The Resurrectionists

by Kim Wilkins

  Edward and I drank wine while Henri slept, his little cheeks smooth, his long eyelashes fanned upon the silken skin. Even the fireworks, somewhere within the city walls, did not wake him. We heard the bell toll midnight and Edward yawned conspicuously and began to talk about a good night’s sleep. It was time for me to make a decision. There is only one bed in this apartment, and yet there are three bodies. Henri is quite happy and comfortable in his drawer, but I knew Edward could no longer sleep on the floorboards for my comfort. I suppose that I could have chosen the floor – hardship and I are now quite devoted bedfellows – but the idea of the warm, soft, clean bed enchanted me. When Edward stood and stretched out his hand to me, I hesitated only a moment before taking it.

  I think that once you have loved, loved Passionately and Deeply, the physical type of your first love becomes the only physical type you may find attractive. I knew that Edward was a handsome man – robust, bright-eyed and smooth-skinned – but I felt no attraction to him. I remembered the time, nearly a year past, when he had almost kissed me. I had felt something then, but it was more the thrill of being desired, rather than the thrill of desire. And now, after all the death and misery to which I have been witness, to be desired seems such a vain and trivial aspiration. Still, I went with Edward, knowing I would not be the first woman to bestow her favour where she felt no longing. He had fed me and clothed me when all else was lost. I owed him.

  He led me to the bed and sat me down. Stood before me and loosened his cravat, removed his waistcoat, then sat beside me.

  “How I wish you would have let me buy you a blue dress, Gette,” he said, tenderly loosening my hair from its bonds. “It would have shown up the colour of your eyes.”

  “I am in mourning, Edward,” I replied.

  He leaned in, laid a gentle kiss upon my neck. I felt nothing. Nothing. I had deliberately blocked up the passages to feeling. It was the only way to protect myself. His hands wandered to my breasts, his fingers slipping inside my bodice. I started to tremble, but not with desire. With revulsion. He felt me shake and he turned his face up to mine, fixed me within his gaze. Without knowing why, I began to cry.

  “Gette?” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Edward.”

  He pulled away from me. “Do not be sorry. We can sleep here next to one another and we need not touch. Unless you need the comfort of my arms in the coldest part of the night.”

  “Thank you,” I said, though it was probably more a whisper. My throat had closed over and I could barely speak.

  I stripped down to my chemise and slid between the covers, let the heavy material fall over me. Edward lay beside me, turned to me, touching my hair. I fell asleep like that.

  Last night, Edward did not press me, and yet we slept again in the same bed, like brother and sister. I do not know how long this can continue, but if I spent time contemplating it I should be more miserable than I am already. I know Edward dearly wants me – I can see it in his gaze, I could feel it in the chaste goodbye kiss he pressed to my cheek this morning before he went downstairs to work. Who am I to refuse him? What else do I have to exchange for my keep? It is not as though I am a virgin and must save my maidenhead for the man I shall marry. I have loved and my love is gone. He shall not come again. What matters it if I lie with another now? Edward has been good and kind to me and to Henri. Perhaps in the future he may marry me and be Henri’s father.

  I cannot bear the thought. Forgive me my ingratitude.

  Wednesday, 7th January 1795

  How I hate to depend upon generosity. Edward will not let me help him with anything. He has a maid come three times a week to the apartment, and all is to be left to her. He says I must concentrate solely on regaining my health and taking care of the infant, and that he will not hear any protests otherwise. But the more I take from him, the more I feel that I owe. The situation is rapidly becoming unbearable, and only the remembrance of my husband, not yet two weeks in his watery grave, stops me from surrendering my body to Edward. The loss is so fresh that to give myself to Edward would amount to a gross disloyalty. Yet he expects it, I know he does. He has not pressed me, but I see he is waiting patiently, knowing that soon my own conscience will send me into his embrace.

  I cannot despise Edward, in spite of his expectations. He is so good to us, so solicitous of Henri, giving him cordials and the like to help him become stronger and fatter. Edward is also the first rational adult with whom I have spoken for many months. Virgil, towards the end, was half out of his wits with laudanum, Henri is just an infant, and we never had friends in Solgreve. So it is nice to have somebody to listen, to offer sympathy, to be rational and responsible. I need it.

  Last night, we sat at the table finishing our supper. I was feeding a reluctant Henri some mashed pumpkin – how quickly he has become fussy over food, when scarce a week ago there was nothing for him to eat – and Edward began to ask about the future.

  “What do you think you’ll do, Gette, when you’re recovered?”

  I had barely given it a thought. He misread my confusion.

  “I do not mean that I intend to remove you from my apartment any time soon,” he said quickly. Then, with a self-conscious laugh, “I hope I didn’t give you that impression.”

  “No, no,” I replied. “Only I haven’t thought much about the future. It seems so bleak and cold.”

  “Spring will come again,” Edward said, slicing some cheese and folding it in bread. “It may not seem so at the moment, but it will. Perhaps you will remarry. Have you written yet to your parents? Do they know of your latest misfortune?”

  I felt my breath trapped in my lungs. He didn’t know. Of course he didn’t, I had told no-one.

  “Gette?”

  “My parents are dead,” I said, pretending to concentrate very hard on feeding Henri.

  “Dead? Then you have an inheritance?”

  I shook my head. “They were traitors to the revolution. The government of France took their property.”

  “Gette, I’m sorry. I had no idea. How much loss you’ve had to bear, you poor, poor child.” He reached a hand across the table, but I did not respond. Henri took a breath and, for reasons only known to him, began to cry loudly.

  “Sh, sh, little one,” I said, dropping the spoon and putting him on my shoulder. “Don’t cry, don’t cry.”

  Edward waited while Henri screamed his lungs out, then by degrees fell to whimpering and then sleepy snuffles.

  “And Virgil had nothing to leave you, I suppose?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Georgette, how did he die?”

  “He grew ill. You know how prone he was to illness.”

  “I see. The way you spoke on the evening you arrived, I assumed he had died suddenly.”

  “It was sudden. It was a shock.”

  “And Flood had nothing to do with it?”

  “Flood? Why would he?” No force in the universe was going to draw from me the secret I knew about Solgreve. I especially was not going to reveal it to Edward, who would have reason to develop a terrible guilt for the small part he may have played in it.

  “Flood was a sinister man,” he said.

  “Flood was nothing more than an old fool,” I replied, keeping my voice even. “I shall be glad never to return to Solgreve.” And then I remembered my wedding band. You see, Diary, how haphazard my memory has become. My own wedding band – it had slipped down a corridor in my mind and been forgotten. I gasped.

  “What is it?” Edward asked.

  “I have just remembered. I pawned my wedding band for the money to come to York. I intended to find work or borrow some money to return for it.”

  “I shall lend you the money.”

  “No, Edward, you have already done so much.”

  “I shall give you the money,” he said imperiously. “You must have your ring. What else do you have to remember your marriage by?”

  I felt helpless and desolate, and tears once more pricked at my eyes. I stood and took He
nri to his drawer.

  Edward called after me, “Gette, be not so proud. Let me help you.”

  “I do not wish to think of it now,” I said.

  So here I am, faced with the choice. To leave my wedding ring in a shop in Solgreve, perhaps never to see it again. Or to let Edward give me the money and admit finally that I can no longer remain chaste in his bed at nights. I tell myself the ring is not important. But it is important, desperately so. And then, if my marriage was so sacred that I must retrieve the ring, it must also be too sacred a bond for me to abuse it by lying with Edward so soon after I have been widowed. Perhaps you think me an idiot, Diary. Perhaps you think that I should merely take money from Edward for as long as he is fool enough to give it to me, but many months past I led him to believe that I desired him. And it is that belief which convinces him his patience will reward him, and I must take responsibility for it.

  Sunday, 11th January 1795.

  Where to begin?

  I am in Whitby. I am alone.

  There, that is a start. Now I shall try to pull threads of sense from the confusion and write this down, for I have reached the nadir of my affliction and must understand it in order to continue drawing breath.

  Last night Henri lay upon a rug in front of the fire, amusing Edward and me with his smiles and gurgles and attempts to roll over. I noticed at one point Edward’s firm hand pressed into Henri’s side, as he leaned over to kiss him, and I felt the first glimmer of what might be an appreciation for Edward as a man, not just as a friend. At that moment, Edward looked up and his eyes met mine, and I suppose he saw affirmation there. And so the evening’s outcome had been decided.

  After Henri slept – my dear, dear Henri – Edward poured me a glass of wine and we sat up by the fire, talking in quiet voices in the dark so we did not wake the baby. We spoke of Virgil, and our tears fell freely. We spoke of his passion and his gentle humour, we remembered things he had said and done, we admired lines of his poetry and laughed at his vain weaknesses. Hours passed in this manner, and at the other side of this reminiscing I felt a little more reconciled to my loss. Do not mistake me: the pain was still very great, I remain raw with grief, and I still cannot believe that I will not see my husband again. But talking about him brought me a sneaking joy, a pride that I had known and loved the best of all men. It helped me think of approaching the future, of living my life always steeped in his memory, trying to find some small happiness because Virgil would have wanted me to find it, I know he would have.

  When our conversation had stilled and it could be avoided no longer, Edward rose from his chair and knelt before me. I put my arms around his shoulders and he pressed his head into my belly. I stroked his hair and closed my eyes and, because we had been so much involved with memories of Virgil, I imagined it was Virgil’s hair I was stroking. And then, it wasn’t so bad. Edward’s touch became Virgil’s touch in my imagination, and his fingers as they pushed into my sides no longer made me shudder with distaste. Perfectly normal for my husband to touch me in that manner. Perfectly normal for my husband to kiss my lips, gently at first then with more force, his tongue moving into my mouth, his hands pushing my head back against the chair.

  I felt myself go weak. My eyes remained closed, and every flicker and spark I felt was for Virgil. He unfastened the stays of my bodice, slowly stripped me down to my chemise.

  “Gette,” he said softly, and because it was not Virgil’s voice, I said, “Shh.” Maybe he thought I didn’t want to wake the baby. He made no other sound. I heard his clothes drop to the ground, and then his hot body was against mine. He pushed up my chemise and I wriggled out of it, feeling the fire warm on my skin. Fingertips brushed my breasts, light and tentative. My body responded, remembering every touch that Virgil had ever bestowed upon it. Kisses descended upon me and I wore them gladly just as I would have worn Virgil’s.

  I have spoken about my poor memory, about my fear that I am becoming addled in my mind. I know not when the precise moment was, but as Edward made love to me it suddenly and really became Virgil who was in my embrace. I do not know how to explain it better than that. I still had my eyes closed, and underneath my fingertips I really could feel Virgil’s long limbs and his fine hair. I gasped when it happened, and my lover took it as a gasp of desire. He pulled my legs gently forward and pushed them apart, clung to me and fumbled for a moment before entering me. Yes, it was Virgil. I felt my lips making his name, but the sound remained trapped in my throat. The hard pressure of his body against mine was divine. I moved with him, heard his breathing near my ear, and I loved him with every particle of my soul. Hot tears ran down my face and he kissed them away. His passion built. I locked my legs around his back. But when the moment of his ecstasy arrived, he suddenly pulled out of me. The shock made me open my eyes, and it wasn’t Virgil, of course it wasn’t. It was just Edward, his eyes half-closed in sexual release, spilling his seed on my belly.

  In an instant, my body began to shudder. Edward fell back on his haunches and I drew my legs up towards me, reached for my chemise to cover myself. The awful stickiness of his issue upon my skin revolted me. My hands flew to my face, and I hid behind them in shame.

  “Gette?” he said, concerned.

  “Be quiet,” I said, “you’ll wake Henri.”

  Henri. I glanced towards the drawer. My son. My husband’s son. He was in the same room as my sin. What kind of woman was I?

  Edward chuckled, gathered his clothes. “Henri could sleep through anything.”

  I could not look at him. I kept my eyes down, made no motion to get dressed. I wanted him to go away and I wanted to clean every trace of him off me.

  “Oh, Gette, please,” he said, standing and dressing himself. “It’s not so bad, is it? I’m not so bad.”

  I merely shook my head, refusing to meet his eyes.

  He touched my hair. “You are so beautiful, my dear. Come, let’s go to bed.”

  “I’m not tired. I shall sit up a while.”

  He sighed, knelt once more beside me. “I know what might cheer you up. The day after tomorrow we shall travel to Solgreve to fetch your wedding ring. Here.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a handful of money, offered it to me. “Look, we have sufficient to buy it back three times.”

  This only made me feel worse, for if I had suspected myself a whore before, his handing me money directly after I had allowed him to use me was proof of my suspicions. Still, God help me, I reached out and took the money. “Thank you, Edward,” I said softly.

  “Coming to bed?”

  “Not just yet.”

  He kissed my cheek. I turned my head away from him.

  “I understand,” he said, though I don’t believe he did. He stood and gave my right shoulder a squeeze, then turned and went to bed.

  He had left his cravat upon the floor next to the fire. I picked it up and scrubbed his seed off me, then cast it into the flames. I sat for a long time, naked, with a handful of banknotes, trying to feel nothing. I heard Henri grizzle a little and snuffle in his sleep and turned my head in that direction. Was he having a bad dream? The thought pierced my heart. I stood and pulled on my chemise and went to him, sat beside the drawer and allowed my fingers to caress the silken hair on his head. My touch brought him peace. I watched him for a long time. I seemed to remember, not long since, making a promise that I would never see his innocence compromised, and here I was, clutching the money Edward had given me, having betrayed Henri’s father in the same room as the babe slept. I became disgusted with myself and I started to cry. I saw my hand upon my son’s head, and my fingers looked bony, my wrists scrawny. I was not a fit mother.

  I am not a fit mother.

  Somewhere in the distance I heard church bells striking four. It was Sunday morning. Out there, I thought, somewhere in this city there was surely a good Christian woman with plump arms and a full bosom who would be a better mother than I could ever be. And so I formed my resolve.

  While Edward slept, I d
ressed. He kept his firewood in a basket by the hearth. I carefully removed all the wood and then gently took Henri from his drawer and wrapped him up tightly in the basket. I used my second dress for more padding, ensuring he was sufficiently warm. I tucked the money into my stays and without a word to Edward, I left the apartment with Henri.

  Outside the morning was cold, but not as cold as I had feared. I followed the direction in which I had heard the church bells. The streets were empty, chilled. I checked Henri again and again. Still he slept, warm and safe in his cocoon. My body shook as though it purposed to fall to pieces. Cold silence oppressed my ears. When I breathed, fog stood out in front of me. I felt as though I were the only person left in the world, layers of loneliness weighed heavily upon me.

  My dear child.

  I found the church and sat down upon the stone stairs with Henri. I touched his silken cheek with the back of my knuckle and whispered to him in the dark.

  “Henri, I hope that one day you will understand why I am doing this. You deserve a better mother than I can ever be, and no doubt the church will find someone, perhaps even today. Someone with a warm hearth, someone who is not always on the edge of starvation, someone who does not prostitute herself. Perhaps you will have brothers and sisters, and toys to play with.” My voice broke and I held a sob deep inside. It sank within me and bruised my soul. “Farewell forever, my love,” I said, holding my cheek against his. “Dawn is not far away, and the rector shall find you and take you in.” I could hear the sweet sucking sound of his sleeping breath and felt my heart would burst.

  I placed the bundle carefully on the top step, nearest the door. The morning was very still, but I made sure he was sheltered from any icy breezes. I pulled the blankets tighter around him, up near his little face and the top of his head.

  I kissed him once and then walked away.

  I walked forever. I felt no pain, no exhaustion. I merely put one foot in front of the other and walked. A vast emptiness inhabited me and the only way to endure it was to keep moving. Daylight crept into the sky and I was still walking. Eventually, a coach came past and stopped beside me.