Still, Anne does not trust Liz as she trusts Tom. Liz had hoped the girl would confide in her by now, tell her all of Mary’s secrets, tell her how much she loathes her mistress. Yet, it is still Tom she runs to, and Liz does not like their growing intimacy.
‘You know, you can tell me anything, Anne. You can be honest. We are alike, you and me; more so than Mary and me. We should stick together, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose so, miss.’
‘I should like us to be friends.’
Anne regards her, uncertainly. Perhaps Liz has gone too far. Ordinarily, mistresses should not be so close to their staff, but nothing about this situation is ordinary. Liz waits, smile fixed, hoping she has not ruined everything.
‘I would like that too, miss.’
Liz sighs. ‘Good.’ She rests back in her chair and watches Anne finish embroidering.
‘There.’ Anne lifts it up so Liz can see. ‘A beautiful butterfly for you.’
The light is fading. Tom pulls the lever to summon Chipman.
‘Light the lamps for me, would you? I can’t see a thing.’
‘Anything else I can do for you, sir?’ Chipman’s suit is pressed and clean, his hair is slicked back. He has even managed to fix his stoop. He is almost a completely different man to the one Tom met in the village months ago.
‘Sit with me.’
Chipman hesitates but eventually perches on the seat opposite Tom.
‘I am worried, Chipman.’ Tom plays with the leather on the desk, lifts his gaze to the window and observes the inky-blueness of the sky, before seeing their two reflections in the glass, like yellow waxworks.
‘Sir?’
‘I am worried about Mary. She has not been herself for a while now. She is violent. I presume you have seen Anne?’
‘Anne is ... she is not always ... What I am trying to say, sir, is that perhaps Mrs Oliver, being the mistress of the house, has cause to be how she is with Anne.’
‘Are you saying that Anne is dishonest?’ Is that perspiration he can detect on Chipman’s brow? ‘I believe it was you who recommended her to me, Chipman.’
‘Yes, sir, I did. And I am not calling her a liar, only she is wilful. Perhaps it is not always the best thing for a maid to be.’
‘Are you saying I should let her go?’
‘No, sir! Forgive me, sir. What I am trying to say is ... I am only trying to think the best of Mrs Oliver. I am sure she is a most kind woman.’
Tom would laugh if he thought it would not upset this naive fool of a man. ‘Thank you, Chipman. My wife is indeed a very kind woman. It is only these rages she is occasionally burdened with. Perhaps I should speak to Anne?’
‘I could speak to her, sir, no need to trouble yourself. Only I am not sure she would listen to me.’
‘You are the manservant here, Chipman. I should hope Anne does not think herself above you.’
‘She is civil with me. It is not something I can quite put my finger on ...’ Chipman searches for the words. ‘It’s as if she thinks herself special. She’s very cold with Will.’
Will. Fifteen years of age, tall. His gangly limbs have started to fill out, from what Tom has seen of him when he has ordered a horse to be readied.
‘Will is doing well. My boots are always sparkling.’ Tom lifts his feet off the floor and taps his boots together in mid-air. ‘Does he like Anne?’
‘They’ve been friends since they were kiddies.’
‘But does he like her?’
Chipman’s cheeks redden. ‘It is not proper for … that sort of thing to go on between staff, sir. It will pass.’
Tom chuckles. ‘I do not forbid a man love. I think it rather pleasant for Will to be taken with the girl.’
‘Anne thinks herself above him.’ Chipman wipes the beads of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
‘She is young. Young girls do not always see what is best for them.’ Tom looks out of the window again. The blueness has been submerged by black, and the clouds have left no room for the stars. ‘Leave it with me, Chipman. Now, I should like you to see how Doctor Jameson is getting on and have Will ready his horse and our carriage. Will can drive him home. I should not like to see the man ride his horse in the dark.’
‘Sir,’ Chipman says half an hour later, as he steps aside to let Doctor Jameson enter the study.
The doctor is short and thin, his clothes are sharp and tight. He does not smile as he comes, and Tom notices the marks on his cheeks, like tiny craters in his grey skin. He reminds Tom of the spindly Pied Piper from old storybooks.
‘Take a seat, doctor. Whiskey?’
‘Thank you.’
Tom reaches for the decanter and pours two high measures. ‘Water?’
‘No.’
Tom pushes the drink at the doctor, then leans back in his chair. He puts his own glass under his nose to smell the smokiness of the liquor, rich and clawing at the back of his throat. He sips it and lets it slip around his mouth, like liquid fire, smarting and stinging and soothing different parts of his tongue, before swallowing it.
The doctor holds the glass to the firelight then drinks. ‘An excellent Scotch.’
‘So?’ Tom says. ‘How is my wife?’
Jameson takes another sip. ‘She is not mad if that is what you were hoping.’
Tom stills. The remark catches him off guard, and there is a smirk of triumph on the doctor’s face. Tom will not let his anger rule him. This is a smart man who sits before him; he must be cautious. ‘Her aunt told me about her condition. I need to know if it has returned.’
‘What do you know of her condition?’ He emphasises the word, mocking Tom.
‘She cannot control her emotions.’
Jameson nods, examines his whiskey again, then gulps down the last drop. He puts the tumbler on the table and stares at the decanter. Tom refills his glass.
‘Have you ever been to the Highlands?’
‘No. How is my wife?’
‘I remember when everyone thought the Scots savages,’ Jameson says. ‘I was quite frightened when my father took me with him one summer for a visit. Alas, there were no savages, only little gnats that sucked the blood out of us.’
Tom taps his glass to his teeth. The doctor’s sharp eyes flick at him.
‘I don’t suppose you would have had the time to visit the place. Or the money, before.’
‘Perhaps I shall go with my wife this summer.’ Tom returns the doctor’s bitter smile. ‘If she is well enough?’
‘Quite well.’
‘She is not ill, like before?’
‘I understand you went to Rugby, Mr Oliver?’
‘I don’t see what that has to do with anything.’
‘What did you make of your time there?’
Tom recalls the march to Reverend Oliver’s house when he was twelve years old, the man’s forced signature, how Liz had cried endlessly when she was told that Tom was leaving. He had wept silently into his pillow that first night until he learnt that crying was useless. Was weakness.
He blinks the memory away, pulls himself back into the present. ‘Not much.’
‘The grandson of a clergyman? I suspect it was rather hard for you there.’
‘I was as good as any of them.’
The doctor grins. ‘Why didn’t you go to university afterwards?’
‘I had to leave. What has this got to do with my wife?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ The doctor rolls the whiskey around the glass with excellent control. ‘I just like to know who I’m dealing with.’
‘Are you satisfied?’
‘What made you leave?’
‘My grandfather died when I was sixteen. My grandmother soon after him. Rugby is not a charity.’
‘No inheritance?’
‘I was found a position in the railway.’
‘Mmh. A bit of a drop down the ladder though.’
Tom laughs, hollowly. How he would like to smack the doctor! His fists, hidden behind the desk in his
lap, clench. He imagines it for one blissful moment; the crack of bone against bone, the blood spurting from Jameson’s split lip, the shock on the man’s face. But he must only imagine it. He inhales, slides his shoulders back, forces himself to relax. After all, it is Tom who owns Floreat, and it is Tom who pays this man’s wages.
‘I did not need Reverend Oliver’s money.’
‘Of course not. You met Mary soon afterwards.’
Tom grinds his teeth. ‘Yes. And now I am asking you again, Doctor, is my wife ill?’
‘No.’
‘She is violent. She has bruised her lady’s maid and drawn blood.’
‘Because the maid is unlearned, so I gather. I should point out, Mr Oliver, seeing as this is all new to you, that it is not unusual for ladies to be strict with their staff.’
Tom wishes he had not instructed Chipman to sort the carriage for Jameson’s ride home. He hopes the wheel gets stuck in a bog.
‘I would, however,’ Jameson says, ‘err on the side of caution. She should take plenty of rest.’
‘Nothing to worry about?’
‘Nothing to worry about at all. In fact, it seems marriage has done her some good.’ Jameson downs his last drop of whiskey and motions at the bottle again. Tom pours him a half measure. ‘I propose a toast. You have something to celebrate, Mr Oliver. Your wife is not mad. Your wife is pregnant.’
Jameson knocks the liquid back in one, keeping his eyes on Tom, who reaches for his glass and copies the doctor. He hopes his shock is not too apparent, but it would appear that it is, for the doctor continues smugly.
‘Pregnancy does wonders for women. It settles the womb. Her rages will soon disappear once she has a child to focus her attention upon. Even the maid won’t have to dodge her blows.’
‘Good.’ Tom clears his throat. ‘That is good news.’ He cannot stand another minute in this man’s company. He rises and strides to the door without meeting Jameson’s eyes. ‘Chipman has prepared a carriage for you.’
‘No need for that, I would have managed just fine.’
‘Nonsense. I’m actually rather surprised that you don’t have your own carriage, Doctor.’ Tom motions Jameson towards the door. ‘I’d have thought a man like yourself would have a whole fleet.’
Jameson laughs and unfurls out of the warmth of the chair. ‘Your wife needs rest,’ he says, inches from Tom’s face. ‘Don’t bed her.’
‘Very well.’ Tom does not try for a handshake. ‘Goodnight, Doctor.’
Liz is not hungry enough for dinner. Her finger is still sore where the needle wounded her, but she likes to press it, to feel the pressure beneath her nail, to see the cut open and bleed again. She has on her dark crimson gown this evening, and Anne wears the red hand-me-down; standing in front of the mirror, from a distance, they could almost be twins, but when they come closer to the glass, they look nothing alike at all.
‘You are beautiful tonight, miss.’
‘Thank you, Anne.’ Liz’s stomach growls.
‘You’re hungry, miss?’
‘I am.’ Liz laughs, but it rings hollow. She is nervous. Tom told her of the doctor visiting, but so far, she has not managed to catch him to find out what the doctor said.
The gong rings.
‘Have you seen to Mary?’
‘Yes, miss. I went to her just after the doctor left her.’
‘And? How is she?’
Anne hesitates. Another test of trust. Liz waits until finally, Anne says, ‘She were crying, miss.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘No.’
Sickness stirs in Liz’s guts, a dread that she cannot understand. She lifts her gloves from the dressing table. The silk is like slime as she slides it over her damp skin. ‘Thank you, Anne. You may go now.’
Her stomach gurgles again. She notices the butterfly embroidery next to her perfume bottles. Staring hard, she sees the insect flutter away from its stitches. She follows it around the room until it disappears behind the curtain of her bed. She searches for it, tearing the material. She must find it before it finds her …
But it is too late. Out of the darkness, it collides into her mouth and burrows down into her body.
She can feel its wings tickling her lungs as it creeps around underneath her ribs, its antennae pricking her bloody flesh. She grips her neck when she feels it crawling upwards again.
She will squash it dead.
She wrings her throat, but the antennae stab the back of her tongue. She squeezes and squeezes, but the butterfly grows stronger. Her mouth opens, but she cannot get her breath.
If she were to look in the mirror, she would find the mighty head of the butterfly stuck in her throat, its wings stretching out through her lips, its black eyes staring back at her.
Then it escapes. She doubles over, purging herself, and finally, she can breathe again.
She gulps air like someone saved from the sea. She wipes her wet face with her glove to find that the white silk is now brown. There is a pool of vomit on the floor.
Glancing quickly at the embroidery, she sees the butterfly has returned to its home. She flips the cotton over and covers it with one of her shawls – she will burn it later.
She leaves the room and descends the stairs on shaking legs. She breathes in deeply, exhales slowly, until she can no longer feel her pulse throbbing in her temples.
The door to the dining room is open. Mary and Tom are already at their places. Mary greets her with a broad smile, the tears long evaporated. Tom does not look at Liz.
‘Sorry, I am late,’ Liz croaks, then takes her wine glass and drinks. The alcohol burns as she swallows.
‘No trouble, sister.’
Liz jumps as Mary’s hand reaches across the table and squeezes her own.
‘We have some news, don’t we, Tom?’
Tom looks up. His smile is one she has seen so often, but it has never been used on her before. ‘Yes.’ Suddenly, he frowns. ‘What has happened to your neck?’
Liz touches the flesh on her throat and winces. ‘I ... it is nothing. Your news?’
‘We are having a baby.’ Mary’s eyes appear black in the dimness of the dining room, like the eyes of the butterfly. Liz gazes into them, falling into their darkness … It cannot be. She cannot have heard Mary correctly.
‘I said,’ Mary’s laughter cracks in the silence, ‘we are having a baby. You shall be an auntie.’
Liz tries to swallow, but she has no saliva. She eases her hand free of Mary’s and takes another gulp of wine.
‘Congratulations,’ Liz whispers, the word breaking in the middle.
‘Doctor Jameson says I might have been pregnant for a month. It is still early yet, but I am so excited.’
‘Congratulations, Tom.’ Liz hopes her sourness is not heard by Mary. ‘I am afraid that I am unwell.’
Mary’s hand touches her stomach. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Sickness. So, I shan’t stay for dinner. I wouldn’t have come down at all if I had known.’
She pushes her chair back herself, for Chipman has not had time to apprehend her movements, and it screeches against the floorboards. She makes her way to the door.
‘Shall I bring your dinner to your room?’ Tom’s voice is a desperate plea. Good, she thinks, let him suffer.
‘No. I should like to be alone.’
Chapter 6
July 1869
It is a glorious day. The sun is keen, but the cool breeze brushes against Anne’s face and smells as lovely as perfume. A warbler perches amongst the pink and yellow heather and sings, tilting his dainty head from side to side and puffing out his throat and crown. She stops for a moment to watch him, his body no bigger than her thumb, enjoying his pompous cries, before he vanishes in a feathery blur.
‘What you laughing at?’
She turns to find Will’s freckled face smiling at her. Why must he always ruin everything? She lifts her chin and glares at him before striding on.
‘Thought I could keep you compa
ny.’ Will is out of breath, but he trots alongside her, easily matching her pace. ‘I’m going to see my ma, as well.’
Anne walks quicker, and dampness builds in her armpits. All day, she has felt his eyes on her; on the way to church; during the service; even while singing the hymns. It had made her all too aware of the way her lips moved with each word, of how she lowered her head in prayer, of how her mouth opened to receive the wafer. If only it had been Mr Oliver watching her! She would not have minded that at all.
‘Beautiful day, ain’t it?’
She frowns at the blaze from the sun and pulls her bonnet nearer her brow to get some shade.
‘Slow down, eh?’ Will catches the crook of her arm.
‘Do not touch me.’
His hand recoils as if she has smacked it away. ‘What is wrong with you, Anne? I only want to be a friend to you.’
She blows her breath out between her teeth. She knows she is too hard on him, but really, he is so persistent! His company makes her awkward, his gaze makes her self-conscious. She has outgrown him completely. Even so, he is like a scolded puppy now, and guilt tugs at her conscience. ‘Come on, then.’ She walks on, slower this time, and allows him to join her.
‘I love the summer,’ he says, smiling once he’s caught her up. ‘It is the best time of the year. What’s your favourite season?’
‘Spring. The heat can be a burden in summer.’ She wipes her head with her sleeve. She has put an old dress on to see her family, knowing they would not appreciate the red one from Miss Oliver.
‘Mrs Oliver is starting to show now,’ Will says.
‘She is just fat.’
‘You mustn’t be so harsh with her, Anne.’ He looks about him as if making sure there are no spies.
She rolls her eyes. ‘Don’t be so dramatic.’
‘You mustn’t let her hear you speak like that.’
‘Do you think I’m stupid?’ Anne swats at a fly that buzzes in front of her face.
‘Of course not, I only ... It’s only that I care for you.’
‘You care for me?’ She reels on him. They stand in the middle of a worn-out track amidst the heathland, the wind wrapping around their bodies and sending their hair into spirals.
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