Ulverton Page 8
My insistence that a furrow be drawn at harrowing time, now allows the reapers a measure in the wheat-field, whose heads are otherwise buried in the stalks and unable to guide them. Thus small Improvements might yield much greater, and foresight be the loadstone of husbandry.
This day being the last of harvest, and thunder in the air, and the sky heavy, we brought the last load home with much rejoicing, and, alas, much ale in the downing. Our festive meal was sobered only by my wife’s appearance, at the door, during the songs, like a ghost of winter past, berating the labourers, and myself, for our luxury, and snatching [away?] from the midst of us the corn Doll, which action upset the labourers greatly. I said nay, she would not harm it, to appease them, for they were somewhat inflamed with drink, and might have pursued her, had I not promised them what I could not in truth [be certain of]. How halting the progress of Improvements, as long as this talk of corn spirits, and fear of suchlike, continues to clot our tines! I left the meal early, as is my wont, before the songs become lewd and what is [permissible?] in the eyes of God after hard work oversteps the boundaries and grows rash. It was my grandfather’s custom, in the time of the Commonwealth, to gather the harvesters in common prayer, and to allow only one tankard of ale apiece, and no songs, and but small fare upon the table. This I cannot hold by, and think it a mistake [not] to reward our brethren placed lower than us on the human scale for their unstinting efforts, or they might deem it [rotten?] that they labour in their sweat for other men, and not themselves, and break the chain of bonds and service that retains us [in] contentment, and themselves in peace. In truth, my wife appeared again before I left, and her countenance was such as to strike a chill in the proceedings, and to still the song, but I begged the assembled company to pursue their merriment, to strike up once more, and [not] allow present ills to frost over their reward. I could find my wife nowhere, but only the corn Doll, torn into a thousand pieces, as if chewed and spat out, upon our marital bed. I must make another the same forthwith, or the men will be exceeding anxious, and fearful of this place, [maintaining] the Shadow of the corn, as they call it, has been set free, to pollute us, as no doubt was my wife’s [desire?]. I must seek God’s forgiveness for adopting such heathen practices, as making a [corn] Doll. I write this in my room, with the merriment exceeding loud downstairs, the squeals of the maid louder than all others. I have touched too much of the wretched tincture, and must perforce [vomit?] though I am heartily pleased at the weight of corn now rested upon the straddle-stones, neatly thatched, that [is] exceeding odorous across the night air.
I write this with an an [unsteady?] hand. The company snoring across the benches, sprawled like Balthazar’s Feast over table, straw, and even out in the yard, some coupled together in the first sin, though clothed, mercifully, I stepped out in the middest night, and [crushed?] a fiddle underfoot, that was left [in] a rut, and took myself to the furthest rick, that I might take some corn in secret for the Doll, tho’ it be not from the last [sheaf], and my lanthorn casting its light by chance into the cow-stall as I passed, and seeing there a shape hanging like a sack, entered in, and held the lanthorn up, and met of a sudden the eyes of my wife lo[o]king wide-eyed at me, as if to berate […] but on reaching my hand out, she did turn at my touch [and] look likewise past my head […?] dangled by the neck above the manure passage, with a straw-rope the instrument of her [undoing?], and cut her down with much difficulty by [means of] a hay knife, and saw that she was expired, blue in the skin, and puffed, and [broken-necked?], and cried out, that God might take her into His arms, anyways, though I know where she is fast bound, and could [wake up] no one, cursed be that tincture! [except] the old dame, whose body [reeked of piss?], coming up the path at dawn, for so [long] had I lain with my wife in the cow-stall, amongst the straw and dung, stricken as [I] was, and vomiting.
God rest her soul.
I have been unable to write observations for a month. It is time already for the fallow to be sown with wheat. The heat of summer is gone, mercifully. A slight frost last night. The flails sound from the barn all day. My wife has been buried out of sacred ground, near the new Chapel, three weeks to the day. My maid talks of marriage.
I have sown my spewy field, a small one of three acres only, with hay-dust, that the acid-juice might be killed, after paring the turf and burning it.
The fallow was sown with wheat this day, October 12th. No gusts, and the new seeds-man has a fine cast.
My new hummellers stamp well, are lighter in action, and so less effortful. This year, I have tied a sheet across the door to prevent poultry from pecking the grain thrashed, low enough to retain the chaff-wind. Today we riddled with a bamboo mesh, but I noticed no difference from the split willow. The barley seed is good, in spite of the inclement weather. The wheat grain is full from the application of dung, I believe, in the late winter.
I saw my wife last night, at the window. I do not believe in spirits. My men will [not?] venture into the cow-stall alone.
Today I found a cross marked in chalk upon the tree in the yard. My maid talks of marriage, too loud.
My cousin, over from Bursop [i.e. Effley] is to proceed with turnips this next year, he says. I say, let the men of Surrey and Kent do what they will, I am for grass.
This November begins with much rain. The soil […]
Last night, again, my wife appeared at the upper window, though she outside, and I within alone. Her face was white, as chalk is, and [gleaming?]. Her expression was of an inmost […] I pray heartily every morn and eve, and in the night. The wind is high and doors blow about the yard, open[ing].
I have rebuked my maid for impropriety. To marry her, as is her suggestion, will annul the charitable nature of my adoption, while making the child no more my own in the eyes of the world, and will give rise to rumour. This angered her. I am paying £1 for her confinement, and the child. She is unruly. However, she retains her strength, and I think only of my son, and that the farm will remain Plumm’s, and [not] fall into my cousin’s hands, who is not of my name.
The trees about my upper field are almost all withered. The artificial hedge has budded. It is the northerly nature of the winds this last month of December that has killed them finally, coupled with the dryness of the past year, sufficient to viliorate the roots. The peas proved parched here, and this field is scarcely worth the toil and expense. I looked down upon the village, and at the market in progress, and considered how content the folk amongst those buildings were, to labour for others, and see only hobgoblins, and not their dec[e]ased. The two ravens hung up here are quite bleached of feather and flesh, without odour, and the crows are too numerous, owing to the previous […]
The crows are too loud. This is owing […]
This day my maid, entering the parlour, fell down upon the ground, and cried out, and was taken to the upper room, to the flock-bed, and was visited by the old dame, who will see her through, and at my insistence by Dr Ke[m]p, who pronounced her ready. She cries out very loud through this night, as I write this, and pray.
I have a daughter.
This New Year, my field that was fallow, and is now to wheat, has suffered somewhat from the harsh frosts of the past week, its soil being of a [spongy?] nature, and I fear the effect of the rags might be impoverished by the inclemency [of the weather.]
The threshing is finished.
My wife continues [to appear] at the window. The maid threatens me and I must silence her with 6d a week. The infant grows apace, well in health. I have considered allowing the maid to retain it after [suckle?] but she will have none of [this]. The Chapel is roofed, and the stone in place. My cousin came by and he has hired a winnowing machine at cheaper rate, the threshing finished, [for] the next year.
I have sketched my pump for the irrigation of dry fields, and am well [pleased?] with its design. The Chapel members wish to enscribe my charitable action upon a further stone, but I have desisted. This day I counted my profits, [which] have come to £40 and 5s. I walked about the yard, and
propose to replace the cow-stall and barn with new [buildings in] brick.
This day I smelt [spring?]
4
Leeward
1743
– NO, DO NOT think me unhappy. I scratch by candle tho’ ’tis sunlight outside – but this endurance is for benefit. I hear the rooks loud as in that poem by Mr Pope. Old aunts not yet. O William, return quick and halloo under my window. Your position with Norcoat is secure, I hope. I do not have the stomach for your loss of a few days – more would kill me. Charles does well. He suckles regular, the wet-nurse tells me, and his swaddle is ripe with healthy excretions. You shall see him anon.
’Tis cold here too – my fireplace is not built for coal – I prefer the blazing faggot tho’ they have fallen for coal.
My husband is in London also. If you should pass him, and he should recognise your appearance, do not flinch. Be open. Rub your hands and laugh for he will be witty at someone’s expense, if not your own, my love. ’Tis strange, but my knowledge that he is visiting women goes hard with me. I think this is because ’tis the fashion to think a man that is married can lack fidelity without scandal, yet a wife must be quartered for it. I bear the weight of this house upon my meagre shoulders – I am its reputation.
I cough from the puffs of my fireplace. ’Tis a veritable vapour in here, but not the medicinal sort. There is no egress for the poor smoke. We are prisoners both.
My mind starts then grows weary: ’tis the effect of the delivery –
Nurse Fieldhouse has been in here a minute past. I concealed this letter ’neath another, part written, to mine uncle at Stagley. She has eyes very small but sharp as diamonds. Ten to one she will recover our secret from its hiding place or I be less careless.
I give this to the maid tight-sealed as usual, but I daresay thumbs will at it. Check the seal is not broke. I spread powder on my desk so fingers may not fiddle.
Our love is a well – ’twill draw forever.
Dearest, I am,
yr eternally loving,
A.C.
March 8th.
Most dearest William, –
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 ven
tured 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.