by Leah Fleming
Tizzy couldn’t concentrate; she could hear the clock, tick-tocking on the mantelpiece, one, two . . . one, two. The light was dim and she caught sight of the flushed cheeks of Patabully as he sat drinking in the sight of his pupil trying to complete the paper on time. She squirmed impatiently. All she could see on the page was Fancy alone in his prison cell, waiting for her to release him, and she’d let him down. She was going to let everyone down.
‘Well, well, let’s see your offerings. Time is up, pencil down.’ Bulstrode sprang to his feet excitedly and snatched away the paper. He was not going to be pleased. How could she bother with a stupid sum when her friend was arrested and she’d cursed a man to death? All these questions and his pryings, the stone-throwings and fights in the school yard. Stuff the bloody Fawcett. It was over.
‘I’m sorry . . . it’s not finished, it’s just—’
‘No excuses, boy, I can see for myself that this is a dismal attempt. You have the gift and you are throwing it away in my face.’ He tore through each page, pausing to shake his head. ‘Oh dear, oh dearie me, has it come to this, Master Widdup? I see I will have to give you one more lesson. What must follow is a test in itself; a lesson in submission to a higher authority. Oh yes, failure must be punished. Superior knowledge is gained at great cost. You have been my scholar for six months and we have not needed to apply the test.
‘Now the time of trial is upon you. I don’t grant favours to riff-raff and dullards with no hope of scholastic learning. I choose only the brightest candidates, those who are capable of bettering their chances. I coach you for months and if this is to be my reward you will have to be instructed and subdued. Is the door shut?’
Tizzy turned to look. She was hot, tired and uninterested in any more lessons. ‘Shut the door and lock it firmly. We must not be disturbed in our task.’ Tizzy obeyed wearily, watching the strange smile on the master’s face, puzzled. ‘Kneel down, boy. You have earned my special blessing.’
Tizzy knelt on the rug, her eyes downcast now she was going to get the slipper. Or perhaps he would pray over her like they did at Georgie’s funeral. She heard him breathing, rasping as he fumbled with his clothes, rising from his armchair, towering over her.
‘Hold out your hand and take my blessing. Don’t look. Hold what you are given.’ She raised her head as if in a trance and felt a stiff rod of warm flesh, pulsing. ‘Into your mouth and feed on my flesh, “Oh taste and see how gracious the Lord is.” ’
Tizzy drew back in shock but he yanked her head down by the tufts of hair. ‘Put my blessing in your mouth, suck out my joy, my seed; suck and receive my strength for your studies, for your success. Do not fail me as others before have failed and lived to regret their failure; petty minds, child, only petty minds like Sunter Lund balk at my orders.’ His words were tumbling fast. Tizzy turned away in disgust, her heart thumping with fear. This was not right, he was rude like the rough navvies at the camp. ‘I can’t, no!’ He pushed her forward onto the floor.
‘Then take my punishment, be chastised and trained into obedience.’ There was no stopping this madness.
‘Mr Bulstrode, please, no, I don’t want . . . please listen.’
She twisted and jerked away, crawling out of his grasp. He was on all fours like an animal; a man possessed by demons with a mask on his face, a blue-red-purple face. He was deaf to her pleas, lunging at her body, at her clothing, but he was weak and flabby in the exertion and his panting became loud. ‘I waited for this test and you’ll not oppose my will. Fathers have will over their sons forever.’ His voice was a faraway voice in a different tone as if he was someone else.
‘Please, sir, I’ve learnt my lesson. Stop this. I’ll scream.’ Her throat was dry, not a sound could she utter. She felt his hands running down her breeches, searching out between her legs.
‘You will obey me, son, do as I say. You are mine to do with as I wish.’ He was pumping against her body, crying out, moaning.
With the last ounce of her strength she shook him off shouting, ‘I’m not your sodding child, I’m not your son. Do you hear? I’m a bleeding girl, a girl in disguise. I’m Matilda Widdup and I’ve fooled you all so don’t you touch me, sir.’
The man looked up and froze for a second, clutching at his chest, the colour draining away from his face, and he gasped for breath. He was sinking on his knees and his swollen organ collapsed as he sank backwards, choking for breath. He curled on the floor gasping and Tizzy sprang up to unlock the door. She fell into the open arms of Miss Bulstrode who was listening outside.
‘Help! Please, Miss Bulstrode! He’s gone daft in the head . . . he tried to . . . Get me out of here! He went for me like an animal.’ Tizzy was clutching at the woman, sniffing her lace apron, burrowing her head into the woman who drew back at first and then relaxed, holding her fast with bony arms.
‘Calm yourself, I’m sure there’s been some misunderstanding. He’s very overwrought. Let’s go and see.’
‘Not back in there, miss, please. I’m not a boy, I’m a girl. I tried to tell him but he fell down . . .’
‘Shush, child, it’s all a bad dream.’ Cora stared at the crumpled figure of her brother. He lay on his side staring up helplessly, unable to talk as only his lips moved to mouth, ‘Cora . . . the Fawcett . . . we’re lost. No more . . .’ The woman knelt down and held him briefly, turning to the stricken child who clung to the door.
‘Fetch Susan, tell her to run to the apothecary, and quick. Mr Bulstrode is unwell.’ She then spoke to her brother. ‘Calm yourself, dear, you were provoked, first Lund and now Widdup. I told you another one would kill you.’ She stroked his hand and his forehead.
Tizzy raced into the kitchen to find Susan. ‘Put yer cloak on and run. This is a madhouse, I hope he’s dead, but get help. I’m getting out of here and you, too, if you’ve any sense . . . a couple of loonies.’ Tizzy turned back into the hall but Miss Bulstrode barred the way, catching hold of her jacket.
‘It’s all been a terrible mistake, child. We must find you a safe place.’
Tizzy saw her fierce eyes glinting with fire and drew back. ‘I’ll be right when I get some air. I can manage, I’m used to running back in the dark, honest.’ She turned to go but this time Miss Bulstrode clawed into her elbow.
‘No, child, it’s not right for you to be alone in the dark. I will escort you back safely. We don’t want you to come to any harm. We’ll leave the headmaster for the doctor to find. He has been so overworked his brain is tired and disturbed. He would not want you to be left alone tonight.’
‘I have to see the vicar after school. I promised Miss Herbert,’ said Tizzy, pointing to the kirk lane.
‘I’m sure you did, child, but I know a quiet path where we can be alone and you can tell me all that has happened. We will not be disturbed. There is so much to discuss, don’t you think? You have given us all a big surprise.’ She smiled so sweetly, gripping her wrist so tight, that Tizzy could not struggle.
They turned up by the viaduct and she thought she saw lanterns flickering in the dark but the six o’clock shift had knocked off and the wind was howling.
‘This is not the way, Miss Bulstrode, the track goes up there, see.’
‘I told you, I know a place where we can have some peace and quiet.’ Tizzy did not like the sound of that at all.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The schoolroom was dark and Zillah felt her stomach rumbling with hunger. It was almost seven o’clock. Where on earth had that child got to? If he was still doing the test then his chances were slim. Now she would have to hire the sexton to come and collect her, for the drizzle had turned into buckets of rain tipping over her head. It really was too much if the child had scampered home without reporting back to her.
The cupboards had been tidied and her desk neatened and sorted out, the room swept and dusted and the stove banked up with slack. She was hovering anxiously to hear the results of this rehearsal.
Zillah tied her bonnet, wrapped around her cloak and d
ecided to slip across to the schoolhouse to check that the boy had gone. He was usually reliable but the killing and the aftermath had certainly shaken the child. Now there was all the responsibility of upholding Bulstrode’s expectations. Perhaps they were wrong to push the child so hard.
The door of the schoolhouse was ajar and Zillah rang the bell. She stepped inside out of the torrential rain. ‘Anybody at home?’ Susan jumped at the sight of her.
‘Thank God! Come in. I thowt it were Dr Fielding. It’s Mr Bulstrode, taken right badly. See . . .’
‘Where’s your mistress?’ asked Zillah, reluctant to intrude.
‘Gone out with the kid, dragged him off home. She was looking funny herself. Hardly looked at her brother. I’m reet scared. He looks far gone to me, can’t move a muscle.’ The two women hurried down the hallway to the study door. Susan had lit candles and banked the fire, covered the man with a blanket, doing her best to take the gloom out of the room. The walls glowered down, ceiling-high with books, enclosing Ezra in a tomb of learning.
Zillah bent down to the man with compassion. He looked so pitiable, prostrate, speechless, motionless like a crumpled rag doll. ‘Has there been a fight in here?’ she asked, looking around at the disarray of books and papers, overturned chairs and general scattering of his belongings.
‘I’m not rightly sure what’s been going on. The kid comes out like it’s seen a ghost yelling some nonsense. I think he took a turn and scared the mite. Who’d want to be locked in with him? Her ladyship hovering by the door as usual. She don’t half give him some stick and he orders her about; a right pair they are, deserve each other. I tell you I shall be glad to be out of this gloomy hole and no mistake. He don’t look too good, does he? I wish he’d stop staring at me, do you think he can hear us?’
Zillah gazed around the room with interest; the locked door had always been a mystery to her. And now all was revealed; a shabby little study with walls of books. So many books. Shelves full of weighty tomes; an Aladdin’s cave of knowledge. She picked up some of the fallen books.
‘I wouldn’t look in that one, miss. You’ll get an education. I don’t know what to make of them pictures. See that one, open at this page. I’ve never seen the like. Sodom and Gomorrah! Makes yer want to wash yer hands and eyes after a peep on them pages, miss.’
Zillah stood in a daze as she turned page after page of pictures, strange prints of naked bodies and parts of bodies all twisted up with each other, men and animals, men and children, men and men in unnatural acts. She could see no education in any of them but the sight of the writhing figures made her feel sick and she slammed the book quickly shut. Who would want to look at such things? Only someone sick and feeble-brained.
Bulstrode’s eyes followed her as she moved and she stared hard at him. ‘Where’ve they gone?’ His eyes turned away. He was imprisoned in his own body, helpless and afraid. That satisfied her yet made her ashamed at the same time. They had stumbled on some terrible secret and she wished she was a hundred miles away from this stinking place. She looked again at her headmaster, hardly believing he could feed himself on such filth.
‘Where would Miss Cora go with the boy?’ asked Zillah of the maid.
‘Dunno, miss. She wouldn’t let the kid out of her sight, which wasn’t like her. She can’t stand Billy Widdup, can’t say as I took to him much either, cheeky brat. It’s not right to take a scruff out of his station and give him big ideas, my mam says it’s against nature. I bet she’s blaming him for making the master ill like she blamed Sunter Lund for pestering them and sending letters and breaking the front window.’
‘When was all this, Susan? What had they to do with the Lunds’ boy?’
‘Well, he were a Fawcett once but he’s been coming back at the master, storming in and threatening him. The mistress kept earwigging behind the door. Worried stiff, she were. They were both glad when he were killed. I could see they were relieved. She said little bits whispering that Lund had it coming to him.’
‘Well, thank you, Susan, but let’s deal with the present. I think we need some help. Call in a neighbour woman to sit with you. The others may come back so I’ll go up to Paradise. I’m sure that’s where I’ll find that rascal tucked up in his hut.’
Tizzy was pushed up the footpath by Miss Bulstrode from behind. The track was slippery and muddy, caking the soles of her clogs, making them smooth with no grip. Her legs ached and she was starving but every time she stopped a finger was poked into her back. ‘Where’re we going? This isn’t the quick road to camp, is it? This is going up to Scarsbeck Force. I can’t see, it’s too dark, miss. You come in front.’
‘Keep going, I want to show you a lovely spot. One of the beauties of the district, don’t you think? A trickling beck straight off the moor, crashing sixty feet down into a deep black pool, a spectacular waterfall tumbling twice over rocks. Can’t you hear the rush of the water as it falls? It’s in full spate, listen to the beck as it floods over those rocky boulders,’ shouted the woman, pushing forward.
‘But it’s dark, miss, we can’t see owt. Why do we have to come up here? I want to go home for me tea. You should be seeing to Mr Bulstrode. They’ll be wondering where we are . . .’
‘Shut your voice, Billy Widdup, there’s no one to hear us.’
‘I’m not Billy Widdup, he’s dead a long time ago. I’m Tizzy, his sister, Matilda Widdup. I never were a boy. It were all a trick but it went wrong. I tried to tell the teacher.’
‘Do you expect me to believe such silly lies? You have turned poor Ezra upside down with your lies and wickedness, worn him out. Now you try your tales on me. Enough of this nonsense. Whoever heard of a girl as a Fawcett scholar?’
‘Why not? Mercy Birkett could do it blindfold. She’s much better with her composition than me. She wants to be a Fawcett. I don’t, not any more,’ yelled Tizzy as she clung on to the branches of willows by the edge of the water.
‘Shut up! Keep going. You should be praying that Bulstrode recovers for if he dies . . . “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want, He leadeth me beside the still waters . . .” ’ The woman was singing wildly.
‘This isn’t still water, miss, it’s a roaring torrent. I don’t like it here. Let’s go back now. What if we slip?’ The finger in her back dug through the wet jacket like a knife.
‘I said keep going. There’ll be peace in the valley, peace in the valley, peace in the valley, ere long.’
Tizzy shivered. This was no peaceful valley, more like the valley of the shadow of death, but she knew exactly where they were. Mercy had brought her many times to play by the pools and search for sticklebacks and frogs. It was always a dark and shady place, a gorge of black walls towering above your head. Once twilight slid down the rocks they used to scamper back into the sunshine. Now in the darkness Tizzy felt there was no guiding shepherd in this place to lead her to safety, only an evil presence creeping out of the dampness, slithering out of the crevices, stalking behind her footsteps, making her cry.
Zillah pulled the bell rope at the vicarage, dripping puddles of rainwater on the step. Dogs barked and bounded around her as the studded oak door creaked open and the surprised face of the clergyman smiled at the sight of this drowned rat.
‘We have to find the child.’
‘Come inside, Miss Herbert. What is it that drags you out on such a wild night? Come in.’
‘I’m sorry to trouble you but I fear trouble. Something happened at the schoolhouse tonight. Ezra Bulstrode has been struck by some paralysis and lies near to death but his sister has vanished with my pupil. Their maid is afraid they will come to harm in the storm and so am I. What shall I do? I must go.’ Zillah turned but Ralph Hardy caught her arm gently.
‘First you come inside and have a drink, dry your clothes and sit by the fire to collect your thoughts. Tell me what you know and together we’ll work out some course of action. Is anyone with Ezra?’
She nodded wearily. He guided her to his study where a fire burned brightly a
nd the candles flickered. Zillah suddenly flopped uninvited into a large fireside chair with a sigh.
‘If I sit down, I’m not sure I’ll get up again.’ She looked around the room. For a bachelor it was well-appointed with faded Chinese rugs scattered around the oak floor. The walls were littered with animal heads, stags with antlers, a glass case of silvery trout, stuffed heads and hunting prints. Tucked by the fireside were a line of delightful miniature paintings in gilt frames. She felt herself relaxing in the warmth.
Judging by the length of time it took for Mr Hardy to return with a pot of tea and a pile of muffins, Zillah assumed they were alone in the house and his cook had gone back to the village. He proceeded to toast them with a brass fork in front of the fire, kneeling down, looking quite boyish and human.
‘We should be on our way, Mr Hardy. I didn’t come for tea. You are kind but . . .’
‘Sit still for two minutes and dry yourself. If we are to be soaked to our skins in a chase then warmth inside your stomach will prevent a chill.’ His voice was firm and his smile disarming. For once Zillah decided to let the man have the last word. ‘You were right to call here first. I can harness up the trap. Poor Ezra. Should I go there first?’
‘They’re waiting for Dr Fielding to call. He can’t be moved but he’s safe with Susan and her mother. Something is terribly wrong. I can feel it in my chest, Mr Hardy. I thought at first that young Billy had run away from his meeting here with you. He did get that message from the navvy in prison. He refused to give it to Miss Ellen. The navvy gave him his poetry book to pass on to his friend but the silly child kept it for himself. There’s just so much to relate I don’t know where to start but we must be on our way . . .’ Zillah stood up and wrung out her top skirt, watching the steam rise off the garment. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, but I must go.’
‘So you keep saying, but where exactly do you intend to go?’ asked Ralph.
