by Jess Kidd
As for Dead Lydia: she was a fair, plump, pensive child in a blue dress in a painting in the hall.
Dead Lydia.
Bridie slept in her bed and touched her things: the china dolls and the picture books, the dapple-grey rocking horse and the toy theatre.
Bridie wore Dead Lydia’s clothes.
Sometimes Bridie fancied she heard the deceased girl complaining, coming back to enquire as to why a hoyden was wearing her dress. Bridie imagined that the rustle of her petticoats was Dead Lydia’s whispered disapproval.
Sometimes Bridie would catch Mrs Eames watching her closely and frowning. It struck Bridie that it might be upsetting for a mother to see her late daughter’s clothes on a slum-child.
Bridie gathered the courage to raise her concern at Mrs Donsie’s range-side one evening. The cook told her that whilst Mrs Eames worshipped her son, she had been indifferent to her daughter. At best she had viewed poor Lydia as a dress-up doll, at worst an inconvenience, like February or indigestion. Bridie should take heart: the mistress had nothing personal against her. She wouldn’t know Bridie from a door-stop and would not recognise her dead daughter’s gowns and much less care if she did. The mistress was most likely ruffled at having to accommodate another of her husband’s fancies. At this point Mrs Donsie glanced over at Eliza, who was darning a sock in unheeding reverie.
After all, Bridie was no more than a pet. Legend had it that Eames’s Irish street rat could whip out a gall-stone in a minute and saw a leg off in five. Eames’s friends were intrigued, until they encountered Bridie with her pinched orphan face and wild red hair.
Eames had been sold down the river – only – wait; wasn’t there a modest competence in the child’s manner and an intelligence of expression about the eyes?
Dressed in Dead Lydia’s clothes Bridie looked near enough one of them. Soon, under Dr Eames’s instruction, she began to sound and act like one of them too. And it was remembered that Bridie was a luckless descendent of a talented but tragic Dublin medical family (who had lived in Merrion Square). So Dr Eames’s pet began to accompany him to the hospital, where she made friends with doctors and surgeons, matrons and ward-sisters, almoners and officers and even the apothecary and his assistants (who were not renowned for their amicability). She was, on numerous occasions, mistaken for Dr Eames’s own daughter as she trotted beside him on his ward rounds.
When news of Bridie’s popularity (and her mistaken identity) reached Mrs Eames, she was incensed. Any pet, even a favoured one, ought to have boundaries. These were quickly laid down by Mrs Eames and were a condition of her husband being allowed to keep his waif (and secure a sizable donation from his father-in-law for improvements to his beloved St Bartholomew’s Hospital). Bridie would no longer accompany Dr Eames to the hospital, neither would she eat with the family, be demonstrated to visiting guests, or share the Eames’s pew at church. Mrs Eames did, however, consent to Bridie continuing to assist her husband in his home laboratory, for she was loathe to return to her (neglected) wifely duty of pasting labels on jars of gristle.
Now Bridie ate her meals with the servants, and sat with Eliza and little Edgar and Mrs Donsie at church, helping them clack through a quantity of humbugs. And although she mourned the loss of the hospital visits, Bridie would have found herself content enough if she wasn’t brim-full of dread.
*
Bridie had never been afraid of anything, not really. Not of the slum boys who ran after her with broken bottles, or the affectionate drunks in the tavern, or a night spent in a churchyard with Gan Murphy, a pick, a shovel and a sack. Bridie had never felt fear, although she understood well and good how it worked in others.
All the servants at Albery Hall were afraid of Gideon Eames, in their own way, from the scullery-maids to the butler and everyone in-between.
‘He’s a lying, cheating snake of a boy and you’d better beware if he gets a notion to toy with you,’ said Mrs Donsie, who knew about all things.
Gideon destroyed servants on no more than a whim. Mrs Donsie shook her jowls and went watery-eyed at the thought of it. Gardeners lamed in fishy accidents, grooms framed for stealing, housemaids led sobbing out of the gate with their bags packed and their reputations in rags.
‘He is shot through with rotten,’ Mrs Donsie said. ‘Unhinged, like the mother.’
They were sitting together in front of the kitchen fire. Bridie, Mrs Donsie and Eliza. Little Edgar played on the hearthrug before them.
Little Edgar wiggled a piece of string over Mrs Donsie’s foot and made hissing noises. She shrieked and laughed. ‘Oh, my heavenly days, it’s a snake!’
Edgar laughed too.
As did Eliza, watching her boy, her face lit with love.
Edgar was an unfavourable-looking child: wan of complexion, with a large, oddly-shaped head. It was a puzzle as to how a beauty like Eliza could produce a child so unappealing. There was much speculation as to the physiognomy of the father and it was decided that he would have been a definite creature. But then, two of the handsomest parents could create a horror. Mr and Mrs Eames were a prime example – but then Gideon was only ugly on the inside, which was better, if you were to be ugly at all.
Eliza ruffled Edgar’s hair. Her smile ebbed, the shadow of a bitter thought settling on her lovely face. ‘He’s back from school this weekend.’
Mrs Donsie groaned. ‘So soon, and the doctor away?’
‘The son and the mother; together, unchecked.’ Eliza turned to Bridie. ‘You must try to stay away from Gideon and Mrs Eames, do you understand? You must work out where they are at all times and then avoid them.’
Bridie nodded, a little startled.
‘If you see them, mizzle! Hide, if you have to, child,’ said Mrs Donsie, gravely.
Bridie looked at Eliza, who just lugged Edgar onto her lap, to sit for the longest while, abstracted in thought.
Gideon, like his mother, was tall and well-formed and imperious, with clear blue eyes. Only his tawny hair was thick, and unlike Mrs Eames he was perceptive and quick-witted. Gideon had soft beginning-whiskers, a full mouth, beautiful hands and a supercilious stare that could ruffle even Mrs Donsie.
It wasn’t long before Bridie heard tell of the cruelties of the son and of the mother. When Mrs Eames spiked the palm of her lady’s maid with her embroidery needle, Gideon smiled. When Gideon kicked a spaniel up and down the breakfast room, Mrs Eames laughed. When Mrs Eames pulled the chambermaid’s hair out by the roots, Gideon went one better, whipping the stable lad until the boy was insensible.
Then there were the rumours. That Gideon, now a young man of seventeen, had begun to pursue in earnest every housemaid, milkmaid and barmaid in the local area. Running them down with a kind of joyless determination, to inflict bruises and babies. It was whispered that Gideon Eames maimed livestock in dark and terrible ways.
Mrs Donsie shook her head. ‘He’s a charming boy with such wicked coldness inside him. Have no doubt: he would smile into your eyes while he knifed you in the heart.’
Mrs Donsie should know. She had been with the family since Dr Eames was an infant in his crib. But when Gideon was home it was impossible to speak openly. He had the vexing habit of appearing in the servants’ quarters without warning. Pulling up a chair in front of Mrs Donsie’s range of an evening, watching Eliza and Edgar closely with a half-smile, sending everyone scuttling off to bed early. When Gideon was home Mrs Donsie had to disguise her warnings as cautionary tales in case he was eavesdropping. The kitchen would be tense with talk of vipers and foxes, wolves and innocent young girls being dragged from sunlit paths to the infamy and disgrace of shady walkways.
Some days Bridie wished herself back with Gan Murphy and the tavern cat. She continued to curse Paddy Fadden and his gang with a raft of gruesome deaths. Once, in the early months, Bridie’s old gaffer came visiting and was cordially welcomed by Eliza and Mrs Donsie (Gan saw fit not to trouble the master of the house). He blew in on a south-westerly from London, smelling of coal smoke and f
og, so that Bridie felt homesick for the city. Gan took Bridie by the ears, pointed her towards the light. Then he nodded and sat down to start work on a cough while Mrs Donsie poured them a glass and began a slanderous story. When Gan left, Bridie watched him all the way down the drive. Afterwards she remembered you must never watch a leaving friend out of sight, else you’ll not see them return. And she found this, to the pain of her heart, to be true.
But now Bridie had a new gaffer, Dr Eames, who, to Bridie’s surprise, never stopped holding her in high regard. He told her that he expected great things of her. She wondered what these great things might be and whether Dr Eames gave credence to Gan’s tall stories about her surgical talents.
He didn’t of course, but he almost could have, because Bridie in the big house was different to Bridie alone with Eliza, laughing and playing. Around Dr Eames, Bridie was hush-stepped and soft-voiced and steady-handed. When Dr Eames was home she was always by his side, as she had been by Gan’s side. But now she was in an anatomist’s laboratory, not sculling up and down the Thames looking for a ghastly variety of catch or running up and down back alleys with a sack and a wheelbarrow.
Now Bridie had her own little gauntlets and apron and a set of wheeled steps Dr Eames had made for her so that she could reach the worktops. She was careful to lift things without dropping them and careful to set them down without making a noise. She learnt quickly: predicting, preparing and innovating.
Dr Eames was surprised to find that Bridie could read and write. Gan had taught her from a young age using the Newgate Calendar and the Bible – the only sources of written information he thought worth reading. Bridie had got her numbers from a costermonger’s son who lived across the passage above the old ship-chandler’s shop.
Sometimes Dr Eames would stop what he was doing and observe Bridie going about her tasks. Cleaning equipment, recording figures, measuring liquids, assisting with the specimens. He was never less than impressed by her. Dr Eames, with his perfect, spoilt, unhinged offspring Gideon, had forgotten that children younger than Bridie supported whole families. And if he had little patience with his dissolute son before, he had less now that he had a comparison in the diligent Bridie.
Bridie worked hard. But this wasn’t her only asset. She was also stout-hearted and inquisitive, rigorous and intuitive. Soon Dr Eames could almost believe Gan Murphy’s tales. If she had been a boy a future in medicine would have been assured, but Dr Eames felt sanguine that he could create a skilled laboratory assistant out of Bridie. She would make the perfect wife for a young doctor. When the time was right he would oversee her marriage (a solid match, from a good family, who may be encouraged to let pass Bridie’s beginnings).
Dr Eames started to look forward to going home, in a way he hadn’t done for a long time. He looked forward to Bridie’s serious smile, her questions and the rustle of her moving calmly around the room. He began to see his own work through her eyes, reviving his excitement, his curiosity. He began to whistle, and sing, on occasion. He grew happier, less guarded. Then Dr Eames made a terrible mistake.
He told his wife about his growing affection for the steadfast little girl. He wondered, out loud, how he ever did without her.
He would give her one of Swift’s puppies, he said. ‘Not a lap-dog for Bridget, a gun-dog.’
Mrs Eames was incensed. ‘Is that wise, John, darling?’ she asked. And there was frost in her blue eyes, and her words were as brittle and sweet as acid drops.
Bridie was alone in Dr Eames’s laboratory when Gideon visited. It was the room she loved best in the house. The laboratory was reached through the study, where Bridie had first stood in front of Dr Eames dressed in rags and a dead man’s blood. The window seat was Bridie’s spot. This was where she read or drew specimens whilst Dr Eames worked at his desk. Her notebooks were ranged there on the ledge.
From the study, double doors opened onto the laboratory. South-facing and bright, too, with polished wood and sparkling glass. There was a scrubbed bench and cabinets full of supplies and specimens – including Bridie’s dormouse, curled in fluid, marked up by Dr Eames and displayed next to his own jars, which contained things disturbing and compelling.
For Dr Eames was a magician. He specimenised the commonplace and the exceptional, applying the same subtlety of technique to both. His wife called it his charnel house – oh, she shuddered to think of what went on behind that closed door! – but Bridie knew that what was in Dr Eames’s jars was not death – but life.
There was the human heart. Laid open to the eye, the size of a fist, a miracle of muscle and ventricle, artery and vein, splayed with precision. One perishable human heart, preserved and presented, saved from corruption, for ever! It hadn’t really stopped beating, at least not for Bridie, who with Dr Eames’s help traced the flow of blood and imagined the rhythmic contracting pulses and felt the genius of nature.
There was a lung. Country-clean and pink, it had drawn millions of breaths before Dr Eames pickled it. The dewy air of a rustic dawn, or harvest air, heat and dust, and the wholesome smells of a market town; cattle and pigs, good beer and hot pies. There was a London lung, blackened by coal-dust, palsied by smoke, stunted with gin and tarred with factory vapours.
Bridie was so absorbed, with her ordering and dusting, arranging and sorting, she didn’t notice him. When she did notice him, watching her from the doorway, you could have raked her off the ceiling.
At first, she could hardly understand what he was saying. At first, she was fixed rigid by his eyes, the amphibian coldness of them. Gideon Eames had never really looked at her before, or at least not directly. His eye had tended to sweep over her, as if she were a workaday object, a coal-scuttle or a footstool. Bridie found herself trembling, her breath catching, her blood roaring and her heart rataplanning a warning.
Her mind responded. Hadn’t she dealt undaunted with a world of rough customers in London, real nasty pieces? Yet here she stood before some boy with all the trepidation of a lame mouse under a cat’s lifted paw.
Her heart said fear him and her mind followed.
Even in her state of terror she could tell that Gideon’s face had all the beauty of a young god’s. His features were perfect, regular; straight nose, strong chin and long eyelashes. His brown-gold hair was brushed back: a bright corona. When he smiled his teeth were dazzling and when he frowned his features were fine still.
He asked Bridie two questions and he repeated them until she understood. Until the sounds he made with his lovely hard mouth became words: where had she come from and when was she going back?
For the rest of it, Gideon told her a story.
‘In the old days,’ he began . . .
There was a thief’s apprentice. She was a scrap of a creature with tangled red hair and a thick brogue that came out with words so corrupted to the civilised ear that no one knew what she was saying. One day the thief sold his apprentice to a gullible surgeon, along with a story. It was a story about talent and tragedy – the cataclysmic changes in one family’s fortune: the sort of story that everyone adores! The thief’s apprentice was no less than the daughter of a gentleman, some great medical man fallen on hard times.
And so, the little imposter came to live with the surgeon and his family. The guttersnipe, as you would expect, was only there to rob the gullible surgeon. Stealing time, knowledge and portable possessions, that sort of thing. Luckily the surgeon had a dashing son of a mind to study medicine, if only he could apply himself and stop battering the stable boy, chasing the girls about the village and having terrible murderous fun with ewes at midnight.
The son, knowing full well the guttersnipe’s game, knocked her down and cut off her two thieving hands and her two sneaking feet. He would pickle them in a jar. When the guttersnipe came to, her hands and her feet were gone. She looked up and there they were on the counter. In a sealed glass jar, newly preserved, palms waving, toes turned prettily outwards. She tried to wobble to the door on the two points of her ankles but the surgeon’s
son knocked her down again. When the guttersnipe came to, her legs were gone. She saw her legs from where she lay: neatly severed at the hip, standing nicely together, pickled. In the jar next to her hands and feet! She tried to drag herself to the door by means of her elbows. She didn’t get very far before the surgeon’s son knocked her down. This time she found her arms were gone (folded neatly – in a jar, of course!) and she had been skinned. The surgeon’s son had made a pocketbook from her; he sat calmly at his father’s desk writing in it.
The guttersnipe lay there, a bloody lump howling through her missing lips, staring at the surgeon’s son with the lidless horrors of her two eyeballs. Until the surgeon’s son finally put her out of her misery with a pistol applied to her temple.
‘So, you see,’ said Gideon, ‘it didn’t end at all well for the guttersnipe.’
Bridie, who had been raised on worse stories than that growing up under the table with the tavern cat, would have laughed in Gideon’s face, if it were not for the look in his eyes.
The look in his eyes said that he meant every last word. That if he could, he would gut her on the spot. His hands yearned to draw a knife all over her body and his eyes were aching to see inside her, the organs and hot gore and gristle of her. His nose was itching to smell the skin and hair and blood of her.