BONE HOUSE

by Betsy Tobin

  “No,” he replies.

  I frown. My instinct tells me that Lucius is not the man I seek. Then I remember the glass vial hidden under my kirtle. Slowly I withdraw it and take the vial from its pouch, holding it up for him to see. He clearly recognizes it, for his eyes flicker briefly to the wooden box near the fireplace, then back at me. I blush a little.

  “This was your mother’s?” I ask.

  He shakes his head slowly no. “It was his.”

  “The doctor’s?” I ask, confused.

  “No. The crooked one.”

  He speaks of my master, with his crooked spine. “He came here often?” I ask.

  The boy nods.

  “More than the others?”

  He shrugs. “It is possible,” he adds.

  “Did she . . . favor him?”

  He frowns then. “Why would she?” he says in an accusing tone.

  “I do not know,” I say to placate him. “I only wish to know a little more.” His face relaxes a little.

  “Was she . . . afraid of him?” I ask cautiously.

  He gives me another dark look, as if this suggestion is even more offensive. “No,” he says. “She feared no one,” he adds, more than a hint of pride creeping into his voice.

  I nod, smile a little at his loyalty.

  “She was strong,” he continues. “Stronger than all of them.”

  “Of course she was,” I say, and know it to be true. We sit in silence for a moment, and my mind reaches back to a time as a child when I came upon her in the forest. She was bathing in the river a short distance from the village when I spotted her through the undergrowth. At once I was entranced by the sight of her naked flesh. Her back was turned to me and I saw that her shoulders were broad and muscled and smooth as ivory. I watched as she scooped water over her head with a small wooden bowl, tilting her head right back, her hair stretching nearly to her waist in a glistening ribbon of wetness. She closed her eyes to the flow but kept her mouth open wide, allowing the river to course right through her. Over and over she doused herself and I stood rooted to the spot, unable to tear my eyes from the sight of her, even more unwilling to reveal my presence lest she stop. I did not breathe or stir until she had dried herself and gone, and only then did I emerge from the thicket, like a fawn at dusk, to kneel beside the river’s edge and dip my fingers into the icy waters that had caressed her only moments before.

  Long Boy has lost interest in our little talk, and I am left with only the spit and crackle of the fire. He keeps his silence in the corner, curling like a leaf toward the wall, while I ponder his answers. Although I had not been aware that my master frequented this place, the news does not surprise me, for he is a man like any other, even if his spine is bent. Despite his mother’s wishes, he has never sought a wife, though there was talk in the village many years ago of a match. With youth and wealth, he might have found a woman who would tolerate his deformity, but having lost the former this now seems exceedingly unlikely. And too, there is the matter of his character, which can only be described as eccentric, though perhaps this is unfair, for his deformity has resulted in his isolation from society.

  At any rate, who would choose him as the father of her children? To marry such a man would entail considerable risks on the woman’s part. She would live in perpetual fear of monstrous births, for it is known that those who are disfigured are many times more likely to produce deformities among their offspring. Perhaps this is what Dora feared: a monstrous fetus inside her, and the risk that it might kill her in childbirth.

  I dwell upon this notion for a time. If she had good cause to believe the child was his and was malformed, she would be right to fear a dangerous labor. Pregnancy is a calamitous journey at the best of times, and many women perish from the birth of normal, healthy babies, let alone monstrous ones. Even my mother lives in fear of such cases, for on the rare occasions when she has delivered a malformed child, the labor has been both prolonged and exceedingly torturous for the mother. She is forever advising those under her care to take precautions against such births, believing fervently that they can be prevented by a woman’s conduct. According to my mother, if a woman harbors perverse thoughts when she lies with a man, or indeed dwells too long upon strange objects, this can alter the development of the child within. Or if she lies with a man during her monthly courses, this too can result in death or deformity of an unborn child. Those who crave unnatural substances such as earth or coal in their diet also run such risks. There are many tales of such women being delivered of worms, toads, mice, even serpents. Indeed, the perils of childbirth are so numerous and so varied, I have often felt that it is a wonder any women are prepared to undergo them at all.

  But this was not the case with Dora, who throughout my childhood was pregnant more often than she was not. Indeed I cannot remember her as anything but great-bellied, though in truth her figure altered little regardless of her condition. She was truly built for childbearing, with magnificent wide hips that rolled with grace when she walked, and a frame that was broad and square. Her belly, though indeed great, was never out of proportion to the rest of her, and her neck was long and surprisingly delicate given the size of her frame. Her eyes were large and luminous, and like a spring sky, changed color with the sun. Even in death her appearance had been striking, as if God had claimed her just as she was.

  Despite this, her births were dogged by misfortune. Most of her children died during labor, though one or two survived a short time before illness claimed them. With the exception of Long Boy, who was born when I was nine, I cannot recall any living beyond a few days. She buried them all behind her cottage, and asked God for his blessing, even if as bastard children they were not entitled to a proper Christian burial. She had not conceived a child in recent years, however, and I, like many others, believed that she was past the time of childbearing.

  But Long Boy is right: fear was not in her nature. She regarded her pregnancies as both right and natural, and believed that God would not spurn either her or her children in the end. It seems clear to me from his response that Long Boy did not know of her condition, nor of her reasons for alarm. And while I am disappointed I am not surprised, for like any good mother she took steps to shelter him from the outside world and its dangers. If I am to unravel the questions surrounding her death, I shall have to seek my answers elsewhere, for I sense that there is little more to be learned from him directly.

  My mother returns at dusk, appearing some degree refreshed. The boy seems relieved when she enters, and she goes to him directly, spanning his forehead with her hand to check for fever.

  “He is fine,” I say. “I gave him the tonic.” They both ignore me, she concentrating on the feel of his brow. After a moment she releases him and nods.

  “I am grateful for your help,” she says a little tersely. “You can return now to the Great House.” I hesitate a moment, watch her move to the fire, give the pot a stir. She cannot stay here indefinitely, but she is not likely to leave him thus. What will she do when he is recovered, I wonder? She lights a candle and places it on the table, then seats herself by the fire and takes out a ball of newspun wool and her knitting needles. My mother’s hands are never idle, and they fly about the needles like two swallows worrying a nest. The boy lies peacefully in the corner, and I hear him sigh as I put on my coat and slip out the door, leaving the two of them to their silence.

  In the scullery of the Great House Cook is scolding Little George, the roasting boy, for allowing a joint to burn. When I enter, she leaves him cowering and comes toward me, wiping her hands on her bloodstained apron.

  “You were overlong away,” she says.

  “My mistress?” I ask.

  “I had to keep her from your room,” she scolds me. “I told her you were deep in sleep.”

  “I am grateful,” I reply.

  “Aye,” she says with a grimace, waving me away. I dash up the rear stairs and hasten to my room. Once inside I remove my kirtle and lay it on the bed, then I tak
e the glass vial out of its pouch to examine it once more. Just as I do, I hear a soft knock on the door. Quickly I lie down on the bed, shoving the vial out of sight beneath my kirtle. My mistress enters and I feel my face flush, though I manage to smile at her in greeting.

  “You’re awake,” she says.

  “Yes. I am much improved.”

  “I am glad to hear of it,” she says with a nod. Her eyes flicker briefly around the room searching for a place to sit, and for a moment I fear that she will sit upon the kirtle, but to my relief she settles herself on the wooden chest at the foot of the bed.

  “Lucius gave you a fright, I think,” she says a little archly.

  “I was . . . overcome for a moment. I cannot think why,” I say. “It was silly of me,” I add with a smile.

  “Was it?” She raises an eyebrow. “At times our minds and bodies are in complete accordance. If one succumbs, so does the other.”

  “I suppose so,” I say, shifting awkwardly.

  “Still,” she continues, “if you consider it, her death is not so very surprising. The great-bellied woman lived in a state of perpetual sin, my dear. She must have known that God would claim her in the end,” she says pointedly.

  “Yes, of course,” I murmur.

  “We shall dwell no more upon it,” says my mistress, reaching over to pat my hand. She rises, and as she does she accidentally dislodges my kirtle, which lies folded at the foot of my bed. I slides to the floor and the vial hits the wooden boards with a thump.

  “How clumsy of me,” she says, bending down to retrieve the kirtle, and as she picks it up she notices the vial. She holds it up to me.

  “This is Edward’s. Wherever did you find it?”

  “On the path outside the house, mum,” I stammer.

  She holds it up to the candlelight, admiring it for a moment. “He lost it some years ago. I was terribly disappointed, as I’d purchased it myself from a dealer in London.”

  “It is very beautiful,” I say.

  “Perhaps one of the servants took it,” she says with a sigh, disregarding in her way the fact that I am a servant. “I shall take it to him immediately,” she says, pleased at the prospect. “And you must rest,” she says firmly. “I only wished to ascertain that you were out of danger.” She pauses then and turns to face me one last time. “Remember we must be vigilant with both our physic and our soul,” she says pointedly. “The one cannot survive without the other.”

  “Yes, mum.”

  She leaves me then, with a little nod of condescension, and I am left holding her words.

  Chapter Six

  The following day I return to my duties. I am anxious to confront my master about the vial at the first opportunity, though it is not clear to me how I should do so. My mistress has received word of the impending arrival of the portrait painter, and is busy making arrangements for his accommodation. She consults me over the suitability of his rooms, not wishing him to stay among the servants, as he has sat with royalty and her second cousin is his patron. But neither does she wish for him to be accommodated in the guest wing, for it is truly sumptuous, and by rights his status as a painter, even a talented one, places him only slightly higher than that of a craftsman. I suggest that he be given the tower room, above the library, for it is both apart from the servant’s quarters and austere in its decoration. It also benefits from much sunlight, and I remind her that such matters are important to a painter. She nods at this, and instructs the houseman to move a bed into the room at once.

  I also propose that the painter might appreciate some volumes of history in his quarters, as he is due to remain for some days while he carries out his commission. My mistress agrees, and so I hurry to the library, where I know my master will be passing time among his books. I am short of breath by the time I reach the tower, not so much from tiredness as from anticipation, and I pause just outside the library door, my heart thumping in my chest. I can hear my master moving about inside; he has a peculiar shuffling gait due to one leg being slightly shorter than the other. I knock and enter when he bids me to, and he turns to face me, his hair disheveled and his eyes a little wild. Unlike his mother, he does not take much notice of his attire, and dresses in a melancholy manner, almost entirely in black, sometimes wearing the same dark tunic for several days at a time. He has a small mustache, which he is fond of stroking with his thumb and forefinger, and wears a tall, floppy, broad-brimmed hat whenever he goes out, lending him the appearance of a minstrel. His eyes are his most attractive feature, being large and round and tawny-colored, with long curly lashes like a woman’s. But what one notices most about him is his shape: for he is small in size, and his left shoulder protrudes sharply upward past his ear, so that his neck and head are almost always at a slight angle, a fact that I have always found unsettling when he speaks to me. That and his manner, which can only be described as somewhat absent, as if he is in a state of perpetual distraction.

  He looks at me now in that slightly vacant way, as if his eyes are upon me but his vision has gone elsewhere, and I explain that I have come to borrow books on behalf of my mistress.

  “What sort of books?” he asks skeptically, as my mistress keeps her own collection of psalms and Scripture in her antechamber, and is not fond of any other.

  “History, sir. Or geography perhaps. They are for the portrait painter,” I add. “For his amusement.”

  “Ah,” he says, and shuffles slowly to the far side of the room, selecting half a dozen volumes from a shelf. “These might interest him, if he is the reading sort, though he may well be illiterate. Many of them are, you know.”

  “Yes, sir,” I reply, taking the books from him. He moves over to his desk then, and at the same time, our eyes both light upon the vial, resting on the silken pouch atop his desk. In an instant his face has dropped its vacant look.

  “I owe you many thanks,” he says. His gaze drops down to the vial. “It is indeed very precious to me, and I am grateful for its safe return.” He looks at me a little expectantly then, and I can only manage a half-smile. “My mother said you found it on the path . . . I cannot imagine how it came to be there.”

  I take a deep breath before replying. “No sir, I did not. It was given to me by Dora before she died. She desired that it be returned to you . . . in the event that any misfortune should befall her.” My master lowers his eyes then, stares at the vial, loses himself inside it for a moment.

  “I see. Then I must thank you doubly for your discretion,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “She had some knowledge that death was near,” I say, moving toward him slowly. “Indeed she feared that it was imminent.”

  He frowns, his eyes cloudy with confusion. “But her death was an accident.”

  “One that she prepared for,” I reply. We both stare at each other for a long moment.

  “What are you saying?” he asks.

  I shrug. “I only wish to know the truth.”

  He pauses then, his fingertips resting lightly on the desk, and just then his body sways almost imperceptively. “The truth is that I feel her loss acutely,” he says finally, sinking down into his chair and burying his hands in his hair. He stays this way for several moments, the room so quiet I can hear the ticking of the timepiece in the corner.

  “But I know nothing of her death,” he says finally.

  I wait a moment, ponder my options.

  “Perhaps you knew she was with child,” I offer.

  His face freezes. “No,” he says, his voice crackling like fine paper. “No, I did not.”

  And I believe him, for there is a time when lying is not possible, when the flesh and fluids within us betray all our truths. This is when I ask my final question: the one I have been waiting for.

  “The baby she carried, could it be . . . ” I hesitate, summon my courage. “Is it possible that it was yours?”

  He looks at me and his eyes slowly bloom with pain. His face twitches and his chest heaves. Then he shakes his head, just b
arely, from side to side. “Such a thing could not be possible,” he says, his voice barely audible.

  My mouth is dry like cotton. “Forgive me, sir,” I whisper.

  Then I take his books and run from the room.

  By the time I reach the main house I am drenched with fear. I have never seen my master thus, and though I do not fear for the sake of my own person, I am nonetheless frightened for his. Our bodies are the safe house of our passions, but there are limits to what they will contain. If the house becomes too full, it will unburden itself in some manner: either by sickness, or by deed. In truth, the severity of his response confounds me. Though my question clearly caught him unawares, it was not ill-founded, for he is a man like any other. And though I took some liberties in the asking, I did so with the knowledge that theirs was no casual liaison, as he himself had only just revealed to me the depth of his affections. Indeed, Dora touched so many in our midst, that it now begins to seem as if she spun a dense web of loyalty around her, one so vast that I cannot step in any direction for fear of tripping up against the thread of her presence.

  And I myself am caught within the web, for like my master, I feel her loss acutely. Why else do I seek an answer to the riddle of her death?

  At the end of the day, when I return to my room, I find a plain-wrapped parcel waiting on my bed. When I open it a small cloth purse drops into my lap, together with a note on white parchment. Though he does not sign it, I recognize my master’s hand. The message reads simply: “Please deliver this safely to her son.” I open the purse and empty its contents onto my bed. It is more money than I have ever seen—indeed it is more than I have ever dreamed of seeing. What does he hope to buy with this money, I wonder. Is it the price of my silence, or the cost of his guilt? I count it slowly, carefully, partly to be sure of its value, but partly just to have the feel of it in my hands. Then I return it to the purse, which I stow beneath my bedclothes. Tomorrow I will take it to the boy. But tonight I will sleep upon it, and dream the dreams of misers.