She tests her legs; they lead her from the floating piers at the quay and up the winding stairs past a little wooden house with signs that direct passengers to ‘Pay Here for Taking Boat’. She trudges past people who gawk at her. Onward she trails through the Hungerford market in which she descends the stairs to the fish market.
The mud on Verity’s mourning gown attracts the fish scales and bones underfoot and, as if they are alive and entities unto themselves, they attach to her trailing skirts. When she reaches the narrow passageway lined with advertisements that lead her away from the market and the river, the nightlife of St Martin’s Lane greets her and she shrinks from the cacophony it produces.
‘I must walk … I need to walk. Soho Square.’ Her gravelly voice shocks her.
When Long Acre appears she turns off to navigate the small maze of streets in Soho. The longer she walks, the more she is mantled by shame and guilt. She expects her sister may never forgive her. But what is important now, this moment, is the fact of the miracle. She seeks Father O’Brien.
The privileged have long fled Soho. Prostitutes swan their way through their purlieus; music halls and small theatres have moved in. The buildings are crammed, and their open windows discharge the first smoke and song of the evening.
Verity toils on towards Soho Square, dragging her black skirts that glitter with mud spots of silver fish skin and scales. She recognizes the gardens as she draws closer. The poorest of the poor swing their children over the iron railings surrounding the garden so that they might relieve themselves before they are put to sleep with sips of gin in the nearby rookery.
Behind Carlisle House sits the two-storey Catholic chapel of St Patrick’s. Francis Lawless had contributed heavily, moved as he was by the poor Irish trying to survive in desperate circumstances in the surrounding parish of St Giles.
Verity makes a fist and pounds on the door. Her eyes sting from the nasty river water. It takes more than one attempt before the door creaks open.
‘Sister, I must see Father O’Brien,’ Verity pleads.
The sister opens her mouth and shuts it straight away. She cannot fathom the creature she sees in the light of the gas lamp.
‘I am a miracle, Sister, a miracle!’
‘Yes, yes, aren’t we all, aren’t we all. I’ve over two hundred miracles that want feeding soup and bread this very moment. And Father O’Brien visits the rookery at the risk of his health.’
‘But he must hear my confession, I must tell him about the miracle.’
The sister heaves a weary sigh. Another lost to the drink, she thinks.
‘Go on now. We haven’t room tonight. The father will be late returning and a good deal exhausted he’ll be, too.’
‘I am the daughter of Francis Lawless, who was one of the largest benefactors of this chapel.’
‘Yes, dear, and I am related to Prince Albert.’
The door slams shut.
‘Ah!’
She turns away, rendered speechless by the cold reception. Overcome by the cruelties of the day, Verity sinks to the pavement in front of the iron fencing that borders the chapel.
Though her empty coin purse is lost in the Thames, she slips her hand in the side seams of her gown where between her underpetticoat and her petticoat her pocket is still tied to her waist. There is enough to procure a cab and suddenly she wants nothing more than to be at Lawless House with her sister. A hansom has just let down one of the square’s residents. The driver leans down to hear the instructions, wary of her dreadful appearance, but when Verity offers him much more than his regular shilling a mile, he whistles in delight.
A fairly clean blanket is provided which she now pulls over her muddied and reeking gown. The cab jerks forward to begin its long journey to Camden Town.
‘It is Verity! She is home! Come, Constance,’ Percy shouts out from the front door of Lawless House.
Constance lifts her skirts and runs to the door. Percy leaps to the cab and opens the folding doors that cover Verity’s legs.
‘What a fright you gave us!’ Constance steps out into the bitter evening air. And what a fright you look! Good Christ, Verity!’
‘Constance, Percy. A miracle.’ Verity calls out.
Once all are inside, Constance and Percy pace the drawing room, passing each other time after time while they wait for Verity to change her sodden clothes.
‘Cognac, Constance?’ Percy asks.
‘No, I cannot drink it. Annoyingly, I have gone off it. I do not know why.’
‘Finish your tea then, you need your strength, too.’
Finally, Verity is clean and dressed warmly under her white banyan. She nervously fingers her rosary beads.
‘Where in the bloody hell have you been? Your sister and I have almost gone insane.’ Percy is red-faced and unusually angry.
‘Percy! I have never before heard you swear!’ Constance is taken aback.
‘This is a night for it, Constance.’
‘Are we alone?’ Verity asks.
‘Yes, Thomas drives Rachael home now. He’ll return the trap in the morning. What has happened to you Verity, we cannot wait a moment longer. And I am becoming very cross,’ Constance says. ‘Here, sit down by the fire.’
‘You will be crosser, dear sister. And you, Percy.’
‘Go on,’ Percy says.
‘God forgive me, I …’ Verity sits and looks away from them and into the flames, ashamed.
Constance perches on an arm of the sofa squeezing a cushion, her knuckles white with tension. Percy pours another whisky and sits beside her. They wait.
‘I have been to Temple Stairs.’ Verity puts her fist to her lips and shakes her head. ‘You see, I wished for nothing more than to be with those I love.’
Constance stares at her dumbly. Percy looks from one sister to another, also speechless.
‘Do you mean that you tried to take your life?’
‘I did not see it that way, sister.’
‘What other way shall we see it, then?’ Percy asks with a raised voice.
‘I wanted to be with them, all of them.’ A tired sigh deflates her.
‘And what of us? What of me? Of Rafe? And Percy, and all the Fitzgeralds that are alive and well?’ Constance demands.
‘I am sorry. I was wrong and terribly selfish.’
In the silence that follows, Lawless House groans as if under the strain of Verity’s confession. The fire pops and the windows rattle against a wind that accosts an early winter night. Verity turns her chair to face them more directly.
‘There are unspeakable things that we must now face, sister,’ Verity says.
‘Perhaps I should leave you two to …’ Percy begins.
‘No, Percy. Please, stay. You must hear the rest. We need someone we can trust wholeheartedly,’
‘Who came to your rescue? How?’ Constance asks.
‘God,’ she answers.
‘God?’ Percy repeats, confused.
‘God lifted me from that blackness.’
Verity stands and continues, ‘I am in full possession of my senses. I will relate to you exactly what happened, the entire truth, and you may judge for yourselves.’
She tells them she should be dead, that no normal person could have survived the arms of the Thames twice. When she describes how long she was under water and how forcefully it overcame her, both of her listeners shrink with the horror of it and neither can repress their anguish.
‘So you see, it was, it is, a miracle. God has brought me back from the dead.’
Another silence.
Then Constance stands and retrieves one of Rafe’s halo paintings from where it hangs over the writing desk.
‘No, Verity. God has nothing to do with this. It is the boy.’
‘What?’ Verity and Percy ask in unison.
‘I never believed it until now. I am … I am terrified,’ Constance whispers.
‘Oh, sister. What are you thinking?’ Verity asks.
‘It is completely irrationa
l, but it also makes sense in some bizarre way. Think of it. Why does Rafe need such stringent protection? Why is it that Clovis Fowler, her servant, and I assume, Mr Fowler and his apprentice have survived their ordeals? Especially Mr Fowler and his noose! And the long sleep, it is not a normal thing, Verity. It is to do with the boy. Think of the way in which Clovis Fowler interrogated me about Rafe’s fever. And Benedikt! There is a reason he devotes every hour to Rafe. Oh, heaven knows there are gaping holes and an immense number of unanswered questions, but …’
‘Wait, wait. Hold right there, Constance,’ Percy interrupts.
‘Percy, we must confide in you now. We have not told you the entire story. You must promise us that you will never betray us.’
‘Dear God, what have you done?’
‘Nothing. Not a thing, except loved a child as if he were our own.’
They speak late into the night. They weigh the fantastical against the practical. Verity makes her view clear that even if the miracle is down to Rafe, it is the will of God and His power that makes Rafe special. Constance is not as certain.
Percy is so shaken that they send him home to his worrying wife and sleeping children. But he goes solid, and forever loyal and protective of the sisters, as the Fitzgerald family has always vowed to be.
‘It is good that he knows. We will need him,’ Verity says.
Constance draws a sharp breath. ‘Did you think of me even once, Verity, before you threw yourself into the river? she asks.
‘I was possessed of an overpowering desire, Constance. If I allowed myself even a moment’s thought of you, I would not have been able to do it.’
Constance sighs. ‘It will take me some time to forgive you.’
‘I know.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
1846
Spring comes late this year. In March the temperature in Hyde Park drops to below freezing. The trees’ green-pointed buds are frozen beneath ice caplets. The haze over London is so dark and thick that travel is suddenly impossible. After the murk clears, heavy snow falls for two days, and after the snow comes a great frost. By the end of March, a bustling, wildly active scene is erected on the banks of the frozen Serpentine.
The lake area is noisy with barkers, music, sledges, children playing and drunks singing. Food is roasting and commerce is at its peak. Fires dot the area and offer warmth that many people cannot afford at home. Thousands of spectators marvel at the scene on the frozen Serpentine.
Chinese lanterns in red, blue, green and yellow throw splashes of vivid colour onto the ice. There are but a few short hours left of the daylight and this fact brings everyone onto the ice at once. The sisters had avoided the Serpentine entirely until Percy had persuaded them to join him, endeavouring to relieve them of their anxious fear of returning to the scene where the unthinkable had occurred.
Now that Percy is safely on his way home, the sisters are more relaxed in their wanderings. They stop for a piece of steaming gingerbread, not at all concerned that their gloves become sticky and soiled.
‘It seems all of London is here today,’ Constance says.
‘Oh sister, look who comes. It is too late to avoid him.’
‘Mrs Fitzgerald?’
Marland Unger’s ears are red-tipped from the cold, yet he perspires from a long skating session. A little breathless, his broad smile turns strange when he takes the sisters in at close range.
‘Marland, how well you look,’ Constance says.
But Marland cannot coax his smile back, try as he might to pluck it from wherever it hides.
‘The canals are frozen too are they not?’ Verity asks.
He stares at them unable to look away. The power of speech fails him.
‘I just remarked that it seems all of London is here today,’ Constance perseveres, clutching her lavender cape more tightly.
Marland tips the corner of his flat cap.
‘Good day to you both,’ he mumbles, and skates away, casting back fearful glances.
‘I did say, didn’t I?’ says Constance. ‘His mother ages quickly, so it is even more pronounced that we do not.’
‘I did not know it was that noticeable,’ Verity says. ‘I thought we had a few years left before we need worry about our appearances.’
Almost to the edge of the lake now, the sisters are moments from turning their back on the winter scene when a boy with flame-coloured hair catches Constance’s eye. In a green-velvet coat that flips in the wind, he skates freely and without abandon, yet there is a wistful look upon his face that speaks volumes of how little he seems to be enjoying it.
Constance stops, paralyzed.
‘What now?’ Verity asks.
He looks younger than his fourteen years, not yet travelled through his adolescence.
Verity follows the trail to the object of her sister’s view.
‘Oh. Oh dear God,’ she says.
Constance feels her heart stop and then it kicks another beat. There is the shimmer of the golden chain that hangs down his waistcoat. At the moment they recognize the ring swinging from the chain, the boy casts his gaze towards them.
He shouts out, calling the names that he used when he was young and could not pronounce their names.
‘Auntie Connie! Auntie Very!’
How many people Constance pushes aside she does not know or care. The sisters shove and struggle to get closer to him, raising their voices to be heard over the raucous throng.
The Fowlers spot the sisters just as chaos erupts in the crowd.
‘Oh, Constance, those men! They make their way to Rafe!’
The men are bearded and stocky and practised skaters. One carries a club of some kind that he uses to push people away, clearing a path to his target. Finn Fowler grabs the coat-tails of one of them, who swiftly bashes him until Finn falls on the ice. The other man sends Clovis flying with a massive shove.
Another flash of swishing, black cloth appears, cutting through the bystanders. Benedikt skates magnificently towards the two men just as they make an attempt to sweep Rafe away. He knocks them off their feet.
The crowd, which impedes the sisters’ efforts to move in closer to Rafe, is stirred to protect the boy, but the weight of so many people on the same frame of ice is fatal. Beneath the pressure, the ice floor begins to bend and give. An awful cracking sound cuts the air. The sisters freeze in sheer terror and disbelief.
The men who were in pursuit of Rafe run away, lost amongst the stalls. Benedikt lets them go, his main concern is Rafe who is now sinking into the icy water. Benedikt dives in after him, both of them disappearing. Hundreds of people stand breathless, silent. A man unwraps his scarf and holds it above the break in the ice. But there is no hand to clasp it.
All are now certain of two deaths. The ice marshals try to break through the crowd but the density of the throng impedes their progress.
Constance whispers frantically into Verity’s ear. ‘I will not allow him to enter the frozen world of the dead. Not again. Never again.’
In the bitter cold of what is left of the day, Constance removes her shoes, then her cape, stole and hat. She slides in stockinged feet through the swarm of people. Not even Clovis can stop her now. Fearless, she approaches the edge of the ice break and steps down into the water. She vanishes.
Down, down Constance falls into the Serpentine. She begins to swim, her eyes open and searching. She swims until she spots Benedikt’s black coat. He is still alive and still searching. He sees her, shakes his head ‘no’ and points in the other direction. Constance turns and swims away from him. Benedikt directs his search to another area.
Constance spots the red hair first. Rafe is floating along as if asleep. She captures him and cradles him in her arms. Her fingers clasp his wrist. Alive. She should not have doubted. Benedikt has turned back to witness the rescue. Her view of him is obscured by dirty slush, but Constance catches something in his eyes – some superhuman emotion is on the verge of erupting from this strange man, and then it is gone. There
is something else about his eyes, something she recognizes in a hair’s breadth and then it too is gone. She swims to find the opening, for she is unsure how far she has searched. Rafe’s eyes open for a brief moment. He recognizes Constance and squeezes her hand. She did not think it possible to shed tears while immersed in icy water.
Swimming with one hand towards the dim light that illuminates the opening in the ice, her eyes feast upon every surface of him.
When they emerge from the water and after they have been pulled onto the safe ice, the crowd roars, ‘Bravo!’
Then, when the moment passes, as if pulled by a magnet, they collectively step away – for how is this possible? How did these three people survive this ordeal? Impossible!
Clovis and a fully recovered Finn rush in and with brusque pushes against the remaining onlookers, they snatch the boy from Constance’s arms, swiftly removing him from the site of the commotion.
Willa and Jonesy cast a parting glance at the sisters. An acknowledgement of some sort is entangled within it, as if the four of them long to speak, but the young people are impotent under Clovis’s furious orders. They reluctantly trail off after their master and mistress.
Still more confusion besets the scene as a covey of journalists descend on Constance. They surround her, panting like thirsty dogs with hanging tongues. They want their story of the silver headed heroine who mysteriously and outrageously survived the icy water of the Serpentine.
Verity wraps her stole around Constance and tries to stuff her hands into her hat.
‘What are you doing? For God’s sake Verity, run after them. Follow the Fowlers.’
‘I will not leave you here like this, Constance.’ Verity is incredulous.
‘Go! Go! I am frozen and cannot move quickly enough. Go! Verity, please. I will live.’
‘I will not abandon you.’ Verity turns on the journalists. ‘Leave us, you vultures.’
‘Your names are Constance and Verity? Any surnames you’d care to help us with, ladies? Are you related? What happened under the ice? Who is the boy? You were under for over ten minutes – how do you explain it? Might you give us a word or two?’
The Parentations Page 29