The Parentations

by Kate Mayfield

  ‘She was very good, our Bertie. Whenever you or Auntie Very were long sleeping she made extra marmalade – she allowed me to eat it on buns until I burst – and sometimes she sang after she finished her beer. She was very brave, especially when the foreign men came.’

  ‘The what? What foreign men?’ Verity asks.

  ‘A fortnight before she died. They came to the door and asked if Master Fowler lived here. She said, “Wait right there.” Then she closed and locked the door and came into the library and told me to hide in the basement. She forgot that it is always locked. I hid in the pantry instead, behind the sacks. Then she fetched her rifle. Did you know Bertie had a rifle? Did you ever find it? She told me she shot one of them in the foot.’

  ‘Rafe! Why did you … why did she not tell us? Are you sure you remember correctly? You were only five years old when Bertie died.’

  ‘Well, because she asked me not to! Yes, I remember exactly. Auntie Very was in the long sleep and you were at the penitentiary, Auntie Connie. Bertie said I must not worry you, that she had protected us all. They would never step foot on our doorstep again. Anyway, does that mean Bertie is a saint?’

  ‘In a different meaning of the word, yes, Rafe, it does,’ Constance says.

  ‘I will not dress as a saint this year, aunties. I am too old for it and will wear my best suit. The Italian one.’

  Despite their worry, the sisters share an amused glance.

  ‘All right then, you had better change into your suit or we shall be late to Mass,’ Verity reminds him.

  He no longer wants to be a child. The boy has matured upon visiting the towns and cities of Europe. He is naturally curious and has a voracious appetite to learn, which made him an excellent travelling companion. He was drawn to every strange and beautiful morsel of culture the sisters had carefully curated.

  Verity slips her hands into a pair of grey, kid driving gloves while Constance places a blue cashmere long shawl around her sister’s shoulders.

  ‘I’m taking the stanhope. Thomas has hitched the horse. Are you sure you will not join us?’ Verity asks her.

  ‘No, I shall help the girls with the feast preparations. That petite one, she is a terror with the china. Thomas should drive you to St Mary’s.’

  ‘No, you may need him here today. It’s not far and I would quite like to drive myself. No virtue lost driving at my age. I do love a feast day, solemn as this one is. What a shock to hear about Bertie and the men. Do you think he exaggerates?’

  ‘No, he is always truthful. We will speak to Percy as soon as possible. And I shall write to Benedikt and have a word with Thomas, too. Oh, there he is!’ Constance beams.

  ‘How handsome you look,’ Verity says.

  He looks like a painting standing on the landing. The sisters will remember it so. A finely tailored black coat cinches his waist, then flares out and flows down below his knees, revealing his first full-length trousers, starkly white.

  There is something else. A rose gold chain flickers against the gold buttons. He squirrels around in his pockets. There are two more, one in each of his hands. And a smile to go with them that brims with self-satisfaction. He places the chain around Constance’s neck. She bends down to accommodate him and he repeats his offering with Verity. It is then they notice the delicate rings: two golden hands joined together in the centre of the band.

  ‘The day at the zoological gardens – and I will never go back there, never – when I was very bad and ran off and then found you again by searching for your blue and lavender cloaks, remember?’

  Yes, they nod.

  ‘You must always wear them and also these neck chains. Place your rings on them, look, just like mine. So that we will find each other if we are separated.’

  ‘Why Rafe, what thoughts,’ Verity says.

  The sisters have no need to look at one another for they share the same trepidation in the pit of their stomachs. His intensity shakes them.

  ‘Thank you, darling boy,’ Constance says. ‘It is a very good gift, a generous one, too. And such a clever idea.’

  ‘Yes,’ Verity says. ‘How you must have saved! You are full of surprises. I hope you are not too grown up for a kiss from your aunties.’

  With more seriousness than they would care to witness, he embraces them both, crooking his arms tightly around their necks.

  ‘Now, you really will be late. More gifts when you return.’ Constance chokes slightly on her words.

  Constance passes a busy hour, and in spite of the butter-fingered maid, has almost completed the feast day arrangements. Their gifts to Rafe create a towering pile by his bed. The table by his window heaves with barmbrack. Downstairs, the pottage, his favourite dish, is ready for searing and the boxty pancake mixture awaits the sizzling griddle. She has changed into her new silk day dress, the colour of a heather field.

  ‘I relish the thought of learning to pin my hair.’ Constance offers a pin to the maid.

  ‘’Tis not done, madam.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish. My mother pinned her own hair until … until the day she died.’

  ‘It is the only thing I do well. You don’t sniff when I am finished,’ the girl says, wounded.

  ‘I do not sniff at all.’

  ‘Yes, madam.’ She smiles.

  ‘And you do many things well …’

  Someone has come down hard on the door knocker.

  ‘Are you expecting visitors, madam?’

  ‘None.’

  The other maid raps on the bedroom door and pokes her head in.

  ‘Madam?’

  ‘Yes, come in.’

  ‘A Mrs Fowler requests to see you.’

  The glass pin holder crashes to the floor and splinters at Constance’s feet.

  She grabs the edges of the dressing table and holds on until her knuckles glare white. A perfect rage quells her panic. When she stands, the chair falls back and thumps against the floor.

  ‘Madam?’

  She cannot stop the tremors in her shoulders. The words repeat and repeat in her head until she has no other impulse than to expel them in a nasty stream of vomit. But she holds it back, even as it rises up in her.

  I knew it. I knew it. I knew it.

  All of those dear to her who said it would never happen, who were so certain that the Fowlers would die in prison, or would at least be gaoled until Rafe came of age, God help her, they were all wrong.

  What shall I do with her? She paces the floor in an effort to command her shaking body to stillness.

  Oh God no. Not yet, not yet.

  ‘See her to the drawing room,’ she says in a hoarse whisper. ‘Ask her to be seated and then close the doors.’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  Downstairs, Clovis Fowler examines every inch of the path from the foyer to the hallway that leads to the drawing room’s double doors. She observes the maid is a well-fed, well-dressed young woman who nervously leads her through the corridor. Clovis makes no pretence in the presence of the maid and blatantly surveys the view and the furnishings, even the height of the ceilings. Several of the items she recalls from Fore Street; the same chandeliers, the mirror in which nine years ago the reflection of the Fitzgerald sisters dominated the room.

  ‘Please be seated, Mrs Fowler.’ The maid is intimidated by the woman’s boldness.

  ‘Thank you.’

  But she does not sit. Instead she stands by the windows, her chin slightly lowered to gain a better view of the canal. As soon as the maid departs, Clovis returns to her review of the sisters’ home. The house is impressive, as she expected. She notes the gas jets and the grand piano. Clovis recalls the day they first met and how the sisters brought to her mind the huldufólk of her country, strange, and condemned to live between heaven and hell.

  The paintings that crowd the walls confuse her at first glance. She knows little of art, but surely the frames are worth much more than the amateurish paintings they protect. One is particularly rubescent; a canvas of halos in graded shades of yel
low over which the outlines of red bearded men and veiled women seem to float amidst a rich red matrix, as if searching for the halo that belongs particularly to them. Clovis smirks. Something juvenile about them. Ah, she muses, must be the boy’s work.

  Footsteps. The door handles turn.

  The years stand between them, but they do not make their mark on the women’s faces, or in their movements or postures. There are, however, differences. Though her beauty has not diminished, Clovis has not yet stepped into the new decade. In the silence that follows it is clear how the world has moved forward without her. Her hair is wrong. It is too elaborate, too important in today’s increasingly demure fashions. Her gown is out of date. The skirt is not full enough. Her bodice shoulder line is too high, her arms are too free, and her sleeves are ridiculously full, unlike Constance’s narrow sleeves. Even her waistline is wrong compared to the woman who poses so assuredly in front of her, in a modern, more natural waistline.

  Clovis does not expect to be so harshly affected by a bolt of cloth and a head of hair. She has had many years to think upon this moment and now that it has arrived she is angry that she cares too much about the outward signs that scream of her imprisonment. Forget about the goddamned frocks and locks, she tells herself. I mean to parry.

  ‘I am here to collect my son.’

  ‘He is with my sister in Hampstead. I do not know when they will return.’

  ‘I will wait.’

  Constance signals the maid to close the doors and takes a position by the fireplace. Elegant in her stance, she looks the picture of calm; the lavender sheen of her dress brilliantly offsets her silvery white hair. She clasps her hands in front of her to conceal the tremors.

  ‘You have given us no notice. Perhaps, we might bring him to you after we have had time to prepare him and …’ She pauses. ‘And pack his things.’

  ‘I have only just arrived home last night. I am his mother, and I have a carriage waiting at great expense – you live far from Limehouse. I will take him when he returns.’

  ‘My sister and I have cared for your son as we would our own.’ She makes an effort to breathe. ‘It will shock him to go so quickly.’

  ‘Have you not already prepared him for this day, as we agreed?’

  ‘I do not think a child can ever be fully prepared for this sort of monumental change. To be completely uprooted from everything he knows, surely it is best for him to make a gradual transition.’

  ‘As his mother, I disagree. It is best that he is with his parents. We have been apart long enough.’ Clovis advances. ‘His best interests, you say. I do not know if it is in his best interests to spend one more moment in the presence of someone who has lied about his health.’

  Constance remains steady. ‘He is in perfect health.’

  ‘Ah, but there was a time when in your care he was not. A time when he came down with a fever, a fever so hot and raw that he dripped pools of moisture.’ She inches closer to Constance. ‘His sweat covered you and your sister until you were as damp as he. And nothing you did or tried to do calmed that fever until it burned itself out, like a flame.’ She snaps her fingers in Constance’s face. ‘And from that point on, you no longer aged.’

  The unspeakable has been spoken. After a long, thick pause, Constance recovers.

  ‘You came to us in the middle of the night, desperate for help. And we have given Rafe the best of care. When you meet him you will find a boy who has been loved and nurtured. What possible importance could you place on anything above that?’

  Clovis smiles. ‘All right, Mrs Fitzgerald. We will not speak of the mysterious Benedikt who plies you with phials, or the fact that your body is forced to sleep for fortnights at a time. Or the “miracle” that the boy has brought you.’

  ‘No. You and I will never speak of such things. I would rather use this time to warn you and to entreat you to be vigilant.

  ‘For what reason?’ Clovis laughs.

  ‘For the safety of your child!’ Constance snaps. ‘Have you already forgotten our last meeting at Millbank? There are men, possibly from your country, who have gone to extraordinary lengths to track his whereabouts.’

  ‘I have it in hand.’ Clovis says coldly. ‘The boy is of no concern to you now.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘You will have no further contact with him after this day.’

  The doors are thrown open.

  ‘There is a carriage outside …’ Rafe begins.

  Verity and Rafe are flushed with cold. Their expectant faces drop, their smiles vanish.

  Constance rushes to him and kneels down, taking a firm hold of his shoulders.

  ‘Darling boy.’

  ‘Is she my mother, Auntie Connie?’

  Clovis swans towards him.

  ‘Yes, Rafe, I am your mother.’

  He stares up at her for an uncomfortable moment, and all wait for his response.

  ‘You look similar, but you do not look like me.’

  Clovis stares back at him, undaunted by his remark. She takes him in with a swift glance and would of course never admit that the sisters have done a perfect job of moulding him into a little gentleman.

  ‘I have come to take you home with me.’

  ‘Today?’ Verity gasps.

  ‘Thank you, madam. But I do not wish to go,’ he says.

  ‘Please. We would like a few minutes alone with him,’ Constance entreats her.

  Clovis weighs this request. The boy begins to screw up his face and she cannot have that. Perhaps, she thinks, it is better to let them do this last, most difficult work rather than she.

  ‘Why, of course. I completely understand. In the meantime, if your maid could call my girl inside to help.’

  ‘Is your husband not with you, Mrs Fowler?’ Verity asks.

  ‘No, I am afraid he is attending to urgent business.’

  ‘It must be very urgent indeed to be absent from this first encounter with his son.’ Verity throws the remark over her shoulder as they usher Rafe up the stairs.

  As soon as the door to the Tower Room is closed Rafe pushes his toy trunk to the door to block it.

  ‘Please, aunties. Do not make me go with her.’

  ‘Rafe.’ Verity is shaking now. ‘She is your mother.’

  ‘I do not care! Please, Auntie Connie,’ he pleads.

  ‘Listen to me, Rafe. This is very important. I want you to repeat the agreement we made. Right now. You know the one. When you come of age …’

  ‘No, no. I can’t. I don’t want to remember that. Please, aunties, please do not let her take me away.’

  ‘Constance, why are you asking him do this? We should be telling him that he will visit us and we will visit him and there is so much to look forward …’

  ‘Verity, please, trust me.’ She draws a breath. ‘Rafe, when you come of age … go ahead now, finish it.’

  And now the tears come, and his nose runs, and his young voice, still high and clear, full of gulps and mucus, recites his instructions.

  ‘When I am of age …’

  ‘That’s right, darling. Keep going.’

  ‘When I am of age. I shall meet you in our special place on the 17th of December.’

  ‘At what time, dear Rafe?’

  ‘Three o’clock.’

  ‘And should we not be there for reasons that we are unaware …’ Constance prompts him.

  ‘Then I will go each year until we meet again.’

  ‘Yes, darling. Each year. If we are not there do not despair, come again the next year and the next.’ Verity manages.

  ‘Yes, aunties. Each year.’

  ‘Never forget this, Rafe. No matter what happens. No matter how many years it takes.’

  ‘But won’t I see you before then?’

  ‘I have always been honest with you, haven’t I? I shall be so now. Your mother may very likely wish to have you to herself for a while … and …’

  ‘No!’ Verity says.

  Constance throws a sharp glan
ce at her sister.

  ‘She has not seen you for such a long time, since you were a wee thing in her arms. And you have a father who will want to spend time with his fine, brave son. So, it may very well be that …’ She cannot go on and looks to Verity for help.

  ‘We will come to you as soon as we can. But we must respect your mother’s wishes. We have our beautiful rings and our necklaces …’ Verity adds.

  ‘And will you always wear blue and lavender so that I may find you, aunties?’

  In that moment, their hearts break. Another fracture to add to the scarring.

  There is a soft knock on the door.

  ‘Mrs Fowler is ready to leave, madam,’ the petite maid, Rachael, says.

  ‘Rachael.’

  ‘Yes, madam?

  ‘I would like you and Nancy to gather Rafe’s things, as many things as you are able, pack them into the trunks. Be sure to include all of his painting boxes and utensils. Quickly, quickly. And for God’s sake, tell Nancy not to break anything. Do not stand there with your mouth open. Go.’ Constance turns back to Rafe.

  ‘There are so many things we wish to tell you. You are so clever and good and your heart is strong and generous. Remember these things to be true. Continue with your painting and be vigilant about the way you experiment and play with your paints and materials. Be brave, Rafe. Most importantly, remember that we love you more than life itself.’

  ‘And we will do everything in our power to see you again as soon as possible,’ adds Verity.

  ‘Even if she will not let you?

  God above! How quick he is!

  The sisters answer as one. ‘Yes, my darling.’

  The maids rush about, their faces red and upset.

  Clovis waits in the foyer at the bottom of the stairs.

  Rafe takes one step at a time, so slowly, as if any second he will turn back. When he reaches the last step Clovis offers her hand. He turns away and throws himself into Verity’s skirts and clings to her legs.

  ‘I cannot do it,’ he says.

  The sisters stand on the staircase, mute.

  Clovis grabs Rafe’s wrist with a firm hold and pulls him down. Not willing to risk his taking flight, she commands the maid to open the door.