The Veil of Virtue

by Karen Joyce

  There was an undercurrent of meaning within them, as if he were at fault for causing harm to her; something more than the mere breaking of a childhood promise. As if by breaking it, he had left her out in the woods alone to fend for herself: left to the wolves. He had no answers, barely comprehending the gravity of her words and he finally resolved the doubts that had been lingering within him of her and knew within his heart that she was real, for he could not confront that other truth that whispered cruelly to him; the truth that she did not live and breathe as the living does, for it was a truth too horrifying for any man to bear. Abandoning his duties for the evening he made haste to secure season tickets for the opera, calling to his butler to make the necessary arrangements.

  VII

  The towns and boroughs of England were steeped in history and none other were more so marked by the crumbling remnants of the past than the borough of Gravesend, and it was not enough to pass through the old cobblestone streets dotted with cottages and factories in a carriage. For one had to walk, to hear the crunch of stone pebbles beneath one’s feet and smell the whispering melange of Sycamores that scented the air and dulled the stench of sewerage, lingering from the River Medway and gully-holes in the streets. Lincoln knew that directly discharging sewerage into the river encouraged disease and could lead to another cholera outbreak so he had begun the steps to improve the sewerage system. He had also replaced some of the older cobblestone streets with Belgian blocks to secure them. He had also improved housing opportunities for the poor and children’s education through the establishment of additional schools. But there was still so much more to do here and this was only one tiny corner of the country. It overwhelmed him when he thought of all that still had to be done, not just here but in the rest of the world. He felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility and paternal feeling for the people of this borough, and was humbled by the power he held over each of their lives. These thoughts hung over him like a dark cloud, as he neared the end of the town and came to the bank of the river. And as he looked out at an old fort that had stood the test of time, the ferries traveling toward the port of Gravesend, and the flow of the open river gently ebbing higher and higher with the rising tide toward the buildings lining the bank, he saw the fruits of man’s labour and it inspired a sense of hope. He wasn’t just seeing the collective working together to achieve so many great and wonderful things. What he saw was the collective working together for the good of all mankind and he understood that this was the key to future prosperity. Lincoln felt reassured by these thoughts and as he made his way home, he heard the sound of horses’ hooves striking the cobblestone, and looked up to see his carriage drawing to a close in his path.

  “Sir Rinehart, come quickly,” called his coachman. “There is great turmoil amongst the farmers at your estate.”

  “What is the cause of this turmoil?”

  “I am unaware, Sir. Some disagreement among them, but it has caused an uproar and I have come to find you to settle their quarrelling.”

  “Very well, Eldon, let us make haste,” said Lincoln, climbing into the carriage.

  When they returned to his estate, Lincoln saw a group of thirty odd men arguing amongst themselves, but their words were inaudible from the distance that separated them. Departing the carriage, he hurried towards them, their words becoming more decipherable, their meaning still unclear.

  “What is this chafe about men?” Lincoln called to them, as he climbed over a fence and stood before them. His presence caused them to turn from each other, but Lincoln could see in their faces their disagreement was not a mere trifle.

  “Aye, ‘tis the Master himself, come to herd up his sheep like a Sheppard,” said one of the older farmers with his clenched fists by his side.

  “Master Rinehart, these men are refusing to work,” said another young man of lankier build, but of considerable height. “They claim you ‘ave stolen the land from its true owner.”

  “Is this true?” Lincoln asked, startled by the conviction in the older farmer’s countenance, which caused him to regard him most seriously. “What is your name?”

  “Nicholas Walsh is me name,” he answered, glaring back at him.

  “Let’s continue this discussion inside, Mr Walsh” said Lincoln, leading the man into his home.

  Entering the modest study, Lincoln walked around his desk and took a seat. “Please, take a seat Mr Walsh,” he offered, motioning with his hand to a chair on the opposite side of his desk.

  “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll stand,” Mr Walsh replied, as he placed his large hands on the back of the chair and tightened his hold, tensing the muscles in his arms.

  “As you wish. Now please explain what’s going on here.”

  “You dare to look me in the eye and ask me what you already know to be true.”

  “Yes, Mr Walsh. I dare to sit here and look you in the eye because I have no idea what this is all about.”

  “Sir Rinehart, you have done many things for our town, for the village folk, the farmers. Everyone talks about it, what you ’ave done, but we know who you are. We know what you did to the man and his family who owned this land before you.”

  “What am I being accused of here? Is this man claiming my actions to secure his property were less than honourable? If that is his claim then he should come here immediately so we can address this matter and put it rest.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  “I’m sure wherever he’s gone, I can get word to him and when I do, I promise you Mr Walsh, I will bring him here so you may hear the truth and we can put this troublesome affair behind us once and for all.”

  “You can try, Sir Rinehart, but even you cannot go where he has, for no man has ventured to that place and returned to tell the tale.”

  “I fail to understand your meaning Mr Walsh, and I’m growing impatient. Now what exactly is going on here?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “How?”

  “He was murdered and his family have gone missing.”

  “That’s not possible? Someone must know where they are.”

  “We can only surmise that they have met the same fate.”

  “You can’t possibly be suggesting they have all been murdered? I refuse to believe it.”

  “Ever since they left and you showed up holding a deed to his home there has been talk that he refused to sell his land so it was taken from him by force, and today we have learnt the truth.”

  “Where proof is there that any of this is true?”

  “Today his body washed up on the banks of the river.”

  “What was his name?” Lincoln asked, feeling a great repulsion wash over him.

  “You took his life and you don’t know his name?” Walsh yelled, kicking the chair with all his force.

  “The purchase of this land was arranged by another,” said Lincoln, standing in his defence. Walsh was surprised by this news, and picking up the chair, finally sat down in defeat.

  “His name was Alistair MacDonald.”

  “How many children did they have?”

  “Five young’uns. Three girls and two boys.” Silence fell upon them then as Lincoln considered the frightening nature of this reality, and when he again found the courage to raise his head and look upon Mr Walsh he saw in his eyes that the nightmare had just begun.

  “He is not the only one?”

  “No, Sir Rinehart.”

  “How many men?”

  “Twelve so far have been discovered from the neighbouring boroughs. Some like MacDonald, washing up on the banks of the river while others have been found with their wife and children in shallow graves. All thrown in together like the remains of cattle. The deed to their lands purchased by other men. Men like you who stand with Lord Ashwood.

  After Mr Walsh left him there in his study, still unbelieving what he had just heard, he couldn’t stay in that house after what he had discovered and he slipped out through a back door in the servant’s quarters and
walked away from the estate. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he had to get as far away from there as humanly possible. How could he return to that place? How could he face those men ever again? How could he continue to represent this town? After some time, he came upon a chapel that was the last remains of a leper hospital. He was drawn to it as naturally as the molecules of hydrogen and oxygen are drawn together, and he merged within it, feeling the lost souls that inhabited its walls inside. He could feel their heaviness and the eerie silence filled with the echoes of a thousand prayers. Feel them still as they wandered in purgatory, searching for a way home. Looking up at the wooden beams angling up toward the roof, Lincoln felt his soul was bared to heaven and these souls were condemning him. He knelt down in the centre of the church, bowing down before them. These were the ancestors of this town. He heard their voiceless whispers, you have them fooled, but we know what you have done. Lincoln started to feel short of breath and struggled for air. Then he felt defiance against them and he wanted them to see the truth of his innocence.

  “What do you know of me?” he yelled, his fury rising up from his own living soul. “You don’t know me!” He lowered his head in defeat, his voice barely audible, “You have no right to judge me. You who are not without sin.”

  There was a time, long before Lincoln grew into a man, before he shed the naïve remnants of infancy when in believed in a world that was good. A world that blossomed all around him in the order and routine of the home he grew up in; in the family that reared him; and the traditions and customs that dictated his path. A time when he could look beyond into a future still unknown, yet shaped out of the visions of his dreams. Now he saw that world no longer existed and when he looked out into the future, it frightened him for all he saw were indeterminate shapes. Lost within a great mass of dark, suffocating shadows, the light fading from his sight, with nothing holding him but fear in an endless night. The days that had so quickly come and gone over the past few weeks were the days of his demise, and they were stained by the moments that had led him here, but it was only when he looked back upon them that he could mark them clearly. Those defining moments that led down a different path: the path of ruin. Begun in his acceptance of Lord Ashwood’s proposal that fateful night and continued in the support he gave the Ashwoods in his votes against the people’s motions, prolonging the suffering of the working classes. How he wished he could go back and walk a different path; to undo what had been done. But he had believed that everything he did would one day lead to some justifiable good that would make up for all the wrong he had done. That there would be that moment of redemption where he would eventually save the world and save himself, not realising that it may never come. That instead of saving them from the flood of evil, he was holding them under. Now when he looked upon his reflection in the mirror he no longer saw the man he once was and instead, it showed another image. One that was indistinguishable from everyone else, but he saw it. It seeped through his pores, marked his skin and dulled the brightness in his eyes. And so, these were the weeks that so drastically altered his existence.

  VIII

  Lincoln had become a regular guest at Ashwood Hall where he had been introduced to the other parliament members who were breaking away from the Whigs and Tories. The political unrest had caused alarm amongst the upper classes and it wasn’t long before the press caught on to the growing factions within parliament; and the new alliances that were being formed, particularly Lord Ashwood’s faction: the Ashwoods. Lincoln had arrived in Lancashire early that morning to discuss the upcoming parliament meeting and Lord Ashwood, the Earl of Ripon, Sir Frederick John Robinson, Sir James Graham and the 5th Duke of Richmond, Sir Charles Gordon-Lennox were conversing with each other over the petition that was to be presented to parliament for the abolition of capital punishment led by George Donisthorpe Thompson, a British antislavery orator and activist. They were gathered now together in the drawing room of Ashwood Hall in a heated debate over capital punishment. Lincoln standing by a bay window looking out over the gardens, settling his view upon a small winged Grecian cherub that stood upon the peak of a cast iron tiered fountain. His mind someplace else. Not wishing to partake in this highly contentious issue, but unable to prevent his ears from hearing their conversation.

  “I dare say gentleman, there is no one who places a greater value upon the life of another than I, but this alone is not cause enough to abolish this necessary practice, as unfortunate as it may be,” said Sir Frederick John Robinson, the 1st Earl of Ripon, as he lightly pulled at his long white beard.

  “Though some use the Church to argue that it is only under God’s authority that life can be taken just as it is given, I hold that the retributive theory of capital punishment has many justifications in theology,” offered Sir James Graham, who had recently being elected as the representative of Dorchester. The 5th Duke of Richmond, Charles Gordon-Lennox leaned forward upon the settee, pushing aside the opening of his coat with his elbows and resting his hands upon his knees.

  “Well said, Sir Graham, but, notwithstanding Jesus’ claim that one should turn the other cheek, it is the premise of a tooth for a tooth and an eye for an eye in the book of Mathew that I hold the greatest opposition, as it begs the question, what if the crime committed is not that of homicide but one that is less than the taking of another’s life, one that is still decidedly that of an unspeakable and abhorrent nature.”

  “Westminster have already passed reforms removing the punishment of death for those lesser crimes for pick-pocketers and the like,” said Lord Ashwood, as he sucked on his pipe and exhaled a cloud of smoke, which hovered menacingly before him like a dark cloud, “but there is still a dire need for the deterrence of more severe crimes and of course, not to mention our obligation to humanity in the prevention of society degrading into anarchy.”

  A silence fell upon the men, as they pondered the gravity of his words. The frightening images of a chaotic society flashing before them, causing Sir Robinson to rise from his seat and address the room with a speech he had spoken many times before.

  “Gentleman, we all know what would happen if we were to leave a man afflicted with illness untreated, he would surely die, but, what if there were a way to treat him and prevent that illness from spreading throughout his entire body. That is what we are dealing with. These criminals are like an illness and if left untreated they will spread like an infection throughout society, which is why it is imperative to remove them like a doctor amputating a gangrenous limb from the body. These men and women threaten to contamination the whole of mankind.”

  “Here, here,” chorused the men, as they raised their crystal cut glasses full of brandy and wine in support of Sir Robinson’s speech. Lincoln looked upon these men attired in fine double breasted suits of silk brocade vests and velvet waistcoats with brass buttons. They appeared the very vision of civilisation. These men of fine distinction and polite society, astute in their application of knowledge, but, beneath the layers of their fine garments; beneath the graces and airs of their civilised manners, there was the true origin of mankind’s affliction in the misguided virtue and misplaced reasoning of their diseased hearts and minds. Lincoln could see the origins of the ills of society these men claimed to know how to cure, had been borne within them and like a disease running rampant through the body, the Cabinets and Houses of Westminster was infected by these men. He thought of that winged cherub and how these men had once been as young and innocent as a small child. All of us were innocent in the beginning, but the sins of the earth weighed us down and all the good that there is in each of us, whatever little there was left in these men wasn’t strong enough to free them from its hold. He turned now and looked at them, surprised to see that they were watching him, waiting for him to perform his part according to the role they had chosen for him to play, but he had no patience for their disillusions any more.

  “For with the judgement you pronounce, you will be judged and with the measure you use, it will be measured
to you.” Lincoln’s words gave them pause as they considered this other verse from the book of Mathew.

  “Indeed, the Lord is on our side,” said Sir Graham, nodding in approval, “and it is in his name, that we must do everything we can to prevent Mr Thompson’s petition from going through.” But, Lincoln was not speaking about the death penalty anymore. He was speaking of these men and the hell that was waiting for them in death and he wanted to scream at them that no matter how much money they had, how much land they owned; no matter their titles; their academic achievements, their awards, they were as sinful and wicked as the murderers they hung from the town square. They were the ones that society needed to be protected from. If society were truly dying, it was these men and men alike that were the cause. But, Lincoln didn’t correct Sir Graham’s error, instead, with restraint and civility he excused himself from the meeting and departed from Ashwood Hall. As he sat in the small confines of his carriage, passing through Lancashire he saw the town move past him, as the distance between him and those men grew greater and greater in measure. But he knew no matter how far he travelled from that sinful place; that breeding ground of immorality, no amount of time nor space, could sever the connection they now shared forged through their actions. He felt now that no matter how hard he prayed it was too late. Even now amid the falling light closing all around him. Even now as his hands were merged together in prayer. He knew it was all in vain as he prayed to the Lord for forgiveness for what he had done. Falling on to the carriage floor on his hands and knees, begging for the Lord to give him another chance and spare his soul from eternal damnation.

  “Please, Lord, forgive me and have mercy upon my soul!”

  IX

  It was so quiet; almost peaceful, as Lincoln, alone with his thoughts, walked through the front quad of Oriel College: the oldest constituent of Oxford University. Turning into the long and heavy hallways of the west quad; the same hallways he had roamed during his young adult years, he saw himself in the male students whom he passed. Their thoughts not far from the thoughts he’d held back then. The same pressing concerns of long, arduous essays and the examinations that would conclude the final semester of that academic year. If only they knew how little these things mattered in the grand scheme of things. How sheltered and protected they really were. That of all the worries that invaded the carefree abandonment of their youth, none of it, not one could measure to the real troubles of the world that lay in wait for them once they graduated from the walls of this institution. If only they knew. Lincoln’s journey through time was not without purpose for he had returned to this place to seek out his good friend, Percival Fox. Mounting the staircase of the interior façade, he arrived at the closed wooden door of his office. Hoping that on the other side he would find that person he needed so desperately to confide. The sound advice of one to whom he trusted well. Lightly tapping on the door, he heard Percival’s muffled reply on the other side granting him to enter. Opening the door, he saw Percival sitting at his desk looking over his lecture materials with the bookshelves behind him filled with volumes, journals and encyclopaedias; the quintessential setting of a learned scholar.