The Beloved

by Alison Rattle

  Agatha nudges me. ‘Don’t look so woeful, Alice. We will have a good supper now, to fill our bellies. And no clearing up.’ She winks at me and takes a large gulp of the beer that has been set before us.

  But I have no appetite. My stomach is too full of regret. I manage only a mouthful of potato soup and a few bites of a chop. ‘You are not ill, are you?’ asks Agatha as she scrapes my leftovers onto her plate.

  I shake my head. How can I explain to her how I feel? I cannot explain it to myself. I only know that since I saw the anger in Our Beloved’s eyes I feel as though I have lost something precious. ‘I am just tired,’ I tell her.

  Mrs Gantrot clears the table and asks if we would like to be shown to our rooms. We follow her ample backside through the bar and I see Our Beloved still sitting at the table in the corner. He is leaning back in his chair waving a fat cigar in his hand. There are the remnants of a meal and half a dozen bottles of spirits on the table. He is surrounded by a knot of gentlemen, their faces all flushed with drink. Some of them have richly dressed women sitting on their laps and they are all laughing uproariously. I want to walk over there and push my way through the heat of bodies and the fog of smoke to where he is sitting. I want him to smile at me and stroke my hand and tell me that everything is all right. But as Mrs Gantrot leads us past the table towards the back of the inn, he doesn’t even look my way.

  I had expected to be sharing a bed with Agatha, so I am surprised then, when Mrs Gantrot shows us into separate rooms. It is a relief to wash the dirt of travel from my skin, and even though the sheets still smell of the sweat of strangers, my limbs are so heavy that a bed of straw would have been just as welcome. I lay my head on the greasy pillow and try not to think of him. I try not to think of anything other than the hours ahead of blissful sleep. The street outside is noisy with the yelling, fighting and cursing of drunkards, the noise of organ grinders, carts on cobbles, and the hollering of street performers. It all rolls into one great confused racket which sings in my ears and eventually lulls me into an exhausted sleep.

  ‘Alice? Are you asleep?’ The words are soft like feathers in my ear.

  ‘Papa?’ I murmur. I can smell the hot fruitiness of brandy and the stale tang of cigars on his breath. I reach out my hand in the darkness to touch his face. My fingers find the soft bristles of his beard and I burrow them into the familiar depth of it. ‘Papa,’ I sigh.

  It is so warm in my bed that I don’t want to think that morning has come so soon. I wonder if Lillie will be long with my tray of tea. I slide back into the comfort of sleep. Eli is there. He is laughing at something I’ve said. ‘Oh, Alice,’ he says. ‘You are so beautiful.’ He strokes my hair and lifts tresses of it from the pillow. He presses it to his face. Then his breath is hot on my neck. ‘Alice. Alice,’ he is saying over and over again.

  Suddenly, I am awake. Something is very wrong.

  I open my eyes and for a moment I am lost. The room is all darkness, save for the faint glow of a gaslight out on the street. This isn’t Lions House. In a rush, I remember. I am in Bath. In a room. In an inn. I push the face away from my neck in a panic. ‘Who’s there? Who is it?’

  ‘Shush, Alice. Don’t be frightened.’ The hands are on my hair again, stroking gently. ‘Do you not recognise me?’

  My heart flips. It is Our Beloved. I see him now, silhouetted against the window. He leans towards me again and puts his mouth to my neck. His beard scratches my skin. ‘Alice,’ he breathes. ‘Have you forgiven me yet for talking to you so harshly?’

  The closeness of him overwhelms me. I cannot move, or speak. He brushes his lips against my neck. ‘You are very special, Alice,’ he whispers. ‘I needed to tell you that.’

  Still, I cannot speak.

  ‘You are one of the chosen ones,’ he says. He runs a hand over the blanket, along my side and over my hip. ‘Soon, you will know how very special you are.’

  A shiver runs through me. Something does not feel right. But all I can think is that he has come to me, and he is not angry any more.

  ‘Sleep now, Alice,’ he says. ‘Sleep well and dream well. Tomorrow is another day and there will be much to do.’

  Then he is gone.

  The damp wool scent of his coat and the fruit of his breath linger on my pillow. I lie rigid as a statue. The street outside has quietened now, but there is still the odd shout and whistle and the banging of doors. My ears strain to every sound. I hear someone coughing in the room next door and, from further away, an insistent grunting. I imagine I hear footsteps and with every creak of a floorboard my heart jumps into my mouth.

  Calm yourself, I think. Everything is all right now. He has come to you and he is not angry any more. And you are special. Very special.

  You are one of the chosen ones, he said. I say the words out loud, over and over again, and slowly, my limbs relax. My breathing comes easy again and I roll over, pulling the blanket tightly around me.

  But I cannot close my eyes. I watch the shadows on the walls, stuttering in the faint light. I see the outline of a picture that I hadn’t noticed when I came to bed hanging above the tiny fireplace. And I watch how the thin curtains billow out every now and then when a gust of wind finds its way through the window frames.

  A church bell in the distance strikes the hour of three. But then it seems like only a minute has passed before Agatha is banging on my door telling me it is time to wake up.

  Thirty-four

  Eli had never travelled to Bath before. In truth, he would be glad never to have to do so again. But there was the business of a bank loan his father had taken out, and Ernest Wraith had insisted that it was a necessary for them both to meet with the owner of the bank to ensure the future of the mill.

  It was all so tedious, the whole business was. As the weeks had passed by, Eli hated his father more and more for leaving him with the dreadful responsibility of it all.

  They met with the bank owner in his plush offices in the centre of the city. Eli understood little of what was said. His mind kept wandering back to Lions House, and how he hated it there too. It was like a mausoleum. A dark, empty, silent tomb of a house. His mother rarely left her chamber now. And when she did, she stalked through the house like some wild animal on the hunt. She would suddenly and silently appear in a room and pounce, and it was usually Eli who fell victim to her attacks. It seemed that he could not please her these days. Nothing he did was good enough. If he did not constantly dance to her tune, or reassure her endlessly that she was beautiful and the very best of mothers and that he loved her above all else, then she would threaten to disinherit him and throw him out of the house.

  ‘What have you ever done for me?’ she would scream at him. ‘You deserve nothing! Do you understand? Nothing!’

  He realised how much he had taken being her favourite for granted, and now that he wasn’t, he missed it terribly.

  Eli began to spend much of his time in the servants’ quarters. There was life down there at least, and cheeriness, and always an offering of something tasty to eat. But he knew it wasn’t right. He knew he was crossing the line. He could sense that the servants were taking liberties. But he did not have the heart or the strength to do anything about it.

  Ernest Wraith cleared his throat pointedly and Eli became aware of a sheet of paper being placed in front of him. ‘Your signature, please,’ growled the bank owner. Eli picked up the proffered pen and scrawled his name onto the bottom of the page. He had no idea what he was signing, but he did not care in the least.

  Eli drifted away again. He had been thinking lately how he should like to go abroad. He should like to see something of the world. Isn’t that what all young men were supposed to do? The Grand Tour? The thought of staying in Lions House and enduring his mother’s tirades, along with the thought of having to master the complexities of business, filled him with a heaving terror.

  But how could he ever get away from his mother? She could hardly bear it when he left the house for a few hours. And when he’d
told her that he had to travel to Bath and it would entail an overnight stay, she had been seized by a sudden fit of apoplexy and Dr Danby had had to be sent for.

  If only Alice hadn’t disappeared. It was her duty, the daughter’s duty, to be at home. It wasn’t right that everything had been left to him. It should be her at home in Lions House, helping to organise the servants and overseeing the running of the household. And although he hardly liked to admit to the thought, he knew that if Alice were at home, it would be her on the receiving end of his mother’s moods, not him. Maybe he should look for her again, Eli thought. She must be somewhere. But where to begin? He had no idea.

  Ernest Wraith was thanking the bank owner. It seemed as though business was concluded for the time being. Eli left his thoughts simmering in the back of his mind and stood and shook hands too. He was sure he must have been told the man’s name, but it had slipped his mind completely.

  Wraith and Eli left the office and made their way back on to the street. Wraith suggested they should perhaps take an early supper in one of the fine eating establishments tucked away down the lanes behind the Abbey. The White Post, he said, was famous for its rump steaks and fine wines. As Eli had developed a taste for wine of late, he agreed to the suggestion, thinking that a few glasses would at least soften the painful experience of an evening spent in Wraith’s company.

  Wraith led the way, his chest puffed out with self-importance. ‘Come,’ he said to Eli. ‘I will show you some of the sights on the way.’

  But Eli had already seen some sights. When Wraith tried to point out the splendid façade of the Assembly Rooms, Eli’s attention was focused on a line of girls walking arm in arm along the opposite pavement. Eli had seen girls like these before, of course, on a certain street corner in Bridgwater. He had seen glimpses of them at least: a pair of cherry red lips, a battered bonnet worn at a jaunty angle and layers of petticoats lifted above a shapely ankle. But he had never seen their kind walking about so brazenly before. There were four of them, all twittering away merrily like a row of sparrows. Eli felt a stab of envy. They seemed so carefree.

  The girl on the end of the row, nearest to the road, had on a blue silk bonnet studded with roses. The blue of the bonnet was pale against the blackness of her hair and when she tilted her chin towards one of her companions, Eli saw her skin was as creamy as the top of a rice pudding. For one dreadful moment, he imagined the girl might be Alice. Is this what she might have turned to, to survive out on the streets on her own? The girl in the blue bonnet laughed then, and Eli saw the blackened stumps of her teeth. He shuddered. Of course it wasn’t Alice. How could he even think such a thing?

  The White Post was crowded, but Wraith managed to secure a table away from the main bar. He had been right about the rump steak. It was as soft as butter. And the wine was rich with spices. Eli let the woozy warmth of it run through him. Wraith started a conversation with a gentleman at the next table. They seemed to be trying to outdo one another with their knowledge of the delights of Bath. Eli didn’t mind. It let him off the hook.

  He looked around the heaving hostelry and imagined himself to be in Paris, or Venice perhaps. He would be in the company of other young men his of age. There would be jollity and laughter and plenty of pretty girls to teach him the art of flirting. He poured himself another glass of wine.

  By the time they left the White Post, to make their way back to the hotel, Eli was somewhat the worse for wear. The afternoon was teetering on the edge of dusk, but the streets seemed busier than ever. Eli concentrated on his feet, putting one boot in front of the other. It was not far to the hotel. He would make his excuses to Wraith and retire to his room straight away. If Wraith wanted to indulge in a nightcap, then he would have to do it on his own.

  They cut through a small lane at the side of the Abbey and walked across the churchyard. Eli glanced up from the ground every now and then to check the way forward was clear. His head was starting to thicken and tighten around his temples and he could feel the chewed morsels of steak churning around in his stomach. He stopped for a moment to steady himself and to take a deep breath. Just up ahead, he noticed a large, distinctive-looking man bending down to talk to a girl in a dark cloak. It was the man’s hair, though, that drew his attention – long, jet-black ringlets that fell below his shoulders – and the fact that he wasn’t wearing a hat.

  Wraith came to his side. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Eli impatiently. ‘I just needed to catch my breath.’ He looked back towards the man and Wraith followed his gaze.

  ‘Well, I never,’ said Wraith.

  But Eli didn’t hear him. Because at that moment the man grabbed the girl by the elbow and her hood fell from her head. Eli swallowed hard. It couldn’t be. He blinked hard. The man was dragging the girl away now and Eli couldn’t see her face any more, just a loose knot of dark hair bouncing against the base of her neck.

  He started to follow, quickening his pace as the two of them wove in and out of the crowds ahead. ‘Where are you going?’ shouted Wraith. ‘The hotel is this way.’

  Eli started to run. He could see the man’s head, bare amid the sea of hats. He was turning left on the main street, Eli was sure of it. Keeping his eyes fixed on the man’s head, Eli stepped into the road.

  ‘Watch out!’ The words rang in his ears and he was wrenched backwards, away from the road, just as an omnibus rolled in front of him, the horses snorting and its wheels racing perilously.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing? You could have been killed!’

  Eli turned to see Wraith standing there, his face red and indignant. Eli looked across the road, his eyes flitting backwards and forwards. But there was no sign of the man now, or the girl.

  ‘Did you not see the omnibus?’ asked Wraith.

  Eli sighed. ‘No, I didn’t,’ he said. ‘But I thought I saw Alice. I could have sworn it was Alice.’

  ‘I think maybe you have had too many glasses,’ said Wraith. ‘You are seeing things.’

  ‘But it looked so much like her!’ Eli protested. He turned to Wraith. ‘Did you see the man in the churchyard just then? The tall one with the head of black ringlets?’

  Wraith nodded. ‘Well, yes. I was just about to point him out to you, when you ran off.’

  ‘She was with him,’ said Eli. ‘The girl I saw was with him.’

  Wraith narrowed his eyes. ‘In that case, Mr Angel, we will have to hope that it was not your dear sister you saw, because that man, if I’m not mistaken, was Henry Prince: a dangerous madman by any other name.’

  Thirty-five

  It has been two weeks now since we returned from Bath, and there have been some changes. The routine of the day is the same, the work is the same and the meals on the table are the same. All that hasn’t changed. But it is all better somehow. I feel as though I truly belong. It was my destiny to come here. Our Beloved called to me and I came.

  He asks to see me every day now. I go to him in the red room, most often. He spends long hours writing his sermons and he likes to read them out loud to me. ‘You understand me so well, Alice,’ he always says.

  It is a wonder to me to know that I will never die, nor suffer grief or sickness, because the Lord has come in his own person to redeem my flesh. That is what Our Beloved tells me every day. And I believe him.

  He takes me with him when he journeys out into the world to preach his sermons. We have been to Taunton, to the port of Watchet and along the coast to the town of Minehead. I have never seen anywhere so pretty as Minehead. We stood on a pebbled beach looking out across the great expanse of water that Our Beloved told me was the Bristol Channel, which flowed into the great North Atlantic Ocean, and I felt as though I was standing on the edge of the world. We brought a lady back with us from Minehead. She is a widow named Martha Wright. She was moved to tears by Our Beloved. She said she had seen the light and has promised to sell the house she was left by her late husband.

  I have learned my proper p
lace now, and I always stand by his side and never speak to the crowds. ‘If they have heard me,’ Our Beloved says, ‘then they will come to me of their own accord.’

  Glory gave birth today: to a boy. Our Beloved has named him Power. Agatha assisted in the birth. ‘Slipped out easy, like a little piglet,’ she told us as she washed her bloodied hands at the sink.

  We celebrated at chapel. Mrs Holloway (with the buttonhole lips) thumped extra hard on the organ and we sang until we thought the stained glass windows would shatter. Our Beloved sang the praises of his new son and also of our newest member, Martha Wright, from Minehead. With her kind donations, he said, a new carriage was to be purchased, the Queen’s old equipage no less, and four new horses. For the Lord should travel to spread the word in the finest comfort. Then we all sang ‘Hail to the King of Kings’ until our throats were sore.

  Afterwards, we feasted together in the great dining hall of the mansion. There were roast meats and fruits and jellies of all colours. We sat with the ladies and Our Beloved, all as one, and drank to his health with rivers of wine. Only after Our Beloved had retired and the ladies had drifted away to their rooms, did we have to begin our work again.

  But it is all done now, and we are back at the cottage resting our weary feet. Agatha has supped too much wine and is goading us into singing again. There is much laughter and warmth. I sit in a chair in the corner and I watch it all. I hug myself tight because I cannot believe how happy I am.

  My only sadness is Beth. She is still so cold with me. No matter how often I tell her that Our Beloved cares for us all, she still looks at me with disdain in her eyes. And every night she sleeps with her back to me.

  Tonight, as I climb into bed next to her, I try again. ‘It has been a wonderful day, hasn’t it?’ I say. ‘Are you not happy that we have another child among us now?’ But she doesn’t answer. And when I wake, much later, in the thick of the night, I hear her quietly sobbing.