The Telling (30 page)

“Did you know, before Eve, Adam had another wife? God made her out of clay, just like Adam.”

I smiled against the soft linen of his shirt, the warmth of his chest. “Nonsense.”

“No, it’s just not in our Bible. They left it out.”

A moment passed while I considered this. “What happened to her?”

“They didn’t get along so well.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Adam was a fool. I love you.”

He helped me with my stays. He drew them just tight enough, making me breathe high and shallow, but not pinching too much. I found myself wanting to ask about his wife, about the child, but I knew that it was not the time. He bent close to peer at the tiny hooks and eyes of my new dress.

He would leave that evening and walk to Lancaster, taking the footpath along the riverbank, avoiding the main roads. He could go unobserved that way, he said. The most he’d be likely to come across would be a poacher or a gamekeeper, and the lack of interest would be mutual. When he got to town, he would make arrangements and send for me, and for his books. We would be married in Lancaster, he said, that is, if I consented, since I hadn’t actually given him an answer yet.

“But you haven’t actually asked.”

“Didn’t I?”

“No, you instructed.”

“Well then, that must be remedied.” He took my hands,
looked into my face, half smiling, half serious. “Would you do me the honour of consenting to be my wife?”

It was dizzying, the way things had changed, the way we’d changed towards each other. I was so conscious of my own happiness that it made me shy again.

“Yes,” I said.

He touched a hand to my cheek. I still remember the feeling of it, the cool hard dryness of his palm, as if the flesh there is somehow haunted by his touch. “Just to do that; to touch you—” He shook his head.

He said he’d a friend who had a packet boat at Glasson Dock, it would take us down to London. There, he had other friends, and we could stay with them while he found work, since there was always work in London. And it was easy to go unnoticed there. He would keep his head down, stay quiet for a time. If that did not fall out well for us, we would go to America. He knew people who had gone there, and been prosperous. They’d help him find work and establish himself. Whatever happened, we would be together, and therefore happy.

I was so giddy with everything that if he’d just suggested emigration to the moon I wouldn’t have raised a single objection. He loved me. His happiness depended on my company. We would be together. Anything seemed possible now.

He found paper, and folded it, and wrote a direction on it. He fixed a stamp to it.

“If anything goes wrong, if something happens and you find you need me urgently, write to me. You know how this works, don’t you. All you need do is write your message, seal it, and leave it in the box, and it will be collected and brought to me at this
address. If I can’t come for you myself for whatever reason, I’ll send for you.”

I took the paper and tucked it inside my bodice. I reached up and combed my fingers through my fallen hair. I divided it into three and began to twist it into a plait.

“You must be patient,” he said. “It will take a while to find lodgings, to make arrangements and send for you, it might take days. But I will send for you as soon as I can.”

“I know.” I felt a new kind of calm. All would be well. The certainty must have shone from me like light from a candle flame.

“Enjoy yourself,” he said. “Dance yourself giddy. Behave as though nothing is out of the ordinary.”

I lifted the plait, coiled it around with a ribbon and pinned it into place. “Everything is out of the ordinary.”

He touched the nape of my neck. “I used to have to try so hard not to hate him, and now I haven’t even a shred of guilt regarding him. I don’t even feel sorry for him. I really must be a wicked man.”

“You’re irredeemable,” I said.

“And yet uniquely blessed.” He paused for a moment, suddenly grave. “You don’t mind leaving all this? You won’t miss your family, your friends?”

I found myself thinking about this a moment longer than was comfortable. His expression clouded with concern.

“Not second thoughts?” he asked.

“Not second thoughts,” I said, fumbling for the right words. “The opposite, perhaps. I feel like I’ve been missing people for a long time now; that they’re already gone.” I smiled to show it didn’t matter. His looks clouded deeper. He touched my face, kissed my lips.

The piece of paper, that I had tucked so carefully inside my bodice; I knew it would not be needed. It would be my talisman, my charm. Nothing would stand between us, not Thomas, not my father, not the whole of Her Majesty’s Militia. To me, at that moment, it didn’t matter whether we were married in Lancaster or London or not at all. This had been my wedding, this was my wedding dress. Though I hadn’t had the chance to finish it: the hem was still held up with pins.

There was a smell of woodsmoke, the peppery scent of fern, and sweet straw and late roses. I could hear music from up on the green, and as I got closer, laughter, and talking. It seemed as though the houses were decorated in honour of my passing, the music was playing for me, everyone was gathered on the green to wait for my arrival. I was the heart and purpose of it all, and at the same time set apart, observing and appraising like a queen. The skirts were soft and rustling around my ankles; only now and then did the point of a pin snag my stocking or prick my skin. Everything was beautiful and strange and familiar, and none of it mattered at all.

The road was almost blocked with gigs and traps and wagons; horses were cropping the grass banks. The green swarmed with people like ants in a broken anthill. From the elevation of a wagon’s tail, the musicians gave out a vigorous rendition of “Grimstock,” and on the ground in front of them the dance was in full swing. Children raced about in packs or sat in conference over a posy or a ribbon. Older folk were ranged on benches and clusters of stools, rehearsing ancient gossip. It was the same as
last year, the same as the year before and the year before that. The same people, bar a few losses and additions; the same decorations, the same tunes, the same dances. The same smell of horses, sweat, ferns, flowers and smoke. It was the same as every year that I could remember since I was a little girl, except that now I was changed and was no longer part of it.

I walked out onto the green. I caught Mrs. Forster’s eye quite by chance; she was standing with her husband, who was in conversation with Mr. Aitken; seeing me, she turned uneasily, and I saw that Sally was with her, on her other side. It was unexpected to see them there, after everything. Perhaps, I thought as I went over to them, things were not quite as bad as I had feared. I greeted them, and ducked in to kiss Sally, and she straightened her bonnet. I hadn’t seen it or her dress before. They were both remarkably pretty.

“You’re looking well, Lizzy,” she said. I thanked her. “It was considered important that we be here.”

I nodded; I didn’t register then the significance of her words, or her look, which was much older than her years. I was thinking that this might be the last time I ever saw her, and that I loved her, and that she was a perfect little madam but I’d miss her.

“Sally?”

She was scanning the dancers, her sharp face at once aloof and curious.

“Yes?”

I chose the words carefully so as to fit with her new way of speaking.

“Have you seen our mother?”

“She was helping with the dinner, but I think she’s watching the dancers now.”

I wanted to hug her, shake her, remind her of the times she’d wet the bed on us. “Thank you.”

I took her hand; she gave me a sharp little glance. I went to find my mam.

She was perched on the end of a bench, watching the dance. She glanced up as I approached, got up straight away, and took my arm, and walked with me away from the dance, to where there was space to stand comfortably and talk.

“Did you bring the damsons?”

I nodded. “They’re eaten already.”

“That tree’s a good fruiter.” She kept hold of my arm, and glanced down at my hem. “And you got that done.”

She looked up at me and raised her fingertips towards the ribbon in my hair, and the ghost of Mr. Moore’s touch grazed my skin again. I blushed, and seeing the blush, and misunderstanding it, she smiled, and said, “You look lovely, Lizzy; Thomas is over there.”

I didn’t mean to; I glanced over. He was standing with David Airey, and they were both staring at me, and Thomas had a faint smile on his face that I didn’t like. I looked away, asked Mam if she’d seen my dad. She shook her head. There was something odd about her manner; I couldn’t place it for a moment, and then I realized. She was peaceful. She was content. She wasn’t worried.

“What’s happened?”

“All is well.”

“What do you mean?”

She smiled and tugged my bodice straight.

“What about Dad? Mr. Moore said there would be troops; that the Riot Act would be read and there would be troops. And now the Aitkens and the Forsters are here as if nothing’s happened, and there’s no sign of Dad.”

“The Riot Act’s been read. We are quiet now. You’re father is in the public house if he is anywhere; and he’d better enjoy it because it’s his last chance: after this I’m cracking down.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The troops are on their way.”

“But then—” Panic seized me. I turned from her. She took my arm again, speaking calmly, as if delivering a dull but necessary lesson.

“Mr. Aitken read the Riot Act this afternoon, and then the Reverend spoke to the men; you’ll have missed all this, staying home to finish your dress. Without Mr. Moore there to lead them on, the men have seen sense, it’s all cleared up, so you needn’t worry about your father. Or no more than usual, anyway. The worst he’s going to get today is drunk.”

“But what about Mr. Moore?”

My mam shrugged. “We’ll be rid of him.” She let go of my arm. She looked quietly happy. “It was only Sammy actually got hurt; a crack to the head was all; he’s never been the sharpest stick in the woodpile anyway; there’s no real damage done. It’s all forgotten. Or it will be soon.”

I was lifting my hem to go, to rush back the way I’d come, to get to Mr. Moore, but then Thomas was there; he took my other arm, and said, “You’ll dance with me, Lizzy,” and he drew me off into the dance.

They were lined up for Strip the Willow; the band were playing the opening phrases of the new tune.

“I can’t,” I said, “I have to go.”

Thomas didn’t seem to hear me. He was marching over, trailing me behind. He deposited me at the top of the line of women. It all happened so fast. Feet thumped the grass to the music: it lurched towards the cue, and Thomas grabbed my arm with his, clamped me to his side, and spun me down the lines of dancers. I was dragged along, dizzy and whirling, flung from Thomas to be spun by the other men, then grabbed hold of again by him, and spun some more. My toes barely touched the ground. We came to a dead stop, and Thomas let go of my arm. We stood, gasping, facing each other. Down the vacant strip of grass between us, the next couple whirled in the dance. Thomas stood there, his cheeks flushed, grinning at me.

“Were you there when they read the Riot Act?” I asked.

His smile faltered and he looked away, towards the dancers.

“What’s going to happen? What did they say?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“What did they say?” I asked more urgently, stepping towards him, suspicious of his uneasy smile. The dancers reached us; Michael Robinson slipped his arm under mine, and he spun me around and around, and I was almost flying, desperate to be set down, to be let alone, to get my head clear. He dropped me down again, facing Thomas, who was stamping his foot on the crushed grass, slightly out of time, and was gazing up the line of dancers as the next whirling couple bore down on us.

“What did they say?” I asked again.

Thomas pretended not to hear.

“What’s going to happen, Thomas?” I could hear the irritation and impatience in my voice. “
What did they say
?”

Thomas looked directly at me. His eyes were clear and cold and knowing. “The Reverend said we could repent, and be forgiven, but there are some that are irredeemable.”

And then Richard Moss grabbed my arm, and spun me. And as I whirled around, ribbons flying, dress tangling around my feet, the pins pricking at my ankles, I saw them. The vision blurred, and then my back was turned, and then again, I saw the blur of red, the light glinting on metal, the dust rising from the dry road as they came. And through the beat of the music, and the clapping, and the dancers’ stamping, there was, beneath it all, and through everything, the beat of their marching feet. I was dropped, I staggered, sick and winded. My head seemed to catch up with me, and I saw them for the first time clearly. Foot soldiers; half a dozen of them; an officer on horseback. They were turning down the village street. Six men and an officer, and there was only one of him.

I stepped out of the line. Thomas caught my arm. The music seemed to falter, slow.

“They are coming for him—”

“Stay in your place,” Thomas said.

The music picked up again; the next couple had taken hold of each other’s hands, and were spinning down the lines towards us. I pulled against his grip.

“Stay in your place,” he said again.

I dug my nails into his fingers, twisted my arm out of his grip; he cursed and let go. I took one last look at the red coats, the glossy sheen of the horse’s flank. I knew a shortcut. I ran.

I bundled up my skirt to scramble over the stile into Gosses’ field. I raced through the stubble, not caring who saw me, not caring about anything but getting to him in time. My hair was falling loose; I was running faster than I’d run since I was a girl and we used to race each other over the hay meadow stubble, leaping over drifts of drying hay.

I could hear Thomas’s heavy footfalls behind me. I didn’t care; he wouldn’t stop me; I’d get there before he could reach me. Down the road came the thudding march of the soldiers, the creak of their leather and jangle of tackle, and hoofbeats of the horse. My way was just a little shorter than theirs; they had the advantage of a start on me, but then they didn’t know that it was a race. My hair was streaming, my eyes wet, my breath caught high in my chest, my ribs crushing themselves against my stays. They couldn’t have him; I wouldn’t let them. I would get to him in time.