2.3 Mrs Sinclair and the Feather Haa
In which Mrs Sinclair is offered unexpected understanding.
The trow eyed her with interest. ‘You speak of your duties, madam. With how much ergot have you dosed yourself?’
Mrs Sinclair sat up straighter. She felt heavy, as if she were harbouring secrets, and she was suddenly sick of keeping them.
‘I know a breeding human when I see one, and you have the colour of the mother of a son. Greenish, with an air of impending subjugation.’
She smiled. ‘You are mistaken, sir. There will be no child.’
It bowed. ‘You must, of course, be the best judge of that. Sometimes the hue of increasement lingers. I am sure that your skills are unimpaired. As well as your other, dare I say it, more secret accomplishments.’
Mrs Sinclair remembered long hours spent in study or collecting herbs at the appointed times of the moon and the sun, and afternoons spent in the still-room. She had spent years learning her craft under her aunt’s tuition. Her knowledge had been dulled in her memory by her servitude in marriage. For thirteen years she had only used the merest outline of what she knew. Unconsciously she stretched out her arms and hands towards the sea as if she would grasp the air and clutch at the winds. Then she relaxed her shoulders.
The look in the creature’s eye was understanding but a little austere.
‘I can never understand,’ it said with some sharpness, ‘how you humans can forget so much, and yet remain intelligent, conversable creatures. You have the capacity, the immense capacity, to absorb the lore of the ancients with an energy and compass that far surpasses the breadth of new knowledge that I, for instance, am able to learn. Yet, at the first toot of Hymen’s trumpets, or at the kindling of his torch –’ it waved its hands in frustration, ‘you shrivel into housewifery and husbandry. It is an exasperating mystery.’
Mrs Sinclair felt abashed but tried to appease the creature.
‘I admit the fault, sir, but I cannot believe that I am the only witch to have trod this path. The human world requires increase, and our present society demands the subjugation of women to the whims of men. I saw no other path. My late father’s house was sold. My aunt had died before him. I was seventeen, too young to claim independence. I too was sold, in effect, when Mr Sinclair bargained for me with my uncle, who had no wish for my society. I entered the servitude of marriage in full knowledge that it was my only means of support. And I have not forgot my training.’
To her annoyance she found herself pleading. The creature looked at her more kindly. Its eye gleamed with sympathy.
‘It is understood. I beg your forgiveness for seeming to chide, when in truth, you are an ornament to your sisters. So much patience, so much forbearance in the face of much provocation! Mr Sinclair was a sore trial to his fellow men, a disgrace to his society and an encumbrance to an intelligent woman. You have emerged from your marriage with the respect of your peers, madam, and I salute you.’
It jumped down from the bench and bowed to her deeply.
To Mrs Sinclair’s amazement, she felt tears prickle in her eyes. No-one had truly understood her thirteen-year ordeal, or expressed a shred of sympathy. Now this stunted creature of gangling limbs and ridiculous appearance displayed a perception of her life that not even good Dr McKay had mustered. She regarded the creature’s vicious teeth protruding from its mouth, and its soft brown eyes, wondering how such a contrary appearance could mask such rational commiseration.
‘Sir, I am grateful.’ She rose and curtsied to him. ‘What might you have had to impart to me, sir? Now that my husband is no longer here to forbid it?’
‘I bring you an invitation, madam, and a token. I have brought the invitation for thirteen years, and each time it has been refused. It is still fresh, however. Lady Brae begs the favour of a visit from you, to discuss your mutual interests. In addition, this year, she sends her fond condolences.’ It looked at her sidelong.
She was startled.
‘But I have not spoken to Lady Brae in these twelve years. I wrote to inform her that my husband had died –’
The creature tapped its nose with a long scaly finger.
‘She knows what you are. It is why she quarrelled with your husband, and then withdrew her friendship from him, awaiting a more propitious time to discuss these matters with you. I am her spy, and emissary.’
Mrs Sinclair rose suddenly. ‘I must see her.’
It leered up at her, and its brown eyes twinkled.
‘Do. Write to her, and I will be your messenger. Now, I also hae this.’
It drew from its coat pocket a small brass key.
Mrs Sinclair looked at it in puzzlement. ‘Which lock is that for?’
It shrugged its shoulders, and suddenly relapsed into the local dialect, as if the effort of civilised discourse was too much trouble. ‘I da’ ken. Lady Brae bid me deliver it, as a token, says she. Now, may I spend an hour with the bonny lasses? Out here on the grass, playing frolicsome games? Miss Warner may attend us, resting here on this very bench.’
Gathering her composure about her like a cloak in the cold winds, Mrs Sinclair gravely agreed. She took the brass key and walked back to the house.
Episode 2.4 will follow.
Mrs Sinclair and the Feather Haa © Kate Macdonald 2024.
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