The Spinster

“Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it.”

— Song of Solomon 8:7 (KJV)

Keswick, in fair Cumbria, lay as a hamlet apart, a place seemingly preserved from the bustle of the outer world; a village of such otherworldly beauties that it might have been plucked from some blessed page of scripture. The town was God-fearing to its marrow, its bells called men to prayer thrice on the Sabbath and pious gossip ran as readily as the streams. Even the eldest matron, past fourscore and nine years, kept the bloom of youth about her as if Providence had stayed time; most maidens were born with lavish tresses, golden or russet, and eyes set with jewels, from the deepest ocean blue to the purest amber. So comely were these women that, by looks alone, they might well be chosen queens.

Yet in the furthest quarter of the western side, where lanes grew narrow and hedges closed, dwelt Annabeth, plain of feature by the town’s common reckoning, an unconventional beauty some would call a thornback. At six-and-twenty she had known no suitor, for her aspect was other than the market’s fashion. Her hair fell ebony and bone-straight to her hips; her skin lay pale as cream; her eyes, narrow and almonded, were dark as a winter pool and lent her a foreign, solemn grace. Her figure was lithe and sensuous in a manner not proclaimed by silks, yet she moved with a modest decorum proper to the age.

One night she lay and watched the rafters above, hearing her father and his cronies at the casement, their talk punctuated by the rattle of pewter and the distant tolling of the chapel bell. Tears gathered as she listened.

“I only wish she were as fair as her mother, by my troth,” quoth her father to his friend, Mr Johnson.

“At this rate, she would be better in the convent,” returned the other. “You’d do well to take a young wife. Paul’s lass hath come of age two summers, she’s no mean sight, and withal sound enough to bear thee a son fit to till in thy smithy.”

Her father gave a hearty, earth-born chuckle. “My Annabeth, she’s devout enough, is she not?” Another coarse laugh followed as he lifted his flagon.

“Mayhap thou art right; loneliness sits heavy. Off with thee now, Samuel,” advised her father, rising. They crossed themselves in a brief, dutiful prayer where they parted; the sound of their sandals and the scrape of cloth died as the door was shut. The house settled to sleep with the heavy breathing of men, while Annabeth, prostrate in her chamber, at once sobbed softly and uttered silent prayers, imploring that some good man might love her as she was, though she was not fair in the wonted fashion of Keswick.

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Annabeth bore the pails with a practised steadiness, the iron handles biting at her palms as she threaded the green aisles of the groves. Her father had gone to the smithy after his meal, belly warm with ale and the day’s repast; his conversation at the casement still hung about her like a chill mist. Yet the wood eased her spirits: linnets twittered their small benedictions, the wind set the birch and beech a-murmuring as though repeating some consolatory psalm. The sun fell in gilt bands through the leaves and her heart though sore, lightened at such simple mercies.

When the chapel bell tolled the noonday call, she quickened her pace. Homeward with the pails, she set them down upon the stoop, changed her apron for her plainest gown, drew about her the one cloak she owned and the hat she kept for mass. She crossed the lane toward the church with a steady foot, though every step was stung by the stifled laughter of girls younger and fairer. Clustered in knots, their chatter a hive of petty malice; even those under watch of chaperons let loose soft titterings at her passing. Annabeth kept her eyes cast low; she had learned well that the house of God is ill entered with resentment in the heart, and so she tarried by the church-door to steady herself.

The little parish church of Keswick, St Matthew’s, stood low and grey of stone, its buttresses weathered to the colour of pewter, the windows leaded with diamond panes that caught the light like small sanctified lamps. A squat tower rose, crowned with a bell-cote and a weathervane rusted by many winters; ivies curled about the south wall, and a mossy path led to the worn oak of the lych-gate. Within, the nave was narrow and orderly: oaken pews with carved misericords, a flagstone floor smoothed by generations of kneeling, and rays of coloured glass, scenes of saints and harvest, throwing stained patches upon the rushes. The pulpit, lofty and plain, bore the town’s coat beneath a plain-cloth canopy; from it the minister dispensed instruction and comfort to a people for whom prayer was as necessary as breath.

Father Fuller, a gentle, brown-faced man whose eyes carried the softness of one who hath studied charity, espied her at the threshold and came forth with a benign smile. He led her to the choir-stall where she had a place among the singers, and for the brief hour she took up the psalms with them, their voices set to the measured strains of praise. Yet beneath the music hissed the small cruelties of mortal hearts: “ Look how homely she is,” whispered one. “What title hath that ugly lass to sit amongst us and lift her voice?” another sneered. “Perchance Heaven withheld favour from her for some secret sin,” muttered a third. Their glances pricked like nettles, and she felt them all as if they were stones.

Father Fuller preached upon Charity and bonds of the body of Christ, urging mercy, neighbour-love, and the equality of all souls before God. Though his words were one thing, the church’s air betrayed another; eyes followed Annabeth as a hawk marks a poor vole. When the final hymn faded, and the congregation dispersed, she rose with the choir and felt a small peace; that peace broke when Father Fuller stayed with her with a compassionate gravity.

“Beloved child,” quoth he, “thy father hath spoken with me regarding thy taking of the veil.” The words fell like a hammer. Annabeth’s cheeks grew ashen; how had such a covenant been struck without her counsel? Father Fuller, observing her pale distress, softened his tone. “ Take time, my lamb. We shall not press thee this day. Pray and seek the Lord’s counsel.”

She left the church more weighted than when she entered. The town’s narrow street seemed to all the narrower as she wandered, step by step, until she found herself before Paul the fishmonger’s low, salt-stained door. There, in a shadowed corner, her father stood with Paul in hushed commerce, their voice like the rustle of stacks.

“I’ll give two heads of cattle and five rolls of cotton, no more, for one that can scarcely lift straw,” her father bargained.

Paul spat between his words with a trader’s bluntness. “Is that not what a daughter is for? ’Tis a fair bridal-price for a lass of breeding. I’ll speak with Father Fuller to mark a date.”

The bargain cut through Annabeth like a knife. She fled, feet pounding the lane, until the town swallowed her in its bustle and she could run no further.