The Fates of Women. Marianne
When Grandma Agnes passed away, Marianne felt more alone than ever. Her mother-in-law, Dorothy, never warmed to her; she thought Marianne was too thin, too frail, too lazy, and she doubted any children would ever come from such a waif.
Marianne endured it all in silence. Whenever things became unbearable, she would hurry to see her old grandmother, Agnes. No one was dearer to MarianneAgnes had taken the place of her father, lost to the world, and her mother, who had died ten years ago of consumption.
Only God knows what Daniel saw in the poor orphan. He was handsome and strong, with a full and happy house, yet he fell in love with a penniless girl with no family. Dorothy, Daniels mother, never called Marianne by name, but always referred to her as “that stray” behind closed doors.
Marianne did her best to please her mother-in-law. She spun about the house like a whirlwind, never complaining, taking whatever work came her way. But none of it matteredDorothy always found her lacking.
As long as Daniel was home, things were bearable. But as soon as he left for business in the neighbouring village, Marianne longed to flee the house.
“Endure, dear Marianne,” Grandma Agnes would soothe, “things will settle in time.”
But now Agnes was gone. Year after year passed, and Dorothy’s dislike only grew deeper. She had imagined a different marriage for her sona sturdy, well-born girl from a prosperous family. There would have been enough to pass down for generations.
Saints didnt helpDaniels stubbornness came from his father. He would hear no word against his own wishes. He ran the farm well after his father died, and even improved things. He respected his mother, but he wouldnt let her treat him as a boy. When Daniel spoke, it was final.
Daniel loved Marianne fiercely. The first time he saw her, a slim reed of a girl, pale face, huge blue eyes and a pert little nosehe was lost. He wanted to lay every bit of his good fortune at her feet.
Marianne needed none of it. She said yes because she saw a pure soul in Daniel, and she too fell madly in love. She was aware of his mothers reputation: the bad temper, the greed. But since Daniel stood by his word, she agreed to the match.
She moved into Daniels cottage, braved all Dorothys barbs, and, when the pain was too much, ran to her grandmothers cottage to pour out her heart. She would sit on the floor, rest her head on Agnes knees and weep softly. The old woman would run her fingers gently through her hair, smooth her crown, and quietly whisper a prayer to Our Lady for her orphaned granddaughter.
After an hour together, the gloom would lift, and somehow it became possible to live again.
But Agnes was gone now, slipping away quietly in her sleep. Marianne howled with grief, feeling completely alone in the world.
People say time heals woundsit isnt true. The ache would seem forgotten, but it always returned, recalling those gentle, familiar hands and making Marianne weep all over again.
Time passed, and the tension in Daniels house only grew. Dorothy tormented Marianne mercilessly. Three years living off Daniel, and still no heir. To Dorothy, this was worse than anything.
For Marianne, the subject of children was her worst nightmare. Shed heard Dorothy whisper into her sons ear that his wife was cursed, and that hed never see children. Daniel shrugged off the talk, but a person cant silence every rumour. The village gossiped: Daniels fortunes would die with him, for thered be no child to inherit.
Daniel brooded only until he came home and saw his beloved then all his worries vanished. He would have carried her in his arms if she let him.
Perhaps God finally heard Mariannes prayers, or perhaps their love itself worked a miracle, but at last she fell pregnant.
Dorothy was seething, but Daniels love for his wife deepened.
Dorothy prowled around like an ill-omened crow, never leaving Marianne a moments peace.
“Sat around idle again, have you? Think just because youre swelling up, you dont have to lift a finger?” shed sneer, hands on hips, catching Marianne resting for but a moment.
“Ive been busy all morning, Mother,” Marianne would say, shrinking under Dorothys glare.
“Busy, indeed! There are no servants here; youre not a lady of the manor. Get the water now, before Daniel comes home and finds the buckets empty. If youre too delicate, youd best goI dont want an invalid for my son!”
Without a word, Marianne shouldered the yoke, took the buckets and trudged to the well. The neighbours, older women peeking from behind fences, shook their heads: “Dorothys heart has turned to stone; even with the girl pregnant, she has no mercy.”
At last, Marianne gave birth to a boy, but joy was short-lived. The child was weak and sickly. He would go blue, stop breathing for moments at a time.
“As feeble as his mother, this one,” Dorothy scoffed, never hiding her disgust.
“Please, Mother, how can you say that? Hes your flesh and blood, Daniels heir,” Marianne sobbed.
“Hell be lucky to see the daybest start on a coffin,” Dorothy said coldly.
Marianne broke down at such words, but Dorothy stung her even more, secretly hoping the baby would die so Daniel could find himself a sturdier wifeone with good, healthy blood.
Daniel came home, took pity on his wife, gave her rest, and cradled the childtiny enough to fit in his palm. The baby seemed to sense his fathers strength and calmed at once.
“Well show them all, wont we, little one,” Daniel would murmur.
The time came to christen the child, and they named him Benedict. Yet the boy didnt thrive; he remained small and frail.
One day, Daniel had to leave for work along the river, to another village.
“Itll be a long time before Im back,” he said, kissing Mariannes hair. “Take care, look after Benedict; dont listen to a word anyone says…”
Dorothy seized her moment. With Daniel gone, she worked Marianne mercilessly. Marianne ought to rest with her sick child, but Dorothy saw to it that she had not a moments peace: drawing water, chopping wood, tending the livestock. At night, little Benedict wailed, and Marianne rocked him endless hours until dawn.
Both mother and child faded together. As Marianne weakened, so did Benedictgasping, bluing, struggling for breath.
Autumn set in, wet and chill, and still no news of Daniel.
“Best he stays away,” Dorothy remarked one day. “Who would want to return to a house full of sickness? Perhaps hell find a better wife elsewheresomeone lively and strong.”
Those words haunted Marianne. What if Dorothy was right? Her heart filled with dread.
Dorothy knew exactly which wound to open. Every day, she poured a little more doubt into Mariannes soul.
“Arent you sorry for Daniel? The baby wont last the week, youll wear yourself out, and all you do is drag my son into misery. Let him go, Marianne.”
“But where would I go, Mother? With a little one, and the frost soon to comeBenedict’s not strong. He might get even worse.”
“If he does, its no great loss,” Dorothy replied icily. “Hand his soul to God, and Daniel could finally start a proper family.”
Marianne stared in disbelief. Could a person say such things? She was a mother herselfhow could she wish for Benedict to die? As if in answer, the babys cry turned desperate, blue lips quivering, limbs limp.
“Remember, Marianne,” Dorothy said, standing in the doorway, “you can’t build happiness on someone else’s sorrow,” and she left Marianne alone with her grief.
Two more weeks dragged by. The first snow dusted the ground; ice edged the windowpanes. Marianne grew gaunt and grey. Sometimes she snapped back at Dorothys cruelty, but what use was resistance without her own home or her husband to defend her? Dorothys words pained her chest: Marianne was unwanted, and Daniel had run off.
She never even thought that Daniel might be in trouble; Dorothy had tangled her mind so well that Marianne only blamed herself for everything.
“Neither living, nor letting him live,” Dorothy muttered.
Then came the last straw.
Marianne quietly packed her meagre belongings into a handkerchief. She wrapped Benedict carefully in woollen scarves and slipped out into the evening.
Dorothy stood as still as a statue, afraid to break her daughter-in-laws sudden resolve. She wasnt worried for her son; a letter had come a month agoDaniel had been injured by highwaymen but was alive, recovering in hospital in London. Marianne didnt need to know that. Dorothy planned to tell Daniel when he returned that both mother and child had died. Fortunately, Marianne left at dusknosy neighbours couldnt see the truth.
The next morning, Dorothy spread word that Marianne had lost her mind when the baby passed and had vanished into the night. Shed tried to stop her, she insisted, but heartbreak took her reason.
For a few days, people gossiped, then forgot. Winter set in, everyone kept indoors, and soon all talk died away.
***
Marianne walked for miles along field and wood. She was frightened, not for herselfher heart was burnt outbut for her son. Thankfully, misfortune spared her. At dawn, the roofs of a new village appeared, chimneys puffing white smoke into the sky.
She didnt expect anyone would take her in; perhaps someone would offer bread and water, or let her warm Benedict for an hour by the fire.
The streets were desertedno summer here, no village folk in gardens or markets, only the brave fetching water in the cold. Marianne wandered, embarrassed to approach strangers. She sat by a well, exhausted.
A woman approached with heavy buckets on a yoke. She was tall and broad, cheeks red from the cold. She looked down at Marianne, who shrank beneath her gaze.
“Who are you, then? You look half-frozen,” the woman asked.
“Im nobody,” Marianne whispered, “Just passing throughheading for the next village,” she lied.
“Who are you visiting there?” the woman asked, squinting.
“My fathers there,” Marianne lied again.
“In such weather, even a dog would be given shelter, but youve been sent out, with a babe? What kind of folk send you away?”
Marianne couldnt hold back any longer. She burst into tears, hands raw from the cold, unable to stop.
“Come on then, up you get, with me,” the woman ordered, setting down her buckets and helping Marianne up.
They entered a warm, fragrant cottage, bundles of herbs hanging above the fire. Marianne sank onto the bench beside the oven, only now feeling how thoroughly tired she was. The woman gently took Benedict from Mariannes arms.
“My names Mrs Hawkins,” she said, unwrapping the baby. “Bless me, hes tiny! Is he christened?”
“He is,” Marianne managed, “his names Benedict.” And then she fainted onto the floor.
She didnt know how long she lay unconscious. When she woke, wrapped in a blanket in a strangers bed, the house was silent. She sprang up in panicno baby, no womanonly emptiness. Fear overtook her. She grabbed a cloak from a hook to rush outside, but at that moment the door opened, and Mrs Hawkins swept in on a chill gust.
“Awake then, are you? Where did you think you were going?”
“Wheres my son?” Marianne cried.
“Calm yourself, silly thing,” Mrs Hawkins smiled. “You lay three days asleep, feverish and raving. Tell me now, whats brought you here. And dont worry about Benedict for the momentIve taken him to my mother in the wood for a little healing.”
“Why?” Marianne asked, suddenly cold with fear.
“For his health,” was all Mrs Hawkins would say. “Now drink this and tell me your tale.”
So Marianne did. She spoke of her great love, her cruel mother-in-law, her sickly son, emptying all her pain into words. Mrs Hawkins listened in silence.
“Gods ways are mysterious,” she finally said. “Dont be frightened, Marianne. Your son will be well, and your fortunes will change for the betterif you guard the light in your heart, youll always find your way out of darkness.”
“But my heart aches for my babyplease, Mrs Hawkins,” Marianne begged.
“Ill take you to him, but you cant bring him back yet; youll understand soon enough,” Mrs Hawkins replied.
They set out together for the woods. “Gods providence is good,” Mrs Hawkins remarked. “I was never supposed to be at the well that dayI spend most of winter in the woods with my mother, Mrs Giles, whos something of a healer.”
They wound deep among the trees to a clearing where an old cottage stood. Mrs Hawkins opened the door and let Marianne in first.
“Back, are you?” called an old woman, emerging from the shadows. She was tiny and shrivelledit was hard to believe she was Mrs Hawkinss mother.
“Come in, love, look at your little onehes still asleep, dont wake him.”
Marianne bent over the hanging cradle and saw Benedict sleeping peacefully, looking rosier than ever before.
“Yes, rosier indeed,” the old woman chuckled, reading Mariannes thoughts. “Sit, and listen. Im Mrs Giles. Around here, people call me a witch. Thats why I live out here in the forest. Dont be afraidlet people say what they like. Your mother-in-law is a bigger witch than I am, yet she goes to church.”
Mrs Giles seemed to know Mariannes whole life. “People talk plenty but know nothing. Why do you think your son is so sick, then?”
Marianne was silent.
“You used to visit your grandmothers grave almost daily before he was born. Thats how you caught deaths touchan unborn child shouldnt be near graves. When Benedict was born, that deathly chill clung to him. Now, hes here, and well heal him.”
Mrs Giles put her hands gently on Mariannes head, stroking her hair. Marianne felt a sudden ease, as if she were a child again, safe in her grandmothers arms.
“Come, its time to go,” said Mrs Hawkins.
***
Days passed. After a week, Mrs Giles returned Benedict to his mother. He was rosy and bright, reaching up to her with giggles. Marianne looked at him, and it was as if all the nightmare days had never happened.
Life was peaceful with Mrs Hawkins. Marianne was never a burden and helped with the house.
“Auntie Hawkins,” Marianne asked one day, “why did Mrs Giles move into the forest? You cant find healers like her anymore.”
“It was long ago,” Mrs Hawkins replied. “Mother helped everyone and asked nothing in return. But people are fickle. As long as youre useful, theyre grateful. But let anything go wrong, and youre to blame.”
One year, several infants died in the village. People panicked. Someone remembered seeing Mrs Giles with the mothersshe must have cursed them out of jealousy. With torches, they came to her house, ready for violence. Only my father calmed them. Later, a doctor confirmedit was nothing unnatural; the children were just weak, the mothers older.
Even so, mother felt betrayed. She withdrew her help. When the village folks realised what theyd done, they pleaded for her returnno one else could heal as she could. She offered help again, but only for childrensick little ones were left outside her forest cottage, and if she brought them in, the families waited and hoped. If she returned them, all was well; if notwell, they knew shed done all she could.
“And how does she heal?” Marianne asked.
Mrs Hawkins smiled. “Best not to know everythingelse youll never sleep soundly. Dont worry, she calls on no devils.”
Meanwhile, news came to their old village: Daniel returned at last. He rushed home, but the bedrooms where he once slept with Marianne were cold and empty, her scent gone. He stood, unable to comprehend that his beloved and child could simply vanish.
“Im so sorry, my son,” Dorothy wept. “I couldnt save themBenedict died, and Marianne lost her mind. She took the child and ran into the night. I tried to stop her, but she was senseless with grief. I searched the woods, went to the neighbours, but she had vanished.”
Daniel listened, dazed, the word “vanished” thudding in his head.
Dorothy tried to coax him back to life. Spring came, and with it, the endless work of the farm. Outwardly, Daniel managed, but inside he was deadened. Days blurred into one another. Dorothy tried, bringing him prospects for marriage, but Daniel finally snapped:
“I failed one wife and one sonI wont hear another word about family!”
Time dragged on, and Daniel grew bitter, lifeless. Days he worked from dawn; nights he locked himself away.
After two years, Dorothy herself grew ill under the weight of her guilt and sorrow. No medicine could ease her. By the end of summer, Dorothy died, never confessing to her son what she had done.
Daniel was left completely alone. He went through the motions by day, but as night crept in, he ached with loneliness and dark thoughts. He decided that when forty days had passed since his mothers funeral, hed host a memorial for the village, and then slip quietly away from life.
***
In the forest, Mrs Giles paused her work and turned to a dark corner where a smoky shadow twisted.
“What brings you here? You never had a conscience in life, and now you come to me after death?”
The shadow hissed softly, wringing her hands.
“I have no wish to talk to you,” Mrs Giles spat. “Sort your own mess.”
“He wont see…” the shadow whispered.
“I know,” Mrs Giles retorted. “She suffered enough from you. You cant help him now; you should have thought of that before.”
“But not for myself…” the shadow pleaded.
“Too late for thatwhose happiness did you ruin? Show me then.”
The shadow enveloped Mrs Giles, and she saw Daniel at the marshs edge, a crowd of demons behind, waiting eagerly for his downfall.
***
“Marianne,” Mrs Hawkins called one day, “its a good day for gathering cranberries! Mother can make winter medicine for the children.”
“Ill go,” Marianne replied, watching Benedict play on the floor. “Tomorrow morning, if you look after the boy for me?”
“With pleasure,” Mrs Hawkins smiled, scooping up Benedict. “Hes like a little cherub; in the absence of my own children, you and he bring me such joy.”
“God mustve led me to you,” said Marianne, pressing her hand to Mrs Hawkinss. “If you hadnt found me at the well, I dont know if I would be alive. You are like a mother to meIll never forget your kindness.”
***
The fortieth day after Dorothys funeral arrived, the neighbours came for the remembrance meal and all paid their respects. When the last visitor left, casting Daniel a sympathetic glance, Daniel slipped quietly out into the woods.
He wandered, memories swirling before his eyesMarianne, beloved, Benedict so small, his parents voices. Happiness had always eluded him; hed worked hard all his life but couldnt keep his dove safe.
The murky marsh sucked at his feet. He stood, head bowed, content to let the icy fingers drag him under, not resistinglife had lost its taste.
Suddenly, he heard singing, a girls voice, thin and clear, growing closer and closer. It sounded strangely familiar. A white figure darted among the trees, and the voice became distinct.
“Marianne,” Daniel murmured, “Im coming to you, my love.”
He smiled, certain that his lost wife awaited him in death.
Just then Marianne herself burst from the wood, eyes wide, not trusting her own senses. Daniel stood waist-deep in the bog.
“Am I dreaming?” he muttered. “If I cant be with you in life, my darling, youve come to meet me in death.”
“Stop it, Danielwhat are you talking about? Im alive!” Marianne cried.
Daniel froze, the smile draining from his face.
“Youre alive?” he repeated, slowly understanding. Seeing Marianne, he shouted and struggled to escape the mire but couldnt.
The muck clung tightly. Marianne raced to help, tearing branches to make a rope, clawing her hands bloody, crying and laughing all at once.
Just as he was about to sink, Marianne hauled him to safety. Daniel clung to her, kissing her tear-stained face, tears streaming from his own eyes.
***
When Daniel realised that both his beloved and son were alive and thriving, he nearly lost his mind with joy.
He burst into the cottage, gathered Benedict in his arms, and wept uncontrollablyMrs Hawkins had to soothe him with her herbal tea.
They told each other everything, their sorrows and their joys, hands never letting go.
They decided never to return to Daniels old home. He gradually moved his things to the village that had become home to Marianne. They stayed with Mrs Hawkins, who had become Mariannes truest family by love if not by blood.
***
Over time, the grave in the old village was forgotten, the house overrun with weeds. Few remembered the lonely soul who brought so much misery out of selfishness and greed, shattering so many lives.
But life went on. Marianne learnt that even through the deepest suffering, light could be found again. The wounds of the past slowly healed, replaced by love, kindness, and new hopea reminder that to hold on to the goodness in your heart through even the bleakest times is the surest way to find your way home.
