Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

  She strolls around the room. He enjoys the movement, as most babies do, but the space is too small. She is going round and round in circles. Now that he is quiet, she will walk him on the landing.

  She meanders along the carpeted floor and points at the paintings of the child’s ancestors, whispering speculations about who they were, what their names might have been, what significant contributions they might have made to the world. Little Thomas follows her finger, his mouth opening and closing, chewing on his gums, his blue-grey eyes ogling his surroundings. He frowns at the sight of one particularly ugly man who sits proudly upon his horse against a Devonian background.

  She is near the top of the stairs when she feels him beginning to wriggle. Perhaps she should return to the nursery, lay him down, and see where Jeffries is with his milk. Just as she has made up her mind to do so, a door across the landing opens, and Mrs Oliver’s wan face stares at her.

  ‘What are you doing with him?’

  ‘Nothing, ma’am. He was crying, I was just seeing that he was all right.’ Anne backs towards the nursery, eager to put the child down for he is stronger than he looks and her anxiety is causing him to struggle. Mrs Oliver follows her, gaining on her.

  ‘You would steal him! You would steal my son!’

  Anne runs into the nursery and bundles Little Thomas into his bed. Mrs Oliver is upon her in an instant. Her hair is wild, stuck up with grime that has not been brushed away. Her face is white, and her hands are clenched at her sides.

  ‘Please, ma’am, I was only trying to help.’ Anne reaches in to comfort the child as he cries.

  ‘Do not touch him! You would steal him! You would raise him to kill me!’

  Mrs Oliver dives on Anne and tackles her to the floor. Anne is blinded by the woman’s hair, and she feels hands strike her face, the sting of fingernails as they score her cheeks, her neck, her mouth. Anne would push Mrs Oliver off, but her arms are pinned to the ground as Mrs Oliver sits on her chest. Anne struggles and cries out for her mistress to stop, to no avail.

  Suddenly, Anne is freed. Her lungs fill with air. She rolls onto her side, holding her face.

  At the end of the room, Mrs Oliver writhes against her husband. She is spitting and cursing and stamping at the floor like a bull before it charges. Mr Oliver hauls her out of the room, shouts for Chipman, urges his wife to be still, to calm herself, to compose herself.

  Mrs Jeffries, who must have been watching for some time, helps Anne to her feet. ‘What happened?’

  Anne cannot answer, she is too stunned to speak. She lifts her face and Jeffries gasps.

  Anne staggers out onto the landing as Mr Oliver and Chipman drag Mrs Oliver into her room. Standing before the looking glass, it takes Anne some moments to realise that the face staring back at her is her own.

  Blood seeps down her skin like red ribbons. Her right eye is already swollen; she winces as she touches it. Her dress is ripped at the throat, revealing more gouges where Mrs Oliver’s nails have wounded her. Her hair has fallen from its pins, and her curls are askew about her face. She raises a trembling hand to her head and brings away a clump of loose hair.

  The sight of herself is too much to bear. She has never been so ugly, never been so battered and sore. She cannot stand the thought of anyone seeing her like this, least of all Mr Oliver, and so she darts to the servant’s passage and retreats to her room, where she weeps in the darkness.

  Tom leaves Mary in her chamber. Liz doesn’t know what he has done to placate his wife; perhaps stroked her forehead, probably kissed her, maybe hit her. He is in his room now, for there is a shadow in the gap between his door and the floor, and she goes to him.

  Inside, Chipman helps Tom dress.

  ‘You may leave, Chipman.’ The man exits on his master’s command, dropping into a bow for Liz as he passes her.

  Tom is in his trousers and shirt. The buttons down his chest are loose, and his white, firm flesh shows between the material.

  ‘You look tired. The commotion woke you?’

  ‘I don’t sleep anyway.’ Liz touches one of the dark circles under her eyes.

  ‘Neither does Mary. She is insane.’ He has reached the final button at his neck, and he pinches it together. His breath is short and quick. His blood is up from all the excitement.

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I have told Chipman to summon Doctor Jameson. He cannot ignore this any longer.’

  ‘You said that last time.’ Liz leans against his bed and looks about the room. It is grander than her own, with more fine murals, larger oil paintings, and thicker rugs.

  ‘Poor Anne,’ Tom says under his breath as he trails his hand through his hair. He slumps into his chair beside the low burning grate and fixes his sleeves.

  ‘What was she doing with the baby?’

  ‘I don’t know. Trying to help, I suppose.’

  ‘It is not her place to help with Thomas.’

  Tom laughs. ‘You cannot think this is Anne’s fault?’

  ‘I think you place too much upon the girl.’ Liz’s body is rigid. ‘I think we should find another maid.’

  Tom is on his feet, pacing towards the window. He is annoyed; she can tell by the way his shoulders sit beneath his shirt. ‘I don’t understand you sometimes, Liz. You know why we have Anne.’

  ‘I can’t say that I do, really.’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ He slams his hand against the wall. ‘You know that Anne has her part to play in all this. We need her. Why are you being like this now?’

  ‘I don’t like her, Tom.’

  ‘She is how I have made her. It is all for a purpose.’

  ‘And how exactly have you moulded her to your purpose?’

  He sighs. ‘Don’t look at me like that. It is not what you are thinking.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I would never –’ He shakes his head, but there is a faint tinge on his cheeks that Liz spots immediately.

  ‘I want her gone, Tom.’

  Tom looks at his feet. The distance between them has never seemed so vast as she waits for his agreement.

  ‘I am sorry, Liz, but she is too valuable to lose now. She is the proof of Mary’s madness; she’s covered in it. Please, just … for Venice. We are close, can’t you see? Doctor Jameson is coming today.’

  ‘Doctor Jameson?' Her palms smack into the mattress, her voice bounces off the walls. Never has Tom sided with another against Liz, and fear and rage erupt from within her. 'What will Jameson do? He hates you. He will not help us. He will not be persuaded by your charm like her.’

  ‘He is stubborn, yes –’

  ‘Stubborn?’ She laughs, too hard. ‘Is that what you call it? And what will you do if he remains stubborn, Tom? What will you do if this wonderful plan of yours fails?’

  ‘You must be patient, Liz.’

  ‘We have been here a year already!’ She spits the words at him, grabbing hold of one of the bedposts to steady herself, for sparks are flying across her vision.

  He shies away from her. ‘I will sort it.’

  ‘Make sure that you do. I will not be here another twelve months, I promise you that.’ She gasps for breath. She has not been so forceful in weeks, months, and it has robbed her of her strength. The room blackens, the ground moves beneath her feet.

  ‘Sit down.’ Tom helps her up on the bed. She would shrug his touch away, but she feels it so seldom these days that, despite her anger, she longs for it. He lies her down and props himself up beside her. ‘Everything I do, I do for us. Please believe that.’

  She forces a nod.

  ‘It will be all right.’

  Those words have been said too much; they have lost their meaning. ‘It was never meant to last this long.’

  ‘I know.’ He runs his fingers over her hair like he used to do when they were little. ‘But this is only temporary, I promise. I will sort it. Do you trust me?’

  It is like looking into a mirror as she stares into his green eyes. Of course, she does. H
e is the only person she has ever trusted.

  After breakfast, Doctor Jameson arrives. His usual bluster has returned, and the doubt he showed when last here delivering Mary’s child has vanished.

  ‘Mr Oliver. How may I help you this time?’

  Tom does not invite him to his study. Instead, he meets the wiry old man in the hallway with Anne behind him. ‘Chipman, take the doctor’s coat.’

  Chipman does as he is told and disappears out of sight.

  ‘Have you not noticed our maid, Doctor?’

  Jameson doesn’t even glance at Anne. Tom steps dramatically to one side so that Anne stands alone in the bright space.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘That is the work of my wife. And you tell me she is perfectly well? She has been seeing the ghost of her dead mother and attacking the servants until they are bloodied and blackened. Do you think that is how a sane woman behaves?’

  ‘I think you should calm down, Mr Oliver.’

  ‘Do not speak to me as if I am a child!’ Tom prowls towards the doctor. ‘Now, you will help my wife this time. Do you understand me?’

  Jameson flinches. ‘Are you threatening me, sir?’

  Tom pauses. He can hear Anne shifting on her feet. He stifles his response, stretches his fingers out of their tight grip.

  ‘Anne, take the doctor to Mary. He will need to see the state of her.’ He backs away, though his stare remains fixed on Jameson. ‘I will be waiting for you in my study.’

  It is only ten minutes before the doctor returns from his patient. Tom has promised himself to be calm from now on; he must show that he is more civilised than the pauper Jameson believes him to be.

  ‘How did you find her?’ Tom says as he nods at the chair.

  ‘She is unwell, I grant you.’

  Tom motions at the whiskey, but Jameson declines.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do? It’s been a long day already.’ Tom pours himself a half measure, although it is not yet midday. ‘I didn’t want it to come to this.’ He sighs and sips his drink. ‘Where is best for her? Money is not a problem.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Which institution do you recommend? Is there one nearby?’

  The doctor laughs, showing his crooked, yellow teeth. ‘I am not putting your wife into an asylum, Mr Oliver. I am prescribing her laudanum.’

  Tom’s glass is warm in his sweaty hand. He downs the last of the whiskey and bites his lip. He must remain calm. ‘You think laudanum will work?’

  ‘Your wife is sleep deprived, that is all. The baby has taken its toll. Other than that, she is perfectly healthy. Once she starts to have a decent night’s rest, she will soon be back to her old self.’

  Tom smiles as he meets the doctor’s eyes. ‘I hope you are right. Although you will understand if I am not as confident as you. It was you who told her father that she would be well once she was married. It was you who told me that she would be calmed from pregnancy. So far, Doctor,’ he says, his lips curling into a snarl, ‘you have been wrong in every case.’

  ‘I am not in the habit of sending my patients to the madhouse, Mr Oliver. No matter how much they might inconvenience you.’

  ‘How dare you!’ Tom is just about to haul the doctor out of his chair when Jameson gets to his feet.

  The doctor sniffs through his hooked nose and then calmly opens his medicine case, pulling out a bottle of brown liquid. ‘She must take a teaspoonful of this each night before bed. She must take no more. I trust you will contact me again if you have any other concerns.’

  ‘Oh, I will!’ Tom shouts after Jameson as the man stalks out of the room, then he throws his glass against the fireplace, watching it smash into diamond-like shards and fall into the flames.

  In her bedroom, Liz sits before the looking glass in her nightgown while Anne brushes her hair. They do not speak to each other as they used to. Though Liz knows she must try, the effort to maintain the pretence of friendship is too hard when she is so exhausted. So, she says nothing as she watches Anne’s wounded face in the mirror and realises she feels nothing for the girl.

  ‘Has Mary had her medicine?’

  ‘I gave it to her just after dinner.’

  ‘Did she take it?’

  Anne pauses. The brush rests at the top of Liz’s neck.

  ‘Anne, did she take it?’

  ‘I’m not sure, miss. I didn’t stay to watch.’

  Liz sighs. ‘I will check on her before I go to bed.’

  ‘Thank you, miss.’

  Anne finishes with Liz and leaves her alone, staring at herself.

  She does not know how much more she can take. Tom failed in his promise, and now Mary remains, still haunting their days and ruining their nights. Little Thomas cries on. Nothing has changed.

  She slips from her room and crosses the landing to Mary’s chamber. She does not knock for if Mary is asleep, she does not want to wake her.

  Inside, Mary’s room is dark, the only light is from the low burning fire. She can hear heavy breathing coming from the bed, and she tiptoes towards it. Mary is curled into a ball on her side, like a baby, and sleeps soundly. The glass on the bedside table is empty apart from the trace of the laudanum resin clinging to the sides of it.

  Liz runs her finger around the glass, puts her finger in her mouth and sucks. It tastes of nothing much, perhaps a little bitter, and she waits for a few moments to test if the drug will have any effect, but, disappointingly, it does not.

  She is about to return to her room when the child’s cries draw her towards the nursery.

  Her hand has wavered over this handle so often. She has been too much of a coward to enter before, but now, what does she have to lose?

  Inside, Mrs Jeffries rocks in the chair, the child held close to her exposed breast in case he might wish to feed. As Liz closes the door behind her with a click, the woman’s eyes pop open.

  ‘Miss! Excuse me.’

  ‘It is perfectly fine. Stay as you are.’

  Mrs Jeffries smiles but covers herself as best she can. She seems to have aged ten years since the baby’s birth; she must be feeling the strain of sleeplessness worse than anyone.

  Liz creeps towards the two of them. Little Tom’s face is puce and wrinkled, his body is wrapped tight. He feels trapped, Liz guesses. Who would not howl if they felt so imprisoned?

  ‘Let me take him from you.’

  ‘Are you sure, miss?’

  ‘I should like to get to know my nephew. I have taken too long already.’

  Liz holds out her thin arms, and Jeffries transfers the baby into them. He is already a weight, but he is warm and soft and wriggling with life. She rocks on her feet and kisses his head.

  ‘Are you all right, miss?’

  Liz is crying, and she has not realised it.

  ‘Very well, Mrs Jeffries.’ With the child held close to her body, the pain in her stomach has disappeared. ‘I am very well now.’

  She walks about the room, keeping her gaze locked on this beautiful, miraculous child, and finally, Little Tom quietens. His frown smooths, and his skin calms, though his cheeks remain rosy. His little eyes squint open and look at her.

  ‘How have I left you for so long?’ she whispers.

  She holds him until her arms tremble. Even then, she does not wish to part with him, but her strength is failing; both she and the child are almost asleep. When she turns, she finds that Jeffries’ mouth has dropped and her eyes have closed. Liz taps her on the shoulder, and she jumps awake.

  Liz hands Little Tom over as if he were a doll made of crystal. ‘Take him out of the swaddling. He does not like it.’

  Back in Mrs Jeffries’ grasp, the child begins to grow anxious again.

  ‘Miss, I think it’s best to keep him in –’

  ‘I said, take him out.’

  Mrs Jeffries does as she is ordered and covers the child in his warm gown instead. Immediately, the boy eases. In his cot, his eyelids droop, and his rosebud mouth puckers. Liz strokes the back of his chu
bby cheek.

  ‘Sleep now, my darling,’ she leans in and kisses his forehead, ‘and everything will be better in the morning.’

  Chapter 10

  February 1870

  The weekly meetings with the witch are becoming more tiresome than terrifying. Anne has no news to give her other than how wretched Mary is being, but the witch does not seem to care for that, nor for the wounds to Anne’s flesh.

  ‘What does Tom do?’ the witch says again in the dim glow of Anne’s lamp.

  ‘What he always does.’

  ‘What of Lizzie?’

  ‘Why do you call her that?’ But the witch does not take kindly to questions. Anne sighs. There is little use arguing. ‘What she always does.’

  ‘You shall be no use to me, girl, if you do not talk. I do not like your attitude.’

  Anne clenches her jaw, pushes her frustration away – it is not wise to rile the witch. ‘Miss Oliver is now fond of the baby – that’s the only difference. She plays with him most days, takes him for little walks about the house, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Better,’ the witch says. ‘And you do not like this?’

  ‘Never said that.’

  ‘It is in your face.’

  The rain is coming heavier, the slime is building beneath her bodice. Anne would have this meeting over with.

  ‘I just don’t see why she’s so keen on him now, when before the only people who cared for the child were Mr Oliver and me.’

  The hole of the witch’s mouth tilts, and her rough hand cups Anne’s cheek. Anne remains as still as if she is in the jaws of a fly-catcher, and any movement might mean death. ‘You really are in love with him. Silly girl.’

  Anne dives away from the hand. ‘Is that all you want from me?’

  ‘Do you think Tom loves you back?’

  Mr Oliver has looked at Anne like no other person has, as if he sees not a lady’s maid, or a daughter or a sister or a stand-in mother, but the real Anne; who she wishes to be. He has talked to her and has valued what she has had to say. He has protected her from his own wife.