The Death of Lucy Kyte (25 page)

4 September

How I used to love this time o' night, when the house was quiet and it was just me and my thoughts. Now they are no comfort. What is terrible enough to keep Maria away, stronger even than her love for that little boy? Is she expectin' William's child again and frighten'd of what might happen to her? Is she shut away somewhere, out of her wits wi' grief? Is that why the Martins have let her go so easily – a shame even greater than the last?

William complains of bein' feverish, and fears he is goin' the same way as his brothers. God forgive me for what I feel in my heart about that, but I am not asham'd of it. Perhaps if he were dead, Maria c'd be home where she belongs wi' the people who w'd love her and look after her.

 

8 September

William has gone. He left today to go to the sea for his health, and Pryke took him to Colchester to catch the coach. I carried his bags out to the cart, hopin' to have a chance to ask him if he is goin' to Maria, but he w'd not look at me. Now there is just me and the Missis, and I feel as tho' my last hope of seein' Maria has left wi' William.

 

29 September

Michaelmas. This was suppos'd to be a happy day, and I am angry wi' myself for believin' that William w'd ever bring Maria back here. I was a fool to listen to his promises. He must be laughin' at us both, wherever he is. I take his letters up to the Missis when they come, and they never bear the same mark twice. She reads them quickly – never more than a single sheet – and I can tell by her face that they bring no real news.

 

25 October

The village is full o' rumours again today. Pryke told someone about the last talk he had wi' William, and he said that he had not seen Maria since May. I do not know what to think. Lies have always come easy to William, but why would he say that when it goes against all he has led us to believe?

Went to see Mrs Martin this afternoon to tell her what I had heard, but she said it was idle tittle-tattle. She said she had a letter which proved different and my heart lifted until I saw it was from William and not Maria. He says that Maria is now his wife, and she sends a kiss to Thomas Henry and asks that her clothes be given to her sister as she has new ones. Mrs Martin look'd at me as tho' the words proved me to be a fool, but they have only worried me more. Maria loves her clothes far more than her sister. They have been at odds since their mother's death, and the finest new clothes w'd not persuade Maria to have Nan dress'd up in what is rightly hers. I know somethin' is wrong, but if Maria's family will not listen to me, who will?

20 December

The snow has been comin' down hard for two days, and the village is cut off from the world. There are deep drifts everywhere, and Samuel help'd the shepherd dig the sheep out and make a path for them to the yards.

It is strange to have so much light at night with the moon shinin' on the snow, and yet for the days to be dark and dull in the house wi' drifts up against the windows. Everywhere looks so different, and it is easy to let my imagination get the better of me. A dreadful fear has taken me over these last few weeks. When I am quiet and alone like this I cannot hide from it. I have thought up so many reasons for Maria's silence, but I am afraid that none of them is as terrible as the truth I do not know. I am done with hopin' and prayin', because I feel certain in these dark moments that I will never see my friend again.

 

26 December

Went to see Samuel after dinner and it took me a long time to get to the cottage wi' the paths deep in mud after the snow and I need not have bother'd to look nice. Molly c'd not wait to show me the little decorations she had made for me and the room was warm and pretty with holly and a cloth on the table. It was all so cheerful and homely that I c'd have cried wi' happiness.

We had the food that I took wi' me, all proper Christmas fare, and Samuel gave me some honey wine that Hannah had sent. Later, when Molly was asleep, he ask'd me why I have been so sad of late, and I do not know if it was the wine or his kindness but I found myself tellin' him all I fear'd most about Maria. He put his arms around me and said it is not good for me to be on my own in that house with all the darkness and w'd I not rather be here in the firelight with him and Molly? I did not answer him at first for fear of not understandin' what he was askin', but he kept on talkin', sayin' that William bein' away has given him more to do on the farm and the Missis is good to him and pays him a fair wage, and Molly loves me as her own mother and that he w'd like to love me as a husband and be with me all my days, if I c'd ever think of Red Barn Cottage as my home. And I knew then that I already do.

How I long to be tellin' Maria my news rather than writin' it down. I know she w'd hug me and laugh and tease Samuel for takin' so long to ask. But I will not feel guilty for being happy, not after all this time.

Tuesday 1 January, 1828

God willin', this is the last new book I shall begin. The Missis cannot go on as she is in this big house all alone, and when her daughter fetches her away and she is settled with her family, I will be Samuel Kyte's wife.

I must say goodbye to my little books when I am wed. There will be no need to dwell on my own thoughts for company when I have a family, and I know there is nothin' I w'd wish to hide from Samuel. But I will keep these pages to read when I am old.

 

12 February

Samuel brought me snowdrops for my birthday, enough to fill my tiny room. I do not know if they are the last flower of winter or the first of spring, but today they are a beginnin'.

Tom Martin was in the Cock tonight, talkin' about his wife. He says she is not sleepin' and has not been herself since their Maria went away, and now Mr Matthews has stopped sendin' money for Thomas Henry she has taken a turn for the worse. Maria's sister says her stepmother is goin' out o' her mind, wi' visions of Maria at night, knockin' on the door and cryin' for help. I suppose it w'd suit her if Mrs Martin was put away – with Maria gone, she w'd be free to rule the household at last. But if anythin' upsets Mrs Martin's sleep, it will be her conscience. A proper mother w'd have stopped Maria goin' with William when she was so low after the baby. If she is sufferin' for that now, I am glad.

 

18 April

Tom Martin came to the house and ask'd to speak to the Missis. I heard him ask leave to go to the barn and look for clothes that he thought Maria might have left there on the day she went away. He did not mention William. The Missis said Pryke w'd take him to the barn tomorrow. Later, I begged Samuel to take me but he said only William and Pryke have a key. He promis'd to watch for them tomorrow and told me not to worry, but there is more to this than lost clothes. I shall not sleep tonight.

 

19 April

Saw Pryke go off this mornin' to meet Tom Martin. The Missis watch'd him from the window, and we both waited for news. It was Samuel who came back to the house. He was a few minutes wi' the Missis, then he came to me and I knew by his face that they had found her. He c'd not speak at first, but I begged him to tell me and he knew that if he did not I w'd go up there and find a way to see the truth myself.

They found her in one of the bays, not a foot down in the earth. She was tied up in a sack, her poor body bent double and a handkerchief around her neck. I scream'd at Samuel to stop, to tell me that it was not Maria, but they are sure. They have found earrings and shoes and a pair of combs. Her family say they are Maria's. Nothin' more is left of her to know.

She is still there, lock'd in the barn. They are waitin' for the coroner to come from Bury. She is found and her misery known, but she must wait another night in that place. Tomorrow, the men of the village will stand over her body and look and point and talk about her as tho they care. It is Maria who will be judged, and Thomas Henry will never truly know his mother. If she is remember'd at all, it will be as the poor murder'd girl or the whore. Where is William? How c'd he live on here and smile and lie so easy, passin' that barn every day, all the time knowin' she was inside? And I have been happy in that cottage, laughin' and talkin' with Samuel, never knowin' that she was so close, and so alone.

Tonight, Samuel walk'd with me up to Barn Field. The flowers I left for her look'd sad in the fadin' light. He says we do not know what happened and I must not judge for the Missis's sake, but I know. She is dead, and I have bow'd and scrap'd to the man who killed her. I c'd have wash'd her blood from his clothes, and the thought of him makes me sick to my stomach.

Maria. She is here now, in front of me, her face black and swollen, and she stares at me, unforgivin' because I have let her down. I can still hear her voice in the silence, and she is tellin' me that if I had been in trouble, she would have found a way to save me.

20 April

I heard the cart as it was beginnin' to get light. From my window, I c'd see the men makin' their way slowly across the fields towards the barn. The procession was ghostly in the mornin' mist, and I wish'd I c'd wipe their purpose from my mind as easily as I c'd imagine the sight of them to be a dream.

I left the house and waited on the edge of the village for them to bring Maria back. They were gone a long time. Word had spread overnight and a crowd gather'd on the green and along the path to the Martins' cottage. For once, the village held its tongue, and the silence when the cart came back was broken only by the sound of the wheels on the stones and the heavy footsteps of the men who walk'd behind it. Their faces told me what they had seen, but all I can think of now is Maria on that cart, cover'd in a sheet, as slight as a bundle of rags. How can that be the friend I loved? Her father walk'd with her all the way. As they lifted her body from the cart and into the Cock for the inquest, I thought his grief would break him but he found the strength to go inside.

I went back to the house to wait for news. The Missis ask'd me what was happenin' and I told her what I had seen, but she said nothin'. At 6 o'clock, while I was clearin' away a supper that had never been wanted, the church bell began to toll. It was late for a funeral, but they c'd not wait to get Maria back in the ground. To lay her to rest properly in the mornin' light is more than our shame will allow. Samuel was one of the six who carried the coffin and the Martins walk'd behind, with Thomas Henry cryin' in his grandfather's arms. Mrs Martin star'd at the Corder house as we pass'd it. She look'd back at me as if I was to blame. There will be some who think the money the Missis pays me to serve her family is stronger than my love for Maria. It is only a matter of time before the village takes sides. But I will not be given lessons in loyalty by Anne Martin, and I hope my face told her so.

As we climb'd the hill to the church, I look'd back and saw hundreds of people followin', far more than had known Maria while she was alive. Why did she have to die to matter? I caught myself wishing for her sake and mine that she c'd have been happy wi' less, but why sh'd she not have dreams?

They buried her near the wall at the back of the churchyard, in sight of the Hall and away from the Corder graves. Reverend Whitmore has never had such a congregation, and he seem'd very pleased with himself, but all his talk about the power of spirit c'd not comfort me after the sight of that cart this mornin'. I stood under the sycamores, the wind rustlin' their branches and mixin' with the sobs of family and strangers, and forgive me, Maria, but I c'd not cry. Time will come when I turn to you as I always have and you will not be there, and I will weep for the loss of you, but until he is found and punish'd my anger serves you better than my tears.

 

23 April

All the talk in the village is of Mrs Martin's dreams and how Maria was found. She is makin' quite a name for herself, and does not like to be outdone by a dead Maria any more than she did by a livin' one. Went to their cottage this afternoon to take some treats to Thomas Henry. He was playin' under the cherry trees and I pick'd him up and told him how his mother loved this garden, but Mrs Martin snatch'd him away and snapp'd at me not to upset him by talkin' about Maria. Started to answer her back, but I c'd see that our shoutin' was troublin' him so held my tongue.

I swear to you, Maria, I will make sure your son knows who you are. He will never forget you as long as I live, and when he is old enough, I will read him this diary so that he knows what your life and your death have meant to someone who loves you.

 

24 April

William is married. The newspapers say he has been found in Brentford, at a school where he lives with his wife. All the time he was writin' to the Martins and spinnin' lies about bein' happy with Maria, he was courtin' another woman and Maria was rottin' in the dirt of a barn.

A letter came for the Missis today from Colchester. It was in William's hand. She lock'd her door to read it, and I c'd hear her cryin'. When I clean'd her room, I found it in the grate and I know why she has lost her strength. In all his talk of shame and disgrace, there was no denial of what he is charg'd with. They are bringin' him back here for the inquest, and he asks that she receive his wife and her brother. Their name is Moore. I hope the Missis turns them away. I will not serve tea to the woman who wears Maria's ring.

 

25 April

No one sleeps in this house any more. I wonder if the Missis will ever rest again. It has been like livin' with a ghost since Maria was found. She fades more each day and does not notice when I speak to her. Her face is pale, the sorrow of each of her men written as clear there as it is on the stones that mark their graves. I can hear her now, movin' around next door, a ghost too tired to disturb the livin'.

There have been people in the village all day. They stand outside the house, revellin' in our scandal. Some have even come to the door and only turn'd back when Samuel threaten'd the dogs, but it will take more than dogs to protect her. She is at their mercy, and her shame will break her where her grief could not. They brought him back in the early hours of the mornin'. I heard the chaise just after 2, the horses strugglin' up the hill. Her footsteps went to the window and she stay'd there long after the sound of the hooves had died away. God forgive me, but I want William to suffer for her pain as well as for Maria's.

I was call'd to the inquest this morning, and Samuel came with me. There was hardly room to breathe inside the inn. They kept William upstairs while the evidence was given. The man who made the arrest said that William denied knowin' Maria, but he had Maria's reticule among his things. I was with her when she bought it on one of our visits to Bury, and I c'd not breathe when I saw it, rememberin' how happy she was that day. Her stepmother was shown her clothes, torn and cover'd with soil. She cried as she was examin'd, cried for her ‘poor Maria', and it was all I could do to hold my tongue.

Then they called my name and all eyes turn'd to me. The coroner ask'd me what I had seen when I clean'd William's room the week after Stoke Fair. I told him about the box wi' the shoes and gloves and he ask'd me to describe them. Then I was dismiss'd. I tried not to listen as a surgeon describ'd Maria's body, but there was no escape from the horror of it. He spoke of the eye and the cheek and the heart as if they had never sparkl'd or glow'd or lov'd, as if Maria was an object and only matters to the law because she is dead. When the surgeon had finished, they brought William down. He saw me and smil'd – that smile that always charm'd Maria – and all I c'd feel was hate. I look'd at his hands and remember'd what the surgeon had said – her bones fractured, her neck strangled. I c'd not stay to hear any more.

Went back to the house and scrubb'd William's room. I will not touch anything that he has touch'd. Did not see the Missis. Her meal had not been eaten, and when I knock'd at her door she did not answer. To my shame, I was glad. I c'd not think of any words that w'd bring her comfort.