‘Thank you, Lord Kingdom.’ She had stopped in the path because he stood in her way.
He spoke very formally. ‘You will recover from this terrible loss.’
She remembered what she had understood in his mother’s carriage. ‘I think – that no-one can know another person’s sorrow, Lord Kingdom,’ she said very simply, and she did not so much shake off his arm as just walk away from it. She turned downhill. A light flickered in the chapel by the gate. His stride easily caught her; he did not speak again until her carriage came into view but she could hear his breathing and suddenly the formal tone was gone.
‘Are you – going away, Harriet?’ he said.
Then she did stop. He had overheard her then. He had spoken very quietly yet she could see that he was as greatly agitated as herself. What had it to do with him? For a moment she did not speak. The superintendent’s bell rang again and again, calling the mourners back to the gate. Her heart beat too fast, she was sure he could hear it. ‘Lord Kingdom, I do thank you for your very kind condolences. I would like you to think well of me, and – not to think that my wild words to my sister’s grave are more than that. Her death has—’ her voice caught for just a moment, ‘has wounded me more than it is possible for me to convey to you.’ Her heart did not quieten: of course, it would be his duty to tell her father. But the Amaryllis would sail tomorrow: he could not conceive of that. By the time he saw her father she would be gone.
Then Ralph Kingdom did an odd thing. From inside his coat – in a mad moment she recoiled, thought it might be a court document or (it flashed wildly into her mind) a pistol that he brought forth – he took a small book.
‘Please accept this.’
In the darkness she could not even see the title but she took the book from him, turned it over for a moment in her gloved hands and then put it into her reticule. At least he had not questioned her further.
‘Thank you, Lord Kingdom,’ she said politely. ‘You are very kind.’
They walked in silence down to the colonnade and the carriages. Already the drivers had lighted the lamps on their vehicles and the horses snorted and shook their bridles in the freezing air. The superintendent hovered, rubbing his hands together slightly, anxious that his duty had been well done. Ralph bowed low over Harriet’s hand in the way that he had. Then he handed her into her coach where her cold maid waited.
* * *
Her brothers would not be back for dinner, the servants said.
In the quiet, uneasy house Harriet ate (carefully, determinedly, eating slowly, swallowing correctly) in her room. Quintus lay at her feet looking at her with devotion. She gave him some meat, hugged him, ruffled his ears: his cup ran over; all seemed almost well again, although one of his mistresses had disappeared. The servants moved about the house on quiet feet as they had been taught.
Harriet dismissed Lucy early, saying she wished to sleep; she hugged Quintus again as he was led protestingly away.
But she knew she must not lie down. As soon as Lucy had gone Harriet forced open the big window on to the Square, breathed in the cold night air to keep herself awake. She felt distinctly strange, odd: as if she watched herself in all she did. She saw clearly that her hands shook in all that she was doing. It is almost tomorrow. One more day. Quickly she rearranged her wardrobe: she had decided to wear as much as she could in the morning; the cold weather was her friend. Mary’s gowns behind the remnants of her own made her wardrobe look untouched: gently she arranged Mary’s linen where her own had once lain on the lemon-scented shelves. From her small reticule Lord Ralph Kingdom’s book tumbled: she looked at it hurriedly, a slim volume by the poet Tennyson, something called ‘The Princess’. It had fallen open at the front; there he had written For Thee I Love. In great embarrassment she pushed it back to the bottom of her reticule. She packed one more small bag: the bag she and Mary used to take with their embroidery if they were to stay overnight at weddings, or at funerals. Here she placed her passage papers, her money (counting it one more time), the few pieces of her mother’s jewellery, Walter’s pale notebook, all the laudanum the doctor had given her, Mary’s last letter. And on top of all these she placed her embroidery, for all the world to see.
She had to leave the house early in the morning, she must be early, to take the small steamboat to Gravesend. She walked up and down her room, making herself move, forcing her mind to think of what she had yet to do when all she wanted was to lie down on her bed. She took up her lamp and walked, one more time, into Mary’s room. But Mary was quite gone. The room was empty not only of its belongings but of its owner. There were some marks on the floor where the bed had been which the servants, polishing, had been unable to remove. Only a simple washstand stood there, alone by the window. And the Mona Lisa with the smile. She wished she could take that, but there was no more room. She made a small vow, standing in the empty room, that one day she would find another copy of the secret smile, and hang it where she would see it always, and remember her sister. Then quickly she went back to her own room. She wished she could strip it bare, leave it in the same state of anonymity as Mary’s: knew she must not. Every hour that they did not know where she had gone would be precious. The fire had died down, the room was cold, but she did not notice; somewhere Quintus barked, but she did not hear.
Finally she sat down at the table beside her bed and picked up her pen. It took her a long time to write the few words; she seemed to ponder over every sentence.
Dearest Asobel,
Perhaps this is the first letter ever to arrive at Rusholme addressed to you. I think I did not see you at Mary’s funeral, not properly. Please forgive me, little Asobel. You will understand one day. I hope you are reading your books in the way that I taught you and being a good child for your kind parents and brothers and sisters.
Harriet hesitated then, staring at the page in front of her, thinking of Asobel’s open, happy face in the summerhouse. She wanted to write about Edward, but she did not dare.
I will write to you again, dear Asobel. I promise.
I think of you all very often.
From your affectionate cousin
Harriet
She heard a clock chime midnight from somewhere in the city outside. Once more she moved to the window and stared at the shadows of the Square, at the oak tree and the railings and the gas lamps. A cold mist covered everything. There was the sound, as always, of distant traffic, wheels rumbling along Oxford Street, down Park Lane. The smell of the drains wafted upwards and Quintus barked again. It was this that was her memory of London.
Then Harriet, quite clearly, saw herself walk out into the dark passage in her nightdress and down the wide staircase, down and down to the bottom. The silent house creaked. One small light burned at the last turn.
From the hall she walked to the back of the house and down the small staircase and into the kitchen where another lantern burned. She did not know the kitchen. She saw the knives hanging. She took a small, sharp knife. She walked back into the hall and up the stairs past the portrait of her mother but she looked straight ahead, glancing neither left nor right. She did not see little Lucy standing at the bottom of the servants’ stairs. Harriet came into her room. She placed the knife in her embroidery bag. And then she saw herself walk back at last to the bed and lie down under the quilt.
SEVENTEEN
Walter and Richard were surprised, and alarmed (lounging at the table and yawning, cravats undone, at the damnably early breakfast insisted on by their father), to see their pale sister enter the dining room. Something had made her wish to see them once more, though she was not sure what that feeling was. Her brothers stood up, pulled at their cravats, apologised for not visiting her more often, sat down again, made polite conversation, as the servants bustled about them. She wondered if they would perhaps mention Mary, say something, just something, about their dead sister. But they did not. Harriet was neatly dressed, her hair pulled back from a face that looked as white as parchment; even her brothers could not
but notice that her hand shook as she picked up a cup.
‘Harriet, should you not perhaps have stayed in your room a little longer?’ She looked at her elder brother, Richard, hearing his words. It was the first statement of concern she had heard from him that she could ever remember. She must appear well. She must smile at Richard. She must have her brother’s permission: one command to the servants from him would overrule any of her own.
‘Father will be home tonight,’ she said. And she smiled at her brother. It seemed to her that her voice was very loud in the room. ‘I am, of course, much better.’
Richard seemed satisfied. But Harriet had not finished.
‘I have decided to go to Church this morning,’ she said. And she smiled again.
Both brothers looked at her, nonplussed.
‘What will you go to Church for today, Harry?’ said Walter, and she saw that he was trying to be kind, thought she was muddled. ‘It is not Sunday.’
Harriet laughed. It seemed to her that her laugh echoed round the room, on and on, in under the dishes on the long table. She tried to hold to the side of the table, I must not fail now.
‘People do go to Church on other days, Walter,’ she said rather shakily. ‘I wish to talk to the Vicar.’
She saw that Richard looked uneasy.
‘Father thought it might be – good for me. He spoke to me about it. As soon as I felt well enough, he said.’
‘Very well.’ Richard gave his permission, nodded to the head footman.
‘And then I shall call on Lady Kingdom.’
‘You are in mourning. Surely people can come to you.’
‘She has already called here. It is proper that I return her call. Father wishes me to do this.’
Neither Richard nor Walter were expert in the exact niceties, shrugged, lost interest. ‘But he should have mentioned it,’ said Richard. ‘We understood you were to stay in your room, or at least the house. He wants you to be well.’
‘I am trying, Richard,’ said Harriet humbly.
‘Shall I come home early this evening and sit with you before Father comes?’ Walter asked rather guiltily. ‘I don’t mind.’ He knew, in mourning themselves, they would not be gallivanting around London now that their father was returning.
‘Thank you, Walter, but I expect I shall rest. I wish to—’ and again she gave the odd laugh, then held again to the side of the table, ‘I wish to be prepared for Father’s return.’
‘We must all be here for Father’s return.’ Richard, too, knew there would be stricter hours kept from now on.
‘Yes. Of course.’ And for a moment Harriet contemplated the long nights that might stretch ahead; her brothers would go about their business, and she alone in the house, waiting, and listening, for Father. Never, never, never. Suddenly her head cleared and the diverse bits of her joined together again and she reached out a firmer hand for a piece of the thin toast and asked her brothers about their day.
When the brothers got up to leave the house Richard bowed to her and was gone. Harriet’s eyes followed him expressionlessly. Walter lingered for a minute.
‘You are quite well, are you, Harriet? You look very pale. Can I – do anything for you?’
She looked up at her younger brother, took in his features, his hair, the way he always looked slightly anxious, not as confident as Richard. No doubt the gambling troubles continued. She did not know if he missed Mary. She did not know if she would ever see him again. And she smiled, and put out her hand.
‘Thank you, Walter. I think – I think I will be much better after today.’
‘Oh well. That’s good.’
‘And I shall begin my Journal again, as you suggested. In your notebook.’
His face lit up in genuine pleasure. ‘Oh that’s good, Harry.’
‘Yes.’ And the brother and sister clasped hands rather self-consciously for a moment and then Walter was gone.
Not once had anyone mentioned Mary.
Harriet at once went to her room, looked carefully around, asked for the carriage to be brought round immediately, to take her to St Paul’s Church in Covent Garden.
‘Is it not too early, madam?’
‘No. The Vicar is always there early.’
Her veil was already down over her face when Lucy came to tell her that the carriage was ready; she had put an extra petticoat under her gown, two extra shawls under her mantle. She gave Lucy the letter for Asobel. The bag, she told Lucy, had a few more of Mary’s things, something she had been embroidering, to give to the poor. She would leave it at the church.
She did not look back as she left her room: she knew she could not risk calling Quintus, to say goodbye. Quintus would know.
The footmen climbed up; Lucy assisted Harriet, picked up all the skirts, noting the extra petticoat, before she clambered in beside her mistress. Harriet did not look back as the horses trotted off down the side of Bryanston Square.
Pale yellow light tried to shine from the east and light the grey, cold fog of the city. As they trotted up towards Covent Garden they overtook costermongers and carts. Somehow a herd of sheep had come the wrong way, they skittered in front of the vehicles, slipping on the ordure and the mud, their eyes looking sideways in terror, their bleats mixing with the shouts of drivers and boys with carts.
‘It’s too early to be out, miss, said Lucy dolefully, ‘ladies and gentlemen come later,’ but Harriet’s face was hidden by her veil and she did not reply.
When the carriage stopped at the front of the church, Harriet said to Lucy: ‘I would like to speak to the Vicar alone. He is a busy man, and I may be some time,’ and she alighted quickly from the carriage: despite her extra clothing a thin veiled figure in black. She took a few steps and then whirled back, reached inside for the embroidery bag. ‘The Vicar will advise me as to where to send these things,’ she said to Lucy, and one of the horses jangled at his bridle and its feet moved sharply on the cobblestones as a cabbage rolled under the wheels through the excrement of the sheep. Outside the church a man in a cassock kept the wrong sort of people out; he bowed low to Harriet’s veiled figure and she disappeared inside.
She walked quickly down the long, dark aisle, past the pews and the flowers and two gossiping, yawning clerics and the women cleaning. Already she heard the shouts of the sellers, calling their wares. Just before the altar she paused, knelt. She could not think of anything except the Lord’s Prayer, began quickly Our Father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name as the market men shouted and bargained just outside. Then she slipped out of one of the side doors opposite the altar and into the wild, crowded, jostling, shouting, hectic madness that was Covent Garden. The smell hit her as she came out into the piazza.
Somehow the noise and the energy and the vitality around her gave her energy, and a kind of desperate euphoria spurred her on. This was her only chance to be free and she could not let herself think of what would happen if she failed now. She held her precious bag very tightly, both her gloved hands around the handle, knowing that this, more than anywhere, was where she could lose it; pushed through the noise and the people swirling about her: out of place, observed.
‘ORANGES!’ called the voices. ‘SWEET ORANGES!’ ‘CARROTS!’ ‘POTATERS!’ ‘VIOLETS!’ ‘CABBAGES!’ ‘LILIES!’ ‘PUMPKINS!’ and people pushed past her, other people’s servants and cooks, dog sellers, farmers’ lads, pickpockets, fools. Open drains swirled their contents nearby, horses stood ankle-deep in dung. In her blind haste Harriet tripped over, but did not even see, a young girl clutching a baby and some dead bunches of flowers, who sat in the mud weeping. Her face under its grime was as pale as Harriet’s, looking up with her hopeless bunches; seeing Harriet’s panicky haste, she did not even bother to call out. Harriet saw nothing but the end of the market. She pushed on, not knowing or caring that mud and other filth smeared her skirts, that rotten vegetables stuck to her boots, that watching eyes continually swept over her as her incongruous figure hurried past, a black veiled figure out of place i
n the wild chaotic world of the market. At last she came to the south side. A hansom cab appeared, she called urgently to the driver to take her to Blackfriars Bridge. Once inside, hidden from view, she thought her heart might burst, so breathless and heated and frantic was she; the market and the extra clothing and the fear of someone calling her name. She took up her veil, tried to breathe calmly, felt trickles of perspiration running down her body under her corset. She knew very well she might faint again but she could not faint now, not now, and even as her head spun she spoke aloud to herself in the cab, only a little longer, only a little longer. She passed great edifices she might never see again: the palaces and churches and spires and bridges of her city; she gave no sign. From building hoardings advertisements shouted to her: GUINNESS DUBLIN STOUT, CHARRINGTON’S ALE, but Harriet did not see or hear. The Blackfriars Bridge was the only thing she was interested in; at last it came into view. She lowered her veil as she descended from the cab, handed the driver some coins from under her glove.
At the jetty she understood the crowds and the weeping families; quickly she made her way through the people to one of the small steamboats that was going to Gravesend. A man thrust a paper into her hand, she did not see what it was. She knew she must go inside the cabin where the women and children gathered; she could not sit in the air however desperate she was, it would make her too conspicuous, she was conspicuous enough, travelling alone. Her lowered veil gave her a kind of protection; she sat alone quietly. In her hand she saw to her horror she was holding a leaflet offering CURES FOR VENEREAL DISEASE, quickly she crumpled it and thrust it behind her seat. At long last a bell rang, the small gangway was removed and in an important and noisy manner the steamboat turned, steaming past St Paul’s Cathedral and towards the mouth of the river, pushing its way past the sailboats and the lighters and the barges, belching smoke into the smoky sky. On deck people waved and called, in the cabin they wept and laughed and pushed against the windows; everywhere there was calling and loading and passing and colliding: it all drifted past Harriet as if in a dream; she sat very still, clutching her embroidery bag. Just once she looked back: London was wreathed in fog and smoke and soot, and disappeared.
The Trespass: A Novel Page 23