by Betsy Tobin
Since then I have not known desire. And as I trudge along the cold, dark road, it is the knowing grin of the quacksalver that appears before my eyes. Perhaps he is my guardian angel, here to remind me of my previous sins, and steer me toward a pious future. Or perhaps he is the devil, here to taunt me with my past and lead me into despair. But he is irritating in his maleness, so I shake the image from my mind, and concentrate upon the frozen rutted road beneath my feet. It seems to me that I have once again fallen prey to circumstance. The painter clearly seized upon an opportune moment: had the taper remained lit we would not have succumbed to temptation and I would not be walking home alone in the darkest hour of the night.
But I would still have to face the wrath of my mother, who would have disapproved regardless of whether or not she had surprised us in a clench of desire. For as I told the painter, the fact of our presence there together was sufficiently damning in her eyes. My mother and her mask of betrayal would have to be reckoned with tomorrow.
When I reach the Great House I collapse into my bed, the weight of the night’s events heavy upon me. I toss and turn for several hours, and when sleep finally arrives, it is troubled. In the early hours of the dawn I dream that I am caught in the vortex of a whirlpool. At the point when I am nearly lost, my mother’s face appears directly overhead, looking down into the swirling water. I shout at her to help me, but my words are swallowed by the torrent and she does not hear. She peers more closely, as if she is idly curious, then turns away, disappearing from view. And then I feel myself succumb, as I am dragged down far below the surface.
Chapter Fourteen
In the morning I go directly to my mistress. To my relief, I find her awake and somewhat improved from the previous day, though she remains only the shadow of her former self. When I enter she is sitting up in bed, propped against her cushions, staring toward the window. Cook has evidently brought her breakfast, for she clutches a small tankard tightly in her hands. She startles when she hears me, spilling some of the ale upon the bedclothes, but does not appear to notice. She turns her eyes full upon me, and I see that they are glazed with illness, like boiled sweets.
“It is you,” she says slowly. “How long you’ve been away.” Her voice is heavy with the burden of infirmity.
“I’m sorry, mum. I shall not leave you today,” I reply, taking a seat beside the bed. I have already resolved to forgo any more sessions with the painter; he cannot possibly need me further, now that he has seen his subject in the flesh. My mistress waves a hand as if to say it is no matter. She takes a sip of ale and her hand trembles as she lifts the cup to her withered lips.
“Edward remains with the painter today,” she says after a moment.
“Yes, mum,” I murmur.
“I cannot think why I wished my own portrait to be done,” she says. “I feel that if he paints me in my present state he will rob what little life is left.” She smiles wanly at me.
“No, mum. I’m sure that is not so,” I say, but believe that she is right. At any rate, there is no question of her sitting for him, as she is far too weak.
“They found her body, did they not?” she says suddenly.
I pause. “Yes, mum.”
“I overheard the others,” she says. I wonder what else she has heard.
“She will be buried again soon,” I say cautiously.
“A body must be laid to rest,” she says, her eyes wide. Does she speak of herself? She turns to me.
“Edward was fond of her, you know,” she says point-blank. I stare at her a moment before replying.
“No, mum, I did not,” I lie.
She sighs, looks down at the half-empty cup in her lap as if she does not recognize it. “He did not wish it to be known. But a mother has her ways.”
“There were many who admired her,” I say, somewhat at a loss for words.
“I thought perhaps that he might take a wife . . . now that she is gone.” She turns her watery gaze to me.
“Yes, mum. It is possible.” Such a thing could not be more unlikely, I think.
“I should like to see him settled before I die,” she continues. “It is true that he has lost his youth. But he is generous of spirit, and kind of heart. His disfigurement has made him so.” She looks at me for concurrence.
“Yes, mum. He has been a good master to us all.”
“He would make an even better husband. Loyal. And rue.” Suddenly her meaning becomes clear, for it is me she has in mind.
“Yes, mum. I’m sure he would,” I stammer.
She sighs and looks away toward the window. “He has never known the love of a woman. It would be a great tragedy if he never did.”
I think of his unbridled passion, his obsessive longing for the great-bellied woman. She does not know her son is capable of such ardor, nor that he has struggled like a web-caught insect in its grasp.
“Of course there is no question of children,” she continues in a rambling tone. “One would not want the risk. And like his father, he would not be equal to the stress. But there are other things to occupy a woman’s time. A household to run. A husband to serve. These things are ample enough reward.”
“Yes, mum,” I murmur, for her mind strays now, and she does not appear to hear me.
“She would have a title. And wealth. And would bring honor to her family.” She turns back to me pointedly. In a flash I think of my mother and the closed circle of her world. My mother dwells outside the realm of wealth and titles, has no need for them, and even less desire.
“Shall I read to you, mum?” I say.
“No,” she says quietly.
“You must rest now then,” I tell her.
“Yes.” I take the cup from her, and as I turn away she reaches out a bony hand to grasp my arm. Her grip is surprisingly strong, and I feel a little rush of panic as she pulls me back to face her.
“You will see to it when I am gone?” she asks, her tone desperate. I look deeply into the well of her eyes; they are awash with delirium.
“Yes, mum,” I say. She lies back against the cushion, but does not let go my arm, as if her hand is somehow disconnected from the rest of her. Then, as if an afterthought, she relaxes her grip and closes her eyes, and I take up the tray and hurry from the room.
When I arrive in the kitchen, Cook shakes her head at the tray. “She is not long,” she says with characteristic brevity.
“She may yet recover,” I reply, for I can still feel the claw of her iron grip upon my forearm.
“Death is with her now,” says Cook. “He is there, in that room.” It is true, for I had felt it the minute I entered—a sense of decay and imminent doom. Cook shakes her head again and I see that she has assembled a bunch of medicinal herbs on the table. But they are not the usual sort, the ones that cure: they are herbs used to relieve pain and suffering, to ease one’s passage into death.
“Perhaps we should send for Lucius,” I say tentatively. Cook shrugs and lifts a cauldron of water onto the hook over the fire.
“Do what you will,” she says. “He can do nothing for her now.”
I go at once to see my master, to inform him of his mother’s condition. I find him in a state of total disarray. There is a wildness in his eyes, as if he has not slept in days. His clothes are crumpled and his face is unshaven, and his desk is a mass of open books and scattered papers. When I tell him that his mother’s condition has worsened he looks at me as if I am speaking in tongues.
“I think it best we send for her physician,” I say emphatically, hoping to impress upon him the urgency of the situation. He nods then, finally.
“Yes, of course,” he murmurs. “I shall send a steward for him at once.” But he remains motionless, his hands frozen to the desk, and I wonder if he too believes her death is imminent, unstoppable. Or is it that he is half-crazed with grief and longing? Truly he acts as if possessed. Perhaps Dora is more real to him in death, for now she inhabits his private world, the universe of his dreams.
“You took h
im to see her?” he asks all of a sudden.
“Yes,” I say. He nods.
“Then surely he will be capable of rendering a likeness.” I hesitate slightly.
“I presume so, yes.” I do not speak of her rigid death-face, of how unlike it was.
“They will bury her today?”
“I have not heard, sir.”
“I should like to know,” he says.
“Perhaps I could inquire,” I suggest.
“I would be most indebted,” he replies. I nod and turn to go, as anxious to be rid of his presence as I had been earlier in his mother’s chamber.
“There is one more thing,” he says absently. “The painter is above. He wishes to see you, at your convenience.”
I stare at him a moment. “I’ll go at once,” I say.
I climb the stairs with mounting resentment. What more could he want from me? I pause outside his door to gather my wits. Despite my earlier resolution, it seems it will be difficult to avoid him. When I knock I hear a rustling from within, and after a moment the door opens. Like my master he is unshaven and his hair uncombed. He runs a hand through it self-consciously.
“Forgive my appearance,” he says. “I worked late into the night.” He stands aside for me to enter. I take a step into the room, but only one, then turn to face him.
“You wished to see me?” My voice is distant, formal.
He nods. “I worked late into the night, but she eludes me.” He indicates the portrait on the easel, does not meet my eyes. I cross over to look at it, and he is right. He is further from her now than before. I offer no words of encouragement.
“I cannot succeed without your help,” he says. “I need your eyes. And your words.” I look again upon the portrait. There is something grotesque about it, as if it too has died.
“I do not know,” I say hesitantly. For truly I am not sure that I can take him any further. Perhaps she is like the bird upon the mountain. Perhaps it is not possible to capture her within the frame.
“I beg of you,” he says. I look again at him and he is on the brink of despair. Why does it mean so much to him? Is it merely a matter of pride? Or has she taken root in him as well?
“I will try,” I say finally. He smiles a little, is visibly relieved. There is an awkward silence.
“You had better get some rest,” I say coldly. “I’ll come to you this evening.”
He nods. And then without his thanks, I go.
I send for Lucius myself, knowing that my master is incapable of making decisions, and feeling that I must do something for my mistress. When Lucius arrives, he is somewhat taken aback, for it is clear that she is fast declining. He asks to confer with her other physician, Carrington, as if the burden of her care is suddenly too onerous for him alone, and so a servant is dispatched at once.
I offer him a drink and he accepts readily, suggesting we take it in the parlor downstairs so as not to disturb her, but truly it is plain that he is anxious to be free of her death-room. Her condition unnerves him and he is overly talkative, telling me he has just come from the village.
“I was asked by the magistrate to examine the body,” he explains, sipping from his glass.
“He has already arrived?” I say. Lucius nods.
“Early this morning. Most anxious to attend the case.”
“You saw her?” I ask cautiously. Lucius nods. “What did you find?”
“He wished to know the extent of damage. I told him it appeared their only aim was removal of the fetus. There were no other acts of malice that I could detect.” I nod. “The job was crudely done, but effective,” he adds, not meeting my eyes.
“Is there a suspect?” I ask.
“No. But there is talk of another search. If they find the fetus, they’ll have the culprit.” I do not reply, but it seems unlikely they will find the fetus when they could not even find the corpse.
“There is talk of sorcery,” he continues. “Or some other of the black arts. Given the nature of the crime, I should not be surprised.”
“When is the burial?” I say, thinking of my master.
“That I do not know,” he says. “Not immediately. The body is the only evidence at present.” I think of her lying there upon the sledge, of what she was, and what she now will be—evidence at her own trial.
Not long after, Carrington arrives. He remains frail but of a piece, and the two men withdraw to her antechamber to examine her and confer. In the meantime I send for my master, thinking he should hear their diagnosis firsthand, knowing it will reflect badly upon him if he doesn’t. He arrives looking slightly more composed, for he has shaved and combed his hair, and his shirt is clean and pressed. When the physicians emerge they return again to the parlor to confer with my master, and I make a point of serving drinks again so as to be present. When I enter there is much talk of humors and imbalance, but it amounts to little in my eyes, and they conclude by saying they wish to observe her over the next few days, rather than take immediate action. My master listens in his somewhat absent way, nodding and thanking them profusely for their efforts. As I leave it strikes me that they are powerless, and wonder whether they themselves are aware of this.
And then I return to the kitchen, where Cook is busy brewing herbs. The smell is pungent, musky, and faintly exotic, and it stirs something deep within me. For we are all secretly enthralled by death.
When I was very young, the graveyard was my haven. I went there often to play among the headstones, and over time I came to know each one: its size and shape and markings. My mother told me that graveyards were the home of lost souls—those whose spirits were doomed to walk the earth forever in search of peace. This notion caught my fancy, and I resolved to search for lost souls each time I visited that place.
When I asked her what they looked like, she told me only that they could not be seen by ordinary eyes. I assumed that if I wanted to succeed, I would have to alter my vision in some way. Squinting was the most obvious means, so I would crouch behind the gravestones for what seemed like hours with my eyes narrowed to barely more than slits. When the lost souls did not appear, I tried to tilt my head as far as possible to one side, so that the graveyard and its headstones were turned upside-down.
It was in this way, with my forehead resting lightly on the grass, that I was startled one day by the bedraggled figure of a man, his face bloodied and his tunic soaked with dark stains. He came limping into the graveyard, one arm crooked tightly against his side, and collapsed not two lengths from where I hid behind a tree. He fell to his knees panting, his good arm propped in front of him, his eyes wide with pain. He stayed that way for several seconds, gasping for breath and staring at the ground, and I watched as the blood trickled from a deep wound upon his forehead, gathered on his brow, then fell in a tiny crimson thread upon the grass. He did not see me and I was terrified to move—so I watched him from my upside-down position. Here at last was a lost soul, though he was not at all what I’d expected.
After a minute he suddenly spewed up blood and with a strange gurgling sound he collapsed facedown upon the earth. This was too much for me and I gave a little scream and jumped to my feet. But in the next instant I was struck by the complete stillness of his body: death had taken him as I watched. I remained motionless for several moments, and then I crept up to his side and settled myself next to him, hoping that perhaps his soul would rise up in front of me so I could follow it. I sat and watched as two big horseflies landed on his tunic, and slowly made their way across the carpet of blood. And then I was startled by sounds of shouting in the distance. After a moment a man came running toward me, followed closely by two others. The first man was also bleeding in the face, though not as badly, and when he reached me he stopped short and stared down at the body, nudging it slightly with the toe of his boot. When he was satisfied that the man was dead he turned to his companions, who arrived huffing and puffing. All three wore the ragged clothes of vagabonds and their faces were rough and reddened from the sun.
“It’s done then, is it?” said the second man, who was short and barrel-chested.
“Good as near,” said the first, wiping the blood from his face with his sleeve.
“He went easy like,” said the third with a snort of disgust. This man then placed the heel of his boot against the dead man’s side and with one swift push, flipped him over like a pancake. I had never seen a corpse at such close hand, and the sight of his rolled-back eyes made me gasp. For the first time the three men looked at me, and we stared at each other for a long moment, until one of them, the one whose face was bleeding, spoke to me.
“Fell off his mount,” he said, indicating the dead man. The others nodded slowly, and then the barrel-chested man knelt down by the body. He took a knife out from under his tunic and cut loose the dead man’s purse. It held almost nothing, even I could tell this at my age, and when the fat man held it up to his companions they spat and shook their heads. Then they turned and scampered off, leaving me alone with my lost soul.
When I returned home I found my mother spinning wool in front of the cottage.
“I’ve seen one,” I said excitedly. “In the graveyard.” Her eyes narrowed.
“You’ve seen what?” she asked warily.
“A lost soul,” I said. “He was dead,” I added. She looked at me a long moment, then shook her head.
“You’ve seen naught,” she said with a sigh, before returning to her spinning. I watched her work for a moment, knew that the force of her truth would outweigh mine, and then I turned on my heels and left.
Some time later I returned to the graveyard. By then the body had been removed, though I could still see the smear of blood upon the grass. My mother must have learned of the dead man in the days that followed, for news of a killing would have spread hastily about the village. But she never came to me with it—never offered her knowledge in exchange for my own.
Later that day my mistress falls into a deep sleep, and I take the opportunity to go into the village. At some point I must face my mother, but first I journey to the alehouse to discover what has happened. I enter through the kitchen door, hoping to find Mary alone, but instead find her and Samuell by the fire, their heads bowed closely in conference. They turn to me, and I see at once in their startled faces that something is amiss. Samuell nods to me and hurries from the room.