The Witch of Eye

by Mari Griffith

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

1435, England. Eleanor Cobham has married into the highest ranks of the aristocracy; she is now the Duchess of Gloucester. She and her husband, the Duke Humphrey, set up a court of their own to rival the royal court in London, surrounding themselves with fascinating and influential people. But Eleanor craves the one thing she lacks: a son and heir - and through him a possible route to the throne of England. Desperate, Eleanor turns to the one person she believes can help her: Margery Jourdemayne, a woman now remembered as the infamous Witch of Eye. But such help comes at a high price...

Release date: July 21, 2016

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 320

Sample

Early summer 1435

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‘It’s going to be beautiful!’

As her husband helped her to alight from the royal barge onto the landing stage, Her Grace the Duchess of Gloucester paused for a moment, shielding her eyes against the sun and looking around her. A short distance away from the riverbank she could see workmen clambering about on the wooden scaffolding that clad the front of a charming manor house. A broad, winding path led up to the entrance.

‘Such a heavenly spot,’ she murmured, ‘here at the water’s edge. When the building work is finished, it will be the most beautiful house on the Thames.’

‘It will be the most beautiful house in the whole of England!’ said Duke Humphrey. ‘At least, that’s my intention, though I dread to think how much money I have already spent on it.’

‘It will be worth every groat,’ his wife assured him.

They had journeyed downriver from the Palace of Westminster to inspect the improvements being made to Bella Court, the manor house at Greenwich that the Duke had acquired on the death of his older brother, King Henry V. At present, the building was modest enough, though it benefitted greatly from its picturesque setting on a gentle curve of the river. Weeping willows dipped their long tresses into the water while graceful swans, with downy little cygnets perched snug and safe on their backs, glided serenely on its sunlight-dappled surface. Eleanor smiled as she watched: there was beauty in motherhood throughout the natural world.

Stepping on to dry land, she tucked her hand possessively under her husband’s elbow and they began strolling towards the house, their attendants following in their wake.

‘Poor Henry,’ said the Duke. ‘He was really looking forward to taking his ease here, resting and celebrating his victories. He saw Bella Court as a place where he could relax completely.’

‘He didn’t have much opportunity to do that,’ said Eleanor.

‘No, sadly, he didn’t,’ Humphrey agreed. ‘The price of his success was that he was forced to spend most of his time in France.’

‘With you to help him in subduing the French,’ she was quick to point out.

‘I could hardly do otherwise. After all, he did save my life at Agincourt. I’ll never forget that.’

‘Of course. But, d’you know, Humphrey,’ said Eleanor as they walked, ‘I think it’s a pity that Bella Court is such a dull name, because it certainly won’t be a dull house, not after we’ve moved into it. Could we change it, do you think? Perhaps we should give it a French name to honour your brother’s memory.’

‘That would certainly be appropriate,’ he agreed.

‘Maison Agincourt, perhaps?’

‘Oh, no! Agincourt was the bloodiest of battles, despite Henry’s great victory. Our house won’t be a place of confrontation, it will be a house where everything is agreeable, enjoyable ... pleasing.’

‘Pleasing to all the senses?’

‘Mmmm,’ said Humphrey. ‘La Pleasaunce would be better.’

‘Oh, that’s a delightful name!’ Eleanor exclaimed, stopping briefly to hug his arm. ‘It’s perfect.’

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ Humphrey said, pleased with himself. ‘So come, my sweet, let us explore the many delights of our new pleasure palace and see how everything is coming along.’

‘I’m so excited about this, Humphrey. When does the architect expect it will be finished?’

‘We’ve made ambitious plans,’ Humphrey said, ‘so, of course, the building work will take time, probably several months. Then the house must be furnished exactly to our liking. But we will certainly have taken full possession of it come springtime and we should be feeling thoroughly at home here by next summer.’

‘In time for my birthday in August?’

‘In plenty of time for your birthday. By August, I’m sure we’ll feel as though we’ve lived here all our lives.’

‘Then I shall insist upon holding a celebration second to none, a party everyone will remember as the best they ever attended. We will invite your nephew, the King, and everyone who is anyone at court. We’ll show them how to have a wonderful day, far away from dreary old Westminster or dull old Windsor. And all in celebration of my birthday!’

Eleanor skipped a step or two in delight, thrilled at the thought of a glittering royal event in the presence of the King, where she was the centre of attention. Walking beside her, Humphrey regarded her rapture with a smile. He knew the work would take time, though teams of builders were already hard at work, extending the existing house and creating a bigger and better structure, as befitted the nobility of its inhabitants. The detailed plans that he had discussed with his architects included tranquil gardens on all sides, as far as the eye could see. These had already been planted so as to be fully mature by the following year and shady river walks were dotted with sweetly scented, rose-covered arbours.

Behind the main building was a spacious tiltyard where an audience of a hundred or more could be seated to watch a joust and, beyond that, two hundred acres of parkland offered the opportunity for sports, hawking and hunting of all kinds. With its soothing architecture, the house would welcome all who visited and the high wall which surrounded the whole estate would ensure complete privacy and safety for the guests. Though it was less than an hour’s journey downriver from Westminster, it could have been a hundred miles away.

‘This will be an enchanting place,’ Humphrey enthused as he and Eleanor neared the imposing main entrance with their guards and attendants following at a respectful distance. ‘We’ll fill it with good fellowship and with poetry, we’ll dance to the finest music. Our discourse will be with astronomers, astrologers, philosophers, writers...’

‘And what of entertainments, Humphrey? Will we have masques and dancing?’ Eleanor asked, seeing it all in her mind’s eye.

‘We’ll have all manner of entertainments, feasting, singing, jousting. And we shall take pleasure in the talents of the most skilled entertainers, the best poets and musicians.’

‘And will you read to me, Humphrey?’

‘Of course. What would you like to hear? Floris and Blancheflour? King Horn? Havelok the Dane?’

‘Yes, maybe. Or perhaps some of John Gower’s work? I’m very fond of the Confessio Amantis. And you must read me Chaucer’s Parliament of Fowls on St Valentine’s Day. But it doesn’t matter which. I love them all!’

‘And I love you,’ Humphrey said, bending his head to whisper in her ear, ‘especially when the happy ending to a romantic story puts you in the mood for a little romance of your own.’

‘Humphrey,’ she said, stopping for a moment and standing quite still. ‘How long do you think it will be before we can use our bedchamber here for its proper purpose?’

‘Sleeping, you mean?’ he teased her.

‘Oh, Humphrey! You know exactly what I mean!’

‘Alas, my Lady,’ said Humphrey with mock regret, ‘but until our love nest is prepared and ready for us, there is little we can do about what we both desire. We will have to wait until tonight, when we have returned to Westminster.’

‘You are easily dissuaded, Sir!’ Eleanor rebuked him, pretending annoyance by gently smacking his hand. Then, turning her face up to his, she gave him the look he knew so well. Her eyes, a deep shade of grey which darkened towards the outer rim of the iris, took on a sultry quality and the corners of her generous mouth began to twitch in a smile. Then the pink tip of her tongue appeared and traced the arc of her upper lip. He knew the signal.

‘There are plenty of secret places in the garden,’ she said. ‘Surely it is not always necessary to be a-bed!’

‘Indeed not,’ Humphrey agreed, ‘and if you were to dismiss your ladies ... and I my gentlemen ... we could make the excuse of inspecting the rose arbours!’ He freed her hand from where it had been tucked under his elbow and bent to kiss it. Looking at her from under his eyebrows, he slipped his tongue between her fingers and Eleanor gave a throaty chuckle, knowing exactly what he had in mind.

They turned then and, to all outward appearances the epitome of decorum, continued their walk towards the house.

‘We can at least inspect the rooms which are to be ours,’ Eleanor said. ‘I’m very keen to see exactly where they will be. I have plans for them and I don’t simply mean choosing furnishings and tapestries.’

What she was really wondering was whether adequate provision had been made for a nursery. She had waited long enough, now she must redouble her efforts to conceive a child, so she would send for Margery Jourdemayne as soon as they returned to Westminster. Surely, Margery would know of some medicine or decoction to do the trick. Perhaps she had a charm or a talisman which would help. Eleanor didn’t have any qualms about the dubious nature of such things.

She was becoming desperate.

Summer 1435

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In the parish of Kingskerswell, Devon

‘Try to keep still, my dove.’

Betsy wrung out a cloth in warm water and applied it gently to her daughter’s ear. Jenna’s gasping sobs drowned out the sound of the kettle simmering on the fire.

‘Truth is, I don’t know if this is the best thing for a fat ear like this, but perhaps ’twill bring the swelling down.’ Betsy’s soothing voice belied her fury, her rage at the cruelty of the man. ‘What did you do to offend him this time?’

Jenna squirmed in the chair, biting her lip so as not to squeal in pain under the pressure of the warm compress.

‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘Really, Mam, I don’t know. I’d been talking to Parson Middleton, that’s all. Just being polite ... but Jake said...’

‘Aye, let me guess. He accused you of wanting to warm Parson’s bed, I’ll wager.’

‘Yes,’ said Jenna in a small voice. ‘Yes, he did. He says I didn’t ought to be talking to men like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, you know, he says I always talk to men like I wanted to lie with them.’

‘Take no heed of him. You’re just a young woman with a pretty smile and Jake’s jealous, that’s all, eaten up with it. Some men are like that. They hate seeing other men looking at their wives, but then they beat the wife, as if it was all her fault. Mind you, your Jake’s worse than most. It doesn’t take great heavy punches like he gives you to keep a wife in her place. He’d been bibblin’ again, had he?’

‘Of course. It’s always when he’s drunk too much that he hits me.’

‘And I suppose that stupid Adam Luxton he works for had been paying him in cider.’

Jenna nodded, carefully. ‘He often does. Jake says he works better for it. But then he went to the tavern.’

‘Before going home? Why?’

‘Because Walter the miller’s wife has a new babe, a boy, and Walter was in the tavern buying ale and cider for everyone, Jake said.’

‘Makes you laugh, don’t it?’ said Betsy, with a grunt. ‘Strutting around the tavern like cocks, as though the hens had nothing to do with it. You’d think they were the ones who went through all the pain. Still,’ she sighed, ‘it’s a woman’s duty to bear children and a man needs a few youngsters around the place if he’s a farm to run. My Gilbert is very pleased that you’re helping with the milking. Saves him having to bend.’

Despite her painful ear, Jenna wasn’t going to let her mother get away with that one. ‘It’s not just helping with the milking, Mam, you know that.’ Since Jenna had learned to do the reckoning, she had taken on more and more responsibility for the day-to-day running of the dairy. ‘If your Gilbert had to keep account and do the milk tallies himself, he wouldn’t like it one bit, would he? It’d keep him away from...’

‘You mind your tongue, my girl. It’s none of your business what your stepfather does in his own time.’ Betsy spoke sharply. The girl should be grateful that Gilbert had taken them in, a young widow and her child. At least they’d had decent food in their bellies and a roof over their heads these last twenty years and never had to beg for scraps from richer folk.

She concealed her irritation by inspecting the swollen ear again. Jenna would have to hide it under a coif or comb her hair over it. No use provoking Jake any further, he wouldn’t want a wife with a puffball ear to remind him of his own violence.

The moment of tension had passed. ‘Never you mind the old milk tallies,’ said Betsy, giving Jenna’s shoulders a small hug. ‘There are more important things. At least you’ve got a husband, and your place is to give him a child as soon as you can, before he gets one on another woman. It won’t take him long, he’s handsome enough.’ She began to busy herself, smoothing out the damp cloth she had been using, hanging it to dry near the fire, nodding, smiling, pleased at having suggested a solution to the problem. ‘A baby,’ she said, ‘that’s what you need. And pray it will be a boy.’

‘It’s not for want of trying.’ A lopsided smile tweaked the corners of Jenna’s bruised mouth and her mother smiled back at her, tender again. Things couldn’t be too bad between the pair of them then, she thought. And at least Jake’s great ham fist hadn’t broken any of her daughter’s teeth.

‘Aye, the sooner you get yourself with child the better,’ she said. ‘Perhaps Old Mother Morwenna will know of something to help you. Give Jake a babe or two and maybe he won’t beat you so often. Come, my dove, let me help you up. It’s best you be getting back to your husband. You don’t want to go upsetting him no more.’

***

At sunset, Jenna crossed the bridge over the village stream with reluctant steps and was back at the small, low-roofed cottage she shared with Jake rather sooner than she really wanted to be. She found her husband slumped on the bench near the fire pit, seemingly sober. He sat motionless in the firelight, watching her take off her shawl and hang it behind the door. She had no inkling of his mood: perhaps he was feeling genuine remorse, but he might equally well be seething with temper, struggling to remain calm. Eventually he spoke, his voice low and regretful.

‘Sweet Christ, Jenna, I’m sorry. I don’t know what comes over me.’

Not trusting herself to speak, she watched him rise and come towards her, flinching as he took hold of her arms and bent to kiss her, recoiling from the stink of stale alcohol on his breath. He stared intently at her then, as though trying to penetrate her mind, his eyes bloodshot in his handsome face.

How she had once loved that face, adored it and lavished exuberant, extravagant kisses upon it, smiling with the pleasure of touching it. Now she felt nothing but an icy calm as she waited for what she knew would come next.

Tears welled in his eyes. ‘I didn’t mean it, Jenna. You know that, don’t you? You know I didn’t mean it. I’ll never do it again. Never. You do still love me, don’t you, Jen? I didn’t mean to hurt you. You know that. You know that, don’t you, Jen?’ He was snivelling now, butting his head against Jenna’s neck like a small child begging her forgiveness, making her swollen ear throb painfully. She struggled in an attempt to hold her head away from him and he suddenly tried to take her in a clumsy embrace. Knocked off balance, she stumbled, almost lost her footing and would have fallen had he not tightened his arms around her. Pushing against him with both hands, she tried to break away.

‘Stop it, Jake! Stop it! Get away from me. You’re not sorry! You weren’t sorry the last time it happened and you’re not sorry now! Get away from me, Jake!’ Jenna was screaming now, pushing him, pummelling his chest. ‘Get away from me!’

She was no match for his strength. He overpowered her easily, his arms tightening like iron bands around her, pinning her own arms uselessly against her sides, her hands bunched into limp fists. His eyes narrowed as he realised she was not going to be won over this time. He began to mock her then, as he shoved her roughly towards the straw pallet where they slept on the floor in the far corner, an ugly sardonic smile twisting his face.

‘So,’ he said, his voice low and threatening, ‘you think you can get away from me, do you, you teasing little whore? Well, you can’t. You’re my wife and there’s no bastard on earth can change that. But they can’t wait to get their stinking little hands on you. I’ve watched them going out of their minds wanting to grab your tits, pull up your skirts. It’s your fault, you’re like a bitch on heat. You set a man’s prick alight. But I’m going to have you now, bitch, I’m going to show you ... show you how it feels to have a real man screwing you ... not a sickly whelp of a man like the Parson ... you want it, don’t you? You want it, don’t you, bitch!’

Jenna whimpered hopelessly as he pushed her down onto their mattress then dropped to his knees, roughly shoving her skirt up over her thighs, forcing her legs apart. He was inches taller than she was and as strong as an ox, his powerful body honed by years of labour in the fields. She could only pray that this time he wouldn’t leave her skin raw and bleeding, her mind blank with shame and horror.

***

Jenna lay on her back for a long time after Jake had violated her, praying for merciful sleep. His arm lay heavy across her body, pinning her down, and she dared not move for fear of disturbing him. Over the sound of his snoring, she heard a tomcat yowling in the darkness outside the cottage and she pitied the poor queen that would soon have to endure the pain of his selfish penetration. Managing to turn onto her right side so that the weight of her own head on the pillow wouldn’t put unbearable pressure on her swollen left ear, she slowly became aware that, with her damaged ear uppermost, she could hear neither the tomcat’s yowling nor Jake’s snoring with any clarity. It was as though she had pulled the pillow over her head – but she hadn’t.

Dear God, if Jake had damaged her hearing, what would he do next? Would it always be like this for her, treading on eggshells for fear of annoying him, never knowing when his mercurial temper would flare up? Would she live in terror of her own husband for the rest of her life? And would she have to work her fingers to the bone on her stepfather’s farm each day? She always avoided being alone in the dairy with the dirty old bastard her mother had been so grateful to marry and when there was no alternative but to work alongside him, she tried hard not to mind his drooling leer and his groping hands, if only for her mother’s sake.

Why did men behave so oddly towards her? In all honesty, she reflected, if her stepfather hadn’t made her so nervous, perhaps she wouldn’t have been so keen to marry Jake, though she had to admit she had thought herself madly in love with him. She should have given herself time to get to know him better, time to discover the jealous temper simmering perilously close to the surface, ready to explode into violence as soon as it was fuelled with drink. How stupid she had been to fall so unquestioningly in love with a beautiful face.

Nothing was likely to change. If God spared her and she was still alive twenty years hence she would be just like her mother, her back bent with hard work, her face lined with worry. She could see no choice but to go on living with Jake, lying passively under the bulk of him at night, waiting until he grunted his satisfaction then heaved himself off her and began snoring like a bull. Did she really want a child as a result of these bestial couplings? Her mother’s assertion that a baby would be the answer to her problems was of no comfort to her and in any case, although she didn’t want to admit it to Betsy, she had already been to see Old Mother Morwenna to ask her advice. And to pay for it.

The wise woman of the village had been unexpectedly sympathetic. They talked companionably over a glass of small beer, sitting at the table where the toothless old crone concocted her herbal remedies for everyday ailments, coughs and colds, aches and pains, making medicines to cure constipation or aid conception. Amid much sighing and tut-tutting, Old Mother Morwenna pointed out that failure to conceive did not always mean the woman was barren.

‘Look at the Dynhams, up at the Manor,’ she said in her cracked, high-pitched voice. ‘Those men couldn’t beget a son to save their lives, not for all their money and their fancy ways. That’s why the house and the land kept reverting to the King. Yes, for want of an heir. I’m old enough to remember it. Can you believe that? Eh? Can you? Do you know how old I am? Eh? Well, in truth, I’m not sure myself. But I do remember my own mother saying that one or two of the Dynhams’ widows went on to have fine broods after their husbands died.’

She patted Jenna’s arm with her bony hand. ‘So it could easily be your man’s fault that you have no little ones, my dove. Mind you,’ she added with a cackle, ‘you’d be a fool to tell him so!’

Before she left Morwenna’s cottage, Jenna had parted with half a groat in payment for a phial of something viscous and brown which the old wise woman assured her would resolve the situation if she drank a third of it exactly mid-way between her menses on three consecutive months. But the phial had remained hidden under the eaves, unopened, while Jenna looked for some sign that things were going to change between her and Jake before she swallowed its vile-looking contents.

Nothing did change and she was forced to the conclusion that nothing ever would. Sooner or later, she would have to overcome her squeamishness and drink the thick, sticky brown liquid in the hope of conceiving a child. Yet in her heart she knew a child wasn’t the answer: she couldn’t bring a little one into the world to have its bones broken by a drunken father.

Besides, she had no absolute guarantee that Old Mother Morwenna’s brown liquid would have any effect because, wise woman or not, her potions were not infallible. She had not been able to cure whatever had ailed Alice, Jenna’s best friend since childhood. Jenna and Alice. They had been a pair of mischievous little rascals with a deep affection for each other, as close as sisters. Jenna and Alice did everything together, playing games, laughing, singing or running errands for their mothers. They loved nothing better than their weekly visit to the parsonage where Parson Middleton, then an enthusiastic, forward-thinking young clergyman, did his best to teach a group of the village children the rudiments of reading and reckoning.

But tonight, as Jenna lay sleepless beside her snoring lout of a husband, Alice lay silent in six feet of cold earth from whence, a year ago, a stony-faced Parson Middleton had committed her immortal soul to God’s keeping. Gripped by an agony of belly cramps and vomiting, Alice had derived no benefit from Old Mother Morwenna’s decoction of seeds of quince. Undeterred, the old wise woman had intoned some incantations above the bed where Alice writhed in agony, but to no avail. In desperation, her anxious parents had summoned the leech doctor from Newton Abbot, scraping together enough money to pay his extortionate fee. He took the money willingly enough before shaking his head and muttering that ‘right side sickness’ was beyond his help because it was the will of God.

In unendurable pain, poor Alice died, leaving her mother, her father and her dearest friend to mourn her and wonder what sin they had committed that was sufficiently grave to cause such a loss. How had they offended God so much that He took Alice away from them?

Jenna passed a restless night. The sensation of falling from a great height would convulse her from the brink of slumber until, finally, she abandoned all thought of sleep and slid carefully from under Jake’s arm. In the last glow of the dying embers, she lowered herself gingerly down onto the bench by the fire pit, muscle by aching muscle, until she found a moderately comfortable position.

As she sat, she took stock of her situation. In time, she realised, she could become a vexed and resentful old woman, cowed by her husband’s callousness, the teeth knocked from her head and deaf as a post from his blows. While she was still comparatively young, her most precious possession was a lively mind in a God-given healthy body, something Alice would never have again.

By the first light of dawn, Jenna had made her decision. She would get as far away as she possibly could from Kingskerswell and all it stood for. No matter what it took, she would get away from Jake.

And there would be no going back.

Midsummer 1435

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William Jourdemayne, dependable and honest, excelled in his work as the tenant farmer on the manorial estate of Eye-next-Westminster but, in his wife’s opinion, that was not enough. It infuriated her that he seemed perfectly content with things as they were.

It had taken some persuasion on Margery’s part to get her husband to do what she wanted of him. Though impatient to put her plans in motion, she had realised the value of investing her time and energy over several weeks in pleasing him in every way she could, being warmly receptive towards him in their bed and readily agreeing to help him with the quarterly accounts for Abbot Harweden. She was eventually rewarded with the key to a small room just off the manor farmhouse kitchen for her own exclusive use.

Once Margery took possession of the room, she had cupboards moved into position against three of the walls and filled them with pots and pans, jugs and funnels, bottles and ewers, pestles and mortars. There were small bowls for mixing her ingredients and bigger bowls for washing her utensils; she was scrupulously clean in her work. Above the cupboards were several high shelves where, in a series of small locked coffers, she kept the secret ingredients she used in her recipes. Bunches of summer herbs for winter use were strung up to dry above the hearth while their seeds were stored in meticulously labelled boxes. Beneath the window, a sturdy table was positioned where the light was good and next to that, fixed with great care to the wall, was a large mirror. The mirror had been an indulgence on Margery’s part; William would have been appalled if she’d been entirely truthful about the cost of it, but she had paid for it herself out of money she’d saved from selling her wares so she didn’t think it any of her husband’s business to question her purchase. Next to the mirror was a hook for her apron, but that apron was now tied around her slim waist as she worked at the table.

Raising a phial to her lips, Margery tasted a drop of liquid which was sharp and bitter on her tongue. Good, that was about the right consistency, and the correct balance of myrrh resin to strong, sweet white wine. She couldn’t afford to make mistakes with anything as expensive as myrrh. Reaching for a small flask containing an infusion of mint leaves in boiled water, she tested the temperature of the liquid by letting a little of it drip onto the inside of her wrist. Judging it to have cooled to blood heat, she then held the flask up to the light and measured into it precisely ten drops of the tincture of myrrh, shaking the two gently together, watching the mint infusion become opaque and milky as the two liquids blended.

‘Mmm,’ she murmured, satisfied, setting the flask down on the table. ‘Good. That should do the trick.’

Had Margery been a man, she would certainly have been a noted apothecary, but she had to be satisfied with her reputation as a wise woman, secure in the knowledge that the skills that her mother had handed down to her had commercial potential. As word of those skills spread, it pleased her to realise that people were prepared to pay considerable sums of money for what she sold them. There was profit in presenting these old remedies and decoctions in such a way that they appeared to be something entirely new, something different and exciting to help a woman realise her dreams of beauty and desirability and thus her chances of marriage. Margery possessed a shrewd intellect. She recognised vulnerability in other women. And she took advantage of it.

Fitting a pewter funnel into the neck of a small bottle, Margery carefully poured into it some of the tincture of myrrh she had just made, it was her favourite remedy for easing the pain of toothache. If she was careful, there would be enough to fill six of these bottles and each one would sell for a penny. Sixpence in all and it had cost her one penny to purchase the myrrh from her spice merchant. That meant a good profit for her, since white wine was easy enough to come by and spearmint grew in profusion alongside all the other herbs in her little physic garden between the farmhouse and the nearby brook. Spearmint was such a rewarding herb: Margery loved it for its usefulness in doing everything from treating a lady’s greasy hair to keeping moths and mice at bay.

Methodically, she washed and dried the utensils she had been using and replaced them in a cupboard before setting out for the Palace at Westminster for another appointment with Lady Northumberland. At least she had found time today to stock up on the tooth tincture for the Duchess of Gloucester who was almost certain to need some very soon. She was becoming more and more demanding these days. Margery was very