Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

  Pushed up against the wall to Beatrice’s right was a chair and a small, rickety desk on which sat a low-burning candle, a shallow stack of rough paper, and a pen and ink pot. In the middle of the room was a narrow bed piled high with what looked like old blankets and fur coats. Despite the oddness of it, it was not this which drew her attention. What made her gasp, what made her reach out for the desk to steady herself so she did not fall on her weakened knees, were the paintings.

  Oil paintings, in sizes ranging from that of a letter to some as vast as the dining room fireplace, covered every inch of the walls. And in every single one was the same person.

  Beatrice.

  Beatrice on the chaise longue in the studio. Beatrice in a vibrant red evening gown in the dining room. Beatrice in a dull brown dress, hair loose, browsing the bookshelves in the library. Beatrice standing in the long grass of the parkland, the snowy mountains framing her. Beatrice in the courtyard beside the blooming roses, the sun beating down on her. Beatrice in bed, the sheets draped carelessly across her naked body, her breasts exposed.

  Except it was not Beatrice. She lifted the candle to one of the bigger paintings and studied the woman smiling back at her. If one were only to glance between the woman in the picture and the woman looking at it, one would think them the same. But no. Like in the painting in Clementine’s room, the woman was prettier than Beatrice, her features more delicate, her hair smoother and more chestnut, her body a little more voluptuous that Beatrice’s skinny frame.

  Movement from the bed startled her, and the candle threatened to blow out, but she steadied herself. Jean sat up from the pile of blankets and furs.

  ‘What are these?’ Beatrice pointed at the paintings, and Jean looked at the covered walls with a mixture of pity and exhaustion on her face. ‘What are you doing up here?’

  Something made a mewing noise. Beatrice held still, listening for another sound. Jean turned away from Beatrice, towards the bed, and the mewing continued. Jean was stroking something, rocking something. The noise got louder. Under the covers, something stirred.

  Beatrice edged closer, the candle held out in front of her. Jean was arranging the covers, fussing over something.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Beatrice asked.

  Jean stepped out of the bed and came to Beatrice’s side. Finally, Beatrice saw the small head on the pillow.

  She managed to stop herself from shrieking as she stared down at the deathly white face of a boy. His brow furrowed a little, and his head tossed from one side to the other. Even in the dim candlelight she could see his pale and cracked lips, the purple circles under his eyes, the translucency of his eyelids. His breath was shallow, and it rattled in and out of his lungs. And there was absolutely no doubt from the shape of his face, his lips, his eyes, from the thick glossiness of his curly brown hair, that this child was related to Dougal.

  Numb with shock, she stared at the child, then at Jean. Jean nibbled her lip, and her eyes filled with tears as she looked down at him. It was the rawest emotion Beatrice had ever seen on the maid.

  Tentatively, Beatrice leaned towards him. With her cold hand, she touched his forehead and felt the unmistakable heat of fever on his skin.

  At her touch, the boy dragged his eyelids open. He met her gaze blankly, then after a moment, confusion clouded his features.

  ‘Mama?’

  Beatrice recoiled at his speech. She stumbled backwards and collided with the desk. Her reaction, or just the presence of her, had caused a fuss. The boy was moaning now, tossing and turning as much as his little strength would allow him, and he was beginning to weep as Jean comforted and calmed him.

  Beatrice grabbed the chair and sat down heavily. Her head was spinning. She crouched over, head between her knees, and blocked out the child’s sobs.

  She stayed like that for many minutes, her eyes closed so that she could imagine she was somewhere else, anywhere but here. But she would have to face reality soon.

  She straightened up. The boy was now quiet. Jean sat on the edge of the bed stroking his hair and watching Beatrice.

  Beatrice swallowed before she spoke. ‘Is he asleep?’

  Jean nodded.

  ‘Is he Dougal’s?’

  Jean nodded again.

  Another wave of nausea swept through Beatrice’s gut.

  ‘Clementine. Is she his mother?’

  A flash of rage shone in Jean’s eyes. She shook her head.

  ‘Who then?’

  Jean nodded at the paintings all around them.

  It felt as if fingernails were scraping down Beatrice’s spine as she looked at the woman on the canvasses. She tried to understand, but her confusion was as thick as the snow outside.

  Jean rose from the bed and walked towards the desk. She took up the pen, dipped it in the ink, and spelt it out.

  Isla Wilson.

  Beatrice did not know if she was more shocked by the fact that Jean could write or that the name on the paper was the one she had seen in the churchyard.

  Gilroy – Jean gestured at the child – taught me. Hamish taught him.

  Jean’s writing was like a child’s, but it was better than nothing.

  ‘How long has he been like this?’

  He has got worse since Christmas.

  ‘Why is he here?’ Beatrice did not need to say aloud how ill the child was. Why on earth was he being kept up here when he was so dangerously sick?

  Jean dipped the nib in the ink and scribbled so hard that the paper tore.

  Clementine.

  Beatrice shook her head. She would not believe it. She could not believe it. Clementine would never do this to a child.

  ‘You’re lying.’

  Jean glared at her. Ink spotted the page from Jean’s trembling hand.

  ‘He needs a doctor. He’s dying. Why haven’t you called a doctor for him?’

  They won’t let me leave.

  Again, Beatrice shook her head. The maid was lying, being dramatic … something! Beatrice would not accept the implication of those words – that Clementine was keeping Jean and the boy here against their will, that Clementine was letting the boy die.

  ‘I’ll tell Clementine first thing. She will send for a doctor. I know she will.’

  Anger burning in her eyes, Jean undid the buttons at her wrist and dragged her sleeve up her arm. Across her white flesh, wounds gaped, some scabbed and forming scars, some fresh and vibrant.

  She jabbed her finger at Clementine’s name on the paper.

  Beatrice recalled the nasty cut on Jean’s little finger. She recalled Clementine saying it was the woman’s clumsiness. But Jean was never clumsy. Had Clementine hurt Jean to keep her quiet? To scare her into submission? To punish her? To make her do something she did not want to do?

  ‘You planted the Bible pages,’ Beatrice whispered, ‘under Clementine’s orders?’

  Jean swallowed, nodded.

  ‘Why didn’t you come to me sooner?’

  Jean raised her eyebrows. Heat scorched Beatrice’s cheeks. Jean’s animosity suddenly made sense. She had hated Beatrice because Beatrice loved Clementine. And honestly, if Jean had come to her weeks ago and told her about an illegitimate child dying in the tower under Clementine’s instructions, would Beatrice have believed her? Would Beatrice be here at all if Jean had not thrown away the drugged milk or planted the letters which had made Beatrice doubt Clementine’s story?

  Jean picked up the pen. You promised you would find out the truth. She stared at Gilroy for a moment. This is the truth.

  Beatrice grabbed the chair to steady herself. She glanced at the child, but had to quickly look away from his deathly complexion. ‘If he is left like this, he will die.’

  Jean’s jaws locked together.

  Then you must save him.

  Chapter 22

  The clouds blew fast across the sky as Clementine stirred beside her. Beatrice pulled the quilt higher up her chest, dabbed her cheeks with it, and blinked her eyes clear. Under the covers, she could fe
el Clementine’s body radiating heat onto her bare shins, but inside, she was frozen. It was as if all of her was seizing up, frosting over, and her neck creaked as she turned to watch Clementine wake.

  It was better like this. It was better to be hardened, unfeeling, numbed by the shock. If she was to really process what she had unearthed, to come to terms with it, she would not be able to lie here now. She would not be able to function. She would weep for eternity.

  Clementine peeled her eyelids open. She flinched against the white morning light, raising her hand to shield herself from the glare. Her lips had paled and dried from such a long, deep sleep, and she ran her tongue across them. Her mouth sounded tacky as she did so.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘A little after nine.’ Beatrice cleared her throat so her voice would sound stronger. She needed to be strong. ‘Water?’

  Clementine took the offered glass. Lying against her raised pillows, she frowned at the room as if she couldn’t understand where she was. She blinked several times, then picked crusts of sleep from her lashes.

  ‘I never sleep so late.’

  ‘You were tired.’ Beatrice took the glass out of Clementine’s hand as she nodded at Clementine’s nakedness and the untidiness of the bed. Clementine frowned again, so Beatrice kissed her. She could only manage to keep contact for a few seconds. She pulled away, ran her hand over Clementine’s hair to smooth it, and briefly managed to smile as Clementine’s eyes met hers. She would not acknowledge the hint of suspicion in Clementine’s gaze.

  ‘Breakfast.’ She hopped out of bed and staggered to the bell, hoping her limp and her nudity would distract Clementine from unwanted thoughts. ‘You must be starving. I am.’

  She should not have lied about being hungry. Clementine studied her as she dragged the butter knife across her toast, spreading the butter as thinly as possible, for her stomach shuddered at the thought of all that creaminess sloshing inside her. She cut off the crusts. She lifted the triangle of cold, hard bread to her lips. She opened her mouth, bit into the toast, and forced herself to chew. Still, Clementine watched.

  She chewed and chewed until the toast was a sodden mass lumping around her gums, refusing to go down. Sitting in the window seat, her gaze drifted to the tower, her thoughts to the dying child within it, and she made herself swallow. She took her cup and gulped the tea. The liquid seared her tongue, bringing her senses back into focus.

  ‘What are you doing today?’ Beatrice said.

  Clementine sliced the top off her boiled egg. She picked the broken bits of shell away, dropping them onto her plate so that the only sound was of shell hitting porcelain. She pierced the yolk with her knife, and yellow oozed over the egg cup and pooled on the plate. Beatrice had to look away.

  ‘The usual, I suppose. Why do you ask?’

  Beatrice ripped off another bit of toast. ‘It is my knee. I think it might be worse than I thought.’

  ‘You said it was getting better.’

  ‘Yes. Well.’ Beatrice swallowed and drank her tea again. ‘I thought it was, but I was wrong. The pain woke me in the night.’

  Clementine spread yolk over a finger of bread. She raised one eyebrow as she looked out at the lake but said nothing.

  ‘Is there a doctor in the village?’

  A ghostly smile touched Clementine’s lips. ‘You don’t need a doctor, Beatrice.’

  ‘He might be able to see if something is broken.’

  ‘If anything was broken you would not be able to stand up at all.’

  Beatrice dropped her half-eaten slice of toast onto her plate and wiped her crumby, greasy fingers on her napkin. ‘Yes, you are right. But perhaps he might be able to give me something for the pain.’

  ‘Laudanum? I think I have some somewhere here. Hamish used to take it whenever his gout flared up. I shall get Jean to look for it.’

  ‘Won’t it be easier to just send for the doctor?’

  In the silence, Clementine slowly turned her face towards Beatrice. Beatrice could hold her gaze only for a moment before she could stand it no longer. She tried to hide her discomfort by rubbing her knee, feigning pain.

  ‘I wouldn’t like to take medicine that was not meant for me,’ Beatrice whispered, desperate to appear normal but knowing the harder she tried, the more peculiar she seemed. ‘Could Alfred not go and fetch the doctor and bring him back in the carriage?’

  Clementine scooped the remaining white out of the egg shell. She ate it slowly, deliberately dragging out the silence.

  ‘Of course.’ Clementine set her silver spoon on her plate. ‘I’ll send him out right now.’

  All day, Beatrice sat by the window in Clementine’s chamber watching the parkland. She had seen Alfred ready the horse and carriage and had seen the creature walk sedately through the frozen parkland, in no rush at all. At midday, she had watched Clementine stride out, wrapped tightly in her coat with the dogs galloping all around her. Clementine had turned and found Beatrice in the window, and Beatrice had forced herself to smile and wave. She wondered if she should have done something whilst Clementine was out, but she didn’t have the nerve; after all, she could not be certain Clementine was not lurking somewhere, watching her, about to spring a trap.

  An hour later, Clementine marched back over the track, swiping at the long, wilting grass with a stick she must have found in the woods, her cheeks scarlet, her breath puffing sharply out before her, her stride as purposeful as ever. The dogs, in contrast, lolloped tiredly beside her, their fur as slick as seal skin, their ears and legs clumped with snow. When they joined Beatrice in Clementine’s room, they collapsed before the grate and steamed dry. Clementine shrugged out of her snow-soaked clothing, found a new dress, then joined Beatrice to look out at the view. Her eyes, though, were mostly trained on Beatrice.

  Now, dusk was gathering. The clouds made the world outside darker than usual at this time of day, and Beatrice lit a candle to scare away the shadows that were building in the gloom.

  ‘What is taking so long?’

  Clementine set her book down on the table. ‘Why don’t we have some tea? That should distract you.’

  ‘I don’t want tea.’ Beatrice bit her cheeks. She squeezed her teeth together, wincing at the ache which had formed hours ago beneath her brow, and pinched the bridge of her nose. With her eyes closed, the sudden grip of Clementine’s hand on her thigh made her start.

  ‘You seem tense, my love. What is wrong?’

  She looked at Clementine’s fingers clawing at her dress. The skin seemed too white, the veins too blue, the bones sharp and raised – like the hand of the dead. She wished to strike it away. The sight of it was making her nauseous, making panic flutter in her stomach.

  Why hadn’t she left earlier? Why hadn’t she made a dash for it? She could have been at the village by now, banging on the doctor’s door, searching for a policeman … doing something to save the child and herself rather than sitting here being useless.

  ‘Beatrice?’

  Clementine leaned towards her, eyebrows raised, gaze keen. Her grip tightened.

  Beatrice was on her feet and pacing to the fire before she remembered she must appear to be injured. Pathetically, she began to limp, but she was no actress. She gasped, but it sounded false even to her own ears.

  ‘Why has he not returned yet?’

  Clementine picked up her book. ‘Perhaps the doctor is busy. You’re not exactly an emergency, are you?’

  ‘It will be bedtime if he does not come soon.’

  But Clementine no longer appeared to be listening.

  With Clementine’s back to her, Beatrice assessed the distance to the chamber door. She had placed herself in a worse position by going to the fire. Now she would have to dodge the dogs, skirt the bed, avoid the pillows and discarded petticoats which constantly littered the floor, and manoeuvre around Clementine herself if she were to run for it.

  No – all she needed to do was remain calm. If she could control herself long enough for the doc
tor’s arrival, she could tell him about the child. She could beg him to save the boy, to return to the village and come back with a policeman and rescue them all. She only had to hold out for the doctor …

  Clementine’s head snapped up. ‘Here he is.’

  Beatrice rushed to the window to see the black carriage rolling towards Dhuloch over the snow.

  Clementine stood. She walked to her looking glass and straightened her gown, tucked a stray curl behind her ear, and dabbed perfume on her neck. ‘You’d best wait here. I shall bring him up.’

  Beatrice was going to protest but could not think of an appropriate excuse, and Clementine flounced out of the room.

  From the window, Beatrice saw Alfred stop the carriage at the foot of the castle steps. Effortlessly, he jumped down from his seat and opened the door for the doctor. She saw only the man’s top hat, his gloved hand, and his black coat before he disappeared inside the house.

  She scurried to the bed and pulled the quilt over herself. She plumped her pillows, put one underneath her knee, and tried to arrange her face in an expression of pain. As she did so, Simeon jumped up beside her, excited by the commotion. His smiling face did not soothe her; his ignorant happiness only made her more irritated.

  ‘Sit down,’ she sniped at him, and finally the dog lay beside her, dumping his head on his paws and huffing.

  ‘She’s in here,’ Clementine said from the other side of the door before she entered. She stepped to one side so the doctor could pass.

  The doctor was not at all what Beatrice had been expecting. Back home, Dr Minton was an old man, almost as wide as he was tall, with a ready smile and a tipple of whisky on hand – his preferred prescription for most of the old folk in town. This doctor was tall and thin. His nose was bright red from the cold, and a clear drip of mucus hung from its tip. He did not remove his coat or gloves; only his hat was wedged under his arm. He stood at the foot of the bed, frown deep, lips tight, staring down at Beatrice with black, narrowed eyes.

  ‘Mrs Montgomery tells me you had a fall and your knee now hurts.’ He spoke as one might speak to a mischievous child.