be altogether more slippy goin' in an' out the stable.'

But their precautions were too late. Mrs Beke had already spoken to Betsy's mother. She'd been pondering the situation for several days, ever since Betsy had asked her – for the third time – if she had her permission to ‘just slip out for a minute or two to see my Ma'. There'd been something so artfully innocent about her that the housekeeper's suspicions had been alerted at once. She'd given her permission, as if it were of no consequence, but, as soon as the girl was gone, she'd left the kitchen and taken up a position by the window of the unlit parlour, as Susie had reported. There was enough moon to give her a clear view and that red cloak
was as bold as a flag. She'd watched as Betsy trotted through the garden and slipped through the wicket gate. So she's gone where she said she was going, she thought, which is something I s'ppose, but she's up to no good, as sure as eggs is eggs. I shan't say nothing to Mr Hayley yet awhile. He's got enough to deal with what with writing that ‘Life' and answering all those awful letters from that dreadful Lady Hesketh. There's no point worrying the poor man needlessly. I'll just keep an eye on things for the time being and have a word with her mother as soon as I can meet up with her.

The meeting was contrived the next day, when Mrs Haynes came out of her door at the very moment Mrs Beke just happened to be passing by.

‘Good morning to 'ee, Mrs Haynes,' the housekeeper said. ‘I trust I see you well.'

‘You do, Mrs Beke,' Mrs Haynes said. ‘Thank 'ee kindly. I had a cold a week or two back but 'tis quite gone now.'

‘We were quite concerned about you up at the house,' Mrs Beke said smoothly, ‘with your Betsy visiting you so often.'

Mrs Haynes took this information as it was intended but she was too shrewd to allow Mrs Beke to know it and she certainly wasn't going to quarrel with it. ‘She's a good girl,' she said, automatically defending her young. ‘She keep an eye on me, which is more than some young 'uns do. I hope it don't trouble you that she comes down so often.' She spoke calmly but her thoughts were furious. She's
up to something, she thought, an' I'm bein' warned of it. This is what comes of her buyin' that dratted cardinal. I allus said no good would come of it. It's give her ideas. She smiled at her adversary. ‘An' are you well yourself, Mrs Beke?'

‘Mustn't grumble,' Mrs Beke said, smooth as butter. ‘We all have our troubles in cold weather, do we not.' And she too was thinking, Well I've warned her. Now she knows an' 'tis up to her to keep her daughter in order. ‘I mustn't keep you, Mrs Haynes.'

So the two women parted, each bearing her secret knowledge away from the encounter, Mrs Beke with satisfaction at a job well done, Mrs Haynes with considerable bad temper, thinking, Oh, won't I have something to say to that minx on Sunday.

She fed her bad temper for the rest of the week and by Sunday she was primed to scold. ‘And where was you when you was s'pposed to be a-visitin' me?' she said crossly as her daughter came tripping up the church path to greet her, bright in that dratted cardinal. ‘Tell me that.'

The attack was so fierce it took Betsy's breath away, as her mother's outbursts very often did, but at least she was prepared for this one and had an answer ready. ‘I was with Mrs Blake,' she said sweetly, ‘a-keepin' her company.'

Her mother was so surprised her mouth actually fell open. ‘An' why on earth would you want to do that, child?'

‘She's on her own, with Mr Blake allus up at the house,' Betsy explained. ‘I thought she'd like someone fer to talk to.'

It sounded so plausible Mrs Haynes could almost believe it. ‘Well, why didn't you tell Mrs Beke all that, instead a' lettin' her come down to me to tell tales?'

‘I didn't think she'd like it,' Betsy said. ‘We're s'pposed to be in the kitchen of an evenin'.'

‘Then tha's where you
should
be,' her mother said, ‘instead a' gaddin' all over the village.'

But at that point Mrs Beke strolled down the path towards them, stout and impressive in her own red cloak, and the conversation had to stop so that they could pretend to be neighbourly. The two cloaks dipped towards one another, swaying like red bells, bonnets nodded, smiles were fixed and held, polite greetings murmured, then Mr Haynes arrived at his usual speed and they all filed into the church and took their places on the pews. There was barely time for Betsy to send a warning eye-message to Johnnie before they were singing the first hymn.

It was a difficult service for the text of the sermon was ‘Honour thy father and mother' and the Reverend Church was in full flow, threatening hellfire for the least trace of disobedience. He went on so long that Reuben Jones fell asleep with boredom and snored so loudly that his wife had to jab him in the ribs to wake him. And then when they were finally allowed out into the chill air
again, and Betsy was looking forward to a few minutes alone with her lover, her mother spoiled it all by saying she was sure Betsy would want to walk back with her parents for once, ‘If you're as concerned about the state a' my health as Mrs Beke was sayin'. I see she's a-watchin' us.'

Mr Haynes was rather alarmed. ‘You're not poorly again are you, Mother?' he said, his broad face wrinkled with concern. ‘I thought you was over that cold long since.'

‘I'm as fit as a flea,' his wife said briskly, and gave Betsy a meaningful look, ‘as well she knows. Well, come along then, don't stand about.'

So Betsy had to leave her Johnnie waiting by the yew tree and walk home with her parents with as good a grace as she could muster, which wasn't easy. Fortunately they passed Mr and Mrs Jones at the corner of Limmer Lane and Mrs Jones was in an entertainingly bad mood, berating poor Reuben for snoring in church. ‘Did 'ee ever hear the loike?' she said to the Haynes. ‘Snorin'! What people must think of 'ee Oi cannot imagine. You ought to be ashamed, so you should, not a-standin' there loike a noddle, with that stupid grin on your face. Oh, Mrs Haynes what must you think of us?'

Mrs Haynes was diplomatic. ‘'Twas a mortal long sermon,' she said. ‘I was about ready to drop off mesself.'

‘You ask me,' Reuben said, defendin' himself, ‘our Mr Blake's got the roight oidea. You don't see him in church. An' fer why? On account of he's a
non-affirmist or some such an' he don' reckon to the clergy. Tha's why. He say they're jist human same as all of us an' they 'aven't allus got the roight of it, an' we don't need to pay 'em no mind.'

‘An' if you ask me,' his wife said, ‘tha's blasphemous. Oi wouldn't ha' thought our Mr Blake would go around sayin' such things. He's too gent'manly fer such a carry-on.'

‘An' so he is,' Reuben said. ‘Onny man Oi ever met what'll tell 'ee the truth straight out. Which is more than can be said fer some. Are we standin' about here all day, woman, or are we gettin' back? My chilblains are killin' me.'

Left on his own in the churchyard, Johnnie felt neglected. He knew that Betsy hadn't really deserted him, that she'd walked off with her parents because they'd told her to, but even so he couldn't help sighing. After so many months walking out together without let, hindrance, notice or responsibility, it was sobering to think that they were being watched and judged. He waited until his parents left the church, walking quietly down the path with young Harry striding between them, and then stepped forward to join them.

‘Well, here's a surproise,' his father said, grinning at him. ‘She 'aven't never stood you up, that young Betsy of your'n, for that Oi'll never believe.'

He hastened to tell them that ‘no she hadn't' but he looked so shamefaced his father was concerned. ‘Oi thought we'd be a-hearin' weddin' bells by
now,' he said, as Johnnie fell into step beside him. ‘You been walkin' out long enough.'

‘It aren't for want of askin',' Johnnie said, sensing criticism. ‘I been on an' on at her but she wants to wait. She's worried where we'd live an' how we'd manage.'

‘Tha's allus a worry,' Hiram said. ‘Allus was, allus will be. 'Tis the nature a' matrimony to my way a' thinkin'. You jest got to take a deep breath an' get on with it.'

But no amount of deep breathing would solve Johnnie's problem for him and now he had an additional one. ‘If you've told your ma you're a-visitin' Mrs Blake,' he said to Betsy later that day, ‘then you'll have to do it. Otherwise she'll smell a rat.'

Betsy had worked that out too. ‘What with one thing an' another,' she said, miserably, ‘I reckon we're a-goin' to be kept apart all winter.'

‘Not if we're slippy,' he promised. ‘'Tis just a matter a' givin' 'em what they're aspectin'. If I go to The Fox an' make sure they all sees me a-goin' an' you go to Mrs Blake's likewise, we can slip back quiet-like in an hour or so, an' no one the wiser.'

She wasn't convinced but she knew it had to be done. There was no other way. So the next evening, when Johnnie strode off to The Fox with Eddie and Bob the boot boy, she wrapped herself up in her red cloak and went visiting. It turned out to be more enjoyable than she expected for when she arrived Catherine was cutting out the cloth for a new shirt
for William, so naturally, not being one to sit idle while others were working, she offered to help to baste the pieces together and Catherine took the offer so gladly, telling her she was an angel sent from heaven and had come at just the right time, that she was warmed by a delightful sense of her own virtue. After that the two of them sat by the fire and tacked the shirt together and talked like old friends.

Before long they were discussing William's poetry. ‘He don't get to write much nowadays what with all the work he's got to do for Mr Hayley,' Catherine said, ‘painting heads and illustrating ballads and such-like, but we're printing off another three copies of ‘Innocence and Experience' as there isn't a copy in the house and that pleases him. Perhaps you'd like to see it?'

She would indeed, so the printed poems were gathered from William's workroom and laid out on the kitchen table for her inspection. Feeling greatly honoured, she chose a poem about a lamb and another called ‘The Shepherd' and read them, slowly and carefully. When she finally raised her head from the paper, Catherine said she must read one called ‘The Tyger' as well, ‘because these poems are about the contrary states of our human souls'.