by Anne Perry
She went down to the withdrawing room, and there was no one there.
Caroline’s morning began equally wretchedly, but she was looking for something to do to keep her mind from turning over and over the same miserable thoughts when she half overheard the one manservant they kept talking with the housemaid.
“How could I?” he said indignantly. They were standing by the sideboard in the dining room and she was regarding the silver with distaste. “That old devil sent me out in a rush like the house was on fire. Had to go. She said it was urgent, life an’ death, as you might say.”
“Sent you?” she said with her eyebrows raised. “Where?”
“To fetch Mr. Fielding, of course,” he replied. “And he came home hotfoot, and threw out that American gentleman that’s been here so often. Then went right back out hisself.”
“Pity.” She shook her head. “He was very nice spoken, but I s’pose he was here a bit much, like. Anyway, I’ve got no time to stand here gossiping, and neither have you. You’d best get those knives done now, and quick, or Cook’ll be after you. You’re all behind!”
“So would you be, if you’d been all the way to the theatre an’ back!” he retorted, picking up the knives and going out, leaving the door open.
Caroline stood still, her mind racing. Joshua had not come home by chance. The old lady had sent for him, knowing Samuel was there. Why? And what had she said?
What else had she done? Had she somehow caused Samuel to come at five in the afternoon, uninvited? And then he had behaved as if Caroline had summoned him.
As she stood in the hall, her thoughts racing, there was a certainty growing in her mind which she did all she could to suffocate, drive out of existence. She must learn the truth, and that must be from Samuel himself.
If only Charlotte or Emily were there, she would take one of them with her. As it was she would have to go alone. She dreaded it so much it must be done immediately, before she could think about it and lose her courage. Joshua would never understand. This might make it all even worse. He would think she was chasing after Samuel, after he had forbidden him the house.
And what would Samuel himself think? That made her cold to the pit of her stomach.
Yet to leave it as it was would be worse. There was no point in asking the old lady. She would never tell the truth.
She put on her hat and coat, informed the parlormaid she was going out, and left.
The journey was terrible. Half a dozen times she nearly lost her nerve and told the hansom driver to take her home again, but the knowledge of the days and weeks ahead of loneliness, of never being able to understand or tell Joshua the truth, was enough to spur her on.
She arrived at the hotel where Samuel was staying and went to the desk. She asked for him and was told he was in the lounge. She allowed the bellboy to conduct her through.
Samuel was reading the newspaper. There were three other men in the room, all equally absorbed. She forced herself to be calm and walked over to him.
He glanced up, then recognized her, and the color burned up his face.
It was too late to run, as she would have. For a moment she could hardly breathe.
He stood up. “Good morning, Mrs. Fielding,” he said stiffly.
She could feel her face flame. “Good morning, Mr. Ellison. I am sorry to intrude on your time in this way, most particularly after our last parting.” That was an extraordinary understatement of events. “But there are too many things that I do not understand, and I fear my mother-in-law may have been meddling with the intention of causing trouble. I do not yet know why.”
He looked confused and more than a little embarrassed. “I . . . if . . . of course. If you believe it will help?”
“I do.” She sat down without waiting to be invited, smoothing her skirt self-consciously. She was intensely aware of his presence within a few feet of her. She wondered if he felt as aware of her.
“I’m sorry.” He apologized for the oversight in his manners, then sat down sharply himself.
This was dreadful.
They both started to speak at once, she to ask why he had called. She never knew what he was about to say.
They both stopped.
“I’m sorry . . .” He colored deeply, but he did not move his eyes from her face.
She looked down at her hands. “Why did you come yesterday afternoon? I had the impression you thought I expected you.”
“You had the impression?” His voice rose in disbelief.
“Yes.” She avoided looking up. “Was I mistaken?”
She heard the crinkle of paper and saw it in front of her. It was held in his hand, pushed forward.
She read it with horror that crawled over her skin and left her cold. She found her voice hoarse when she tried to speak.
“I didn’t write that!” Dear God, he had to believe her. And yet her first thought was to pray that Joshua had not seen it. He would be so hurt, so . . . betrayed. “I did not write that!” She looked up and met his eyes. She was angry now, not for herself but for Joshua. “It was my mother-in-law who sent the manservant for Joshua to come home. I believe it was she who wrote the note to you as well.” She kept it in her hand and stood up. “I am very sorry. Please believe me, I am! I like you, I enjoy your company, but whatever I had felt, I would never have written a letter like that. I apologize that you were misled by a member of my family, and for the embarrassment it has occasioned. But I am about to go home and address the matter.” She did not ask if she could keep the letter. She had no intention whatsoever of giving it up. “Thank you for seeing me,” she added. She was about to say something about a good day, and abandoned it as absurd. She glanced at him once again, then turned and left.
Mariah was sitting alone in the withdrawing room telling herself that the danger had passed, and she had only done what was necessary, when the door opened and Caroline came in. She looked very pale and there were shadows around her eyes. The pain in her face needed no explanation.
At that moment the old lady would have given all she possessed to have undone yesterday, but she knew nothing could ever be undone. A last thought flickered out somewhere inside her, and the darkness was complete.
“We are not at home,” Caroline said to the maid, somewhere behind her. “Not to anyone. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mrs. Fielding, not to anyone.”
“Good. Now, do not interrupt us.”
“No, ma’am.”
Caroline closed the door and faced the old lady.
“Now!” she said grimly. “You are going to explain this!” She held out the slightly crumpled letter in her hand.
The old lady stared up at her. There was no yielding in her face, her eyes did not waver, no softening.
“Explain?” she repeated through dry lips.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know,” Caroline said grimly. “Samuel received this letter inviting him to call yesterday. It is a highly suggestive letter, and he came expecting . . . Heaven knows what! Then you sent Joseph to the theatre to fetch Joshua so he would arrive and misread the situation.” She held up the letter. “Someone used my name. That could only have been you.”
Denial sprang to the old lady’s lips, and she saw in Caroline’s face that she would not be believed. There was a kind of finality in the moment. A black void of hate opened up in front of her. There was nothing left to lose now. The pen was not where she had expected it. It was not the past after all, it was the present, the loss now. It was the knowledge of having destroyed it all herself.
“I am waiting!” Caroline said sharply. “This requires an explanation. Why did you send Samuel this letter in my name?”
Could she disclaim any knowledge? Say she sent the letter to prevent Caroline from becoming involved in an affair and ruining her marriage? Would Caroline believe her? No. It was a travesty, and they both knew it.
The ultimate nightmare was real at last. This was the moment when the truth would begin. She might delay it, push it befor
e her in bits and pieces into the future, but in the end it would all be known. It would be clearer to tell it now, like a quick kill. There was nothing left to lose, it was only the manner of it that was in question.
Caroline was still staring at her, implacable.
The old lady took a long, deep breath.
“Yes, I sent him the letter in your name to get him here. I knew he would come, for you . . .”
At any other time Caroline’s blush would have given the old lady satisfaction. Now she barely noticed it.
“I assume you will tell me why,” Caroline said coldly.
“Of course.” The old lady gulped air and felt it painful inside her. “I intended Joshua to find you together and throw him out, and forbid him ever to come here again.”
Caroline sat down as if her legs had given way, her skirts all squashed around her.
“Why? What has he ever done that you should even dislike him, let alone do something . . . so . . .” She was lost for words, and her voice trailed off helplessly. She looked as if all understanding had fled from her.
There was no alternative. Caroline had to know. It would only be harder if she left it. Now was the time. Half a century of secret pain was about to be opened up without comfort or mercy.
“Because he knows. He must!” the old lady said hoarsely. “I thought I couldn’t live with that. Now I am going to have to.”
“Knows?” Caroline shook her head a little. “Knows what? What could he possibly know that would be worth . . . that?”
Finally the nightmare was real, something no longer private. It was fixed inescapably, dragged from the darkness of the inner soul and spread wide open. Even if the old lady could forget it, even for a day, others would always remember. Somehow she had lost control of it.
Caroline leaned forward in her chair, crushing her skirt further. “Mama-in-law! What is it you think Samuel knows?” She moistened her lips. “Were you not married to Father Ellison?”
The old lady wanted to laugh. That would have been shameful— of course it would—and it would mean both her children would be illegitimate. But somehow it looked almost trivial compared with what she would have to tell Caroline.
“Yes, I was married to him. He divorced Alys perfectly legally, and I knew of her existence. My father saw to all that.”
“Then what?” Caroline demanded. “It obviously has to do with Alys, or Samuel could not know about it.”
“Yes it has. It has to do with why she left. Have you never wondered why she did something so extreme, so dangerous, and both legally and socially unacceptable?”
“Yes, of course I have,” Caroline said instantly. “But I could hardly ask. I assumed she ran off with someone, and then he abandoned her, and of course she would not then go back to Grandpapa. She must have left before she knew she was with child. No one could doubt Samuel is Grandpapa’s.”
“That is what one would assume,” Mariah agreed very quietly. “It is not what happened.”
There must have been something in her voice which struck Caroline in a new way, more deeply, and with a stab of tragedy. She barely moved, but there was a gentleness in her eyes, an attention which no longer made judgments.
“Why did she go?” she said in little more than a whisper.
This was the moment. It was like plunging into black, stinking water, ice-cold to take the breath away.
“Because he forced her into unnatural practices—painful, degrading things no human should do . . .” It was like hearing someone else’s voice.
Caroline drew in her breath as if she had been struck. Her face was white to the lips, her eyes hollow. She started to speak, then faltered and fell silent. She began to shake her head in short, sharp little movements.
“I thought you wouldn’t believe me,” the old lady said quietly. “No one would. It is not something you can tell . . . not anyone . . . not ever.”
“But . . . but you didn’t know Alys!” Caroline protested. “Samuel didn’t tell you . . .” Again she stopped. She stared fixedly into the old lady’s eyes. In all the years they had known each other they had never met in a look so honest. Caroline took in a long, shaking breath and let it out in a sigh. “You mean . . .” She put her hand up to her lips as if to stifle the next words. “You mean he . . . you . . .”
“Don’t say it!” Mariah pleaded. This was absurd, futile. She ached to be believed, and here she was begging Caroline not to give words to the truth.
“Un . . . natural?” Caroline struggled with the word.
Mariah shut her eyes. “I believe men do it to each other . . . at least some men do. It is known as sodomy. It is more painful than you can imagine . . . against your will. It is your pain which . . . which gives him pleasure.” The rage and humiliation of it poured back over her, bringing her body out in sweat. “He made me strip naked, on my hands and knees, like an animal—”
“Stop it!” Caroline’s voice was high and shrill. “Stop it! Stop it!” She put up her hands, palms outward, to push it away.
“You can’t imagine your father-in-law like that, can you?” Mariah whispered. “Or me? Together on the floor like dogs, me weeping with pain and humiliation, wishing I could die, and him more and more excited, shouting, unable to control himself until he was finished.”
“Stop it!” Caroline moved her fingers to her mouth. “Don’t!”
“You can’t listen?” The old lady was shaking so violently with the memory of it she could hardly speak without stuttering. “I l-lived with it . . . for years . . . all my married life. He died of a stroke like that, naked, on the floor, without his clothes. I’d prayed for him to d-die . . . and he did! I crept away from him and washed myself—he often made me bleed—then went back to look at him. He was still dead, lying on the floor on his face. I washed him, and put his nightshirt on him before I called anyone.”
There was horror in Caroline’s eyes, but denial was slowly being replaced by the beginning of pity.
“You always said . . . you said you loved him . . .” she began. “He was so . . . such a wonderful man . . . you said you were so happy!”
The old lady felt the bitter heat of shame in her cheeks. “What would you have said?” she asked. “The truth?”
“No . . .” There were tears in Caroline’s voice. “Of course not. I don’t know . . . I don’t know what I would have done. I can’t imagine it . . . I can’t . . . I don’t know. It . . .” She did not say it was not true, but it was there in her voice, her face, the stiff, tight angle of her shoulders.
“You can’t believe it!” It was a challenge, laying bare her own humiliation and her cowardice all those years. No one would believe that Alys left, her courage, her dignity, and Mariah remained, to be used like an animal.
“I . . .” Caroline stopped, lifting her hands helplessly.
“Why didn’t I go . . . as Alys did?” The words were torn out, like barbed wire. “Because I am a coward.” There it was, the lowest ugliness of all, the loathing, the self-disgust, not just that she had been reduced to bestiality, her human dignity stripped from her, but that she had stayed and allowed it to go on happening. She made no excuses. There were none. Whatever Caroline thought of her, it could not equal the contempt she had for herself.
Caroline looked at the old woman’s face, tight and crumpled with pain and years of bitterness. The self-hatred was naked in her eyes, and the despair.
She rejected the idea. It was obscene. And yet it made a hideous sense. Part of her believed it already. But if it was true, it shattered so much of her world, the ideals and the people she had trusted. If behind the self-composed manner, the smile and the Sunday prayers, Edmund Ellison had been a sexual sadist, submitting his wife to humiliating cruelties in the secrecy of their own bedroom, then who, anywhere, was what he seemed? If even his familiar face hid ugliness so appalling her imagination refused to grasp it, then what was safe . . . anywhere?
And yet looking at the old woman in front of her, she could not push the trut
h of it away. Something terrible had happened to her. Something had precipitated the years of anger and cruelty she had exercised on her family. The hatred she seemed to feel for the world, anyone and everyone, was really for herself. She saw the worst in others because she saw it in her own heart. And for years she had despised her inability to fight against it, to defend her humanity from degradation and pain. She was a coward, and she knew it. She had submitted, and endured, rather than run away into the dangerous and unknown as Alys had done, alone, penniless, with nothing but her courage and her desperation. No wonder Samuel admired his mother so profoundly.
Mariah had stayed with her husband, living with it, night after night, putting on a brave, smooth face every day, then going up to her bedroom knowing what would happen . . . and it had, year after year, until he had finally died and set her free. Except that she was not free, she was as much imprisoned as when he had been alive, because the memory and the loathing were still there, locked inside her.
“Did you really think Samuel would tell anyone?” Caroline said gently, not knowing why these words came to her lips.
There were tears in the old lady’s eyes, although no one else would ever know whether they were grief, rage or self-pity.
“He knew . . . at least . . .” Suddenly her eyes were hollow with doubt. “I think he did. He might have told, but I couldn’t live with the uncertainty . . . if he . . .”
Caroline waited.
The old lady sniffed. “I’m sorry for what I did to you. You didn’t deserve that. I . . . I wish I hadn’t.”
Caroline reached forward and very tentatively touched the ancient hand lying on the black skirt. It was stiff and cold under her fingers.
“There are many kinds of courage,” she said softly. “Running away is one of them. Remaining is another. What would have happened to Edward and Suzannah if you had gone? You could not have taken them with you over to America. It would be illegal. The police would have come after you.”