Twelfth Night at Eyre Hall

by Luccia Gray

  “I am proud to be an Englishman, but at this moment, I am ashamed of being a Londoner. I dream of a criminal, rat and gin free city, where honest people work hard to make a living and enjoy pleasant walks along a clean riverbank. It is my wish that the streets along which Chaucer, Gower, Shakespeare, and Johnson walked will be an example of civility and progress.”

  “Are you against capital punishment, Mr. Dickens? What of murderers? Child murderers for example?”

  “I have been blessed with ten children, Miss Elliot, and nine have survived. I could not imagine being without a single one of them. When my baby daughter Dora died before her first year of life, I was devastated. It is natural for a parent, and indeed any animal to love their offspring above anything else, is it not? What kind of desperation, I ask you, would make a mother abandon her child? What kind of indifference would lead a father to ignore his offspring? What kind of laws, religion, or political leaders will turn a blind eye and allow this to happen? I am against a society that kills its babies because they cannot feed them. Who is guilty? The mother? The father? The person who starves the baby to death? The law that does nothing? The state that abandons women and children to their unhappy plight?”

  I waited for her reaction before asking the most challenging question. Her furrowed brow alerted me to her distress, but I continued. “Who are we to hang for the crime if we do nothing to avoid it?”

  “I am speechless. I live a comfortable and sheltered life at Eyre Hall, Mr. Dickens. When I listen to you speak, I could easily imagine we live in different countries. There is so much still to do to improve our country.”

  “Not long ago a gin–addicted mother sold her child’s clothes to a pawn broker and abandoned her to die unclothed in the gutters of London. The infant was found flowing with the sewage into the Thames. The mother was hanged, but the passers–by who walked past the child, the man who paid her a penny and fathered the child on a street corner, the pawnbroker who gave her the money to buy the gin, and the barman who sold her the gin, are walking freely, as decent members of society.”

  “I am ashamed of my fellow men,” she said firmly.

  “I am afraid, my dear Miss Elliott, that feeling shame will not prevent these events from happening.”

  I ignored her distressed expression and continued my shocking account of London child murderers.

  “I read some despairing news in the press this morning. The day before yesterday, New Year’s Day, the very day I left London, a dreadful child serial killer was discovered. A woman who had killed over nineteen babies was herself murdered in her house in Brixton. According to her accomplice, who survived, the culprit was a vicar from Scotland; no doubt, he had been made aware of her crimes by someone whose child she had killed. This heartless demon offered to look after the babies or find adoptive families in exchange for money, but instead she killed them by starving them, or by choking them to death with dressmakers’ tape. She later put their lifeless and innocent bodies in cardboard boxes in her cellar, where they were discovered. However the worst of it is that no doubt there are more such barbarians in London.”

  Miss Elliot jumped up from the chair and started to cry.

  “Please forgive me. I did not wish to upset you, Miss Elliot. I have spoken too much and too cruelly.”

  She sobbed, so I stood and embraced her. “There, there, Miss Elliot. Please sit down and tell me all about it.” I realised her reaction had been too emotional not to be due to a personal matter.

  “My daughter was stolen, ten years ago. My husband and my doctor told me she was stillborn and they took her away to London to one of those women.”

  “Dear God. Mr. Rochester was responsible for such an abominable act? How can you be sure?”

  “He confessed on his death bed, and his physician confirmed the information.”

  “I cannot imagine your pain. Please forgive my heartless words. Do you know if the child survived or where she might be?”

  “Michael is helping me find her.”

  “Who, may I ask, is Michael?”

  “He is the man I love.”

  “He is a fortunate man, indeed, but he is not your husband, I presume?”

  “No, he is not my husband,” she sighed. “He was my valet at Eyre Hall, but he left when I became engaged to Mr. Mason. I offered him the position of secretary and asked him to stay by my side, but he did not accept.”

  “Why did you marry Mr. Mason, may I ask, if you love Michael?”

  “It is a marriage of convenience. I married Mr. Mason to protect my son by keeping family secrets away from him. Mr. Mason married me for money and position.”

  “I see.”

  We sat in silence for a while. I knotted my fingers and rubbed my thumbs absently, while I watched her restless hands smoothing her silk skirt. I had not confided in many people regarding my private life in the last ten years. Although it was known that I did not live with my wife, I made sure my secret romance remained unknown.

  “So we are both in a similar position, my dear. We are both married to a person we do not love, and we are in love with someone else, who is not appropriate. They are the wrong age, and the wrong social class. There is family opposition, and society’s disapproval, and so on”

  “How do you cope, Mr. Dickens?”

  “I’m afraid I cannot offer you any advice. I cope miserably. Over a year ago, I was involved in a train accident, as you will remember. I was on the tidal train travelling back from Folkestone to London, when we were derailed due to an unfortunate accident with some repair work on the railway line. Ten passengers were killed and forty injured. I was able to squeeze out through the window of my compartment and help the injured. It was a devastating scene. I shudder when I recall the mass of pain and death. No imagination can conceive the ruin of the carriages and the screams of terror.”

  “I heard about the accident, and I was told you were on the train but survived unharmed.”

  “Unharmed physically, but overwhelmed emotionally. You see, I was not alone. Ellen was with me. I realised then that life is all too short and finite, and although we must live each day to its full potential, we have a duty to those we leave behind. I am separated from my wife, as you know, and I am in love with Ellen, as very few people know. Our relationship is secret, and it causes me great distress, but there is no other way.”

  “Well, my situation is similar to yours. We must keep our relationship secret, and it also causes me great distress. I have tried, but I cannot leave him. He is in the navy now. Michael is a lieutenant.”

  “My son, Sydney, is a lieutenant in the navy, too. He is twenty–two years old. He is a hardworking and ambitious lad. How old is Michael?”

  “He is twenty–three.”

  “Good grief! He is younger than Ellen. She is twenty–eight.”

  “Well, I am also younger than you, Mr. Dickens, by over ten years!”

  “Again that is your fortune; you have at least ten more years of happiness than I have left. What are you going to do?”

  “My husband and I lead separate lives. He spends most of his time in London or Jamaica, where we own a plantation. For the moment, I will wait for Michael, and I intend to make use of every opportunity I can to be happy. There has been too much sadness in my life.”

  “How invigorating! Are you going to shock us all and defy the laws of propriety? How brave of you!”

  “Not at all. I am unable to live without Michael, so I must live with him. That is all I know. I love him. I do not think I am brave at all.”

  “Love is such a delicate balance between beauty, respect and affection, is it not? Look at Nancy, mistaking love for protection, or David Copperfield mistaking love for admiration and submission.”

  “Indeed it is a mystery to me.” She smiled wistfully.

  We sat drinking brandy after dinner by the fire. It was a restful moment after such an intense conversation. I examined my host. Jane’s pale complexion and delicate frame stood in stark contrast to her c
onfident movements and assertive manner, which denoted a remarkable strength and serenity of character. Her flawless features fit perfectly in her heart–shaped face. Her dainty fingers and soft hands caressed her dress distractedly as she watched the fire. Her russet hair was tamed with several pretty hair clips, and her inquisitive green eyes held a gentle gleam when they rested on mine. She was one of those fortunate women who grow more beautiful as they age. Her voice was soft and melodious and her manner charming. It was a pleasure to be in her company.

  “Perhaps when you are next in London, you will be joined by Michael, and I shall introduce you to Ellen.”

  “That would be delightful, Mr. Dickens. I look forward to the occasion.”

  “The time has come to end this wonderful evening. I would not like to tire you, or I shall not be invited again.”

  “Endings are so sad in real life, and so hard to write in fiction. How does an artist know a work of art has reached its end? And what is a good ending to a great story?”

  “Indeed. It is no secret that I struggle with every ending.”

  “I prefer happy endings, as you know, Mr. Dickens. Readers prefer a satisfactory conclusion. It makes the reading more rewarding.”

  “Perhaps you are right, my dear Miss Elliot, but I am afraid it is not always possible.”

  “Who should we bear in mind when writing the end, the reader or the story?”

  “The reader always. We write for our readers. I had a more pessimistic ending for Great Expectations, but my dear friend Wilkie Collins persuaded me, or shall we say convinced me, that my readers would prefer a more positive ending, so I left the door open for Pip and Estella.”

  “And are you pleased with this modification?”

  “Yes. I have no doubt the story will be more acceptable with the altered ending. After all, I think Wilkie was right. It is for the better.”

  “I must admit, it is one of my favourite novels, and I am glad you decided to present a happy ending. Would you read the last chapter before we retire?”

  “It would be a pleasure, Miss Elliot.”

  She handed me a copy of Great Expectations. I opened the last chapter and read the ending she wanted to hear.

  “‘I took her hand in mine, and we went out of the ruined place; and, as the morning mists had risen long ago when I first left the forge, so the evening mists were rising now, and in all the broad expanse of tranquil light they showed to me, I saw no shadow of another parting from her.’ ”

  Seconds later, I closed the book and watched a single tear slide down her cheek.

  “Thank you, Mr. Dickens. That is the most perfect ending anyone has ever written.”

  I wanted to add that it was a mere illusion, because there can be no happy ending to any story. We will have to surrender everything we have, in the end, and we will leave this planet as naked and helpless as we came, but I was silent. Why spoil the magic moment?

  She hugged me affectionately and we retired to our respective bedrooms. The unpretentious luxury at Eyre Hall was comforting. The views from all the windows of the surrounding countryside were unparalleled. I could easily stay for longer than would be considered civil in this entrancing paradise.

  Miss Elliot had convinced me to stay another day, with the excuse of showing me around the grounds during the daylight hours. I looked up at the clouds and smiled, looking forward to smelling the country rain with its thousand fresh scents, associated with growth and life. In the city, the rain developed only foul stale smells, and was a sickly, dirt–stained, wretched addition to the gutters.

  The following day flew by, and I set off back to London with regret, the morning after my tranquil interlude. I was looking forward to joining Ellen, and I had another reading of The Christmas Carol scheduled for Twelfth Night at St. James’s Hall in Mayfair. I was too busy to savour every moment as I would have wished, but every second was precious now that I sensed my time was running out.

  ***

  Chapter XV – Simon Travels to London

  The morning after Twelfth Night, I had planned to leave London and return to Eyre Hall. I was having breakfast on my own by the hearth, when someone crept up behind me and sat down on the chair to my right. I looked down at his hands, which were trembling alarmingly, while his long brown woollen coat was dripping puddles on the floor. I wondered if he was going to ask me for money or try to rob me. I turned cautiously and saw Simon’s tormented face.

  “Michael, I done it. I killed him,” he whispered.

  “Simon, what are you doing here?”

  “You told me you’d be staying at the George Inn, so I came.”

  “Why are you not at Eyre Hall?”

  “Did you hear me? I’m in big trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I killed him. I killed a man.”

  “Be quiet, man, or you will get us both arrested. Eat and drink, and then we shall go up to my room and you can tell me what happened.”

  “I can’t eat or drink or think. They’ll ’ang me. You gotta help me, Michael. You know me. You know it was an accident.”

  I called the host’s wife. “More kippers and ale for my friend.”

  I turned to Simon.

  “Do not speak until I tell you to.”

  He nodded and obeyed. If he had come down from Eyre Hall that morning, he had to be hungry, thirsty, and tired. He looked a wreck and sounded like a madman. It was hard enough making sense of his jabbering when he was under normal conditions, so I needed to make sure he calmed down before he told me what had happened. When we were seated in my room, he started rambling incomprehensibly again.

  “Simon, I want you to answer my questions. Don’t talk.”

  “I tell you, I killed him.”

  I knew Simon was incapable of killing anyone, at least not purposefully.

  “Who did you kill?”

  “Mr. Mason.”

  Could he be dead already? So soon? Could my greatest obstacle have been removed?

  “Simon. Just say yes or no. Is Mason dead?”

  “Yes.”

  He was dead and Jane was a widow. It was too good to be true. Could it be true? My pulse raced as I asked more questions.

  “And you killed him?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I poisoned him.”

  “How?”

  “With laudanum.”

  “Go on.”

  “We gave him drops every day he was at Eyre Hall, in his wine and in his brandy. He drinks all day long, so he must have taken loads of it.”

  “Who is we?”

  “Beth and me, but I’ll take all the blame. Don’t tell no one it was her who ’elped me.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “Michael, he’s evil. Mrs. Mason, she don’t know, or she don’t care about his goings on.”

  “What goings on?”

  “He beats up Jenny.”

  “You killed Mason because he beats up Jenny?”

  “Yes. I mean, no, not for Jenny, but for Beth, and for Christy, too. He wanted them all in his bed together, every time he was at Eyre Hall. Mrs. Mason was too busy guarding herself from him to notice what he’s doing to the others. Jenny didn’t mind, but he’d had enough of her, so he wanted Beth and Christy. Beth used to go, but she didn’t want to anymore, not now we’re going out, and Christy, she don’t like men. She sleeps with Daisy.”

  “Why did you not inform Mrs. Mason?”

  “Since you left, she ain’t been the same, Michael. First, she was ill, and then she married Mason. Lives in her own world, like a sleepwalker half the time. She don’t know what goes on, and she don’t want to know. She don’t care about us.”

  “You are wrong, Simon. She cares about all of you. You should have told her.”

  “She don’t even realise that Jenny and Thomas are bashing Nell.”

  “What?”

  “Jenny hates her own daughter, locks her in the pantry, beats her and then tells her to say she fe
ll down the stairs. Her brother bullies her, too.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re jealous of her ’cos she’s Mrs. Mason’s pet. She wears nice clothes Mrs. Mason bought her. Eats with her. Spends all day with her. Sometimes she even sleeps in her room, too. They’ll do some real damage to her one day.”

  I had already found a way of getting Jenny and Thomas out of Eyre Hall and far from England as soon as possible. It would not be hard to convince Jane to agree to my plan for them. However, my priority now was finding out how Mason had died.

  “Tell me exactly what happened on Twelfth Night at Eyre Hall, Simon.”

  “After breakfast, Mr. Mason went up to his chamber and probably started drinking. We’d laced the brandy in his room with laudanum, too. When he came down before lunch he was already foxed, but we gave him some more, to be sure. During lunch, he had some more in the wine and after lunch in the brandy. Then he went up to his room for a nap, and I had a hard time getting him up and dressed for dinner, but he didn’t stop drinking, Michael. He kept taking more and more of it, so we must’ve overdone it, ’cos when I went up to see him, he didn’t move. He was dead.”

  “Are you sure he was dead?”

  “It was an ‘orrible sight, Michael. He didn’t budge, but his eyes were open in ‘orror, like he’d seen a ghost. He was lying on the bed, fully dressed, and face up. I think he choked on his vomit ’cos it was brown and disgusting, dribbling down his chin. He smelt like the devil’s shit.”

  “So, what did you do?”

  “I went down to the servants’ quarters and told Beth, and she said we could get ‘anged, so I said I’d take all the blame. I told her not to say anything about the laudanum. I didn’t know what to do, so I came to London ’cos I had to get away from Eyre Hall. I can’t lie, Michael. I look as guilty as sin. They’d catch me. We didn’t mean to do it. We didn’t want him to die, we only wanted him to sleep and leave the girls alone. What have we done, Michael?”

  “Let me think. If he died in his sleep, it may look like apoplexy. He was not a young man. He was at least Mr. Rochester’s age. They may never discover he was poisoned. I am not convinced, Simon.”