I knew you would like them, Janie, said Harry. He knelt beside her, handsome in his velvet coat and falling lace at his throat and full periwig. The young gallant. The young gentleman. Once her love. Wear them for me. Once her love, always her dear.
I thought you had died.
He grinned at her. That handsome Saylor grin. He and Barbara could charm birds from the trees when they smiled so. It was said to be their legacy from their grandfather.
I did.
She fell into the hole of the floor board. The suddenness, the harshness of the fall made her catch her breath. She opened her eyes. Someone was carrying her. She tried to understand. What were those long poles stretching to the sky? She tried to lift her head to see. A ship? Were those gulls circling above? She felt into the hole again, and all was dark streaked with red for a time, a long time, until she opened her eyes.
Where was she? Where was this tiny chamber? Her hands moved feebly against a rough blanket. Fever. She felt it somewhere deep inside her.
“There, Janie, there,” said someone. Her mother. Of course, her mother. Who else took care of her when she was ill? Now she could not play today with Harry and Barbara. She closed her eyes.
“Jane. Jane, My love.”
A tall, thin man. Who is he? she thought. Why would Mother let him in my bedchamber? Why was her bed so narrow, why was there a plank above it, as if it, too, was a bed? She didn’t like this dream.
“The children send you their love. I love you, Jane. You must be well. You will be well. We are all together, my dearest. The captain allowed us on board. God is good, Jane, remember that if you can,” said Gussy.
Simple Simon met a pieman, going to the fair. Said Simple Simon to the pieman, let me taste your wares…Flame burned in her, as bright, as hot, as the color of Barbara’s hair in summer. I am cold, she said, because the flame did not warm her. Barbara sat in the garden at Petersham, children all about her. Winifred grabbed Barbara’s necklace. Leave her be, said Barbara. I have many necklaces, but no children…as a jewel of gold in a swine’s snout…so is a fair woman without discretion…I can never repay you, Gussy wept, for all that you have done for Jane…Jane fell down into the center of the flame and was not warmed.
“O Father of mercies, and God of all comfort, our only help in time of need: we fly unto thee for succor in behalf of this thy servant, here lying under thy hand in great weakness of body…” Gussy knelt at the side of the narrow bunk in which Jane lay. The ship was moving. They were out at sea. He had escaped the Tower, escaped Walpole, escaped hanging and disembowelment, escaped through the will of this woman, whose price was far above rubies.
Raw flames licked deep inside Jane. In her heart. In her womb. In her being. Ever steady. Slacking only for a moment, but all the while burning, melting everything she was. Fever from the child, who must have died within her. Poor pet. Did it know how much she dreaded childbirth, and so it died? Jack be nimble. Jack be quick. Jack jump over the candlestick. Elizabeth, Elspeth, Betsy and Bess…They all went together to seek a bird’s nest…They found a bird’s nest with five eggs in…They all took one, and left four in…Amelia was crying. The room was filled with her sounds…Jane was so hot, she lay in a bed of flame, they were burning her, burning her for a witch, for a stillborn child, where was the Gypsy woman? Let me be, she cried. Amelia, be quiet, or they will burn you too…
“Jane. Open you eyes. For your children, Jane.”
She opened her eyes. They had no idea how much strength it took, more strength than walking down that stretch of Tower yard with her silly plan to rescue Gussy. The children were all crying. Where was Barbara to sing to them? Barbara, where are you? I am frightened, now. Help me, as always you did before. “Hush a bye…do not cry…all the…”
“What did she say?”
“I could not hear. Jane. Jane, dearest, say it again.”
She had not the strength to speak again.
Lady Ashford motioned for the men to take the children from the ship’s cabin.
“Mama! I want to stay with my mama!”
Jane heard Amelia from very far away. Jeremy said the same thing, but she could not save him. Fly, lady bird, north, south, east or west. Fly where the man is found that I love best. The Gypsy woman was burning a pair of green gloves, and the fire was spreading. She felt as if she were melting. Jeremy’s forehead burned with fever. She would not let him go…Simple Simon, she crooned, trying to make him stay awake, not to give in to the fluid filling his lungs. Simple Simon met a pierman going to the fair. Said Simple Simon the the pieman, let me taste your wares…Open you eyes, Jeremy. To market, to market to buy a fat pig, home again, home again, jiggety jig. Open your eyes…She shook him and shook him. He was like a rag doll, her little rag doll, all the cotton stuffings gone…Hush a bye, do not cry, all the pretty, little horses, when you wake, we will buy, all the pretty, little horses…Mama loves you, yes she does, all the pretty, little horses…
“We humbly commend the soul of this thy servant, our dear sister and wife, into the hands of a faithful Creator…”
Jane floated above the prayer, secure in her wings this time. She looked down at the pale woman on the bed, who opened her eyes and then closed them again. Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest…for I am meek and lowly in heart…
Jane floated to Gussy, bowed in prayer, intent on sending her off properly, father of her children, a good man, a good husband. Blessed are ye which do hunger and thirst after righteousness for ye shall be filled. He would go on and do many more good things, she saw that so clearly. She was right to save him from Walpole’s noose.
She touched her mother’s cheek, tears there, and her father, crying also, rasping sobs, as if he seldom cried and did not know how. She floated atop deck. Thomas was eating a biscuit in some man’s lap, a stranger, but then strangers were so often kind. She kissed his cheek. Little Harry lay sleeping in another set of arms. She kissed the downy baby hair on his head, hair Barbara used to rub her face in and say, I hope he never loses it. Won’t he look funny as a man, with such downy hair? Winifred sat near Amelia. Good-bye, Winifred. A kiss for Mama. Good-bye, Amelia. Barbara will have to see to you now. She could always manage you. But, no, Barbara wasn’t going to Virginia, was she? Who would then? Mama Lou, Mrs. Cox, Belle, Sinsin, John Blackstone, John Custis…the names rolled out of her mind into the sky.
She felt herself floating up into the winter sky, over the river. She could see the ocean, and, far off, the distant green of Virginia. How lovely were the ships’ sails flapping beneath her. How pleasant the sound of the wind in them. The ship was small now, far below her, upon a journey that was no longer hers. She passed over fields and lanes and ditches and streams and bridges to Petersham, her village, to the little grassy mound that was Jeremy. She wrapped her arms around the headstone. Good-bye, Jeremy.
She stood. She must capture one last thing. She took a deep breath. There it was, the memory of the smell of apple blossoms. The Duchess’s apple trees were blooming. She had made the spring come. Tamworth’s apple blossoms made her delirious with joy. Their fragrance filled her soul. She began to run, fourteen and free, her skirts whipping around her legs. Harry was waiting for her, there under the trees. She ran into his arms, and he whirled her around and around. They had true love. At fourteen, there is only true love.
Come with me, he said, as he had not the last time. He could always talk her into anything.
Wait, she said. She stooped to pick up something small, wrapped in linen.
Taking a parcel to heaven? asked Harry.
She unwrapped the linen from her child’s head, this last child. It opened its eyes and looked at her. She smiled down at it. Look at what I have, Harry.
His white teeth flashed in the sun. He and Barbara had smiles that charmed birds from the trees. Never mind smiling at me, the Duchess always said. You are in trouble.
Lovely, Harry said. He held her hand tightly so that she would not be afraid. Yes, she had always been the coward of the three. She held to the child. The white of the apple blossoms blended into the clouds. Of course. How simple. It was all one, wasn’t it? She was Harry, and he was her. She was Annie and the Duchess and Gussy and the children. She was everyone, everyone was her, as it should be…Good-bye, Gussy. Good-bye, Amelia. Good-bye, Winifred. Good-bye, Thomas. Good-bye, Harry Augustus…Good-bye, my very dear Barbara, do not grieve for me, I cannot die, for I am in you, and you are within me.
I have a surprise, said Harry.
What is it?
Jeremy is waiting.
Of course. Complete joy was hers.
“…teach us who survive, in this and other like daily spectacles of mortality, to see how frail and uncertain our own condition is; and so to number our days, that we may seriously apply our hearts to that holy and heavenly wisdom…” Gussy stopped, unable to continue.
Lady Ashford crossed the arms of her daughter. “There, Janie, my love,” she said. “There.”
“They will bury her at sea,” said Sir John, “I cannot bear it.”
Amelia, thought Gussy, what am I going to do with Amelia?
Lady Ashford folded up a silver threaded ribbon and put it back inside Jane’s hand. “There,” she said again, “there.”
A
NNIE LEFT
Tim at the back garden gate of Saylor House, moved quickly down the gravel paths, the hood of her cloak over her head so that no one should know her, past the stable house, through a side door and up back stairs of Saylor House. In her small chamber, she took off her cloak, smoothed back her hair, then went to the door and cracked it open. The Duchess slept. What was the time, eight of the morning, perhaps, a little later. Tim had driven like a wild man back from Gravesend. She would give herself a few moments before going into the Duchess’s bedchamber. Sitting in a chair, she clasped her hands together, closed her eyes. What to tell? Her last sight was of Sir John carrying Jane aboard the ship. He had bribed the captain to allow them all on, Tim said. Poor Tim. He’d been weeping, weeping like a boy. Yes, they all loved Jane. Annie had stayed until she saw the ship set sail. She’d tell the Duchess nothing. It would be a year or more before the news might reach England, if ever it did. There was no point to the Duchess’s grieving, for she would be grieving enough over Sir John’s absence. Every time they want past Ladybeth Farm until the day she died, the Duchess would think of him. Annie knew her.
Her mind went moving a moment over all those she’d seen go from this life, Dicken from smallpox, and Giles, Harry from suicide, the Duke, Richard from his mind. What was it she remembered from one of the Duchess’s letters, that Lady Mary Wortley Montagu said there was a cure for smallpox, a putting of pox on a little opened place on the skin, then a fever, a few spots, nothing more, nothing of the horror and rotting flesh and almost certain death that was smallpox, just a fever and a few spots. Had the cure always existed? Were there other cures existing out there? Would there be a day when women did not have to die in childbed and men’s minds did not make them break inside like dried-out hollowed twigs? Annie touched her face. Tears. Yes, tears for Jane. Two girls had played at tea under Tamworth’s oaks, using the acorn tops for cups. Fairy cups, they said.
T
IM STOOD
in among the violets, his boots crushing them so that they released their sharp, sweet fragrance. He had carried Jane into the tavern bedchamber, heard her small, quiet moans, felt the convulsion of her body. His mind kept running over the birth of Bathsheba’s baby, the memory of his startled awareness of the power of Bathsheba’s body in its labor pains as he had carried her to the kitchen as potent now as it had been then. It had been all he could do to contain her within his arms, such was the power of the force. Nature. I am glad it is them, Cook had said later, and not us that has the babies. Running parallel in his mind to that snowy morning he had carried Bathsheba were words he had heard Mistress Barbara say, words that had stirred his imagination, like Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe or bad Moll Flanders, words of the fierce Indians who sang a song of death, a song to themselves when they died, proclaiming their deeds, a warrior’s song, rising to the skies. When Mistress Barbara had told that story, he could just see an Iroquois, see feathers and bear claws, a fierce face, see the words, like small clouds, rising upward. The image had stayed with him for days. Little Mrs. Cromwell was a warrior, wasn’t she? As brave as any man Tim knew, rescuing her husband from under the nose of Tower guards, perhaps dying in childbed now with little more than a moan. Where was her song? Tim knelt among the violets, his fingers brushing the heart-shaped leaves, searching for flowers. There they were, and there, bent over, hiding, beautiful, delicate, their smell lovely, what spring was, renewal, hope, tender green buds, nests, birds. He put his hand to his face. He was weeping. He couldn’t help it. She did not deserve to die. If she did, she died for being a woman. That was not right. It wasn’t. What was her song? What was his? What was anybody’s? There had to be a song, for us all.
A
BOUT THE
A
UTHOR
K
ARLEEN
K
OEN
is the
New York Times
bestselling author of
Through a Glass Darkly
and
Dark Angels.
Visit her online at
www.karleenkoen.com
.