The Parentations

by Kate Mayfield

  ‘Please sir, may I speak freely?’

  ‘Yes.’ He whispered.

  ‘I know a technique that will help your distress … your headache.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I will need cold water, a sponge, and a clean strip of cloth.’

  He rang a bell which summoned a mouse of an assistant warder who regularly attends his needs. In quick measure, the items were placed on the writing desk. Clovis positioned a chair to face the governor. He watched her, wondering at her ease and her lack of intimidation.

  She placed another chair by the writing desk and arranged the two to face each other.

  ‘Would you please sit here?’

  He rose, gave his jacket a tug, and then did as she asked.Clovis wet the sponge, wrung it, and gently placed it on the governor’s forehead.

  He closed his eyes. The damp coolness felt unimaginably refreshing.

  She removed the sponge and sat in the chair opposite him.

  ‘Sir, may I have your permission to touch you to perform the New Science.’

  He nodded.

  Clovis placed her hands on his knees and drew them closer together. She spread her legs and placed his between hers so that he sat cradled by her thighs. He winced with pleasure. Then she leaned forward until he was enveloped in her warmth. She raised her hands above his head, her breasts so near him that she pulled back slightly. Just shy of touch, she made several passes over his head. She leaned back, paused, and then began again so that he felt a pattern of her energy. Her body plunged in towards him and then she receded, and the heat above his head came and went as over and over again she tirelessly gave him her attention.

  Clovis monitored the changes in his face: his fluttering lids, a raised brow, his twitching mouth.

  ‘Where is your pain now, sir?’

  The pain had moved from his temples to the back of his head. He felt it transfer again to possess his shoulders until, after a few minutes more, it passed completely out of his body. He described these sensations in a voice absent of anger and the terse manner to which she was accustomed. He forgot himself entirely and spoke like a man.

  She moved her chair back a few inches and stood, plucked his handkerchief from his pocket, and fanned his face to wake him.

  The governor opened his eyes. His countenance had changed completely. Clovis fastened her gaze on his lips, which appeared much fuller. His face had relaxed and colour had returned to it. Dark lashes curled around his softened eyes that were previously slits of torment, and from the corner of one, a tear ran down.

  ‘It often occurs; it is a release,’ she offered in a whisper.

  The pain was gone, yet he still struggled. Ever so slowly, he became sorely aware that Clovis perused him, following a trail from his mouth to his crotch. Her gaze moved up again to his mouth. She rose – he would remember her floating towards him – and before he could inhale again, her mouth met his and she kissed him in a way he had never before been kissed. She grasped his cock and he let out a groan.

  Clovis replaced the chair giving him a moment to cover his wet trousers with his coat before he faced her.When men fall ill they have little power to conceal their desires.

  ‘You will come again?’ he asked. There was no demand, no insistence, no threat.

  ‘Oh, yes. I shall come.’

  Over the following months Clovis earned privileges for the four of them. They were so grateful that they did not question how. They relished and devoured even better food, more comfortable, warmer clothing, extra soap and candles, special books, and Clovis was given ointments to keep her skin soft, an entirely selfish privilege meted out by the governor.

  Clovis considers these privileges a trifling, a pittance. She desires much more and tonight she begins her campaign.

  It is during the supper hour that he summons her while the staff concentrates on monotonous tasks, and the prisoners fill their bellies with thick gruel, sweetened with treacle.

  The governor has grown handsome. He does not know how changed he is, for when he peers into the looking-glass to trim his sideburns, it still captures the image of his sickness. He prepares for her as he would for a woman with a spotless reputation he would court. With a drop or two of unguent he coaxes a sheen into his hair. He recently purchased a new toothbrush and tooth powder, and keeps anise comfits in his pocket. He bites into one now.

  The matron knocks and he buttons his coat to conceal his erection. There the beauty stands, one hand clutching her Bible. He almost laughs but catches himself.

  ‘Thank you, matron. Now, 1089, what is this about a revelation? Perhaps you should be speaking to the chaplain.’

  The matron closes the door and clomps away to her supper.

  Clovis puts her finger to her lips for silence and locks the door. The curtains are drawn. The governor sits in his leather chair. The scrolled arms are open-shaped, the seat deep.

  Theirs have been rushed, frenetic couplings. She had allowed him his quick pleasure, but they are finished with that. Now she lingers, like smoke trapped in a room.

  He has given her permission to let her hair grow again, provided she keeps her florid locks under her cap during the day. She removes it now. When her hair falls loose he catches the scent of rose water. Her ugly, prison dress buttons at the front, and he knows this is the reason she chose it tonight. His eyebrows lift when she deftly unbuttons it, unsure of what will happen next. He has never seen her naked. The petticoat, the stays, the chemise, in which she stands, are her own. As she peels off the layers, the linens and cottons form a cloth halo at her feet.

  This creature in his room inches closer to him. Her breasts spill out of her stays and he thinks he may be close to death with the sight of her; surely his heart thumps out of his chest. Then she lifts her chemise and she is naked. She is more than perfect. He groans.

  When he lurches forward, Clovis gently pushes him back into his chair and climbs on top of him. She guides his hands to her quim to stroke, and his head to her breasts to suck. She allows him in now and insists he moves slowly, and it is easy, she is wet, slippery. She clenches. When he is near to climax she reaches underneath him and massages his anus with her fingers. He gasps. But he does not miss a thrust. Just as she feels him tensing for the end, she slips a finger deep into his anus. His head falls back and he erupts with a shudder. She kisses his mouth to inhibit his cry.

  Clovis, still wrapped around him, nestles her head near his and whispers. Her tongue rims his ear as she tells him what she wants and needs. He nods. God help him, she can have the keys to the whole, damned, stinking prison. Clovis Fowler can have anything she wants from him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  1837

  In Camden Town the days hammer to the clamorous arms of industry that encroach upon Lawless House from all sides. The sisters need only to step out of the front door to feel the full force of the destruction lurking around the corner. Though the meadows and nursery gardens still border the canal’s edge, Camden Town is the designated location of the terminus of the London and Birmingham Railway and the construction of its depot, which consumes the suburb.

  The London Zoological Society overtakes more and more of their pretty little village. Several thousand people visit each day. A long parade of carriages waits ceremoniously to enter the gates, bringing astounding congestion on the Outer Circle.

  In the haven of Lawless House the boy sits on the floor, a safe distance from the fireguard, where all around him lies Verity’s collection of coloured glass spectacles. He is industrious and the proof is on his face. The pink tip of his tongue juts out of the corner of his mouth and his brows crease as he rubs the glass. The cloth, much larger than his hand, bunches up as he swishes to and fro ‘cleaning’ one pair after another. Later, when he is asleep, Verity and Constance will remove the smudges and straighten the wires he innocently twists and bends with his fierce little hands.

  A long and lean five-year-old, Rafe’s hair gleams in multiple shades of red; from fiery, striped
with golden streaks, to the colour of dark orange burning coal. It falls with a faint wave just above his shoulders and he brushes it away from his face, annoyed that it interferes with his task. Verity offers him the stems of a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘These need a good clean, Rafe.’

  Absorbed now with arranging the spectacles to his liking, he scoots along the floor.

  ‘Constance, what are you doing?’ Verity asks.

  Verity joins her sister, who stands in front of the elegant mirror hanging above the mantel. They are just tall enough to see the reflection of their faces, which stare back at them in perfect symmetry.

  ‘I am sixty-eight years of age now, Verity. You are sixty-six. Is it possible that time has not touched our faces, not a single line, no fleshy jowl or drooping chin, these past five years?’

  Verity tilts her head to the side.

  ‘I cannot see a change, sister. But perhaps sharing the air with the trees and pastures has been kind to us?’

  ‘I compare my face to Angela’s. Their narrowboat passed by less than six months ago, and five years have noticeably aged her.’

  ‘Angela!’ Rafe repeats. Angela and the boats.’

  ‘Yes, Rafe. That’s right, clever boy.’

  ‘And Marland and Captain Emil! They will promised a ride.’

  ‘They have promised a ride. Not will promised.’

  ‘They will have promised a ride!’ Rafe announces.

  ‘Theirs is a difficult life, Constance, always battling the elements. It is hardly a fair comparison.’

  ‘It is not only that. Angela’s back is rounding and she stoops a bit. Something is drained from her, and the captain as well. It is natural and I might not even notice, if it weren’t for our situation.’ She turns to her sister. ‘Though I still do not believe it Verity, people are growing older around us.’

  ‘It is the long sleep that unnerves me. When it occurs I fear one of us will not wake.’

  ‘And yet we always do.’

  Constance feels a tug on her skirts. Rafe stretches up his arms wishing to be held. She lifts him and swings him onto her hip.

  ‘Let me see, let me see.’ He reaches towards the mirror.

  She lifts him higher and settles him on her waist so that he might see his reflection. He places his hand on her face while gazing into the mirror, using the reflection to guide his hands. He turns to Verity and traces the contours of her face as well. Then he looks into the mirror again as if he is trying to memorize their images.

  ‘Auntie Connie and Auntie Very,’ he says simply, studying their faces; he looks back and forth from the mirror to the breathing versions that hold him.

  ‘Happy tears!’ He catches Verity’s tear and tastes it.

  ‘Yes, Rafe, happy tears. Happy that you are with us.’

  His face clouds with a frown. ‘I want to be with you always,’ he says to the mirror.

  ‘You shall be, my darling,’ Constance says.

  ‘When will my mother take me away?’ he asks.

  ‘Not for a long while. You needn’t worry about that right now. If that should happen, we will always be here, this will be your second home.’

  ‘Do I look like my mother?’

  ‘You have her colouring. She is very beautiful and you are very handsome,’ Constance says.

  ‘But do I look like her?’

  ‘No, not really,’ Verity admits.

  ‘Verity!’

  ‘Well. He does not and that is a simple fact. Only, as you say, the colouring. There is a faint resemblance.’

  Constance studies him for a moment.

  ‘Rafe, would you like to visit your mother?’

  ‘No. I do not ever want to see her.’

  ‘But she is your mother, Rafe. We have spoken of this before.’

  ‘She must be very, very bad. I am punished for one day for throwing pebbles at the birds. She is punished for much longest.’

  ‘Longer. Punished much longer.’

  ‘Do not let her take me away, Auntie Very. Will you pray for me?’

  ‘I pray for you every day, Rafe. Now, now, you are upsetting yourself. We do not know what the future brings, but there is no reason for you to worry.’

  ‘I will not go.’

  ‘Let’s look at what you have made here, shall we?’ Constance distracts him.

  Verity’s assorted spectacles are arranged on the floor in the shape of heart.

  ‘Art,’ Rafe says.

  ‘It is beautiful.’ Constance strokes his hair.

  ‘Sacred heart for Auntie Very. I making a saint for you, Auntie Connie.’

  He wriggles down from Constance’s arms.

  ‘Come.’ He pulls their hands.

  They follow him across the hallway to the library. He runs to a bookshelf where from the bottom row he edges out a thin volume. Squatting on the floor, stretching the velvet of his green skeleton suit, he opens the book and sheets of blue, loaf-sugar wrapping scatter at the sisters’ feet. Rafe displays images of what appear to be a saint across the rug. Painted on the wrapping is a robed man with a long beard of deep crimson that tapers down to his waist. Above his elongated head fans a pale-pink aureole. It is crude, but the intention is clear.

  ‘Rafe, did you paint these?’

  ‘Yes, Auntie Connie. This one is for you.’

  His eyes widen and sparkle as he thumbs through another volume. Slipped in its pages is the most recent, more refined version. The colours are more brilliant against the thick blue background, the eyes more lifelike.

  ‘It is stunning, Rafe. I shall treasure it. How did you do it? What materials did you use?’

  ‘Bertie gave me them. Beetroot juice and eggs, and flour, and the sparkly is salt. And the sugar paper. And the toothbrushes.’

  ‘You painted these with a toothbrush?’

  ‘Old ones. Am I naughty?’

  ‘No, child! Not at all,’ Verity says.

  ‘And how did you make these colours?’

  ‘Oh. Um, well, if you put a colour down on the paper and put the same one on top of it the next day it looks like this.’ He points to the man’s brilliant beard. ‘This beard is three days. Tiny drops of water with the beetroot make pinks. A spicy powder makes a smelly yellow. Bertie gave me cloves to make it smell better. Eggs are stinky.’

  ‘I did not know Bertie knew so much about painting.’

  Rafe peals with laughter.

  ‘That is jolly, Auntie Very. Bertie knows a whole much about kitchen things. Not about painting.’

  Verity and Constance exchange glances.

  ‘Rafe, would you enjoy having a paint set?’ Constance asks.

  ‘I would, Auntie Connie. What is it, please?’

  Constance picks him up and swings him around.

  ‘You are delicious. It is a box of colours that you may use to paint more pictures and we will buy you a proper paintbrush.’

  ‘Now, it is time for our young artist’s bedtime story. Up the stairs with you.’

  In the evening, when the men have laid their equipment to rest and leave a bridge that is yet to lead anywhere suspended until the morning, when the Regent’s Park Haymarket stalls are empty and covered, the soldiers are off to the taverns, and the gates to the zoological gardens are locked, the animals begin to stir. The monkeys cry and scream. The wild cats roar their discontent. The parrots screech in the unfamiliar cold. A chorus of squalls travels through the park and across the road until they reach the boy who sleeps in the Tower Room. While he dreams of being imprisoned, the sick monkeys wail in his ears until he forces himself to wake, screaming with the animals.

  The sisters take turns of duty each night. In a bitter hour past midnight, it is Verity who tonight carries the lamp and a small cup of warm cocoa up the stairs. Rafe’s wet red eyes, his hair damp against the pillow, and the look of despair on the face of the boy tear her heart into strips.

  With a soft, dry muslin she gently swabs his face and feels his forehead for fever. His head is co
ol and he buries it in her chest.

  ‘Auntie Very, I do not want to go to prison.’ He gulps and moistens his words with sobs.

  ‘Now, now my darling, you will never go to prison. We would never allow it. You are such a good boy … Hush.’ She kisses his face and rocks him.

  When his eyes flutter into sleep, Verity picks up her old worry that the consensus is wrong. She rocks the boy thinking that perhaps Clovis Fowler will indeed survive the penitentiary. The possibility threatens her like the approach of a rabid dog. Prison has not weakened the Fowler woman as she had hoped it would, God forgive her. She crosses herself. Clovis Fowler does not wilt, nor does she grow ill. Her cold beauty is unscathed. Verity thinks that she must somehow prepare for it, yet she cannot, and it eats at her that she is not strong enough, not strong like Constance.

  Down one flight, Constance throws on her crimson banyan and slippers. She cannot sleep and cannot read, so she uses the time to write.

  Sir,

  I must say again, with all due respect, that I do not fully comprehend why we cannot meet and speak to each other in person. Frankly, the only reason I do not insist upon it is because I know that you are guarding Rafe’s safety by acting in such an extreme and anonymous fashion. For that reason, my sister and I continue to follow your instructions. You have garnered my respect and my admiration by demonstrating that your devotion has not faltered these five years. You are a mysterious fellow and we have come to rely upon you for many things, for as many reasons.

  Our privacy is no longer cosseted, if it ever really was, living on the edge of the canal as we do. I am hearing noises again, and the feeling that someone watches us returns with a sense of unease and dread. I assure you, and I think you are aware, that we do our best to contribute to our mutual peace of mind by taking every precaution. Even so, just yesterday while in Park Street at the cheesemonger’s, a man peered into the shop window and hovered outside until I departed, then proceeded to follow me. I changed my route several times, looking over my shoulder to find him close behind. There is no subtlety in that! Obviously, my sister and I nurse new worries.