And it had been so hot! The heat had prickled her skin and had made it itch. She had pouted and sighed, but Mother had not removed the hat from her face or asked what was wrong.
So Mary had tugged away her dress, ripping it in her fury, until she had been in nothing but her undergarments. The heat had been instantly relieved, but her arms and back had still felt as if someone were sticking hundreds of needles into her flesh.
The water had looked so inviting; still, apart from the ripples from the skater flies upon its surface.
She had swum in the sea many times before. Her mother had told her what a wonderful swimmer she was. So she had walked to the edge of the pond, feeling the heat from the long grass gather about her legs, and smelling the scent of muddy water as her toes had soaked into the spongy ground.
It had been blissful to feel the cold water against her stinging back, and for a while she had floated in the middle of the pool, staring into the cloudless sky, imagining that she might have been anywhere in the world, as her mother had slept.
Then, a dragonfly had dived too close and startled her. She had kicked her legs to swim away when slimy hands had swirled around her ankles. She had panicked.
Mother had woken up as Mary had screamed, and in an instant she had rushed to the water and waded in. In her haste to get to her child, Mother had not had time to remove her clothing. She had walked into the water until it was up to her waist, her chest, her chin, and had told Mary to swim as she pushed Mary towards safety.
That was the last time Mary had felt her mother’s skin upon hers.
Mary had kicked with all her strength, until the ground had returned beneath her feet, wet but firm, and she had pulled herself from the water.
She had turned just in time to see last dry curls of her mother’s hair disappearing under the water.
She had screamed. Mother’s drenched face had resurfaced, her mouth had opened and sucked in some air, her eyes, wide and wild, had found Mary for a second. Then she had slipped under again. Bubbles had popped on the water. Mother’s thin fingers had clawed the air until they too, vanished.
Mary had screamed until she thought her throat had burst open, until the water finally grew calm.
She is screaming now. She is reaching for her mother, who, they said, after the body was dragged from the lake in sediment smeared skirts, had not been able to swim in such heavy clothing. She is crying and apologising and looking at the dead woman beside her, who is nothing like the elegant mother of her memories.
‘I’m sorry! I never meant it ... I never meant to kill you.’
Her mother’s ghost points at the dip in the earth where the pond used to be. There is water there. The lake is filling up.
‘What do you want from me?’ But the answer is obvious.
Her screaming subsides to shaking sobs. She nods.
Her feet refuse to move for a moment, then they stumble forward towards the water.
The pool is big enough for Mary to wade in until her hips are submerged, her arms breaking the thin layer of ice all around her. She looks over her shoulder to see her mother watching. She leans back, lifts her feet and floats for a while, seeing the faint stars in the dawn sky. Her eyelids close as the water laps over her ears and onto her cheeks. With one last sigh, she welcomes oblivion.
Chapter 11
The four of them stand around the bed. Mary lies between the sheets, her hair brushed neat by Anne, a new nightgown placed on her, the cuts on her feet and legs bathed clean. The fire is high, and the curtains have been drawn. It is stiflingly hot.
Doctor Jameson performs his medical checks. Her pulse is quick, he says, but her breathing is shallow.
‘Will she survive?’ Tom chews the dry skin on his lip.
‘She must be kept warm and dry. I believe she might develop a fever. You must keep her inside.’
Tom nods and scratches at his eyes.
‘How did she get out?’
‘This is not a prison, doctor,’ Liz says, halting Tom’s furious response – which she can feel buzzing through his skin – by placing her hand on his shoulder. ‘We do not keep her under lock and key.’
‘The front door was locked, though? I am asking in case she has fallen, perhaps from a window. We do not yet know the extent of her injuries.’
‘Chipman tells me the back door was open,’ she explains. She does not trust Tom to speak – he is too desperate, too excited at the possibility of Mary’s demise, sure that she will now either die, or be carted to the nearest asylum. ‘That’s how the maids became suspicious. Chipman sent Will out to check the perimeter, in case it was ... someone else, and Will heard screaming.’
‘And she was unconscious by the time he found her?’
Liz nods. The doctor sighs, the air forcing its way through his nostrils. ‘Has she been taking her medication?’
Liz turns to Anne, who stands in the corner of the room, quiet and with eyes cast to the floor.
‘I think so, sir.’
‘What do you mean, girl? Has she taken the laudanum or not?’
Anne’s cheeks are pink. She ignores the doctor, and her blue eyes flick at Tom though he does not meet her gaze, much to Liz’s relief. ‘I don’t know, sir.’
Where were you this morning, Anne?’ Liz shoots the question.
‘Here, miss.’
Liz knows she is lying. Mrs Beacham told Liz that Anne had been in to see her in the middle of the night because she was scared of some mice. Anne had not been seen again until Mary had been carried home, at which point, she suddenly appeared.
Surely, Anne cannot have anything to do with Mary’s accident, can she? She is too simple. But the girl is different now than how she was at the beginning. She is too bold, and remarkably cunning when it comes to Tom and those who are close to him.
‘What will you do, Doctor?’ Liz says, dragging her suspicious gaze off Anne’s blushing face.
‘We must wait and see. Mary is getting stronger already, the life is coming back into her. But we do not know how her mind will have been affected.’
‘I should say it was rather affected before this happened,’ Tom says. ‘And you told me then that she would get better. Tell me, how did you become a doctor, because you don’t seem to be a very good one.’
‘Tom.’ Liz’s squeezes his shoulder to remind him of his promise. With a look, she apologises to Jameson, though he ignores her.
‘If she had been taking her medicine, this would never have happened.’
Jameson rises and makes his way to the door. Liz escorts him down the stairs after glaring at Tom so he will remain with Mary – Tom has had his chance with the doctor. Now it is her turn.
When Jameson has his coat, Liz takes him by the arm. ‘I hope you do not take offence at my brother, sir. We are not of this ...’ she gestures at the wealth around them, ‘this world, as you know. He fears that he is not good enough, not able to look after his wife like a husband should. This is all a great strain on him.’
Jameson, who is an inch shorter than Liz, removes his arm from hers and straightens his hat – he is a challenge to soften, she will give him that. ‘Perhaps he is right, madam.’
‘Perhaps. What I mean to say to you is that Tom only wishes to protect Mary, and he thinks a professional solution is best. I understand your own views, however. I applaud you for them, in fact. So we shall look after her here. I will make sure that Anne attends solely to Mary without any other distractions.’
The doctor inclines his head ever so slightly, and his words, when he next speaks, are not quite so clipped. ‘Can you trust the maid?’
Liz hesitates. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Mrs Oliver has been hard on the girl. I believe you and your brother thought her too harsh at times. I have checked the laudanum bottle and the measurement is correct, I grant you, but the girl could be pouring it away.’
‘You think Anne would do such a thing?’
‘Jealousy is a serpent, madam. It sneaks inside a house and
poisons it from within.’ His eyes are dark and small as he squints at her. ‘You may be surprised what young girls are capable of.’
She leans in so she can whisper, ‘Thank you for the warning, Doctor. I shall keep an eye on her.’
A small smile puts dimples in his cheeks. She holds his gaze as he backs away, and as he turns to descend the steps, he glances back at Liz. She nods at him, and waves from the threshold as his carriage rolls away.
Mother has gone. It is a miracle. No longer does Mary feel the room grow damp, hear the dripping, nor smell the boggy water clinging to her nostrils. She has peace, at last.
The nursery is brighter than her own darkened room. She blinks, and it takes a moment for her eyes to adapt before she sees Mrs Jeffries rising from her chair, smiling in alarm. Between them both is the cot where the child sleeps.
Mary treads carefully upon the floor. It has been years since she has been in this room, but she still remembers where the creaks lie, as she often snuck out while her governess dozed in the afternoons.
She reaches Little Tom’s cot in silence and looks down upon him. With her mother gone, she no longer fears him quite so much, and discovers, to her amazement, that he is really rather beautiful. Tears fall down her face as she gazes at the boy she has chosen not to love, until now.
‘Ma’am?’ Jeffries whispers, and joins Mary’s side, stepping on a squeaking floorboard as she comes and waking the child. His forehead creases into little lines, he squints hard, his pink lips pucker, his hands twist into fists and punch the air, and then he begins to wail.
‘Sorry, ma’am.’ Jeffries bends over the cradle and lifts him free.
‘I will take him.’
There is a moment of hesitation before Mrs Jeffries hands him over.
Mary has never held a baby before. He is much more substantial than she thought he would be. His limbs stretch and bend as he protests against being held so awkwardly. Mary giggles at his stubbornness, then gets a firm grasp of him so that his movements slow and his eyes open.
She sees him properly then. She sees the fullness of his lips and the darkness of his soft hair; she sees his father in him, and she forgets what her husband said to her before her confinement, she forgets the terror her son provoked in her, she forgets the horrors of pregnancy. She feels only love.
She stays with the child for an hour before she leaves to ready herself for dinner. She tells Jeffries that she will take her son down to dine tonight.
At seven o’clock, the dinner gong sounds and Jeffries waits outside Mary’s bedroom with Thomas in his fine cotton and lace gown. Mary takes him in her arms and dismisses the nurse.
The drawing room door is open, and inside, Liz and Tom wait for Mary before they go to dinner. With her bonny son on her hip, she joins them. Her smile falters when she sees their expressions.
‘Darling.’ Tom jumps to his feet and rushes to her side, his hands out towards Little Tom. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m perfectly well.’ She keeps hold of the baby as Tom tries to prise him away. Eventually, her husband lets go and meets her gaze. ‘I wanted to do something to celebrate the occasion.’
‘What occasion?’
‘My recovery.’
‘I see.’ Tom nods, sniffs. ‘Yes, well done, darling. You are much improved.’ He moves back to his seat.
‘Yes, I am.’ Mary laughs into Little Thomas’s face as he stares up at her, his mouth open and drooling. ‘I don’t know how I could have thought such dreadful things about Little Thomas, our gorgeous baby boy.’ She kisses him on his button nose. ‘Shall we go through to dinner?’ Mary rallies the two of them, who seem stuck to their seats.
Little Thomas wriggles. Who knew something so small could be so strong?
‘What do you want, little man?’
He is rocking back and forth, as if impatient. Turning, Mary finds Elizabeth has come behind them, and it is she who the child’s eyes are fixed upon.
Elizabeth smiles, and the baby smiles back. He has not smiled for Mary yet.
‘Hello, Little Tom.’ Elizabeth touches his fist. He grabs her finger and pulls her closer.
Mary yanks his hand away from Elizabeth and ignores his cry. ‘Come along now.’
The package weighs heavily in Anne’s arms as she rushes to her room. Flinging the door open, she curses at the mice who still pester her, and who now dash to their hiding places. She throws the package onto the bed. She shivers as she looks at it; it is impossibly imposing.
What can it be?
It is of great importance to the witch, that is certain. The hag had pushed it upon Anne, telling her what she must do with it and ignoring her questions. When Anne had refused, the witch had said it would cost her her family if she did not do as she was instructed. So, Anne took it, and now she stares at it, fearing that she has brought a piece of pure evil into Floreat.
She straightens herself out and washes her hands and face. She is a mess from the heathland, and her boots have let the wet in so that her toes are soggy. She brushes off the sprigs of dry gorse that cling to her skirts and wipes the mud from her heels. Her hair has come loose, and she attempts to fix it, but it is no use, her fingers are too stiff. She lets it tumble free, and it falls in thick red curls to her waist.
She slinks downstairs and leans over the bannister on the landing, listening. The Olivers are nearly finished with their dinner.
She returns to the package, unties the string, and unwraps the scrappy, brown paper. She smells the witch – that peculiar smell of earth and damp and dirt and smoke as if the fire that burned her has never left her. Then, a small hand appears, which is attached to an arm and a body and a head. A doll. It is dressed in rough grey clothes, and over its permanently opened eyes, the witch has pressed grass, to hide the blue that the artist had painted them originally. Its head is slightly cracked, and the skin has browned in areas. In its hand, is a tightly folded piece of paper.
The witch told her not to read the note, but Anne is desperate to know what it says. Hearing the witch in her ear – I’ll know if you read it – Anne slips the paper free.
Trembling, she unfolds the note, but just as she is about to smooth out the final crease, a baby cries. In her fright, she believes it is the doll come alive with the witch’s spirit, come to slit Anne’s throat for disobedience, and she springs from the bed, letting the note fall from her fingers.
The doll is lifeless; it is Little Tom’s cries that she hears permeating through the walls. But she does not open the note again. She folds it back into shape and, hoping she is not too late, creeps downstairs and peeps through the servant’s door.
Jeffries scuttles from the stairs to the nursery with the child in her arms. The nursery door clicks shut. Now Anne must set the doll where the witch told her to before the rest of the Olivers make for bed.
With bare feet, she flits to Miss Oliver’s chamber. The fire has been lit, but it is too high, and she thinks that Miss Oliver will be too warm in bed tonight. Then again, the doll may chill her to the bone.
With that thought, Anne places the doll in the centre of the bed just as the witch instructed, straightening its legs so that it sits upright and angling it so that it faces the door as if it is waiting for its mother to return.
We’ll turn her mad, the witch had cackled, and Anne had smiled as well.
Later, Anne goes to Mrs Oliver’s room and prepares the laudanum. In a minute, her mistress enters.
It is hard to be in Mrs Oliver’s company, brushing her hair as she simpers on and on about how much she loves her little boy and her little family, and how everything shall be right from now on. But for the first time ever, Mrs Oliver thanks Anne for her help, and so, it is with some sense of guilt that Anne hands over the cup of tea with the laudanum mixed into it, and watches as Mrs Oliver drinks it all.
‘Sleep well, ma’am.’
On the landing, Anne listens for any disturbance coming from Miss Oliver’s chamber. Just as she thinks there is nothing but sil
ence, she detects the faint gulps and gasps of sobs.
She should relish the sound, but she cannot. It is all too much – what has she become? Despite how much she dislikes Miss Oliver and how much she thinks herself above the woman, Anne has brought evil into Floreat. She has conspired with a witch! What would her mother think of her if she knew the truth? Shame makes her eyes sting with tears.
‘Anne?’ Mr Oliver stands beside his bedroom door. His jacket has been removed, and his shirt sleeves are loose, the buttons about his neck and chest are undone. ‘Are you all right?’
Anne snorts and wipes her wet face. She looks to the floor, the ceiling, her twisting hands, Mr Oliver’s frown, Mr Oliver’s naked collarbones. She can feel her cheeks burning.
‘Come here.’ He beckons her across the landing and stands aside so that she can enter his room. She follows his command without a word. The door remains ajar.
Inside, the air is still. Anne has never been in here before. She is keenly aware of the space between them; of the way his shoes have been kicked carelessly from his feet to lie crookedly at the foot of his chair; of his red silk robe hanging off the corner of the wardrobe; of the giant bed in the middle of the room and his pillow which she is sure holds the imprint of his head. It smells different than the mistress’ bedrooms as well; there is less perfume here. Instead, there is the faint scent of beeswax, and an earthiness which she believes can only ever belong to a man.
‘Why are you crying? Has Mary upset you?’
She turns towards him and finds he has come closer while she has been observing his chamber. Now, she can smell the brandy on his breath, see the dots of whiskers breaking over his chin which he will shave off come morning. She cannot lift her eyes to meet his, so she fixes her stare on the pulse that throbs in his neck.
‘No, sir.’
‘You can tell me anything, you know.’
The room feels as if it is drawing in, as if she is trapped between the vibrant tapestried walls and the hard body of her master. How can she tell him what troubles her? How can she tell him of the wicked deeds she has done? How can she tell him about the doll that has left his sister, his dear, dear sister, heartbroken?
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