by Annis Bell
The maid read the fragmentary inscription and said, “But where do we start, ma’am?”
Jane laughed for the first time that terrible day. “In Bodmin, Hettie. That’s where the main administration is. Tomorrow!”
They left Mulberry Park in the early hours of the morning. Thick wraiths of sea fog swept miles inland, revealing only occasional glimpses of craggy hills, forests, and lonely farmhouses out on barren meadows. The coachman was of Cornish stock and steered the horses surely along the muddy roads, where stones and potholes lurked. Only a few villages lay along their route, which took them up the east side of the River Fowey.
“Once we cross the Fowey, the moor begins, ma’am,” said Hettie. “Actually, it starts lower down, but between Bodmin and Liskeard and then up to the north stretches what we call the wild moor. One of my uncles lives in Churchtown, not far from Brown Willy.”
“Brown Willy?” asked Jane. She was glad the coach was closed. Rain had begun to beat against the windows.
“It’s the mountain in the moor. You can see clear to the coast from up there, and to the white mountains near St. Austell. It’s awfully bleak. My uncle’s lost a lot of animals to the moor.”
“A terrible way for a poor beast to die. Didn’t Mrs. Morris’s Sadie come from Millpool? That’s north of Bodmin.”
“That’s right. It’s not a pretty place, I can tell you that,” said Hettie.
Jane thought for a moment. “I hope the orphanage administration in Bodmin can help us. ‘Ga’ could be almost anything. It would make things easy, of course, if there were an orphanage with ‘Ga’ at the start of its name, but I doubt that’s the case.” With a sigh, Jane sank back onto the seat and let her thoughts wander to the juddering rhythm of the coach.
There was something soporific about the pattering of the raindrops, and Jane’s eyelids grew heavier until she fell into a shallow sleep. Images from her young life in India mixed with the last ball at Rosewood Hall. Her uncle was talking to Wescott, and Lord Hargrave wanted to dance with her and quarreled with Mr. Devereaux. She ran from the scene and found the dying girl in the garden. The girl begged Jane to help her. Suddenly, Matthew and Bridget appeared, laughing and sneering, banishing her from the house. The next thing she knew, she was standing alone in the barren solitude of a moor, at the foot of a mountain. She stared at her feet, beneath which the ground suddenly gave way. She reached for a branch to hold on to, but could not get hold of it because a man in a dark cloak appeared and pushed her back with his walking stick.
“Ma’am, wake up! You’ve been dreaming!” Hettie’s concerned voice penetrated the forbidding images, and Jane opened her eyes in fright.
“A nightmare,” she murmured.
After two brief stops, they reached Bodmin in the early afternoon. The small town was the administrative center of the county and notorious for its prison and asylum. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still heavy with clouds, and a chill wind swept through the narrow alleys. The people went about their business hunched inside waxed cloaks, wearing expressions that invited no contact. Many of the faces were marked by a hard life and the harsh climate. The wheels of the coach clattered over cobblestones, past the town hall, market square, and a number of churches. The mortal relics of St. Petroc had rested here since the middle ages, and as a result the town was considered the religious heart of Cornwall.
As the coach slowed and came almost to a standstill, Jane peered out the window and saw a crowd pushing through an arched gateway in front of a grim-looking complex of buildings.
A street trader carrying a hawker’s tray of haberdashery walked past. Jane opened the window and stopped him. “What is going on there?” she asked.
The man grinned. “It’s a ’anging, ma’am. Do you want to watch? I can get you a good place.”
Repulsed, Jane shook her head and knocked on the coachman’s seat from inside. The coachman cracked the whip several times, and the crowd, cursing, made way. Past low houses of gray stone, the road led westward, heading out of the town. A weathered wooden sign pointed toward a side street, and Jane recoiled at the sight: WESTHEATH ASYLUM. Beneath it was a sign for the orphanage.
“Let’s hope the poor children don’t share a building with the lunatics,” said Hettie gloomily, and gazed up at the Elizabethan building that loomed behind an iron fence.
The coach rolled to a stop at a high gate where a man in uniform stood. The coachman exchanged a few words with the guard, who pointed farther on to the next entrance. The orphanage turned out to be a smaller secondary building, but still part of the asylum complex and no more cheerful, save for a brief burst of child’s laughter that instantly fell silent.
As Jane and Hettie climbed out of the coach, they instinctively felt they were being observed. Jane looked up to the windows of the orphanage, where the pale faces of children pressed against the panes of glass. Then she turned to the three-story hulk of the insane asylum, which seemed as though it were about to swallow the orphanage like a dark shadow. She heard horrible, inhuman cries and mad laughter from inside, and it chilled the blood in her veins.
Hettie bustled close to her mistress and whispered, “I’m not about to go in over there, ma’am. Not there!”
“They’re still human beings, Hettie. Tortured souls beyond any help,” said Jane in an effort to calm her maid, and she marched with less resolve than she felt toward the door at the entrance to the orphanage, which now opened.
Miss Shepard, a friendly young governess and the deputy mistress of the home, greeted Jane and led her into her office. As Jane took a seat on the chair the young woman in the gray dress offered, she heard the scrape of many small feet outside the door. Miss Shepard smiled apologetically. “You must excuse the curiosity of our children, but every visit means change, at least for some of them. How can I help you, my lady? Are you looking for staff? We have a number of very charming young women.”
“No, no, that’s not why I’m here,” Jane said, and wondered how best to present her reason for being there.
Miss Shepard moved behind her desk and seated herself. “An unfulfilled wish for children? We have one young boy who is just six months old. His mother is healthy, but unmarried, you understand.”
Jane cleared her throat. “No. I’m here for a completely different reason. I’m looking for a girl . . . well, two, actually . . .” She outlined the facts of the case to the governess, whose interest grew as she listened.
Finally, Jane took out Polidori’s novel. “Here. You can see for yourself.”
The young woman before her seemed honest and trustworthy. She looked at the initials in the book and the blurred handwriting and handed the book back to Jane. “As sad as it makes me to say so, I’m afraid I can’t help you, Lady Jane. We do have a classroom where a number of books are kept, but this one was definitely not among them.”
Jane nodded, but she was disappointed. “It is like looking for the needle in the proverbial haystack, but I had to try.”
There was a knock at the door, and when Miss Shepard called, “Come in!” a young boy poked his head around the door.
He was far too thin for his age, and his large, dark eyes looked emptied of hope. “Amy has a high fever, miss, and the new baby is crying, and Louisa has no more sleep medicine.”
“Oh, no . . . all right, Thomas, I’m coming. Where is Mr. Tobin . . . oh, the execution,” Miss Shepard murmured. “Go to the kitchen and fetch milk for the baby. And if Ethel doesn’t want to give you any, tell her I gave you express permission.”
“Yes, miss.” The boy cast a quick, curious glance at Jane before quietly pulling the door closed behind him.
Miss Shepard turned back to Jane. “That’s how it is here, my lady. We’re short of everything, wherever you look. Every week there’s a new foundling left at our door. Milk is expensive.” The governess wrung her hands. “Just two weeks past, we got tainted milk, and not for
the first time. Two babies died of the colic.”
“But I don’t understand. Lord Hargrave’s sister is one of the patrons here, isn’t she?” Jane objected.
The governess’s face reflected the turmoil of emotions going on inside her. Finally, she said, “It is true that Mrs. Sutton often comes here. She is also on the committee of the Friends Association. She . . . well, she really only ever speaks with Mr. Tobin.”
“The director of the home?”
“He and his deceased wife founded this orphanage. He is also the director of the asylum,” Miss Shepard explained.
“That explains why the orphanage is here.”
“Yes. It isn’t the most fortuitous solution, but one can’t be too picky. But what I wanted to say is that ladies like Mrs. Sutton never actually see the destitution of the children directly, and Mr. Tobin is the one who decides what the money gets used for.”
“I see.” Jane spontaneously took out her purse and laid five pounds on the desk. “I don’t need a receipt for that. Please use it to buy milk and medicine.”
“My lady, thank you! That is extremely generous of you.” Miss Shepard quickly tucked the note away in the pocket of her skirt. “I will buy the milk myself. Then I know that it’s good.”
As Jane stood, there was another knock at the door.
“My lady,” said Miss Shepard, who had also stood. “I wouldn’t put too much store in the book. ‘Ga’ most certainly does not stand for the name of an orphanage. I know all of them. It could only refer to the name of whoever donated it, or perhaps a teacher who gave the book to the children. I will ask around.”
Another knock, and Miss Shepard sighed. “Yes?”
The same young boy peeked self-consciously through the gap in the door. “The baby’s crying real bad, and the others, too.”
“Thank you so much for your assistance, Miss Shepard.” Jane did not want to keep the busy young woman any longer.
She smiled. “I should be thanking you. Do you still have far to drive?”
“We intend to spend the night here, actually. Can you recommend somewhere?”
Miss Shepard looked down in embarrassment. “I only know the simpler lodgings, my lady. But the Coach Inn beside St. Lawrence Church is supposed to have clean rooms and good, simple food.”
“Good-bye, then.” She gave the governess her card. “Please write to me if you hear anything. But please don’t breathe a word to anyone else.”
“Of course not, my lady.”
Jane and Hettie left the small office and, in the dim light of the corridor, saw the outlines of waiting children, pressed together.
“If only one could do more,” said Jane softly and with Hettie stepped out into the afternoon sun, now showing itself between the clouds.
The coachman was waiting for them outside beside a high iron fence, behind which was the courtyard of the asylum. Benches stood there among the trees, but no one was sitting on them. It was indeed cold and damp, but Jane had the feeling that even in good weather few would be using the benches. When the coachman saw her coming, he jumped down from his seat and held open the door for them. Jane had just set one foot on the step when a movement on the other side of the street caught her eye. A man was loitering in the entrance of a building and staring across at her.
He was shabbily dressed in dark clothing, as far as she could see, and wore a cap pulled low over his forehead. His hands were buried deep in the pockets of his woolen coat, and he gave the impression that he’d been standing there for a long time. A dark suspicion came over Jane, and she stepped back down from the coach.
“Rogers, would you ask that man over there why he’s staring at us?”
The coachman turned and caught sight of the stranger, then quickly strode across the street toward the man, who suddenly seemed to come to life. He leapt from the cover of the entrance and ran down the street. The coachman lumbered after him but gave up the chase after a few yards and returned to the coach, out of breath.
“The man is used to a quick dash, ma’am. I’m not, I’m sorry to say.”
Hettie observed the scene and voiced Jane’s suspicions. “Maybe it was the man from Fearnham, is that it? The one that Sadie met?”
“Let’s not lose our heads, Hettie. Rogers, to the Coach Inn, please.”
Miss Shepard’s recommendation turned out to be a good one. The guesthouse offered small, clean chambers, and set out eggs and ham, potatoes, and a bread pudding for dinner. Jane and Hettie shared a room and, worn out from the long drive, retired early.
The next morning, they were sitting in the small restaurant, eating breakfast, when a messenger came with a letter for Jane. The boy was a street urchin, one of the many who struggled to keep themselves alive in the cities and large towns. His hollow face and shifty eyes had no doubt seen more violence and misery than either Jane or Hettie could imagine. With dirty fingers, he held out an envelope to Jane.
“You’re the lady who was by the orphans’ ’ome yesterday, ain’t you?” he asked in a broad Cornish dialect.
The innkeeper was watching the scene and approached their table. “If this young crook is bothering you, I’ll have him thrown out.”
“I think he just wants to give me something,” said Jane. She took sixpence out of her bag and gave it to the boy, who then dropped the envelope on the table and took off at a run.
“Vermin. They’ll pick your pocket soon as look at you,” the innkeeper grumbled and stomped away.
Jane opened the letter, a folded sheet of paper sealed with candle wax, while Hettie looked on curiously. There was no name on the outside.
“Something from Miss Shepard?”
Jane quickly read the letter, just a few lines written in a flowing hand, and her expression hardened. “No, most certainly not.” She showed it to Hettie.
“A poem?” asked Hettie, and read the lines in a low voice.
Death found strange beauty on that cherub brow
And dash’d it out . . .
There was a tint of rose . . .
And the rose faded
The maid looked at Jane uncertainly. “That’s the elegy that Lydia Sigourney wrote. But that’s not how it goes, not exactly.”
The poetic lines about the death of a child were beloved by many and familiar to most. A shudder passed through Jane. “This is a threat, Hettie. Someone doesn’t want me asking questions.”
“Oh, ma’am, no. A threat? But . . .” The young girl bit her bottom lip and blinked nervously. “What do we do?”
Jane folded the letter carefully and stowed it in her bag. Then she looked intently at the other guests, but none of them seemed interested in her. They were focused on their breakfasts or were chatting away to their neighbors. No one was observing her.
“I will not let anyone intimidate me!” said Jane with determination, and she stood up. “We’re going home, then we’ll see where we go from there.”
17.
They left Bodmin with the oppressive feeling of having stumbled upon something important without knowing exactly what. But Jane trusted her instincts, and they told her that without an armed man beside them, it was too dangerous to continue their investigations. It would be willfully stupid to ignore such a threat, though it galled her to leave Bodmin, and she had the feeling that the sender of the letter was mocking her with those few lyrical lines. One should never underestimate one’s enemy, thought Jane. But that goes for both sides.
The drive back to Mulberry Park took place with no incidents of note, save a few rain showers and the wind. The closer they came to the coast, the stronger the wind blew, with occasional storm gusts. The trees bent, and the gorse bushes, the yellow flowers of which were the first to drive out the winter, whooshed and rustled beside the road. Jane could taste the sea salt on her lips as they approached home. What had moved her father to buy these gray walls so close to the sea
? She was sorry she had been too young to really know her parents. But more than that, she regretted that her uncle had not spoken to her about his brother more often. Perhaps there were more dark shadows in her father’s life than just the debts he owed?
The coach rolled through the gate at the end of the driveway that led to the house. We have to plant more mulberry trees, thought Jane, looking at the massive stumps that remained alongside the driveway. She saw Rufus from some distance away. He was still suffering some tenderness, but his tail wagged happily from side to side. The coachman slowed the team, and they eventually came to a stop at the main entrance. Jane climbed out and greeted Rufus, who threw himself at her. She looked up, expecting to see Floyd. Instead, she saw Mrs. Roche approaching, looking downcast.
“Good day, my lady. Did you have a good trip?” asked Mrs. Roche, her voice suspiciously brittle.
“Yes, thank you. Where is Mr. Coleman?” Jane looked around.
“In his room, my lady. He has gone to bed. Please, come inside. Stuart will take care of the baggage.”
“Gone to bed? Is he sick?” Jane’s stomach tightened. Not Floyd, she thought. Nothing can happen to Floyd!
Mrs. Roche bustled ahead up the stairs. A lamp had been lit in the entrance hall, and the smell of roast meat came from the domestic wing.
“Do we have a new cook already?” asked Jane warily.
“No, my lady. I’m working on that. One of the kitchen maids is very good, and we are getting by. Mr. Coleman had an accident. The doctor is with him right now.”
“What? My God! Why didn’t you say so?” Jane gathered her skirts and ran up the stairs. On the landing, she took off her cape and threw it to Hettie, who was close behind her.
Followed by Mrs. Roche, she ascended to the top floor. “What happened?”
“Yesterday afternoon, Mr. Coleman rode out to pay a visit to the tenants. He wanted to speak to Jacob Blythe, the gamekeeper. It must have happened on the way back. Mr. Coleman’s horse shied and bolted and threw him off. He is still unconscious, and his leg is broken.”