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The Gilded Looking Glass: Chapter 3

Through the Eyes of a Child

By Chloë J.Published 3 years ago 12 min read
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The Gilded Looking Glass: Chapter 3
Photo by Tuva Mathilde Løland on Unsplash

Marjorie was quite sick of being with child. She was in her late thirties after all; she was getting far too old for the whole affair. She had already given her husband, Lord Thomas, nine children in all, throughout their 17-year marriage. Four were boys, all healthy, and the other five were bonnie girls, the oldest of which had already made an advantageous match. Only one of her babies, sweet little Jane, had not survived past the age of ten. The rest were hale and hearty, and had already weathered two outbreaks of the dreaded sweating sickness. Nine babies, eight surviving children, plenty of boys to spare. The inheritance was secure, and growing even fatter thanks to Elizabeth’s marriage to a financially blessed duke.

So, when Marjorie realized she had missed her courses two months in a row, she had prayed it was the change, the one that must come upon every woman who lives long enough to see it. She knew that, as a 36-year-old, the prospect was unlikely. She’d still hoped, that is until she started being sick every morning, just as she had been most recently with her youngest, little Thomas, named for his father. Her ladies’ maids congratulated her enthusiastically when she told them, having long suspected the cause of her apparent illness. She tried not to cry at the prospect of another long pregnancy, a terrible confinement and the incomparable pains of childbirth itself. When she told Lord Thomas, he was as pleased and detached as he always was when he was informed of a new chick joining the brood. “I shall buy you a new palfrey, my dear,” he promised her, “as your dear Annette is getting a bit long in the tooth.” Marjorie had just smiled and patted his hand. He always bought her a gift when she gave him a child; over the years she had collected fine jewelry, furs and horses as recompense for their children. Marjorie felt somewhat odd about the exchange, being one of the rarer members of the nobility who saw the child itself as the pleasure after the pain, not merely for the benefits to family lineage, but also the timeless joy of motherhood. Nevertheless, she accepted the gifts with graciousness, as required by decorum, as well as to satisfy the transactional nature of her husband’s love. Theirs hadn’t been a love match initially, but they had grown to care deeply for one another over the years, despite the prolific procreation (or because of it), and the early awkwardness between them. He was a good man, and Marjorie knew she’d gotten lucky with him.

She supposed she should be grateful to be so fertile. After all, poor Queen Katherine would probably give all of her limbs if it would enable her to give a healthy son to the King. Nearly 20 years of marriage, and all they had to show for it was one daughter, who was still not yet out of the dangerous years of childhood. Thomas and Marjorie stayed away from court as much as possible, infinitely preferring the slower pace at their Devonshire castle than the unrelenting intrigue of court. Still, Thomas had to go from time to time, to fulfill his duties to the king. He always said the poor queen looked sad and tired, not good for a woman whose husband was widely known to have his head constantly turned by every pretty young thing dangled in front of him by ambitious noble families. Poor woman. Still, it seemed a shame Marjorie couldn’t transfer this extraneous pregnancy to the queen who so desperately needed it.

Her priest told her to be grateful, and in truth, Marjorie was. She loved all her children. She loved the energy and chaos of their little castle, children ranging in age from the nursery to almost-manhood always running underfoot and around the grounds, nursemaids trailing frantically behind them. The prospect of one more child, she was excited for. The process was what gave her pause. She wasn’t eighteen anymore, and childbirth was dangerous even for perfectly healthy young maids. Still, she supposed she had survived nine pregnancies so far; surely the tenth wouldn’t be the one to do her in.

͋ ͋ ͋

Marjorie was about four months into her pregnancy, faring well by all standards. Thomas had been attentive, though he was away to court more often than usual these days. The children all seemed eager to welcome a new sibling, though Marjorie rather suspected that when young Thomas, only three years of age, would resent the new child once he realized his position as baby of the family was to be usurped.

It was a beautiful spring morning, air as cool as the waters’ depths but the sun bright and smiling enough to keep everyone warm. Marjorie sat plaiting flowers into Cecily’s hair, chestnut like her own (though unmarked by streaks of grey, Marjorie thought ruefully). Anne was playing with little Thomas by the pond, not close enough to cause Marjorie alarm, but she kept a close eye on them nevertheless. Katherine was with her father at court, and the three older boys were staying with a cousin of Thomas’ for the spring and likely the summer as well. Elizabeth was at court with her husband, lady-in-waiting to the queen. All in all, it had been a quiet few months without all the children at home, and Marjorie had begun to impatiently anticipate the excitement and busyness that would come with a new baby.

Cecily, a seven-year-old with an imagination that was a constant amusement to her parents, had been prattling on and on while Marjorie had wound wildflowers throughout her plait. Lost in her own thoughts, Marjorie hadn’t really been listening to her daughter, though Cecily didn’t seem to notice or care that her mother’s attention was far from her innocent ramblings. Until she asked her mother a question, and was met only with the sound of absent-minded humming.

“Mother!” Cecily chastened, “Are you listening to me, Mother?”

Sheepish, Marjorie gently pulled on Cecily’s plait until her face was turned upwards towards her, accessible for a kiss on the forehead. “I am sorry, my love. I was distracted. What did you say?”

“Well,” Cecily began, slightly mollified, “I was asking if my friend could stay with us for a little while, since most of the boys are gone and Katherine and Elizabeth too? There’s plenty of room in the castle and she won’t need much space! She’s quite small, actually. Please, Mother?”

Marjorie smiled indulgently at her daughter, familiar with her imaginative stories and make-believe friends. “Hmm, well I will have to think on it,” she said with mock gravity. “A visitor is no small thing after all. What is your friend’s name?”

Cecily shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know if I am supposed to tell you…she says names are very powerful things and that I should be careful who I share them with…”

“Even your own mother?” Marjorie questioned, tying off the plait with a ribbon. This was a bit odd, even for Cecily’s games, but Marjorie believed a healthy imagination was a sign of intelligence, and she was prepared to accommodate her daughter even in her somewhat strange whims. Although she would eventually have to grow out of them. Not quite yet though.

Cecily turned to face her mother, golden brown eyes sparkling in the mid-morning sun, forehead crumpled by little lines, clearly agonizing over the decision. Marjorie waited patiently.

“Well,” Cecily began “I suppose you are my mother. You must promise not to tell anyone though, not even Father. Do you promise?” Her daughter looked at her intently, her brown eyes unusually serious.

“I do promise,” Marjorie nodded, mirroring her daughter’s solemnity.

“Alright then. Her name is Win, and she is so wonderful Mother! She is so clever and we have so much fun playing. I met her in the forest and I leave her bits of ribbon and food sometimes. She likes to ride ponies and she’s quite fond of swimming as well- “

“When were you in the forest?” Marjorie cut Cecily off, frowning. As a general rule, she didn’t like her younger children to be out on the grounds without a nursemaid, Thomas or herself to supervise.

Cecily grinned sheepishly. “Nurse Mary took us once, a month or so ago, and I wanted to go exploring so I went out just a bit on my own. Not too far though, I promise.”

Marjorie was slightly troubled, but decided to have a private word with Nurse Mary when she had a moment and let it go for the time being.

“Very well then. Your dear friend Win may stay with us,” Marjorie announced magnanimously, moving towards a standing position. She was ready to end the conversation, as it became clear that she needed to relieve herself, part of the condition of childbearing.

“Oh wonderful, wonderful, thank you Mother!” Cecily squealed, throwing herself around her mother’s waist. “Win will be so pleased, people usually aren’t very nice to her, she’ll be so happy to stay with us!”

Ever in awe of her child’s creativity, Marjorie gently stroked Cecily’s face. “Why are people mean to your friend?” she asked, playing along.

“She’s a pixie, and people don’t like pixies very much.”

Marjorie frowned and placed her hands on Cecily’s shoulders, lightly pushing her off her waist so that she could see her clearly. Fanciful creativity was one thing, but embracing the medieval superstitions of the uneducated townspeople was quite another. It was best squashed kindly now, by her own mother, than by the cruelty of other children.

“Darling,” Marjorie began, “even in your head, your friend must not be a pixie, that’s a foolish old wives’ tale. Not suitable for people like us. You may make believe as much as you like, but pixies are not real and you mustn’t go around claiming they are; you are the daughter of a lord and one day you too shall be a lady. And besides, God-fearing people do not believe in fairy stories.”

“I’m not making believe Mother, Win is real!” Cecily cried indignantly. “She’s got green hair and purple eyes and hands and feet as long as my legs! She is real, Mother!” And without further ado, Cecily stamped her foot and ran crying towards the castle.

Marjorie was at a loss. Such a display of temper was unusual in her sweet-tempered girl, and she wasn’t sure what exactly it was that she had said to have elicited such a response. She did not regret being firm about the pixie nonsense; there was no good to be found in the prevalent and ridiculous believes of the Devonshire laypeople. Superstitions were a dime a dozen among the poorer classes, and Marjorie had no desire for any of her children to prescribe to beliefs belonging to the lower classes.

However, if Marjorie was being honest with herself, a part of her opposition to her daughter’s declaration had less to do with appearances than it did a fearful corner of her own mind. She had grown up near Cornwall, where her own nursemaid had whispered stories of crafty fairies, restless spirits, meddlesome pixies, and all manner of folklore from the old days. When she was a girl, in fact, several of her father’s hounds went missing without any explanation. The servants whispered that it was a bodach, slipping through shadows and cracks in the walls to steal away the poor dogs to eat. Her nursemaid told her to be on the lookout, that the bodach starts with dogs, but then works its way up to naughty children. Marjorie had been terrified. Her father eventually had a stableboy whipped for negligence and dismissed the affair thereafter. Marjorie couldn’t forget it. Then, of course, there was the night her mother died.

Marjorie had been twelve years old. It was winter, not long before Christmas, and the castle was chilled to its bones by the howling winds seeping through the stone and arrow slits. Even the roaring fires found in every room could scarce keep a person warm. Her mother, always a fragile woman, had fallen sick with fever, and had been abed for days. Her father’s physician had prescribed a regimen of foul-smelling tonic and bloodletting, but nothing seemed to be helping. Marjorie’s father spent the Yuletide season at court and stayed away from the castle entirely, terrified of getting sick, and left his children in the care of their nursemaids.

Marjorie had been praying one night for her mother to get well, her nursemaid asleep on a pallet on the floor beside her bed. She had been kneeling, the ice-cold stone making her shiver as she whispered her prayer over and over. Her eyes had been screwed tightly shut, and so she heard it before she saw it.

A bloodcurdling scream, splitting the silence. Marjorie opened her eyes, and wished very much that she could scream as well, but something seemed to have stolen her voice, her ability to move. Before her stood a beautiful woman, shrouded in white, mouth open in a hideous, unending screech. Her nursemaid shot up from her pallet and pulled Marjorie close, clapping her hands over Marjorie’s ears, which did little to muffle the awful sound that went on for ages. After what felt like a lifetime, the woman disappeared, leaving Marjorie and her nursemaid shaking on the floor in the newly restored silence.

The next morning, a servant came to inform Marjorie that her mother had died just after midnight. Her nurse told her that what they’d seen was a banshee, a creature that heralded the death of a family member with an unearthly cry. Soon, all the servants were whispering in the halls about the banshee; no one else had heard or seen anything, save Marjorie and her nurse. Every time a servant would pass Marjorie, they would curtsy and then make the sign of the cross, as though somehow afraid of her, a mere child. Her father dismissed her nursemaid the next day, for filling Marjorie’s head with “superstitious nonsense,” and had sent her off to learn the ways of court directly afterwards.

Marjorie ruminated on all of this as she walked back towards the castle, trailing far behind Anne, Thomas, and their nurse. As much as she would prefer to forget, she knew what she had seen and heard that night. If creatures such as banshees and bodachs were real, as some small corner of her mind believed, then she reasoned it was entirely possible for pixies to exist, an equation which opened an entire realm of terrifying possibilities. Nevertheless, she resolved to have a conversation with Nurse Mary sooner rather than later to inquire as to the sort of stories she was telling Cecily, see if she was being influenced in what Marjorie certainly hoped was the fancifulness of youth.

Ambling rather slowly and lost in her mind, it was all Marjorie could do to keep from fainting when she nearly tripped over spindly fingers stretched out onto the path. Dumbstruck, her eyes followed the fingers up until they became arms, finally spying an unmistakable pair of vibrant lavender eyes peeking out from inside a nearby rosebush.

Series
4

About the Creator

Chloë J.

Probably not as funny as I think I am

Insta @chloe_j_writes

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