Page 20 of Kept 2
After some time, I replaced her hand and turned to her father, my voice coming out harsher than I intended, my throat thick with tears.
“Where is the priest?”
He made no reply.
“Mr Ingleby, where is the priest? Why is he not sprinkling holy water and praying over my beloved? Why does he not also keep vigil over her body, guarding her soul until it departs for Heaven? Why do I not hear the church bells?”
“Excuse me, Milord,” a small voice said from behind me.
I turned to see Molly, the Ingleby’s long-time cook and housekeeper, and one of the few who knew of my marriage. Her cheeks were red from crying; her small, aged fingers wrung her handkerchief in agitation.
“Molly, can you tell me what has happened? I fear I gain no sense from my grief-stricken parents in law.”
“Sir,” she bobbed, “come this way.”
She led me to the sitting room, small, cosy, a basket of kittens in the corner tussling over a ball of yarn, again reminding me of all the love in this house, of my dear Constance. I sat on her favourite stool, nearest the fire, almost unconsciously, as I waited for Molly to speak.
“Sir, forgive me, I must speak plainly. We was told not to bother you, not to write and advise of our trials. Please, your mother needs to know we did as we was bid.”
“My mother?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You mean she knew Constance was ill, yet told you not to inform me?”
“Sir,” she nodded, twisting her handkerchief round and round in ever-increasing knots.
“How long? How long did my wife suffer?”
“She wasn’t strong, you know,” Molly shook her head, taking a seat near to me and speaking slowly, “all the work, the cooking and cleaning and milking and gardening… she was so very tired, worn thin as chemise linen, so to speak.”
“What work? I don’t understand, Molly. When I left, Constance and her mother were getting used to a smaller household, to fewer maids, but surely there was no cause for any additional labour.”
“Not here, Sir, no, at the big house. Both the dear girl and Mrs Ingelby were hired as servants by your mother. They’ve been workin day and night, slaving away, for months. I tried my best to lift the weight of this household, I don’t bother that they can’t pay me, I love em like me own, but I couldn’t do enough. It wasn’t enough,” she began sobbing and dabbing her eyes with her sodden handkerchief.
I drew in a harsh breath as I considered what I had been told. No wonder my darling’s soft hands, hands that had only known tapestries and art, fine linens and flowers, were covered in blisters and callouses.
“Servants, you say. And this started when?”
“Right after your mother found out about the weddin.”
“And how, pray tell,” I bury my face in my hands, my grief threatening to overwhelm me, “did this occur?”
“I don’t know, Sir. A lady came to stay at the Estate, a high-class lady of great wealth. A friend of your mother’s, visiting from London she said, and come to offer her advice. The next week our Catholic priest disappeared, and Constance and Mrs Ingelby were ordered to appear at the manor. When they came home, they was as white as ghosts. And the next day they started work.”
“And what of Mr Ingelby during all this? Had he nothing to say about this abominable state of affairs? Hadn’t he the wherewithal to travel to London and inform me of what was happening?”
“Begging your pardon, but your father, Lord Montague, threatened to turf us all out onto the streets if we bothered you and, well, Sir,” she blushed and looked down.
“Molly, tell me all, for nothing you say now can destroy me more than what I have already seen and heard.”
“Sir, we was told you was planning on marrying another, your mother’s friend saidall the court knew you were sharing the bed of a countess. Sheinformed Mrs Ingelby herself; said you no longer acknowledged your troth to Constance and had bound yourself to this new lady who would do your lineage proud.”
I let the tears flow once more then, for I could not deny that I had been sharing the bed of the countess, and Molly, dear Molly, patted me on the shoulder and brought me a mug of mulled wine. But nothing could console me, and I do believe I stayed several days in their home, sitting, as did her parents, by my beloved’s side, keeping vigil over her spotless soul.
When I finally surfaced, as cowardly as it may sound to some, I was resolved on my course of action.
I stayed for her funeral, I buried her well, the torches, much to my mother’s disgust, lit the five-mile laneway from her home to the graveyard from dusk to dawn. The church bells rang continuously for 48 hours – the king can hang for all I care that I followed our Catholic traditions.
