Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [30]
One morning after a particularly sleepless night I shared my thoughts with Goodwife Wimpole over breakfast. She blanched and nearly choked upon her bread, than upbraided me severely for speaking heresies. When my mother returned, her face drawn and weary from her own nocturnal laborings, Goodwife Wimpole drew her aside and whispered in her ear. I saw my mother sigh and shake her head, and Goodwife Wimpole crossed herself, before both turned to glower at me. My mother was particularly quiet on the way home, but when we arrived she sat me down at the table and explained as clearly as she could to someone of my age how babies were born. She told me that she did the Lord’s bidding, and forbade me ever again to speak of witchcraft to anyone outside our house. The very fact that my mother addressed me in such a serious manner impressed me deeply, though the explanation she gave struck me as highly fantastical indeed, and I was not entirely convinced that what she described could take place without some sort of magic. But I kept such doubts to myself, concluding that if my mother was indeed a witch, then she must have her own reasons for her secrecy.
From the age of eight or nine I pleaded with her to allow me to remain at home, complaining of the draughts on Goodwife Wimpole’s floor. My mother lived in fear of draughts and so she finally acquiesced. From then on I was left to tend myself, with only the promise of a neighbor to check upon me from time to time. I relished my newfound freedom and took to wandering about the village after dark, peeping through the cracks of windows at the doings of my neighbors. It was in this way that I came to know of men and women for the first time—of noisy couplings and frenzied tumbling that happened quickly and without warning. The sight initially alarmed me, but soon my reaction turned from fear to fascination, and finally, to amusement, for there was often laughter within, and I somehow imagined myself to be part of the joke.
But it wasn’t long before I came to feel excluded. For as long as I could remember, our house had been empty of men. My mother rarely spoke of them, and when she did her comments were terse and vaguely critical. I knew that other children had fathers, but as a child it did not occur to me to ask after my own. Something in my mother’s manner cut short even the possibility. Much later, when it became obvious to me that she had not acted independently, the question continued to baffle me. For to this day, I cannot conceive of her together with a man.
My first real brush with men came when I was taken on at the Great House. Indeed for some months I was tongue-tied in their presence, not just that of my master, but the likes of Josias and Rafe as well. Rafe especially, as he was nearest to my age and very forward in his manner. Of course I was not schooled in the ways of women when it came to dealing with men. But it was not long before I perceived that these were numerous and varied. For a time we had a serving girl called Anne to whom I am much indebted for my education. Anne was four years older than I and, owing to her pleasant face and spirited nature, drew much attention from all quarters. She was clever and quick-witted and could be coy or sharp-tongued, depending on her mood. The men of the Great House succumbed to her each in turn, and even my master appeared to alter in her presence, becoming strangely solicitous and even benevolent. Oh, how I marveled at her powers! That my mother had renounced any claim to this particular sphere of influence puzzled me further. For my own part, while I could not hope to rival Anne’s abilities, it struck me that they might one day prove useful.
Anne’s final lesson to me, however,