I, Coriander (25 page)

‘Did I?’ he said, looking at me. ‘I do not remember. I was too consumed by my own misery.’

‘Father,’ I said, trying to reassure him, ‘you were brave enough to do what she wished for.’

‘Brave, you call it. No, not brave, foolhardy,’ he said. ‘She gave me her shadow on our wedding night. She made me promise that I would always keep it safe. I did not understand what she meant. I tried to give it back to her when she was ill. She would have none of it. I should have taken it out of the casket and forced it on her. Oh, what a fool I was!’ And he hit the wall above the fireplace with his hand.

‘You did what she wanted,’ I said.

‘Yes, and she died. If I had made her take the shadow, would she still be alive?’

‘She would have been alive for a while in her world, and then she would have been killed by her stepmother, Queen Rosmore, who was waiting to take the shadow from her. Father, believe me, you did the right thing. It was Rosmore who killed her. That is why none of the remedies worked. But she wanted to die in this world with us. She did not want to go back where she had come from.’

My father came to sit beside me and held my hand.

‘She knew that if that happened, you and she would be parted for ever,’ I went on. ‘She took her chance with death in this world, hoping that by the grace of the Lord you would one day be reunited. That could never have happened if you had given her back her shadow.’

‘Coriander, how do you know these things? If what you say is true you have taken a great weight off my shoulders.’

‘It is true, Father. I promise you that it is.’

He looked back at the fire and after a while said, ‘What has happened to the shadow?’

‘It is mine to look after now, and it is where it should be.’

‘And the silver shoes,’ my father went on. ‘I could not understand why Eleanor was so adamant that you should not have them. When she told me that she thought her stepmother had put a spell on them, it made no sense. In all honesty I felt it was easier not to believe it.’

‘What did she tell you?’ I asked.

‘That those silver shoes had been sent to you to tempt you into her world. She told me about her stepmother and how she was sure that she would try to find the shadow, and that if she did, then one day we would lose you.’

‘Why did she think that?’ I asked.

‘Because you come from her world as much as ours.’

‘Surely you must have been in that land too,’ I said, ‘for I have seen a portrait of you with mermaids by a river.’

‘Those paintings were sent to us after our wedding. Eleanor told me that they were a present from her father. I never met him; I never went to that land. I often wondered how it was they had got such a good likeness of me. Oh Coriander, I should never have left you. I should have taken you with me, as you asked me to do. I have never forgotten your sweet face looking up at mine and your thin little arms around my neck. If only I could turn back time! Instead, like a fool, I left, telling myself it was all for the best.’

‘Maybe it was,’ I said.

Danes came in with a tankard of ale and a plate of seed cake. She set them down on the table and said, ‘Have you told her about Maud?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Please do. What happened to her?’

My father let out a hollow laugh. ‘She was found babbling here in the house,’ he said, ‘by a pile of bones which she swore were the remains of Arise Fell. The constable had her arrested and as they could make neither head nor tail of what she was saying, she was taken to Newgate Jail. She was accused of murder.’

‘They were the bones of Arise Fell,’ I said.

‘If that is the case, I am glad to know it. There was much talk of the preacher, for he was not seen again. When I got back to London, I came straight here. I could hardly believe the state or the stench of the house, all the furniture gone, and rats the only inhabitants. I was so angry I went to see Maud in prison. She was not a pretty sight, given over to boils and sores on the skin. Lord, I felt so angry with her that I wanted her hanged. She begged and wept, saying that she had lost her way, that it was all the work of the Devil. I would have none of it. That brought her up sober and no mistake. She told me that she and Arise had been given gold by some old witch. All they had to do was kill you and find the shadow for her, but evidently they tried to play the woman for a fool, which they much regretted. Maud spoke all the time in the plural, as if Arise was still by her side.’

‘What happened to Maud? Was she hanged?’

‘She pleaded with me to get her freed and promised that if I did she would reveal where all my furniture could be found.’

‘Was it at Ludgate Meeting House?’ I asked, smiling.

‘Yes,’ said my father. ‘The wretched brethren had all my things. Arise and Maud had removed everything with the exception of the stuffed alligator. I made a statement to the authorities and Maud and the entire congregation were deported to the New World.’

‘I think,’ said Danes quietly, ‘that she had much to thank you for.’

‘I could not, for Hester’s sake, see her mother hanged. The poor girl had had more than her share of troubles. I only regret that Danes was not able to find me when she came to France.’

‘I regret too, sir, that our paths never crossed,’ said Danes. ‘I feared that you were dead.’

A
s May came into blossom, Charles II was proclaimed King of England. All London became giddy with the thought, like a tipsy old widow putting on her finery after years of mourning. Everyone’s spirits suddenly lifted. The hope for the future was good and the cry on every street corner was ‘To the King his own!’

On the day after my return, Danes took me to see Master Thankless. Hester was right: Bridge Street was hardly recognisable. It was undergoing a feverish transformation. Buildings were being painted, windows mended, flags hung out for the King, who was due to enter London over the great bridge. A maypole with the King’s flag on it had been put up near Bridge Street, and although some soldiers tried to have it removed it stayed firmly upright.

The streets were awash with colour. Never in this world had I seen such a collection of brightly dressed people as there were on Thames Street that morning. Gone were the sober blacks and greys. Now defiant scarlet, pink, yellow and purple met the eye.

It was official. The country had sent the Puritans packing and it was hard to believe that anyone had ever supported Oliver Cromwell.

On our way we bumped into Mistress Jones, who was full of complaints about the money being spent and the fuss being made.

‘If we cannot celebrate the King’s return, what can we celebrate? ’ said Danes.

‘Hmm,’ said Mistress Jones. ‘I think we shall all live to regret the day we asked him to come back. In my view, we should have kept to being a God-fearing Republic.’

Danes drew herself up. ‘How can you say that? Oliver Cromwell was nothing but a usurper.’

‘Come,’ I said hastily, taking her arm, ‘we shall never get all our errands done if we stand here all day arguing.’

‘Why, some people...’ she said as we neared the tailor’s shop.

I had to smile. ‘At least Mistress Jones is making no disguise of the fact that she supported Oliver Cromwell. I suspect that if we asked these other folk, we would find it hard to get a single one of them to confess to being a Puritan.’

The bell to the shop rang out merrily and Nell opened the door. Her hand flew to her face when she saw me.

‘Oh, take me to sea in a sieve! You’re back safe!’ she said. ‘And what a fine lady you are, to be sure! You’d turn the King’s head.’

Master Thankless looked up from his cutting table.

‘Coriander!’ he said, coming over and kissing me on the cheek. ‘I told you, Mary, she would come back looking more beautiful than ever.’

‘Is all going well?’ I asked.

‘I feel like a lord,’ said the tailor. ‘And if business keeps on like this, I shall be richer than the King. Why, everyone wants new clothes. They want to look as bright as peacocks’ tails, as colourful as parakeets.’

He took us down to the kitchen and opened a bottle of Rhenish wine. The fresh-faced new apprentice, Tom, brought in bolts of fabric for us to look at.

‘I have been told that you are in need of new gowns in the latest French fashions,’ said Master Thankless.

‘That is right,’ I said, feeling very merry, for it is a pleasant and cheerful thing to have a new gown made.

Master Thankless went to no end of trouble to show me all his fine fabrics, winking as he said he kept these only for his favourite customers. In the end I settled upon a flowered satin gown of pale green and to go with it a petticoat of striped silk. Then I chose a bodice made of water-marked taffeta with full sleeves, trimmed with silver lace and pearls, and to top it all, a cut skirt to be tied back so that my pretty petticoats could be seen.

‘Well,’ said Master Thankless when all the measuring and the patterns had been agreed, ‘by my word, you will look a princess. Now, has Danes told you the news?’

‘No,’ I said uncertain as to what news he meant. Danes blushed, which was most unlike her, and said, ‘Of course I have not. We agreed to wait until we were all together again.’

‘What is this news?’ I asked.

Master Thankless held Danes’s hand and said with a smile as big as his face, ‘Mistress Danes - Mary - has consented to marry me.’

‘No!’ I said, jumping up. ‘Why, that is wonderful! I am so pleased for you!’ And I kissed them both soundly.

‘Who would ever have thought it?’ said Danes, flustered. ‘I truly believed I was too old to be loved.’

‘Never,’ teased Master Thankless. ‘Age has only added to your charms.’

34

The Perfect Wife

A
lthough surrounded by so much happiness, I often felt sad. I would look at my father and at Danes, at Hester and her baby, and suddenly, like a beam of sunlight in a shuttered room, I would be transported in my mind to that other world, to Tycho and all that I had had to leave behind.

I knew that in returning, I had made the right decision. This is what my mother wished for me, here my future lay, but this knowledge did not still my sense of regret.

I was not helped by the Bedwells, who had come to the conclusion that I would make Edmund the perfect wife. In fact, this seemed to be taken as a matter of course by everyone except me. Apparently, there was no greater asset to a father than an unmarried daughter, as long as that unmarried daughter did not take too long in finding herself a suitable husband.

‘I am not agreeing to marry a man I have not seen since I was a child,’ I said to my father. I was sitting in my chamber and Danes was dressing my hair and placing in it some flowers.

‘Of course not, my poppet,’ he said, ‘though I am sure you will be most impressed with Edmund. I have heard that he is a very clever, personable young man with a bright future. He wants to get into Parliament.’

What could I say? That I was not a parcel to be bought or shipped? Danes pulled the laces of my dress tight as my father continued.

‘He is an ambitious young man and my happiness would be complete to see not only the King restored but my daughter settled.’

‘I have only just come back, and already you want me gone,’ I said.

My father’s face fell.

‘No, that is not what I am saying. I only want what is best for you. I do not want to lose you ever again.’

Oh, how I wanted to tell him about Tycho. I looked quickly at Danes but I could tell by her expression that she thought I should keep him to myself.

On Wednesday, as promised, we were invited to luncheon at the Bedwells’, and Danes helped me dress in my new gown. I have never been one for staring vainly at myself in the looking glass, but even I was somewhat surprised and gladdened by what I saw. I was a fine young lady. Danes stood there saying I near shamed the sun itself. My father agreed, saying he had never seen me look more lovely. He was wearing his new periwig with many a fine curl hanging down, good wide lace at the neck, and a suit of plum velvet with an embroidered coat. We looked a grand pair indeed, said Danes, and even though the Bedwells’ house was no distance, my father sent for a sedan chair to take us there.

The luncheon was a formal one where we spoke only of things that mattered not a jot to anyone present, the conversation being as shallow as a silver serving dish.

I had, in all truth, been curious to see Edmund again. We were placed next to each other and he took my hand and kissed it extravagantly, all the while looking round at the other guests. I knew immediately that he was not for me. He was as full of his own virtues as some women are full of their modesty. For the whole meal, he talked about what he had achieved since he had left Cambridge. You could be forgiven for thinking that he alone had brought about the King’s restoration. In short, the man was a good-looking, boring, conceited fool.

After luncheon was over, we went upriver on the Bedwells’ barge.

‘A perfect match; they are made for one another,’ I overheard Mistress Bedwell whisper to my father.

I sat with Edmund, feeling stiff and awkward and sure that Danes had tied my laces too tight. I had very few words, which mattered not to Edmund for as long as he could hear his own voice he seemed more than content. I took in the view of all the little boats that looked so pretty, and felt in the air the excitement of a city on the brink of change. The riverbanks were turning green again and houses that had been neglected had been newly painted. The taverns were full and as we passed, we could hear shouts for the King ring out, skimming the water like pebbles.

‘The theatres are to be opened again. The King is all for the play,’ said Edmund. ‘We should make an outing of it.’

There was no need for me to reply. I just had to smile and look interested, in short be nothing more than a doll, a pleasing poppet.

We went as far as Whitehall, which was being made ready for the King’s return, and saw the stone gallery which is mighty long, and I thought that this was where the King’s father must have walked on his way to his execution. Oh, how the tide had turned!