The Death of Lucy Kyte (27 page)

11 August

I thought that sleep w'd not come when I went to my bed last night, but when I woke it was after seven. I c'd not help wonderin' about him. Had he slept through his last night on this earth, or did he cling to his final hours? I hope he has suffer'd from knowin' the moment of his own death. Maria was spar'd that, at least.

Went to rouse the Missis, but her room was empty. Search'd the house, afraid of what her grief might have driven her to, but she was nowhere to be found. Then I saw her from the window, walkin' slowly up the hill, her bible in her hand, her head held high. The village was quieter than usual – a lot o' folk had gone to Bury – but the few that were about star'd without shame. Some dar'd to speak to her, but she look'd straight ahead as if she had not heard. She walk'd past me, too, as she came back in. The world only had room for her and her wretched son. She has not spoken to him since his sentence.

I c'd not do my work, and sat at my window. Just before 12, the sun came out. The church clock began to strike the hour, follow'd by the clock in the hall and the clock in the parlour, and I imagin'd the roar of the crowds buildin' outside the gaol. I thought I c'd actually hear them, but the cries were of a mother lettin' her son go from the world, in more pain now than ever she was when she brought him into it.

I went to her. There is only one grief, it seems, and the sorrow that stood between us has brought us together in the end. I have no idea how long we clung to each other, but when I left her the sun was much lower in the sky.

12 August

The newspaper says it took him eight minutes to die. He confess'd on Sunday night. His wife kept faith with him until the end. It is a love he did not deserve. Mr Curtis's paper printed William's last letter to her, written on a page from a book of sermons that she gave him. They say she is ill in Bury. Perhaps William's second child will be as unlucky as his first.

They took his body on a cart to the Shire Hall and show'd it to the people, naked except for his trousers, shoes and stockings, the skin cut from his chest, eyes and mouth half-open, his neck showin' the marks of a shameful death. I wish I had known. I w'd have walked to Bury to see his body por'd over as Maria's has been. Thousands queued for a last sight of him, they say, but readin' about it is not the same as seein' it for myself. I have such violence inside me. It sh'd be enough that justice has been done, but it is not.

 

13 August

Nan Martin caught me by the pond today and accus'd me of betrayin' her sister at the trial. I open'd my mouth to argue but the words stuck in my throat because I know in my heart that she is right. I treated Samuel badly because of it. He pick'd a fight with Nan's man, tellin' him that no one is more loyal to Maria than I am, and I was cross because I do not want him to defend me. He was only tryin' to help and I told him I was sorry, but we are a village at war at the moment. William is dead and the crowds have mov'd on. Left to ourselves, we turn on each other.

It was not Nan's insults that upset me. It was lookin' at her and knowin' that she is replacin' Maria – in the Martin house, and in the village. Thousands of folk think they have seen Maria's picture these last few months, but they have not. The portraits that were sold in Bury, the ones in the newspapers, were drawn from Nan's likeness, not Maria's. No one drew Maria when she was alive. Now she is dead, even her face is a lie.

26 August

Mrs Martin stopp'd me outside the forge and ask'd me if I w'd like to go to the cottage and see Thomas Henry. She needs any friend she can get. For every person who believes in her dreams, there are half a dozen who whisper behind her back that she knows more about Maria's death than she says. I do not know the truth of it, but I am willin' to forget our differences for the sake of that little boy.

The cottage has suffer'd like the rest of us. I w'd never say that Mrs Martin does not keep a tidy house, but the rooms smell of sadness. Thomas Henry's face lit up when he saw me. It made me want to cry, but he has seen enough tears this last year, so I took him out into the sunshine. It did us both good. When we went back, his grandmother said I sh'd see him more often and take him to play with Molly, and I was pleas'd. Nothin' would make me happier than to see them friends.

As I was leavin', Mrs Martin put some of Maria's books into my hand, remindin' me of how we had always lov'd a story. It is nice to have them, with her notes inside, and a flower or letter tuck'd between the pages. I smil'd when I saw
The Old English Baron
. I c'd hear her voice, readin' it aloud to me as we sat on the grass over Thistley Lay. The taller a tale, the more Maria lov'd it. Then I remember'd the part where a woman guides her husband to their daughter's body through a dream, and now I cannot sleep for wonderin'.

8 September

The Missis is goin'. I have known since the day he died that she w'd not be able to bear another winter here, and she will be away by the end of the year. She is to stay with family, and the house and farm will be relet. I will not be sorry to leave it. I long to shake off its shadows and be a proper wife to Samuel and lovin' mother to Molly. I only wish that we c'd make our home somewhere far from here, not in the cottage so close to where Maria died, and where I will always be haunted by what happen'd to her.

 

12 September

One of the Suffolk papers has open'd a fund for the other Mary Corder. She is broken, it says, ruin'd in mind and body. Her school lost its pupils and she sold everythin' she had for his defence. Now she is poor, reduc'd to the very last shillin', with no hope of feedin' and clothin' her child when it is born. I thought she w'd come back here, but she has not spoken with the Missis, or look'd to her for money.

The harvest is in. It has been a poor year, Samuel says, and the barn is barely two thirds full. There has been no music, no dancin', no reason to be thankful. The last grain has been taken from Corder land. When it has gone, there will be nothin' left of them here but dust.

 

25 October

The Missis call'd me after breakfast and told me to get a room ready for William's widow. She is to come here to have the child. A birth under this roof after so many deaths, but I cannot be happy for it. Maria was sent away from all who lov'd her to bring his first child into the world, and now, after all that has happen'd, his second will breathe its first under his mother's roof. I am not to speak of it in the village.

 

3 November

She came after dark in a coach from Lavenham, where she has been stayin'. The child will not be long in comin' and I put her straight to bed. The Missis has told me to give her every care, but she w'd not see her tonight. She is doin' what she thinks is right, but there is no joy for her in the new life to come, and I think she fears that she will see her son in his child, and be reminded of more than she can bear.

 

16 November

William has a son. The Missis w'd not see the child and wanted only to know if he was well. He is a sickly little creature, and his mother prays for him. She has called him John, but he is not to take the Corder name for fear that it will go against him. As soon as they are strong enough, they are to leave the village, and the Missis soon after them.

 

21 November

The child is thrivin' now, and his mother sees only William in him. She cries with joy and grief, and I am sad for her. Everythin' that William has touch'd he has destroy'd.

 

2 December

The Missis left Polstead for the last time yesterday. It has been a busy week, and if it was not for the sadness of the work, I w'd have been glad. But packin' away a life of such loneliness all but broke my heart, and I am glad it is done. She wanted company on the journey and we took the mornin' coach. It was a bright winter's day and the village look'd its finest, but as the carriage rattled down the Hadleigh road, she did not once look back. She has ask'd me to tend the graves of her husband and children if I feel able to, and if it will not cause me grief wi' the village, but I think the churchyard is the only thing she regrets leavin' behind. It holds so much of her.

We rested overnight in Lavenham – the Missis will not set foot in Bury – and she talk'd to me as she has never talk'd before. She told me of the happiness of her marriage, and ask'd me about Samuel. She said he is a good man and we must cherish each other. She said she c'd have borne her sorrow better if she had still had her husband's love.

 

4 December

It is just before midnight, and I have wound the clocks and lock'd the doors for the last time. The house is silent, holdin' its ghosts, and I feel as though I am a stranger in these rooms now that my reason for bein' here has gone. The new tenant comes in a few days. His name is Tabor, and he has a family – daughters, they say. I hope he will be happier here than those who have made way for him.

Tomorrow, I go to stay with Hannah until Samuel and I are wed. There is so much to do. Molly is to be maid and I have promis'd her the prettiest dress a girl can wear – or the best my needlework will allow. She grows more excited by the hour, and my heart is full of joy when I see what my life with Samuel will be. I have forgotten what it is to wake and think only of ordinary things.

Samuel came to the house this evenin' and ask'd me to go to Red Barn Cottage with him. I had not been for weeks, but it is to be my home and I must grow to love it. At the end that looks to the barn, he has planted an orchard. Half a dozen cherry trees, with flowers in between. It is his weddin' present to me, and against the cottage itself he has set a climbin' rose. The trees are young at the moment, he says, but they will grow, and the rose has come from Maria's garden. He wants me to have somethin' that will remind me of her, somethin' beautiful. One day, he says, I will look out of the window and see only joy.