Echoes

by Iain McLaughlin

  • I saw some other people use a very similar symbol once. They weren’t terribly pleasant. I have a feeling that the tramp who drew the picture was someone I knew.

  • And he was involved with these unpleasant people?

  • He was being hunted by them. Thank you, Alice. I was worried that they might be here, but now I think the symbol must just be the link that brought Honoré and me here. At least my mind is slightly at rest now.

  • Lucky you. Are you finished with me now?

  • I believe so. But I would still like to hear what happened to Patience.

  • I will tell you nothing. None of you. Not even you, dear Joan.

  • I’ll tell you what happened.

  • Mary?

  • Be quiet, Mary.

  • No, miss. I won’t. I want out of here. I want to live properly.

  • Be quiet, you insolent child.

  • Patience, please be quiet. Mary, can you tell me what happened? And Patience, please don’t interrupt.

  The door opened behind them, and Honoré and Tess turned to see the Squire enter the room. Even in the murky light, they could see from his florid, sweating face and slightly lurching walk that he was drunk. His contorted expression showed that he was also furious. A thick leather belt held loosely in his hand trailed along the floor behind him like a tail.

  ‘So, you’re both here,’ the Squire sneered. His voice was slurred and rough. ‘My darling wife and my darling whore.’

  ‘It’s late,’ Patience began in a reasonable tone. ‘Can we not discuss this in the morning, whatever it might be?’

  The belt flashed through the air, missing Patience’s face by inches and catching her shoulder a glancing blow before thudding into the back of her chair. ‘I think I’ll discuss what I want when I see fit in my own home,’ the Squire growled, watching Patience and Mary from under heavy eyelids. He circled wide around them, cutting off any chance of them backing away and penning them in.

  ‘It’s like he’s rounding up sheep,’ Lechasseur said quietly.

  Tess nodded. ‘He’s enjoying it. He enjoys hurting people.’ She paused for a second before continuing, more to herself than to Lechasseur: ‘I’ve met his kind before.’

  ‘Has she told you?’ the Squire asked his wife. ‘Has she told you her little secret?’ He spat the last word as if it were a curse. ‘The filthy slut’s secret.’

  ‘I haven’t said anything,’ Mary whined. ‘I haven’t.’

  Despite the dull throb from her shoulder, where the belt had struck, Patience kept her voice still and calm. ‘What secret would that be? I’m sure it is nothing that need cause concern.’

  The Squire snorted and spat on the floor. ‘She’s done the one thing you haven’t managed to do. For all your breeding, you’ve not done the one thing you were brought for. No,’ he corrected himself. ‘The one thing you were bought for.’ He waited a moment, hoping to see Patience flinch. She disappointed him, remaining stoic under his gaze. ‘How does it feel,’ he pressed on. ‘How does it feel, to know you’re less use to me than a common serving wench?’

  • What did he mean by less use than you, Mary?

  • I don’t know anything about the lives of the master and his wife, but he had wanted a son for a good number of years. His first wife died bringing a daughter. They say she was a weak infant and didn’t last long.

  • So he married again to have a son?

  • Yes, miss Emily.

  • Just Emily. And Patience didn’t provide this heir.

  • No, miss.

  • I think I see where you’ve been leading with this. Patience couldn’t get pregnant, but you did.

  • Yes.

  ‘The maid is bearing your child?’ Patience’s back stiffened and her calm manner became obviously strained. ‘This common nothing?’

  ‘A common nothing who’s managed to do the most basic woman’s job,’ the Squire snapped back. ‘Something you never showed an appetite for.’

  For the first time, anger bubbled through Patience’s calm veneer. ‘I thought I was brought here to be your wife, not a breeding animal to provide you with children.’

  ‘What else would I need a wife for?’ the Squire replied sharply. ‘But you’re not even fit for that.’ He flexed his arm, and the belt danced dangerously. ‘I wonder if you’re fit for anything. You’ve been a waste of money as a wife.’

  ‘I am not a possession,’ Patience hissed.

  ‘You’re bought and paid for!’ the Squire roared. ‘Your father had a title but empty coffers. I paid him well for you. A dowry, he called it. I say it makes you as much a possession as the cattle in my fields. Do you say different?’ He pushed his face close to Patience. She fought down the nausea she felt every time his familiar stench of stale sweat, ale and tobacco came near her. ‘Do you?’

  ‘No,’ she answered quietly. In truth, she had given up any hope of her marriage being a good one even before the ceremony had taken place. The match had been arranged by her father, and it had not been her place to object.

  ‘I never thought as she’d take being treated like that,’ Tess muttered.

  ‘What else can she do?’ Lechasseur replied. ‘She’s terrified. They both are.’

  ‘At least now you will have your precious heir,’ Patience said bitterly. She barely had time to register that the belt was flying towards her before she felt the leather lash her back.

  • He went mad.

  • The villain sounds mad already.

  • Please, Joan. Let her finish. Go on, Mary.

  • He said my baby wouldn’t be an heir. How could a maid’s bastard be his heir? He had a position to keep. He couldn’t say that he was the father of my baby. Said he wouldn’t take the chance as I would tell people, either.

  • He wanted you to get rid of the baby?

  • He wanted to get rid of me. He was drunk. I don’t think that mattered, though. He was an evil man, whether in his cups or sober. He wanted to kill me. He wanted to kill me for carrying his baby, and he wanted to kill the mistress for not carrying it. He was going to kill us both. All three of us.

  ‘Stop him,’ Tess pleaded. ‘Do something.’ The belt sliced through the air and struck Patience’s back again.

  ‘What can I do?’ Lechasseur’s hand was balled into a fist in impotent rage. ‘We can’t touch these people. We can’t change what’s happening.’

  ‘There must be something you can do,’ Tess protested. She rounded on him. ‘What bloody good are you if you can’t stop this?’

  ‘We’re not really here, remember?’ Lechasseur retorted. ‘Besides, I think this is what really happened to Patience and Mary. For some reason, someone wants us to see it.’

  ‘I don’t want to watch it,’ Tess protested. ‘Not again.’

  ‘Again? You said you didn’t know what had happened here.’

  ‘Not them,’ Tess mumbled. ‘It’s too much like how my dad killed my mum. I don’t want to see it again.’

  ‘You saw that?’

  Tess nodded. ‘And I ran, ’cause I know he’d have gone for me next. He was always quick with his hands – and his belt.’ She looked back to the scene in the bedroom as the belt arced down onto Patience’s shoulder.

  Patience winced but didn’t make a sound. She glared defiantly at her husband. Her refusal to scream, to acknowledge the pain he was causing, was a small victory. He recognised the defiance and brought the belt crashing down again.

  Mary had backed herself against the wall, torn between protecting herself and defending Patience. ‘Stop. Please, stop.’

  Tess was visibly shaking. ‘Please make it stop.’

  Lechasseur would have liked nothing better than to have snatched the belt from the Squire’s hands, but he knew there was nothing he could do. In frustration, he lashed out a hand at the Squire, but watched in
anger as it passed through his target’s shoulder. ‘Why do we have to watch this? If there’s a reason, let us know!’ he yelled at the ceiling.

  ‘There’s no need to shout.’

  Tess yelped in surprised fear and hid behind Honoré’s body, but Lechasseur spun at the familiar voice. ‘Emily!’

  Behind them, Emily was fading into view in the room, accompanied by a matronly woman of around fifty whom Honoré didn’t recognise. ‘You almost sound pleased to see me.’ Emily smiled, but she looked tired. ‘You weren’t worried, were you?’

  Lechasseur feigned nonchalance. ‘I knew you could look after yourself.’

  Emily’s smile became warmer, and the affection was clear in her voice. ‘I was worried about you, too.’ She looked past Honoré to the scene being played out in the bedroom. The Squire, now breathing hard, brought his belt whipping down across Patience’s back again. Her dressing gown and nightdress were now both torn open, and her bloodied back was clearly visible, showing the scars of the previous beatings she had endured.

  ‘You’re next,’ the Squire snarled at Mary. He raised the belt high over his head, ready to deliver another brutal blow. He stopped in mid-swing, drunk confusion on his sweat-covered features, as, slowly, Patience and Mary faded out of existence in front of his eyes. He looked around, perplexed, searching for proof of some kind of trickery, but as far as he could see, he was now entirely alone in the room. He fumbled through making the sign of the cross, his hand clumsy at the unfamiliar action. ‘Witches,’ he muttered. ‘Witches.’ He ran to the door and yanked it open. ‘Witches,’ he screamed, loud enough to wake the house. ‘The witches have gone!’

  He ran through the door, his voice and footsteps diminishing as he ran. As the sound of his passage faded, so did the room around Honoré, Tess, Joan and Emily, and they found themselves abruptly back in the great hall of the manor.

  Emily glanced at Tess curiously. ‘Who’s your friend?’

  ‘This is Tess.’ Honoré answered. ‘Tess, say hello to Emily.’

  Tess bobbed her head in a nervous greeting and did as she was told. ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘Tess?’ Joan stepped out from behind Emily and stared at Tess, a mixture of curiosity, warmth and surprise on her face. ‘You’re Tess?’

  Tess nodded. ‘Joan?’ In her mind, Tess had created an image of Joan, the warm and maternal figure her own mother had tried but never quite managed to be. In person, Joan didn’t disappoint her friend.

  ‘I’ve often wondered what you looked like,’ the older woman breathed. ‘You’re hardly more than a child.’

  ‘I’m …’

  ‘Hush.’ Joan grabbed Tess into a huge embrace, and held her for all she was worth. After a moment’s shock, Tess relaxed and let herself return the hug. The first genuinely affectionate contact she had experienced in longer than she wanted to remember. Perhaps the first she had known in her entire life. ‘Never mind, dear. These people think they can get us free from here.’

  ‘I don’t know if I want to leave,’ Tess said uncomfortably.

  Joan stiffened. ‘What do you mean? Why would you want to stay?’

  Tess squirmed under Joan’s gaze. ‘I never been hungry here, and I don’t have to spend every minute looking over my shoulder, worrying as I’m going to be attacked.’ She shrank away from Joan slightly. ‘And I don’t have to do nothing … Well, I don’t have to do nothing I’m ashamed of, just to get by.’

  ‘Sandi said some things,’ Joan said slowly. ‘Terrible things about what you did. I don’t want to repeat them.’

  ‘Don’t matter,’ Tess sniffed. ‘They’re probably true.’

  ‘Oh.’

  The disapproval and disappointment on Joan’s face didn’t come as any surprise to Tess. She had seen those expressions a hundred times before, whenever people found out what she did to survive. Even pick-pockets, muggers and murderers had looked down their noses at her. She had learned quickly to shrug and to grow a thick skin. ‘I understand if you don’t like it. Really.’ She tried to sound as if the woman’s censure hadn’t affected her at all.

  Joan Barton most assuredly did disapprove of Tess’s profession, but she was intelligent enough to know that there were reasons why girls fell into that business. Any anger she felt was aimed more at the society – and the villains – who would push a girl into selling herself. In the end, this was just another child who needed to be looked after. ‘It doesn’t matter, does it?’ she said. ‘It doesn’t change who you are.’

  ‘But it does tell you why I don’t want to go back.’

  ‘Yes,’ Joan answered, and she hugged Tess again, amazed at how skinny the child was. ‘But we’ll be all right. We will.’

  Honoré looked away from the exchange between Tess and Joan. He had no inclination to intrude on a private moment. ‘Who’s your friend?’ he asked Emily.

  ‘Joan Barton.’

  The name rang a bell in Lechasseur’s head. It took him only a moment to place her. ‘Her name was on the letters. Her house?’

  ‘Yes,’ Emily nodded. ‘It wasn’t just her son who was killed in the War, Honoré. It was her entire family. Her son, her husband, her daughters … all of them.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Lechasseur breathed. ‘And she’s still worrying about the kid?’

  Emily glanced briefly at Joan and Tess. ‘I think she’s taken Tess as a sort of ersatz daughter.’

  ‘I suppose that makes sense,’ Lechasseur agreed. ‘They obviously care about each other. God knows, the kid needs somebody to keep an eye on her.’

  ‘They’ve all had terrible experiences, Honoré,’ Emily said with feeling. ‘All of them.’

  ‘That’s the reason they’re here?’ Lechasseur mused.

  ‘It would be an enormous coincidence if it wasn’t,’ Emily agreed.

  Honoré rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think this is natural, though. I think something brought them here.’

  ‘Are you turning religious on me?’ Emily asked.

  Honoré grunted a small laugh. ‘My mother wishes,’ he answered wryly. ‘No, it’s the way we’ve been moved around here, like somebody’s been trying to explain something to us without actually saying anything. Show not tell, you know?’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Emily agreed. ‘I’ve been thinking along similar lines myself. But if that’s the case, why are we here now?’

  Lechasseur’s mouth quirked into a grimace. ‘I’m not sure about that,’ he responded. ‘I’ve noticed something, though.

  ‘Tess,’ he called. ‘Tess.’

  Joan looked up as Lechasseur spoke. ‘Your friend is calling for you,’ she told Tess.

  ‘I heard.’

  Joan peered at Lechasseur with just a hint of suspicion. ‘Emily never said that her friend was a coloured.’

  ‘I was worried about that, an’ all,’ Tess replied. ‘But he’s all right. I heard stories about darkies in Africa eating people, but he’s a nice enough sort. Never tried nothing on with me. Not even when he found out … well, when he found out what I used to do.’

  ‘I haven’t really met many coloureds,’ Joan said uncertainly. ‘But I’m sure he’s all right,’ she conceded.

  ‘He’s better than all right, Joan,’ Emily answered sharply. ‘He’s my dearest friend, and he’s far from deaf.’

  ‘Oh.’ Emily was pleased to see that Joan at least had the decency to blush at being caught in her racism. ‘I’m sorry, Mister …’

  ‘Lechasseur. Honoré Lechasseur.’

  ‘Interesting name,’ Joan answered, forcing a smile.

  ‘It’s French,’ Tess said. ‘But he’s from America.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really,’ Emily answered irritably. ‘Look, if you’re quite done, can we deal with what brought us all here? What was it you wanted to ask Tess, Honoré?’

  ‘This roo
m,’ Lechasseur cast a hand expansively around the room. ‘Do you see anything different about it since the last time we were here?’

  Tess shrugged. ‘The table’s cleared – apart from the dust. The fire’s out. Oh, and there ain’t so many candles.’ She looked at Lechasseur expectantly, feeling quite pleased with her observations. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Higher,’ Lechasseur pointed to the walls. A series of portraits now hung at head height at regular intervals around the walls. Each of them contained the image of a different woman.

  ‘They weren’t here before,’ Tess said, and stepped towards the closest picture, her shoes clacking on the stone floor.

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Lechasseur sounded reassured.

  ‘Honoré.’ Emily was standing on tip-toes, peering closely at one of the framed pictures. ‘These don’t look like paintings at all. Come and take a look.’

  It took only a moment for Lechasseur to see what Emily had spotted. ‘I see what you mean,’ he said softly. ‘They’re more like photographs than paintings.’

  ‘Exceptionally high quality photographs,’ Emily commented. ‘Look at the clarity of the features on these women.’ She pointed out a woman dressed in coarse woollen clothes. Her hair was matted and dirty, her face unwashed. Rotting black stumps and sickly brown teeth showed in her open mouth. ‘And how could there be a photograph of someone from the middle ages?’

  Tess had made her way along the line of pictures, inspecting the women in the frames with interest. She stopped as something caught her attention. ‘This one’s empty,’ she called.

  ‘There’s another empty one here,’ Joan answered from the far side of the hall.

  ‘Why leave two of them empty?’ Lechasseur asked. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’ He followed Emily to the next picture.

  ‘Unless there’s something we’re overlooking,’ she answered, taking in the elegant but pale face of a woman in a Regency-style dress who peered down, eyes filled with sadness, from the picture above. ‘Patience.’

  ‘Definitely,’ Lechasseur agreed.