Sleep, Pale Sister

by Joanne Harris

  I have little recollection of returning to Cromwell Square: it was almost daylight and in a few hours the servants would be about, but Henry was not yet home. I was able to let myself into the house, to undress by myself and to slip into bed. I slept a little, but I had to take more laudanum to combat the evil dreams which threatened my sleep. I could no longer distinguish between reality and imagination so that I wondered whether or not I had dreamed the events I thought had taken place in Crook Street…Had I spoken to Henry? Had Fanny come to me as I slept? At about six o’clock I fell into a deep sleep, and I awoke two hours later when Tabby came in with my chocolate. My head ached dreadfully, I was feverish and, although I tried to show a cheerful face, Tabby guessed immediately that something was amiss.

  ‘Why, Mrs Chester, you don’t look well at all!’ she observed, pulling the curtains open and drawing closer to the bedside. ‘You’re as pale as can be!’

  ‘No, Tabby,’ I protested, ‘simply a little tired. I’ll be all right presently.’

  ‘I’ll tell Mr Chester you’re not well, ma’am,’ said Tabby firmly.

  ‘No!’ I hastily softened my tone: it would not do for her to sense my panic. ‘No. That won’t be necessary.’

  She looked doubtful. ‘Maybe you’d like a drop of laudanum, ma’am?’ I shook my head.

  ‘Please, no. It’s only a little headache. I’ll be better for this excellent chocolate.’ I forced myself to sip it, even though it was scalding hot, and I smiled reassuringly. ‘Thank you, Tabby, you can go now.’

  She left the room with some reluctance, looking over her shoulder as she went, and I told myself that I could not count on her to keep my illness a secret from Henry. Sure enough, ten minutes later he came into the room with a glass and the laudanum bottle.

  ‘Tabby tells me you won’t take your medicine,’ he said. His eyes flicked to where Tizzy was sitting on my bed, and his mouth twisted sourly. ‘I’ve told you before that I don’t like that cat in your room at night. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was what was causing your illnesses.’

  ‘It seems to me,’ I said, ‘that both Tabby and you are far too concerned with my health!’ My sharp reply startled me as much as it did Henry, and I flushed and mumbled something apologetic and confused. I tried to remember why I should feel such sudden hostility towards Henry…and then I remembered the dream—was it a dream?—in which I had witnessed…It was at the back of my mind, tantalizingly close to recollection, but I could not remember it fully. Only the impression remained: that feeling of disgust and hatred, a thirst for vengeance which did not seem to be my own. The violence of the emotions shook me all the more because I could not remember why I should feel them, and it was with a trembling voice that I continued: ‘I’ll be all right. Please, don’t give me any more laudanum.’

  He gave me a look of contempt and began to measure drops from the bottle into the glass.

  ‘You’ll do as I say, Effie. I’m in no mood for your temper this morning. Take your medicine now, and another dose with your midday meal, or you’ll make me angry.’

  ‘But I don’t need any medicine. Just let me go for a walk in the fresh air…’

  ‘Effie!’ His tone was cold. ‘I will not allow you to cross me. I know your nerves are bad, but you put me out of all patience with you! If you were a real wife…’ He bit off the rest of the sentence. ‘If you persist in this wilful behaviour,’ he went on in a quieter tone, ‘I shall wash my hands of you and refer you to Russell. He has plenty of experience with hysterics.’

  ‘I am not an hysteric!’ I protested. ‘I…’ But, seeing the expression in his eyes, I submitted and took the drink, hating him but unable to resist.

  ‘That’s better.’ His eyes were hard and somehow triumphant. ‘And remember, a less patient man would soon have had done with your tantrums. I promise you that if you cause any more disorder with your tears and your stubbornness I will call Russell to see you. If you won’t drink your medicine I’ll make you drink it; and if you won’t behave as a good wife should, I’ll expect the doctor to tell me why. Is that understood?’

  I nodded, and I saw a smile flicker behind his eyes; a malicious, furtive smile.

  ‘I made you what you are, Effie,’ he said softly. ‘You were nothing before I discovered you. You are what I say you are. If I want you to be an hysteric, an hysteric is what you will be. Don’t think the doctor would believe you rather than me; if I told him I thought you were mad, he would agree. I can say it when I like, Effie. I can make you do what I like.’

  I tried to speak, but as his exultant face swam in and out of focus before my tired eyes. I was conscious only of a terrible urge to cry. Perhaps he saw it; because the hard line of his mouth softened and he leaned to kiss me gently on the lips.

  ‘I love you, Effie,’ he whispered, his tenderness even more frightening than his anger. ‘I do these things because I love you. I want you to be mine, to be safe, to be well. You have no idea what filth there is in the world, what dangers for a lovely girl like you…You have to trust me, Effie. Trust and obey me.’ Gently but firmly he turned my face to look at his. His expression was concerned, but in his eyes I could still see that dancing, cruel glee. ‘I’d do anything to protect you, Effie.’ His intensity was almost unbearable.

  ‘Even lock me away?’ My voice was barely a whisper. His gaze was steady, his flat voice almost disguising the malice.

  ‘Oh yes, Effie. I’d kill you rather than see you spoiled.’

  He left me then, and as I lay on the bed, my mind a drugged haze of confusion, I tried to remember what I knew about Henry Chester—but all I could recall was the image of Fanny’s calm face, the feel of her hand against my hair, and an image of balloons…

  I awoke at about twelve o’clock, feeling less tired, but very dull and confused. I washed and dressed myself and went downstairs to the parlour. Henry had already gone out. I decided to walk to Highgate to clear my head and to escape the oppressive air of the house. I was about to put on my cloak when Tabby came in carrying a tray: seeing me dressed to go out, she started in surprise.

  ‘Why ma’am! Surely you’re not going outside, after you were so ill this morning!’

  ‘I feel much better now, Tabby,’ I replied mildly. ‘I believe a walk will do me good.’

  ‘But you’ve not eaten a thing! Here, look; I’ve got some nice gingerbread in the oven—it won’t be more than a few minutes—and you always used to like a piece of warm gingerbread in the old days.’

  ‘Tabby, I’m not hungry, thank you. Perhaps I’ll take something later, when I get back. Please don’t worry.’

  Tabby shook her head. ‘Mr Chester wouldn’t be at all pleased if I let you go out today. He said that you mustn’t go out for any reason, with the state you were in, ma’am.’ She flushed slightly. ‘I know you’d like to go, ma’am, but try and see the sense of it. There’s no point in causing the poor gentleman any more worry…and he did say, ma’am.’ There was a crease between her eyes. She was fond of me…but Henry was master of the house.

  ‘I see.’ For an instant I was flushed with rebellion: what did Henry’s instructions matter? Then I remembered what he had said about Dr Russell, and Tabby’s artless repetition of his words: ‘the state you were in’. I felt a sudden chill.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll stay in after all,’ I said with pretended nonchalance, taking off my cloak and forcing myself to sit down.

  ‘I think you’d better, ma’am,’ said Tabby in a motherly tone. ‘Perhaps you’d like some tea? Or some chocolate? Or some of that gingerbread when it comes out?’

  I nodded, my forced smile cramping my jaw. ‘Thank you.’

  I strained to maintain my calm as Tabby tidied the parlour. It seemed that she spent an eternity lighting the fire, plumping the cushions, making sure I had everything I needed. I could have told her I wanted to be alone, of course: but her devotion to me was real and touching—and besides, I didn’t want her to report to Henry that I had been at all nervous or unbalanced. His thre
at had been clear…The very thought of it filled me with a hysteria I struggled to overcome: if I was judged too ill or unstable to leave the house alone, when could I see Mose? When could I see Fanny?

  I sprang to my feet and ran to the window. I looked out at the garden, where the rain had just begun to fall. I opened the window, stretching my arms out, feeling the moisture on my face, my hands. The rain was warm, the scent of the wet garden sharply nostalgic, like the churchyard at night, and I felt some of my panic diminish. Leaving the window wide behind me I returned to my seat and tried to think clearly, but the more I tried to marshal my thoughts the deeper I drifted into that half-world of the previous night, where every memory seemed touched with a narcotic deceit. Perhaps Henry was right; perhaps I was going mad. If only I could see Mose…

  No! Not yet. First I had to convince Henry that I was well enough to be allowed out alone. He was the enemy, I told myself firmly; he was the guilty one, not me. I had a right to hate him. I had a right to be unhappy.

  It was the first time I had admitted as much to myself; in a quiet way I declared war on Henry that day, a war filled with hate and cunning. He might think he had all the weapons, but I was not the pretty idiot he thought me: I would prove that. I, at least, had the advantage of surprise…

  26

  I didn’t see Effie the next day and, to tell the truth, I didn’t miss her: I had serious things on my mind. For a start, a volley of creditors had seen fit to descend upon me en masse demanding payment. If I had had the advantage of Fanny’s crystal ball, no doubt I would have arranged to be elsewhere when they called, but the melancholy fact was that I was obliged, after some small unpleasantness, to pay out a sum of almost a hundred pounds. This left me sadly depleted and I spent a dreary afternoon poring over my accounts, after which I was forced to admit that I was in debt to the tune of over four hundred pounds, a sum that even I found difficult to make light of. A pleading note from Effie did nothing to cheer my mood: her maid—Em, wasn’t it?—brought it at six in the evening, by which time I was pleasantly castaway over a bottle of wine and most unwilling for a repetition of our tryst of the previous night. I opened the note (heavily sealed) and by the light of my candle attempted to decipher Effie’s laboured scrawl.

  Dearest Mose,

  I must see you as soon as possible; I am in a Desperate Situation. Henry will not let me leave the House and threatens me with the Doctor if I do not obey. I must escape, but I have nowhere to go. Please call when Henry is working. You must help me. I love you.

  E.

  I read the artless missive with no great relish. I could tell from the handwriting and the heavy underscoring that Effie had been in a state of great agitation when she wrote it, but I thought nothing of that. I knew how easily Effie could be thrown into hysterics and, as there is none of the Sir Galahad about me, I dismissed the whole thing with the minimum of thought.

  I make no apologies: I’ll not be at the beck and call of any woman, especially one in distress; I’ll leave the fairy stories for the likes of Henry Chester. Tales in which the handsome prince runs off with the princess always seem to end with a sentence of marriage for the handsome prince—and I sensed a desperate threat in Effie’s little note. So I ignored the letter. It was the kindest thing to do, I told myself, make a quick end to the whole affair, leave her to her daydreams, and soon enough she’d find another man to pin her hopes on. I was fond enough of her to be glad that no scandal would come to her through me.

  Scandal. Now that was an idea.

  I had been so absorbed in making my decision over Effie that for a few minutes I had actually forgotten my own financial problems. In my moment of philanthropy I had missed an opportunity which shone out at me sweet and clear as sunlight…and which might indeed solve my problems, and Effie’s, too. Through the mist of the wine my mind began to make rapid calculations.

  Don’t call it blackmail: that’s such an inelegant word. Call it creative investment if you wish. I had no love for Henry Chester. If he was fool enough to prefer girls in brothels to his ravishing wife he might as well pay for the privilege. He had plenty of money; I, on the other hand, had none. He was steeped to the eyes in his scruples; again, I had none. God was on his side—what more could he want?

  I picked Effie’s note out of the waste basket, smoothing the creased page reflectively. I hated to deceive her, but for the moment I would play her game.

  I reached for a pen, sharpened it and wrote a quick note to Effie. Then I put on my coat and called a cab to take me to Crook Street. I had the feeling that Fanny could give me a great deal of help if I asked her.

  27

  I knew he would come: his greed and selfishness were the strongest and best things in him and I knew he would not disappoint me. If he had not, I suppose I would eventually have fed him the idea, but it was much better that he should come to me with it himself. He played all his charm to me that evening, little knowing that our aims were similar. He needed me, he said, to set the stage for a scandalous little scene which would ruin Henry if it were exposed. His Academy exhibition, his marriage, his standing in the church…all would be at an end if even a hint of the pious Mr Chester’s secret activities were whispered in the right ears. And there was Effie, of course: Henry seemed to be holding the threat of a nerve doctor over her to ensure her obedience. If she were to reveal her knowledge to him, Henry would be powerless to frighten her again.

  Mose was quick to point out that he would not be the only one to benefit from the plot: Effie would be freed from tyranny, he would earn a little much-needed tin (only a little, for he was not a greedy man) and I…Well, there I had him at a disadvantage. He could not understand why I refused the money; was it affection for Effie which prompted me? Was it some undisclosed grudge against the good Henry? I could tell he was itching to be told, but I laughed and told him nothing. He was too clever and unscrupulous to be trusted even with a truth he would not believe.

  ‘No, no, Mose,’ I said, smiling, ‘I’ll not say a word. Call it a grudge if you like, or simply a woman’s love of mischief. Besides, Effie’s a good girl and I hate to see her made unhappy by that hypocrite. What’s your plan?’

  Mose grinned. ‘You tell me when Henry is expected at your house,’ he explained. ‘Arrange for me to watch him with one of your girls. After that, all I have to do is to write a nice little letter, with quotes and references and a promise to reveal details to all interested parties, and I promise you Henry will pay what I ask him when I ask him, as often as I please. And all that without any risk at all.’

  I frowned. ‘But how will any of that help Effie?’ I asked. ‘I can see how it would benefit you, but before I agree to any such plan I want to be certain that Effie will be happy.’ I feigned puzzlement for a moment. ‘I suppose you could write to her, too…’ I suggested tentatively.

  ‘No!’ Mose’s face lit up. ‘I have a much better idea. I arrange for her to be there with me. Then, if Henry calls my bluff and refuses to pay, I have a much more reliable witness—who better than his wife? If she reveals that she saw him in a brothel, which of his fine, churchgoing friends will ever speak to him again?’

  I looked at him with some admiration. What an apt pupil he was! So high on his arrogant pinnacle that he never realized how easily he was being manipulated.

  ‘Effie here too…’ My voice trailed off. ‘I would never have thought of that. But I like it,’ I decided, more forcefully. ‘I think it will work. Tell Effie that Henry will be here again next Thursday at midnight. Tell her to be here at eleven. I’ll hide her before Henry arrives. You be there at twenty past twelve, giving Henry time to prepare himself. I’ll see to the rest.’

  28

  I spent my entire day at the studio working on The Card Players. I was very satisfied with the canvas; it was a powerful piece, with Harper sitting slouched against the wall with his elbows on the table and his face half tilted into the light, watching his hand with that expression of clever nonchalance which so typified him. A g
reenish oil-lamp guttered uncleanly above him, highlighting the greasy walls and the unvarnished table and throwing into sharp relief the thick glasses filled with milky absinthe.

  I had sketched in the figure of the woman in charcoal, using a town model for the posture only: I wanted her to be in half-profile, one hand on the table in front of her, the other holding the Queen of Spades playfully to her lips…Soon I would need finer material, some dark-haired unknown. Not Effie, I decided; definitely not Effie. First, I hated to see her sitting so intimately with Harper, even in my own painting, and secondly…It was a vague, nebulous refusal, a sensation of unease as I envisaged her in my studio. Why should I be uneasy? I asked myself. She had sat there for me a thousand times. Why not this time? I could not answer. Instead my memory threw me a brief image, cold and intense as a brush with a ghost…a thin face staring at me in the dark, a voice like lace and frost whispering together, a scent of chocolate…

  From where had that rogue memory surfaced? And that face, unformed and yet familiar, the white blur of little Persephone’s face in the gloom of the underworld? I clenched my fists in frustration: I had seen her before, my Queen of Spades. Who was she?

  Who?

  When I arrived home, Effie was working at her embroidery, demure as a good child. The silks were spread about on the ottoman, on the footstool, on the grey flannel of her dress, and the threads and the long panel of tapestry were the only colour about her. She might have been a nun with her hair loose like a coif around her shoulders and, for a moment, her seeming purity was spectral, terrifying, like a vision of the Holy Virgin. Then she looked up, and in that instant I saw her face like that of a vengeful crone, grimacing in hate and fury, a white-haired Norn older than time with my life held by a thread in her knotted fingers. I almost screamed.