Barbara DENVIL - Blessop's Wife

‘This little chamber is cosy enough,’ Tyballis told her. ‘In any case, I may leave tomorrow. If I do, I shall come and say goodbye first.’

Once alone, Tyballis took off her wet shoes and sat them neatly before the empty hearth. Outside, pelting and persistent, the rain obscured the moon and no light intruded through the unshuttered windowpanes. With no blanket to warm her, Tyballis curled herself fully dressed deep into the pallet’s straw. She closed her eyes but remained awake, her thoughts turning more melancholy as the silent hours lengthened. The dispossessed filth of the city had rustled through her nights since birth, and she had no cause to be afraid of something long accustomed, but she had not felt so dispossessed since her parents had died, when she was rescued, half-drowned, from the flooded Thames and its rising tide. She would, she thought, if she permitted such pitiful nonsense to swallow her thoughts, soon begin to cry. If not careful, she might trick herself into missing a house and a family she loathed though had never before found the courage to leave.

She sat up. Through the cold remained the vivid memory of a fire blazing futile and unwatched down in the great empty hall, where the flames cheered no one, gave no miserable pauper welcome and served no purpose. The man Drew, they said, solitary misanthropist, was absent during the evenings and the nights, leaving before curfew and sometimes not returning for days. The fire he had lit would now be begging for company.

Tyballis found her shoes but did not put them on. She carried them and carefully slipped downstairs.

At the bottom of the stairs she stopped a moment. Straight ahead was the main entrance, shielded by a narrow screen. To her left stretched the great hall, billowing with crimson light. The swelter absorbed the draughts, and the wooden panelling sighed and cracked like a careened ship’s boards shrinking in the dry. Huge and sweating, the hall murmured complacent.

Between herself and the soaring hearth drifted dust, ashes from old fires and soot from those even older. A Turkey rug was worn to the weft where a hundred boots had crossed. A table leaned its shadows against the far wall, a clutter of stools pulled to the side. The beamed ceiling was unpainted, and an ancient iron chandelier hung high, still clinging to its solidified wax. There were no candles in any place, but the fire lit everything in dancing glory and the dazzle of the flames reflected back from a wall of windows. Tapestries glinted, shelves of painted earthenware, a long bench and all the paraphernalia of a well-furnished hall. Two large chairs, high-backed, deep-armed and cushioned, were drawn before the fire.

Outside, black night had closed in the land, but no chill bluster found its path down the chimney nor past the crackle of the burning logs. Tyballis crept forwards, still clutching her shoes. Already her face was bright in the heat’s soothing embrace.

She curled tightly to the grate, tucking her toes beneath her skirts as she squatted down. Breathing deeply brought the warmth into her lungs and through her bones. The tension in her shoulders melted. She cuddled her knees, gazing in peaceful contemplation as a hundred fantasies flared and faded within the light and shadow, faeries flying and imps hiding in their caves, dragons and monsters and sea creatures spouting fountains, and all the adventure of ancient history and pagan myth dancing before her face. The light, the heat and the busy crackle enveloped her.

Not risking sleep by lying down, although the thought was unutterably tempting, Tyballis closed her eyes and leaned back just a little, supporting herself against the chair legs behind her. She did not want to think, and she did not want to dream, but it would be safe, she thought, to doze a moment and so relinquish the misery of memory. She knew that, once thoroughly warmed, she must return to her cold waiting pallet.

She was almost asleep when the chair legs moved imperceptibly, as if conveniently adjusting themselves to her weight. She snuggled down and settled again, resting her head against the yielding curves at her back.

When she finally awoke, she was somewhere else entirely.

Tyballis sat up in utter confusion. Then, since dreaming was the only possible explanation, she looked around with curiosity. Through the darkness she could see very little. No longer was there a huge scarlet fire and a row of reflecting glass, but she could study the shadows sufficiently to make out the room around her and the bed beneath her. The palliasse creaked as she moved and long curtains whispered. The smells were of dust, tired sweat and fresh herbs. She patted her coverings, discovering velvet and fine linen, soft cushions and a deep filled bolster. Puzzled and increasingly wary, she no longer believed she was dreaming. Touch, texture and smells were too real, and her body was too aware of its aches and its warmth. She was definitely not in her own home, but lay, well wrapped and snug, in a bed of some luxury. Even more perplexing, she had been disrobed, and now wore only her chemise.

Reaching up, Tyballis fingered the bed posts behind her, carved and hung with silks. Against her hand she could feel the polished patterns of the wood, the sheen of the curtains and the small rips that told of age and abandon. Carried in her sleep and taken to some unknown bed, she had been undressed, tucked in and covered up. It was a concept that, in spite of the considerable comfort, she found increasingly uncomfortable.

From the bewildering darkness, the sudden voice was as soft as the contradictory perfumes. ‘Well, little one,’ it said. ‘You are quite safe here. Did you come to find me for reasons of your own? Or is it what men choose to call coincidence?’

Tyballis turned in a hurry. The figure sat, large and at ease in the darkest corner of the chamber. But this time, she knew his voice. ‘You? Is it you? I didn’t expect, didn’t know, still don’t know. Who are you? Where am I?’

‘You are in my bed,’ replied the imperceptible voice.

‘You undressed me!’

A pause. Then, ‘How many gowns do you own, child?’

She sighed. There seemed little point in refusing to answer. ‘One, of course.’

‘Then,’ smiled the voice, ‘it is presumably best not slept in. I have hung it on one of the pegs.’ The smile audibly widened. ‘You are hardly naked, child, and will notice you are still wearing your shift.’

‘Who are you?’ Tyballis again demanded into the shadows.

He said, ‘I am Andrew Cobham, though a name means very little, and mine less than most. I am usually called Drew.’

‘Drew. The landlord. You own this house, then.’

‘I do.’ He still sounded amused.

It occurred to Tyballis that to discover a truth did not help when that truth was more perplexing than previous ignorance. ‘I didn’t realise. It being yours, I mean.’ Blanket to her chin, she stared into invisibility. ‘I’d met the child, Ellen, and some of the others. Ellen’s mother was kind. Then I had to leave my own home, and so I came back here because I didn’t know where else to go. How strange – since it was you who told me to run away, and that’s what I did.’ Unable to see his reaction, she foundered, but remembered her manners. ‘So, I have to thank you.’ Though embarrassed, she mumbled, ‘But to undress me. Instead of waking me …’

‘Why did you have to leave your home, child?’ he said. ‘Your husband has been released from Newgate?’

‘No. Borin’s still there.’

He murmured, ‘Yet once more you bear the marks of attack.’