The Murder of Harriet Monckton

by Elizabeth Haynes

  I expected Clara to be there, or Jane, or some friend for me to converse with, but in fact it was mainly the men of the chapel and some others who I believe were associates of the reverend’s. It seemed that it was intended for it to be a rather formal affair, with prayers and quiet reflection, and yet by the time I arrived some people were already playing games, and one of the young ladies was playing parlour music on the piano.

  I found myself helping Ruth Verrall, the reverend’s sister, in her efforts to direct the servants in bringing out the tea and cake and making sure everyone had what they needed. Mrs Verrall was there too, surrounded by ladies wearing fine dresses. Ruth told me, when I enquired, that they were ladies from the Bromley College, widows of clergymen who were entitled to reside there securely into their old age. Some of them were rather young, still, and I felt sorry for them, but I suppose they have a comfortable life.

  ‘I have never visited the college,’ I told her.

  ‘Nor I,’ she said. ‘I hear the rooms are well appointed. Mrs Verrall visits regularly, and takes tea there.’

  ‘Do you call her Mrs Verrall when it is just the two of you?’ I asked her with a smile, but her face turned stony and I thought I had been too familiar.

  The reverend saw me, then, and perhaps saw my discomfort, for he took me by the elbow and steered me to the doors which were open on to the paving behind the house. It was a fine day, with a cool breeze. He introduced me to a Mr Jenner and his wife, and there was Mr Carter, a lay preacher who lives in London and is to preach at chapel tomorrow morning. I had met him before at the chapel once. I recall feeling quite moved by the sermon he gave. Mr Carter was most interested to hear that I had taught at Hackney, and we found that we had some acquaintances in common in the area. He has heard of Richard through his philanthropic efforts, but has not had the pleasure of meeting him.

  I had not planned to stay long, for Richard and Maria were never far from my thoughts, and it was driving me to melancholy. I made my way to the kitchen, taking a pair of teacups with me, and to my surprise Mr Carter followed me in there, talking more of Hackney and looking at my shoulders instead of into my face. I went back to the drawing room and he followed me there, too; I told Mr Verrall that I had a headache and I should like to go home, but I was grateful for the invitation, and Mr Carter offered to walk me. I told him I could manage perfectly well, but he absolutely insisted, saying that if I was feeling unwell I should not attempt the walk unaccompanied, lest I be overcome and faint upon the path. I was not afraid, although perhaps I should have been – reverends are, after all, just men, dressed in black – but he was slight and weaselly and I had no doubt that I could push him away and run faster than he, should he attempt an assault on my person.

  I believe I sighed and said I could not prevent him, and he followed me out eagerly. At least it should all soon be over, for he could not very well have followed me into my mother’s house! At the stile to the second field he offered me his hand to help me up, and I ignored it, hoping that he would discern from it my reluctance to have him in my company. All the way he was full of flattery and attention and telling me the town needed more pious, quiet young women to be brought to the Lord …

  And then in the second field I saw Miss Williams, across on the other path. I called out to her and she came to us.

  She seemed most curious – and a little disapproving – to see me alone in a man’s company. I tried by the expression on my face to communicate that I would have appreciated her company far more readily, but she did not appear to notice, or perhaps she was in a hurry. I introduced her to Mr Carter, and she looked from him to me, and said that she was pleased to meet him, and did not return his bow; but asked us to excuse her, and hurried back to her path. It was no matter. A few short minutes later we had arrived at Farwig, and I wished him a good day, and shut the door fast behind me. Mary Ann wanted to know who was the man standing on the doorstep, hat in hand, as if he expected to be admitted? I pressed my finger to my lips to shush her, and eventually he went away.

  Hours later, it is a subject of some amusement to me, but at the time it was a little alarming.

  Monday, 10th July

  I told Frances about Richard, and Maria. Earlier, while we were walking back from the school, with leisurely steps and uninterrupted by anyone else, we had talked about the school, about how the fundamental principle of the National School is to instil Christian morals into the poor, rather than teaching them to read and write. Frances disagrees with it. I believe that the two aims are not incompatible; that it’s possible to use the Bible to teach reading and writing, and why not, after all? No harm can come to the children from such a method. We had quite a lively discussion without any animosity arising between us, although I do not believe I convinced her of my holy justification! I admire her honesty about her lack of faith, and I like her for allowing me to see this part of her, which is by necessity a very private one. I asked her how she coped with teaching something she did not herself believe in. She told me that she loves her girls, genuinely loves them, even the naughty ones, and, if being permitted to teach them means she must sacrifice some of her principles to do it, then it is a small price to pay. She said, ‘One day all men and women will be free to believe anything they choose, without judgement from others,’ and she was so earnest about it I almost wanted to laugh. Not at her fervour, but in delight at the strength of her conviction. She makes me feel that anything is possible.

  I admire her very much. I wish I could be more like her – braver. I told her so, and she took my hand and smiled at me.

  Much later, as we had supper, she asked me why I appeared troubled. I had tried so hard to hide it, and it was easy to do that in her presence, but still she recognised the sadness in my heart, I think. So I told her about Richard, the man I love, and how he is to marry one of my dearest friends. The wedding is tomorrow, in fact. She listened and listened as it all poured out of me, out of my poor broken heart, and at the end of it to my very great surprise I felt a little less sad.

  She thinks what I did was a very noble act. But then, I did not tell her the whole of it, as I am still bound by my oath. She does not know that in fact I had very little choice.

  And now, I am writing this in the bedroom at home with my sister and my mother in the parlour, and I feel better still. I think perhaps I will look for another position, somewhere far away from here, and from Hackney – somewhere I have never been. A fresh beginning for me, and who knows what might lie ahead?

  Monday, 10th July, evening

  After much thought and prayer, I wrote to Richard and Maria, congratulating them most sincerely on their engagement and marriage. I wished them every happiness and blessing for their future lives together. I read the letter twice before posting it, anxious that there should not be any evidence at all of my jealousy or the pain that their union had caused me. I want them to be happy, because I genuinely love them both. Frances said to me that Richard was not the right person for me, and yet my time with him had taught me valuable lessons and so I should not see it as something to be regretted. I believe this is a fine sentiment, and I told her that what she actually meant was Richard was not right for me because it was not God’s will. She looked at me and raised her eyebrow and we both laughed. I told her I was too old to make a match now; that I would end my days like my sister, a spinster. Frances is thirty-seven years old, although she does not look so much older than I. She says being with her girls keeps her young; marriage and childbirth are the conditions that age people. She says she has no wish to marry, but I did once believe all women say that who have not found a suitable husband. She, at least, would rather be happy on her own than subjugate herself to another: and for that I admire her even more. If I could be Frances Williams, and yet be married to Richard Field, surely I should be the happiest of women!

  Sunday, 16th July

  At chapel this morning the reverend preached a sermon on a verse from James: For whosoever shall keep the whole law, and yet
offend in one point, he is guilty of all. For he that said, Do not commit adultery, said also, Do not kill. Now if thou commit no adultery, yet if thou kill, thou art become a transgressor of the law.

  I noted it down. I have taken to writing notes during his sermons, for I feel that he says so many important and wise things, and by the time I am home I have forgotten them. I noticed sometimes Clara takes notes, so I took her as my example.

  I watched him as he spoke, listened to his every word, and thought what a very godly man he was. He talked about those who follow God’s teaching in one respect, and think themselves pious, and yet in other areas of their lives they are sorely lacking. Should we call ourselves good Christians, if we follow the Commandments and yet do not help the poor? Or if we give alms, but do not at the same time bear witness to the Glory of God? To sin just a little bit, he said, is still a sin.

  After the service I got up the courage to go and speak to him, in the vestry. I asked if I was disturbing him, and he said not at all, and I told him I had enjoyed his sermon. He smiled at me and asked me if I was innocent of sin. I answered, ‘Of course not.’ He said that as long as I confessed my sins to the Lord, and was sorry for them, everything could be forgiven. Everything.

  I thought he might have meant something by it, and I blushed crimson, which made me look even more guilty. I told him I was truly sorry for my sins, I repented every day, the big sins and the small ones. He said he thought it unlikely that I was guilty of big sins.

  He said, and I thought it sounded strange, the way he said it, ‘Come now, Harriet: you’re not guilty of murder, or adultery, are you?’

  I replied that, according to the Word of the Lord, the big sins are the same as the little ones – surely that was what we were to understand of his sermon?

  I also thought it was odd that he called me Harriet. I know we had been formally introduced, but it felt a little overfamiliar to me. Perhaps a little paternalistic. And really I didn’t see him in the same sort of way. Perhaps as a teacher, as a good man – rather like Richard, in fact.

  Then he said that if the small sins were as bad as the big sins, then also the big sins were no worse than the small ones. And how incredible was it that God forgives everything, if only we are sorry, and we ask. I said that it was truly a wonder ful thing.

  We talked a little about other things – about the weather, which has grown warmer again, and about the town and how I was liking it now I had been back a while. He walked me out to the porch and by then the chapel was entirely empty. It was just he and I, and I felt very special, to have his singular attention, all upon me. He said he was very glad I had chosen to return to the chapel as it was blessed greatly by my presence in it. I laughed then, for what a thing to say! And he said he would pray for me, and asked if I would also pray for him? And I said I would. As I left, he reminded me that I was invited to take tea at his house, and said that if I wished to come during the week I would be most welcome. I said I could come on Tuesday, and he said that would be agreeable and so we fixed upon it for me to visit at three o’clock on Tuesday.

  Of course, not everyone had gone home, for Thomas Churcher was waiting in the lane for me. He asked if he could walk me back to Farwig. He was always a harmless, kind boy, very quiet. On the way home we talked but little, and at the gate he nodded and said goodbye, and went back the way we had come with no further word.

  I am looking forward to taking tea with the reverend greatly; and tomorrow I am having supper with Frances. Two very good excuses to be out of the house, and away from my miserable sister!

  Monday, 17th July

  I told my mother and my sister that I might stay with Frances, and not to wait up for me. They said nothing about it, but I think Mary Ann at least was pleased. How sad it is, to not feel welcome in your own home!

  But, for all that, I had a wonderful evening with my friends. Clara was there for supper and she brought cake and gin, and I looked at her and thought perhaps she should be setting a good example – after all, the reverend preaches temperance – but then we had some gin anyway and soon it did not matter. Frances and Clara talked of the Sunday School, of George Sweeting the superintendent and what a boorish oaf the man is – full of worthy suggestions that he fails to bring to fruition, always expecting someone else to act in his stead. Clara calls him the worst kind of hypocrite. Frances knows him because he regularly attends the National School to hear the boys’ recitation, as though he is a subscriber, but he isn’t. He says he is there to check on the standard of moral education. And Mr Campling, who is High Church and proud of it, puffs up his chest like a pigeon at the mere thought of a man from a dissenting chapel standing in judgement over his interpretation of the Holy Scripture.

  And then after a while Clara said she should go home, and asked me if I should like to walk with her as far as the field, but I said I would stay a little longer, and that I did not wish to walk across the fields in the dark; and Clara said she could ask Thomas to walk with me if I wished it. And I said that I should sooner stay here the night with Frances, if she would permit me to. And Clara smiled and left us to it.

  We went to bed soon after that, for Frances has to rise early for school, and she thought that if Mr Campling smelt gin on her breath he should have some sort of a fit and dismiss her on the spot.

  I was so tired that I fell asleep almost straight away; in the night I woke to find Frances’s arm around my waist. I was warm and comfortable in bed with her but feeling her arm around me like that caused me to remember Richard, and then I could not fall asleep again. I sat in the chair for a while beside the stove, although it was all but out, thinking of Richard and the last time I was with him in particular. I thought about the big sins and the little sins, and how they were one and the same, and that God forgave us no matter what, as long as we were truly sorry.

  It is difficult to decide what is a sin and what isn’t, when you do not feel guilty about it. I do not feel sorry that we fell in love. I do not feel sorry that we had an intimacy; in fact, the only regret I have is that very last time. We had shared so many private moments, but in that last week, when I had determined to leave, nothing had transpired between us. Not until that very last day. I know, in my heart, that to love him in that way must be a sin. We were not – are not – married, in the sight of God or indeed in any moral sense. We had the deepest affection for each other, it was so simple and yet so difficult, all at the same time. And for all I was in love with Richard, he was in love with Maria, and so there must have been some sin in his heart for him to lie with me, when he wanted to lie with her. And marry her, as it turns out.

  Is it adulterous, to lie with someone when you are not married? Surely it must be something else, some different sin: lust, perhaps, or covetousness, for I know I did covet him and by that time he belonged to Maria. And yet, why should it be a sin to love someone, and to want to demonstrate that love in the physical act?

  I tried to repent, I tried hard to be sorry for it, but I could not. I prayed, and begged for forgiveness, but then I kept hearing the reverend’s voice in my head, saying that the Lord forgives us only if we are truly sorry. Just asking for forgiveness does not work, for how then shall we learn? Eventually the tears began to fall, and I bit my handkerchief to stop myself making any noise and waking Frances. She looked so peaceful, and with her hair down she looks quite, quite young, and serene. She is so deserving of love, perhaps more than most people I know, and yet here she is, making her own way, so brave and proud. A warrior against the world and its vices.

  Thinking of Frances made me stronger, and after a while I got back into bed beside her. All thoughts of Richard and Maria were temporarily banished from my mind, and at last I managed to fall asleep once more.

  Tuesday, 18th July

  I attended the reverend’s house at three o’clock promptly. Mrs Verrall was seemingly not at home. For a while, I was enter tained by Ruth Verrall, and had more of an opportunity to converse with her. She lives in the household and I u
nderstand that she acts as a sort of nurse or perhaps a governess to the Verralls’ three sons, although they will all soon be sent away to school. The eldest is twelve years old, a fine tall boy who is handsome like his father, and confident in his manner. Ruth Verrall is a few years older than me, and softly spoken, although it is easy to see that she is very proud of her brother. When, at length, the man himself entered the drawing room, she looked upon him with open adoration.

  He apologised for keeping me waiting; he had had pressing matters to attend to in the town. Ruth was sent to the kitchen to fetch more tea – although she could have rung the bell for it – and I surmised that perhaps he wished to ask me something confidential whilst Ruth was out of the room. He did look a little uncomfortable, leaning forward in his chair and looking at me most earnestly, as if he was expecting me to consult him on some private matter.

  He asked, then, if I had had any further thoughts upon his sermon? I told him I had indeed been thinking about it at great length. I felt that he had somewhat put me on the spot, and before I knew it I found myself asking if there could be such a sin as adultery when neither party was married. I felt myself quite shocked by my boldness, although I had not named either myself or Richard as being the subject in question.

  He asked me why I had thought to ask that question, given that I was not married myself.

  I could not think of a way to answer, and I thought it would be better to change the subject, but at that moment there was a knock at the door and Ruth brought in a tray. The three of us had tea, and cake, and the atmosphere was quite jolly. Ruth and I talked, mainly, and the reverend sat still and watched, as if he was observing me, until I began to feel uncomfortable about it.