‘That’s right,’ she whispered. She glanced at Clementine who remained by the door.
‘But you can stand on it. You can walk.’ He said it not as a question, more as an accusation.
Beatrice flushed, nodded.
‘Then it is not broken.’ It seemed all he could do not to shake his head and roll his eyes to the sky. He threw his leather medical case on the bed, and it only narrowly missed Beatrice’s good leg. He snapped the clasps open and snatched out a bottle. ‘I told Mr Cotton I need not have come. He could have brought this back with him without inconveniencing me.’
‘I must apologise, Doctor.’ Clementine stepped forward, her voice as smooth as silk. ‘It was I who told Alfred expressly he was to return with you. Beatrice really has been suffering with the pain.’
The doctor grunted as he set the bottle on the bedside table and closed his medical case. ‘A spoonful each night to help with sleep.’
‘Are you not going to examine me?’ Beatrice said, almost reaching for his coat sleeve, for he was turning for the door. He could not leave!
‘Fine.’ He set his case on the floor, struck off his gloves, then swept the covers off Beatrice’s legs.
She gasped at his forcefulness and blushed at such a rude exposing of her naked flesh. Simeon did not like the sudden disruption either, and he bolted upright and snarled at the doctor. The doctor slapped him away and Simeon yelped, though it seemed more as if his pride was hurt than anything else.
In that instant, the air in the room grew taut. Clementine hardened as she glared at the doctor. Beatrice, too, wished she could tell him to get out, for who was he to treat little Simeon like that? But both of them held their tongues. Beatrice could not afford her softness for the dog to get in the way of saving a child.
‘Would you like something to drink, Doctor?’ Beatrice asked, as the doctor prodded her kneecap.
‘Does that hurt?’
‘A little.’ Beatrice turned to Clementine, smiling bravely. ‘Perhaps you could get the doctor a whisky? I feel dreadful for bringing him out on such a horrid night.’
‘And that?’ The doctor grasped her kneecap and wiggled it hard. She was not feigning as she cried out with the pain.
Clementine edged forward as if she would beat him away. ‘The doctor will be leaving soon, I’m sure.’
The doctor stepped back, nodded, grunted again. He slipped his leather gloves on as he said, ‘Nothing worse than a sprain. Laudanum will help with the pain and with sleep. There really is nothing to worry about.’ Again, he did not say it with a reassuring tone.
‘Thank you, Doctor. I will show you out.’ Clementine raised her arm, gesturing for the door. Beatrice could only watch, her words stuck in her mouth, as the doctor strode from the room without once looking back at her, taking all hope with him.
The rest of the night dragged. They did not discuss the doctor’s visit. Clementine checked Simeon was well, then returned to her seat by the window and continued to read her book, interrupted only by a brief supper. At ten o’clock, at Beatrice’s request, Jean brought two cups of cocoa into the room. As she set them down, she met Beatrice’s gaze hopefully. Beatrice shook her head whilst Clementine was not looking.
‘Are you staying?’ Clementine asked.
Beatrice sipped her drink, hoping Clementine would do the same. ‘I think I need to rest properly tonight.’
Clementine nodded. She did not drink.
‘Don’t you like it?’
Clementine frowned, cocked her head.
Beatrice pointed at the cup.
‘Oh.’ Clementine stared into the chocolate. She swirled it around her cup a few times, the line between her brows still deep. Her finger tapped the rim, her nail clicking on the porcelain. After a minute, she put it to her lips as if it was a vial of medicine she was being forced to take. Beatrice watched her throat move up and down as she swallowed.
‘I used to drink this all the time,’ she whispered, her voice dreamy. ‘It was my favourite.’
Beatrice finished the cocoa, set the cup in its saucer on the table, and heaved herself out of the bed. ‘Not anymore?’
‘It’s not the same as I remember.’ Clementine leaned against the bed post and regarded Beatrice wearily. ‘Nothing ever is.’
She waited until the clock struck two. All that time, she had been sitting up in bed listening. She had not heard any movement from Clementine’s room, no slippered feet on the landing, no quiet thuds. The drink must have worked again, as it had the previous night.
She found her gown and slipped it over her nightdress, corsetless and without a crinoline. She fixed on all the petticoats she had brought with her and as many stockings as would allow her shoes to be worn comfortably. She tied her hair out of her face with a ribbon. Downstairs, she would find her cloak.
She retrieved the necklace from its box and fastened it around her throat, stroking the pearl and thinking of Effie. Of that day. Of that fateful day when Beatrice had insisted Effie join her for a picnic, had insisted that the fresh air would do her good.
How Effie’s skin seemed to shimmer! Her cheeks were scarlet, her blue eyes surrounded by soot-like shadows. Effie’s body was as light as a bird’s as Beatrice helped her sit on the blanket in the dappled shade, and they watched the ducks float down the river, the ducklings struggling to keep up with their parents.
That’s the worst thing, Effie said, her voice nothing more than a breath. Beatrice leaned gently against her shoulder to hear her.
What?
No children. It seemed like such a certainty – to be a mother. Sometimes I felt like I already was one, you know?
Beatrice understood. Their whole lives had been a sort of training, gearing them up for marriage, for motherhood, for all that society expected of women like themselves. People talked of their children as if they already existed, as if their future had been so certain and predictable that there could never be any doubt that they would marry and procreate.
I miss something I have never had, Effie said, and her voice broke. It was the first time she had cried, the first time she had allowed herself some self-pity ever since she knew she was going to die.
Beatrice held Effie’s skeletal frame close, pressing her lips into her soft blonde curls as her own tears fell.
I love you, Beatrice whispered, wiping the tears from Effie’s cheeks. Her admission only made Effie cry harder.
And I you, Effie said, and her voice caught on the last word. She coughed, as if dislodging some mucus from her throat. It started small. Just a clearing of the throat. Beatrice heard the rattle in Effie’s chest as she held her. Effie coughed again, harder this time. She pulled away from Beatrice and leaned forward, thumping her chest.
Effie? What should I do?
Effie’s face reddened. She rolled onto her hands and knees, a hacking cough wracking her body. When she tried to breathe in, it was as if she was sucking in water. Her eyes – those beautiful blue eyes – widened, the veins bulged out, and tears swamped her eyeballs and coursed down her cheeks.
And still, she did not stop coughing.
And then, the blood spurted from between her lips, splattering everything around them. Beatrice lunged for Effie, rubbing her back, and found a handkerchief as she said Effie’s name over and over again, as if that would help. The handkerchief was soaked in blood within minutes. Effie’s body, already weakened by so many months of illness, lost its strength. She collapsed, falling into Beatrice’s waiting arms, her body juddering and gasping as she tried to fill her lungs.
She looked up into Beatrice’s eyes. Blood speckled her cheeks and gushed past her lips and chin, staining her white cotton gown.
We need to get the doctor.
Effie shook her head. Beatrice had gone to lift her as one last breath quivered out of her mouth like a long hiss. Her eyes, which had always shone, dulled. The fear and the pain was swept from her face as she continued to gaze up at Beatrice even in death.
Now, Beatrice took a dee
p breath. It was the first time she had faced the memory since it had happened. The pain was so intense, it was as if someone was squeezing her heart. She doubled over, pressing her hands into her knees as she sobbed for the love she had lost, for the girl she had not been able to save.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered into the night, her fingers clutching once again for the necklace. The touch of it made her straighten up and compose herself.
She had not been able to save Effie. She had been useless, scared, weak. She had been like a little hen, even back then.
But she would not be like that any longer.
She snatched the ring of keys from their box and secured them in the little bag she had fastened around her waist. She left everything else behind – all her own and Dougal’s belongings – as she crept out of her room. She looked back only once towards Clementine’s chamber, her heart squeezing again, before she strode into the blackness and down into the basement.
Chapter 23
She did not hesitate as she faced the outside world. She marched into the snow, its frosted surface crunching beneath her shoes, with the full light of the moon beaming down on her. Briefly, she glanced at the marble statue to her left and snarled at its mocking smile – it had known all along what Clementine really was.
She checked the old door in the courtyard wall which led out into the grounds, but as she had suspected, it was locked. Clementine would never have run the risk of Jean sneaking away. Beatrice tried her ring of keys, but none fit. She cursed Clementine, but she did not have time to wallow.
Running up the tower stairs, she barged into the bitterly cold room and found Jean pacing by the bed, wringing her hands before her, her eyes red-rimmed. She pointed at the child, and Beatrice found the boy to be even worse than last night. His lips were tinted blue, his brow was slick, and his cheeks were fierce with heat, though he shivered beneath the covers.
‘Get him dressed. Quickly. Everything he has, put it on him.’ The two of them flew about the room, finding shirts and breeches and stockings. Together, they dressed him as if he were a doll – he was too weak to help. Only occasionally did he groan with irritation at being so roughly handled, his eyelids fluttering open for seconds at a time, his face showing no awareness of what was happening. They tied the blankets from the bed around him and hung an old fur coat across his shoulders.
‘We have to get him to the village.’
Jean’s eyes widened.
‘We’ll get a horse from the stables. We’ll need to be quick. And quiet. There won’t be time for a saddle. The boy will lie on the horse and we’ll just have to walk.’
The doubt she was feeling at her plan was mirrored in Jean’s face.
‘Well, what else can we do?’
It was a long way to the village and took many hours on foot. In this weather, they might freeze to death before they reached civilisation. And when she thought of herself out there in that vast black landscape, all alone without help, Beatrice’s heart pounded against her ribs. But she pushed that fear down – she would face what was out there, and she would save this child even if she died trying.
‘Come on!’
They lifted him up awkwardly between them, Beatrice taking his legs whilst Jean scooped him up under the arms. As carefully as possible, they hurried down the spiral steps and emerged into the courtyard. The sound of their shuffling feet and the wheeze of the child’s lungs were the only sounds, amplified in the still night air.
Once in the scullery, they had to stop to rearrange themselves. The child might have been skeletal, but with all the clothes they had wrapped him in, he was an unexpected weight. After Beatrice had rested his feet on the floor, her arms felt as if they were involuntarily lifting skywards. She shook them out, rolled her shoulders back, and cracked her neck. Jean shrugged the boy further into her arms so that his head leaned against her chest and glared at Beatrice to hurry – now was not the time to moan about heavy lifting. They had no time to waste trying to make themselves more comfortable.
She took the child’s ankles once more and gripped him hard, then scuttled out into the servants’ passageway. She knew the route well now.
She scurried backwards up the stairs, twice stumbling over the hem of her dress but managing to keep hold of the boy. Jean bore the brunt of his weight at the bottom, but she did it easily.
They burst out into the main corridor. A single lamp, the one Beatrice had lit as she had made her way down from her room, burned in the distance, and she kept her gaze trained on it as she began to run. She reached the lamp, stopped, and tried in vain to pick it up whilst keeping hold of the boy at the same time. If they did not take this, they would have to face the rest of Dhuloch’s corridors in pitch black.
Jean sighed and caught Beatrice’s attention. The woman shook her head and then nodded sharply forward. They had no time to be scared of the dark.
More tentatively now, they made their way into the last part of Dhuloch, aiming for the main door.
In the blackness, the sounds of the child only intensified, and his shallow, strained breaths echoed between the walls like a cat scratching its claws down the stonework. The cold pressed against her cheeks. Beatrice’s eyes were wide and blind, and the panic made the cold prick her exposed flesh; goosepimples flushed her skin.
Then a sound – a rasping sound, too loud in the quiet. She flinched against its sharpness, her body tensing with fear, her head flicking one way and then the other until she saw what had made the noise. A match.
A flare of yellow light burst out of the blackness, searing her vision and blinding her once again. Blinking, she saw the face lit up behind the flame.
‘What are you doing?’ Clementine stood before them in the corridor. She placed the match against the wick of an oil lamp, and all of them watched as the material caught. Calmly, Clementine took the glass chimney which stood on the nearest table and set it over the flame, and only after she had done all of this did she look at Beatrice. Not once did she glance at Jean or the trembling child.
‘The cocoa was not quite to my taste, fortunately.’
Beatrice ignored her sarcasm. ‘He needs help, Clementine.’ Beatrice was surprised by how level her voice was. She held Clementine’s blank gaze. ‘We are going to take him to a doctor.’
Still, Clementine did not glance at the child. She shook her head. Behind her, illuminated by the oil lamp, the main door loomed. So close.
‘Move out of the way, Clementine.’
In her head, she was begging Clementine to let them go. How she wanted Clementine to look at the child in horror, to rush to him, for tears to fill her eyes as she stared at him in shock. She wished Clementine would declare that she’d had no part in this cruelty. She wished Clementine would run with them into the night and ride all the way to the doctor’s beside them.
But she did not.
‘He is already dead.’
Beatrice shuddered at the ice in Clementine’s voice. Her eyes began to sting with tears of disappointment and anger, but she bit them back.
‘Move out of the way, Clementine.’
‘You want him over me.’
‘He is a child, Clementine! And he is dying.’ Beatrice edged forward, closing the space. ‘How could you be so cruel?’
Rage flashed in Clementine’s eyes. She bared her teeth as she hissed her words. ‘He was born out of cruelty.’
‘He is innocent.’
‘He is a murderer.’
Beatrice could not believe the conviction Clementine had. She could not understand how Clementine could think such a thing of a little boy.
But she did not have time to ponder. Suddenly, there was chaos. The child was torn from her grasp. Jean flew past her, the child thrown over her shoulder. Metal keys crashed and slammed against each other as Jean ripped them out of Beatrice’s pocket.
In an instant, Jean bowled into Clementine, sending her sprawling to the floor. The oil lamp smashed on the flagstones, and for a moment there was a gush of blue and
yellow light as the fire raged over the spilt pool of fuel. In those few seconds, Beatrice saw Clementine grappling for the wall whilst holding her head and groaning with pain. Jean jammed a key into the door and tugged it open, and a slither of moonlight illuminated the hills in the distance before Jean ran outside with the boy jolting against her back.
Without thinking, Beatrice bounded over the open flames, pulling her skirts away from the fire just in time. Behind her, Clementine’s feet slipped over the stones as she tried to stand.
She slammed the door shut, but the key stuck in its lock. She wiggled it, up and down, side to side, glancing over her shoulder to find Clementine now on her feet, swaying unsteadily.
Beatrice forced her attention back to the keys, and with one last effort, she pressed her body against the door and finally, metal grated over metal, and the lock turned. She slid the keys into her pocket. Now, she was trapped inside.
The flames died on the floor as she turned around to see Clementine walking towards her.
The faint pad of bare feet grew louder. She sensed the presence only inches away from her and strained to see, but the blackness was too intense. She was completely still, afraid of what Clementine might do.
The sound of the match came again, followed by the flame. The closeness of Clementine’s face made Beatrice edge away, but the door was directly behind her. She pressed against the wood as Clementine held the match between them. The light showed tears pooling in Clementine’s grey eyes, showed the lines in her face – from age, from worry, from grief, Beatrice did not know.
‘Let him go,’ Beatrice whispered.
Clementine blinked, and a tear landed on her cheek. She studied the flame burning down the matchstick, grasping at her bare fingers.
‘Why?’ Beatrice wanted to understand. She wanted to know that Clementine was not the monster she seemed to be, that inside, there was still the part of her which Beatrice had fallen in love with. Surely that part was not a lie?
‘He killed his mother,’ Clementine said.
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