Lady in the Veil (4 page)

‘Who’s that letter from?’ asked Eliza peering over her sister’s shoulder.

‘No one!’ Mirabel snapped. How dare that farmer write such a letter to her? She threw it with disdain almost onto the fire but then drew it back, shoving it into her reticule. It was
the first billet doux she’d ever had, even if it was from a rough cowman from Yewbank Farm who was handsome and strong. How many times had she caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her
eye watching her movements? Who did he think he was to even address her in such an intimate manner?

If Papa had known of such impudence he would’ve had him whipped or dismissed but you couldn’t stop a free man from going about his lawful business and Matt was no man’s fool.
His name tripped off the tongue of many a housemaid as being the finest beau in the village.

If only she could’ve laughed and dismissed him as common, but the young bucks she’d met in York through Aunt Lydia were silly dumb dogs or foppish mincing minions. Now they were
going back to the ladies’ college with its chaperones and dull deportment lessons, soirees and recitals. The city air was rank after the moorland freshness; the smoke and muck brought a
different sort of smell. The poor were poorer and more threatening. The hovels they visited were beds of sickness and death. This time they must repay their aunt and make an effort to be seen out
in good society like prize heifers up for auction to the highest bidder. This time Papa was expecting a result but Eliza was being such a pain about going out.

It was getting harder and harder to persuade her to go anywhere. All she wanted to do was bury herself in her needlework in some corner out of sight.

‘Put your sewing aside and come to the shops with us,’ Mirabel pleaded. ‘Mistress Peacock the milliner has wonderful ribbons and feathers to trim up our bonnets, new linens and
dimities, silks and grosgrains up from London.’

Eliza looked up and smiled. ‘You go with Aunt Lydia, I have a pattern to master for the edge of my sampler, see . . .’

Eliza could be so stubborn when she had a needle in her hand. How were they ever going to find a suitor for her until she herself was fixed, and there was no one here who had pleased her eye as
much as Matt Stockdale, which was unthinkable.

She still had the picture he’d taken of her safely hidden in the secret drawer at the back of her writing bureau but it languished long forgotten like poor William who lived now in private
rooms of the Quaker ‘Retreat House’ just outside the city. That first visit to him was difficult. She had brought the picture of his horse to cheer him up. He smiled but did not seem to
understand why she had given it to him. But after that when she saw how kindly he was cared for and how content he was in this quiet ordered world, it made her visits bearable. He had no idea who
his visitor was but his smile was warm and his hands reached out to her.

Aunt Lydia always cried. Eliza had never been through the door. ‘I can’t bear to think of him locked away. My stomach wrenches at the sight of sickness in the streets, Bella. I would
be of no use to him.’ That was always her excuse. When she was following her intricate patterns she was safe in a world of her own choosing where there was no sickness or pain or suitors to
find. Eliza was like a child and needed protection. She wasn’t ready for marriage yet.

Aunt Lydia was losing patience with her nieces for being too particular. ‘There’re girls biting at your heels for a chance to show themselves at the Assembly Rooms. You’ve
spent too much time up in the hills. It’s coarsened your skin and flushed your cheeks like a dairymaid. A little more restraint at the dancing and the singing, Mirabel. A gentlemen
doesn’t want a milkmaid for a wife but a delicate flower.’

From what she gleaned from back-stair gossip, gentlemen with roving eyes grabbed milkmaids wherever they could after the hunting. There were girls dismissed for carrying bastards or being caught
with their skirts high up in the barn.

Once in Papa’s library on a wet afternoon she discovered a leather ledger full of pictures that left nothing to the imagination or instruction as to how children were begat; eastern
maidens astride men in positions that defied her understanding but stirred her loins strangely by the sight of such feats of daring. Eliza had screamed when she had caught a glimpse of them, vowing
never to let any man disgrace her in that way. Mirabel just laughed, thinking about stallions and mares and then of Matt Stockdale and going hot at the thought.

As they bustled through Spurriergate that afternoon, tripping from shop to shop, browsing, sipping tea in a ladies’ tearoom, little did she guess how soon her world was to be turned upside
down. There was talk of sickness in Water Lane, in the poorer end of the city and Aunt Lydia insisted they take carriages back to the tall brick house in Micklegate.

When later Aunt Lydia complained of a headache and the shivers, Mirabel thought nothing of sitting mopping her brow, feeding her gruel, watching her toss and turn. She was the nearest they had
ever had to a mother and kind enough to make sure they had a season. After a few days with the doctor fussing over her bed, a nasty rash appeared that frightened everyone away and the doctor who
called asked if the girls had been pricked with the cowpox. She had no notion of what he was asking, shaking her head.

It was then that he banned them both from the sick room and sent for a nurse. When the pustules covered Lydia’s face and legs there was no mistaking what was happening and Mirabel feared
it was only a matter of days before she herself would be laid low and by then poor Aunt Lydia would’ve revived or passed away. Eliza was flapping and fluttering like a trapped bird but since
she never entered the sickroom there was hope that she would be safe from sickness.

A quiet woman in a grey dress was engaged to help the household as many of the servants had fled at the news that smallpox was in the house. Eliza too wanted to escape but wouldn’t go
without her sister. Mirabel woke on the morning of their intended departure with such a headache and fever that she knew it would be weeks before she rose from this bed again. She lay looking up at
the ceiling, praying she might be spared the ravages of this dreaded disease.

It was time to bar the door against any further contact with her sister and Jennet the nurse turned her attention to making her comfortable and preparing her for the worst. ‘Let me in,
Bella!’ Eliza screamed. ‘What ails you?’

‘Stay away and do as I say, send for a maid who has had the cowpox. They do not sicken easily. If all is well I’ll open the door but if it is not, take me home and bury me in St
Peter’s,’ she sobbed suddenly, very calm. How sad that she would die a maid, without ever knowing what it was to wed and run her own household. Would she meet Mama on the other side and
would she recognize her?

‘What are you talking about?’ Eliza screamed. ‘I can’t go home without you. I will camp outside your door until you let me in.’

‘Please yourself but I’m not leaving this room until I know for certain what ails me but do as I say. Send for help but don’t write to Papa that I’m sick. He has enough
worries. When I am recovered then we’ll return home. How is Aunt Lydia?’

There was a sniffle of sobs from the other side of the door. ‘We have to burn her clothes, the doctor says, and her bed linen and drapes. I’m so afraid. What am I going to
do?’

Mirabel tried to rise up from the pillow. ‘Put the house in mourning and let no one through the door but the hired nurse. For once you must fend for yourself,’ she croaked and fell
back on the bed, unable to move for the thundering bells ringing in her head.

How long she lay there, she no longer knew or cared. Shadows flitted across the window through the chink in the bed drapes, soothing her rash. Sometimes strange whirring creatures jumped from
the curtains to dance around her head. She lay helpless, sweating until the fever broke and the great hard pustules scabbed over her face, arms and legs. Only the soothing touch of the nurse
brought any relief from her torment.

Then one morning her eyes flickered. There was a sudden brightness as if she was travelling far from the confines of the chamber back to the hills and back to riding Mercury, free as the wind,
her skirts trailing after her; racing behind was another horse trying to catch her but she was too quick and skilful leaping over the gate; but the hoof caught the bar and the horse stumbled and
she was thrown high and then low.

It was the face of Matt Stockdale who bent over her, smiling, loving and she woke with tears of longing for the high hills and for a simpler life.

‘She’s coming round at last,’ said a quiet voice holding an invalid cup full of water to her lips. Her head was so heavy she could scarce raise it but she sipped the water
through cracked lips. ‘My sister?’ she asked, dreading the worst of news.

‘She’s spared and anxious to know that thee is recovered.’ The nurse in the tight cap was smiling down at her.

‘Let me see her . . .’ she begged.

‘In a little while when ’tis safe, when the scabs have dropped.’

‘Am I pockmarked?’ Mirabel croaked, knowing full well that she was.

‘I have seen worse. Thee will recover thy strength and they will fade,’ said the nurse who glided like a grey swan around the bed posts.

‘I wish I were dead,’ she sobbed.

‘That’s a good sign to see thee so roused. Thee will heal being young and well fed. Others have not been so fortunate,’ said the nursing maid.

‘Aren’t you afraid to come so close?’ she croaked, curious as to the quaint speech and plain clothes of the woman who had saved her life.

‘I’m called to do this service. I have been pricked with cow pox and it protects me from anything worse,’ Jennet replied.

‘My aunt?’ she added fearing the worst.

‘Sadly is buried with her ancestors,’ came the quiet reply. ‘She was not young like you.’

‘Has Eliza told Papa? Has she written to him? Is he here?’

‘Only that there is contagion in the house and that you will both stay safe until it is passed over. It is better that he didn’t come, for fear of spreading the sickness. She’s
taken great comfort in her sewing, counting her stitches over and over. She cannot walk abroad and has not left the house for weeks, nor will she travel to the college. I have never seen one so
young, so full of fear. She’s of a delicate mind, I fear, but the Lord has preserved her for a purpose,’ she replied.

‘Are you one of the Quakers of York?’ Mirabel asked, recognizing the plain clothes and broad collar that she had seen around the streets and behind the shop counters.

‘Yes, I am a Friend called to be a follower of the inner light that is found in all.’

Mirabel was in no mind for a sermon and turned her head away suddenly afraid. ‘Bring me a looking glass,’ she demanded.

‘It would be better to wait a little longer,’ came the guarded reply.

‘Bring it now. I have to see the worst for myself,’ she cried. The nurse shuffled around searching for the hand mirror in the table drawer. She opened the curtains to let more light
in. Mirabel slowly drew the glass closer and then screamed at the sight of her pitted cheeks and scars and tufts of shorn hair straggling from her bed cap. ‘Take it away! Don’t let
Eliza in, to see this. I am ruined. My life is over!’

‘There’s more to beauty than skin and hair,’ offered the nurse. ‘I did warn thee.’

‘Thank you, but now I have seen the devastation, no one must see this face again.’

‘Don’t despair. The marks will fade given time. I’ve seen many a maid restored to good health and happiness.’

Mirabel was too sick at heart to listen. Her face was her fortune and now she was ruined. She must hide this shame away from view.

‘Let me in,’ pleaded Eliza but the door was locked.

In the days that followed, Mirabel refused all offers of company, begging a black cap to cover her shorn head and a black mourning veil to cover her face. Only when she was covered completely
did she open the door to her sister who fell upon her with relief.

‘How I have waited for this day! How cruel you’ve been to banish me,’ Eliza sobbed, stepping back at the sight of this strange garb. ‘What have you done to
yourself?’

‘I am marked, Eliza. I am no longer Mirabel Dacre. Papa will not recognize me. You’ll have to get used to my plainness but Papa will not. Better I were dead than live to be pitied
and hidden away.’

‘You’re so wrong! He’ll be glad you’re recovered,’ Eliza smiled. ‘I hate this place. I’ll never walk in its streets again with all the evil vapours.
Let’s journey back to Lawton and live quietly together like before. I will start a new tapestry and you can help me.’

‘I’ll do no such thing. You know I hate all that handwork. How can we go back without a promise of a husband between us? Poor Aunt Lydia can’t help us now. My face is no
fortune but you are still fresh. You’ll have to do for the both of us and marry well before it’s too late’

Eliza stepped back in horror at these words. ‘You can’t make me do that. I always thought you would marry and I’d stay to live with Papa.’

‘He can’t afford to keep the both of us unwed. He has lost his wife and now his sister and William will never be his heir. One of us will have to give him some hope. Shape yourself
and do your duty for once. I have carried you around long enough. See for yourself . . .’ she snapped. It was hard to be cruel but Eliza must play her part. She lifted her veil so her sister
could see the worst. There was such a bitterness in her heart at this cruel fate.

Eliza fled from the bedchamber at the sight of her marks and took to her bed, refusing to eat her dishes and said she would die rather than be paraded around the marriage mart. Mirabel, still
shaken and weak, was worn out with her pitiful pleading, knowing Eliza could be as stubborn as herself. Her hands kept fingering the spots that felt to her like craters in her skin, thinking they
were growing larger not shrinking as Jennet promised. Who would ever want to look on her with anything but pity? They had to do something and soon.

Never had she felt so alone. The tall house was empty and full of bad memories. Eliza was right; they were safer at home whatever the outcome. The thought of the high fells and the gracious old
house were comforting. It was then that a strange idea jumped into her mind from nowhere and she smiled for the first time in weeks. There was a way forward perhaps but only if Eliza would play her
part. It was deceitful and cunning and would take all the courage they could muster but it might just make life bearable for the both of them and give Papa hope for the future. How could she bribe
her sister to go along with this crazy scheme? She looked down at Jennet’s sewing box and smiled again. Her hands were never idle. There was just a chance that the answer might lie right here
at her feet.