Twelfth Night at Eyre Hall

by Luccia Gray

  “The next one will be on your right foot, then your left knee, and your right knee. I will smash every one of the bones in your legs so you will never walk again, and then I will smash all the bones on your arms so you will never be able to hold a bottle of gin to your mouth again. I assure you, you will be a pitiful invalid for the rest of your life. If you are lucky, you will be hanged as a child murderer, and if you are not, you will have to crawl around Newgate like a snake. Now, start telling me about Mrs. Banks and Dr. Carter’s baby, and it had better be the truth.”

  She was seething. “Untie me!” she screamed, so I brought the spade down onto her right foot. This time she let out a loud roar, and I hoped Polly had drunk her gin.

  “When you start talking.”

  It took her a few minutes to recover her breath and speak. “I was Mrs. Banks’ maid. The vicar used to bring unwanted babies and she’d look after them until a family was found for them. She didn’t have any children herself.”

  “You are lying. She had four daughters,” I interrupted, spade in hand.

  “They were adopted. The vicar couldn’t find a home for all of them, and she didn’t have any herself, so she kept a few as her own, and a few more were taken up north by her brother. About eleven years ago, she moved to Southwark and I rented her house, and carried on with the business, except I no longer worked with the vicar, ’cos I had other partners. There are scores of unwanted kids in London. I’ve found them homes, good homes all over the country; others have stayed in London, some have died, but that couldn’t be helped. I saved their useless lives. The Lord knows I do it for their own good.”

  “You will have to answer to the Lord, when the time comes. I care very little about your soul.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “Dr. Carter sent a baby girl with a wet nurse ten years ago. According to your letter, she died and the wet nurse left. Tell me about it.”

  “You know what happened. She died.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “The wet nurse came with two babies, two little girls. One was to be left in London, once a good family was found, because they was important people who paid well, fifty pounds up front, the biggest sum I’ve ever had, and the other was to return with the wet nurse, but the baby died from whopping cough.”

  “You said the baby died, but there were two babies, what happened to the other one?”

  “The other baby, the wet nurse’s baby, survived, so she took her back when she left.”

  “How do you know which baby died?”

  “Who cares which one died? The money was paid and no one was never gonna ask no questions. The baby was unwanted, that means the parents didn’t want it!”

  “What was the wet nurse’s name?”

  She started laughing loudly and then she sang a song in her wild voice, which made my blood curdle.

  “‘My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea,

  And auld Robin Gray came a–courtin' me.

  Mmmmm

  Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e

  Said, ‘Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!’

  Mmmmm

  I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he,

  Till he said, ‘I'm come hame to marry thee.’

  Sad song, ain’t it?” she asked.

  I was speechless.

  “Poor Jenny, she married Robin Gray ’cos she thought her true love, Jamie, had died at sea, then he came back and asked her to marry him, but she was already married. My mother used to sing it to me when I was little, ‘be careful who you marry’ she’d say, ‘wait for your true love’. Daft my mother was. I never married.”

  She paused and giggled hysterically.

  “Cat got your tongue? Her name was Jenny, of course, but you knew, didn’t you?”

  I shivered as she sang her song one more time and laughed. I wanted to smash her face to pieces. Instead, I hit the wall so hard with the spade that some bricks tumbled down, and rats scuffled out screeching and running in circles. She laughed louder.

  “You’ve opened the gates of hell. How will you get out?” The rats busied themselves with her bloody feet and I left her in the cellar.

  Upstairs Polly was lying on the floor, her breathing shallow. I had added a great deal of laudanum to the gin. I was not sure if she would ever wake up, yet I found it impossible to care what happened to those wicked women.

  I returned to the cellar with another bottle of laudanum–laced gin, which I handed to Mrs. Banks after untying her hands, although her body was still strapped to the chair. There were half a dozen more rats scuffling around, no doubt lured by the smell of her bloody feet.

  “You can’t leave me here!” she screamed as I turned to leave.

  “I’ll be back before you finish the gin. Drink. It will ease the pain.”

  I returned upstairs, and remembered the surgeon’s words, “Save those who can survive”. I checked the children’s pulses. Two girls were breathing evenly, so I wrapped them in some blankets and walked back to Saint Mathew’s Church. I marched to the side door and asked to see the vicar. He was out, so I told his housekeeper that I was a vicar in Scotland, visiting relatives in Brixton, and that a poor woman by the station had left the two babies in my care for a few minutes and never returned. She asked no further questions. She just sighed, shook her head sorrowfully, and thanked me.

  Drizzle and fog escorted me back to the inn. I stopped at a public convenience near Elephant and Castle and cast away my beard and vicar’s robes. Minutes later, a furious gale blew along Borough High Street as I reached Saint George’s Church, where I thanked our Father for finding Helen, safe and sound, and asked forgiveness for my sinful deeds. I knew my criminal act would never be discovered on Earth, but I also knew my soul was condemned. I could live with the knowledge of the inevitable divine punishment, which awaited me, because Helen would be reunited with her mother, at last. When I arrived at the inn, my body felt numb and my mind blank. I wrapped my shivering body in blankets and thankfully succumbed to slumber, in spite of the riotous noise of the New Year celebrations.

  The landlord woke me up on the morning of the 4th of January, concerned because he had not seen or heard me for days. I went down to a hearty breakfast and learned that a child murderer had been slaughtered in her basement in Brixton. “Beaten to death like a dog,” they told me. “She got what she deserved,” they added. I nodded and left.

  I would never be proud of what I had done. Her screams were in my mind, like the cries of the mutineers, and the drunkard who had tried to violate Susan. Their faces plagued my dreams and their deaths paved my secret road to hell.

  I spent the day walking around Whitechapel, trying to remember the paths I had ambled along seven years ago with my sister. I watched the street urchins and beggars, and tried to remember what it felt like to live in such constant fear and bleakness, but nothing seemed familiar any more. It had all happened in another life to another person.

  I thought of Jane and Nell, and thanked God that they were together. I wondered how I was ever going to tell Jane the truth; that I had murdered to discover where her daughter was, and that Jenny Rosset, for an inexplicable reason, had stolen her daughter and made her work as a scarecrow and live like a peasant instead of living like the lady she was destined to become.

  Jane—beautiful, generous, gentle Jane. Jane, who should have been worshipped from the day she was born, had suffered so much injustice, but those days were over. I would make it my mission to make sure she was safe and happy with her daughter for the rest of her life. There was only one more obstacle in my way to making her my wife, but his days were numbered.

  The following day, Twelfth Night, I walked to the Colonial Office in Whitehall, where I collected the documents I needed for Jenny and Thomas. Later, I visited Nelson’s column in Trafalgar Square, which reminded me how honourably my father had died, and how Her Majesty’s Royal Navy would allow me too, to rise above my station and
marry the woman I loved.

  ***

  Chapter XIV – Mr. Dickens Visits Eyre Hall

  The rickety wheels rolled over the thin layer of snow as we approached Eyre Hall. The house did indeed look seasonal, covered in a white cape. Advent wreaths adorned the windows on the lower floor, and although there were no candles in the top floor windows, the glare of the hearths tinged the latticed panes with a warm glow. I smiled, looking forward to a pleasing conversation, a hearty meal, and a comfortable bed.

  I had received a note from Jane Elliot, née Eyre, later Rochester, and now Mason, apologising for not coming to my public reading of A Christmas Carol; notwithstanding, she would be honoured by my visit to Eyre Hall, if I could stop on my way back to London.

  I had met Jane some years ago, when she came to one of my public readings of Oliver Twist. She was in London with her publisher, negotiating the first edition of her first novel, which I later enjoyed immensely. I had asked her to contribute a short story to ‘All Year Round’, and she did so for the Christmas edition.

  She wrote a terrifying ghost story of a malevolent spirit she called the sin–eater, who returned every Christmas to a village, taking with him the wicked of the souls who had died that year, thus freeing the descendants of the weight of their sins, and empowering his own evil being.

  I had subsequently seen her occasionally at my readings in Yorkshire, as she was not inclined to visit London, and we had corresponded several times a year. However, I had not been in her company for some years, until last autumn when she came to London to the presentation of her second novel. On that occasion, she was keen to visit the squalid alleys I had described in Oliver Twist. She requested I accompany her for a walk through the streets the Artful Dodger would have marched along on his way to Fagin’s den. I asked Wilkie to join us, and we had an eventful evening, visiting the perilous haunts.

  She greeted me warmly, bestowing a sincere embrace and two chaste kisses on my grateful cheeks. When we were first introduced, I misunderstood her name as Miss Jane Elliot. She laughed and told me it pleased her to be called by her pen surname, which I have used ever since.

  “I was so looking forward to your visit, Mr. Dickens. I have missed your pleasant company and I am in need of your wise advice.”

  “It is a pleasure to return to Eyre Hall, Miss Elliot. You have managed to make this large country house such a comfortable and welcoming island.”

  “I hope you will not be bored with my company this evening. I fear we shall be quite alone. Almost everyone is away at New Year’s balls and festivities, and the younger members of the household are busy with their own amusements.”

  “Capital! We can converse and sip brandy to our heart’s delight.”

  “But first some Madeira, and then Cook’s roast partridge which is impatiently waiting to be savoured.”

  “You spoil me, madam. I can think of no better way to spend an evening, or indeed an entire week.”

  “You flatter me, Mr. Dickens, but come, sit by the hearth and tell me, how was your reading?”

  “There were over three thousand people in the hall, and they thoroughly enjoyed my reading, however the hotel was a dark and dingy place and my bedroom was small and looked onto an ugly back street. I had hoped to see your enchanting countryside from the windows.”

  “I think you enjoy reading far more than they do listening, although it is indeed a pleasure to hear you recreate the eerie voices of the ghosts and the frightened voice of Ebenezer Scrooge! I should have loved to have been there, but I have been preoccupied and moody.”

  “No doubt you will tell me what troubles you. If I can help…”

  “Your presence alone is enough to help. I am concerned about orphans, as you know.”

  Her second novel was about a young orphan girl who eventually married a lord and lived happily ever after. Although I enjoyed her novels, my opinion was that they were too full of unlikely coincidences and unrealistic happy endings. The authentic cruelty of life escaped her pen. She knew of my opinion, and although it displeased her, she was eager to receive my advice.

  “But you were an orphan yourself, Miss Elliot. You must know what it feels like to live in such conditions.”

  “I was a very different type of orphan, Mr. Dickens. I was never physically abused as the children in your novels, and I was never in a poor house. I never had to lie, or cheat, or commit any type of crime to have a morsel to eat.”

  “Perhaps you do not remember accurately, or perhaps you created another parallel universe of your own to survive. You only saw what you wanted to see. Did you not see death? Were you never hungry? Were you not physically punished? Locked in a room? Ridiculed due to the clothes you wore? Outcast for not having parents? Ignored for being poor? Forced to work for nothing or a meagre sum?”

  “Perhaps, on occasions, but overall, I was no doubt a fortunate orphan.”

  “There is never any fortune in being an orphan, Miss Elliot. You were lucky that you had your religion for moral support, your uncle’s fortune for material support, and that you met and married Mr. Rochester for social support and love. Without any of these things, you would have been a poor and miserable orphan. Orphans, who cannot find consolation in the Bible, or marriage, or material comfort, will crave all three throughout their lives.

  “Were you not alone and desolate in an alien place? Did you never cry yourself to sleep because you had no one to embrace you? Was your heart not as chilled as your bones in the endless winter of your childhood?”

  I paused and saw a wisp of recognition in her melancholic gaze, so I continued. “I will never forget the months I spent on my own, while my father and the rest of my family were living in a jail cell in the Debtor's Prison. I worked in a factory, pasting labels on bottles of shoe polish to support my family. I lived in a miserable lodging house and worked long hours in squalid conditions, supervised by cruel masters. I was ten years old. The loneliness and sense of abandonment sank into my heart. I honestly think it is impossible to recover from such misery. Do you not agree?”

  “I never felt the absolute loneliness you mention. I had faith and hope, and a belief that my lot would improve if I led an upright life. I knew that everything would change when I had my own family.”

  “No two people are alike; therefore no two people react in the same way to the same experiences.”

  “Why was Oliver not like Dodger? What made them different? Was it their nature or their education?”

  “A difficult question to answer, and one which I have often asked myself. I think we both know the answer. Education and life experiences are vital, but make no mistake, Miss Elliot, we have all inherited our ancestors’ goodness and ruthlessness. We are descendants of both Cain and Abel.”

  “Fortunately, the evil are outnumbered, Mr. Dickens.”

  “Religion can help us tip the scales towards goodness, but remember this, even a dog can be taught the difference between right and wrong, even without reading the Bible. He knows not to bite the hand that feeds him, and he knows if he protects his master and obeys, he will be rewarded, does he not?

  “Religion, if sincere, helps many people pull through difficult circumstances, but there is a great deal of hypocrisy and commerce in it today. Look at the repulsive business funerals have become. Surely, undertakers are the world’s greatest serpents, making money out of death and decay. There are exorbitantly priced photographs, keepsakes, dressing and exhibition of the corpse. I will not be part of it.”

  “Surely it is a way of rendering tribute to those we loved?”

  “It is a farce, Miss Elliot. A funeral should be a private and intimate ceremony. I should expressly prohibit the summoning to my own burial of anybody who was not very near or dear to me. I will not be dressed up by an undertaker as part of his trade show.”

  “But what can you do about it?”

  “We cannot change the world, Miss Elliot, but we can change ourselves and our own intimate circle.”

  “How would
you govern your funeral?”

  “I have emphatically directed that I should be buried in an inexpensive, unostentatious, and strictly private manner, at Rochester Cathedral. Have you ever visited, Miss Elliott?” She shook her head.

  “Ah, then you have that experience to look forward to, my dear. It is a magnificent, Norman building, near Gad’s Hill Place, my home. Furthermore, no public announcement shall be made of the time or place of my burial; not more than three plain mourning coaches will be employed; and those who attend my funeral will wear no scarf, cloak, black bow, or long hatband. There will be no post–mortem photographs, relics, or other such revolting absurdity. I trust my executors will respect my wishes.”

  “You seem more pessimistic than the last time we spoke, Mr. Dickens.”

  “You are fortunate not to live in London Miss Elliot. I have seen such extreme cruelty in this city that I often wish I had never set foot in it. I have reason to be disappointed in a city in which public hangings are still carried out. Some years ago, I witnessed an execution at Horsemonger Lane. The spectacle started the night before the execution as the bloodthirsty crowd gathered. Thieves, low prostitutes, ruffians and vagabonds of every kind, flocked on to the ground, with every variety of offensive and foul behaviour. Fightings, faintings, whistlings, brutal jokes of thousands upon thousands of shameful Londoners.”

  “How dreadful. I cannot even imagine such a sight.”

  “The following day, good citizens, like you and me, pass by as if nothing so inhuman and savage had ever happened in their beloved capital city.”

  “I have heard public hangings are to be replaced by hangings within the prisons, in the gallows.”

  “You are correct, Miss Elliot. I am proud to have contributed to that improvement, but I am still not content. We are part of the greatest Empire the world has ever known. The fact that we belong to a nation which rules the seven seas and where the sun never sets, yet we have a criminal and amoral capital, is an unfathomable paradox. Sodom and Gomorra are school playgrounds in comparison.