Love's Will by Meredith Whitford

it seems it was Mother, not Father. And Mother was so upset that Father told Will to go at once, before it could be any worse. So he did.”
    “When?”
    “Thursday.”
    “And did he send any other message, anything more than the letter?”
    “No,” said Joan, looking puzzled. “It’s not for ever, of course,” she added. “He’s only to go and find out if he can be apprenticed. Although I suppose that if they said yes, he would stay there. He said it takes four days to get to London, so I don’t suppose he will come back unless he has to.”
    She left soon after, saying her mother would worry if she was away too long.
    Well, thought Anne. Just like that. He is gone. Half a page of glib remarks that could have been addressed to his maiden aunt or, come to that, to Davy Jones. I will always remember your kindness. She had listened to his dreams and his ambitions and made love to him seven times. Once for every year in the difference between their ages. She had been his first. Or so he had said. He had been hers. Now he had gone and he hadn’t even said goodbye.
    When she told her cousin, the old lady said, “At least he wrote you a letter. It’s more than most men would do.”
     

 
    6.
     
    Every country area had a woman like this. Wise woman; meddling old crone; daft old besom; witch; all according to your way of looking – or your need. Learned in the ways of herbal cures and the old lore of the Egyptians, with a deft touch for a sick animal or child. Yes, you would go to her, perhaps sneaking in the night, if you wanted warts charmed away or a potion to bind your beloved to you, if you couldn’t conceive or conceived unwillingly. Openly, by day, you’d give at least a nod of respect, a friendly greeting, you’d take her a gift when you killed a pig or put up fruit. Just in case.
    The cottage was ancient, a hovel whose walls stayed up only for lack of the energy to fall down. Inside it was surprisingly clean and orderly, but stank of unwashed old woman, herbs, the dog’s farts, the midden by the door, wood smoke and something else, indefinable but which always made Anne’s spine prickle.
    “So. Mistress Anne.”
    “Good-day to you.” Anne could hardly see the old woman through the smoky haze, and she nearly fell over the dog. “I baked today and thought to bring you a gift.” Briskly, although her hands shook, she unloaded her basket onto the table. A pie, two loaves, a cheese, a pot of honey, apples, a pair of thick, warm stockings. And two silver coins.
    “Generous o’ you.” The old woman’s chair squeaked as she rocked. “What do you want? Sit down where I can see you.” Anne obeyed, and for a moment the old woman leaned forward to peer at her. “So y’re in trouble.”
    “Yes. They say you can help. Please.”
    “Whyn’t marry the man?”
    “I cannot.”
    “Got a wife already, ’as ’e?”
    “No.”
    “Spread y’r legs for some nobleman bored wi’ summer in country, did you, an’ now ’e’s off back to London an’ laughs when you say y’r carryin’ ’is child?”
    “No. It is nothing like that. But I cannot marry him.”
    “An’ does ’e know? Did ’e send thee to me?”
    “No.”
    “Aye. Women bear their troubles alone. An’ their babes, when the man’s long gone. Tell ’im and mak ’im wed thee. Pride’s cold comfort.” The rocking of her chair was a rhythm that seemed to numb Anne’s mind. She felt queasy.
    “I cannot,” she whispered. “Please. They say you’ve helped other women. A potion. Pills. Anything.”
    “’Ow far gone is thee?”
    “My... my last flux was at the start of August.”
    The wise-woman laughed, and Anne wondered if she practised that witchy cackle to awe the credulous. “Left it late, din you. Nigh on three months.”
    “I was not quite sure. My flux is not always on time. And my cousin has been very ill.”
    “Aye, so I’ve ’eard. An’ you waited for y’r man to speak of love an’ marriage.”
    “Yes,” Anne