Child of Fear and Fire

by G. R. Thomas

  Eliza flailed on the floor, pressed herself harder into the corner. She flinched as the wall burned her back. Her eyes were fixed upon flames that ran the length of the cornices, surrounding an apparition in the centre of the ceiling.

  A figure, blackened to cinders, reposed in sleep or death. Its long hair and tarnished robes billowed against the plaster, fanned by the fire. Frozen in the shadows of her room, Eliza was unable to look away as the figure’s eyes snapped open, the head turned, and glowing red orbs slid towards her.

  A guttural scream followed Eliza as her knees and fingers clawed across the floor. Her room seemed so big, her limbs like jelly. Her body felt numb as her fingernails ripped across the floorboards. She heaved herself across the great expanse as though the air were made of molasses. Her room seemed to get bigger with each lunge forward. Heat pushed down from above, the voices sang in her head, chorusing her along until she hooked one hand on the bed frame.

  All became silent, the heat dissipated, and the sweat that drenched her cooled her flesh into an uncontrollable shiver. Eliza pulled herself into the well-worn dip of her bed. She snatched the covers over her head and bit into her knuckles. Agnes snuggled under the covers with her, warm and purring as though all was well. Eliza held her breath and desperately sought a prayer.

  The Hail Mary was on her mind, then the floorboards creaked. Her fingers gripped the sheets tighter again. She brought the linen to her mouth to muffle the tiniest of sounds. As prayer eluded her, she fumbled for the leather twine that held a crucifix about her neck. It was gone. Her despaired moan died within the linen that she bit harder into.

  Her God had left her as he always seemed to do. “Follow His commandments, and He will offer comfort,” Mrs Embrey had taught her. Yet, Eliza could still feel the pinch to her ear when both she and her mother were thrown to the streets long ago. “There’s no room for you here. God’s house is full,” the vicar had hissed. There was no comfort from God that day, and there was little comfort from God in Norlane Hall. Her eyes burned. Anger fought fear. Fear squashed anger.

  Despite it all, she couldn’t help herself. Prayer was all she knew, even though not once had it reprieved her despair. Eliza rolled onto her knees, squeezed the image of the burning woman from her thoughts and prayed simply for sleep to take her away.

  The morning sun glinted across a mirror that reflected a sallow complexion. Eliza poked at her cheeks; they were wan with the pallor of little sleep. Her fingers trailed the lines of her face, smoothed strands of chestnut hair behind her ears. Cracked lips umbrellaed the tremble of her chin. She ran her hands up and down her forearms; they were as they always were, pocked by her hidden picking. Her thumb smoothed over the scabs, dipped into the scars. She pulled her sleeves to cover her secret, and her attention settled back upon her eyes — glistening, bloodshot, one a little more hooded than the other. Eliza wondered if she were more a beauty, would her lot in life have been better? The thought was a lie to herself; women didn’t fare well outside the upper classes. She dug a fresh wound just inside her elbow and sighed with morbid satisfaction. A scarred old crone is what she would become. Forgettable and not worth a second glance, and that she believed, would make her safe.

  Chickens clucked noisily outside, which drew her attention from herself. This meant Mrs Embrey was collecting the eggs. Eliza splashed her face with some water and dressed quickly. She was already late for duty and wanted to busy herself with work, to forget the prior evening.

  She had made good work of not looking towards the ceiling. She took a sharp breath, tucked her hair into a low bun and tilted her head up. The roof was as plain as expected, bar the cracks of time that spiderwebbed across it. Relief washed through her, a cool tingle that lasted only until she knelt to search for the crucifix that had fallen last evening. Her hands patted under the bed to no avail, she stood, hands-on-hips, surveying the floor. Eliza glanced to the nail it should have hung upon with the thought of how to replace it. She clutched her chest, the blood drained from her head, dizziness forced her to lean against the bed.

  Jesus hung, inverted and blackened to soot; his sorrow destroyed. Despite fear catching every breath, Eliza made her way towards it. It was warm; her fingers came away black. Her heart hammered. She quickly righted the cross, but it no longer held its pious ambience. The wish that the prior evening had all been a dream dissipated. She backed away, eyes not leaving the damage, the evidence of her madness.

  Eliza’s palm stung again as she clung to the end of her bed. The cold of the wrought iron tempered the burn a little but only added to a new chill rising within. She shook her head, tried to clear her thoughts. She no longer felt comfort in Jesus’ presence. Eliza plucked nervously at her lips; she ran her tongue over their hard edges, they stung. She steepled her tremoring fingers to her nose as her eyes glued to the charred crucifix. Could she have done all this in the daze of sleep?

  Her hands returned to the bed frame, their tremor shook it, then she rattled it with frustration. It squeaked its complaint until she stopped, fearing a knock at the door. Tears weighed in her lashes. Was there no solace for her, not even in the privacy of her room?

  Eliza moved back to her washstand, splashed the last of its water across the heat of her face. She tipped the mirror up, repulsed by the image, and peered again at the wall. Dream or not, she couldn’t ignore this. The crucifix would have to be replaced before Mrs Embrey saw it. Reaching behind herself, Eliza lifted her apron from its hook and reversed out of her room, too scared to turn her back upon Jesus.

  †

  Eliza carried the cleaned breakfast dishes out of the scullery and set them aside for another maid to put away in the sideboard. She wiped her hands dry and collected the washing left for her at the back of the kitchen. Agnes weaved through her ankles along the rear path to the laundry room. The cat purred all the way; her comforting sounds eased the subtle shake in Eliza’s limbs. Eliza breathed in the crisp morning air, the hint of gardenias upon it. She entered the laundry, thankful the copper was already boiling wildly. A snug flame had been set under it by Mrs Embrey at a much earlier hour. Eliza set down the wicker basket to stroke Agnes before the cat pounced effortlessly upon a pile of sheets under a steamed-up window. She curled into a snug ball and settled to sleep amongst the warmth.

  Eliza began dropping the linens into the water. In the company of only the cat, she hummed to drown out her thoughts, to quell fear, to suppress anger. Eliza breathed in deep, her face relaxed, the hint of a smile tugged at her mouth. She relished the smell of the laundry; the hot starchy air was refreshing and clean. She liked the way it tickled her nostrils. It warmed her bones on the coldest of days. She enjoyed swirling the yellowed fabrics with the dolly stick, smoothed and softened by years of whirling amongst the starched fabrics.

  The laundry was a place of solitude, a trusted companion. A sanctuary for Eliza where the old and worn, the used and the soiled entered in disarray and left fresh and white, clean and mended. She felt the same.

  As she dropped boiling fabric into a cooler water bath, Eliza heard the ancient grandfather clock in the distance. Nine chimes. She groaned and dropped the stirring dolly, hoisted up the hem of her dress and rushed back to the house, grabbing her cleaning supplies along the way. She was late for her most loathed task.

  Eliza’s legs burned as she took the stairs two at a time. The bones in her hand cracked as she pulled on the balustrade to propel herself faster. As her boots sank into the floral carpet of the second story, she bent over, huffing and gasping for breath.

  “What on earth are you doing?” Lady Norlane’s voice shuddered through Eliza, and she looked up before she could stop herself. Their eyes met. Eliza dabbed the sweat from her face with the back of her hand, curtsied, she tried to look away, but felt frozen to the spot. Silence swung between them like a pendulum.

  The heady toilet water Lady Norlane tended to overuse wafted about her; roses left in a vase a week too long. Lady Norlane pressed a hand ove
r her bosom as though overcome by the sight of Eliza. Lamplight glinted off her diamond bracelet. She glared down over a thin, pointed nose. Lady Norlane grimaced.

  Eliza swallowed back the lump of nerves, of nausea and fear, that constant coil of dread that dwelt within her. The grandfather clock ticked on downstairs, each strike of its hand too loud, each second dragged more terror to the surface.

  Lady Norlane cleared her throat. “Does Mrs Embrey not teach you better? You are to meld with the walls, not look upon those above your station.” Her nostrils flared as she twirled an emerald ring around a gloved finger.

  Eliza stepped back; her gaze transfixed upon the ring. Worth more than she could earn in a lifetime, a twinge of anger competed with fear. Eliza opened her mouth, desperately wishing a word of apology, or any word for that matter, to emerge.

  Lady Norlane held her hand up. “Do not even contemplate speaking in my presence. How dare you rush like a street urchin around my home and disturb my peace.” Lady Norlane’s lips pursed with disgust, tight like Agnes’ backside. Eliza suppressed the sudden desire to laugh. For a moment, a little whisper in her ear enticed Eliza to let out the laugh, but she coughed away the giggle caught in her throat. Her insides tingled with the burn of the previous night, and it gave her a strange comfort.

  Lady Norlane snapped her out of her impolite stare. She clicked her fingers in Eliza’s face. “Get on with your duties.” She waved Eliza away and turned to a mirror that hung nearby, adjusted her hair, tucked in an errant curl and smiled at her own reflection. She seemed shocked to look down upon Eliza again. “You’re still here? Shall I call upon Lord Norlane to deal with you?”

  Humour and the ghostly whispers dissipated quickly as Lady Norlane’s words almost knocked Eliza back down the stairs. Eliza’s hands fidgeted in the deep pockets of her apron, a loose thread coiled around her index finger, and she pulled at it. The air of the second floor felt heavy and old, harder to draw in. She could smell dust and old candles. She lowered her head, curtsied deeply, hoping for a reprieve. She studied the yellow and pink flowers threading through the red of the carpet, so soft underfoot, too scared to look up.

  A baby cried. Lady Norlane sighed laboriously. “Nanny? See to my son immediately!” A door opened; Eliza peered through her lashes to see an old woman scuttle across the hall behind Lady Norlane. Eliza straightened from her curtsy slowly now that Lady Norlane’s scowl fell elsewhere. “Why does that child never quiet?” Lady Norlane muttered to herself.

  The crying settled. The Nanny limped back across the hallway and into the sanctuary of her own room. A sharp sting to Eliza’s cheek called her attention back.

  “Why have you not disappeared?” Lady Norlane readjusted the ring that had cracked over Eliza’s cheek. She felt blood drip down her skin. Crimson spotted her clean apron as she dabbed her raw face.

  With a new look of disgust, Lady Norlane moved towards the stairs, stopped and looked back over her shoulder at Eliza. “If you look upon me again, child, if I so much as notice your presence, even hear you draw a breath, you will be back to whatever cesspit it is you came from!” She flicked an exotic fan open and fluttered it a few times to settle the blossom of rage across her face.

  Eliza’s eyes burned. Her skin felt alight, her guts like jelly. She imagined Lady Norlane falling down the stairs, a crumpled knot, the fan wedged down her throat. The voices giggled; they liked her thoughts. She had impressed them, and that eased the fear; settled her stomach. Eliza dabbed more blood from her cheek, lifted a finger to pick at her wound, but stopped herself. Instead, she backed up until her hip banged a small side table, precariously wobbling a vase that sat upon it. She quickly steadied the valuable yet ugly porcelain. The Lady tutted at her one last time before disappearing down the staircase with a dramatic swish of her dress.

  Eliza stood a few moments longer, listening to the ticking of the clock. Every tick, every tock, felt like another slap. Eliza’s hands balled inside her pockets; she was tired of fear being her master, sick of it commanding her pain, of pushing her to the brink.

  The ever-unsettled babe screamed again, drawing her away from self-indulgent worries. Nanny scuttled back across the hall, muttering to herself. Eliza wondered what this child would be like. Would he, too, be as cruel as his family? As though on cue, the sisters bickering screeches migrated up the staircase. Her concerns about the baby faded. Eliza moved in brisk automation towards the bedrooms, an innate reflex to avoid her tormentors.

  Margaret’s room was first. Eliza tidied the clothes left askew on the floor, picked up two quills and paper beneath a small rosewood writing bureau. She paused over an unfinished letter. Her fingers trailed the looping sweeps of ink. They were harder to read than the print of the bible. This was how Mrs Embrey had taught her to read by candlelight, with warm milk and honey in the evenings. The paper crinkled in Eliza’s hand, then her heart fluttered. The blush of something other than anger heated her cheeks.

  The word love repeated across the page quite liberally. Horse hooves ground on the gravel outside. She glanced to the window, peered down and saw the edge of a carriage slip away through the front gates. She imagined being on that carriage with a secret love. Sighing, Eliza placed the paper neatly upon the bureau, the quills in their stand next to the inkwell.

  The sisters’ voices carried upstairs, in argument as usual. Eliza jolted back from her moment of serenity. She knocked the ink well over as she reached for her cleaning bucket. A wave of dizziness swept her as she watched the ink spill across the love letter. Footsteps pounded on the stairs. She panicked; her hands blackened as she tried to dab the blots from the letter. Her heart was in her throat, the words obliterated as the ink seeped through the paper’s fibres. Footsteps rose and fell on the stairs, arguing continued. Eliza hastily smoothed out the ruined letter and shoved it behind the bureau.

  Eliza scrubbed her hands as clean as possible, smoothing their tremble away as she slipped them under the mattress and tugged crisp bedlinen into perfect neatness. Her attention wandered to the bureau multiple times. Margaret would know it was missing. She hastened her cleaning, needing to get out as quickly as she could. Eliza fell to her knees and reached for the chamber pot underneath the bed. Suppressing the urge to vomit, she held her breath and slid it out carefully so as not to spill. It sloshed half-full. Eliza turned her head to the side, gasped in a fresh breath, held it a moment, then exhaled. Still, bile hit the back of her throat at the sight. Gathering up her dress, she was about to stand when the door banged open. Margaret strode in; delight brightened her eyes when she saw Eliza kneeling by the vile pot.

  Margaret laughed. “Just where you belong, amongst the shit.” She sauntered towards Eliza; arms clasped behind her back. “You stink like the shit I leave for you.” Her smile widened as Eliza shrunk back from her.

  “Do you realise how disgusting you are?” Margaret leaned in a little and sniffed, her perfect hair bounced over her shoulders. Margaret screwed up her face and coughed behind her hand. “Definitely you, not the pot!” Eliza winced; her fingers tingled as they curled around the floral handle of the pot.

  Margaret wandered towards the bureau. Eliza’s vision blurred as Margaret ran a finger across the desk. “Hmm, dusty.” She glared back at Eliza. Margaret’s hip nudged the writing desk as she edged to the right to primp herself in a mirror. The letter slid from behind the bureau. Eliza grabbed the edge of the bed, nearly dropped the chamber pot. She reached for a rag, forced herself up and dashed to the bureau, dusting hurriedly as Margaret admired herself. Eliza worked her way over the top, around the edges and down the turned wood legs. She snatched up the letter as Margaret pouted at her own reflection, pinched colour into her cheeks and blew a kiss to herself. Eliza was about to slip the paper into her pocket when Margaret’s head snapped around.

  “What have you got there?” She snatched the paper from Eliza, her eyes narrowed. Margaret glared at Eliza. “Reading someone’s private correspondence?” A smug smile sof
tened Margaret’s stare. “How utterly uncivilised.” Eliza grasped the edge of the bureau, pulled herself up and leaned her hip into it for support. Margaret slipped her fingers into the folds and opened the letter. Her eyes widened as she ran her fingers over the paper. She then hugged it to her chest.

  Smiling more broadly, Margaret waved the letter in Eliza’s face. “I bet you wish you had a love to write about,” She glanced at Eliza’s hands. “But those such as you aren’t fit for such sophisticated pursuits.” Margaret dropped the letter casually upon the bureau and returned to her own reflection.

  Eliza’s nails dug into the desk. The letter was intact. The neat script untouched by the ink she had spilled. Voices burst into her scattered thoughts. The letter fluttered of its own volition, unseen by Margaret. Eliza backed away, unsure if she was relieved or terrified, or both. She jolted again as Margaret snapped at her. “Well, get on with your work. And get out of my room.”

  Eliza dropped back to the floor and reached for the chamber pot again. The soft coo in her ears calmed the race of her pulse, but her skin felt like ice down her neck. Margaret was muttering to herself, so Eliza focused on that to pull herself towards some sense of reality.

  “Nearly seventeen, I’ll be out of here soon. A lady of my own manor.” She giggled, glancing over her shoulder at Eliza. “And you, if you’re lucky, will work here until your old bones turn to dust.”

  Eliza wanted to laugh at Margaret, to scream, to throw the stagnant waste in her face. She wanted to run as far as she could from the voices, this house, but Eliza clutched the stinking pot a little harder. She kept her thoughts to herself, words always suppressed, desires never realised. She just stared at the brown slosh, trying to ignore the whispers and the shake of her body.