The Parentations

by Kate Mayfield

  Elísabet bows her head, her tears stream down and fall into her lap; tears shed for Margrét and for herself.

  ‘How old was your daughter?’

  ‘She was in her sixth year.’

  LONDON

  1831

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘Fuck. Fuck me into the light. I’m up to my knees in shit.’

  Finn Fowler adjusts his lantern as he leads his crew on a race against the tide in a tunnel as black as midnight. He lowers the neckerchief that protects his nose and mouth from the noxious air.

  ‘Hold ’em up, hold ’em up. Don’t drop that fuckin’ cargo, you beasts.’

  Sugar, tobacco, lace and chocolate, all they can carry of the stuff, is transported in a caravan of men who stretch the fabric of their dirty canvas trousers and troop under the streets. It becomes a simple run once they dupe their easy target – the lighterman who abandoned his goods for a draught of purl. Then, unpredictably, the current changes, along with the warning sound of the oncoming sewage, with its rats the size of cats, and everything dead comes rushing their way. At thirty-three years of age Finn can still outrun any of the river police through the streets and across the boats and ships, but down in the catacombs of underground avenues where people live forever divorced from light, where secrets are kept, and thievery muddies their boots, he cannot outrun the sludge.

  ‘The fuckin’ grate is two feet from us – prepare yourselves, you thieving girls.’

  The six behind him slow down, and when Finn gives the signal of his raised hand in the shadows, they come to a dead stop.

  Finn shuts the slide on the bullseye lantern that protrudes from the buckle on his belt. Not a ray escapes and they are plunged into a hellish black. His ear is tuned to overhead footfall, but no restless walkers, no drunken brawlers darken the grate. He opens the slide to emit a glow that shines out full strength, chasing the dark away. The men carry on. Their torsos lean forward with the weight of their treasures but their feet cling and sink into the sticky excrement of man and animal, until at last, their legs pull free and they are released. Disgruntled, they trudge forward once more, burdened by their heavy sacks. Three more grates hinder their progress before they approach the concealed exit.

  Their watcher kneels by the exit listening for signs of his investment to rise from lower London. And here they are! Gasping for fresh air and so covered in filth that he almost loses his digesting pork chops there on the spot. He will never grow accustomed to it, and this is the reason Finn allows him to be the lookout. He relieves them of the first load until a chain forms and within minutes the cart is loaded, covered, and on its way to the apothecary’s cellar, where there is access to another tunnel passage.

  Owen Mockett is upstairs in his bed, exhausted from the evening’s romp with his wife. This is his pact with Finn: Mockett gives access to the river, receives his share of the plunder, and if anything should go wrong he remains the simple apothecary who knows nothing.

  The men scatter, having shed their grimy clothes for some poor washerwoman to deal with in the morning. Finn stops at a pump to rinse his hands with what remains of the day’s water, then quickly runs his shoes through the last trickling drops. His eyes dart, looking out for strange followers who may be spies. His gang is intentionally few in number, hardly a gang at all. He courts no competition with the larger gangs who would rather slice each other’s throats than negotiate territory. Nevertheless, he’d be a fool not to be wary.

  He struggles with an urge to visit Madam Liesel’s; the German runs the best bawdy house this side of the river. He is instantly aroused with the memory of Anna from Bavaria and that special thing she does to his member that tempts him back tonight. But he feels filthy and smells worse and Madam Liesel would never allow him near her house in this state.

  The eastern edge of London never really slumbers. Candlelight suffuses a random spread of front rooms down the streets. He hopes his wife’s little puppet is heating the water for his bath. It’s been three years now since Clovis plucked Willa from the orphan asylum. Christ, what a quivering mass of nerves the girl was.

  The heat of the bakehouse interrupts his thoughts and his stomach grumbles as he walks through its steamy door. He reaches into his jacket for a small pack of tobacco for Carson and a measure of lace for the baker’s wife.

  ‘All right there, Carson?’

  With outstretched blistered arms the baker presents his offering with a lukewarm greeting. In the early hours of the morning the basket full of warm bread is company to two large meat pies and one of Carson’s special cakes made with the sugar Finn traded with him last week.

  Across the street the shadow of a man in a dark-brown suit is drawn on the cobblestones from the dull glow of a single street lamp. The outline of his tired, black topper elongates as he turns away when Finn leaves the bakehouse. The dark-brown suit moves on. The baker spits after Finn’s departure.

  The thrill of Finn’s rich booty and the heady satisfaction of a smooth run are wearing off, leaving him tired and hungry. The shutters of his front windows are closed but he can just make out a strip of light in the joins. He gives the signal of four raps in quick succession followed by a pause and one single knock.

  The hour is three in the morning but no one is asleep in the Fowler household. On the evenings when Finn makes a run they call his time away ‘the dark hours’. Never knowing if he’ll be snatched by the paws of the newly formed Metropolitan Police – how bloody inconvenient of them – or meet his end at the hands of violence, those who depend on his risky occupation anxiously await his safe return.

  Willa opens the door and stands well back. Her master reeks this morning. She has saved enough water for a good wash and he follows her straight to the kitchen where under her watchful eye the water simmers in a big pot over the fire.

  Clovis appears and stands quietly in the frame of the door. She motions for Willa to leave them. As a precaution she still wears her day dress during the dark hours when Finn is away in the event there’s call for a swift departure. Her hair is unpinned and falls down in thick waves to settle on a fabric of midnight-blue.

  ‘All is well?’

  ‘If Jonesy is back, then yes.’ He pours a pitcher of water over his head savouring its journey down his body to the stone floor.

  ‘He has returned. Everything is safe with Mockett.’

  ‘What is that?’ He points at the paper she holds in her hand.

  ‘I want to speak to you about this. A letter from Denmark.’

  ‘What? A fucking fortune then!’

  ‘No, Finn. Delivered by a boy, not a letter carrier. We did not pay for delivery.’

  ‘Denmark? Not Iceland?’

  ‘I do not know why it’s marked Copenhagen.’

  ‘Well. Go on then.’

  ‘It seems we are going to be parents.’

  ‘Not bloody likely.’

  Finn wipes his fingers across the plate and sucks the crumbs from them. He considers himself to be somewhat of a pie aficionado. Carson had dipped into his good flour stores for this meaty pie; the secret lies in the lightness of the crust. He tastes the difference in the high quality shortening. Papery flakes fall as golden flecks on Finn’s shirt.

  Clovis conceals her disgust at his carelessness. There’s a bit of lettuce on the floor and a ring of red wine on the tablecloth, as though he marks his territory, or must leave evidence.

  ‘Finn, I prefer that you not eat in the bedroom.’

  ‘You prefer? Another word you’ve picked up at those lectures of yours? I’ll eat where I like.’

  ‘I thought it would please you. I try to improve my English.’

  Clovis waits for a response, but he eats and drinks and grows weary – weary of her. His wife’s beauty no longer interests him. There is no gown, no simple or complicated design that is capable of dimming her voluptuous body, yet he no longer has the addiction he once did for her. In this, most men would think him quite mad, or a sodomite, but a man, especially a
man like Finn, does not like to be used, and the feeling in his tackle goes limp whenever he thinks of her trickery. So he dines in silence.

  Clovis is nothing if not patient. Her chair near the window is comfortable enough and from her position she waits for the right moment to strike. She counts the number of times he fills his goblet. It will be soon.

  Outside their bedroom window commerce is slowly beginning its daily march. The dustman’s ‘Dust-ho!’ followed by a sharp ring of his bell, brings Willa pattering down the stairs. Yesterday’s ashes swept from the fireplaces are ready for collection.

  Clovis adjusts the shutter to allow a sliver of light to stream in while Finn continues to eat. She looks down at the milk pail being lowered from the milkmaid’s string where, having run back down to the basement kitchen, Willa unhooks it with her calloused fingers.

  Clovis continues her vigil at the window. The smacking of his lips, she thinks, and the way he sucks his fingers – hateful.

  When they first met, Finn told her he was a horologist. He had set sail from London in late March of 1828. On board, Dr Von Torben, an eminent geologist, three draughtsmen, two writers, several seamen and fishermen, an Icelandic interpreter, and an astronomer made forty men.

  They reached Iceland three weeks later and the terrible and beautiful ruggedness that stretched out before them led them to believe that no humans could possibly inhabit the island. So gigantic was that first view of desolate nakedness that they forgot to be afraid. If the shore had not been covered with boats they might have despaired that the scenery held nothing for them but that nakedness.

  Finn arrived on the island with his clocks: ships’ clocks, striking clocks, pendulum clocks, and a few pocket watches. The interpreter had insisted that this country’s people had no use for and no means of investing in a clock, and now he was proven correct. Icelanders mark the time in a completely different way according to their long hours of sunlight in the summer and their short dark days of winter. So Finn, ever resourceful, became the astronomer’s indispensable assistant.

  That summer Clovis had returned to her father’s farm from the north where she’d spent two gruelling months assisting her aunt during the birth of her fifth child. She despised every moment of the clinging children, her needy aunt, the constant drudgery of the work, and the cold. God curse the cold! She thought she’d never be warm again. Near the dead lands of the southern coast they always speak of the beauty of the north, but she found nothing redeeming, nothing worthwhile and the journey was never-ending and unbearable.

  She returned home to find two foreign men camped near their hut; they had traded with her father while she was away. What kind of man traded good boots and tools for the opportunity to look at the skies from a poor farmer’s scratch of land?

  The one called Finn amused her with his vulgar tale that from the first time he saw her riding along the path by the meadow, with the white-capped mountains painted against her flying red hair, he became so stiff he thought he would have to relieve himself there and then. As she rode nearer and he saw that she was real and not an exquisite dream, the intimacy he had shared with her sister vanished like the steam of a hot boiling spring. And that was how he admitted what he had done while Clovis was away with her hands in baby shit and ignorant of his presence.

  That was when he was drunk with just the thought of her.

  But today, Clovis’s breasts rise without desire, and her lips part not from wanting, but because she is pulsing with an entirely new lease on life. Here it is in her hands in the form of an extraordinary letter. If Finn would only look at her, he would recognize ambition racing through her.

  ‘So go on then. Read it.’

  The street below continues to wake as Clovis allows more light to filter in.

  To my sister and her husband,

  You will be surprised to hear from me. I am surprised that I write – I do so because I must. There is much I cannot tell you and you will have many questions. They will be answered at another time.

  My husband is dead. He has met with a terrible accident. I am to have his child four months from now. My child cannot remain in Iceland. I will be honest with you, my last choice, but my only choice, is to have the baby raised by you and your husband as your own. A fuller explanation will come at a later date – and it will not be from my hand. You will not hear from me again.

  Considering events of the past, I find it difficult to ask you to do this. I know you are moved only by incentives. A handsome amount will be offered annually to ensure your loyalty and comfort, but most especially for the safety, comfort and education of my child.

  Make no mistake – a supporter will be appointed to monitor my baby’s progress, so think carefully before you accept. You will be monitored.

  If you agree, we must move swiftly to prepare for the baby’s arrival and subsequent journey. There are a number of things you will need to do, not least of these is to begin the facade of your pregnancy. This you must do. No questions must be raised.

  As you know, the yearly postal boat arrives in Iceland from Denmark in late October. So more expedient means of communicating must be employed. A messenger will call on you in two days to collect your reply.

  Again, think carefully on this. Once the child is with you there is no undoing this agreement.

  Elísabet

  ‘Damn you, damn Elísabet, damn me and damn God,’ Finn roars.

  Clovis sits down beside him and rests her hand on the meat of his upper thigh.

  ‘Aren’t you just a little intrigued by this, Finn?’

  ‘No, fuck no.’

  ‘The money. Think of the money. It must be a large sum.’

  ‘There’s something not right about this. Elísabet’s not the kind to give up her baby. Especially after … And good Christ, you a mother? I hate to think.’

  She is not stung. There are already three children under this roof, she says to herself. Her thoughts keep turning, turning. There must be some scandal, or some deeply foreign secret that has created this chain of events. A smile begins to form because she knows she is right. She can feel it.

  ‘We will be rich, Finn.’

  ‘Your sister is not rich, and now that she’s lost her husband she has nothing. She is trying to unload that child on us, Clovis.’ He raises his voice again. ‘Our pockets are not going to be lined with gold, you stupid, stupid woman.’

  Clovis stands perfectly still with her eyes tamed on Finn. And when she is certain that his full attention is turned upon her, after he has licked away the remainder of the pie, she speaks.

  ‘I think we both know that I am not stupid. See me here, Finn Fowler. I live in the greatest city in the world, in my own house with two servants. One day you will remember this moment when I say this child will make us rich. You will never call me stupid again. Things are going to change in this house. Hear me well: I would rather kill you than allow you to endanger what is to come.’

  She has gone cold. A woman does not like to be used.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The exchange with Finn has left her feeling restless. She waits until he sleeps before she prepares the parlour. When everything is in place she summons Willa.

  ‘I am ready for you.’

  ‘Yes, mistress.’

  Willa sits and immediately thrusts her hand into her pocket to clasp her tokens of comfort.

  Clovis studies the porcelain head that sits on a pedestal, its mysteries mapped out in shiny lines and sections. Her finger traces the black marking of the line from the centre of the forehead, all the way to the top of the head where she stops at the benevolence organ. She calculates and memorizes the trajectory, mentally tracing it on the head of her servant who sits nervously in the chair.

  Willa fingers a miniature heart-shaped pin cushion in her right hand. The soft, blue velvet calms her. What will Mistress make her do this time? She wonders as she traces the threads of the embroidered horseshoe in the centre of the cushion that she stitched in so expert a fashion.<
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  ‘Close your eyes.’ Clovis instructs.

  Willa obeys, and after a moment’s pause Clovis passes her hands over the girl’s head.

  The fire needs stoking, but neither of them will attend it now. There is a pause in the bustle of commerce outside in the street. Clovis chooses the quiet of this moment to apply firm pressure to the end of Willa’s little finger, progressing slowly to the root of her nail. This she does patiently, methodically with each of the girl’s fingers.

  The amulet falls from Willa’s other hand, her head lolls. Clovis stifles a gasp. She has commanded a hypnotic state in a few efficient movements. But now she must recall exactly what she witnessed on the stage and also the instructions in the pamphlet.

  ‘Willa.’ Clovis uses an unhesitating and positive tone. ‘Remain asleep. Lift your head, keep your eyes closed.’

  The girl slowly raises her head. She appears comfortable, calm and restful.

  Clovis begins the next procedure. It is her first effort to test her ability to affect the organs of the brain. Calling upon her excellent memory she imagines her idol in her mind’s eye. She sees the great mesmerist before her and the way in which he magnetized the entire lecture hall. She glances once more at the porcelain head gleaming in the darkening room that grows colder by the minute.

  Clovis locates the spot easily enough and wills herself to feel supreme confidence as she places her finger on the organ of benevolence on Willa’s head. After a short time, the girl’s face undergoes a remarkable change. Her sleepy expression transforms to one of such intense pity that Clovis takes a step back.

  Willa still sleeps, and apparently with no awareness of the continued pressure of Clovis’s finger, she reaches into her pockets and produces an array of amulets and charms, bits of thread and ribbons, until her pockets are empty. She then holds these pitiful offerings in her palms, as if to give them all away.