Vindication

by Frances Sherwood

Genres: Biographical

Synopsis

Vindication is a prodigious, spectacular debut - a whirlwind of a novel that offers a passionate and surprising vision of life and love through the lens of the turbulent, romantic, often brutal eighteenth century.

"Sherwood's heralded debut is an arresting and convincing portrayal of Mary Wollstonecraft, the 18th-century author of The Vindication of the Rights of Woman and perhaps the first feminist. Lending her subject a modern sensibility, Sherwood describes Mary's wretched childhood, and follows her through the humiliation of demeaning jobs and chronic poverty." - Publishers Weekly

Release date: May 1, 1993

Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux

Print pages: 435

Sample

Vindication

Fanny
CHAPTER 1




IT SEEMED that Fanny was there from the beginning. Fanny, however, was raised in Wales, and Mary, born in London in 1759, lived in Spitalfields first and did not move to Wales until 1766. Actually, they met in dame school when Mary was seven years old and Fanny nine. Fanny was quick with numbers, Mary with letters. Mary wanted to be famous like an actress. Fanny thought that was silly. Both of them had drunkards for fathers. If Mary lived to a hundred, she would not forget her father's beery breath. It was sour-pickle brine mixed with spoiled milk. Fanny's father was a gentle, pathetic drunk. When Mr. Wollstonecraft came back from the tavern, he was mean, kicking aside whatever was in his way:
Dogs.
Cats.
Babies.
He would stride into the house without so much as scraping his boots, and let loose his waters in the hearth, sputtering the flames into a leaping dance along the logs.
"Ah," he would say, happy to have relieved himself, and wag at whoever was handy. Then he would sit down for some serious quarreling.
"Oh, Edward, Edward." Mrs. Wollstonecraft, wringing her hands and dithering about, not knowing what to say or do, would ask God what she had done to deserve such a husband, and little Mary, shielding her two sisters, would cover her ears, close her eyes tight shut, and be sick to her stomach. Because there was shouting and crying, stamping and falling, screaming and hitting, kicking and pleading. After, it would become very quiet. You would be able to hear the wind outside and strange, scary sounds you could not remember hearing. When thequarrel would take up again, Mary put Fanny in mind, her face and form, something between her father and herself. It was that horrible.
"Oh, Edward."
Mary wondered, if she had fallen right down there and then and died, would that have made them stop? It did stop when her mother died. It was as if her mother and earth swallowed up and nullified all the years of animosity. No more Oh, Edward. No more sad wringing of hands. No more pleas to God.
What Mary remembered of her mother:
The things in her mother's china cabinet in Laugharne, Wales. There was the teapot of black, lead-glazed earthenware with a molded relief of twisted green vines and leaves. The coffeepot, used infrequently, had a china lamb on the lid, and the soup tureen was in the shape of a hen and chickens.
Her mother's bed gown was linen and cotton, expensively dyed dark purple, with borders of red and blue lilac. Mary liked to sit in her mother's bedroom, on the chintz coverlet, under the canopy, and watch her mother's maid dress her hair. The maid would take the strands up from the forehead and build up two sides like wings with packing underneath, holding it all firm with pins and pomatum. Then the maid would paint her mother's face white, put rouge on each cheek. Her mother had lost teeth with the having of children and used plumpers to fill out her cheeks. Otherwise, she was a lovely woman with bluebell eyes and her own long hair, when not powdered, the color of corn silk. The ideal mouth was Mary's mother's mouth, a rosebud. Fanny's mother was lean and shriveled, with the arms of a grasshopper.
Mary's mother had been born in 1732.
Mary was born in 1759. In 1765, her grandfather could point to his properties in Spitalfields, London, using his cane with one hand, his other hand on her shoulder:
"I built, Mary, my love, these three blocks of houses. Many houses, Miss Muffit, what do you think of that? Four floors each, French weavers, merci very kindly, their looms and madames, top floors for chimney sweeps, black birds in the attic, darling dear, and the Irish always in the basement where they belong."
Mary's grandfather could wet his finger, tell which way the wind was blowing even on a still day, and he bought vegetables in the market with care and attention, examining each cabbage as if it were a face. Mary's grandfather had large hands, bowed legs, a raised right shoulder from hunkering over the loom, and only five teeth. When Mary was little, her father was slender, upright, refined. He had all his teeth. When Mary lost her baby teeth, she and Fanny buried them by the ducking pond, said magic prayers over them for what they wished to become. Fanny wanted to be married to a handsome knight. Mary wanted to be free forever.
"I may not know how to read," her grandfather would say, "but, lucky for you and yours, Mary, I know how to count."
Mary's father had no trouble reading, but he talked slowly and too loudly, as if he thought others too stupid to understand his conversation. He considered himself better than everybody else in the world, particularly his wife. And when they left the city, Mary's father called his father a blithering idiot.
"The money is in town, you are the fool," her grandfather replied, shaking his fist. "Why do you think I came off the land and your fingernails be clean."
In his lifetime Edward Wollstonecraft Sr. had learned how to turn thread into cloth and cloth into bricks and bricks into shillings and shillings into pounds, so that his son, Mary's father, with his inheritance, could buy his high black riding boots, a red coat with a row of brass buttons, a brace of pistols and a pack of hunting dogs, and move straight out of London, first to Laugharne, then to Richmond, in the North Riding. Before they moved out of London, Mary's family lived in her grandfather's house. There was her mother and father, her big brother, Ned, and two sisters, Everina and Eliza. Charles came later. Every night from the nursery window, Mary would watch the night soil being removed from the jerichos in the yards. A silent army of masked men moved in, who, her grandfather told her, hauled it in carts to outside the city to the gardens where the vegetables brought into the city were grown.
The night-soil men were night birds and they made a sound like low humming which frightened Mary. She thought she might be takenaway with them to a dark, wretched land of coal heaps and abandoned carriages, a country where shadow people worked by night and slept in the day.
"It is the round of life, Mary, my dear. Night soil, day soil, all the same." Her grandfather was not frightened of anything and he kept all in order. Mary told Fanny that she loved her grandfather. He was the only one.
When they moved away, out of the city to their own house, Mary's father's voice got louder and her mother's more piteous. He told Mary's mother she was a stupid woman, and he boxed her ears, punched her stomach.
"Grief and lamentation. Oh, Edward, Edward, how can you," her mother would sob, throwing herself at his feet, holding on to his dirty boots so he could not move.
The children hid in the cupboard behind the stairs. Eliza would cry softly to herself and Everina bit her nails down to the blood. Ned clenched his fists and gnawed at his knuckles.
Mary would stay until she could not stand it and then would rush out.
"Hit me." Mary snatched up the hairbrush as shield, held it fast. "Go ahead and hit me, instead."
The blow seemed to come not from his hand but from something larger and outside, like the wind, for the force of it would knock her over to the floor, which tasted of grit and earth, blood.
"Oh, Mary, Mary, my dear little girl." Annie the maid was the one to pick her up. "So bold, so foolish. You cannot fight a big man. Did you think you could fight a man, lass?"
Annie licked her tender spots, going round and round the bruises until they were a slobbery mess. She would lick Mary's dirty face and tongue her eyes open like a mother dog's.
"See, not so bad. You still live."
Sometimes, after these things, Mary wet the bed, so that her dolls smelled and had to be thrown out the window to the boiling tub below in the yard. Then her mother would beat her.
"Bread and water for a week, you nasty girl."
Her grandfather always sent her a new dolly, Mary told Fanny.
Mary's first doll had a wooden head, silk upper arms sewn to its body and attached with wire to wooden forearms and hands. She had green glass eyes, a gown of green silk with a closely fitted bodice, quilted petticoat, and braid-trimmed shoes. Her name was Mary, and Mary would strap Mary to her back as she made her way through the fields around Laugharne Castle.
The ruins of the castle is where they would all play, Everina, Eliza, Ned, and Mary. King, queen, ladies-in-waiting.
Mary was the queen, and her sisters did as they were told. Ned was the king and told Mary what to do, and Charles not yet born.
The estuary near Laugharne was full of sea gulls and herons, sandpipers and cormorants. Low tide brought little sinking holes where the clams lived. Mary and her sisters liked to take off their shoes, have the wetness ooze between their toes, forgetting the penalty.
"You are filthy," their father shouted before beating them, making Mary feel that her evil deed was much more than just muddying her skirts. Mary told Fanny he made her believe her very being was dirty and at fault.
Laugharne Castle had big gaping holes where Cromwell had laid siege and there was a lane nearby called Deadman's Lane where the blood had run down like a river. That is what Ned said.
"Blood River, Deadman's Lane, River Blood, take your pick." He brandished his stick as if it were a real sword. Mary used the same stick when she was Queen Elizabeth making Ned a knight of the realm, sing la-ti-da.
Ned said he wished it was back in Cromwell's time and he a soldier true to the king. Eliza with her pretty blond hair and china-blue eyes wanted it to be the time of Henry VIII and she a great lady. Everina was too much of a killjoy to wish anything. Mary told them she wanted it to be the future, not backward, for she could imagine a time when she could study books like Ned and have her very own horse. Ned said be quiet, that would never be. You might as well wear breeches, he snickered. In the nursery he rode his wooden horse up and down, declaring for all and sundry: I am master here.
It was Annie, the maid, who took Mary to buy books on Saturday market to the traveling cart where the man sold little books for childrenat a penny apiece along with ribbons and cloths, pots and pans, and ballad sheets commemorating in song and story the latest highwayman hanged in London town.
Thus, Mary read Dick Whittington and His Cat, Mother Hubbard and Her Dog, Jack the Giant-Killer, The History of Tom Thumb, Cinderella and Her Glass Slipper.
She read aloud to her sisters, outside, in the tall grass of the fields and behind bushes, in the hollows or in the bottom of a rowboat on the black beach. She showed them letters, how to link the words, form the sentences. Just as Annie had taught her. By the time Mary met Fanny, she could read well.
Mary's mother taught her that carriage, motion, manners, and address began with a well-disciplined body, that the body at all times should express a light, floating quality, that it was important to position the head and limbs in an unaffected manner, the upper arms curving gently away from the torso, hands held palms up, one resting lightly on top of the other.
Nobody was allowed to touch Ned's books, but once during his lesson time with his tutor, Mary sneaked a book.
The book was titled:
BIOGRAPHY OF A BOY
or, Characteristic Histories Calculated To Impress Young Minds with an Admiration of Virtuous Principles and Detestation of Vicious Ones by Mrs. Pilkington
Mary could understand why that was such a secret book.
Because Her Father Did Not Detest Vicious Principles and her mother did not know a Principle from a Porcupine
Furthermore, if the author, Mrs. Pilkington, was indeed a lady, why did she not write books on virtue for young ladies? Surely that was more important than standing properly with your hands folded just so. Since Mary knew how to write, she thought she might write Mrs. Pilkington a letter suggesting such a book for girls. Girls must be ... Mary thought ... kind, compassionate, that is what such a book would say. Mary would put in other things, too. Girls must be smart, she would start with, and strong, a whole host of things, but not dutiful and obedient, for that assumed a mother and father who were intelligent and rational.
Fanny taught her the words "intelligent" and "rational" when Mary was ten. They had never popped up in any of the fairy tales Mary read. At dame school Fanny, a little older, was full of words as well as a host of jump-rope songs and string games like Cat's Cradle and Spiderweb and Dog Cage and Around the World. Fanny had legs long as a stork's. Once they climbed to the top of a very dangerous tree, daring each other back and forth:
"I dare you."
"I dare you."
"I dared you first."
Then, shaded by an umbrella of leaves, Mary began to explain her hard life.
"It started like a dream."
The voices in the dream were soft and beguiling, insinuating themselves into Mary's sleep, cutting into the woolly layers of sleep like soft scissors.
"Oh, Edward, please do not tell me that." Her mother's voice was shrill, pitiful, as if on the edge of the windowsill.
"Yes, you are, God be my witness, a whore and worse, worse than a whore. You are a terrible person."
Her father's voice was low and rumbling, as thunder starts at a distance, grows louder, and finally cracks right next to one's ear.
"How can I be such a terrible person, Edward, when I love you so, am your wife, the mother of your children, the mistress of your heart."
"And stupid and silly."
"Please, Edward, please forgive me."
Mary would wonder what wretched thing her mother had done to be such a terrible person. She tried to remember what she, Mary, had done in the course of the day, the week. Could it be her fault? Fanny said no, not your fault.
"And you are not comely, not comely at all, anymore, anymore."
When her father had been to the tavern he repeated words. But it was true that she, Mary, was not comely. Did that merit a beating?
"Oh, God have mercy on me, Edward."
"May He, may He indeed."
Each word of her mother's would contain more tears. Each word of her father's would get harder and harder. Hers overflowed, his became stone, and Mary would feel she was in a rushing river being pelted by branches or rocks like an adulteress or a witch. Then her mother would be dragged off the bed, hitting the floor, and unless Mary could manage to get inside their room, her mother would be killed.
"Open the door," Mary would scream, kicking the door. "Let me in."
At such times Mary found herself in a strange, unrecognizable fury, kicking and banging the door, raising a great racket. She felt brave enough to die. She wanted to die. She wanted to kill him, then die. She wanted her mother to die, too, and everybody, her sisters, Ned, the whole world, to die and keep dying right up to the end of the world.
"Open the door, open ..."
"What do you want, you little hussy?" The door ajar a tiny crack, Mary would push her way in and throw herself across her mother's poor prone body.
"Mother, Mother."
"Get her off me, Edward, get this child off me. Go. Go. Leave be. Annie, Annie, come and get Mary."
Her father wrenched her off her mother's body.
"No, no," Mary would scream.
"Annie, take her, take her away."
Annie had to drag her, kicking and screaming, back to the nursery.
"Annie, keep the animal locked in a cage. She needs a cage, by God." Mrs. Wollstonecraft, trailing behind, her hair undone, her bodice open, flinging her hands heavenward, declared Mary hopeless and asked God to give her strength. "I refuse to have that child anywhere in my sight."
The trip down the hall to the nursery, her mother in great disarray, her brother sneering and clicking at her, and her sisters sniffling in fear, was the worst part of the whole thing.
"See," Ned would say.
"See," Everina would sneer.
Eliza would start crying. "I did not do anything."
"Who said you did, you ninny."
"I was not talking to you, Ned, Mr. Nosey."
"Come, Mary, my love," Annie would soothe. "It is only husband and wife. God is love. Do not distress yourself. Your Annie is here. Shh, shh, there, there."
"It was husband and wife," Mary told Fanny in the tree. "Is it intelligent and rational?"
Fanny pondered a row of ants making their way across up the trunk of the tree. "It does not sound so. I have brought my brush. Let me do your hair."
Mary's mother, after these commotions, stayed abed two or three days, cold compresses across her red eyes, the curtains pulled and her room filled with gloom and a musty smell. Annie had to trot up and down the stairs day and night fetching cups of tea and spirits.
"Mamma, are you sick?" Mary, standing at the door, the other children in a gaggle behind her, got a peek at gray pillows and dingy sheets. Mary thought of her mother's bed with its canopy and curtains as a tent on a battlefield where the wounded and impaired were brought. King Arthur would have a little pennant, purple for royalty, flying from the top. If she could be anybody in history, and it had to be in history and not the future, she would want to be Merlin. Merlin always knew what to say.
"Mamma, please?"
Muffled sobs.
"Mamma?"
"Go away, you bothersome child."
"Shall I bring you ..."
"Annie, Annie, take that abominable Mary away from me."
Annie would scoop Mary up, scat the other children back to the nursery.
"Hey nonny nonny, but you are such a big girl, a heavy girl, it is a wonder I can still carry you. Are you twelve or eleven?"
Annie carried her at the side of her waist like vegetables. Annie smelled of ginger and anise, ancient sweat. Her hair was a nest of lice, as if her brain was abuzz with little white ideas. She let Mary stand above her every Saturday night and pick through for lice with a fine-tooth comb. Mary liked to squeeze the little bugs between her fingernails, drop them in the bucket of water by her side. After a while, Annie would begin to purr like a cat and unloose her bodice so that her breasts would hang out. She would ask Mary to smear lard over the large, brown nipples, and then carefully, so as not to lose a grain, Annie would sprinkle sugar round and round.
"Suck, Mistress Mary, suck them."
Annie had a third nipple, this one pink and very moist, like uncooked chicken, under her skirts.
"Do I have to, Annie?"
But there was no use in the asking. Mary's head would be clapped between, her ears muffed in folds of flesh until with a kind of yelp and spasm Annie would let her go, asking to be kissed straightaway on the lips.
"Let me see what I taste like," Annie would say, like the parson in the chapel, who would always say: Bow your heads, let us give thanks straightaway.
During service, Mary liked to watch out of the window for the pale horse that came to munch in the graveyard. It had a freckled rump and sweet face, huge yellow teeth.
"Should you tell a living soul about this," Annie would incant each time, sprinkling more stolen sugar on Mary's salty tongue, "God will smite you dead, and I will have to cut your heart up into little pieces for the evening stew."
"Can I tell Fanny? Just Fanny?"
"Do you want to die?" Annie's eyes would squint and blaze like a pig's on the way to slaughter. Mary imagined her heart diced and slivered, strewn in a field, melting in the sun. God and Annie in league would be something to behold. Annie would hold the knife. God would hold Mary down.
"It behooves me to make this observation," the parson said on Sunday. "The youth of our land is in great danger of distraction and eventual perdition. The ranks are being assembled. Be wary, I caution you, of distraction. Beelzebub is afoot. Winged merchants are hovering. Lucifer himself is creeping ever so stealthily. Do not be misled down the sorry, wide, naked, nettle-filled, neck-reckless road of Satan."
Mary hardly dared make her way home. She kept her hands around her neck--neck-reckless, not she--and her lips, her sinful Annie-sucking lips, pressed in. Who knew what might lie in wait, a whole array, dozens of bad baby devils ready to jump out and sting at you like a squadron of bumblebees. She imagined the chief he-devil, Lucifer himself, to be a snake, but in clothes like the clothes she hadseen worn by Sir Walter Raleigh in a book about Queen Elizabeth. Was it a doublet or a dublin they wore, a ruffled collar? He would wear a golden crown as befit the king of hell, but up close you would be able to see that the snake was a snake except for the legs. He would have that awful snake head with that wide, sneaky snake smile, man legs, hoofed, of course. Maybe he would keep his neck folded down so you could not tell right off, and then it would kind of rock up, get long like a turtle's, with wrinkles in it. Fanny said that the devil was like God, you could not see him. Why does everybody imagine him all the same, then, Mary wanted to know. Because we see pictures, Fanny answered. But how do we know how to make pictures? Somebody made a devil picture a long time ago. And everybody copied? Right. Fanny looked at Mary as if she were a dunce, so she did not ask how that long-time-ago person knew to draw the devil.
"Little girl, little girl," the on-the-road devil would say in a voice both scary and nice at the same time.
"Cannot be late for dinner, Mr. Devil."
"Do you think the devil is rational and intelligent?" Mary asked Fanny. "If he is not imaginary."
"Maybe intelligent, but hardly rational."
Mary thought the two went together.
"For how could a rational being disdain God's love, Mary?"
"I suppose."
When Mrs. Wollstonecraft finally got out of bed after one of her tiffs with Mr. Wollstonecraft, she would go about with an injured air for several days, stepping slowly and carefully, sighing heavily every so often, shaking her head sadly whenever she saw Mr. Wollstonecraft, sniffing into her lace handkerchief, heaving her big chest with great longing, and gazing sadly out the window at the meadow where the sheep grazed.
In a few days, Mary's father would begin to wait with great solicitude on his wife, doing her small favors, begging her to please eat a morsel, calling her dear and my darling. He gave her little gifts, sent her to the dressmaker. All the children got new clothes, too, and little cakes.
It started with a little smile, a sniff turning into a small giggle.
"Oh, Edward."
He would begin to pinch and pull at her, and sit across from her, his legs spread far apart.
"I do not understand," Mary told Fanny under their secret hideout bush (which, if anybody found out, would be death to the traitor), "how they can hate and then ..."
"That is the way grownups are," Fanny said.
The Wollstonecraft children stayed huddled in the corners. Ned picked his nose and ate the snot from his fingers. Eliza's nose ran and she wiped it on her sleeve. Everina was working on a sampler in cross-stitch that said: Home Is Where the Heart Is. She had gotten the house with the chimney done, was on the alphabet. Mary was reading a book called The Strange Adventures of Count de Vinevil. Annie went about her tasks not meeting anybody's eyes and humming to herself. Mary put her head in her book. The dogs glanced up from their dozing by the hearth at the slightest sound. One of them whimpered in his sleep and wiggled his legs as if running.
Later, if Mary should put her ear to her parents' bedroom door, she would hear not the sounds of battle but the cooing sound of pigeons in their coop.
The peace might stretch into days and weeks, and playing midwife in the hollows with Fanny and putting sticks up her bottom for purges, and poultices on her chest for fever, and rags in the front for the monthlies, and plugs in her ears for runny ears, and cloth up her nose for the ague, and then being summoned to church by the Sunday bell, having a nice dinner of potted venison, plain pudding and oyster loaves, falling asleep without crying, Mary would wonder if it had ever really happened, the blows and tears, the crashing and kicking. Were they not a happy family, after all? Had it been a dream, in fact, the shouting? But just as she was beginning to be less wary and the tightness in her chest was loosening a little, there would be a subtle change in the air, in the house, on people's faces, signaling a turn. Her father's voice would alter at times, his "my dears" would have a slight edge to them, and her mother would hold her body closer to herself, as if all she contained existed within her own skin, and nothing else was certain. Little spats would start up, nothing serious or of great consequence, almost anything would do. There were little traps set everywhere in the house.
"Two loaves lost at the bakery?"
Hardly her mother's fault, not even Annie's, for all the loaves which were taken to the big ovens at the bakery were marked W for Wollstonecraft. Their own kitchen in Laugharne had no oven, only the open hearth kept aflame by the bellows puffa-puffed by a village boy and the spit turned by dogs in a tread-wheel. It was a middling house with sculleries and pantry, a washhouse, but no laundry, no buttery, no dairy, no brewery, no bakery, and the bread had to be taken on Thursdays down to King Street.
Her father was the one who measured out the flour and kept the key to the tea caddy, and he let Annie sell the old tea leaves to the beggars who came to the back, collecting from her each week, and not trusting anybody, anybody at all, parceling out the household money in grudge and suspicion. Each week he counted out the sheets and guarded the bread loaves as if they were made of gold.
"Two loaves, two whole loaves lost?"
"But, Edward, my husband ..."
Edward Wollstonecraft was flush with liquor, pinpricks of spite purpled his nostrils. He had one long ugly hair sticking out of his nose like a saber, and his little piggy eyes spoke treachery and condemnation, and the spittle on his lips formed up so that he talked in spray. With one sweep of his hand he brushed all the dishes and food off the table. The dogs went mad, snuffling up all the food, and one even eating a broken plate with gravy on it and cutting his mouth.
"I am going to leave," Mary mumbled to her sisters in the stairway cupboard, where they were all jammed together.
"You are eleven years old," Eliza said. "How can you leave?"
"It is not fair," Mary hissed. "Can you not see that?"
"He is our father."
"Yes, but does that alone give him right?"
"Where will you go?"
"You will see. I am going to go. I am going to live with the gypsies and tell fortunes, or be with Fanny in her bed in her house."
"You are not going anywhere," Ned said, cuffing Mary. "How can you go anywhere until you get married?"
"I am not getting married."
"You will get married," Ned said. "It is God's law. And if youdo not, you will be a spinster and starve all your life forever and ever in the poorhouse."
"I will starve, then."
"If you starve, you will die."
"I am going to die, then."
"You are not going to die," Ned said. "Unless I say so."
"I can live with Fanny."
"Her father is a drunk, too," Everina said.
"How do you know?" Eliza asked.
"At least here," Ned said, "you know the worst."
"Do I?"
"The worst is if the house fell down, and snakes crawled over you," Everina said.
"If there was no food for a hundred days, and then it rained, that would be it," Eliza said.
"We could all die in a big pile and then rot," Ned said. "That would be the worst."
The worst came on a day Mary was to call the Day of the Dogs, a gray, cold day, with fog rolling in from the sea like big bales of hay. Mary had her doll strapped to her back and she was hungry. Up the hill she went, and around a grove of oaks.
Ahead was the house. Smoke was coming up from the chimney. Tea will be soon, she said to herself, thinking of the warm liquid settling at the base of her belly, and hoping for hot buttered muffins.
As she got closer to the house, she noticed something hanging from the large oak near the front door. She was not sure what she was seeing. In Jack the Giant-Killer, a whole giant house bloomed at the end of the stalk. Fe Fi Fo Fum. On closer look, Mary thought that they were sacks dangling from ropes. Maybe it was venison wrapped in cloth to air and age. Her father had gone hunting that morning.
Then her eyes blurred. And her mouth went dry. She could not tell what she was seeing, for it was quite impossible that it should be what it was, and her mind could not take it in to make sense of it, and Dear God, she breathed, have mercy on such as I.
Her father's five hunting dogs were dangling, hanged by the neck, eyes bulging.
Mary vomited, stumbled into the house. The girls were sobbing,Ned hushed, Mrs. Wollstonecraft and Annie did not look anybody in the eye but bit their lips, went about setting tea. Mary dared not say a word.
"Leave them hanging," her father commanded that night. "Do not presume upon yourself to cut them down. They have disappointed me, do you understand. Understand? Leave them hanging. They have disappointed me."
The children cringed together. Annie's olive complexion was ashy and the big pores on her cheeks had turned into black dots. Mrs. Wollstonecraft's eyes were glittery with tears. She was big with child then. Charles.
Annie served them tea silently. The fire kept going out. Eliza sniffled and pulled at her dress. Everina clenched her teeth. Even Ned looked stricken.
"We are going to move shortly," Mr. Wollstonecraft announced. "To Yorkshire."
Everina and Eliza struck up a wail. Ned looked wounded. Mary could hear the wind start up and thought of the poor dogs swinging, bumping into each other.
"They must be cold," she said to her father.
"Who must?"
"The dogs. Please cut them down, Papa. Please."
She thought of the wind ruffling their fur, and that their tongues would be leather and their eyes frozen like marbles.
"Please."
"Hush, child." Annie put her hand on Mary