by Clara Barley
Whilst she fears our visit tomorrow, I look forward to it. I hope to learn what I can do for this delicate bird. Then I hope she will be calmer and start to see this as a short holiday. The first of many, I hope. I privately hope Doctor Belcome will tell us that travel will do her good and agree with my prescription of warmer weather to aid her back and her constant chills. After the visit, I will introduce her to my York friends, the Best sisters, both excellent painters, and their mother, and take her over to Langton Hall to my long-serving friend Isabella and her siblings, always such fun to be around – at least until the tragedy of my last visit. I have tried to put that behind me. They do not suspect a thing, but I am concerned that the longer I leave another visit, the more suspicion may arise. I must be sure not to start to fret at the memory of all the blood... I put it from my mind.
I would write to my friends straight away and arrange visits, but I am afraid that if tomorrow does not go well, I may have to return little Miss Walker post-haste back to Crow Nest. If so, I shall have to come back again without her, though it will not be the same. I want her with me as I walk the walls, visit the tower on the knoll, take a boat down the river. The thought of doing those things alone, as I so often have, now seems lonely to me. She has lured me into such a sense of companionship that, if it were to end, my days may never be the same.
Miss Walker
One moment I forget, the next moment I remember. One moment I feel free, the next moment I feel dread. One moment I am with her and she is my world, the next moment she is forcing me to do something I do not wish. One moment I feel as if I do not need a doctor, the next I feel as if only a doctor can save me.
I stare into the fire and try to quieten my mind. It is delightful here; these rooms, her arms around me, the sweet taste in my mouth; I finally feel warm. But tomorrow looms over me as if a shadow stands just behind me and reminds me of its presence with a chill that runs down my neck each time I momentarily forget.
I managed the coach ride in her company and quite enjoyed the view with my private tour guide who knows every building, hill and sheep on the way. I enjoy her talk when she gets into her tutor role; I can just listen. She does not expect a response and so I lose myself to the motion of the carriage and the sound of her voice and the passing views behind the glass pane.
I knew I would love the Minster and had I not been so cold from the journey I could have sat there for hours. I should like to return another day when I do not have something pressing on my mind, when it is summer perhaps, and my back does not torment me – but only ever with her by my side. I should not wish to be here with anyone but her. If she should disappear, I fear I will never leave Crow Nest again.
She reassures me Doctor Belcome is most kind and patient, and will not commit me to an asylum. She swears that as long as she lives, she will never let anyone take me away from her. She reassures me with some remarkable studies I’d rather not hear, of the types of women who are locked up, of true madness and its manifestations. She says the most I have is melancholy and a bad back, and that both are curable.
I tell her I have read there is cholera in York and I know I have just the ill luck to catch it, but she tells me that we will keep ourselves to the clean streets and away from any sickness.
Doctors before have told me they could cure me. Not just for the pains in my back, but for pains inside my head and heart which Miss Lister knows nothing of.
I’d been a happy girl with such potential. I used to be brave, but at seventeen I made a decision to visit my childhood friend who had just married a Mr Ainsworth in Derbyshire. In that one choice, that one trip, which should have been delightful, my world crashed down around me.
My family tried so many ways to move me past the turmoil which drew from me all my strength and tears and took me into silence for a very long time. I lost myself as they tried different medicines and methods. They took me up to Harrogate to bathe in cold waters. I was given tonics, talked at, kept warm, kept cold, given lots of certain foods and denied others, kept in my room, made to sit outside, watched at all times, doors locked; and through all of it, it was as if I was not there. No one talked to me as others answered on my behalf. I became ensconced inside a shell of myself, just waiting for the day when I would have the strength to crawl back out again.
Despite all the trials and different doctors, it was not a cure that saved me; I just came back into myself. One day, with no more tears to fall, I woke. I rose and washed and dressed and ate breakfast and carried on. For what can any of us do in truth but carry on? Over the next few months my strength returned. I walked to the edge of the woods and back. I began eating and writing letters again. I ordered some new novels to read and lost myself in their stories. With each one I became more awake, more myself.
Then, just a few years later, it all happened again when my parents died. I managed to get through it eventually with help from my siblings but then both of them married and left me. It was as if my recovery allowed them to move on. They had both been dutiful and patient, so I was happy for them to have found love. But we would never see John again, his widow left carrying his child. I wonder where she is now? The Walkers cared little for her after the stillborn child. Elizabeth is gone too, so far away from me. I always knew she would leave me one day; I just wish she were happier.
Miss Lister
Doctor Belcome says there is nothing wrong with Miss Walker and that if she had to work for a living, she’d be fine. He writes down her maladies as nervousness and weak muscles. He agrees that travel will do her good and tells me not to pet her too much. He speaks to me as if I am her husband. I rather like it. I just wish I had a less nervous and weak-muscled wife to present to him. I wonder if Mariana ever confided in him about us? I wonder what a doctor would make of it? Would he suggest a cure? Or as a scientist, make no judgement? He is a married man with children, an educated man, who sees all people at their most vulnerable. But even so, I decide that our secrets will remain secret.
Miss Walker and I agreed beforehand that she could speak about anything except for our intimacy. For that alone would no doubt be deemed the reason for her melancholy, despite taking place long after her worst bouts of ‘turmoil’ as she calls it. Any doctor, even a kind one like Doctor Belcome may latch onto any deviation, any sin as he may see it, as the cause for all woes, regardless of the chronology. Men’s sexual deviation is a problem of the mind, they say, that should be stopped and punished. What would they think of our deviation? I have it settled in my own mind that what we do as two single women cannot possibly be in the same realm as happenings between two men, which is expressly forbidden by law. With Mariana it became complicated when she married, for then what we did was wrong: we were having an affair and committing adultery. I was with a married woman, and even though we had had a marriage ceremony of our own, her marriage to Lawton was legally binding and in the eyes of God. Each time I would see her I had to pray for forgiveness. Miss Walker and I are two single ladies seeking pleasure. Mildly sinful perhaps, but not illegal and not adultery.
I wonder if Doctor Belcome knows his sister’s secrets? What would his advice have been? I shall ask her when I next see her if she ever spoke to her brother in openness. I would love to have a confidant like that. For years I was lucky to have Mariana; we shared everything while we were together. However, over the years, despite our travels together, our openness decreased, and I couldn’t very well discuss other lovers with her. I skirt around it with my aunt, who I believe has her suspicions, and as lovely as she is would never ask outright. My father must know, but treats me as a novelty and never comments. Marian, I believe, has no clue at all.
As we leave Doctor Belcome’s and head back to the hotel, Miss Walker seems more relaxed and talks of what we shall do over the next few days. No rushing back home to Crow Nest, then!
I know I must be delicate and I gently discuss his advice with her; some travel, a warmer climate, compa
nionship. I suggest perhaps she may consider moving into Shibden again, so that we can be together all the time. She surprises me by agreeing. I wonder if Doctor Belcome suggested something similar and so now she will give it good consideration. Heaven forbid I should have advised it for several months now!
During our walks and shopping we choose a new dinner service we could buy between us. Something finer than either of us would choose alone, for if we pay half the costs each, we can buy the finest on offer. We decide not to buy it immediately, but she likes this idea of buying together nonetheless and goes so far as to suggest we go half each on a new bed for Shibden. I agree, more because she seems keen than for want of a new bed. It seems Doctor Belcome suggested a new bed to help her back. Whatever makes her happy, I shall agree to.
I rather like the idea of a joint household, and the thought of never worrying about finances again makes me feel excited for the future. When travelling, I am happy with an inn and a clean bed without lice, but Miss Walker’s standards are higher, and I could grow accustomed to that as much as I have grown accustomed to her.
We talk of what she will busy herself with once we return to Halifax, as if going home after these few days will be a new start for her, as if being told she is not insane has released her from any obligation to act so. I encourage her to take up French again in preparation for a trip to France in summer and she agrees, and so seems set on my proposal to travel.
We buy each other gifts. I select her some music to play, something simple but beautiful and she promises she will learn it. Later that evening she tells me she will work towards a recital and invite some guests and that she will wear no drawers under her dress, just for me! York seems to have lifted Miss Walker nearer to my estimation of her. I wonder if it is her proximity to Crow Nest that drains her? Although I should not hark on about moving into Shibden for fear of pressuring her, I think it will be the best thing for both of us.
We call into several of the churches in York and she chooses a small one, Holy Trinity, as her favourite; tucked behind houses through a narrow brick path. Much like our Moss House, it is hidden from sight.
We see the travelling menagerie and she is amazed at the elephants, monkeys and a lion, the likes of which she has never seen before in her life. I watch the lion prowl before us, then sit obediently before the tamer as he commands him with his whip. I admire the bravery of the tamer, to face this majestic creature that stares at him through intelligent eyes and for some reason obeys him, whilst both lion and tamer know that at any moment, without motivation or fear of the consequence, the lion could decide to kill him and could do it in an instant. The tamer’s power over the lion is an illusion they both agree to, but who really decides? The lion chooses an easier life, to obey and be fed and not whipped, of course he does, but at what point will he change his mind? What would it take for him to decide it is not worth it? Does he remember his youth, the freedom he was taken from, the desire to hunt, procreate, kill? As I watch, I will him to have a memory, to forget the bars and cages, the whips and commands, and show us what made him the king of the animals. Miss Walker trembles as she watches, and I long for him to bite the tamer’s head off. Remind us that none of us can be contained, controlled, bullied without trying to break free. The lion tamer survives; the lion returns to his cage and is fed. I am somewhat disappointed.
After four joyous days we drive back home, watching out of the window as the gently rolling hills slowly grow in height until the familiar views loom up before us and the landscape turns dramatic. She comes with me to Shibden with no inclination to rush to her own home, which surprises me, and we settle in with the family, who are very accepting of Miss Walker’s presence. She retires early and my family rush to tell me how much better Miss Walker looks after her trip and ask what Doctor Belcome said. I wonder if they are nosy or genuinely care for her. Probably both. I see how easy it would be for her to slip into life here at Shibden.
The next morning she tells me she needs to go home urgently, and without much explanation she packs in haste and says she will go with or without me. I had thought her previous actions revealed her decision at last to commit to me and even reside at Shibden, but when I ask her, she turns to me much changed from these last few days and says she must go home and ask Mrs Ainsworth’s opinion. I ask her bluntly if the doctor also advised her never to make a decision by herself, and she marches off without a goodbye. I let her call for the carriage herself and watch her leave from a window overlooking the courtyard where she cannot see me.
She has managed to hold up a mask for a while but has now let it slip. She is not changed at all! Will she ever leave all her pother behind? I believe she will carry it with her wherever she goes.
Miss Walker
I return home vexed. I feel so content in her company and at Shibden, her family seem accepting of me, it is safe there. But who am I to deserve it? I have not told her the whole truth about me. I did not tell it to the doctor either. He believes I have suffered grief. The grief for my parents, my brother, Mr Fraser, and that grief alone is the cause of my anguish. How can I ever share my real secret, not just about how I feel about Miss Lister, but about myself?
Soon, I must face him. The man who did this to me.
I sit down for some breakfast at Crow Nest and when the maid brings it, she has some letters for me. She tells me one was hand delivered as urgent this morning.
It stares up at me with my name and address written in angry, unrecognisable handwriting. I try to eat and ignore it, but my appetite has left me. Urgent, she said. I shake as I open it, all the possibilities of its content racing through my mind.
Mrs Ainsworth has been killed.
My dear friend has been killed.
She was thrown from an open carriage.
I wonder what she was doing, where she was going, whom was she with. Was she out to prepare for her visit to me? Is it my fault she made that journey? Why couldn’t he have died and not her?
Is this what I must suffer in exchange for just four days of happiness? For momentarily feeling alive and with hope for a future of contentment and dare I say it, love – this is what I must pay as a price?
It happened just yesterday. Was it at the same time as we travelled back in the carriage from York? Was she travelling too, looking out at the changing countryside and then, what horror! To be killed. How would she have suffered? There are few details in the letter, so I torment myself with visions of her being hurled and trodden under the horses’ feet and dying slowly in agony with no one to help her. Or thrown and landing on her head and the life being struck from her instantly, her skirts all asunder and her bonnet muddied. Or a simple fall, and she stood back up and brushed herself down but then later collapsed as something inside her had been broken, much like Mr Fraser. Damn Miss Lister for sharing with me her anatomy lessons!
What did she think of as she fell, as she lay dying? Was she afraid? Did she cry out, scream, see ghosts of those gone before, see God Himself reach down for her, or angels to escort her away?
I am ten years ago again. Standing at the side of my mother’s bed as her eyes roll back and her body stills. She had suffered the loss of my father, then her own body’s ailments. She had told me to be strong, carry on. Carry on to what?
I console myself that this time I have a friend. A friend who will hold me, comfort me, ask me how I feel, take me under her wing. I send her a poorly written note, asking her to come as soon as she can. I hope she will forgive me for leaving so quickly this morning. I should have stayed at Shibden, then I would never have seen the letter, or she may have been with me when I received it. She would be holding me right now. The tears fall, they will not stop, grief upon grief…
Then suddenly I realise it is from him and I throw down the letter in disgust. It is his signature, his writing, he has touched this! I run from the room, from the news, from the letter.
I am cursed.
Chapter Ten
Winter, 1833: A confession and a bout
of melancholy
Miss Lister
Falling from a carriage. What an awful way to die. Quick, hopefully. But awful.
It seems Miss Walker may well be as cursed as she imagined. Perhaps I am safer without her in my life; I may live longer.
Lo and behold, all our plans are stopped in their tracks again. She is reverted to grief.
Who could have predicted this? I hold her, sit with her and try to be as patient as I can. I am not made for nursing and long for her to fall asleep so I can get some fresh air. I take the opportunity as she finally sleeps to stride away from Crow Nest and into the woods which close in around me. I enjoy the momentary solitude they create and lose myself wandering when I can no longer see anything but trees.
Before too long has passed, I dutifully return to the house to check on her. Her aunt arrives and I dally about, unsure of what to do as her aunt sits with her in her room. I busy myself in her home, writing letters and gently playing on her grand piano.
I wonder if all along I have been thinking of it the wrong way around. I could be the owner of Crow Nest, in all its newness. It’s scarcely sixty years old, whilst Shibden is four hundred. There are advantages and disadvantages to both. Perhaps we could keep this house for our guests. Better still, I could decant my father and Marian here from Shibden. I imagine they’d love it. Then we could keep Shibden to ourselves, and my aunt of course. But do I really want to be part of the nouveau riche? The Listers are ancient landed gentry whereas the Walkers are new money. They have none of the lineage.
Her aunt stays for lunch and I must make small talk with her as Miss Walker will not leave her room to join us. Luckily, I can recount our York trip and I confide in her some of what Doctor Belcome said. She and I both sigh at the same time, knowing that all has been undone again with this tragic news. Finally, her aunt leaves and I spend the rest of the day with Miss Walker alone, barely speaking a word.