Adam Thorpe - Ulverton

The clock pit-a-pats or it may be my heart, but ’tis certain there is no pebbles upon my window-glass yet. I waited upon my canapé half the night. Owls — my mantel clock — a single horse upon the lane that took my heart up to my lips — but no signal. I turn the pages of Crébillon but with half an eye for it. Come across the lawn, my stag, your doe weeps bitter tears. ’Tis half of February you were gone, and you said you were certain back yesternight. I will wake the neighbourhood and set the swans flapping out of the lake if you don’t come.

Charles is a dear sweet little thing. He is brought twice a day and I know he has your eyes. My husband returned and handled him like a book, opening and shutting his limbs. Charles gave a tiny sneeze at the snuff. My husband’s nose is Chalmers beaked, and it seems my Lord is a little outrageous that his son is not the picture of those ranged along the gallery, with such dismal looks, and so severe a snout to every one. My own retroussée has escaped capture also. He has such a dear sweet little nose, that is all his own. Blue blue eyes — tho’ they tell me that will change — ’twill be your mahogany brown, dearest love, for he has your chin, exact as if he had stole it. ’Tis certain he is yours.

This room grows so tedious and fusty. Because I have a slightest of fevers I am to be confined a further week upon the end of the month. I tie this with a red ribband that is the bleeding of my passion. Real blood flowed when I was delivered of our son. Did I say before that Dr Mackernes was caught in the mud on his way from town, and ’twas a woman still odorous from the field that served me? Her hands were large and chapped and red, she had come straight from her delving. Bint it was who called her. Bint is the man you encountered at the wall that night. He would kill his own mother if enough guineas were rubbed in front of him, but my Lord will have none other as a valet.

I did not like the poem you sent. ’Twas too indecorous for my taste, tho’ I daresay my dreams shall tease me more if you do not arrive quick. I grip my bed-post and think only of your member, tho’ I still hurt under from the birthing.

I am, sweetest love,

thy sweetly loving,

A.C.

March 25th.

Dearest William, –

Your letter came with others from aunts. I am sorry to hear of young Norcoat’s scarlet but more sorry that it means your absence still. Scarlet is in the village this month very severe, Oadam tells me, and Charles is not taken the village side of the house, for tho’ we be high up and the village below, the wind does now prevail this way — it is east and bitter. I always hear the clock strike from the church as if it is ours, and malodorous tendencies must be borne likewise upon the wind. Tho’ my constitution is not as delicate as my sister’s, yet I am surely prone. Charles will be inoculated against the pock soon as he is ready — after two years. I could not bear his loss. My sister has borne four and all have lived. I pray it is the family way.

The fat angels above me vex with their smug smiling. ’Tis the painted ceiling I talk of, that looked down upon our lovemaking that night, tho’ ’twas screened from their innocence by the bed. I will forget what constitutes daylight soon. Do not drop a word about me with your friends in London. Show no interest if anyone serves you a question concerning Ulverton Hall, for all are ears and wicked tongues.

I would like to hold your tongue with my lips. Press it ever so gentle. Take liberties with it.

My Lord sat upon my canapé and held forth this morning upon the Election. He will be chose, of course, but he must brag like all men. He is showing an uncommon tenderness to me, and I fear he will be fiddling my buttons before long.

I hold myself in the nights and think of you. I have no secrets from you.

Dearest,

I am,

thine ever loving,

A.C.

April 4th.

Dearest sweetest William, –

The woods bloom & the fogs cluster upon the river. I have a cold that clings, for I let the breeze at my bare shoulders when I let slip my nightdress and think of you.

How is this? I am not out from Confinement, my love — no. Let me tell. I have, in the middle night, taken the liberty to fold aside the coverings upon the east window and laid my cheek against the glass. I see naught of course of the moon or Nature for they have shuttered me in. But I felt the window loose and a nail was out. Two minutes it was lifted, and the shutter squeaked ope an inch. Thus it is that mine only hindrance is removed and I see the world through a chink. I dare not ope any further for the stable boys are always clattering about early morning beneath — you recall the stables are to one side — they will be telling on me or expostulate and thus give all away to the grooms who are honest but eager men and do anything for a crown in the palm. ’Tis very early morning I let the light in. I wish the shutter had been oiled. Nurse Fieldhouse is two floors direct above but I am certain her ears are the best.

Can you not return and find a bed in the village? There is an inn, you must have supped there sometime. I have seen it from the carriage — in the square — it don’t look too filthy. Then you might rustle over the lawn all in black when the owl is out and all of them here slumbering fast and call to me, or scatter your pebbles on the glass — but I will be waiting — it will be like before — tho’ you may not climb up as you have been in Town. To see your face, and we might talk.

I am out of sorts not only from the cold I have but by Mr Golding our country lawyer who was allowed in here would you believe to show me my Lord’s will — he has drawn up anew and most is left to his brother if Charles should not live, & my jointure is £1,500. His brother has so small an estate in Huntingdonshire that ours must of necessity become his, for this brother is now made Earl and his land can hardly bear such title. Our own is not reckoned above £3,000 a year. We might spread to the very wall of the Manor and then you might run to me without muddying. If we were to inclose the Commons (my Lord has ventured this) then Charles might stride with his title, not feel pinched as he must if we do not knock in a few fences. What vexes me most is that £1,500 is hardly sufficient to keep in silver and support a London house, lest I dust it myself. Tho’ if I have your love in perpetuity that is worth more than any cash.

The rains have been severe this week and Mrs Price was bogged in on her way from Slough up to the handles, she told me. Lady Montagu came to visit in sedan chair and the poor creatures carrying her had mud from the road up to their chins. She is fearful of all horses after her accident many years past, and will only stand for human legs to bear her considerable weight. She lives five miles away. I daresay it is tremendous inconvenient for Lord M. to have a wife with such an obsession.

I run on. Do not be unfaithful in London. I could not support the knowledge of your handling any other flesh but mine own. If you feel the heat then do as Onan, and spill your seed in the dust. My brother learnt this from a footman he told me and ’twas that discovery had him leave off me.

I cannot think of you but as mine. When my Lord touches me I must clear my mind of those greasy women ’tis told me he visits in London, or I would perforce vomit on the instant, so jealous do I feel, tho’ there is not a spark of love for him in me. Is this not strange? I am healed under and crave your member. I wish to talk baldly but fear this will be discovered. Burn it on the instant, do not fasten it up in a drawer for the servants will always be meddling, tho’ you say you have only a cook in London. I hear from Mrs S. that there are books from France that would make a libertine blush. Old aunts and rooks — and Nurse Fieldhouse — and Wall the housekeeper (who has graffito scribbled upon her face for features) — these are the sum of my fare here. Our last lovemaking I forbade your request, but now I shall be willing to drink you, my sweet love, till you are dry as bone. I run on and on. I pant like the hart for the stream. It is close in here and the clock ticks to madden me — there is no other sound but sometimes feet passing overhead — everything squeaks here tho’ it is only built the twenty year. I am swaddled till I breathe no more, or hardly. I sneeze. Are you in good health? Never will I abide cinnamon again, or the smell of it. My caudle has so much of cinnamon I cannot taste the wine. I ask for beer but caudle it is until I sweat it. I am so weary of aunts and neighbours.