by Cari Hislop
“Why? Is she mad? Don’t tell me she’s ugly? I can’t stand ugly people!”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder John Sebastian. My mother thinks I’m beautiful…”
“I don’t care about your stupid blind mother.”
“I really don’t see the point in sending you back.”
“Get me out of here…please.”
“I’m not finished yet. You’re commanded to be charitable, kind and patient with everyone, including ugly people, and do for others as you’re always complaining they never do for you. It’s called the law of reciprocity. You get what you give which is why you never get anything. You’re a selfish toad. That wasn’t in your file, that’s my personal opinion. Oh dear, you’re almost out of time. Come with me.” Back down the dark tunnel, Smirke could see the Hampshire field rush into focus. “Take a deep breath; think of it as jumping into an icy painful river.”
“What are you talking about?” Smirke felt a heavy shove and he was falling, diving into his body. He screamed as he drew in a deep breath of cold wet air, his lungs burning, his heart thumping, and the hole in his middle oozing red. Feminine screams in counterpoint filled his ears. He opened his eyes to find an ugly old woman bending over his body in the act of removing his silk breeches.
“I’m not dead you old crone. Fetch my footman and valet from that flea infested hovel called an inn. Tell them I, Mr Smirke, need them to bring a blanket to carry me on.” The old woman stood up and slowly scratched her stomach as she raised an eyebrow.
“What’s in it fer me? Even with blood stains I could get a good price fer yer clothes. I don’t have to wait till yer dead again neither.” Smirke took a deep breath and prayed he wouldn’t faint from loss of blood. The ignomy of dying naked in a corn field set his teeth on edge. He could feel hell leaning over his shoulder as he swallowed a barrage of insults. He painfully reached into his pocket and was relieved to find his purse.
“I’ll give you a silver shilling now and a pound when you return with my men.”
“I could steal yer purse and yer sword and leave yer fer dead.”
“And feel the wrath of God? Don’t be daft woman…you don’t want to end up in hell and I should know. For pity sake fetch my men. I’m helpless…” She didn’t look convinced. “If I live I’ll…I’ll give you a hundred pounds, please hurry. I don’t want to die again.”
“What’s to say yer’ll pay it?”
“I give you my word as a gentleman.”
“Yer werd ain’t werth spit.”
“You can haunt me until I pay you. You don’t think I’ll want to be encumbered with your stinking company for longer than necessary do you? I won’t be running anywhere soon will I. Are you going to help me or do I have to crawl for help? You won’t get a penny if I make it on my own.”
“I’ll have yer purse now and two-hundred in banknotes when yer can get the money.” The old woman held out her hand for the money and tucked it away as she hurried off towards the inn.
***
Smirke opened his eyes and groaned in pain as the hole in his chest burned almost as hot as his forehead. He couldn’t see the dirty room or the old woman knitting near the fire. He saw his boyhood bedchamber; his mother in her favourite pink muslin stood nearby wringing her hands. The old woman turned to see her patient staring into space and listened as he mumbled to his imaginary mother. The doctor was sure the pretty man was as good as dead, but the promise of money ensured the old woman’s prayers for a miracle. She put down her knitting and refreshed the wet rag on the pretty man’s head. The fresh maggots in the wound appeared to be happily aiding the healing process, but only time would tell. The carriage had been sent to the nearest apothecary to purchase laudanum, but the patient was too delirious to drink it.
The fever broke after several days curtailing the delirium and forcing Smirke to acknowledge his unhappy state. Lying in bed with a serious wound for the second time in just over a month, the stench was an unbearable déjà vu made worse by dirty unfamiliar surroundings. The doctor’s indifference to the miraculous healing left Smirke feeling neglected, but he bit his tongue and instead of dwelling on revenge he used the energy to conjure up images of the mysterious Joan. As the weeks passed he wasn’t sure if he’d dreamed up hell and the obnoxious man in white with his list or if it was all a bad dream, but the old woman’s answer was always the same when he pressed her with the question, ‘Was I really dead?’ She would always reply, ‘There were no sign of life in yer heart. Yer were stone dead. I wouldn’t have taken yer breeches if ye’d been alive. I’m not heartless.’
Smirke withheld his opinion on the old woman’s heart and continued to indulge in fantasies about the enigmatic Joan. She couldn’t have brown hair or she’d remind him of Miss Imogene Galahad. He shuddered in horror at the memory of the young woman’s teeth covered in chocolate goo. No, his Joan couldn’t have brown hair. Was she blonde? He admired his own gold blonde hair which he wore long. No, he couldn’t marry a blonde; he wouldn’t make a visual impact if they were both blonde. Several uncomfortable experiences with red heads left no desire to spend the rest of his life waking up with one in his arms. His imaginary Joan was left with no option other than black hair. The thought conjured up the Stratton family and its most infamous member, the Duke of Lyndhurst. The last thing he wanted was to be related to the devil. Looking at the man over a gaming table was nauseating enough; the thought of having to dine with the man made his stomach heave. If being ugly was a sin, Lyndhurst would burn in the deepest pit of hell. Thankfully the Strattons were all slender people. If his Joan had to have black hair she’d definitely be endowed with generous curves. It was all very well having a first name for a faceless woman, but she could be anywhere. She could be a lady or a lady’s maid. If only he’d been given a last name, he might have advertised for her in all the papers. Then he was struck with a truly awful thought; what if he’d have to wait for her to grow up? He moaned in horror bringing the old woman to his side. The thought of having to wait ten years to bed a woman made his eyes water. He silently waved her away and covered his face with his good arm nearly knocking himself unconscious from the stench of his armpit. The next time he saw Mulgrave he’d…Smirke’s fury dripped from the corner of his eyes. He couldn’t even spit at his arch enemy without incurring the wrath of God. He sighed in defeat. He was going to ensure he never went back to hell. It was so much more pleasant being alive, even stranded in a lonely bed with a hole in his guts filled with flies. Living was a state of being he was determined to prolong far into the future and if that meant sacrificing the pleasure of carving his initials into Mulgrave’s heart then he’d have to dream of other things, like finding Joan.
Chapter 3
A month and a half later a pale exhausted John Smirke was in Bath knocking on his brother’s door clutching his chest with his right hand. He was finally free of the old woman’s shadow. He kept telling himself that being alive was worth two-hundred and five pounds, but it galled to have to hand over so much money for a little human kindness. He couldn’t yet admit to himself that if he’d found a man bleeding to death in a field he’d have laughed and taunted the dying creature with the improbability of survival. Kindness was still something other people were supposed to give to him, but John’s brain had been branded with the desire to escape hell. If being charitable allowed him some sort of ticket to a better place he was going to be charitable if it killed him.
The footman bowed with fearful anxiety on seeing Smirke and pulled the door wide open for the expected guest. Smirke’s letter had arrived the day before depressing most of the household. “Is my brother at home?”
“No Sir, Master James is attending a lecture on the Battle of Waterloo. He’s expected back by five.” John looked at his watch and groaned in irritation. His sister-in-law, Agnes, would have three whole hours to be unpleasant. James Smirke refused to believe that his wife treated his little brother with anything other than sisterly devotion, but then James Smirke coul
dn’t believe anything bad about anyone he loved. “Madam Smirke is in the drawing room. Shall I announce you Sir?”
“I’ll present myself. Inform the kitchen…please, I’m in desperate need of a hot bath.” The footman’s mouth fell open at the uncharacteristic stiff courtesy and watched the sickly guest saunter off towards the stairs in disbelief. John slowly pulled himself up to the first floor and stumbled to the open doorway of the drawing room where his burning chest forced him to stop against the doorframe for breath. The light coming in through the windows was blinding as a horrible pinching sensation filled his body. Female chatter paused as all three women caught sight of the fainting man. “Agnes…” John collapsed onto the nearest sofa next to a skinny middle aged woman and fell over into her lap too ill to care she was unattractive.
“Ooh, he smells! Agnes help; he’s ruining my new dress…” The skinny woman flapped her hands in horror while Agnes Smirke freed her from the weight of John’s head. A minute later the three women hovered over the unconscious man holding their noses. “He smells like he’s been living in a playhouse pit with the great unwashed.”
“Don’t you mean a plague pit? He smells like a used winding sheet. Is he dying Agnes?” A curvaceous young widow poked the pretty man’s face with her fan.
“I wouldn’t be so lucky. The wretch has the devil’s own luck. He’s a worthless immoral rake-hell with the personality of yellow henbane.” Agnes sighed in despair and then slowly looked at her friends with inspiration. “I don’t suppose either of you would want to marry him? He inherited a faire sized property in Lincolnshire. He might even be a Viscount one day if Peter’s five boys die young without issue and we never have a son. He’s worth at least seven thousand a year and as you can see he’s not unattractive.”
“Seven thousand a year?” The widow was so enthralled she momentarily removed her fingers from her nose. “Does he always smell like that?”
“No, he usually bathes daily and douses himself with sickly sweet violet scent and some sort of lemon lotion.”
The widow eyed the pretty man’s anatomy with admiration, “Do you think he’d importune his wife much?”
Agnes raised an eyebrow at her pretty friend, “He’d demand his conjugal rights at least every twelve hours.”
“Seven thousand a year…? Are you sure he’s looking for a wife?”
“Are the hands of a clock looking for time?” Agnes pulled vinaigrette out of her pocket and held it open under John’s nose. “Wake up John; you’re stinking up my sofa.” The pretty man moaned as he turned his head to see the speaker.
“Mamma?”
“Your mother’s in France.” The vinaigrette was held under his nose again causing more moans.
“Get that thing away from me before I cast up my luncheon.”
“I want you out of my drawing room and into a hip bath. You smell like death.”
“I feel it. I shouldn’t have eaten that beefsteak…my stomach.”
“Perhaps next time you won’t be a glutton. Frederick?” A footman appeared in the doorway. “Assist my brother up to his room and ensure he’s thoroughly bathed twice and deloused before allowed near my bed linen.”
“As you wish Madam.”
John could only moan in pain as his unhappy lunch warred with his burning chest. He wasn’t aware of the comely widow until she poked his wounded shoulder with her fan. His shrill whimper of pain went unnoticed by the woman holding her nose; she was too excited to find herself being viewed by black eyes.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr Smirke. I’ve heard so much about you.”
John’s eyes narrowed in horror as he contemplated the possibility that the woman holding her nose might be Joan. “What’s your name?”
She blushed with pleasure at her conquest. “Mrs Ashton Goodyear, my second husband died two years ago from gout.”
“Your name is Ashton?” John’s heart warmed with relief, but then she shook her head with a studied little laugh and poked him again in the shoulder.
“No silly, my Christian name is Perdita. Ashton was my husband’s name.”
John’s black marble eyes glinted with relief. “God is merciful; God is good…what a perfectly revolting name. Touch me with that fan again and I’ll…” Agnes watched in shock as revenge was forcefully chipped from his eyes and replaced with something resembling frustration. “For pity’s sake Frederick, help me off this blasted sofa before I choke on my tongue.”
The three women continued holding their noses as the pretty man hobbled from the room clutching the footman for support. The skinny woman shook her head and thankfully released her nose. “He looks like he’d eat his pet dog for a wager.”
Agnes sighed at the mention of dogs, “John hates dogs and they hate him.”
“Did your brother really say my name was revolting?” The pretty widow sniffed back tears as she mourned the loss of seven thousand pounds. “I don’t think he liked me.”
“The man owns more mirrors than Narcissus; he’ll probably marry the first woman he finds who looks like him.”
***
John woke up the next afternoon and sighed at the pleasure of being clean in a clean bed. He gently yawned and scratched himself with relish, but froze as harmonized giggles erupted from the side of his bed. He slowly turned his head and groaned in horror as two identical pairs of black eyes peered up at him.
“What are you two hellions doing in my room?”
“Nursey thinks we’re sleeping. We tricked her didn’t we?”
“Yes, she’s sleeping in front of the fire…”
“Nursey snores almost as loud as you Uncle John.”
“I don’t snore!” His protest was met with rude noises as his nieces demonstrated. “Go tell your father I wish to see him.”
The two sets of eyes widened and then disappeared back out of sight to council in hushed whispers. The eyes reappeared over the bottom of the bed. “We can’t tell Papa you wish to see him…”
“Mamma will know we’ve been naughty…”
“Mamma might not let us have pudding.”
“Mamma won’t let you have pudding…”
“She says you’re wicked.”
“What have you done Uncle John?”
“Did you kick a dog?”
“Did you spit in Mamma’s tea?”
John reached for his bell to ring for help, but it was gone. “Where’s my bell?”
One of the little blonde angels held up the large hand bell. “We found it on your bed.”
“Give it here!”
“Why?”
“Because I want to use it; give it back.”
“Finder’s keepers…”
“Someone come get these two brats before I lose my mind!”
“If you lose your mind Uncle John we’ll help you find it.”
“Yes, we’re good at finding things. We found Mamma’s thimble, Frederick’s love letter and Nursey’s wooden teeth.”
“You took them, hid them up and then ‘found’ them when there was a promised reward. I know that trick, I used it myself. Now give me my bell and go away before I cut you out of my will.”
Identical lips quivered as large dollops of saltwater rolled down their cheeks. “How much will we get?”
“Not a penny unless you’re good.”
“How much if we’re good?”
“I’ll let you know at the end of my visit how good I think you’ve been.”
“We think you’re the best Uncle in the whole world.”
John rolled his eyes, “Go torment your nurse and leave me in peace or you won’t get tuppence.” John closed his eyes as the room fell quiet and panic flooded his senses. If he remained secluded from kindly human interaction for one more day he’d go mad. They’d lock him away in some dusty attic. He’d never get to find Joan. He’d die of loneliness and then he’d end up back in hell. He rang the bell with his good arm and hoped it’d bring the pretty upstairs maid so he could ask her, her name.
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