BONE HOUSE

by Betsy Tobin

  Chapter Seventeen

  I wake uneasily, with a strong sense that I must act quickly before my mother’s fate is wrenched from our hands. The other servants are already huddled over their bread and prayers when I descend. I pause just outside the great hall and listen to the low but steady murmur of voices and the occasional peal of laughter. When I enter, silence falls over them and a row of inquiring eyes greets me. I think of the scar upon my mother’s belly and wonder whether the women have maintained their silence. If so, it is only a matter of time, for the devil’s teat is too powerful a secret to lay buried for long. I do not sit with them, but cross directly to the kitchen, where I find Cook already with her hands deep inside a pullet. She raises her head and her eyes flood with concern.

  “How goes your mother?” she asks tentatively.

  “As well as one might expect,” I reply. She shakes her head and sucks in air through her teeth, then slowly extracts her hands from the pullet, her fists clutching entrails. In a flash I see the image from my dream: that of the crooked boy spilling forth from the riven belly of the mare. And all at once I know what I must do.

  My master is an early riser, and I am not surprised to find him already seated at his desk in the library. As I enter the room it strikes me that perhaps he has remained rooted there throughout the night, for it is clear from his demeanor that sleep has barely visited him these past few days. He reminds me of Long Boy, for his eyes hold the same restless look about them. My unannounced visits no longer take him by surprise, and I do not feel trepidation in his presence, only urgency, as if the burden of my mother’s story should not be borne by me alone.

  I speak slowly, cautiously, choosing my words with precision. I tell the tale in its entirety, just as it was told to me, and as I do, am taken aback by the pleasure I feel to see the look upon his face. For he is truly horrified, just as I knew he would be. Indeed, his embarrassment is so acute that I can nearly touch it: his crooked spine seems to contort with shame as I speak, so much so that as I near the end of the tale he is bent so far to one side that his face nearly rests upon the desk. It is as if all the sins of his father have somehow lodged themselves within his very bones. When I finish there is a long silence during which the only sounds are that of the timepiece ticking in the corner and the rise and fall of his own labored breath. At length he straightens, unfolding himself as best he can, and looks at me.

  “I was that child,” he says quietly. He takes a deep breath before continuing. “And the image of my father . . . drunken, half-clothed, a bloodstained knife within his hand, has never left me. I did not see the woman, your mother, though I heard her screams. They too have stayed with me . . . it is not the sort of thing a child easily forgets.” He pauses then, his eyes brimming with pain, then clears his throat.

  “My father hated me,” he says in flattened tones. “I suppose my . . . infirmity was too great a disappointment. Or perhaps I was simply made to pay for his mistakes. Sometimes I think my whole life has been lived entirely in atonement for his own. Does that sound self-pitying?” He looks at me and I slowly shake my head.

  “At any rate, when he died I felt relief . . . though little else had changed. At least I no longer had the specter of his anger to confront.” He gives me a small half-smile. “Only its memory.”

  He looks away then, lost in that other time. I consider whether I should reveal the final chapter of my tale. My mother’s voice comes to me: what purpose would it serve? But something propels me forward, like a wave sweeping across the shore.

  “My mother fell pregnant afterward,” I say. “She never married. There were no other men . . . neither before, nor after,” I add, lest my meaning be unclear. He stares at me, his eyes widening with realization.

  “I see,” he says finally.

  “You must help us,” I continue. “You must help her.”

  “Yes,” he whispers. “Yes, of course.”

  “You must go at once to the magistrate. And you must tell him what you saw,” I say.

  His face fills with confusion. “But I did not see him cut her. Indeed, I did not see her at all. I saw only him . . . and the blood upon the knife.”

  I trap his gaze firmly in my own. “Then you must lie,” I say.

  He nods then, slowly.

  And then, in minute detail, I describe the scar and its location.

  I leave him stunned, and go directly to my mistress. As I enter her bedchamber I can think of nothing other than her husband, my father. The knowledge lies deep within me, like a coiled snake. If she suffered under him, then she has cloaked it well, for nothing in her passing references has ever led me to suspect the depth of his sins. Her comments were disguised by propriety and a thinly veiled ambivalence. Perhaps she closed her eyes to his brutality. Perhaps he kept it from her—but this seems unlikely, as she is shrewd and well aware. It makes her somehow tragic in my eyes. Almost more so than my mother, for though my mother was a victim, she was not complicit in her own undoing.

  My mistress sleeps when I arrive, the skin upon her cheeks like oiled paper. I rearrange the bedclothes and she stirs, opening her eyes. She blinks repeatedly, endeavoring to focus her gaze, but in the end she appears to fail, for she rolls over to one side with a sigh and closes them anew. I wait a few moments, until her breathing is more regular, than quietly slip away. I do not think that she has seen me: her servant, the daughter of her husband.

  I hurry to my mother’s cottage, and find her busy washing wool. At least her hands are occupied, a sign that her spirits have improved. She greets me with relief and appears almost grateful for my visit, though she wears her gratitude uneasily, like an ill-fitting garment.

  “Have you seen the magistrate?” I ask at once.

  She shakes her head. “I have heard nothing,” she says.

  “You have not been accused?”

  “Not to my face.”

  “Well, that is something, at least,” I reply. She lifts the wool out of the basin and wrings the water from it with both hands. I watch as she squeezes out the last remaining drops.

  “I have been to see my master,” I say quietly. She pauses, her hands in midair, and raises her head to look at me, the newly washed wool hanging limply from her fingers. “He was the boy that day,” I say.

  “I have always known as much,” she replies. Without thinking, she drops the wool once again into the water.

  “He will intervene on your behalf,” I say. “He will tell them what he saw that day: the truth about the scar.”

  She looks down at the cloudy water in the basin, the wool floating freely like an island. Instinctively her arms move around to clutch her sides in a protective embrace. I read her thoughts in an instant: it is all too public, this airing of her past. Even worse than yesterday’s search, for that was between women, behind closed doors. But the idea of two strange men discussing what befell her at the hands of a third: this she cannot bear.

  I lay a hand upon her shoulder. “It must be done,” I say gently. She nods, just barely. I remove the wool once again from the water and wring it tightly in my hands. Even with my master’s help we cannot guarantee her safety. The only thing that will truly change their minds is the discovery of the fetus. But that remains a riddle none of us can solve.

  At length my mother takes the wool from my hands and methodically hangs it out over a wooden frame by the fire.

  “How is the boy?” she asks finally.

  “The fever is gone,” I say hesitantly. “But he is somehow altered.”

  “She feared for him,” my mother says slowly.

  “How?” I ask.

  “She told me once, not long ago . . . that it was ill-judged of her to raise a child in the constant company of strangers.” My mother looks at me, her meaning evident. When he was young, Long Boy remained behind a bed curtain when his mother entertained. Later, when he was old enough, he was sent outside, though often I’d see him crouching close behind her cottage, as if he could not bear the separation. In truth,
such was her calm assurance and easy manner, that no one gave a second thought to the propriety of his presence. He was like an extra limb, almost a physical extension of herself. But now that she was gone, it seemed as if the life-source had been wrenched from him.

  “It did not help that he was so unlike the others of his age,” says my mother, referring to his size. I had never seen him play with other children: he looked a giant in their presence. Like my master, his body was a cage, isolating him from others. It stood in sharp contrast to that of his mother: for hers was like a fountain of abundance, where all and sundry could come and replenish themselves, drink deeply of her generous spirit.

  “Perhaps when he reaches manhood he will be more settled,” ventures my mother. She looks at me and our eyes meet in a frown.

  For she does not believe this, and neither do I.

  * * *

  I take him bread that she has baked, and when I place it in his hands, he holds it gingerly, staring down into the deep brown crust as if it will contain her likeness. He raises his head and looks at me expectantly.

  “Is she still tired?” he asks. I nod.

  “She needs to rest,” I say. “But when she has regained her strength, she will return.” He frowns, looks down again at the bread.

  “Your friend was here,” he says then. I stare at him blankly. “He left me that,” he says, nodding toward the table. I cross over, see the charcoal sketch upon the table for the first time. It is of the boy, seated up in bed, the same look of turmoil in his eyes. I hold the paper and my hands tremble slightly. I turn to Anne Wycombe.

  “He was here?” I ask. She hesitates, then nods.

  “Yesterday,” she says.

  “But . . . why?” I ask.

  “To see the boy,” she answers.

  “He asked to draw my picture,” says Long Boy proudly. “It is very like, is it not?” I cross over to his side and together we study the drawing. Long Boy reaches out and fingers it, clearly entranced by his own image.

  “Yes,” I say slowly.

  “He said he was a friend of yours,” says Long Boy. I look at him, feel the anger rise within me.

  “He has been hired by my master,” I reply. This seems to satisfy Long Boy, for he nods, then bites off a hunk of my mother’s bread.

  But it does not satisfy me, for I do not trust the painter’s motives. “You must be wary of such gifts,” I say, echoing my mother’s words.

  “It was not a gift,” says Long Boy. “He called it an exchange.”

  I look at him puzzled, and then it dawns on me. “You gave him the book.”

  Long Boy nods and his eyes color anxiously at the tone of my voice. “He said he would return it,” says Long Boy. “He will, won’t he?”

  I leave him then, clutching my fury like a tightly wrapped parcel. I have hardly said two words to him these past few days, yet the anger has not lessened over time. His interest in her now seems like an act of trespassing: he has no right to be here and even less claim upon her than the others, for it seems to me that the woman he knew was not the same as the one who lived within our midst. If only he would leave: take his charcoal and his sketches and his disquieting vision with him.

  When I reach the Great House, I go at once to the tower, can think of nothing else but the need to retrieve the diary and tell him he must go. My heart races as I climb the stairs and by the time I reach his room, my chest is heaving with rage. I stop sharply at the door, for it stands slightly ajar, and I struggle to regain my composure, for I have no desire to make a fool of myself in front of him. But all is silent within: I hear only the sound of my own breath. Instead of knocking, I raise a hand and ease the door open slightly. At once I see his room is empty, and I enter quietly, like a thief, closing the door behind me.

  My first thought is that he has already left the village, and I feel a stab of disappointment until I see that this is not the case, as the room still holds his things. The bed is made up tidily and his few belongings are stowed neatly to one side, almost as if he were expecting someone. His paints and canvasses are stacked upon a table in the corner of the room, together with his papers and sketches. I cross over to them, wonder what, if any, progress he has made these past few days. But what I see atop the pile is not her face, but my own, staring out at me almost accusingly.

  I step forward and finger the edge of the paper. It is a charcoal sketch of my upper body, and the look upon my face is one of anger: it is precisely, disconcertingly, the look I must have worn when I climbed the stairs only moments ago. The eyes are dark and opened wide with anger, the mouth is closed, lips pressed tightly together, and the brows are knit together in a furrowed frown. But what strikes me most about the woman in the portrait, much more than her apparent state of high emotion, is her beauty. For despite my expression, he has made me striking. And although the face is undoubtedly my own, the beauty I do not recognize. I have never seen myself in such a light; nor has anyone else, to my knowledge. I stare at the sketch, wondering what exactly he has done to render such a transformation: which parts of me he has altered to my benefit. Slowly I turn round and find my reflection in the great gilded mirror that hangs opposite where I stand. And there, framed in the glass, is the woman of the portrait. I stand watching her, eyes wide, and the anger falls away from me like sheets of ice. I edge closer to the mirror, peer intently at myself, for I have never met the woman that he sees.

  After several moments, I tear my eyes from hers, and turn back to the table. I lift the drawing in my fingers, only to discover another one below it. This too is me, but it is an earlier version, one I recognize more easily: the dress I wore the first day I sat with him in my master’s library, the day I spoke for hours while he listened and sketched idly. This time I am not angry, but nervous and intent. And while the portrait is not unflattering, it does not hold the beauty of the first.

  Slowly I lift the sheet to reveal a third, and this one takes my breath away, for in it I lay sleeping. My hair is fanned across the bed cushion, and one arm curls idly round my head in a gesture that is almost wanton. My lips are parted slightly and my eyes appear just closed, as if any second I will wake. My heart races as I stare at the sketch, for it is obvious that it was not imagined. He must have been there in my room, watching while I slept. And once again, the woman he has drawn is both starkly beautiful, and strikingly feminine. I feel my mouth grow dry and my face grow hot, but while I should feel anger at what is obviously a transgression on his part, I feel only confusion, as if the world around me has suddenly been shaken by an unseen hand.

  There are two more sketches in the pile: both roughly rendered, as if they had been done hurriedly. One is of me in the alehouse, drawn from across the room from his place by the fire: a hasty sketch of my profile as I stand at the bar. The other is more difficult to place, for I am outside and it has been drawn at a greater distance than the others. There are trees behind me and I stand staring down at the earth. In a flash it comes to me, for I am at her graveside, the night her body was taken. He has drawn no one else that was present on that occasion, neither Long Boy, Samuell, nor Mary. It is only me, standing in the moonlight by her grave.

  I replace the pictures and let myself out of his room, leaving the door ajar just as I had found it. I am stunned by the sketches: feel as if there is another part of me that has dwelled somewhere within him. Who is this woman that he sees? Now that I have seen her I cannot put her from my mind. And as I descend the tower stairs, Cook’s words float across my memory like embers in the breeze: take care he does not steal your soul.

  Chapter Eighteen

  My mistress lies awake when I enter, her eyes disconcertingly wide, as if her body seeks to salvage what remains of her failing vision. She turns her head in small, trembling movements to face me, manages to nod a sort of greeting. Once again I am shocked at the speed with which her strength and vitality have ebbed, for the tide of health has indeed turned against her.

  “You were here earlier?” she asks. Her tone
is half-demanding, half-fearful.

  “Yes,” I say. “While you slept.”

  She nods again, relieved.

  “Would you take some food?” I ask. She waves a hand in disgust.

  “I sent for Edward,” she says. “He has been much . . . distracted of late. This business of the painter, I suppose. My own fault really.” She looks down, appears to forget herself. After a minute, her head snaps up.

  “I asked him to intervene on her behalf,” she says. “Your mother’s behalf.” I stare at her. “He was not unwilling,” she continues. “So you see he is not without feelings, or regard, for your person,” she adds pointedly.

  “Thank you, mum,” I murmur.

  “He is unused to exploiting his title. Influence does not come easily to him, in the way that it did to his father. So we shall have to see.”

  I think of his father, my father, and the tale my mother told of the manservant he nearly flogged to death. Is this what she regards as influence? I feel suddenly as if I should not be here, that I cannot serve her in good faith any longer.

  “When you and Edward have married, there will be much you have to learn. I was very young when I married, had no idea what to . . . expect.” She pauses, her eyes flit across the room toward the window. “It was a difficult period in my life.” She turns back to me and smiles wanly. “But I survived. And so shall you.”

  I stare at her: cannot bring myself to speak. Like my mother, she survived him. And by birth and implication, so have I, for he has altered the course of life for all of us. She begins to cough and as she does lifts a handkerchief to her lips, discharging the contents of her mouth into it. At length the cough subsides, and she is left wracked by it, her small chest heaving from the effort.