“Marriage can do that to a woman,” he said.
“Perhaps,” Alice said. Her heart felt squeezed. “But I never imagined I would be the sort to allow my uncle’s teachings to slip away.”
Matthew turned his eyes towards her. They glinted orange from the firelight. Despite the fiery heat, he’d already drunk half of his tea. Alice imagined it sloshing about in his stomach, singing the softness within.
“I never imagined Cecil Andrews would marry a woman like you,” Matthew said.
Thunder rollicked across the fields. A strange, alien thought twisted about in the back of Alice’s mind, a reminder that, under no circumstance, should she be seated in a dark kitchen with the stable-hand, gazing out at the darkness of a stormy night.
Of course, with Matthew, she’d been able to utter something real, something that ached with nostalgia and passion. Something she hadn’t felt allowed to feel, nor remember, in quite some time.
“What do you mean?”
The fire grew increasingly ominous, a tossing animal before them. The wrinkles on Matthew’s cheeks and forehead were uncountable. Alice wondered how it to find the skin of your face extending itself towards the ground as time pressed forward.
Matthew leaned slightly towards Alice. She inhaled his tea-scented breath. There was nothing ominous in his demeanour. Nothing that told her he was going to rip her in two, or kiss her, or belittle her.
He was a comforting presence. So much like her uncle.
“The man is an imbecile,” Matthew said then, his eyes dancing in the light. “Since he was a boy, I’ve known it. He can’t get a grip on reality, and so he lashes out at the world around him, very much aware that he’s not good enough for any of it. I hear him in here, screeching at you. And you think he’ll operate in any other way towards your children? No. The man never had to grow older. He was always given exactly what he wanted. And now, you do the same.”
Throughout his speech, Alice’s jaw had dropped lower and lower. Each of his words seemed heavy with dozens of stories, and they ached with truth. Matthew had, in fact, been privy to a great deal of Cecil’s upbringing. Perhaps, besides Evelyn Sanders herself, Matthew knew more about the makeup of the young nobleman than anyone else. His character. The deeds he’d done.
Alice had a sense that she didn’t truly wish to know the whole story.
“I do love him,” she murmured.
Outside, lightning wound its golden arch across the sky. She shivered, forcing her eyes to the fire. She couldn’t see the reflection of honesty from Matthew’s face a moment more. It felt too sincere. It was clear he ached with worry for her.
“Do you really?” he asked.
At this, thunder rocked the house. Alice’s eyes grew heavy. She imagined her cheeks, laced with tears in the coming minutes. She couldn’t bear to feel the comfort from Matthew. It would be too intimate, giving him so much of herself.
“I’m terribly sorry, Matthew,” Alice said. She cut up from the fireside chair, drawing her nose towards the ground. “I really must return to bed.”
Matthew creaked from his seat, watching her go. He grunted, “I really hope I didn’t step beyond my boundary, My Lady.”
Again, Alice was reminded of her now-long-deceased uncle, who’d died after a raucous ride across the moors on horseback. Nothing, not even his herbs or his flowers or his serums, could save him.
“I’m sorry for speaking so much out of turn, regarding my memories of my uncle,” Alice said. “Only that I ache with memories of my youth, just like anyone. Especially in the months prior to, I’m sure, carrying Lord Andrews’ first child.”
Matthew’s face crumpled. Alice yearned to demand a final thing. What would he have her do, if she was truly meant to acknowledge Cecil’s occasionally-childish (nay, wretched?) disposition? What did she have to gain through staring the terror in the face? Women, men, all humankind were meant to string the burdens of reality across their backs and yank them into eternity. Alice had been given hers.
“Thank you for the tea, Matthew,” Alice said, her voice rattling out of her throat. “I hope to see you soon, on a brighter day.”
Alice marched back upstairs. It seemed that her bones quivered within the skin sacks of her body, making a mockery of the act of walking. After what seemed like a small eternity, she arrived back in her bedroom – the bedroom she shared with the love of her life, Cecil Andrews – and again gazed out of the window. It seemed the storm would never cease.
Sleep didn’t find her again.
Hours later, the sun drew itself, pale and soft, over the fields. The trees outside the window remained spindly, as it was still early spring. The rain made them look brittle and sharp. It seemed an impossibility that they would ever grow fertile with leaves, although Alice knew the day would come. It always had before.
Downstairs, the commotion caused the house to quake. Alice scrubbed at the back of her head, straining to hear. It was perhaps seven, a little before. Smells of baked breads and sizzling meat crept up the staircase. But alongside that was a strange, animal-like sound, then a wail. Evelyn Sanders was the unmistakable source.
“THIS CAN’T BE SO!”
The words scorched up from the front door. Alice sprung towards the landing, still dressed in only her nightdress. At the very base of the stairs, she made out the shadow of a much taller man. He appeared to lurk in the doorway, staring down at Evelyn Sanders.
Throughout the time Alice had spent at the Andrews estate, she’d always seen Evelyn Sanders as an upright, proper woman – a woman without sentiment, her shoulders yanked back and her nose high. Yet now, she’d tossed herself forward, had begun to scrunch the fabric of her dress. Her moans rang out, echoing.
“No! No, tell me it’s not so!”
Alice swept her bare feet across the floorboards. Her muscles ached with dread. Not fully realising what she was doing, nor the craze of her scrunched-up face, she swirled down the stairs, her eyes doe-big. She sprang to the side of Evelyn, dropping her hands across her shoulders. She blinked up at the towering man, who wore a jet-black coat that cut towards his knees. He dripped with the early-morning rain. His eyes were impossibly dark, almost unseeing.
“What is it?” Alice asked, nearly swallowing her words. “Tell me. What’s happened?”
Evelyn coughed, seeming to swallow her tongue. Alice cranked at her lower back, trying to force her to draw breath. The other servants and cooks appeared in the hallway behind them, looking like sparrows, gathered for crumbs of information.
The man gave no mention of Alice’s lacklustre, morning appearance. He tipped his hat from his head and spread it across his chest.
“Lady Andrews, I presume?” he grunted. “I’ve ridden long and hard to come and tell you this.”
Alice felt like she was in a dream-state, a woman walking through impossible boundaries, blinking at the world around her as though it didn’t exist.
“Yes,” Alice returned, sensing already that was the incorrect word to say back. “I’m Lady Andrews.”
“He already knows that, you imbecile,” Evelyn said, her shoulders shaking.
“Your husband was involved in a wretched incident a few hours earlier,” the man continued. “During the storm, a group of highwaymen attacked the stagecoach. In the midst of the robbery, Lord Andrews sustained a number of injuries. His arrival at the estate is pressing. But I must tell you, Lady Andrews, his injuries are a difficult thing to witness.”
Alice stitched her eyebrows together. She felt as though the man had arrived with news of another woman’s husband – that surely he’d made a mistake.
“But you – you were there, were you?” she asked, her voice rasping.
“Unfortunately, I rode past in the early hours after the incident,” the man continued. “I found your husband on the ground, My Lady. I arranged for my dear friend and fellow witness to bring the carriage back to the estate. Your husband informed me of the location of his home and insisted he arrive back here to be treated.
It seems he trusts only a single doctor in the area.”
“Doctor French,” Evelyn said. She cut up, yanking her bird-like skull towards the maid behind her. “You must tell the stable boy to ride for Doctor French. Tell him it’s a matter of life and death. If he dallies –”
“He shan’t, Miss Sanders,” the maid burst out, whirling towards the back of the house. Her scampering feet made little hollow taps across the floorboards.
“Thank you for delivering this information, sir,” Evelyn said, sniffing. She ripped herself from Alice’s latches, as though Alice’s attempted assistance was entirely sour to her. “Can we fetch you a cup of tea? I imagine you must be chilled to the bone.”
The man, who said his name was Nigel Caldwell, agreed to the tea. He shrugged out of his massive black coat and placed his wet hat into the outstretched hands of another maid. Alice remained in the foyer, her bare feet spread wide beneath her. The world outside was hazy with early light. She felt they’d been pressed into another reality, a world with rules she couldn’t understand. She’d heard tell of highwaymen, of raucous, murderous incidents. But these sorts of stories had never affected her. She’d never given them much thought.
“You saw him?” Alice whispered, her voice childlike.
Nigel’s dark eyes burned towards hers. Alice felt she could see Cecil’s injuries, reflected in them.
“I never wanted to be the bearer of such news, Lady Andrews,” Nigel said. He twirled absently at a black curl beneath his ear. “You can’t imagine how it pains me to do so. Thinking of my young wife at home, with our son, I now understand the treachery of the road.”
“I never imagined it,” Alice murmured, speaking mostly to herself.
At this moment, Matthew burst through the back door of the estate. His towering shadow held every bit the height of Nigel. Alice felt strange she hadn’t noted it before, the severity of his stature. He gaped at Alice, his dirtied hands hanging at his sides.
“Matthew, I can’t imagine what you’re doing in the house,” Evelyn said, scuttling towards him.
“I’ve heard news of the master,” Matthew spat back. His words simmered with vitriol. He took a hesitant step back, whilst Evelyn burned towards him. Alice saw for the first time that theirs was a strange, black relationship – one with the depth of many decades of continued hatred.
“He’s coming here directly,” Evelyn returned, her voice pompous. “And the doctor is summoned. I can’t imagine it will take long for Cecil to heal. He was always such a strong, resilient boy.”
Resilient? Alice pressed her lips together. Once, Cecil had sliced his finger on the edge of the window. Impossibly bright red blood dribbled along the wall. His wail had echoed, demonic in nature, without any sense of matching what had occurred. Alice had dotted at the slight wound, her words soft and mothering. “Darling, it’s quite all right. Only look at it, won’t you? There’s truly nothing amiss. Just a flesh wound.”
“I’m quite sure his appearance will be a shocking one, Lady Andrews,” Nigel offered now, drawing his chin towards his chest. “It’s important that you prepare yourself, body and mind. He will not look much like the man you love.”
Alice snaked herself against the wall of the foyer. She stretched her hands out against the chill of the stones. It felt necessary for her to respond in some manner, to deliver her understanding of the wretched nature of this to the man before her. But her bottom lip quivered, lost to its own devices.
“I’ve loved him as well as I could,” were the words that spilled from between her lips.
In hindsight, always, Alice marvelled at the strangeness of these words. They felt oddly telling, as though she’d felt prepared to splay out the stresses and pains and wills of her inner heart to the strange man before her. Of course, she would never see him again and felt the heaviness of this now. Even the man who’d arrived with the news of her forever-altered life wouldn’t stay.
The doctor arrived mere minutes before the stagecoach. A forty-year-old grey-haired rogue-looking man, he burst through the door with his trunk lashing against the side of his leg. He blinked at Alice, murmuring, “Won’t someone fetch her a tonic? She’s white as a sheet.”
Evelyn snapped her fingers towards a surly twelve-year-old maid, ordering the same. But Alice shook her head left and right, stating, “No. I wish to be entirely conscious. I only wish to help.”
“Help?” the doctor stammered. He strode towards Alice, pressing his trunk into her twig-like arms “If you’re sure you can handle sight of the injuries without fainting, my dear girl, I will take all the help I can get.”
The words were spat out, volatile and utterly useless. Alice’s nostrils flared. She grabbed the trunk by its underbelly and stomped up the steps after the doctor. Down below, Evelyn continued to order the various members of the household about the manor, as though her blossoming anger could, in some capacity, prove her love for her master. As though it could keep him alive.
Once they reached the bedroom, Alice slipped one of her husband’s shirts over her shoulders and stabbed her feet into stockings. The doctor snorted, saying, “Covering up in front of me is useless business. And I imagine you’ll want better use of your elbows. Prepare a washbasin, several towels and cloths.”
“Shall I put together a selection of serums for him, Doctor?” Alice asked, her brain sizzling with memory of what her uncle had taught her. “I believe I have a few ointments left over from my parents’ estate.”
Always, Cecil had teased her about this collection, calling them her potions. “If my friends knew I’d married a witch, can you imagine what they’d say? I would never live it down.”
“If you think a few herbal serums will save your husband’s life,” the doctor spat, “Then I imagine you’re far more insane than Cecil himself thinks.”
Alice’s heart thrust against the inside of her ribcage. She imagined the bones shattering, scattering to the innards and her belly. Instead of speaking, she flung herself down the stairs with the washbasin, filling it and gathering several towels.
In her flurry, she heard the clattering of hooves outside, the howl of a man calling for assistance. Nigel sped to the door to greet his friend, the man he’d been with when they’d come upon Cecil. Alice half-imagined a reality in which she and Cecil greeted these men as friends – providing them guest of honour positions at their various parties. “If it weren’t for these men, I wouldn’t be alive today,” Cecil would say, in that pompous, bursting way of his.
Alice prayed for it.
Nigel and his friend, John, carried the aching, injured body of Lord Cecil Andrews into the foyer, mere feet away from where Alice stood with her sloshing basin of water. The man they held between them had almost nothing in common with the man she’d married. One-half of his face was glossy with blood, his thick, blond curls were caked with mud and grit and grime. As John cut up the stairs, Cecil let out a low moan, the first assurance to Alice that he was alive.
Behind her, Evelyn collapsed to her knees. She smacked her palms together, raised her eyes towards the sky. Her lips churned into a chaotic series of prayers. Alice forced her feet forward, knowing the doctor needed her. If she’d ever had a purpose, perhaps it had all been leading to this day.
The doctor made no mention of the horrendous nature of Cecil’s injuries, not now that he was a bleeding, mottled presence in the centre of the bed. Nigel and John arranged themselves in the corner of the room, their faces glowing pale. Alice hustled to her husband’s side, helping the doctor to rip the already-torn fabric of his once-perfect suit from his muscled form. The story of his injuries seemed too colossal to be true – punches and kicks and a blow from some sort of iron instrument across the side of the head. Tears swirled down Alice’s cheeks. Her knowledge of herbs and serums surely wouldn’t do anything, not now. They were meek against the evil horrors of men.
Cecil let out the occasional moan. His eyes rolled about in their sockets, still glowing blue orbs, seemingly hunting for something.
Alice peered into them, trying to draw out consciousness.
Risky Rules of a Passionate Governess Page 34