by Robin Trent
"Good morning, Mrs. Young. To what do we owe this pleasure?" Helen asked as she proffered a seat to the woman. Abigail Young looked like an over-stuffed sausage, and Helen was sure she was about to pop her casing. Secretly, Helen hoped the furniture wouldn't break.
After seating herself and arranging her voluminous gown, Abigail turned her attention to Helen. "I am so sorry for arriving unannounced."
I bet, thought Helen.
"I was out this morning, and I thought to myself, Abigail, you must pay a visit to that young Mrs. Merkova. We haven't seen her in town, and I am afraid we may have frightened her off by not being more accommodating."
"No, not at all, Mrs. Young. My daughter just had twins, you know. It was a difficult pregnancy, and she needed to restrict her activity." The truth was that Elizabeth had always been hearty and fit, but not overly sociable.
"Yes, well, I hope she is recovered now?" Abigail seemed to look around as if she expected Elizabeth to show up.
"Actually, no. My daughter is in bed and cannot receive visitors," Helen said.
"Oh my. Nothing too terribly wrong, I hope."
"Nothing that a few days bed rest probably won't cure. I'm sorry, Mrs. Young, that you came all the way out here to see my daughter. Maybe some other time?" Helen hoped that would get the point across.
"I see." Abigail started to slowly move her large bulk and struggle to get up out of her chair. "Well, perhaps."
"Perhaps," Helen responded in kind. And then Abigail paused in rising, and Helen knew then that she was not going to escape so easily.
Abigail plopped back down into her chair. "Are you all right, Mrs. Barker?"
"Why, yes. I'm fine," Helen said.
"I was just wondering because, well, you know, we've never seen any of your dear little family at church." There it was. The bomb Helen had been waiting for. However, she was prepared. "We aren't Protestant, Mrs. Young. As you well know, we're Catholic."
"Oh, well, my, my, I see. Oh, yes, I see." Helen was a little surprised that this news would make Mrs. Young so agitated. Helen was sure it was common knowledge.
"I mean no offense, Mrs. Young. We prefer to go to our own church."
"Yes, I suppose you would." Abigail Young looked like she had just eaten glass.
"Will there be anything else, Mrs. Young? I do need to get back to my daughter's bedside." Helen put on her best concerned mother's face.
“No, of course not. Good day to you, Mrs. Barker." And with that, Abigail Young rose rather quickly. Helen was quite surprised since a few minutes before she seemed to struggle so. Helen hid her smile.
After the door closed behind Abigail, Helen released a long-held laugh. She was perfectly aware of anti-catholicism sentiment, especially in small parishes such as this one, and she couldn't give two hoots. Small-minded mealy-mouthed busy-bodies, that is what Helen thought of most women in country parishes. She knew she shouldn't be unkind, but in the case of Abigail Young, Helen was spot on.
Helen and her family had been Catholics for years, and anti-Irish prejudice that prevailed when the Irish migrated to mostly protestant England during the Great Famine continued to persist. She had kin in Ireland who had suffered plenty and had died at the hands of so-called British generosity. So, she had no use for people like Abigail and could care less about their prejudice against people like herself. And to think they dare to call themselves Christian. It was laughable.
The rectory was quiet as a tomb as the young minister stared at next week's sermon. Sometimes he felt as if he had nothing to say. He knew that his flock needed spiritual inspiration, but this morning he wasn't feeling it. He leaned back in his chair and stared out the window. His new parish wasn't always easy to please. They were used to his predecessor, the good minister Aaron Campbell. Aaron had stayed at his post until he died, passing away from old age. He had been the minister here for most of his life.
Young Kristopher Poole was an outsider come over from London with romantic notions about the country life. He thought a nice, quaint country parish would be ideal, imagining the people of the parish would be good-natured, full of wisdom, and welcoming. Instead, what he found was a typical group of people with nothing overly remarkable about them. In fact, they really weren't any different from Londoners. Some were nice, and some were petty and spiteful. Some kept to themselves, and some were gregarious and talked openly -- no quiet country wisdom. Instead, there were feuds and gossip, arguments over cows and land, some men who drank too much, and some who could probably use one.
They were just people. Since no one fit into his preconceived ideas about country folk, he had to change his tactics. He had thought he would be able to give sermons that would address the Lamb of God and the gentleness of His ways, but now he knew he needed to give sermons that would hit closer to home. Maybe something about Cain and Abel? The pastor mentally slapped himself for that thought. He needed to be more gracious and not so impatient. A morning walk, that was what he needed. It would help clear his head.
Pastor Poole got up out of his chair, donned his hat, and launched himself out the door into the bright morning sunlight and fresh air. It felt good to be outside away from the stuffy rectory. This was something that London did not possess. Beautiful countryside, fresh air, the sounds of birds singing. Yes, what a glorious morning.
The pastor briskly walked down the main street, enjoying his morning. "Good morning, Pastor," Mr. Williams called out as he exited the general store. The pastor tipped his hat and waved. As he continued on his journey down the main thoroughfare, more people called out "Good Morning." Everyone seemed to be in a good mood.
A carriage came around the bend in the road up ahead. Pastor Poole squinted his eyes in the morning sun. The carriage was upon him before he could finally make out who it was. His first instinct was to run, but he realized that would be way too obvious, and he couldn't make too much of a spectacle of himself. So he decided to grin and bear it. Abigail Young hit her umbrella on the roof of her carriage, signaling the driver to stop. She looked fit to be tied. Poole couldn't wait to hear what this was all about.
"Pastor Poole. Just the person I was looking for.” Abigail puffed out her chest in indignation.
"Mrs. Young. How nice to see you this morning." The pastor did his best to seem interested.
"I have just come from the Merkovas, and Elizabeth Merkova is ill."
"That is truly awful. I will say a pray for Mrs. Merkova." The pastor prayed that was all she wanted -- no such luck.
"Her mother, Helen Barker, is there looking after her. Well! I inquired as to why Elizabeth has not been to church yet as she lives in this parish and should be attending if she is to be thought of as an upstanding member of the community.” Abigail was now practically apoplectic. Her face was turning purple. "And her mother had the nerve to tell me they were Catholic."
The pastor tried to hide his smile. This is why she was so upset? The old feud between the Church of England and the Catholics was something the pastor considered to be more political than spiritual. He never liked to involve himself in politics believing that his real purpose was to tend to his flock's spiritual needs.
"Catholics. Oh my! Pastor, what are we going to do?" Abigail was now fanning herself vigorously.
"Mrs. Young, I am sure the Merkovas are very nice people. I understand there are several Catholic families in the parish. I do not fault them for their choice of religion as we all believe in God, do we not?" The young pastor hoped he was using a soothing voice and that Mrs. Young would respond.
Abigail now looked like her head would explode. "Pastor Poole, those people cannot be trusted. You know how the Catholics are. Promise me, you will look into this. We could all be in danger.”
Now it was the young pastor who turned purple. Such prejudice was something he couldn't abide. "I am sure we are all safe and will be able to sleep soundly in our beds tonight, Mrs. Young. I do not believe the Merkovas are, as you say, dangerous. Rest assured, Mrs. Young, I will visit the
Merkovas, even if it is only to apologize for your behavior.”
Abigail's furious fluttering stopped. She stared at the pastor as if he had two heads. "Well, I never. I can't believe you would neglect your flock so as to allow outsiders, Catholics no less, to go without investigation." The pastor heard the threat and he understood.
"As I said, Mrs. Young, I will stop by to visit the Merkova family."
"See that you do.” Abigail banged her umbrella on the roof of the carriage furiously and the carriage driver, with a smirk on his face, tipped his hat to Pastor Poole before snapping the reins and taking off. So much for a pleasant morning stroll.
9
John Barlow took poison up to the attic. Stupid rats, always causing trouble. You get rid of one, and five more come. In the country, it seemed like getting rid of the pests was a constant chore. John grumbled to himself as he walked around the attic putting arsenic in the corners with a bit of bread, something to entice the little beggars.
In the far left corner, at the front of the house, John bent over to complete his task when he felt a drop of water hit the back of his neck. He placed his hand there and felt the wetness. Standing up, John raised his face skyward to see a spot that had formed in one corner of the roof. Great. Another job. Well, he was going to have to fix that tomorrow since he needed to run into town today. It was a good thing he discovered it now since he would have to get tar and some other supplies to fix it while he was there.
John finished his current task and stood up to look around the attic at the other corners of the roof. He wanted to make sure there was only one leaky spot to deal with. He touched the dresser as he was looking around and pulled back his hand as he recognized the oily feel of polish. Looking down, he was startled to discover that indeed the dresser had been polished. He let his eyes roam over to the next piece of furniture, and the next, and noted they were all polished. John scratched his head. What on earth was Rebecca doing cleaning the attic furniture? Didn't she have enough to do with a house full of the stuff, without adding this onto her list of chores? Sometimes, John didn't understand his wife.
Titwell hid, as usual, behind the dresser until he heard John's retreating footsteps and the door close. He emerged from behind the dresser and observed the caretaker's handiwork. Titwell curled up his lip at the slight tinge of garlic in the air. Humans loved their poisons. He had just finished cleaning, and now he had this mess in each of the corners of the attic. His immediate inclination was to go right behind John and clean up the mess. Titwell knew there weren't any rats in the attic. He thought about it for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. He would clean it up after the caretaker came back. If he cleaned it up now, the man would start tearing up the attic looking for the dead rat. Well, at least one good thing would come of this, that leak in the roof would get fixed and Titwell wouldn't have to worry about his bed getting wet any more.
Elizabeth stood in the middle of the nursery in her dressing gown and bare feet. She could clearly see her sweet Ophelia from where she stood. But she would have to move closer to see if Euphemia was really in her crib. Elizabeth's gut felt tight. She wanted Euphemia to be there, but her shattered nerves told her it was going to be otherwise. Elizabeth took a step closer. Her eyes bounced from place to place in the room, looking at the crib and then somewhere else and then back at the crib. She was trying to hold onto reality. She felt that if she could focus on something real, the rocking chair, the curtains, the teddy bear, that would keep her grounded so that when she looked in the crib, she would see what was really there.
Her breath came in short rasping puffs, and her hands shook as she took another step forward. Fighting for her sanity, she tried to slow her breathing and her chest lifted with the effort as she struggled to control herself. She was not going to succumb to insanity. She was accused of being insane once before, and a few days ago she saw the very things that had landed her in an asylum as a child. Elizabeth was not sure if the panic she was feeling was because she was afraid of what was in the crib, or if she was fearful of being put away again. In some ways, one would solidify the other. She took another step forward.
Elizabeth began to bargain with herself. She told herself it was going to be okay if she would calm down. No need to get so excited. She heard a whimper from the crib. Elizabeth stopped in her tracks as she felt a tingling go up her spine. Then she heard the baby start to cry. It started with a hiccup, then a gurgle, then arms flailing on the soft padding of the crib as the baby began to wail in frustration. Elizabeth felt her body relax as she moved quicker, now giving in to the impulse to come to her baby's aid.
Coming straight up to the side of the crib, she reached out to pick up her child, and the baby turned its face toward its mother. Elizabeth froze. A wizened, wrinkled face of brown leather with beetle black eyes stared back at her. A slow grin spread across its face as the changeling began to laugh at Elizabeth's expression. Chuckling followed her as she backed away from the crib and turned to flee.
The door to the nursery opened and Rebecca's bulk filled the doorway as a panicked Elizabeth, all wild-eyed and tearful, scrambled to get past her. "Mum, are you alright?"
"Let me out," Elizabeth gasped. "Let me out, let me out, let me out!" She shoved at Rebecca, and the servant gave way to let her pass.
Concerned, Rebecca entered the nursery and quickly moved towards the crib to check on Euphemia. She let out a sigh of relief as she looked at the baby who was lying there, grabbing her toes and rolling to one side. "You'll be attempting to walk soon, I reckon." She turned to look at Ophelia, who was still sound asleep. Rebecca looked back at the door where her mistress had been and frowned. Something wasn't right. She decided the diaper changing could wait for one moment while she checked on the mistress of the house.
Elizabeth was sitting on the edge of her bed, fists gripping the blankets as her body rocked back and forth. "Well, you've got yourself into a right state, haven't you? Mum, it would be best if you got some rest. Come on, let me help you." Rebecca proceeded to get Elizabeth to lay down and covered her with quilts.
Elizabeth stared up at the ceiling with tears in her eyes and a blank far-off expression. She was almost catatonic, shock resonating within her as she realized she saw what no one else did. And what did that mean? Had she finally taken leave of her senses? She needed help. She wanted help. "Rebecca."
The housekeeper leaned in close. "What do you see?" Elizabeth whispered.
Rebecca straightened up. "Mum?"
Elizabeth spoke a little louder, trying to make herself heard. "Euphemia. When you look at her, what do you see?"
Rebecca felt uncomfortable. She didn't want to make Elizabeth feel bad, but she didn't want to lie either. In the end, the truth won out. "I see Euphemia mum, in all her glory. Sweet little sprite that she is."
A tear ran down Elizabeth's face into her hair as she squeezed her eyes shut. She didn't want to hear anymore.
Helen felt in need of some fresh air. She had enough of her daughter's episodes and thought a bit of distance would do her some good. She had John Barlow drive her into town, and she emerged from the carriage onto the busy main street of the village just before lunch. She waved John on, telling him she'd signal when she was finished.
The parish wasn't London, and the small shops didn't have the variety Helen was accustomed to; still, she found browsing the local ware at least somewhat stimulating. As she walked around each of the stores, she began to feel more and more normal. No more listening to the nightmare screams of Elizabeth, or walking on pins and needles waiting for her to have another breakdown. She didn't care that she seemed heartless in her thoughts. Helen knew something would happen when she announced that she and her husband had agreed to sell the country house, she just didn't know what. This reaction was all so over-the-top.
Helen finally entered the general store and was looking at some new cloth samples that had just arrived. She examined the patterns with a critical eye, for Helen did possess good taste. As she wa
lked around the table where the patterns were, she heard a snickering coming from the back of the store. Helen looked up to find two girls leaning into each other, giggling and bouncing on their heels. She paid them no mind. Adolescent girls being irritating was quite common, and here in the country, Helen doubted anyone had any real manners. She could hear faint whispers, and she looked up to see three women huddled together, giving furtive glances her way. She was not used to public scrutiny and found the whole affair to be extremely rude.
Helen once again decided it was best to ignore the simple folk and keep about her own business. Done looking at fabric patterns, she picked up some candles that were more to her liking as she considered the ones in her room to produce too meager a light, and then she picked up a candle holder to better match the size of the new candles. Helen also found some lovely bars of rose and lavender soap and decided maybe their heady scent would snap Elizabeth out of her doldrums. She spied a pair of silver baby rattles. Helen hadn't bought the children anything yet, and she really should bestow some gift on them. Matching rattles would be adorable and entirely appropriate. She wasn't sure that she had seen anything like them in the nursery.
As Helen was busy picking out her purchases, she heard a woman clear her throat behind her. She turned to look in spite of herself, and there standing off to her right was one of the three women who huddled together just a moment ago. Helen smiled and nodded and went about her business. She didn't like the look of the woman; portly, blond curls like pigs tails, and dressed from head to toe in a hideous shade of pink that was way too young for someone this woman's age. The overall result made Helen think of a barnyard animal and that the woman needed some severe fashion advice.
The woman inched closer and eventually sidled right up next to Helen. "Excuse me, madam, but you are Mrs. Barker, are you not?"
