The First House

by Robert Allwood

  ✽✽✽

  Sarah took her leave from Percy’s office. She hadn’t been with a man in months, and it showed. She bit her lip and smoothed her riding dress as she strolled back through the embassy and out onto the docks. She breathed the air: salt, fish, guano, sweat, smoke from hot tar–to her, at this moment, it was all the same, it was London, it was home. She waved down a palanquin and it took off through the slipshod streets and through the black–stone courtyards. She would have walked, but her body was too worn to even broach of it. Just as Sarah became used to the motion of the box as it swayed in tandem, it came to a stop and settled outside a familiar gate.

  ‘Lady Saville welcome home.’

  ‘Hello Alex.’

  The young flagman of the palanquin accepted a clutch of coins; he took her hand and led her off the box. Autumn leaves around them flashed iron and topaz; dogged spools of ivy smothered the path that led to the Saville estate. The house had always been modest and sparse in its time; Sarah saw no reason to change a traditional look. Although she had sacrificed some furniture to cover the expedition, the place had had kept its charm; the guest rooms were famous in London for their friezes. Its conversion into a museum was taking longer than expected for the contractors, but there no mishaps, nothing out of budget. Things were still on schedule. Cyrus was already inside the hall; a cloth in one hand to wipe away the dust of one week.

  'Good God,’ she said.

  'You need to hire some housekeepers Lady; I’m amazed it wasn’t burgled.'

  ‘Well I won’t bother with asking a thief how he managed to get past the lock.’

  Alex rolled himself around the doorway. 'We used to clean the tower as initiates; this will be simple compared to that,' Alex broached.

  'If we all chipped in tomorrow it will be done sooner. Did you have trouble getting here?'

  'None, we walked.' Said Cyrus.

  'Has anyone been? Any letters left for me?'

  'There wasn’t,’ answered Alex.

  ‘Fine. Your rooms are just ahead of this corridor on the left. We will need food for the pantry and an inspection of the grounds. Rooms need to be aired also, but that can wait until tomorrow. There’s a gun in the dining room, not loaded. See yourselves to bed. Good night gentlemen.’

  The two men nodded at her; they both looked as exhausted as she felt, relieved to be set free. Sarah marched down a thin corridor which double-backed onto itself. To the right lay her private study and bedroom, on the far end of the corridor, which dominated the single space in the middle, was the library. Upstairs was left unused. She entered her bedroom; socketed and lit candles, perfumed her mattress and pillows for the night and settled into a musty nightgown. Her heart fluttered whenever Alex’s or Cyrus’s footsteps stomped past her door. She was not used to the company. Locked under an imagined anxiety, deep inside a part of her soul, was a simple truth that she once again enjoyed having guests. Any further isolation from society and she feared she would have gone mad. It took time when the tears started to fall, and when they did, she was ashamed of each one. The evening dragged as Sarah read at her desk to keep her mind occupied. The candles extinguished in her room, except one. Revels started in the city as soon as the sun set and the moon waxed. Homes and closed their doors as dockworkers and sailors combed the streets in a search for booze and women. Shrieks, screams and ill-conceived shanties echoed throughout the bay an hour after. Sarah shut her window when she heard the first noise; she didn't care anymore for it. In her youth she would accept invites from friends to gather and be merry. Regular turned into occasional and occasional became rare. The accounts ledger in front of her had gathered an unprecedented volume of dust with her absence. She blew hard and it spiralled into the air, which made her cough and clutch her stomach. Sarah cast her pen onto the desk; she hated this dread that nagged her and kept her awake. After blowing out the last candle and wrapping a shawl around herself, she found the floor was warmer on her bare feet than she thought it would be.

  Heart–burn, change of mood, phantom pains, and my river was late coming.

  The library’s chill nipped at Sarah’s bare skin. She pulled on the strings in her hand and her skin made a spark spiral into the air which grew into a bubble of fire. It hovered above the wicks in a candelabrum and lit them. Sarah hefted a thick tome off a top shelf; she handled it roughly and brought it up to the light.

  ‘Babe... See child... See conception... The blood is late coming. See gestation. Phantom pains... Cravings... Changes in appearance... Bloated belly… Birth–' she stopped herself on the last word of the entry.

  The book was old and well–thumbed. It was a notebook her father had rescued from the aftermath of a house fire, back when he had the spirit to do so. It belonged to a surgeon who excelled in research. She read his notes with a fierce concentration. Repeating words in her mind until satisfied of their meaning and connotation. The symptoms fitted. But she had not shared her bed; she had not shared anything at all to her knowledge. She expected fear. It didn't feel like fear when it came, just more questions juxtaposed on top of each other.

  Her plans with Percy would have to wait.

  ✽✽✽

  When winter arrived in England, it arrived obtuse and malevolent, its grip absolute. Sarah asked the men to stop maintenance. The conditions were abominable, even for those used to it. Alex and Cyrus had settled into their respective rooms. They both promised to at least tackle the drifts along the entrance and keep her company in the bleak evenings with logs for the fire. Her belly had swollen, not to her surprise; it bulged out; a bump she couldn't hide even in heavy clothes. She slept more than usual and became worried that when the gossip would seep out and reach Percy’s ears, he would disown her; perhaps not going as far to slander the Saville name, but never to be in contact with her again, and an end to a relationship that promised much. To be pregnant without the father known, nor present; to be with child without knowing why or how; she sobbed at the thought there was nobody who could intervene and whisk her away under pretence. No gallant gentleman to the rescue. Sarah dried her eyes and stumbled upstairs for rest. Before she had managed to climb up the grand stair, there were several sharp knocks at the trade door. It was down a dark passage next to the kitchen's pantry. She pinched up her layers and staggered to the kitchen, taking her time. Anyone in this weather could not be in rush? She wrenched the heavy door open with both arms, careful not to let it hit her. The bright sky stung her eyes; soft piles of slush slumped and deposited over her silk slippers. Percy sat, saddled on a cold blood, a look on his face that he had expected nobody to answer his knock. He removed his hat and readjusted his cloak. Sarah stood there transfixed. He had managed to get here, just to see her. She shivered. Her brow creased when she realised his gaze was fixed on her belly and not her.

  'No Percy, please let me explain–don’t leave!'

  He turned with a sneer and rode away. His shape smudged by a flurry until he disappeared into the white. She fell hard onto the rough tiles below and let out a howl that tore out of her throat as a half—laugh. Sarah cradled her belly tight while a steady stream of snow gathered around her. She scrunched her dress up to soak the tears that fell and slammed the trade door. She walked towards the dining room and lit candles with a long taper. She slumped onto a chair next to the mahogany table, head lolling. Her arms spread out and she retracted them. The lines and cuts, the pocks and marks that ran down the table, each told a story, each marked an occasion. Some familiarity would go a long way, it shored up the wound in her–if only for a brief moment.

  She heard Alex and Cyrus enter the dining room before she woke. They were dirty and sweaty; they had done a hard day's chore and now sought cheer and reprieve. She stood and wiped the sleep from her eyes and the film left by her tears. Sarah ran fingers through her cold hair and smoothed it as best as possible given her mood. The two men paused at the threshold of the room, unsure if they needed permission. They both wore childish expressions with scruffy beards obscuring th
eir half-smiles. Sarah rolled her eyes and gave them a curt wave to proceed. She noticed, with horror, their boots trampled muck into an antique rug.

  'Stop! Boots!' she signalled at them with a furious stare.

  Cyrus mouthed pardon, while Alex blushed. They both helped each other remove their boots. With a cork in his mouth and a brown bottle of almost frozen ale in his hand, Alex sat and poured into three cups. Cyrus took one of the cups with his little finger extended, and drank without making a slurp. He had the etiquette perfected and had shown off what she had taught him at the local inn. Sarah studied them both with her head in her arms. The only visible parts were her two oval eyes and a forehead fixed in calm irritation.

  'How you feeling my Lady?' said Alex.

  He drank straight from the bottle and pushed a cup over to her side. She shook her head, and pointed to the bottle. Alex gave it to her. She snatched it out of his hand and drank the rest of the ale in three gulps. She sat it back down onto the table with a burp.

  'We saw him ride past us. The way he bolted–villainous,' said Cyrus.

  'It's over,’ she said in a broken voice with none of her usual inflection. 'No more expeditions. No more connections. No more soirées. No more future.'

  'You still have us,’ Alex ventured. His smile reversed as she scowled at him.

  Sarah again traced the table with its bumps and notches. Cyrus started the fireplace. Every other evening, they would share anecdotes gathered from their years. Other nights they would sit, watch the flames and enjoy a small feast gleaned from the pantry.

  ‘Maybe something different tonight Lady?’ said Alex.

  Alex removed a sitar from a beaten sack that hung around his neck, and strummed. It responded with a bright note.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ she asked.

  ‘Carpenter in Huntersford. It still smells of smoke from that workshop. Cyrus bought it for me.’

  He started to play a simple song and it rose in complexity. It turned from sadness to joy between indefatigable hands. Sarah noted he was happy. She hadn’t seen joy written on his face before. To give into a simple pleasure, one that divided creativity and intuition. He stopped half-way through a song.

  ‘Sorry, I’m losing myself.’

  ‘Lose away–it was marvellous.’

  Alex grinned with his cracked teeth; a cap shone from the back of his mouth

  ‘Thank you. I’m glad there’s someone here who appreciates my music.’

  ‘Have you got any hidden talents Cyrus?’

  ‘Locks and purses,’ he smiled.

  ‘Ones we didn’t already know about,’ she gave him a wry look.

  Cyrus retreated and brought back a script of paper with scrawls and scribbles. She took it with all the delicacy of a head teacher who found a note passed between rowdy pupils. It was a play judging from the front page. She read it over, planting herself onto a soft stool by the fire and bent over to gather as much light as possible. It was a satire on the warmongers between countries during a time of unrest and strife. Most of the history had faded into obscurity and legend. Cyrus had added political issues told from the bold array of characters; some, the vulgarities of real people. She laughed and frowned as she skimmed the writing.

  ‘This is brave Cyrus.’

  ‘It’s a small passion Lady,’ he beamed. ‘The blurred boundaries between the elite and the soldiers who defend their way of life.’

  ‘And here I thought I had two wine–sacks to keep me company this sorry evening. What about acting tonight?’

  The two men looked at each other with impassive eyes.

  ‘What are you saying Lady? Act Cyrus’s play?’

  ‘Come–let’s raise the impoverished working class above all.’

  They shuffled together with looks of disdain.

  ‘Aren’t you one of them?’

  She winked at Cyrus and wrapped a shawl around her neck with a flourish.

  ‘Since that brute of a man has left me with my love smashed to pieces, my position amongst the elite has finished.’

  ‘And what are you now?’ said Cyrus as Sarah clambered onto a footstool and struck a pose.

  ‘A job I was born to do–to be an actor,’ she laughed.

  They read the lines of the play deliberate and in turn, while Sarah paced between the men and corrected their pronunciation. Alex struggled to read but she pushed him all the same. They stirred imaginations as the room became a mezzanine filled with amoral warriors and then a castle with a king admonished over a pyrrhic victory. Shawls and coats were armour of old, and broomsticks turned into swords. At the end of it they had passed another evening in winter, happy in company. As the fire died, they conceded to retire for the day.

  ✽✽✽

  Inside her private journal Sarah made a log of her pregnancy. She filled it with her ailments and diet. Every ache and pain, every emotion she could single out from the maelstrom inside her. She woke one misty morning to slap her swollen belly in front of her bedroom mirror that she kept clean for this purpose. She wondered whether she should use a spell to peek inside and determine both sex and health of the unborn. She felt two heartbeats within when she tugged on the strings, but didn't probe further, satisfied they were well. She found comfort in the knowledge there would be two heiresses (or heirs) on the way. Other mornings she could wake in a filthy, corruptible mood: one that either stole whole days in bed or she would eat unceasing, while snapping at Alex and Cyrus.

  At the start of summer, in the new year, Sarah neared the end of her term. After her water broke under thin blankets, a midwife and doctor doted over her. Sarah suffered the twists of pain during birth: the hot snaps of agony that felt like she was being torn in two. After seven hours of torment, she gave birth under a relentless sky: a heat wave London had not experienced for a generation. The sun boiled away stamina; it created a fugue that taxed everyday motions. The first child came through stubborn. She screamed until rubbed down with soft cotton and nestled in brushed fur. The second, also a girl, came quickly, during a storm that erupted over the bay. It sent warm rain and shattered the peace with peals of thunder. This babe arrived silent, only two curious eyes that absorbed every detail. When her daughters were finally together, one on each arm, the serenity was overwhelming. She held them to her covered breast and nuzzled them before the nervous staff present. The staff, in turn, gave their blessings, and left them alone to bond. She slept sound that night with her two summer children. She dreamt of portents and myths. Twisted monsters: half–men and half–ash; people with cracked smiles and fear in their eyes; a cross of fire; a tower bleached by the sun. She saw a coast dominated by a single oak, on its branches fluttered bright coloured pennants; her oak, her pennants. If she couldn’t sleep in the stifling room at night, Sarah would sing to them: songs which her mother had taught her, old songs of witches, thieves, and cunning–women.

  Her new–born grew to become babies proper: time moving along swifter than she expected. A year flew past in the old house; life ever expanding from itself; it changed everything she saw and knew, in ways and forms she could not anticipate. Sarah couldn’t abide to grow old, but became smitten by her daughters and paid age no more heed. If she grew older on the outside, she would endeavour to become younger on the inside. Her wisdom grew in bounds, and with advice from contacts she still had left, learned all that a mother could be. Before, in a solitary life, she had never experienced a full range of emotions on her own, but now, she embraced every twinge of guilt, every protective sensation, every bit of joy her beautiful daughters brought her. Soon, as with all mothers, Sarah conceded to herself that she was their only future, their only way into the world: teacher, guardian, and anchor. It was a hard truth that drove her to seek betterment, material and otherwise.

  She needed a new start, a new home, and a father.

  The Priestess

  — The Frost Household —

  When her father said he was expecting guests, Gold stayed to greet them and observed several thi
ngs she did not like about Lady Sarah Saville. She was a short woman with an expressive face and coquettish eyes who openly flirted with her father. Her voice was reedy and demanding, her actions premeditated. After introductions, Gold heard two cries in the hallway. Two thuggish men, who, with flushed faces, surrendered two babies to her without question. She had not cared for girls as young as these, but felt motherly all the same, and swaddled them in fresh linen. They cooed in return as she fed them from a bottle and tickled their bellies. Both babies rested in her arms content and full, as the Lady and her two men settled in her father’s study to talk of boring things as adults are wont to do.

  ‘Lady Sarah Saville. Now what brings you back here?’ asked John Frost, her father.

  ‘I need passage south, back to my homeland.’

  John considered her in his own slow manner.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve given up on London. What do you think Gold, should we take the Tail up the Storm Coast?’

  Gold fawned over the children and nodded in agreement. She’d always wanted to travel far south, her curiosity piqued.

  ‘You’re a natural with them my dear, I might call on your services more often,’ said Sarah. Her father smiled and ruffled Gold’s lax hair, which irritated her to no end. She put distance away from the adults and scowled behind her fringe.

  ‘Gold’s mother was a firecracker. She has her temper and brains–and my black hair and lazy peepers.’ Gold put on a thin smile. She imagined her petulant act wouldn’t pass mustard with her father any longer. She broke the silence in the conversation.

  ‘Are they adopted Miss Saville?’ Gold held up the bundled children in accusation.

  Sarah looked Gold over. ‘No–my daughters are mine. John, we need to discuss this properly, payment and schedule.’

  ‘Goldie, leave us please,’ her father only adopted this tone for business he didn’t want her to hear.