by Anne Perry
Of course no one else knew that of her, and it must always be so. They perceived her as serene, always in control of her emotions. Her porcelain-fair skin was without blemish. The silver in her hair was invisible in its pale shining gold, the heavy waves swept up smoothly.
She wore a somber shade of green, untrimmed by fur or ornament. She was making a visit that duty compelled, and she dreaded it. It was foolish of her. There had never been any possibility of avoiding it, and putting it off always made it worse. However, this time she had actually been sent for.
She turned away from the looking glass, thanked her maid again, and went out of the dressing room and across the landing to the elegant mahogany stairs. The footman was waiting in the hall, standing very straight, respectfully. She could see the shine on his polished boots. The carriage would be at the door, ready. She would not have to give any directions.
She had informed the butler that she would be going to see her husband. Ingram York was residing in a hospital for the insane. He might know her when she went into his room, but, on the other hand, he might not. Apparently his doctors felt that he was becoming weaker, and she should visit him before he lapsed into more frequent coma, where he would not know her at all.
Last time, two weeks ago, he had not known her to begin with, and then had suddenly remembered. It had been dreadful, and acutely embarrassing. As she crossed the hall her cheeks flamed with the memory of it.
Ingram had lain on the bed, propped up on the pillows, when the vacant look on his fleshy face had suddenly vanished, to be filled with hatred.
“Whore!” he had said viciously. “Come here to gloat, have you? Well, I’m not dead yet…for all your trying!” He had looked ashen pale, his skin hanging from his jowls, his eyes sunken into the hollows of the sockets, his white hair still ridiculously luxuriant above the terrible face.
Then, just as suddenly, the moment of recognition had gone again. The doctor who had shown Beata in, and stayed with her to offer her what information he could, had been embarrassed for her.
“He doesn’t mean it!” he had said hastily. “He’s…delusional. I assure you, Lady York…”
But she had not been listening. Ingram meant it. She had been married to him for more than twenty years. This attack was not the wild break from his usual behavior that the doctor imagined.
Remembering, she shivered as the footman opened the front door for her and she stepped outside, but it was not from the bitter day with its promise of ice before nightfall; it was dread of what lay ahead.
Even now she thought of some way of evading her duty, but it was only an idea, something to play with in her mind. A walk in the park? A visit to a friend, to sit by the fire with tea and crumpets, and a little laughter in exchange for thoughts? Of course she wouldn’t! She had stayed with Ingram all these years; she would not fail on these final days. It was a duty she would not fall short in.
The footman opened the carriage door. She accepted his hand to assist her up and help make her comfortable.
She wondered how many of the servants were quite aware of Mr. Justice York’s temper tantrums, the vile names he called her at times. Perhaps they had even seen blood on the sheets, and sometimes on the towels as well. There were things that, if she thought of them, overwhelmed her. How could she calmly sit at the dining room table while the butler served her soup if she were to imagine for an instant that he knew how York had used her sexually, when the bedroom doors were locked?
It had begun within weeks of their wedding, at first only a matter of insistence, a certain roughness that had caused her pain. Gradually it had become grosser, more humiliating, and the verbal abuse coarser, the violence more unpredictable.
It had gone on, to one degree or another, for years. There had been times when for months there had been nothing, and she had dared hope her ordeal was over, even if it meant that he never touched her at all.
That was foolish, but in those times of respite he would be witty, so intelligent, and, in public at least, treat her with respect, as if the cruelty were an aberration. Then the darkness was all the greater when it returned.
Oliver Rathbone had been a guest the day it had finally ended. Ingram had completely lost all control and lashed out at Oliver with his cane. If he had struck him with it, it would have been a fearful blow. He could have even killed him, had it caught him on the temple. Thank heaven at that instant of rage Ingram had taken a fit of some kind and fallen insensible to the floor, quite literally foaming at the mouth.
He had still been deeply unconscious when the ambulance had come for him and taken him to the hospital for diseases of the nervous system. It would have been merciful if he had sunk deeper into the coma and died. Unfortunately that had not happened. He had hovered on the edge of consciousness, with brief moments of lucidity, in the long months since then. It was over a year ago now.
Beata had been a widow in all senses but that of being free to marry again. She still bore his name, lived in his house, and dutifully forced herself to visit him when conscience drove her to it, or the doctor sent for her.
She stared out the window at the other carriages, ladies with fur collars and capes inside.
It was not a long journey but the route passed close to Regent’s Park, and the bare trees were like tangled black lace. It would have been a good day for walking.
She looked away in time to see a carriage passing on the other side of the street. She met the woman passenger’s eyes for an instant, and saw the warmth, and the familiar gesture with her hand. She just had time to smile back and nod agreement. Yes, she accepted the invitation. It would be something simple, and fun.
The journey passed all too quickly. She was already at the hospital. The footman climbed down with easy grace and held the door open for her. The cold air made her wish momentarily that she had brought furs, too. Then she remembered Ingram giving them to her one Christmas, and she thought she would rather be cold as she walked across the pavement and up the wide steps into the hospital entrance.
She was expected, and the doctor in charge was standing waiting for her. She had developed a reputation for promptness, and he stepped forward, smiling gravely, inclining his head in a slight bow. She was accustomed to it. She was the wife of one of the High Court’s most respected judges. It was the convention that none of them acknowledged his altered state as irreversible.
“Good afternoon, Lady York,” he said soberly. “I’m afraid the weather has turned much colder.”
“Indeed,” she replied, as if it mattered in the slightest to either of them. It was just easier to stick to the ritual than to have to think of something different to say.
“How is my husband?” She always said that also.
“I am afraid there has been a slight change,” the doctor answered, turning to lead the way to the now-familiar room that, as far as she knew, Ingram had not left since he had first been carried there. “I’m very sorry…perhaps he will be in less distress.” He forced a lift into his voice, as if it were of some cheer.
He could have no idea at all how deeply she wished Ingram dead. Not only for her sake, but for his own. She had never loved him, although once, years ago, she had imagined she did. But he had had a certain dignity, and such high intelligence then. She would not have wished on anybody what he suffered now, plunging from sanity to confusion, and climbing desperately back again. It was awful to watch. No hunger for revenge could make him deserve this.
They had reached his room, mercifully without any more meaningless conversation. The doctor opened the door for her and held it.
She took a deep breath, steadying herself, and went in.
As always, the smell was the first thing she noticed. It was a mixture of human body odors and the sharp, artificial cleanliness of lye and antiseptic. Everything was too white, too utilitarian.
Ingram was propped up on the pillows. At first glance nothing seemed any different, as if she had been here only yesterday, when in fact it was weeks ago.
“Hello, Ingram,” she said gently. “How are you?”
He did not reply. Had he not heard her? Looking at him, she was almost certain he was conscious. Could he see her?
She touched the thick-fingered white hand on the covers. She half expected it to be cold, but it was warmer than her own.
“How are you?” she repeated a little more loudly.
Suddenly his hand closed on hers, gripping her. She gasped, and for an instant thought of pulling away. Then with immense effort she relaxed her arm and let it be.
“You look a little better,” she lied. He looked terrible, as if something inside him had perished.
He was still staring at her with cloudy eyes. It was as if there were a window between them, of frosted glass that neither of them could see through.
“Come again, have you, Beata?” His voice was no more than a whisper, but the anger was there in it, almost a gloating. “Got to, haven’t you, as long as I’m still alive? And I am! You’re not free yet….”
“I know that, Ingram,” she answered, staring at him. “And neither are you.” The moment the words were across her lips she regretted them. It was her fault as well as his. How could she have been blind enough to have married him all those years ago? No one had forced her. She had been married before, for several years, and her first husband had died. It had been time she chose again. She had seen what she wished to see, as perhaps he had also. They were neither of them very young anymore. Except that she had cared for him. He had never cared for her, or perhaps for anyone. It was advisable for his career that he be married. And she brought with her a dowry, gathered for her by her friends, after her father’s disgrace. San Francisco was far enough away for word of that not to have traveled here.
Ingram’s face twisted very slightly. Was it an attempt at a smile, a moment of warmth, even regret? Or was it a sneer because she was as imprisoned as he was, at least for the moment? Perhaps that was why he hung on to life, even like this—to keep her trapped as well.
She had something to make up for. She would give him the benefit of the doubt, however small it was. She smiled back at him, and very slightly increased the pressure of her fingers around his.
His hand closed tight, hurting her.
“Bitch!” he said distinctly, then seemed to choke on his own breath. He gasped and the air rattled and caught in his throat. Then the grip slackened a little on her hand, but not enough to let her go.
She turned to pull away, but she was not strong enough, and she was very aware of the doctor watching her, no doubt imagining some kind of devotion and grief. She must behave with decorum. She let her hand rest easily.
Ingram’s nails bit into her hand. He was still strong enough to hurt her.
He opened his eyes again and stared at her, suddenly lucid.
“You liked it, didn’t you?” he hissed. “I know you did, for all your sniveling. Whore! Cheap, dirty whore!”
She wanted to reply, to curse him back, but she would not do it with the doctor present. His pity was terrible, but his disgust would be worse. She kept her back to him as much as possible and forced herself to smile at Ingram.
She measured each word. “It seems it was all you could manage,” she said deliberately. She could say it now, at last. He was helpless to beat her.
He understood—perfectly. His face suffused with rage and he tried to reach for her. His eyes bulged and he choked, gasped, and choked again, more deeply. His arms tried to thrash; his body went rigid and shook even more violently. He bit his tongue and his mouth drooled foam and blood.
Then just as suddenly it was over. He lay perfectly still and his hand slipped off hers at last.
She let out a sigh of relief and pulled away, gently, forcing herself not to flinch.
The doctor moved forward beside her. He put out his fingers and touched York’s neck.
Beata looked at the cloudy eyes and knew that he saw nothing, not her, not the room. They were completely blind.
“Lady York,” the doctor said quietly, “he is gone. I’m…I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “You’ve been…very good.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “It must be terrible for you. He was such a fine man.”
The doctor stared at her, afraid she was going to become hysterical. She could have. He was so wildly wrong she wanted to laugh, long, crazily, on and on. Ingram was dead! She was free!
She must take hold of herself. This was disgraceful. She could not stand here beside a dead man…laughing.
She put her hands up over her face. The doctor must be made to think she was shocked, distraught, anything but desperately relieved. She covered her eyes with her fingers, and smelled the scent of his hands on her own. The antiseptic, medical smell made her stomach clench and for an instant she thought she was going to be sick.
She put her hands down again and forced herself to breathe deeply.
“Thank you, Doctor,” she said calmly, her voice wavering only very slightly. “I am…I am quite well, thank you. If there is nothing that you require of me, I would like to go home. Of course I shall be at your disposal, should you…” She did not know how to finish. She had been preparing for this day for months, and now that it was here all the things she had thought to say flew out of her mind.
“Of course,” he said gently. “No matter how one is prepared, it is always a great shock. Would you like to sit down in my office for a little while? I can send a nurse to be—”
“No, thank you,” she said, cutting him off. “I will have a great many people to inform…and…I think a memorial service to consider. There will be…I must inform the lawyer…the Bar…his colleagues.”
“Of course,” he agreed. She heard the note of relief in his voice. He had many things to attend to himself. There was nothing more he could do for Ingram York. He must turn his mind to other patients.
She walked alone out of the hospital and found the footman waiting at the curb beside her carriage.
She did not meet his eyes; she did not want him to see her expression when she told him. Perhaps it was cowardly, but her own emotions were so mixed between relief and pity. He had been pitiful in the end, in spite of his last words. It was pitiful for the last thing that you say on earth to be dirty and degrading. There was also anger for all the years, and great relief, as if finally she had been able to take off a heavy garment that had weighed her down, at times almost frozen her movement altogether.
There was also a new freedom, wide, beautiful…frightening! What would she do with it, now that she no longer had an excuse not to try for…anything she wanted? There was no one to stop her. No excuses…all mistakes would be her own fault. Ingram was gone.
The footman was waiting for her, still holding the door open.
“Sir Ingram has passed away,” she told him. “Quite peacefully.” That was a lie. She could still hear the hate in his voice.
There was a moment’s silence.
She had not meant to look at the footman’s face but she did so, and, the second before appropriate pity overtook it, she saw relief.
“I’m very sorry, my lady. Is there anything I can do for you?” There was concern for her in his voice.
“No, thank you, John,” she said with a very slight smile. “There will be people to inform, letters and so on. I must begin to do so.”
“Yes, my lady.” He offered her his hand to steady her as she stepped up into the carriage.
She spent the time of the journey home thinking about what sort of service she should request for him. It was her decision. He had died in circumstances it would be preferable were not made public. She had told those who asked that he was in the hospital. She had allowed it to be presumed that he had had some kind of apoplectic fit, a stroke. No one she knew about had referred to the fact that he had
lost his mind. Certainly Oliver Rathbone had told no one that York had attacked him, except possibly Monk.
Did people lie about the cause of a noted person’s death? Or simply allow people to draw mistaken conclusions? Some people did die in embarrassing circumstances, such as in the wrong person’s bed! This was at least in a hospital.
If he did not have a formal funeral it would raise speculation as to why not. He had been a very public man, a High Court judge of note. Everyone would expect it. She had no choice.
No one else knew what he was really like in his own home, when the doors were closed and the servants retired for the night. How could they? Did any decent person’s thoughts even stretch to imagine such things? Certainly hers had not.
Beata wondered how many other women might have experienced the same fear, humiliation, and pain that she had—and told no one.
She imagined being gowned in black, modest and beautiful with her pale, gleaming hair, the perfect widow, exchanging quiet, sad condolences, and looking into the eyes of someone who knew exactly what he had done to her—and she had not fought back!
For a moment as the carriage swung around a corner and slid a little on the ice, she thought again that she was going to be sick.
—
EVENTUALLY IT WAS A very formal funeral, very somber, and within the shortest time that could be managed. Ingram had grown up on the south side of the Thames and had requested in his will to have his funeral held at St. Margaret’s in Lee, on the outskirts of Blackheath. Edmond Halley, after whom a comet had been named, lay in the same graveyard. Ingram had mentioned that often. She would arrange that for him; it was the honorable thing to do. It was a relief to have it over as soon as possible, as it turned out, barely more than a week.
She had, of course, informed the few members of Ingram’s family still alive, including his two sons from his previous marriage. It was a courtesy. He had not kept in touch with his relatives, nor they with him, and his sons had grown distant over the years. Still, she expected to see one or two, as a mark of respect if nothing else. Their neighbors would know.
