Thirty-six
I am preparing Our Beloved’s breakfast. I do this for him every day. He says that no one prepares it better than me. He likes his bread cut very thin and barely toasted. He will only have the two slices and these have to be spread with Gentleman’s Relish and topped with two softly poached eggs.
I go to the mansion’s kitchen at seven each morning. Mrs Holloway supervises my cooking and always checks the tray before I take it to the red room. Our Beloved likes me to sit with him while he eats and to pour his tea. He never talks while he is eating and he expects me to be silent too. After he has mopped up every last smear of yolk from his plate, I fetch him one of his cigars and light it for him. If he is moved to talk, it is when he blows the first plume of smoke into the air that he will begin. But otherwise he will motion for me to leave and I am left with a terrible craving for him that is only satisfied when he calls for me again.
Yesterday was a good day. Yesterday I spent over an hour with him at breakfast.
‘I knew it from the moment I first saw you, Alice,’ he said to me. ‘I knew you were different. I knew you belonged here with us.’
He sucked deeply on his cigar and blew another spiralling cloud into the air. ‘Even among all the chosen ones here, you stand out,’ he said. You rise above them all.’ He looked at me questioningly. ‘Where you came from – they did not understand you, did they?’
I shook my head. How did he know these things? How could he see so deep inside me?
‘They didn’t understand you, because they know no better,’ he said. ‘How could they? They are the ignorant ones. But you, Alice – you heard the calling and you came.’
He reached out for my hand and he enclosed both of his around it. His hands were warm and strong, his knuckles smooth and white, and the strings of veins that ran towards his fingers were a pale violet. I stared at them for so long that I saw the blood pumping through them. Holy blood – that would run through his veins forever. I was trembling with the glory of it all when he finally bid me to leave with the tray of dirtied breakfast dishes.
I spoon the last poached egg onto the plate now, and arrange it on the tray with the silver teapot and the thin china cup and saucer in which Our Beloved likes his tea to be served. Mrs Holloway places a silver dome over the eggs and toast and moves the teapot an inch. ‘There,’ she says. ‘That will do very well.’
I carry the tray carefully through the mansion towards the red room, my heart beating wildly as it always does when I am about to be with him. I as walk through the hall, I see Beth on her hands and knees running a duster along the thick wooden skirting boards. As she sees me, she scrambles to her feet and brushes a stray hair from her face. ‘Morning, Alice,’ she says. Her eyes dart to the tray I am carrying.
I am surprised she has spoken to me, considering how she has behaved towards me of late. But here she is, twisting her duster around in her hands and smiling. It warms my insides at once to see her and I realise how much I have missed her friendship.
‘Beth!’ I say, my voice light with pleasure. I smile back at her, wanting her to see how glad I am that she has bid me a good morning. I wish I could stop and speak with her, but Our Beloved is waiting and his eggs must not grow cold.
I keep my eyes on Beth’s face as I walk past and I keep my smile wide. That is why I don’t see her foot shoot out in front of me. But I hear her snort of satisfaction as I stumble to the ground and the tray crashes heavily beside me.
By the time I have cleared up the mess and cooked Our Beloved some more eggs, I am nearly a half hour late with his breakfast. ‘I am sorry,’ I say as I place the tray by his side. ‘I had an accident and I had to cook for a second time.’
He looks up from the book he is reading and nods at me to sit. But he says nothing about my lateness and I feel stupid for even thinking he would be concerned with such trivia. As he eats his food the usual silence feels heavy today and painful. I sit in agony waiting for him to finish and praying that he will ask me to stay.
He eats slowly and thoroughly, every mouthful takes forever to slide down his throat. Eventually there is only one forkful left, so I stand quickly to fetch his cigar.
‘No,’ he says suddenly and my footsteps falter as I stop.
My heart falters too at the tone of his voice.
‘Leave my cigar,’ he says. ‘Go to the kitchen and bring back a bowl of warm water, some soap and a towel.’
I hurry to do as he asks. I do not stop to wonder why he might want these things, I am only too glad to do his bidding.
When I return to the red room he is already sucking on a cigar that he must have lit for himself. ‘Over here,’ he instructs me, and I place the bowl of water on the floor at his feet.
‘Is your faith strong, Alice?’ he asks.
I nod. ‘Yes,’ I manage to say.
‘You believe in me? You believe I am God made flesh?’
Again, I nod. ‘Yes … yes, I do.’
‘And yet, when you are trusted to serve me, you abuse that trust and you are late.’
‘I … I am sorry,’ I say. ‘It was just an accident … ’
He holds his hand up to silence me. ‘Kneel, girl,’ he says. ‘Kneel at my feet and wash them clean.’
I drop to the floor and with shaking hands I pick up the soap. I dip it in the water and rub it to a lather. He is angry with me. He is angry with me. The thought stabs at my heart and hurts as much as any knife. I lift one of his feet and lower it into the bowl. As it is his habit to go barefoot, his feet are black with grime. I soap first one foot and then the other. I rub over his soles and between his toes and soon it is the water that is black with grime. I soap his feet again, sliding my fingers across the now clean skin, all the while hoping that he will forgive me. But he doesn’t speak. He just sucks on his cigar. I cannot bear it any more. It is like all those times I was locked in my chamber at Lions House feeling the weight of Mama’s displeasure closing in around me. I rest his feet on the towel in my lap and carefully pat them dry. There is nothing more I can do now. His feet are clean and dry and still he has not forgiven me.
There is only one thing left to do. I lower my face to his feet and I kiss them in turn; first one and then the other, and all the time I murmur, ‘Forgive me, Beloved. Forgive me.’ I am crying and my tears mingle with my kisses so his skin grows damp with my remorse.
Eventually, he places his hand on the back of my head. ‘Rise, child,’ he says. ‘You have done enough. You may go now.’
His voice is soft again and although he does not say the words, I can tell by the gentleness of his touch that he is with me again and all is not lost.
As I carry the bowl and towel back to the kitchen, my thoughts turn instantly to Beth. It is her doing. All of it is her doing. Her envy has turned sour. She doesn’t want to share Our Beloved with me, or with anyone. A flash of anger strikes at my insides. She needs to learn a lesson. She needs to know what it is like to lose something precious so she can be grateful for what she still has. Before I know it, I am wishing this on her. But it feels like a good thing to wish. To cure someone of selfishness cannot be a bad thing, can it?
Thirty-seven
I awake to the sound of frightened cries. The back of my shoulder is cold so I know that Beth is not in bed beside me. She must be having a nightmare, I think. Part of me is glad. I still cannot bring myself to forgive her for the other day. At night, in our room, we ignore each other completely and lie back to back in bed like a couple of statues.
The crying grows louder. She sounds more in pain than frightened. ‘Beth!’ I whisper into the darkness. ‘What is the matter?’ As my eyes grow used to the darkness, I see her shadow slumped in the corner of the room.
She groans, then, ‘Help me,’ she suddenly gasps. ‘Help me, Alice.’
If this is another of her tricks, I think as I reluctantly climb from the bed, then I will scratch her jealous eyes out. Lizzie appears in the doorway with a lighted candle in her hand.
&nbs
p; ‘What is wrong?’ she asks. ‘What is all the crying about?’
I shrug my shoulders and point to Beth in the corner.
Lizzie brings the candle closer and the light from the flame catches on Beth’s face. Her eyes are huge and pleading. ‘Help me,’ she pleads. Lizzie bends down to pull Beth from the floor and as she does, the candle lights up the whole of Beth’s huddled form. I let out a half scream, half groan and Lizzie stumbles backwards. The candle flame flickers wildly, from Beth’s waxy face, then down again to her blood-soaked nightgown and the black pool on the floor that is spreading out from beneath her.
I don’t know what to do. I feel my own blood drain from my face as my heart pounds in my throat. It is like the other times, with Lady Egerton and Lillie and Papa. But I didn’t do it this time, I know I didn’t. I would never dare to wish for anything like this.
Lizzie is suddenly all efficiency and she calls for May and Agatha. I stand frozen by the bed and watch them lift Beth and carry her out of the room. She is whimpering like an injured dog. ‘It is nothing,’ they reassure her. ‘Calm yourself now.’
‘I didn’t do it,’ I shout after them. ‘I promise it wasn’t me!’
Lizzie turns to me, a puzzled expression on her face. ‘Well, of course you didn’t do it,’ she says. ‘It is God’s will that this has happened. Our Beloved’s will. It must have been the Devil’s child inside her, and the Devil’s child cannot be born into this world.’
They disappear down the stairs and I am left in the darkness with only the sounds of their murmurings from below. I try to understand what has just happened but my thoughts are moving too fast for me to catch. I move to the bed and lie down. The blanket is still warm and I think of the blood on the floor in the corner and wonder if that is still warm too.
I wait for them to bring Beth back to bed. They will have washed her, I think, and given her a clean nightgown and will already have put the bloodied one to soak. But they don’t come … and they don’t come. And soon my eyes grow heavy and I have to close them. I see Beth with a belly swollen and taut. She is screaming silently. Then I see, in her arms, a child all slippery with blood and its hair is black with it too. I see above the child’s forehead there are two strange marks. I look closer. I put my hand out to touch, then I recoil in horror as I realise they are stumps, tiny, bony stumps. The child opens its eyes then and they are blacker than oil. I can see inside your soul, says a cold, little voice.
I wake suddenly. Shivering. My heart pounding. Grey morning light cloaks the room and there is rain spattering against the window. My hands are stinging. When I open them and turn my palms to my face, I see they are pitted with small red crescents where I have clenched my fists in the night. It was only a dream, I tell myself.
But I am still alone in the bed, and when I look across the room there is a dark stain of blood on the floorboards. I throw back the blanket and open the window. Cold air and splinters of rain hit me in the face. I am awake now, wide awake. But none of it makes any sense. How could Beth have been with child? Did she lie with someone on one of her journeys outside with Our Beloved? My teeth are chattering now, my bones chilled through. I close the window and dress quickly. I must find Beth.
May and Agatha and Lizzie are bustling around the kitchen. There is fresh bread on the table and cups of steaming tea. The fire has already been lit and the room is warm. ‘Where is Beth?’ I ask. ‘How is she?’
Lizzie smiles at me brightly. ‘She is quite well,’ she says. ‘She is at the mansion, resting now. Our Beloved is praying for her. So do not fret.’
I sit at the table, my limbs heavy with relief. Lizzie pushes a cup of tea towards me. ‘Do not worry so,’ she says gently. ‘Beth will be back here with us soon.’
The first sip of tea scalds my throat, but the question on my tongue burns more, so I ask it. ‘How did she come to be with child?’
Lizzie presses her lips firmly together and lifts the teapot from the table. She takes it over to the range and fills it with more hot water.
‘How did Beth come to be with child?’ I ask again. I look to May and Agatha, but they have their backs to me. I slam my teacup onto the table and the tea spills out and creeps across the table to drip on the floor.
‘Will none of you answer me?’ I shout.
Lizzie brings the cloth that she had used to pick up the kettle and begins to mop up my spilled tea. ‘It is no concern of yours, Alice,’ she says firmly. ‘It was the Devil’s child.’ She sighs. ‘That is all you need to know. It was the Devil’s child and it has come out of her now.’ She leaves the sodden cloth on the table and wipes her hand on her apron. ‘Right,’ she says. ‘You must put it all from your mind. There is work to be done. There are grates to be cleaned and fires to be lit and time is getting on.’
She hurries out of the kitchen and May and Agatha follow her. Perhaps Lizzie is right, I think. Perhaps it is no concern of mine. Let Beth have her secret, as I have mine. Perhaps it is better that way.
I fill a pail with clean water and I take a brush and a cloth. Then I climb back up the stairs and I scrub at the blood on the floor until the water in the pail is the brightest red. Although I try hard to do as Lizzie said, and put it all from my mind, there is one question that keeps buzzing around inside my head like a persistent fly.
If it was the Devil’s child, then who is the Devil?
Thirty-eight
A week has passed since I found Beth bleeding on the floor. She is back to work now, and back in our bed. Although quieter than usual, she seems much herself, and we are back to how we were before with each other. I have allowed myself to forgive her, for in my heart I know that it was me who wished it all upon her. But I do not feel any guilt this time. For if it was truly the Devil’s child inside her then Our Beloved would have wished for it to be out of her too.
We never speak of it, but at night, when all is quiet and Beth is breathing steadily next to me, I think of the Devil child I saw in my dream, all slippery with Beth’s blood, and I am filled with a breathtaking terror. I pull the blanket tightly around my shoulders, close my eyes and search desperately for my meadow.
It is not easy to find. There are too many thoughts and feelings blocking my way. All the ordinary nonsense: the pile of mending still to be done, the eggs to be gathered, the last slice of apple pie hidden behind a pitcher in the scullery. And the darker thoughts too; of Mama and Eli and Papa, now rotting in his grave. I have to pick through them all and toss them to one side. But eventually, I stumble into it, my beautiful meadow, hidden in a deep, dusty corner of my mind. It is the same as always. It is wild and green and peaceful and I am free to run in any direction I care to. Except now there is someone to run to. I see him in the distance, waiting for me, his white gown fluttering in the breeze. He is smiling his beautiful, calm smile; the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes. He reaches out to me and I run like the wind. Only when his arms have folded around me and I am safe in his embrace, do I allow myself to go to sleep.
A strange thing happened today as me and Our Beloved and Agatha were on our way back from Minehead. The light was just fading as we came into Spaxton. I was sitting as usual, on the dickey box next to Agatha, and I was looking forward to a hot drink and the plate of warming supper I knew would be waiting for us on our return. As we passed by the little row of cottages just down from the Lamb Inn, I saw a girl opening the gate to one of the front gardens. She was carrying a jug in her hands and I thought perhaps she had just fetched some ale from the inn. She stopped to close the gate and watched us as we drove by. There was something very familiar about her, so I turned my head to see her all the better. She dropped the jug then. It crashed to the ground and she cried out as it shattered into pieces. Her hand flew to her mouth. But she did not look down at the ruined jug or the spilled contents. She stared straight at me with eyes as round as peeled eggs.
It was Sarah.
I looked away quickly, my heart thrumming hard against my ribs. For a brief moment, I felt
a surge of anger towards her. What was she doing here, spying on me? I glanced back and saw an old man had joined her at the gate. Her father. I remembered then, how she had told me that her father lived in Spaxton.
The carriage turned into the gates of the Abode, and the hairs on the back of my neck crisped as I imagined her running after me. Only when the gates were closed and locked again, did I dare to breathe easily. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Agatha said to me as we climbed down from the carriage.
And I thought that perhaps she was right. It was a ghost I had seen. Just a ghost from the past. And it was left outside the gates now. Where it belonged.
Thirty-nine
It was a cold, wet afternoon. Eli sat in the dust and gloom of the study listening to the muffled sounds of his mother on the rampage again. The study was the only place he could get away from her and hide behind the pretence of work. She had started on him first thing, at breakfast. ‘Do you have to make such a noise chewing your food?’ she had begun with. ‘Have you no manners? Perhaps you had better eat with the servants in future.’
‘I am sorry, Mama,’ Eli said. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’ He had pushed his plate away, thinking it would be better if he didn’t eat at all.
‘I see!’ Temperance had said, throwing her napkin onto her own plate, ‘Even the food in this house isn’t good enough for you any more. Or are you just a wastrel? Like your father was.’
‘Don’t be silly, Mama. I have just had my fill. That is all.’
‘Had your fill?’ Temperance had said. ‘Just as you’ve had your fill of me? That’s right, isn’t it? You’ve had enough of me, just as your father had.’
‘Oh, Mama.’ Eli could see her colour rising and the edges of her nostrils beginning to quiver dangerously. ‘You know that’s not true. Papa loved you and so do I.’
The Beloved Page 17