Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

  Reverend Carey begins the committal, but Tom doesn’t listen to the words. His concentration is upon the bare earth, the ground that has been cut through with a shovel, dissected, left naked, open and exposed. He notices some worms and imagines that, soon, those little pink strings of flesh shall be feasting on Mary’s body.

  Aunt Emily is the first to take a handful of earth and toss it upon the coffin. She says nothing as she does so, keeping her features controlled and neutral. She seems smaller than she was all those months ago, her shoulders crowded in against her chest, her face bent to the floor. It will not be long before she too is food for the worms.

  It is Tom’s turn next. He takes some earth and is surprised at just how cold and damp it is as he stares at it in his hands. Everyone lets him take his time. No one coughs or sighs or tuts or asks him if he is well. He can do as he pleases.

  He throws the dirt, watches it cascade down, and smiles. He retrieves the book from his coat pocket. ‘Liz wanted you to have this.’ He drops Ruth upon the coffin lid. ‘It was her favourite,’ he tells the congregation, who cringe at the hollow thud.

  As they stroll back to Floreat, Tom hears Doctor Kershaw whisper to the Reverend that Jameson is no longer practicing.

  ‘To think this could all have been avoided. He is a disgrace to the medical profession, Mr Carey. A disgrace.’

  Tom wishes he’d insisted on taking the carriage with Aunt Emily, so he would not have to hear these snippets of conversations, but Emily was too stubborn. She’d wished to experience the estate how she used to when she was a little girl, on foot, with the ground crunching beneath her feet and the sun warming her face. At least the fresh, open air serves as a reminder of his freedom, he reasons with himself, which was so recently threatened.

  ‘I never liked her.’ Aunt Emily has hold of Tom’s arm, and her movements are jerky, as if the floor is uneven, although it is perfectly flat. ‘I’m not sure I even loved her.’

  Tom could say something, but he doesn’t. Aunt Emily does not need sympathy; she just needs to be heard.

  ‘I could never take to her, even as a babe. I think she reminded me too much of my father.’ She inhales deeply, shaking with the effort.

  ‘Should you like a rest?’

  ‘Pah!’ She swats her free arm at him. ‘I am perfectly fine. How is Elizabeth?’

  Tom welcomes the change of topic. ‘She is recovering well. We got to her just in time. Any longer and I ...’ He regains himself. ‘It seems she did not have as much in her system as Mary. She should be home soon.’

  ‘And the murderess?’

  Tom clears his throat. He hopes the staff cannot hear their conversation. ‘Awaiting trial. I imagine she will be hanged.’

  Emily nods. ‘I may never have liked my niece but to be murdered by one’s own maid.’ Tom feels her shudder. ‘It is the devil’s work.’

  ‘It was in the laudanum,’ Tom says when the silence becomes uncomfortable. ‘That’s how she was poisoning Mary. She mixed it in and poured it into her tea at night. She thought no one would suspect.’

  ‘And Elizabeth? She wasn’t also taking ...?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Tom pulls his top hat lower to shield his eyes from the sun. ‘We don’t really know. Perhaps sprinkling it on her food. Liz never ate that much, though.’

  They reach Floreat. Emily stops before the open front door and peers at the inscribed letters. For the first time, there is a faint mist in her eyes. ‘What a ridiculous name for it.’

  Chapter 18

  May 1870

  Little Tom wriggles as he lies in the middle of Liz’s bed. He spurts dribbly laughter as she tickles his nose with the fur shawl that Tom bought her for the journey home from the hospital, although now the weather has changed and it is a hot spring day.

  The doorknob twists. Tom enters, peering through first to check if Liz is sleeping or awake. When he sees her and the child playing, he strides over to them, kisses them both, and lies beside them.

  ‘He has a tooth coming through.’ Liz moves the silk handkerchief which Little Tom is sucking on so that his father might see the white edge peeking out amidst scarlet gums.

  ‘And no tears? You are a brave boy.’ Tom tickles his son’s neck, then turns to Liz, suddenly serious. ‘I have news.’

  She stills. It has been such a long wait. She has tried to keep her mind occupied, but her thoughts keep slipping back to Anne. Her nightmares are filled with the girl crawling out of gaol and over the heathland, back to Floreat, to wreak her revenge.

  ‘She has been found guilty.’

  The breath rushes out of Liz’s lungs. She collapses onto the bed. Her limbs are numb. She thinks she might cry or laugh, but she does neither.

  ‘She will be hanged, as we thought.’ Tom rolls over, props himself onto his elbow, and strokes her hair.

  Liz closes her eyes. The image of Anne dangling from the rope fills her mind. Will Anne’s fiery red curls break free of her white cap when she is dropped? Will they tumble over the rope and down her back, blowing in the wind, making it look as if she is still alive? Will Gwen weep? Will Mr Witmore despair? Will Anne look to her mother in her last seconds, or will she look to God?

  ‘You know, I never ...’ he begins, then coughs. ‘I never encouraged her.’

  Liz smiles. She knows exactly what he did and did not do.

  ‘I never liked her ... in that way. She was just here to serve a purpose.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I never slept with her.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me.’ She smooths the frown off his forehead.

  ‘You know me better than I know myself.’

  ‘I always have.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Liz. It’s all my fault. It was all my idea – Mary, this place, Anne. If I’d have lost you ... if she’d ...’

  ‘Hush.’ She presses her finger against his lips. ‘You will never lose me.’

  She looks deeply into his eyes, and he nods as his son begins to cry. She sits up and scoops the child into her arms. ‘What is wrong little man? What are you crying for? You have nothing to cry about now.’

  Little Tom’s face is red and lined as he pushes his fist into his mouth.

  ‘Shall I call for Jeffries?’

  ‘No.’ Liz stands and rocks the child on her hip. She goes to her dressing table, picks up the hairbrush, and puts the ivory handle to his mouth. He bites on it hard, and the tears subside. She turns to Tom with a smile as he saunters towards her.

  ‘You are extraordinary,’ he says against her neck, but then wipes away the bead of sweat that she has felt trickling from her hairline.

  ‘You need rest, love.’ He takes the child from her, and she lets him go without a fuss, for she will have plenty of time with him soon enough.

  Tom guides her back to bed. ‘Sleep now. And dream of Venice.’

  Her eyes close as he kisses her forehead. ‘When?’

  ‘Soon, my love.’

  A bitter wind trickles through every crack, every layer of brickwork, every window ledge, engulfing everything in a miserable chill. Anne cannot feel her extremities.

  She had taken to pacing her cell to try to ignite some warmth in her body but found the exercise fruitless. It served only to remind her of how she will soon be forever cold, for the blood in her veins will have ceased to flow and her heart, which she has always imagined as a kind of pulsating fire within her body, will have been extinguished.

  She had grown hysterical when she had found out what was to become of her. She had not been able to stop screaming. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she had remembered rumours about people getting away with murder on the grounds of insanity. They had been locked up, yes, but they had not been executed. Perhaps it was this thought that had made her so wild, that had made her bite the guards, that had made her piss herself. Maybe it had been a calculated effort of self-preservation. Perhaps it had been just sheer terror.

  Either way, it had not worked.

  When she had discov
ered that the witch had walked free, her fear had turned to rage. The witch had given evidence against Anne. She had told the police that Anne had ideas above her station, that she resented the ladies of the house and was determined to marry Mr Oliver at whatever cost. She had said Anne was willing to use potions and poisons to get her way.

  Her mother had told Anne, on her one and only visit, that the witch had been released. She had been a nuisance but nothing more; just some old hag with fanciful notions about having a son in a grand home. Wrong in the mind, but seemingly harmless. After all, her potions had been nothing more than alcohol. It was Anne who had administered the arsenic.

  Now, something white is pushed through the bottom of her cell door. It scratches over the grit and muck, and she tiptoes towards it as if it might come alive and lunge at her, but on closer inspection, she sees it is only a letter with her name upon it.

  The paper is deliciously smooth between her fingers. Nothing is soft in here; the floors, the walls, the bed, the clothes, are all as coarse as sand. She rubs the paper over her face, breathing in the scent, and smiles. It is from Tom – she would know that smell anywhere. It is his study. It is his papers, his books, his whiskey – it is him.

  She could cry for the pretty way in which his hand has made out the letters of her name, as if he could caress her through the medium of the quill. She lifts the paper free from its red wax seal and unfolds it, her stomach flipping with excitement.

  There is just one line of writing and an ink drawing of a butterfly in the top right-hand corner. The words are faint. She goes to the small, barred window to catch the last of the daylight.

  She wishes she had not. If she could only un-see the words on the page.

  The letter is not from the man she loves. The words do not warm her heart. Indeed, she thinks the message may have rendered the hangman’s job futile.

  Five little words. No one would suspect a thing. But Anne knows what they mean.

  She screams. She shakes. She trembles as tears splat onto the stone floor. No one comes. No one cares about those five little words on the paper.

  May God save you.

  Lizzie

  Chapter 19

  June 1870

  Tom walks between the feathery heathers, the orchids he has never bothered to learn the names of, the birds that dart away from his stride. He takes it all in, smiling at nothing in particular, enjoying the simple pleasures of unfamiliar birdsong, hot summer sunshine, and the adventures ahead.

  Indeed, he is not in the best frame of mind for what he is about to do. It would have been better if the day had been damp and grey, cloying and oppressing, rather than azure-skied and tranquil. He should look tired, drained, sorry, rather than healthy and carefree.

  Never mind, he tells himself. After all, it is not him who should be sorry.

  The village is lively on this glorious day. Less than a week ago, the villagers had held a summer fair, with beer, and dancing, and singing, and games where young boys wrestled on a makeshift stage. Tom had contributed one of his own favourite bottles of brandy to a prize draw, and his gesture had been well received. He had done it as a kind of tester, to see whose side the villagers were on. He’d had nothing to worry about.

  The cottage at the edge of the village is quiet and still. He knocks on the door. It takes a while until he hears footsteps. Perhaps the person is deciding whether to open the door or not. Maybe they have been suffering abuse.

  His breath is caught when Anne opens the door, staring at him with those pale blue eyes of hers amidst a freckled face.

  But no, it is not Anne. It is Grace. Anne is dead.

  ‘Is your mother in?’

  Grace nods, seeming not to notice his shock at seeing her, and lets him enter. She closes the door after him.

  Gwen sits in her usual chair, but the fire is not burning, and the place is bare of all its knick-knacks. She gasps when she sees him, and wipes away the tears that Tom imagines have not left her cheeks since Anne’s arrest.

  ‘Mr Oliver.’ She smiles with difficulty. ‘I must apologise for the state of us here.’

  ‘You have nothing to apologise for, Gwen.’ His voice is too loud, too energetic in the space. ‘I have come to see how you are all ... coping?’

  ‘We are as best as we can be.’

  ‘And the villagers? I hope no one is treating you unkindly?’

  Gwen shakes her head. ‘We are treated well, sir. I am afraid I cannot offer you anything to drink. We have everything packed on the cart now.’

  They are moving, but he does not know where they are going. He will not ask. He retrieves the letter from his pocket and places it on the empty table, red wax-seal bright in the gloom. ‘A letter of recommendation for you all.’

  Gwen wipes her nose on her handkerchief. ‘That is awfully kind of you, sir.’

  Tom shrugs. Indeed, it is kind of him – too kind after what their daughter has done to Liz. But in the pit of his stomach, he knows he is not innocent in all of this. He moulded Anne, after all. He just never knew what exactly he was moulding her into.

  ‘May I ask, how is Miss Oliver?’ Gwen says.

  ‘She is much better now, thank you. She wishes you all the best for the ... future. She is sorry for what has happened.’

  Gwen laughs, though it is short and mirthless. ‘She has no need to apologise. It is us ... It is ...’ but she cannot finish her sentence.

  Grace coughs at her mother. Gwen looks up with wide eyes, but she is too late. Mr Witmore looms in the doorway.

  ‘Mr Oliver has come to give us this.’ Gwen grits her teeth in a smile. ‘A letter of recommendation for us. That’s kind of him, isn’t it, John?’

  Mr Witmore says nothing.

  ‘Right.’ Tom rubs his hands together. ‘I should leave you in peace.’

  ‘Why did you have to come?’ Mr Witmore’s voice is soft. It does not match his expression. ‘Why did you have to come to us? Why did you have to choose her?’

  ‘John.’ Gwen sounds weary as if she has heard her husband speak of these matters too many times already.

  ‘Out of all the other girls you could have chosen, why her? She had no experience for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘John! Don’t say such things.’

  ‘Do you think I believe in God anymore?’ Mr Witmore laughs. ‘When a devil stands in my house.’

  ‘I am sorry.’ Tom bows his head and attempts to leave, but as he does so, Mr Witmore pins him against the wall.

  ‘You have killed her!’ He cries, and tears surge down his ruddy cheeks and into his stubble. ‘It should be you in that noose. It should be you swinging. You have killed my little girl!’

  Tom shoves Mr Witmore against the opposite wall. ‘Your daughter tried to kill Liz. Do not forget it!’

  Mr Witmore crumbles under Tom, his strength dissolved. ‘Do you think I ever will?’

  Tom lets go of the man, takes a breath, and straightens his hat.

  ‘Get out,’ Mr Witmore whispers.

  Tom does not object. He does not look back at the agony that lies behind him. He shuts the door and tries to smile at the villagers whom he passes as he makes his way back to Floreat, forcing Mr Witmore’s words out of his head.

  The house is a gallery of ghosts. Every item of large furniture is draped with white sheets. Every small thing has been packaged up and moved to the lumber room. Liz doesn’t like the feel of the place. It is like the eyes of the portraits and the animals are looking at her through the holes in their coverings as she wanders, alone.

  Tom left a while ago. She couldn’t understand why he should want to see the Witmores after everything that has happened. She knows he will get a cold reception. She is worried in case Mr Witmore is too harsh, in case Mrs Witmore’s apologies are too strong, in case they will persuade him of Anne’s innocence.

  She sneezes. In all the upheaval, the dust has been disturbed, and fine particles of it dance in the sunlight and tickle her nose. She needs some air.

  She summo
ns Will and orders him to ready her pony.

  The little white pony is pristine and pompous, as she always has been. Liz strokes her velvet muzzle as she chomps on a carrot before mounting.

  ‘Shall you be all right, miss?’ Will says as he helps Liz into the saddle. ‘Would you like someone to accompany you?’

  She gazes down at the young lad, just a few inches below her while she sits on the pony. His face is so open, so innocent, so concerned. These last weeks have been dreadful for him, and tears still wet his eyes even now – he has blamed himself for Anne’s execution, so Mrs Beacham has told her.

  ‘You are a good boy, Will.’

  She gestures for him to come closer and kisses him on the cheek. She feels his blush through her lips, and so that she does not embarrass him further, she taps the pony’s flanks and trots away.

  The breeze is like angels’ wings stroking her face, freeing her hair into loose curls that ripple over her shoulders. She enjoys the movement in her hips, the grip of the reins in her hands, the jolt of her body as the pony’s hooves hit the ground.

  She grins at the vast sky before her as the trot turns into an easy gallop over the lawn and out towards the sea. She does not know where she and the pony are heading. She lets the little creature decide their destination for them both.

  The pony makes for the sea. Soon, the vast expanse of water dominates their view. She will have to pull on the reins, come to a halt, and turn the animal around, but as her fingers tighten on the leather, the pony rears up on its haunches and throws her from the saddle. The view of the sea slides out of her vision, and she crashes into the earth.

  She tries to lift her head but winces as pain shoots above her right eye. She raises her hand to the spot and finds blood there. Rolling onto her hands and knees as best she can, she forces air into her lungs and blinks away the black dots that swim in her vision. She can just make out the diminishing figure of her pony cantering away in the distance before she hears that dreadful sound – the puffing laughter she has always despised.