The Binding

by Bridget Collins

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Her voice is flat. Doesn’t she realise that it’s half a year’s wages? She could take it and leave.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ I turn away.

  ‘Will that be all, sir?’

  ‘Yes, that’s all.’

  She leaves. The door closes with a soft click. I sit down at the desk and start to reread yesterday’s correspondence, but I can’t concentrate. I don’t want to see anyone and I don’t want to be alone. Stupid.

  I rub my temples until they burn with friction. The perfume of lilies lingers on my skin, sweet and heavy. In less than a week … I shut my eyes and think of a grey wall, curving up and over me. I’m alone, I’m safe.

  I raise my head. There was a noise of something falling.

  Silence. I take a mouthful of tea but it’s nearly cold. I wait and listen but the house is completely still. The clock ticks, dropping seconds into the air like coins into a begging bowl. I pull the nearest letter towards me and rest my elbows on the desk. Betty’s voice echoes in the hall; then there’s the click of her feet as she crosses to my father’s study. Then nothing.

  Just as I lower my eyes again, she starts to scream.

  My father’s study door is open. I don’t give myself time to think. ‘What’s happening?’

  Nell is hanging against the cabinet. Her head sags to one side. The sharp ammoniac smell of urine catches the back of my throat.

  Betty is in the middle of the room, her hands pressed against her mouth. She’s breathing in harsh sobs. I look round, surprised at how real everything is, at the rich sheen on the legs of the overturned chair and the minute reflections in the puddle of piss. There’s a dried-up rose petal curled like a scab on the floor, the same colour as the wallpaper. The clock slows until there’s more silence than tick. Then I realise that it isn’t the clock at all, it’s the sound of Nell’s wet skirt dripping. With a rush the air fills my lungs and I take a step forward. ‘Get out.’

  Betty flinches as if I’ve hit her. ‘She’s – I – she—’

  ‘Tell the boot-boy to run for the doctor. Now.’

  I glance around for something to cut the rope – a letter-opener or a penknife. But it’s all been tidied away. The ebony table is as bare as a dark mirror.

  Panic floods through me. I can’t think. I’m wasting time. If Nell is still alive …

  I stumble towards the cabinet. My reflection slides into view in the glass behind her, behind the peacock feathers and gilded elephant’s tusk. I look into my own eyes and smash my fist into the pane.

  It breaks. Blades and triangles of glass fall into the cabinet and glint among the curios. I drag one of the shards away from the frame. It comes away with a sudden jolt that sends pain shooting up my arm. I set the chair upright and clamber on to it. I don’t look at Nell’s face. I saw at the rope – not a rope, a piece of fabric, a sash or a belt of some kind – with the edge of the glass until it parts and Nell collapses forward. I try to support her weight but she’s too heavy. I sway and nearly fall. The chair tips. I manage to put one foot flat on the floor. My knees buckle and I land awkwardly. Beside me Nell has fallen like a sack of cotton waste, slumped and shapeless.

  I drop to my knees. I catch sight of her face and shut my eyes. I have to check her pulse but great icy shivers are running through me and I’m scared I’ll vomit on her. I open my eyes and keep them focused on the wallpaper opposite me. I lean forward and push my fingers into the crease where the belt has bitten deep into her neck. Her skin feels tepid and doughy. Nothing. ‘Please, Nell,’ someone says, a friendly, reasonable voice. ‘Come on. Please. Stop this. Please.’

  She doesn’t move. I pull at the knot. It doesn’t give. I pick at it with shaking fingers. If I can undo the knot I can undo everything else. All the time I’m talking to her. ‘You don’t want to do this, Nell. Please. Don’t do this. Please.’ The knot comes apart. I drag the cloth out from under her jaw. Her head rolls to the side. Her eyes are …

  I go to stand up but my head swims. I crouch on the floor and try not to be sick.

  ‘Get up, boy.’

  I catch my breath so hard it sounds like a gulp of laughter.

  ‘Get up.’ My father takes hold of my arm and pulls me to my feet. I stagger to the nearest chair and lean on it. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘She brought me tea. Maybe an hour ago.’

  He looks down at her. ‘She’s pissed herself.’

  ‘I think she’s dead.’ The word feels wrong, as if I’ve never said it before.

  ‘Of course she’s dead, look at her eyes. Stupid little bitch. Ah well, at least Sandown won’t ask any questions.’

  There’s a silence. He reaches for the bell-pull. ‘She hanged herself, did she? Where’s all the blood come from?’ He glances at me and his face changes. ‘Damn it, boy, what have you done?’

  I look down. Blood is running down my wrist and soaking into the cuff of my dressing gown. There are smears everywhere. Nell looks as if someone slashed her throat. A cut gapes open on my palm. Surely it should hurt more than it does. ‘I’m fine. It’s just a scratch.’

  ‘We’ll ask Sandown to look at it. No harm in him knowing you hurt yourself trying to get her down. Ah. Betty.’ She’s wet-faced and trembling but he clicks his fingers at Nell’s body as if it’s something he’s spilt. ‘Call the coachman to get this moved. And then send the stable-boy for Dr Sandown.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Oh, and bring a bandage for Mr Lucian.’

  I watch my blood well up. He’s right. It will be useful for him, if anyone asks why Nell would want to do … that. He can point to my scar. Look how much we loved her.

  I tilt my hand and it drips on to the table. Tick, tick in the silence. Someone has let the clock run down, or it would be keeping time with me. I watch the puddle spread. Another housemaid will try to get the stain out of the dark wood. Not Nell, with her bitten nails and chapped bony knuckles.

  ‘You started again, didn’t you?’

  My father freezes. Slowly he turns to me. ‘What did you say?’

  I can’t repeat it. I don’t need to. I can see his answer in his eyes.

  ‘Don’t you dare.’ He says it so softly it’s almost a whisper. ‘Don’t you ever, ever say that again.’

  I lift my chin. He can’t laugh at me any more. Now, if I told, someone might believe me. Now it would matter.

  He crosses the room and stands in front of me.

  ‘You think you’re clever, don’t you, boy? I suppose you’re pleased that she’s killed herself. Finally someone might listen to you.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you that my secrets are your secrets too? That if I fail, if my business fails, if my reputation fails … It’ll be your life, too. You think the Ormondes would still want you? You think anyone would want you?’

  ‘It’s a risk I’m prepared to take.’

  ‘Oh, Lucian. You think you’re so different from me, don’t you? You think you’re the good one. I’m the old reprobate, and you’re young and pure.’ He sighs. ‘You’ve forgotten a lot, haven’t you?’

  My heart judders as if something’s hit it. I clench my fist and blood squeezes out between my fingers. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your own book, Lucian. Your own binding.’ He leans close to me. ‘Look at Nell. You think I killed her. You think you could never do something like that.’

  The world is very still. Obediently, stupidly, I look at Nell. Her eyes are half open and the whites are blotched and dark. It’s not her. It’s not human. Her tongue is protruding. My blood is caking on her livid cheek. My stomach heaves and I wrench myself away, swallowing hard. The wallpaper blurs in a mess of pink and dark red.

  ‘My book,’ I hear myself say. ‘What do you mean?’

  The door opens. ‘Thank you, Betty. Just leave it here.’ My father watches her leave before he dips the square of linen into the basin and wrings it out. ‘Show me where you’ve hurt yourself.’

 
; My pulse beats in my fingers and throbs all the way up my arm. ‘No.’ I keep my fist closed, holding on to the pain as if it’s an object.

  He sighs. ‘Don’t be so childish.’

  The door again: the coachman and the ostler, treading warily in their muddy boots. The coachman startles back when he sees Nell on the floor, but he nods at my father’s instructions and between them they pick her up and take her out. Another body on the hearth. Only this time it’s dead, not just unconscious. I imagine them laying her on the kitchen table, her feet tilting away from each other, her damp skirt smearing urine into the grain of the wood. I can’t stand up any more. I pull out a chair and sit.

  My father takes my hand and uncurls my fingers. He wipes the wet linen across the mess of blood in my palm until I can see the clean line of the cut. He wrings it out into the white enamel bowl. A cloud of pink wafts into the water. ‘You poor boy,’ he says. ‘Does it hurt?’

  I don’t answer. I’m shaking. I let him hold on to me.

  ‘Now. You’re not going to do anything ill-advised. Are you, my dear?’

  There’s no sound but the splash of water. At last he reaches for a dry piece of cloth and folds it lengthwise to make a pledget. ‘You were bound a little over two months ago,’ he says. ‘You needn’t look like that, it was nothing to do with me. I would never have let you, if I’d known.’

  ‘Then—’ I stop. There’s a distant whine in my ears, making it impossible to think.

  ‘What was it you said? Anyone who chooses to forget is a coward. Although, considering …’ He lays the pad of linen over the cut and ties it in place with a long strip.

  I raise my eyes to his.

  ‘Oh yes, I know what it was you wanted to forget,’ he says. ‘But I don’t know which binder you went to. It could have been anyone.’ He finishes the knot and tucks the ends neatly under.

  ‘I—’ But I can’t think. It wasn’t me. I wouldn’t have.

  ‘Let me give you some advice, dear boy.’ He strokes my cheek. ‘Let it lie.’

  I pull away. ‘What?’

  ‘This unfortunate episode – let it be a lesson to you.’ He gestures to the frayed end of fabric that still hangs from the curved top of the cabinet. ‘Don’t do anything stupid. You need my protection more than ever now. You’re safe. Don’t jeopardise that.’

  ‘You mean my book.’

  ‘You know I can’t tell you what’s in it.’ He rubs his eyes. ‘I’m not sure I’d want to. If you knew …’

  I close my eyes. The scent of lilies rises from nowhere. ‘It’s bad,’ I say. ‘Isn’t it?’

  He shifts in his seat. It seems a very long time before he replies. ‘I’m sorry, Lucian. I’m afraid it’s very bad.’

  I get up. The shattered glass of the cabinet gapes at me. There are smears of blood and piss on the floor. I’ve left a red footprint on the rug. The other stains still show. It’s ruined, that rug. My father might as well throw it away.

  ‘Perhaps it’s for the best. You can start a new life with Miss Ormonde.’

  I glance at him over my shoulder. That was where he sat when he threatened to send me to the insane asylum, the next time I defied him. Now he looks as weary as me.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. There’s nothing more to say. All I can do now is go upstairs and change my shirt. Wait until noon, when I can have a drink. Think of the grey wall in my head. Try to stay sane.

  As I leave he adds, ‘I’m sure it won’t fall into the wrong hands.’

  XXIII

  Alderney Street is longer than I remember, all narrow white houses and railings and pavements deep with last night’s snow. Every other door has a brass plaque beside it. By the time I find number twelve my feet are aching with cold and my eyes are stinging from the dazzle of the sun. I pause in front of the steps. A woman in mourning is coming out of the door. She snatches down her veil when she sees me looking at her.

  I tip my hat to her and walk on. It’s only when she’s picked her way carefully down the street that I turn back and ring the bell.

  A thin, plain woman answers the door. She’s not a maid; she’s wearing striped bombazine in heliotrope and yellow. She stares at me through a pair of pince-nez. ‘Good afternoon. May I help you?’

  ‘I need to see Emmett Farmer.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Emmett Farmer.’ The cold air catches in the back of my throat and I cough. She shifts, looking pointedly over my shoulder, tapping her fingers on the doorframe until I’ve stopped. ‘He’s de Havilland’s apprentice. Tall, light brown hair, clean-shaven.’

  She raises her eyebrows at me. ‘Oh. The new boy.’

  ‘A young man. Yes.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s not here.’

  ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘He won’t.’

  I stare at her. ‘What?’

  She tilts her head so that the sun glares off her pince-nez and I can’t see her eyes. ‘May I ask what this is about? If you would like an appointment with Mr de Havilland it must be made in advance.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ I step forward. She quivers and straightens her arm, barring my way in a rustle of bright purple and a waft of violet water and camphor. I keep my voice level. ‘Let me in, please.’

  ‘There’s a two-week waiting list.’

  I push her out of the way. She squeaks in indignation but I’m already inside and I don’t look back. ‘De Havilland?’ On my left the door is ajar. I push it open. I get a vague impression of light blue-green walls, spindly chairs and orchids. There’s another door at the far end of the room with a sign: Consulting Room. ‘De Havilland!’

  De Havilland throws the far door open. ‘What on earth is going on? Miss Brettingham, I asked not to be disturbed.’ He sees me and adjusts his cravat. The diamond pin glitters. ‘My dear Mr Darnay, I wasn’t expecting … What a pleasure. How can I be of service?’

  ‘I came to see Emmett Farmer.’

  There’s a silence. De Havilland shakes his head sharply, looking over my shoulder. When I glance round Miss Brettingham is just retiring into the room on the other side of the hall, the violent colours of her dress dimmed to mauve and cream by the shadows. De Havilland turns the corners of his mouth downwards. ‘I do apologise, Mr Darnay. Emmett Farmer has unfortunately left us. Perhaps I can help?’

  ‘Where’s he gone?’

  He clears his throat. He gestures to a chair. When I don’t sit his smile flickers and he smoothes his moustache. ‘My establishment has an excellent reputation and the highest standards. I can’t employ anyone who shows the slightest sign of … vice.’ The stroking fingers pause on his top lip. Perhaps my face has changed. ‘I was obliged to send him away.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘I really have no idea.’ He tilts his head at me. ‘May I ask why you wanted to see him, particularly? I would be honoured to assist you myself.’

  I rub my forehead. The snow-dazzle is still dancing in front of my eyes. ‘It’s about a book,’ I say.

  ‘Indeed?’

  The room is too warm. It’s making me queasy. I take a few steps, breathing deeply. My shirt is sticking to my ribs. ‘My book. It appears that I …’ There’s a vase on a pedestal in front of me and I reach out and touch the creamy bloom of an orchid. It’s made of wax. I turn back to him. ‘I was bound. Emmett Farmer said – before he came to you, he worked at another bindery. Did you know? About my book?’

  He tugs at his waistcoat, pulling it lower. ‘No, no, I’m afraid not,’ he says. ‘How could I possibly have known?’

  ‘Emmett Farmer knew. I need to find it. I’m getting married.’ De Havilland knows that, of course. I fiddle with my gloves.

  ‘I can’t help you, Mr Darnay. I wish I could. If only you had come to me to be bound in the first place …’ He tilts his head regretfully.

  ‘I have to find him. Where would he have gone?’

  ‘Oh.’ De Havilland inhales slowly. He bends and re-arranges the illustrated papers on a low table. It seems to take a long time:
as if it matters whether the aquamarine cover of Parnassus lies next to The Illustrated Hunter or The Gentleman. Finally he stands up again and meets my eyes. ‘Mr Darnay … You mustn’t waste your time. Many young men have peccadilloes – no, please, listen to me. You cannot possibly find your book now. If, that is, it actually exists. Emmett Farmer was a liar and a thief. Please, take my advice. Forget about it. You have your whole life ahead of you. Let it go.’

  ‘It does exist. My father—’ I break off. ‘De Havilland, I would be grateful. Very grateful. My book is worth a lot to me. Fifty guineas. A hundred.’

  He blinks twice, rapidly. A twitch of regret passes across his face, almost too brief to see. ‘I’m very sorry that I can’t help you.’ He pulls his watch from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Now please excuse me. I have an important visit to make.’

  I catch him by the elbow. ‘When did he leave?’

  ‘In the middle of the night, the day before yesterday.’

  ‘And you don’t know where he was going?’

  He dabs at his sleeve to check whether I’ve left a mark, and brushes a grain of invisible dust away. Then he looks up at me. ‘I really am terribly sorry, Mr Darnay,’ he says. ‘But to be quite frank, for all I care he has frozen to death.’

  When I go out into the street the shadows are pale blue, picking out the tiny cliffs and glaciers of footprints. The air is icy. A hansom creaks slowly past. Steam rises from the horse, thick as a momentary fog. A passer-by skids and throws his arms out to steady himself. Otherwise the street is empty.

  I breathe in and it burns the back of my throat. I wrap my gloved hand around one of the spearheads that top the railing. The metal is cold. I bow my head and squeeze until fierce pain from my cut runs up my arm.

  Without looking up I know that someone has drawn back the lace curtain across the waiting room window. De Havilland is watching me, waiting for me to go.

  I walk down the steps and turn back the way I came. At the corner there’s an alley, its walls high and crusted with soot. I step into the shadows and make my way to the end. In front of me is a narrow muddy lane with a scatter of lean-tos, gates and open yards. About halfway along there’s a ramshackle wooden building, a little higher than the others. I stop in front of it and squint through a window. Behind a veil of grime, men bend over benches. One is hammering; one is hunched over something. Another glances up, and the book he’s holding shines red and gold.