Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

  ‘Am I not ...?’ she begins but is too scared to finish.

  ‘It is nothing to do with you.’ How could he possibly tell her that the very thought of her naked body writhing underneath him makes him want to heave? ‘I am simply tired.’

  ‘This is not how I thought marriage would be.’ Mary’s voice is gratingly thin. ‘I should be with you. Why won’t you just come with me?’ Her reddened face appears before him. The sight of her, the tang of her stale breath, makes him flinch.

  ‘I am tired,’ he says, between clenched teeth.

  ‘That is not good enough! A wife should lay with her husband.’

  ‘A wife should do what her husband tells her to!’

  She recoils as if he has slapped her.

  ‘Now.’ He inhales, and the air splinters down his throat. He smooths his hair, forces the scowl off his face. ‘Go to bed and get some sleep. I will see you in the morning.’

  After a moment, she does as she is told.

  The bell rings furiously. Anne, who has just sat down to eat her supper of cold leftovers, races upstairs.

  She crashes into Mary’s bedroom to find it utterly calm. The candles flicker and paint the wall murals golden. Mary sits at a chair facing away from Anne, entirely still, and, at first, seemingly relaxed.

  Once the floor stops spinning and she manages to steady her breathing, Anne hears strange noises coming from her mistress. ‘Ma’am? You rang the bell?’

  Anne waits by the door. With her eyes adjusted to the dim room, she notices Mary’s bare hands, which hang by her sides, are clenched into fists so that the skin on her knuckles is stretched pure white.

  ‘Can I help you with anything, ma’am?’

  ‘Undress me.’ Mary’s voice is low and rough, like rocks scraping against bricks.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Mary unfolds herself from the chair and rises with difficulty to her feet. She keeps her back to Anne, who begins unfastening her clothes. Anne’s fingers have never felt so stiff. She works as best she can, with Mary’s peculiar breathing reverberating around her.

  At last, Mary must turn so that Anne can continue. Slowly, Anne sees Mary’s face. It is as white as Mr Oliver’s starched shirts, yet her eyes glow red like cherries. The dress slips away, leaving her in her undergarments, revealing red marks on her chest and neck, some with faint spots of blood where the skin has broken.

  ‘Oh, God!’

  Anne is so shocked that she does not notice the clawing hand that slams against her cheek. It knocks her off her feet. She lies upon the rug, holds her stinging skin, and stares up at her mistress.

  ‘Do not look at me like that!’ Mary screams. Her whole body shakes, and her teeth rattle as she grips and pulls at her hair.

  It is as if a demon towers above Anne, and she runs. She runs all the way back downstairs, tears streaming from her eyes until she collides with Will.

  ‘Anne! What’s wrong?’

  Anne cannot talk, her voice is held in terror, and she clings to Will.

  ‘Come on, come in here.’ He guides her into his father’s room.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter?’ Mr Chipman says. ‘Sit her down, Will.’

  ‘Mrs Oliver ...’ Anne groans between gulps of air and tears.

  ‘What’s happened? Is she ill? Speak, Anne!’

  His forcefulness rouses her. Anne sniffs back her mucus, wipes her eyes, and flinches when she catches her sore cheek with her sleeve.

  ‘What’s that?’ Will says and turns her chin so her face is to the light. ‘Did she hit you?’

  ‘She is mad,’ Anne whispers.

  ‘Why did she hit you?’ Mr Chipman says.

  ‘I saw the marks. Marks what she’s done to herself. It were awful!’ Anne’s head throbs now, and her neck aches from the weight of it. ‘She were breathing like ... like something demented.’

  Mr Chipman sighs, and his eyes dart nervously between his son and Anne. ‘Go to bed and get some rest. And don’t tell anyone about this.’

  ‘What?’ Will reels on his father. ‘This ain’t right! Mrs Oliver can’t get away with this.’

  ‘Mrs Oliver can get away with as much as she likes, son, and don’t you forget it. If you want to stay here, stay earning, you keep that mouth shut, do you hear me?’

  Will shrinks back. He nods once, short and sharp.

  ‘I hate her,’ Anne says, holding her cheek.

  ‘That’s enough of that.’ Mr Chipman checks the other side of the door to see if anyone has heard their conversation. ‘You’re doing well here, Anne, don’t go spoiling it.’

  Anne meets his gaze. She rises from the seat, takes her hand away from her face, and straightens her skirt. All she had hoped for was a little pity, a little understanding; she did not need chiding. She will not be humiliated a second time. ‘It’s Miss Witmore, to you.’

  She stomps out of the room, promising that Mr Oliver will know everything by nine o’clock tomorrow morning.

  Chapter 4

  March 1869

  It is snowing. From Liz’s bedroom window, white, like a thick blanket of bleached lamb’s wool, shrouds the landscape. It is as if they have been cocooned inside a spider’s web and cannot escape.

  She thought she would like it here. She thought the fresh air would suit her well. Before, she had dreamed of seeing blue skies and open fields – they were such rarities in London. That time that Tom had taken her to Hampstead Heath, the vastness of the sky had frightened her for a moment, for she thought she might fall into it, be consumed by it. The lumps of cloud had appeared close enough to touch, and she had reached out her hand, hoping to feel the softness of them, but she had felt nothing but the breeze.

  It’s beautiful, she had whispered.

  Even now, she can feel Tom’s arm around her waist, firm and reassuring, his cheek against hers as they look into the deep blue.

  We’ll have it all, he had whispered back.

  But, on days like this, it is like she is trapped by the expanse of land, like she had been trapped by the narrow streets and squat terraces of the city.

  The silence, too, seems to play tricks on her. At night she cannot sleep, for when no sounds come from the house, they come from her mind instead. After two months here, things are only getting worse.

  Tom assures her it will be different soon. Once the spring arrives, the place will come alive, so he says. He tells her of drooping bluebells, of buzzing bees, of bleating baby lambs.

  Spring seems a long way away.

  So, she passes her time in her chamber, away from the intimidating library with its vast selection of books, which she has no desire to read, and no certainty that she’d be able to understand. The drawing room is a bore too, and she does not know where Mary is. She has not the energy nor the inclination to roam around the house with the possibility of unexpectedly meeting her sister-in-law, who is growing more restless by the hour.

  But, Liz cannot lay idle for long today. Aunt Emily is due to visit tomorrow, and preparations for her arrival must be made. Everything must be perfect. Mr Chipman must be corrected on his stoop. The maids must make sure there is not one speck of dust anywhere, even in their own rooms. Anne must learn to speak properly, without her accent.

  Thinking of Anne, Liz rings the bell to summon her. She enters within minutes.

  ‘Anne, I have need of some company. I wondered if you might like to join me?’

  Anne’s skips to the seat opposite Liz. ‘What an horrible day, miss. Can’t stand the snow, me, no good for anyone.’

  ‘Horrible.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, I meant, horrible.’ Liz stresses the word. ‘It has an H at the beginning of it. Remember what Mary was telling you about pronunciation?’

  ‘Yes, miss. Sorry, miss.’

  ‘I have no desire for you to change anything, Anne. But I’m afraid I’m not the lady of the house.’

  ‘I wish you were,’ Anne says under her breath.

  ‘How has Mary been lately?�
�

  Anne’s face sours, but she does not complain. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Tom told me about your bruises. May I see?’

  Nervously, Anne unfastens the buttons on her left sleeve and rolls it up. There, lie four purple marks, like fat slugs.

  ‘What was her reasoning?’

  Anne breathes deep. Liz can feel her reluctance, but she will get it out of her eventually.

  ‘Tom said it was something to do with water?’

  ‘She said it weren’t warm enough for her to wash with.’

  ‘I am so sorry, Anne.’ She has seen the wounds on the girl and heard the tales from Tom’s lips. Anne has been hit with a hairbrush, clawed at, slapped. And it is always Tom she goes to when she is hurt.

  ‘You know, sometimes I hear Mary when she is alone.’ Liz leans forward, lowers her voice. ‘She talks to herself. Do you know anything about that?’

  Anne licks her lips, peeks back at the door. She continues in a whisper. ‘I know she shouts and cries. I hears her, as I’m bringing up the tray. Sometimes, she stops when I go inside, and she stares at me as if it is me who is–’

  Anne stops herself short of saying the word. Mad. Aren’t they all, Liz thinks?

  ‘I’ve told Mr Oliver all of this, miss. I do feel ever so sorry for him, she ain’t an easy wife.’

  Liz does not like the look in Anne’s eyes when she speaks of Tom, but she is glad that Anne is witness to these fits of Mary’s. It will prove useful.

  ‘Tom is a good husband.’

  ‘I know, miss. Cannot fault him,’ Anne says and deflates as if she has been punctured.

  ‘I know what will cheer you. Your dresses, they are not ugly, but I have some beautiful old garments that I think would suit you marvellously. I would like you to have them. They are in the wardrobe, on the left-hand side.’ Liz instructs Anne to find them. ‘There they are, those two at the far end.’

  Anne takes out two dresses, one is white cotton trimmed with green, the other is a deep red gown.

  ‘The white one is for summer, but the other should do you for now. I’m sure you can tailor it to your size, make it more fashionable for today. It is a few years old. I wore it with a crinoline. They are the only dresses I brought with me from ...’

  ‘They are beautiful, miss.’ Anne examines the clothes in awe.

  She might not be so happy if she knew what Liz was doing the last time she was in them.

  ‘They served me well. Go and try them on. You have my permission to alter them this afternoon. If Mary asks for you, tell her I have set you a task to alter my dress and get one of the twins to deal with her. It’s no lie, after all.’ Liz winks at Anne.

  With a giggle, Anne scoops up the dresses, curtseys low, and runs from the room, leaving Liz to look out of the window once more.

  Tom is rooted in his thoughts, sat in old George’s chair. He had said he would throw it away, not liking to sit in a dead man’s place, but he has grown fond of the worn-out leather, the comfortable dip in the seat from years of heaviness placed upon it, the way it feels throne-like in the small room. He has taken to leaning back in it and lifting his feet onto the desk while looking out at sea, although today the sea has vanished.

  He has already done his morning duty of looking busy. What did George do, holed up in here for days on end? There is only so much paperwork one can pretend to care about.

  The study door opens, and Liz enters. She strolls towards him, strokes the polished mahogany desk, then sits on it. ‘Where is Mary?’

  Tom shakes his head. He doesn’t know and doesn’t care. ‘The library?’

  He returns his gaze to the white canvas of the window and sees Liz in the reflection on the glass. He watches her watching him.

  ‘She is getting worse.’

  ‘I know.’ He can’t help his smile.

  A frustrated sigh escapes Liz’s lips. ‘She must not be upset for her aunt’s visit. Emily must think all is well or else–’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Tom knows that Liz is right, although he wishes she weren’t.

  ‘You must bed her.’

  He meets Liz’s gaze in the glass. ‘Do you want me to bed her?’

  Liz’s reflection vanishes like a fly on the water’s surface, and she paces towards the fire. He chuckles.

  ‘Stop laughing at me!’

  The tears in her eyes sober him. He joins her side, takes her forehead to his chest. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He shouldn’t rile her, not here. He only does it so she might smile, might be reminded of how things used to be between them when they could tease and tickle each other openly, but it is not fair to her while they are stuck here, playing pretend roles. He pulls her closer, inhaling her, feeling her bird-like frame against his own solidity.

  ‘I will see that she is better for tomorrow.’

  ‘I hate it here,’ Liz says, and he knows why. He too has come to think of the place as nothing more than a waiting room, a big, grand, waiting room that feels more and more like a gaol each day.

  ‘Remember Venice?’ he says, swaying their two bodies together like babes in a cradle. He recalls the time he took her to see the great oil paintings in the National Gallery, remembering how Liz stood for what seemed like hours, staring at the clear skies, the blue rivers, the romantic gondolas. ‘We will get there soon.’

  Liz lifts her head. Her eyes look up at him through her wet, ashy lashes. He wipes away the tear on her cheekbone.

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  Anne has gone to her room to make the alterations to the dresses she has been given, not before telling Cate – or was it Clair? She can never remember which is which – that she must see to Mary this afternoon.

  She has tried on the gowns, noting a little nervously that Miss Oliver is smaller than herself, for the fabric is stretched around her middle and across her bust. She has let out the seams and re-stitched them as best she can, but really, she quite likes the way the red satin strains across her breasts.

  She takes the hem higher, for Miss Oliver is several inches taller than Anne, and as she does so, she notices a small singed area. She sniffs it and smells smoke. Perhaps an ember flicked from the fire and Miss Oliver saw to it quickly before it made a corpse of her. Anne shudders at the thought.

  Now, with the hem seen to, she dresses in her new outfit and prances downstairs, hoping to show herself off to the twins and Mrs Beacham. She does not have the chance to reach the kitchen, though, as Will is upon her in the hallway.

  ‘Anne.’ His eyes roam over her body. ‘You look lovely.’

  ‘Miss Witmore, Will. You must call me, Miss Witmore. How many times must I tell you?’

  ‘Sorry, it’s just you’ve been Anne to me all my life.’

  ‘Yes, well. We were younger then, weren’t we?’

  His gaze rests on her chest. She folds her arms in front of herself and turns for the back stairs.

  ‘I was thinking.’ Will lunges into her path. ‘Perhaps you’d like to go for a walk, sometime, with me?’

  ‘It is snowing, Will, I have no want to go out in this weather.’ She steps around him. He blocks her again.

  ‘All right, not now, but perhaps when the snow has gone, maybe I could walk you home on a Sunday?’

  He is like a fly, pestering around her. If she could, she would swat him. ‘I like to walk on my own.’

  ‘Well ...’ Will begins to fidget, his forehead creases.

  ‘Will, you are the hall boy. I am a lady’s maid. I must be getting on.’

  She leaves him shuffling his feet, and stomps upstairs to change into her old clothes.

  Liz hears the carriage before she sees it. Since lunch, she has been curled up in one of the comfortable old chairs in the snug with the fire blazing. She had wondered whether Aunt Emily would make the visit, as treacherous as it must be in the snow, but it seems the train lines have been cleared and a few inches of slush on the lanes is no problem for a well-bred stallion.

  So now, Liz sits. H
er book is open but face down on the table, hinting that she has been immersed in the lines of Wordsworth when really her eyes only skimmed the words.

  She can just about hear the opening of the front door.

  She must go to the drawing room. Mary told her before that they should all be assembled there, with the afternoon tea ready and waiting, for her aunt would be exhausted and shivering by the time she arrived. For somebody she cannot stand, Mary is making a tremendous effort to impress her aunt.

  Liz hauls herself from the warmth of her chair and makes her way to the drawing room where she finds Tom languid on one of the sofas, sherry in hand, and Mary pacing before the fireplace.

  ‘There you are! Where have you been? She’s here, you know.’

  Liz holds Mary’s shoulders still. ‘Everything will be fine, Mary, you must stop worrying. You are a beautiful wife.’

  With Liz’s touch, Mary takes a full breath of air. Now calm, Mary does, indeed, look rather beautiful. Her blue day dress, Liz admits begrudgingly, really does suit her, highlighting the glossy darkness of her hair. Despite the worry in her eyes, Mary appears remarkably fresh, her skin clear with only a soft pink blush in her cheeks.

  Liz cannot say the same about herself.

  The door opens. All three face Mr Chipman as he introduces Aunt Emily.

  She has seen her only once before, yet even so, Liz is somewhat shocked by the woman’s appearance. Emily is a remarkably thin woman compared to her niece. If Liz did not know they were relatives, she would not guess that they shared any kind of blood-line at all. Emily’s hair is pure grey and parted sharply in the centre, sleeking down over her ears in the fashion of the fifties – it does not suit her long face. Her dress is black, as it was at the wedding, and Liz does not know if she wears the colour out of mourning for her husband or Prince Albert; both died in the same year.

  ‘So nice to see you.’ Mary stands on tiptoes to kiss her aunt’s cheek. ‘How was your journey?’

  ‘Cold.’ Emily stalks to the fireplace.

  ‘Lovely to see you, Aunt.’ Tom gets to his feet and swaggers towards Emily, arms outstretched. The old woman is still and unsmiling as Tom kisses her. ‘You know my sister, Elizabeth.’