Can Ye Keep a Secret?

“Can ye keep a secret?”


“Yes, Bess, of course I can. We’ve always kept each other’s secrets.”


“I know, but this is really important.”



On a frigid morning just before the Feast of Sages nearly all the women in Whitcrowe was gathered at the side of the river to scrub every bit of clothing in Granton that wasn’t firmly fixed to someone’s back (Mallkyn had been attacked by one of her convulsive fits of cleanliness and ordered the entire castle to be cleaned before the arrival of holiday guests). Cecily and Bess Walpole were working together a little apart from the other servants, as they usually did whenever they could. Bess was a shortish, plump girl with curly blond hair that had a personality of its own. Her round face was sweet and innocent, with eyes like cornflowers, but a smirk of the lips betrayed a plucky spirit that might otherwise have gone unnoticed. She and Cecily were about the same age, and Bess’ mother, Gracia, had long been friends with Alis; the girls had spent their short childhoods together. These days they worked side by side as much as possible, though Cecily was often in the gardens while Bess worked in the fields or kitchens.


Bess gave her friend a sidewise glance. “You can’t even tell your mum.”


“I shan’t breathe a word! Now tell me what on earth it is, I’m dying to hear.”


Bess breathed deep and burst into a whisper, “You know I’ve been paying a bit of attention to Robbie lately, jest to see if maybe he feels—something for me.”


Cecily’s face relaxed as she laid a waiting maid’s undergarment on a nearby bush to dry. Bess had a habit of falling for every young man she came across if he was even vaguely good-looking. How many times have I heard her start off just like this, telling me her heart with just that movement of the hands and that look on her face? “Yes, go on.”

Falling in Love....

Falling in love is only ever a small part of the story....

Original photo: Into the sunset..., a photo by rishwan jalyl on Flickr.

Meeting Mother

Alis Lockton had been sitting before the fire long before her daughter’s arrival, a richly embroidered robe—torn at the sleeve—rippling and shifting beneath her fingers, needle and thread traveling by minute lengths toward their goal. She was not one to rush her work, but took pride in every invisible knot and stitch, whether they be embellishments to a noblewoman’s headdress or a darn in the cook’s sock. Alis was one of the most respected seamstresses in Carellshire, certainly in Whitcrowe, and Lady Mallkyn depended on her for altering every gown to the latest fashions from the City. As a girl, Cecily’s clothing had always had special touches about it—tiny rosebuds and bits of knotwork—that made her mother’s eyes shine with pride, and even now she sometimes displayed a collar or hem entwined with delicate vines or an intricate pattern.

needlework, a photo by hans s on Flickr.

  When Alis heard fumbling at the door she looked up with greedy anticipation, as if expecting a special treat. Cecily came into the room and shook the shoes off her feet, cheerily greeting her mother and beginning the daily relation of all the news she had picked up throughout the day. She curled up beside the warm peat fire in the center of the room, munching on a bit of bread and cheese while Alis ladled out the soup. It was always a relief to talk to Mum, because it felt as though she really understood every word, even if she said nothing in return. Cecily mumbled between mouthfuls about how she had finally managed to pull up all of the ragged robin flowers that had sowed themselves from one end of the gardens to the other, and Rivens had promised to teach her how to prune the pear trees this winter. Madge Surlaf had been snide again, in an almost cruel way (she had never forgiven Cecily for attracting the attentions of Madge’s then-future husband). Alis murmured little motherly concurrences and condolences, understanding everything as if she had been traveling in Cecily’s sidebag all day and heard every word.

Cecily was about to plunge into the story about how the cobbler’s oldest boy, Bartholomew, had embarrassed himself with a stork that afternoon, when she looked up at her mother’s face and caught herself. There was a line on Alis' brow that wasn’t usually there. A line of pain. “Is something bothering you, Mum?”
 
Alis shifted on her stool, picking out a few threads from the robe. “Not at all, dearie, quite all right.” Cecily didn’t believe it. Alis put a hand to her chest and gave a little shuddering sigh.

“What is it, Mum? Tell me!”
 
The older woman reached out her veined fingers to gently touch her daughter’s face. Cecily’s blood pumped harder every moment. I remember that touch. It’s sad. Alis withdrew her hand, curling it up in her lap, and closing her eyes. When they opened again, they seemed stretched and pale. “I’m not getting…any younger, Cessy. I felt…tired…today. More than usual.” Cecily was long accustomed to Alis being a bit more feeble than other women her age, but by squinting in the firelight she could see that her mother was frailer than she had been in a long while.
 
Alis was weakening again. Cecily knew that she had always been too thin, too hard working, and too susceptible to the illnesses that periodically circulated through the village. Ever since the brutal plague that had claimed her husband’s life she had always been the first to sicken and the last to recover. Gradually, so that not even Cecily had noticed at once, her bones had lately become more prominent, her skin more transparent, her smile more forced.

Worry crawled up Cecily’s back like a cold worm. The thought of the winter ahead was like a sharp piece of ice that she shut up in the back of her mind and tried hard to neglect. Winters were never merciful to the very young, or the very old, or the very weak. A few wet, bitter months might easily—don’t think of that. Put it out of your mind.
 
Alis clasped her daughter’s hand and knelt down to smile into her face, one graying lock of hair slipping across her cheek. “I’ll be all right, don’t you worry about me. Now, tell me about the stork.” With a sick stone in her stomach, Cecily stuttered through the story, then crawled under her blankets for the night. She watched the firelight hunt and peck over the lines in her mum’s face as she slept on her pallet, until sleep claimed her aching body.

Cecily Lockton

Cecily Lockton was, with little doubt, the most beautiful girl in the county. Her skin, though not fair, was clear and glowing, with high cheekbones and wide-open brown eyes that glistened when she talked. Her body was slim and hard from working, her fingers deft, and even her rough dresses and clunky shoes could not hide a certain grace in her movements. She looked the part of the ingénue—beautiful, sweet, and unsuspecting—with a dash of something less expected, almost queenly. She was the sort of woman you remember after seeing her for just a moment. Cecily’s friends, though pretty and amiable, paled in comparison. Ever since she had grown old enough to be noticed by boys, then by men, she had broken more than her share of hearts. No one was good enough for Cessy Lockton, or it was said by the jealous youths who had fought for her favor and lost.

While some were surprised that a girl as fine-looking as Cecily Lockton was not trained as an undermaid or serving maiden, her friends knew that delicate, indoor work would never suit her. Since she was a child she had spent every possible daylight hour outside, streaking through the fields as fast as her legs would take her, swimming in the mill pond (against strict orders), or climbing an especially difficult tree in order to see the world from unimagined heights. Try as she might, it was impossible for her mother to teach her the finer arts of carding, spinning, and weaving. When Cecily was about six years old her mother found her playing behind their cottage, sticking the stem of a bedraggled daisy into the mud in a naive attempt at transplantation. That was a day or two before the girl was entrusted to Old Rivens’ care, and she had taken to gardening as if born for it. She was still the only young woman working in the gardens, but Rivens would have it no other way. “Got to have brains as well as a back, to do this sorta work. Cessy’s a pretty lass, but she’s not afraid to get ‘er fingers filthy and do the job of a man, and I wouldn’a trade her brains for three burly young lads.”  

Her mind was always working. No matter whether she was digging in fields or sweeping streets or mending trellises, she could not stop her wild imagination. As a small child she had sat upon her father’s lap and heard him tell what he knew of the Old Tales, again and again, with new elaborations every time. Grand ladies of the court, fierce battles with giant sea creatures and menacing ogres, brilliant philosophers who won the battle at the very last second…. He had been the first to fill her head with adventures. The Tales had not died with Cecily’s father, but she had gone on repeating them to herself day after day, staring at the horizon as she did so. The world beyond Whitcrowe seemed like reality to her, and her life in the village only a shadow. Her friends, her work, the very food she ate, all seemed to be only whetting her appetite for something yet more real. At other times she forgot her wild yearnings and she contented herself with the business of the everyday. She would spend a day by the riverside, or discover an especially gorgeous blossom in a forgotten corner of the garden, or sit talking with her mother until the smoky fire died down low, and then she would decide to be content. But the night always gave way to morning, a golden morning that shimmered with dew and her heart would beat again.

Dropped By the Eaves

Chapter 1: Stirrings

Scene 1: Dropped By the Eaves

The story of Beauty and her terrible Beast, the story of love and sorrow and mystery, almost always fails to mention the most important part. No one knows exactly who it was who cursed the Beast, or why he was cursed. No one knows how Beauty came to love such an ugly creature. Falling in love is only ever a small part of the whole story. There is always that which happens afterward, and that which came before. Let me tell you the tale of beast in Beauty and beauty in Beast. Let me tell you the true story.

It is very hard to tell exactly when a story properly begins. There are so many places one could start, but I believe the best place to start is in the raised beds of Granton Castle garden, where a slim young woman with plaited black hair and a very dirty dress once knelt in a bed of borage, uprooting the stubborn weeds in a last effort to beautify the garden before autumn’s first frost.

View of St Bartholomew's Church, a photo by Sue H J Hasker on Flickr.

No one thinks of the girl who weeds the garden. No one considers what she might hear. Lords and ladies tramp the paths, swishing their important robes, certain that they are far from attentive ears and prying eyes and saying all manner of things without thinking of the girl clipping the boxwood. That was how Cecily Lockton saw great enemies conversing cordially in the dark corners of hedges, great friends threatening each other with daggers in the sunken orchard, and discreet young ladies acting very indiscreetly indeed behind the topiaries. When she picked up her knife and spade and began to work, she entered a world where nothing is sacred.

Back to Square One...Preface

So, this is to say that I've rearranged quite a few things in my plot, and now that I seem to have a better grip on things I'm going to power through a first draft and hopefully produce a somewhat cohesive manuscript! Many thanks to anybody who has been reading my scattered writing so far, and I hope that you will bear with me in the future :)

Remember, this is a dirty little first/second draft (crumpled on the edges, smudged with tears of frustration, scrawled with incomprehensible scribbles), a raw look at my little novel-in-progress. I welcome critique, and hope to hear feedback as the story progresses. So without further ado, let's begin again. With a preface.

Preface

The  tiny cottage had never looked so menacing. Slashing firelight made every shadow quiver; the blank walls seemed to mock the straining eyes that would catch a glimpse of strange figures in the corners; the hanging food baskets swung eerily to and fro above the heads of three or four neighbor women who watched with faces turned ghastly by fear and resignation. On one of the room’s low pallets lay two bodies, a man and woman, both pale and twisted into unnatural contortions. The woman still breathed, exhaling every few minutes with a convulsive scream which became delusional muttering. The man had not screamed in a long time. Their little girl sat on the ground beside the waiting women, eyes locked on the pallet, tiny fingers twisting and untwisting in her lap around the petals of a white rose.

One of the women silently stroked the top of the little girl’s head with one hand, marking time by the dying fire. When the other women had at last succumbed to sleep she stood up and felt the pulse of the prone woman’s wrist. After a few minutes she pressed the man’s wrist, and felt nothing but still flesh. Her composure broken, she grabbed up her apron and sobbed into it, great wracking sobs wept for this man and all the others who had died over the past few weeks. The girl did not move her eyes from the pale woman on the pallet who was still struggling for breath with her neck crooked at a sickening angle.

The girl slipped her fingers into the woman’s rigid hand, and pressed as hard as her fingers could press, as if she could stop the whole nightmare with only her fingers. The woman’s eyes slid open and two tears dripped out.

—

A month later the girl sat beside the woman on the pallet  helping her sip some scalding tea and eat a few spoonfuls of porridge. They were not alone. The woman who had taken the pulse was there to cook and sweep and comb the little girl’s dark hair into a tidy plait, and another man, quite a bit older and sometimes covered in dirt from his work in the gardens, would visit every day, and more often than not bring a spring posy to brighten the little girl’s dress. The pale man was gone from the cottage, with nothing to mark his passing but the loose dirt of yet another grave behind the chapel, and the wife and daughter left behind, cold and quiet.

 Spring was coming, and with it the hope of a new year free from the wild whims of fate, sickness and death. The girl’s eyes still looked to her mother. “Are we going to be all right now, Mummy?”

“God willing, Cecily. Oh, God willing!”

Photo: Child's Hands..., a photo by Pink Sherbet Photography on Flickr.