He found his stable empty and thought Cora did this.
When her cats slunk by him, his heart creaked open like a door.
Dear Jane,
I am tired tonight, my love. Not in body, as such – as I was when we rode here, through the drifts and wind. But my mind is tired, which some may say is a far greater fatigue. I was grateful to leave that cell, and looked forward to the peace that a good fire and solitude can bring – and does bring, as I write this. I am glad of the hearth – a little light and warmth. I am also glad of this proper chair, for that three-legged stool that I perch upon in there is low, and may trouble my back, in time.
I was also glad of a meal. I did not think I had an appetite, after such an unsavoury place, but when I ate it restored me. Sometimes we are hungry when we think we are not.
You are, I am sure, anxious to hear of my latest encounter with the witch. I will tell you of it – but I will use less words than she did, for she talked more than I’ve ever done. I preach, Jane – I have preached, and written my pamphlets, and have I not been called the orator of the age? A generous name, perhaps. Yet I wonder if I have ever spoken as much as she speaks. Her talking is like a river – running on and bursting into smaller rivers which lead nowhere, so she comes back to her starting place. I listened to her and thought, is this madness? How she uses her hands asks this question, as well – for she is rarely still. She talks with her hands up by her face, like she’s catching her words, or feeling them as she speaks them. Can you see that? I am not one for description. My strength is in sermons, and not in decorative talk.
I think this is what has tired me – her manner of speaking. It is chatter.
But also, what she speaks! I am glad you were not there, my love. Such blasphemy! Such wicked ways! She sat there like a beggar – all rags and large eyes – and told me of so many ungodly things that I felt several feelings, amongst them revulsion and rage. Her mother sounds a dire piece – slatternly, is the kindest word. She (the mother) saw some unkind sights in her youth, but it does not excuse the wrong path she walked along in such a wanton way. Herbs are not to be dallied with. Prayer is the best cure, and a true physician – not this greenish alchemy that I won’t abide. And this woman told lies, and hid her false face behind a church smile! She took the communion to hide her debauched ways.
I do not recall her name. I do not wish to recall it – for it is poisonous. But I’ll say that the world is well to be rid of her.
Corrag defends her, of course. What harm did she do? I was minded to say plenty – an unfettered woman brings much trouble in. But I held my tongue.
I think this is why my mind is so tired, my love: I have endured an afternoon of rambles and offences which were of no benefit to our Jacobite cause. How can an English childhood bring James to the throne? Or some gabble on half-drowned kittens take William away?
Still. She promises she has news to help us – on Glencoe, and the deaths. If so, it is worth the endurance. And how else might I fill my afternoons, in such weather? It snows even more, now, Jane.
My landlord has the fine trick of appearing from air, spectre-like. On the stairwell this evening, he expressed shock at finding me upon there – when I am certain he was well aware. We exchanged pleasantries. But as I turned I heard and how is the wretch in the tollbooth? Helpful? Foul-smelling? They say she can turn into a bird…I was polite, Jane, but did not indulge him – not tonight, for his interest is rather tiresome, and the hour is late, and your husband is not as young as he was.
I will say this much more on Corrag. For all her wounds and sadness, and her squalid condition, and for all her prattling, her wickedness, and her restless hands, she can tell a tale. She has an eye which sees the smaller parts of life – how a tree moves, or a scent. It means I felt, briefly, as if I was in this Thorneyburnbank where she lived. But I’ll call this bewitchment – and resist it. It is further proof of her sin.
Moreover, I hope this will not offend you, but her hair is like your hair. Not in its knots or thorns – of course not. But it has the same dark colour, the same length. I think of your hair’s weight, when I last untied it. I watched her twist a strand of it about a finger, as she spoke, and I imagined you as a child – before we met. If our daughter had lived, I am sure she’d have had this same hair.
I will write more tomorrow. What would I do, in these hours, if I did not write to my wife? I would sit in the half-dark, and dream of you instead. If I did not have you at all, I would imagine the woman I’d wish for, as wife – and she would be you. Exactly as you are.
I marvel at your patience. I worry that you, too, worry – for my health, and protection. But do not be troubled. Am I not protected? Do I not have a shield? ‘The Lord Himself goes before you, and will be with you; He will never leave you, nor forsake you.’ (Deuteronomy 31:8)
Write if you can.
Charles
‘It is commonly found under hedges, and on the sides of ditches under houses, or in shadowed lanes and other waste grounds, in almost every part of this land.’
of Ground Ivy
Last night, she was with me. When you had gone, she sat on the stool and looked at me with her shiny bird-eyes. I said to her I spoke of you to a man today and I reckon she knew. I thought of all the things which belong to her, which make me think of her when I see them, or hear them – thunder, rope.
Every herb I ever used, Mr Leslie, has had my mother in it. She taught them to me. In the elm wood she plucked them, rubbed their leaves. She boiled their roots, pressed their stems, and she said do not think that the small leaves are not useful. Sometimes they are the most useful leaves of all…I know what I know about leafy plants because she knew them, and passed them on.
So when I saved lives, Cora saved them.
When I cured an ache, or sealed up a wound, Cora also sealed it.
Never love is what she told me. Sometimes I thought then she surely does not love me? If she says ‘do not love’? I know she could be black-tempered. I know that mostly she was daydreaming, and had a half-smile to give – but sometimes a cloud came down upon her. It made her hiss in the cottage. She would run out into the rain to curse, and roar. She hated the word justice, and churches, and tore at her nails, and she smacked me, too, sometimes. When I said a bad word against her she put a teasel in my mouth and said chew, so that I’d learn the soreness of such words – and I’d think, chewing teasels, this isn’t kind. I also thought this isn’t her…Not the proper Cora.
Do not love…But I think she did love me. I think so. For she combed my hair at night, and when my shoulder popped itself she’d kissed it, said poor old bones…And one winter in Hexham we caught snowflakes and ate them, left our shapes in the deeper drifts. We sang old and naughty witch songs on our way home, and that was good. There was love in that.
But there was no other love – not for people, sir. She loved no man. Instead, she packed her heart away and let them take her like bulls take their cows – sighing on to the back of her neck. She never met the same bull twice. Nor did she ever meet them by day, in case they were handsome, and what if her heart broke out, and was free? I blame the ducking