There is some small disturbance going on outside Berkeley House: drunken shouts, running feet, the watchman’s bell ringing. It is enough to wake both the Denmarks, who have been sleeping together in Anne’s bedchamber, according to their peculiar habit.
‘Did you hear what hour it is, my dear?’
‘No, George. He was not telling the hour – he was after some rogue or other.’ ‘Again? That is the third night together. It was not like this at Syon.’ ‘No, but we could not stay there, and we must make the best of it . . . anyway I think I will have watched more than slept tonight, even without the noise.’
‘Why is that? Is it your pains?’
‘They are not so bad – and I’ve not seen any blood since yesterday. I have taken the new medicine again and I swear it is doing me more good than anything.’ ‘That medicine. I am of Mrs Freeman’s mind – you should tell your doctors about it. Heaven knows what is in it.’
‘Why should I? They would only tell me not to just because they did not think of it themselves, and you are as desirous of children as I am, so why should you not want me to try a thing I’ve heard so much good of? I am sure it can do me no harm. If the child is weak I hope it may strengthen it, and if it be loosened it will not stop it for many days.’
‘As you wish, my dear.’
‘It is not my pains that keep me awake. It is that letter – I cannot forbear from thinking about it and whenever I do, I get so mightily vexed.’
‘You mean the one I had out of my own country? But I have already said: we are of a mind that it is none of my brother’s business, and I will write to tell him so. Why must you keep troubling yourself about it?’
‘Because of Caliban – ’tis plain he is behind it – why else would your brother ask us to reconcile with them? What business is it of his?’
‘As I said, none. And I will tell him so. Stop troubling yourself.’
‘It is none, but to be sure Caliban will endeavour by all ways that can be thought on to make us yield rather than make one step towards it himself—’
‘True, but—’
‘—and if I – if we – ever make the least step, may I – we – be as great a slave as he would make us if it were in his power!’
‘We are not about to be slaves, my love. Put it out of your mind.’
‘I only wish I could, but you know how it is with me and such ugly matters: they get inside my head, and then I never can be rid of them.’
23rd March 1693
The patent medicine Anne has been taking does not work quite as well as advertised, for when spring arrives her pains come back with it. They wake her rudely every morning; sometimes they attack her knees and ankles, sometimes her hips – sometimes, for a change, her wrists and hands – wherever they are, she is mightily on the rack.
On those days when she has been sleeping alone and wakes too early for George to be disturbed, she calls Danvers to help her out of her bed and into her easy chair, where she might arrange herself comfortably enough to try and sleep a little longer. She will dream, and start awake, and then dream a little again, until it is time for chocolate, and for prayers. One morning, she is startled out of a most agreeable dream of walking with Sarah through the orchards at Holywell by a catching in her limbs: they have woken by themselves, and without her will or leave, they are dancing a lively jig, such as Anne has not been able to do on her own account for a good many months, if not years already. After a short space the dancing stops, leaving Anne very much frighted. As soon as she can, she writes to Sarah to ask her to send Dr Radcliffe. She is glad that none of her women were in the room, for had they been, they would quite certainly have told other women in other households, who would tell their mistresses, who would then tell their friends, who would tell it to malicious people, who would then spread a rumour abroad that she has got fits.
When Dr Radcliffe comes, Anne makes a tearful confession of her secret medicine-taking, for which he scolds her, because he is certain that it is the cause of her limbs convulsing, since she has never been afflicted in that way before. He has the bottle brought to him, so that he may destroy it himself, and says he will have Anne’s apothecary make up some pills for her out of rue and castor, to prevent further convulsions. He cannot promise Anne that the child has not been harmed by her foolish actions. And so the old, melancholy qualms come back, and before the week is out she has miscarried and then there is another dead daughter to bury.