Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

  ‘I am sure he has feelings for me. He has kept me here long enough, despite Mary. He must think something of me.’

  ‘I’m sure he thinks something of you, girl.’ The witch laughs. ‘And what do you think he thinks of his wife? What do you think he thinks of his sister?’

  Anne swallows and straightens her spine. ‘If you have nothing more to say, then I shall go.’

  ‘Wait.’

  Anne stops.

  ‘You will do something for me. You will call her Lizzie.’

  Anne folds her arms. ‘Not until you tell me why.’

  The lamplight catches the witch’s eye, makes it glimmer. She smiles. ‘You will find out.’

  ‘Should you like to stop in France?’ Tom says. ‘Or perhaps Spain? I understand the Alhambra Palace is very impressive.’

  Tom pours over the globe on the table by the fire in the library. Little Tom sits upon Liz’s lap, and she makes silly faces at him.

  ‘I should like to see it.’

  ‘Would the boat stop there?’ Liz blows kisses at the child.

  ‘It should stop there if we told it to.’

  ‘Isn’t Daddy pompous?’ she whispers to the baby and laughs when he burps in response.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Anne is at the door. ‘Mrs Oliver is in bed.’

  ‘Have you given her the medicine?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘Good.’ Liz returns her gaze to the child and tickles his tummy. ‘You may go.’

  Anne dips and turns to leave until Tom stops her. ‘Have you ever studied the globe, Anne?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Tom beckons the maid over, and Liz detects smugness in the girl’s grin.

  ‘I was just saying how I should like to visit the Alhambra.’ He points at the spot on the globe. ‘It was built by Moors, did you know? Then the Christians slaughtered them and took it for themselves.’

  ‘They stole it, sir?’

  Tom shrugs. ‘Evolution, I believe we must call it now.’

  ‘Do you believe in all that, sir?’

  The two of them stand very close together as they study the world.

  ‘Yes, I do. Do you, Anne?’

  ‘I can’t say I know enough about it.’

  ‘I can teach you if you would like? I have the book over here.’ Tom saunters to a shelf in the wall and plucks out Charles Darwin’s On the Origin of Species.

  ‘Anne does not have time for evolution, Tom.’ Liz interrupts their little discussion, reminding Tom that she is still in the room. ‘She is already stretched with two mistresses to serve. She probably has duties to be attending to right now.’

  ‘I don’t, miss.’ Anne’s grin is too bold, triumphant. The girl inches nearer Tom, her fingers close to brushing his sleeve. ‘I have done everything for tonight until you retire for bed.’

  The two women hold each other’s gaze. Anne is testing her, Liz knows it. When did the girl start thinking she was better than Liz?

  Tom breaks the silence. ‘Well, it is too late now, anyway. Another time, perhaps, Anne.’

  Anne drops her eyes to the floor. ‘I shall prepare your bed, miss. Would you like me to take Little Thomas to Mrs Jeffries?’

  Before Liz can say no, Tom answers for her. ‘That would be most kind of you, Anne. Liz was only just saying how tired she was feeling, weren’t you, Liz?’

  Liz nods stiffly as Anne comes before her. The child wriggles as Liz tries to set him straight so that Anne might get a hold of him, but Anne pushes Liz’s hands out of the way.

  ‘Let me see to him, Lizzie.’

  Liz reels, the breath forced from her. It is as if she has taken a blow to the stomach. When was the last time she was called that? She dares not think about it.

  ‘What did you just say?’

  Anne bobs the child up and down on her hip. Her eyes are wide. ‘Sorry, miss?’

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Tom says.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Anne turns her back on Liz. ‘Goodnight, sir.’ Anne dips low for her master and then leaves the room, all the while whispering and giggling with the child, as Liz struggles to find some air.

  Anne has done everything perfectly; the fire is burning well, not too high or too low; the bed sheets are toasty but not uncomfortable; she has lit candles beside the bed and on the dressing table to bathe the room in a golden glow. She has even spritzed some perfume in the air to make it more pleasant. Now, she waits for Miss Oliver’s arrival with a sickness in her stomach. It is a mixture of nerves and excitement.

  ‘I can undress myself tonight, Anne.’ Miss Oliver does not meet Anne’s gaze as she comes into the room. ‘You may go.’ She picks the pins from her hair so that it falls loose.

  ‘That is a fiddly dress, miss. I should help you.’

  Miss Oliver twists her arms about herself trying to find the buttons and discreet ties, all to no avail. Anne brushes away her hands and takes over, leaving Miss Oliver standing like a doll in the centre of the room as something to be toyed with.

  ‘Have you enjoyed your day, miss?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Miss Oliver is awfully pale, and it is an ugly pale, with a sheen of perspiration that makes her skin ashen-grey.

  ‘You feeling all right, miss?’

  ‘Perfectly well, if you would only work quicker so I could lie down.’

  Anne finds the next button and pretends it is stuck. She takes her time to undo it. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you, miss. This dress,’ Anne gestures at the red one she is wearing, ‘when I came to alter it all those months back, it had a mark on the bottom of it. Like it had been singed?’

  ‘Oh?’

  Anne pulls away Miss Oliver’s coloured skirts. ‘How did that come about?’

  Miss Oliver swallows hard. A bead of sweat trickles from her temple down her cheek.

  ‘I’m not sure. It is an old dress, and the material is not of high quality. Perhaps it caught on a grate once, and I never noticed.’

  ‘It’s a bit odd not to have noticed your dress catching fire, miss. I hear many a woman has died from such a thing. You should be more careful, miss.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Anne. I shall be from now on.’

  Anne rips the corset away so that Miss Oliver is left in just her chemise.

  ‘My robe.’

  ‘I think you are too warm, miss.’ Anne dabs a handkerchief over her mistress’s brow, then pushes her down onto the stool. ‘I can brush your hair like this.’

  ‘I would like my robe,’ Miss Oliver’s voice is strained. The glass reflects a face with tight lips and darting eyes, but Anne has already begun to scoop her mistress’s hair into her hands to brush it. The chemise is low at the back for it is too loose on Miss Oliver’s skeletal frame, and as Anne looks down, she sees the network of scars across the woman’s back, like a thick spider’s web.

  ‘Oh, my! What –’

  ‘My robe, now!’

  Miss Oliver pushes her stool back so that it slams against Anne’s foot. A bolt of pain shoots from Anne’s big toe, and she grabs hold of it as Miss Oliver rushes for the robe that is lying on the bed.

  ‘You will leave, Anne.’

  But Anne is too shocked to move.

  ‘Get out!’ Miss Oliver charges at her. Anne sprints for the door, ignoring the agony in her toe, and slams it shut just in time to feel Miss Oliver’s punches crash into the wood.

  Anne has no lamp to see by as she runs to the attic, but she knows her room by the familiar stench of it. She falls onto her bed, beside which a great patch of mottled damp is spreading by the hour, and weeps angry, frustrated tears.

  She could spit at how she has to spend her nights in this hovel in the rafters, where the wind whistles ceaselessly and blows through her hair as she lies asleep, while underneath her, Mrs and Miss Oliver rest in warm, dry luxury. What makes either of them any better than her anyway? What kind of lady has scars upon her back like Miss Oliver? A lady’s skin should be pure, clean, unblemished. And what sort of lady attacks her maid
and her husband? No, she must serve two women who are no better than herself; who are worse than herself!

  Snatching the tears off her face, she rips off the red dress and throws it in the corner of the room. She will not wear anything that vile woman has worn. She thinks of those scars again, imagines them seeping some kind of terrible fluid which sticks on the dress, the dress she has worn for so long already! She cringes and shudders, then buries herself under the thin covers and winces as her toenail catches on the sheet.

  There is something disturbing about Miss Oliver. And the witch was right; Miss Oliver does not like Anne one bit, and Anne does not like her either.

  Liz shakes as she sits on the edge of her bed, her knees clamped together, her arms wrapped suffocatingly tight around her body. Her fingers reach to the scars on her back. Under this thin chemise, she can feel them. The once torn skin has long healed, but it still seems thinner, weaker, as if it could rupture at any moment.

  The cries from that night echo inside her skull. The screams, the sobs. How she begged for the man to stop, her wrists bound to the top of the bedpost, her naked body pressed against the wood, as each skin-splitting slap was followed by a moan of pleasure.

  She had wailed for Mother, the person who had ordered it in the first place, as punishment. She had promised that she would never see him again, that she would stop loving him if only the torture would end. How she had pleaded, how she had wished for Mother to enter the room and make a deal with her!

  But Mother never came.

  Hours later, the whip left with its master to lie in some secret cupboard in a hidden room in a house in Marylebone.

  Sophie, her only friend, treated the wounds. How they had bled! How her skin had wept for days after, scabbing over and tearing open again and again. She remembers the sting of the remedy even now, how she had to bite on a wooden spoon so she would not scream as Sophie dabbed at her back.

  After a few months, the pain had ended, and she had thanked the Lord that Mother had not bargained with her that night.

  Something brushes against Anne’s face. It is like a feather against her cheek, or perhaps a strand of her hair moving in the breeze. She lies there half-conscious, wracked with dreams thick with fire and smoke and tortured skin until a squeak startles her. She lurches out of bed. Wide awake, she can hear them scurrying and talking to each other. She has been sleeping with a family of mice.

  She runs to Mrs Beacham’s room. The woman is fast asleep, and Anne’s bangs upon the door are not well received.

  ‘What do you expect me to do about it?’ Mrs Beacham grumbles as she sits up. ‘You shall have to poison them or lay traps.’ Mrs Beacham rubs her eyes and settles herself back into her bed, which is almost the same width as her body.

  ‘What should I do now? I can’t go back to bed in there.’

  Mrs Beacham’s mouth opens into a yawn. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. The maids aren’t up yet.’

  ‘Well, I’m going back to sleep. I suggest you get up and make yourself useful now you’re awake.’ Mrs Beacham rolls over; the conversation is finished.

  Anne slinks back to her room and finds her clothes for the day. She dresses in the hallway, then walks down the stairs and out onto the landing. Behind the door, the child is quiet in his nursery. She grips the handle, but her nerves are still too frayed from last night to be so bold, so she backs away.

  She tiptoes down the main staircase and finds that the grandfather clock has not yet struck four. She goes to the library and opens all the curtains to let in the moonlight, then takes the globe to the window. She finds Britain and marvels at how small their little island is compared to the lands it has conquered. What a lowly position it should have in the world, and yet it rules most of it.

  Her gaze lands on the book by Darwin, which has been left on the opposite table.

  Evolution.

  The idea is a Godless one. Anne thinks He may strike her dead where she stands for entertaining the notion. Yet, she does not die. And she has been praying for weeks and months, and God has not stopped Mary from beating her. God has not made Mr Oliver kiss her when nobody is looking. Years ago, God did not save her mother’s leg. It is as if God has never even heard her.

  She slumps into one of the chairs. It is not as comfortable as she thought it would be. She can feel lumps under her bottom where the stuffing does not lie properly.

  She plucks at her skirt. She has almost three hours before the maids rise, and another hour on top of that before she must breakfast and wake Mrs and Miss Oliver. She cannot go back to bed. She cannot light a lamp to read or sew by. She has nothing to do.

  So, she gathers her cloak and boots from downstairs, takes the key for the back door and lets herself out of the house to begin the long walk home. She will collect some rat poison from her father who will be awakening by the time she arrives, then have a ride on his horse back to Floreat in time to start her working day. Tonight, she will be free from scurrying bodies.

  ‘Please leave me. Please ... please ...’

  Mary sits in the centre of her bed with her chin tucked into her knees.

  Mother stands at the foot of the bed, staring. She raises her hand and points one long, skinny finger at the daughter who killed her, all those years ago.

  ‘Please ...’

  Mary has heard the clock strike eleven, then twelve, then one, then two, then three, then four, then five. The fire in her grate has extinguished, and her bare feet are now numb. The full glass of water and laudanum sits on her bedside table; her mother pushed her hand away when she went to drink it.

  ‘Please leave me.’

  It was once a comfort to hear the child cry, for then Mary knew he was far away from her. Now he is silent, she does not know his whereabouts. She imagines him crawling like a beetle across the landing, scratching under her door, waiting for the lock to be forgotten one night so that he can break through and strangle her while she sleeps. So, she locks her door, but locks do not mean a thing to ghosts.

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  A change somewhere in the atmosphere. Mary lifts her head. Her mother has moved; the ghost now hangs limply by the bedroom door, a pointed finger on the handle.

  Mother is answering Mary's question.

  In her nightdress, for she has no time to change, Mary slides out of her bed and follows the phantom down the stairs where it slips through the front door of the house, yet when Mary tries to turn the handle, she finds it is locked. Chipman will have the keys.

  She curses him. She is being kept a prisoner in her own house. Her mother is on the other side of the door, her presence sliding further away, the answer to Mary’s question receding from her grasp.

  She runs through the servant’s passage, her feet slapping against the bare stone. The narrow corridors do not affect her as they once might have done, and she scurries through them like an ant in the dirt. She is keen and focused. She will find Chipman’s keys, and she will take them from him. If he wakes, she will silence him. Yet, as she emerges into the servant’s quarters, she can feel a draught upon her ankles. She searches for the source until she sees the back door is ajar. She has no need for keys. She is free.

  Outside, the gravelled path around the perimeter of the house induces no feelings on her naked soles. She dashes to the front where her mother waits for her at the bottom of the steps, then follows, as her mother sets out into the gardens.

  Her mother glides as if she is blown on the breeze, like a sailing boat across the sea. Mary has to run to keep up, falling every now and again, her feet tripping over themselves or catching on a stump in the earth.

  They are out of the lawned area now and heading into the parkland. The grass is higher here, but Mary’s shins feel nothing as the blades slice against her flesh.

  ‘Where are we going, Mother?’

  In the distance, the sea swells. The wind is getting stronger, and it blows Mary’s loose hair around her head so that she has to push it from
her eyes every minute or so. Moon shadows dance across the landscape, distorting the world.

  Amidst the confusion, the woods appear, and the faint ghost of Mary’s mother slides amongst the trees. The broken branches cut into Mary’s feet and calves as she follows. Dead leaves and undergrowth squish between her toes, making her slip.

  ‘Mother? Mother!’ Cold sweat clings to her skin and soaks through her nightgown. She cannot see the white figure anywhere. ‘Mother!’

  She runs on. She cannot turn back.

  ‘Mother?’

  Her legs are heavy. The trees crowd around her, muttering to themselves.

  ‘Mother, please. Where are you?’

  A cloud covers the moon, and there is total darkness. A breath blows against her ear, and she shivers, turns, twists, casts her arms out to feel who is there.

  Then the cloud slips away, and in a beam of silver light, she sees her mother before her, beckoning her to follow. Mary drags her body on. Hours of relentless traipsing pass, until the weak dawn light bleeds into the sky and the two of them emerge from the forest.

  Slowly, she joins her mother and realises where they are. It has been almost twenty years since Mary was last here.

  Sunlight flashes into Mary’s mind. A hot day, too hot for the dress her governess had made her wear. A brilliant day with the sky as blue as sapphires and dragonflies lazily buzzing around the reeds.

  There had been a picnic, and the unwanted food had laid upon the blanket attracting wasps and blue-bottle flies. Her mother had lounged on the grass, her large skirts forming a mountain of pale pink against the greenery.

  Mary had left a birthday present at home. She cannot remember what the toy was now, but it had been so important that her mother had insisted that the governess go and fetch it.

  She had waited for the governess’s return so she could play with her toy, but the woman had taken so long! Her mother had been dozing. Mary had passed the time by watching the birds flitting between the trees, listening for the frogs in the water, making a daisy chain for her hair, but she had grown bored.