The Parentations

by Kate Mayfield

  Willa stands and takes a few steps forward. Her palms face up as she moves slowly to and fro, as if searching for someone to receive her treasures. Clovis quickly adjusts her position to accommodate the roaming girl and takes the bits from her, while her other finger remains on the girl’s head. Willa is aware that her hands are empty and relaxes again.

  The drawing room, normally cosy from the heat of a substantial fire is now chilled, which makes the girl’s next movements even more remarkable. She begins to undress. Clovis stands transfixed as first one item of clothing then another falls to the floor, until the thin skeleton of Willa Robinson stands completely naked.

  Clovis does nothing to protect the poor girl’s modesty. Her heart is close to bursting, pounding with excitement. This unbridled joy cares not for the shame and embarrassment should someone happen upon this scene. Willa is a tool, her subject, and nothing more. Clovis Fowler swells with a new-found power.

  Now shivering, Willa gathers all of her clothing into a neat, folded bundle and offers the square to Clovis. Benevolence. Charity. Humanity. Clovis removes her finger from the spot, and with that simple act, Willa sits in the chair again.

  ‘Dress yourself,’ Clovis orders.

  Willa stands again and in a dream-like state she slowly dresses as Clovis provides her clothes item by item. Clovis now looks for a false moment, or for a break in the trance. But Willa shows no sign of faltering, even when she begins the intricate task of lacing her stays. Her hands work fastidiously, while her gaze seems absorbed entirely on a different plane.

  ‘Sit,’ Clovis commands, when the girl is fully clothed.

  Clovis reaches into her pocket and produces a handkerchief. It billows out with a few shakes, and with it she fans Willa’s face and head. There is no immediate reaction. She commands herself to remain calm, passes her hands over Willa’s head three times, and continues to fan for another minute or so. Willa begins to stir. Quickly, Clovis retrieves the pincushion and places it in Willa’s hand. She fills her servant’s pockets with the trinkets.

  The girl wakes at Clovis’s instruction.

  ‘Willa?’ Clovis asks in her kindest voice. ‘How do you feel?’

  Willa glances at her mistress and then surveys the room as if she sees it for the first time.

  ‘’Tis so cold, mistress, I should tend the fire.’

  Willa makes an effort to stand, but Clovis places her hands on her shoulder and presses her down.

  Willa shrinks from her, disoriented that her mistress would touch her.

  ‘I have a question first.’

  ‘Yes, mistress.’

  ‘What do you remember of our session today?’

  Willa’s large, green eyes narrow as she tries to remember her actions since she first stepped into the room.

  ‘Well, mistress, I came into the room … and … well, I think you told me to sit in this chair … and … then, nothing. It is cold.’

  ‘Is there anything else? You must be forthright, Willa.’

  ‘Nothing at all, mistress. Well, there is one thing. I might be a bit more …’ She searches for an inspired word.

  ‘More what? ’

  ‘Calm.’

  ‘Do you remember our conversation when we first met? That I could help you?’

  ‘Why yes, mistress, I certainly do.’ She is awed by the kept promise.

  ‘You may fetch more coal now.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It was three years ago when Clovis disembarked at Westminster Bridge, on the marshy corner of Lambeth that seems to serve as a receptacle for the misbegotten.

  In scouring the newspapers for charities that sought employers for their charges, Clovis learned there of a pinch in funds at the House of Refuge for Orphan Girls. The Refuge takes great pride in their fervent work to save girls from a life of prostitution and immorality, and happily for Clovis, administrators have recently relaxed their rules. Jobs are less closely investigated and the girls are being processed and let back into the world more easily.

  Clovis sails with confidence into this atmosphere of need and want. On this day she has chosen a fashionable woven-silk dress, the fabric of which was stolen from a vessel returned from China. Figures of hand-painted dove breasts and black flowers are scattered across the heavy, white satin. Heads turn at her elegant walk – one she has so painstakingly developed. Women who are near the front gate when she steps out of the sedan chair track her with envy, their eyes follow her down the path. Her black-and-white silhouette, crowned by brilliant red hair that falls perfectly from her large matching hat, brightens the dimly lit entry of the asylum.

  The administrators have made it perfectly clear that it is preferable that those women employed at the Home of Refuge for Orphan Girls are widowed, and they must have unexceptionable characters of sobriety and honesty. From where she stands in the presence of Matron Jennet, Clovis weighs the arrogance of one such woman. If ever two women possessed more scrutiny … Matron Jennet’s right eyebrow could not be more arched, and Mrs Fowler’s human form shifts to that of a stalking tiger, immediately sensing a foe. A shaft of morning sun falls on the floor between the two as though marking a divide.

  Mrs Fowler is invited to sit to discuss her needs. Mrs Fowler would rather stand. Then the light from the skylight shifts ever so slightly with the wave of passing clouds and falls on a dark corner where, like the breast of one of Clovis’s printed doves on silk, Willa Robinson stirs.

  Clovis brings her attention to the girl while Matron Jennet darts to the corner where the little bird sits crouched on a stool, busy with her needlework. Matron seems eager to hide the girl by stepping in front her, a ridiculous effort that only arouses Clovis’s curiosity further.

  ‘Why, Matron Jennet. What have we here? How quiet she is. What beautiful work, Miss … ?’ Clovis looks to Matron.

  Defeated, Matron steps aside. ‘Stand and introduce yourself,’ she orders the girl, flustered.

  The girl is as thin as a spindle, and her head is unusually large. Equally large are her almond-shaped green eyes with which, when she summons the courage, glance not quite into the beautiful lady’s face but settle somewhere near her neck.

  ‘Willa Robinson, madam.’ She curtsies.

  ‘Well, Miss Robinson, where did you learn such precise needlework?’

  Willa looks for approval from Matron before speaking.

  ‘Here, madam. Mrs Arnold, the seamstress, she teaches all us girls.’

  ‘And what else have you learned?’ Clovis gives her a most radiant smile.

  ‘Knitting, making linens, curing, pickling.’

  ‘And can you read, Miss Robinson?’

  ‘All of our girls are taught reading and spelling and they each have the same branches of housekeeping skills as Miss Robinson,’ Matron interjects.

  Thank Christ, Clovis says to herself, I don’t want that responsibility. For though she despised every moment of her reading lessons in that smoky, turf cottage, she would not be here today if she had not applied herself.

  ‘May I escort you to the dining hall where the girls will soon gather for their dinner? You can meet all of our young women who have completed their training and who are ready and eager to secure a position.’ Matron is in a rush to exit.

  Clovis now sends Matron an equally winning and patient smile, but turns her attention more intensely on Willa. So it goes for the better part of an hour, in which Matron Jennet makes every effort to lead Clovis’s gaze from Willa to the discussion of other young ladies. Yet, the more robustly Matron puts forth her suggestions, the firmer Clovis stands against them.

  Luck plays its part in the day when Matron is called to attend the arrival of an administrator.

  There is something awry here, of this Clovis is certain. The girl is of age and fully trained, yet Matron clearly asserts a proprietary stance.

  ‘Please excuse me for a moment, Mrs Fowler. Come, Willa. Come with me.’

  Willa jumps up like a trained pony.

  ‘Matron Jenn
et, please, may Miss Robinson wait here with me?’ Clovis flashes another winning smile. ‘It will allow me a moment to tell her about my small household and what we might expect of her.’

  ‘I am afraid that will not be possible.’

  ‘Because, Matron Jennet, it will save me returning with Mr Fowler to address the administrators at a later date. I would so love to tell them how co-operative you have been …’ She pauses. ‘Rather than the opposite. If you understand my meaning.’

  Matron’s lips close tightly, her eyes blink like the wings of a trapped moth.

  ‘Well. Yes. Yes, Mrs Fowler, I understand you perfectly.’

  Matron throws a portentous glance at Willa before her stiff petticoats swish away to suck the air from another room.

  ‘Now, Willa Robinson. Do come nearer.’

  Willa hesitates before inching forward. Other than a desk and three chairs the room is unadorned. The girl is so nervous that she places her hand on the desk to steady herself.

  ‘It is my wish that very soon I shall employ you.’ Clovis captures Willa’s eyes and does not let them go.

  ‘You know, Willa – I shall call you by your given name – and a very pretty name it is, too.’

  Willa is quite entranced now. Clovis positions two chairs directly across from each other, sits in one and invites the girl to take the other. Then she leans in just enough to appear conspiratorial.

  ‘It appears that you are a little frightened of something?’

  Willa casts a worried glance at the door.

  ‘How old are you, girl?’

  ‘Fifteen, madam.’

  ‘And have you ever been chosen for employment before?’

  Willa pauses, glances towards the door again, and with a directness that she has not yet shown, she whispers. ‘Many times.’

  ‘Ah. I see. I will tell you a little secret. You mustn’t tell anyone.’

  ‘No, I won’t, madam.’

  ‘I know how to make people feel better. What do you think of that?’

  ‘How do you mean, madam?’

  There it was again, the fear jumped onto her. Willa’s eyes grow wider until they look as if any moment they may pop out.

  ‘Well, in the same way that you have spent these years learning to sew and read and cook, I have been studying, too … in the realm of science. I will tell you all about it when you come to live with me. But this must remain a secret, yes?’

  Willa nods, obviously relieved and thankful for the nature of science.

  ‘Now, I have confided my very important secret, do you have one to tell me?’

  The girl’s face reddens and she slips her hand into the pocket tied at her waist.

  ‘What have you there?’

  ‘’Tis a hand, madam. I sewed it from scraps. It protects from the evil eye.’

  ‘How intricate it is, too. Is that your secret then?’

  Willa searches the lady’s face; what she hopes to find she does not know. Salvation? Protection? Her eyes fill up.

  ‘Is there another secret, Willa?’ Clovis says, with a delicacy of which she never thought she was capable, false though it is.

  ‘Mrs Fowler.’ Matron Jennet appears again. Willa starts, but Clovis has no reaction at all to her sudden appearance. Matron, however, is slightly breathless, to Clovis’s amusement.

  ‘Please, Mrs Fowler, I must kindly insist that your experience with us today is a full one. If you’d be kind enough to follow me to the dining hall.’

  ‘I will not. But thank you, Matron, my business here is completed for the present.’

  ‘But … what do you mean?’

  ‘Forgive my directness, but I have already made my decision. I shall return in seven days to collect Willa Robinson. Good day, Matron Jennet.’ Another alluring smile and then, ‘Willa, would you escort me to the gate, please? If Matron agrees, of course.’

  Matron manages a slight bow of her head, thoroughly defeated. Her face drains of colour, as there can be no doubt that this creature has cast a spell on Willa. Matron stands impotent as Willa follows in the wake of the Fowler woman.

  ‘Now, my little bird.’ Clovis slips her hands through first one glove, then another and adjusts her hat in the tall mirror in the reception hall. ‘Tell me, is Matron Jennet terribly fond of you?’

  Willa’s legs will not carry her further.

  ‘Now, now. You mustn’t be frightened, Willa. Is this your secret?’

  Nothing from the girl. She continues her slope-shouldered walk.

  When they are outside the Refuge’s dim corridors and the influence of Matron Jennet, Clovis motions for Willa to follow her to the small front garden, near the gate and safely away from the windows. Willa’s uniform of dark-brown petticoats, white apron and cap looks drab and spiritless in the company of this woman who towers over her, whose hair is even more brilliant against the rich, green leaves of the trees and their bowing branches.

  ‘Have you ever been outside these gates before?’

  ‘Not often, madam. Once, near Christmas, we carted our knitting to the market. It were a special occasion for us. That night, I suppose because of the holiday so near and everything, Matron, she was on the gin. ‘’Tain’t allowed, madam. Not here. Never.’

  Now that Willa has found her tongue she forgets to breathe.

  ‘I were dead asleep, long day and all, when Matron is rattling my shoulder. She were without candle even. It scared me so to see her standin’ over me in the dark like that. She said I must come with her and to be quick and quiet about it. But Mary, who was in the next one over, she put up such a fit and fuss. I were awed by her bravery. My only friend ever in this world. So Matron, she turned around sharp-like and left. She were very cross. Mary were placed directly after that in the New Year. I dunno know where she is.’

  Clovis approaches slowly and deliberately. ‘Willa, has Matron ever touched you in a manner of … fondness? In a way that makes you feel uncomfortable?’

  A guttural sound sticks in Willa’s throat. She freezes in her steps and her face turns pale. Then her fingers ply against her thigh, each slender tip moves singularly up and down, up and down, as though she must perform this counting motion in order to save her life.

  ‘Once. But she tries many times. I has to think quick.’

  ‘Hmm. Yes, I thought as much. Your secret is safe with me. I will be as silent as the grave.’

  ‘Please, please, madam. You will not say anything, will you? Matron is very powerful.’ Her fingers continue to tap.

  ‘Oh Willa, that is not power. Matron is filled with fear. We will not speak of this again. You will not have that worry with me, or anyone in my household. But you will work very hard.’

  ‘I like to work.’

  ‘We shall see. Now, I think I will walk back to the bridge. Yes, a walk to celebrate today’s business. Good day to you, Willa Robinson. Until next week.’

  ‘Goodbye, madam … Madam?’

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘You won’t tell, will you?’

  ‘I am the soul of discretion.’

  ‘Oh. Does that mean you won’t?’

  ‘It does. Now run along, will you?’

  ‘Yes, madam. Thank you, madam.’

  Willa feels as if a spell of bad luck has been broken as she stands at the gate and watches the magnificent vision of the lady’s gown fade into the remainder of the day’s sunlight. She has been saved! Saved from the monstrous Matron Jennet.

  Willa wakes early the next morning and uses the extra time to prepare for her departure next week. A petticoat needs mending, and though her boots are clean, she rubs and buffs and shines them until her arms are sore. She had squirrelled away a piece of gnarly gristle from her stew and rendered its fat with the flame of a tallow. She rubs it on her rough hands and feet, working it in and smoothing it as if it were as rich as a pot of Pears’ balm.

  After the morning lessons she scurries to collects her charms and tokens from the hiding places in the asylum. Behind the heavy curtain
of the sleeping-hall’s window she pockets the acorn that serves as protection against lightning. From under the corner of her mattress she retrieves the wishbone bound in striped silk for protection against danger. She has only a few minutes left to dash to the chapel where behind the shelving, last year’s Soul Mass cakes have become as solid as little bricks and the mice have had a good gnaw at them. She leaves them.

  ‘You are late to dinner, Miss Robinson.’

  Willa’s back is to the door of the chapel and she is almost certain that the trembling that overtakes her is visible.

  ‘I was replacin’ a prayer book, Matron.’

  Willa had managed to avoid the woman all morning. For the first time in her life she has reason to feel hopeful, and was so consumed with her tasks that there were moments when she was free from the weighty thought of Matron Jennet. Emboldened by her impending departure and new place in the world she turns to face Matron, but upon seeing the creature’s knitted brows at the top of her bulldog face, Willa’s fickle strength leaves her and fear shoots her down. She feels like one of the ducks or pigeons that famously fall to the ground in the surrounding Lambeth marshes when the men are at the hunt.

  ‘There will be a day in your future when you will think on your time here. It may not be in a fortnight, or in one year’s time, but that day will come.’

  Matron’s poisoned breath is at her ear and her breasts push against Willa’s arm.

  ‘And on that day you will ask yourself in quiet despair, why wasn’t I a little kinder to Matron? It really would not have been so bad. Not as terrifying as this stranger … this woman who hides something black-hearted behind her seductive smile. Mark my words.’ She pauses. ‘Now get out of my sight.’

  Willa runs out of chapel to the bathhouse where she washes her hands several times and then paces with her hand deep into her pocket, rubbing another of her tokens, a human tooth. Oh no, she has forgotten its use as a charm. What is the meaning, the purpose of the tooth? She cannot think. There is no comfort.

  She has missed her lunch now and Cook is cross and will not give her a crust. She is late to help the younger girls with their baking lessons, which stirs their rowdiness when left on their own. Cook’s sharp tongue and the chaotic kitchen reduce Willa to a limp bag of nerves.