I wait, and wait. Then just as I am about to bang on the gate again, there is a voice, a woman’s voice. ‘Who are you?’ it says.
My relief is so great that my words come too quickly, tumbling out over each other. ‘I am Alice Angel. And I’ve come to see Henry Prince!’
‘Are you another from London?’ asks the voice.
‘No, no,’ I say. ‘I am from Bridgwater. That is where I first saw him. In the town square.’
‘And what business might you have with Our Beloved?’
I don’t know what to say. I did not think I would have to give a reason to see him. I thought he would be here himself to welcome me. ‘I … I heard him in the town square,’ I say again. ‘He said … ’ I think hard, trying to remember the right words. ‘He said, “Follow me and I will show you paradise on earth.” So I am here. I came.’
There is silence again, save for the pounding of my heart. ‘Please,’ I whisper.
Then the gate rattles. There is the sound of metal on metal and a woman’s face peers out at me. She is young and soft-looking and as she gestures for me to follow her, I see that she is with child. ‘Alice Angel,’ she says. ‘What a beautiful name.’ She smiles at me. ‘My name is Glory.’
She closes the gate behind us and I stare in astonishment at the sight that meets my eyes. There is a whole village spread out before me, a tiny but perfect village. There is a cluster of pretty cottages, a majestic mansion and even a chapel, covered in stone carvings of the strangest creatures I have ever seen. There are lawns and flower beds and white gravel pathways gleaming in the morning sun. ‘I will take you straight to him,’ says the woman called Glory. ‘He will decide if you can stay.’ We walk through a central courtyard and pass a couple of women who are kneeling to tend the flower beds.
‘Good morning, Glory,’ they say. ‘We have been blessed with another magnificent day.’
‘Every new day we are blessed with is magnificent,’ Glory replies. She leads me along a narrow gravel pathway, lined with neat box hedges. The pathway winds around the side of the mansion and stops outside a white-painted door that is hung with a large golden cross. Two huge bloodhounds are spread out across the doorstep. They growl deep down in their throats, but Glory just pats them casually on the head. ‘Hush, now. You have done your duty,’ she says. We step over the hounds and Glory opens the door and beckons me inside.
We enter a large, dark hallway. The air is hushed and still and smells of wood smoke, fresh linen and the pungent perfume of freshly cut flowers. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust from the glaring sunshine outside to the dimness inside. Then I see thick rugs on a polished wooden floor and oak wall panels that gleam in the light of the handful of candles that are dotted about. Soft green fronds of pot plants spill out of ornate vases, and the walls are covered in flocked paper of red, green and gold. And everywhere there are flowers, of all colours and types. It would put the comforts of Lions House to shame. Glory stops and taps lightly on a door which is framed by long, red velvet curtains. ‘Wait here a moment,’ she says as she disappears into the room.
My legs are trembling. A thought comes to me that maybe this is what it is like to stand at the gates of Heaven. Will I be admitted? Will Henry Prince permit me to stay? There is a large mirror on the wall opposite. I look at the girl standing in it. Against the blackness of her gown and hair, her face is whiter than white. She looks exhausted and in need of pity. I know that I would help her if it were within my power.
The door opens and Glory reappears. Her eyes are glittering and she runs her hands over the protruding shape of her child. ‘He will see you now,’ she says, and stands aside to let me pass. I grab her hand, urgently.
‘But what shall I call him?’
She frowns briefly, as though I should already know the answer to this, as though the answer is as simple as saying the sky is blue. ‘Why, Beloved, of course,’ she says, before walking away.
I take a deep breath and step into the room. My eyes start to sting and as I rub at them and blink, I see horizontal clouds of smoke hovering, from wall to wall, across the room. The walls are red, a deep, crimson red, the ceiling too, and the curtains and the carpet. I have never seen a room like it. The colour folds around me and thrums inside me like a heartbeat. The room is breathing, as though it has lungs of its own. I want to reach across and touch the walls to see if they are real.
‘Welcome,’ says a voice. My hand flies to my mouth to quell a startled yelp. I peer through the smoke to the other side of the room, where half a dozen chairs are grouped around an enormous marble fireplace. ‘Come here, my child. So I can see you.’ His voice is as soothing as fat drops of sunlight and honey, just as I remember it to be. I walk towards him, my heart fluttering like a moth in my throat. He is sitting in a high-backed chair, so carved and ornate that it looks like a throne, and he is blowing great plumes of cigar smoke towards the ceiling. ‘So, my child,’ he says, and he looks at me for such a long while that I fear the moth in my throat will soon shoot from my mouth and hit him between the eyes. ‘What have you to say for yourself?’ he asks me.
There is so much I want to say that I don’t know where to begin. I am Alice Angel, I want to tell him. I am sixteen years old. I am not mad. But I am a bad person. I have done some terrible things lately. I want to be forgiven. I want to be a good person, the person they all expect me to be. I have seen you and I have heard you talk. I think you understand. Can you help me?
But his eyes have silenced my tongue. I had forgotten how shocking they are in their intensity.
‘Well?’ he says, at last. ‘I believe you wish to join us?’ I think he must have seen through the hair, skin and bone of my head, straight into my mind, to read my thoughts.
I nod dumbly.
‘Have you brought anything with you?’ he asks.
This time I shake my head.
‘What? Nothing?’ He tosses his head and his ringlets, as black and glossy as a horse’s coat, fall about his shoulders.
I stretch out my arms and show him my open palms. ‘I have nothing other than what I am standing in,’ I manage to say.
He looks at me sharply and his blue eyes turn dark and hard as granite. ‘You know that all property and riches are as dirt?’
I nod, not sure of what to say. But there is a sinking feeling inside me. I am doing it all wrong, and I am sure that any moment now, he will throw me out of the door.
He settles back in his chair and regards me thoughtfully. He strokes his beard slowly, as if it is a favourite cat. ‘You cannot enter the Abode unless you are prepared to give up all your earthly riches.’ His voice is softer now and I think that maybe all is not lost yet.
‘But I have no earthly riches to give up,’ I say. ‘I have nothing.’ I think of Mama’s jewellery box and how it is crammed with all manner of gems and brooches and pearls. If I had been better prepared, I would have stolen a pocketful.
Henry Prince sighs.
My chest is tight with panic now. ‘Please!’ I say. ‘If I had any riches at all, I would be more than happy to give them all up!’ I lower my head so he cannot see the tears in my eyes. I put my hand to my throat to try and still the frantic beating of my heart. It is then that I feel the chain around my neck and I quickly close my fingers around the gold locket.
‘Riches, great or small, must be sacrificed,’ he says. ‘The more you are prepared to give to God, the greater your reward will be here in this life,’
He means me to give up my locket, I know it. The only thing I have left of Papa. I lift my head, meaning to protest, but there is such a look of sadness on his face, that the words die on my tongue. I squeeze my eyes shut, ready to hear the worst of news.
‘Very well,’ he says eventually. ‘If you have no riches to give up, you may give up your labour to us instead. You will join the Parlour, if that suits?’
‘What … what is the Parlour?’ I ask, my voice shaking with relief.
‘Glory will show you. Go and find her. She
will be in the gardens.’ He stands, and he is like a giant towering over me. ‘Now, child.’ He places a hand on my head. ‘You are blessed, and you have started the journey to forgiveness in this world. Go now, and I will see you in chapel tonight.’
I cannot believe it. I cannot believe he has said yes to me. I feel as though I have been given the greatest gift of all and, just as I saw the girl in the town square do, I want to fall to my knees and kiss his bare feet. But instead I just whisper, thank you. Then another word rises up from inside me and fills my mouth, and I say, louder now, ‘Thank you … Beloved.’
Twenty-six
Glory is happy to see me again. At least she does not seem unhappy. She does not say it, but I think she has been waiting for me to come back out into the gardens. ‘So, Alice Angel,’ she says. ‘Are you staying with us?’
I nod, shyly. ‘I am,’ I say. ‘I am to join the Parlour. He … he … Our Beloved, said you would explain it all to me.’
‘Of course. I thought as much.’ She smiles. ‘Come. I will show you.’
I follow her through the gardens, and I notice how finely she is dressed, despite her condition, in a lemon gown so beautiful that even Mama’s Paris creations could not compare. Her ears are splashed with pearls and she has a jewel-encrusted cross hanging from a silver rope around her neck. I am puzzled. Do these things not count as earthly riches? But there is no time for me to wonder any further, for Glory has led me into the kitchen of one of the cottages, and she has flung her arms open wide, as though she is presenting me with a palace.
‘Your new home!’ she exclaims brightly. ‘The others will be back for their midday meal soon. They will know better than me what your duties will be.’
The kitchen is small, and although scrubbed clean, it is furnished in the most basic manner, with only a wooden table, an assortment of chairs, a shabby dresser stacked with plates and teacups, and a large black range. I force a small smile. I do not want Glory to see my disappointment. But I think that even the lowliest maid from home would not think much of this place.
‘Who are the others?’ I venture to ask.
‘Why, the Parlour, of course. They are like you. They had no worldly goods or riches to give up, so they have given up their labour in order to follow Him.’
‘What … what sort of labour will I be expected to do?’ I ask.
‘As I said,’ says Glory, ‘the Parlour will show you exactly what is expected. But it will be the usual servants’ duties: washing, cleaning, cooking … ’ Her voice trails off, then her face lights up again as she thinks of something else. ‘I expect you will bed down with Beth. She is about your age, I think.’
I do not know what to say. The joy that filled me just a moment since is seeping away now, like a pail of fresh, creamy milk that has sprung a leak, and it has left me with a cold, empty space inside. Suddenly, I am confused. Have I done the right thing in coming here? I think of Eli, alone in Lions House with Mama, and the missing of him hits me in the stomach and makes me flinch.
‘You have turned quite pale, Alice,’ says Glory. ‘Sit a while. The others won’t be long.’
I fall into one of the old wooden chairs, suddenly exhausted. I remember Eli’s last words to me as I was dragged from my chamber. ‘It is for your own good, Alice.’ I press my hands to my stomach to quell the pain. Even Eli, at the very last, did not reach out to me. What choice did I have then? To be locked away in the madhouse and left to rot? Or to do what I could to become the sister and daughter I am expected to be? I look up and Glory is gazing down at me. ‘You are safe here,’ she says as though she has read my thoughts. ‘Our Beloved will take care of you, I promise.’
There are voices then, and clattering footsteps. Half a dozen women crowd into the kitchen, bringing with them the scents of sunshine, freshly dug earth and the musky sweat of labour. They are dressed plainly in grey linsey frocks and white aprons that are smeared and splashed with soil, grease and soot: the evidence of their various activities. Their chatter stops when they see me. One of the group, the oldest by far, places her hands on a pair of ample hips and says, ‘So, who have we here, Glory?’
I am taken aback by her tone of voice and her familiarity. She has addressed Glory as an equal! I wait for Glory to react, to give the woman a sharp dressing-down, as I remember Mama’s fury if a servant were to ever speak out of turn. But Glory seems not to notice. ‘This is Alice Angel,’ she says, as she rests a hand on my shoulder. ‘She has come to join us.’
The older woman nods. ‘It is good, the word is spreading.’ She looks at me directly. ‘Welcome,’ she says. ‘You are most welcome.’
I smile at her gratefully and then I notice a young woman hovering in the doorway. I recognise her large green eyes and the freckles that are scattered across her face. It is like seeing an old friend, and the fears and doubts that have been growing in my mind like creeping ivy are brushed aside by the brilliance of her smile. ‘Hello, again,’ she says. ‘My name is Beth.’
Beth shows me around the cottage. It is, she tells me, where all the women and girls of the Parlour live. Other than the kitchen, all the rooms are divided into bedchambers. I am to share a bed with Beth, in a chamber at the top of the cottage. The room is all scuffed wood with shabby rugs, a rickety washstand and a stained bowl and ewer. The bed looks barely big enough for one person, but when I pull back the thin blanket, I see that at least the sheets and pillows are snowy white.
Beth drags a small trunk from under the bed and rummages through the contents. ‘There!’ she exclaims. ‘I knew I should find you something.’ She hands me a grey frock, identical to the one she is wearing. ‘You do want to change your dress, don’t you?’ she says, when I look reluctantly at her offering. ‘You will not be wanting as gown as fine as this here, will you?’ says Beth as she fingers the black lace at my cuffs.
‘I suppose not,’ I reply.
‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ she says. ‘When you’re ready, come and join us in the kitchen.’ She clasps my hands in hers and plants a small kiss on my cheek. ‘I am so glad you have come to join us, Alice. So glad.’ She skips out of the room and I hear her tip-tapping down the stairs and the murmur of voices from the kitchen.
Alone for a moment, I stare out of the small bare window which looks out over the grounds of the Abode. My new home, I think. It is all so neat and ordered; the lawns cut short and sharp around the edges, a stable block with tidy piles of hay stacked outside, pink velvet pigs snuffling in a sty, and geese, as clean and white as fresh linen, waddling and flapping along the pathways. I look to the grey frock in my hand. Wearing it is not too much to ask, I suppose.
I strip quickly and then fold my mourning gown and tuck it into a small carpet bag that I find under the bed next to Beth’s trunk. Then I go to the washstand and rinse the dust from my hands, face and neck. I slip the grey frock over my head. There. It is done. There can be no more doubts now. As I am about to leave the room, I remember one more thing. I unclip the gold locket from around my neck and hide it in the folds of my mourning gown, then I push the carpet bag back under the bed.
Beth has saved me a seat. She pats it with her hand and beckons me to sit. I sidle in between her and a mousy-looking creature who is so slender her collarbones jut like knife edges above the scoop of her neckline. The women pause in their dining to glance at me or to nod, and some murmur, ‘Welcome, Alice.’ Heat stings my cheeks, but I manage to nod back and say thank you.
Beth passes me a dish of potatoes. ‘From our own gardens,’ she says. I spoon a couple onto my plate. ‘And some pork?’ she asks. ‘From our own pigs.’ I take only one thick, pink slice, although my stomach is so hollow with hunger I could eat the whole platter. As I chew the first salty bite, the chatter around the table starts up again, and I feel that the worst has passed and it was not so very bad or awkward at all. With just a few nods and words of welcome, I have been accepted, with no questions asked. I fork another piece of pork from the platter and take a generous spoonful of
applesauce.
Afterwards, I help Beth carry the dirtied plates out to the scullery. ‘You haven’t done this sort of work before, have you?’ she says.
‘Is it that obvious?’ I shudder, as my thumb slides through a slick of pig grease left on the side of a plate.
Beth laughs. ‘I’m afraid so. Your hands … look at them. They’re as soft as kid leather! See, look at mine.’ She holds her hands out to me and I see how the skin is red and raw and how her fingernails are torn and ragged.
‘No matter,’ I say, not wanting her to think I am weak or unwilling, ‘I am sure I can wash plates as well as anybody else.’
‘Only if you have water,’ she teases. She hands me a pail and reaches to the back of the scullery door to unhook an apron. ‘Here, take this too,’ she says. ‘And you’ll find the well just around the back there.’
It is not so bad, this washing of dirty plates, especially once the water has been heated on the range. ‘You see?’ I say to Beth, as I dry the cleaned plates to a squeak and stack them neatly on a shelf. ‘There is nothing to it.’
By the time evening falls, I am having second thoughts. My back aches, my legs ache and my hands are so sore it feels as though they have been trampled upon by horses. Under Beth’s instructions, I have swept and scrubbed floors, heaved countless pails of water from the well, beaten the dust from a dozen rugs, scoured tables and flicked a hundred cobwebs from the dim corners of every cottage.
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