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A Novel
by Mary Sharratt
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When we were sat together at the table, my Liza went green in
the face at the taste of the old bread and could barely get a mouthful of the
stuff down before she bolted out the door to be sick. Out of old habit, not
even thinking, I crossed myself. I looked to Kit, who looked to his wife, who
shook her head in sadness. Elsie would deliver her firstborn within the month
and now it appeared that Liza was with child, as well. First I wondered who
the father could be. Then I asked myself how we would feed two little babes
when we were hard-pressed to do for ourselves? We were silent, the lot of us,
Elsie doling out the buttermilk she had off the Bulcocks in exchange for a
day’s spinning. Our Kit gave his wife half of his own share of bread—wasn’t
she eating for two?
Then I found I couldn’t finish my own bread, so I passed
it to Kit before hauling myself out the door to look for Liza. By the cold
moonlight I found my poor squint-eyed broomstick of a girl bent over the gatepost,
crying fit to die. Taking Liza in my arms, I held her and rubbed her hair.
I begged her to tell me who the father was, but she refused.
“It will be right,” I told her. “Not the first
time an unwed girl fell pregnant. We’ll make do somehow.” What
else could I say? I’d no business browbeating her for doing the same
as I’d done with Kit’s father, twenty-two years ago.
After leading my Liza back inside, we made for our beds. I climbed
to the upper tower. Room was so cold and draughty that everyone else preferred
sleeping below, but of a crystal-clear evening I loved nothing better than
to lie upon my pallet and gaze at the moon and stars through the narrow windows.
Cold wind didn’t bother me much. I was born with thick skin, would have
died ages ago if I’d been a more delicate sort. Yet that night the starry
heavens gave me little comfort. I laid myself down and tried to ignore the
hammer of worry in my head. Church Warden and Constable were sure to make a
stink about Liza. Another bastard child to live off the charity of the parish.
They’d fine her at the very least. She’d be lucky if she escaped
the pillory. Sleepless, I huddled there whilst the wind whistled through the
thatch.
When I finally closed my eyes, I saw Tibb, his face in its golden
glory. Looked like one of the angels I remembered seeing in our church before
the reformers stripped the place bare. Out of the dark crush of night came
his voice, sweet as a lover’s, gentle as Kit’s father was in the
days when he called me his beauty, his heart’s joy. Tibb’s lips
were at my ear.
“If I could,” he told me, “if you let me, I’d
ease your burdens, my Bess. No use fretting about Liza. She’ll lose the
child within a fortnight and none but you and yours will know she fell pregnant
in the first place.”
My throat was dry and sore. Couldn’t even think straight.
“You’re afraid of me,” he said. “But
you shouldn’t be. I mean you no harm.”
“You’re not real,” I whispered. “I’m
just dreaming you.”
“I’m as real as the ache in your heart,” he
whispered back. “You were meant to be more than a common beggar, our
Bess. You could be a blesser. Next time, you see a sick cow, bless it. Say
three Ave Marias and sprinkle some water on the beast. Folk will pay you for
such things. Folk will hold you in regard and you won’t have to grovel
for the scraps off their table.”
What nonsense, I thought. Church warden would have me whipped
and fined for saying the Ave Maria—and that was but mild chastisement.
Catholics were still hanged in these parts, their priests drawn and quartered.
I told myself that there was no such boy called Tibb—it was just my empty
stomach talking. I rolled over, pulling the tattered blanket to my ears.
Excerpted from Daughters of the Witching Hill by Mary Sharratt. Copyright © 2010 by Mary Sharratt. Excerpted by permission of Houghton Mifflin. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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