I look at him sharply. ‘Does she know you have found me?’ I ask. ‘Does she know where I have been and that you are bringing me home?’
The guilt that flashes across his face tells me all I need to know.
Eli turns and looks out of the window. ‘Mama will be happy to see you,’ he says eventually. ‘I must tell you, Alice. She has missed you so much.’
A scornful laugh bursts out of my mouth and I try to disguise it as a cough. The idea that Mama would ever miss me fills me with such a mixture of pain and amusement that Eli has to slap me on the back to stop me from choking.
The carriage rattles on, shaking my bones, and Eli begins to tell me of his plans. ‘Once you are home, Alice, and have settled yourself, of course, well, I should like to go abroad for a while. Paris. Rome. You know. Oh, and you must remember not to breathe a word to anyone about where you have been these past months. We will put it about that you’ve been with relatives. People can choose to believe us or not … Mama needs you, you see. A mother needs a daughter close by, don’t you think? And with you at home again, I shall be free to travel.’ He smiles at me broadly. ‘And don’t worry,’ he says. ‘If you behave yourself, Alice, I am sure she will forget any idea she may have had of an asylum.’
He whispers this last word as though it is so dirty he cannot bear to have it on his tongue.
‘And you will behave, won’t you, Alice? After all … being where you have just been … I am sure you would not like to go anywhere like that again.’
On he goes. Yapping away like some stupid puppy. But I am not listening any more. I know the truth of why he came to my rescue now; it was for his own sake and not for mine. In a strange way the realisation gladdens me. It is as though his selfishness has set me free and an astounding thought occurs to me. I do not want to go back to Lions House, to the place I used to call home. But I do not want to go back to the Abode either. I don’t need Mama and Eli, and I certainly don’t need Henry Prince. They might need me for their own twisted reasons but I don’t need any of them. How blind I have been. I thought there were only two choices, but there is a world of choice out there and it is time for me to find my way now.
I pull down the carriage window and lean my head out. ‘Stop!’ I yell to the driver. ‘Stop the carriage.’ The racket of skidding hooves and screeching wheels flies in through the open window.
‘What on earth are you doing, Alice?’ Eli’s eyebrows are arched in panic.
‘I just need a little air,’ I say.
‘But we are almost home,’ he complains. ‘Can’t you wait?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ I say. I open the carriage door and jump to the ground.
‘Will you be long?’ asks Eli. He sighs and leans back in his seat. I reach up and push the carriage door shut.
‘I will be as long as it takes, dear brother. As long as it takes.’
Then I pick up my skirts and I run. I run as fast as I have ever run. I don’t know where I am going just yet. But I know that I will end up somewhere. And somewhere is better than nowhere. The rains pours down, my skirts slap against my legs, Papa’s gold locket bounces at my throat … and I run and run and run.
I wish to be happy! I shout at hedges and trees and empty fields. I only wish to be happy! And the wind picks up my wish and whips it high into the sky and carries it away to the place where dreams come true.
Fifty-two
I am soaked to the skin. But the rain has stopped now, at least, and I have found a lane to walk along. My skirts are thick with wet mud from the fields I first ran through. The rain has got into my boots too, and they are rubbing on my heels. I will have to stop soon and find somewhere to rest.
But this lane seems to lead nowhere. It is just endless hedges and puddles. I walk fast, even though my heels are stinging and the soles of my feet are burning. I am impatient to get to where I am going. I just don’t know how to get there yet.
It came to me just after I had shouted my wish across the fields. It was as though the wind had heard my cry and blown the answer back to me. I have been here before, I thought, running across this countryside; running away from myself and a life I do not want. These could be the same fields I ran through before; these could be the same low, sparse hedges that snagged my skirts and the same mud that coated my boots. Except I know this isn’t the right place. I will find no barn to shelter in here and no welcome around a farmhouse table.
Where is everyone? I have not come across a soul yet. Anyone will do, a farmer, a traveller, a coach driver or a pedlar. Anyone who can point me in the direction of the Bristol Road. I tramp onwards, wincing with every step. There is a copse ahead and a fine sycamore with just a scattering of golden leaves left on its branches. I make my way towards it and see there is a bed of sod and fallen leaves covering its roots. I fall onto it gratefully and lean back against the flaking trunk. I close my eyes and allow my breaths to slow. I had not realised I was so tired.
I am cold now that I have stopped walking. I left the Abode in such a hurry that I have not even a shawl with me. I rub my arms briskly. I won’t stay here long. I have to get on. But I feel so heavy now; it is as though all the strength has seeped out of me and into the roots of the sycamore. Just a few more minutes. Just a few more minutes …
I am in my meadow. It is more beautiful than ever. The grass is so green it hurts my eyes. Every blade of it slides across my bare legs like the finest gossamer. The sky is hushed and peaceful and never-ending. I turn around and around. The meadow is empty. But there is somebody here with me. I know that for a certainty. I look again – to the very edges of where the grass meets the sky. Nothing. How odd, I think. Then I feel something; the tiniest of movements, a fluttering of life. I hold my breath. It is coming from inside me. Whoever is with me in the meadow is deep inside of me, and the strangest thing is, I am not frightened by it at all.
There is a rumble and a clattering. My eyes fly open. Cartwheels are splashing through puddles and mud. I jump to my feet. The cart rolls on down the lane and I chase after it. There is a thick blanket stretched over the top of an assortment of furniture. I can see table legs and chair backs and the doors of a worm-eaten cabinet. ‘Stop!’ I shout. I run as hard as I can with my skirts held up in one hand and the other hand waving in the air. ‘Stop!’
The cart slows and the tables and chairs knock together as the wheels jerk to a standstill. I dash to the front and crouched over the reins is a pock-marked old man buried in a weathered overcoat. Next to him is a woman with a scowl on her face and a battered bonnet on her head.
‘Whadda you want?’ barks the man. His eyes have barely any colour to them and they slide over me, taking in my muddy boots and the wet hair that is sticking to my face.
‘Please,’ I say. ‘I need to get to the Bristol Road. How far is it from here?’
‘Not too far,’ grunts the man. He is staring at me in a way that makes me want to run back the way I came.
‘Are you going that way yourself?’ I ask.
‘Yup,’ he says. He is not making this easy for me.
‘Could you … would you mind … could I please come with you? I could squeeze in the back there. I won’t damage anything, I promise.’
He screws his eyes up at me. ‘Can yer pay yer way?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I can’t. I have no money. I have nothing. But I would be so grateful if you would help me.’
‘No money, no ride,’ he says and he clicks his tongue at the horse and takes up the reins.
‘No! Wait. Please!’ I put my hand down the front of my bodice and pull out Papa’s gold locket.
The man’s eyes light up and he puts the reins back in his lap.
I unfasten the chain from around my neck and hold out the locket towards him. ‘Now will you take me to the Bristol Road?’
He nods and licks his lips. I push the locket into his outstretched hand. ‘One more thing,’ I say. ‘I need to go to the milestone on the Bristol Road. The one that reads Bridgwater, fif
teen miles. Do you know it?’
Again, the man nods. He tucks Papa’s locket deep into his coat pocket. ‘Hop on, then,’ he says.
I find a space between a dusty wooden trunk and a three-legged stool. It is comfortable enough. I can just see over the back of the cart as the lane stretches further and further behind us and I know in my heart that this is the most important journey I will ever make. Thank you, Papa, I whisper. But I think he knows already, and he will be glad that his gift has helped me on my way.
I stand by the milestone on the Bristol Road. Bridgwater 15 is carved into its granite surface. There’s the track that runs beside it. And a way up the track, if I squint my eyes, I can see a feathery whisper of smoke rising from the chimney of the farmhouse in the distance. Although I am tired to the bone, there is a wonderful lightness inside me now and I barely feel the blisters on my heels as I hurry as fast as I can along the track.
I know they will not turn me away.
I think of the strange dream I had under the sycamore tree and I put my hand to my belly. A curious warmth seeps through my fingers. Could it be true? A new life? Someone for me to truly love forever?
If it is true, I am not frightened. Because I know that where we are going they will not turn us away.
Four years later …
The sun is warm on my skin. I notice how, after a summer spent outside with the sleeves of my blouse rolled up, my arms have turned the pale brown of freshly baked biscuits. I put the basket of wet washing on the ground and pick out a garment to peg on the line. It is one of Eve’s little smocks and I smile to see it hanging there, so tiny next to my own. I hear her giggles from across the yard. She is running circles around George again.
I finish pegging out the rest of the washing, and I stand for a moment with my hand shielding my eyes from the sun, looking out across the fields. I see a figure in the distance and my heart begins to dance in my chest. It is Tom. I can tell by the lazy sway of his hips and the assured swing of his arms. I quickly brush my fingers through my hair and check that my apron is clean.
I pick up the empty basket and turn back to the farmhouse. Ada is standing in the doorway watching me. ‘Don’t fret,’ she says, and then winks at me. ‘You look a picture.’
Tom has been coming over from the neighbouring farm for months now to help George out. But this is the first time he has ever come to supper. I have never felt so nervous.
Then Eve runs around the corner, with George hobbling behind, pretending to chase her. ‘Help me, Mama. Help me!’ she squeals. ‘He is going to eat me up!’ She flings herself at my legs. I drop the basket to the ground and lift her into my arms. I nuzzle my face into her neck and breathe her in. I don’t think I will ever tire of the hot, sweet, straw and dirt smell of her.
‘I will save you!’ I laugh into her neck. ‘I will always save you.’ I swing her around in my arms and she squeals louder and louder. George has admitted defeat and is standing by Ada’s side, both of them smiling at us broadly.
Then Eve catches sight of Tom and she wriggles out of my arms. ‘Tom! Tom!’ And she’s off, her black ringlets bouncing off her back. And he already has his arms open to catch her.
I stand there for a moment and I look around at all of it: the farm, the fields, the sun, the sky. George and Ada who took me in without a question. George and Ada who love me like a daughter. George and Ada, who when Eve came along, instantly loved her too.
And Tom, of course. There are no promises and no wishes. It will be what it will be.
Once a month, George takes the cart and rides out to Bridgwater for candles and suchlike. He brings me snippets of news and gossip when he hears it. It was him that told me Mama had passed away last summer. A sickness of the brain, it was rumoured. There was a good turnout at her funeral, a dozen carriages at least. I was glad for her; she would have liked that. But I am not the least bit sorry that she is dead. Eli is married now too, with a child on the way. He still has the mill, although business is not as good as it once was. And it is said that he frequents the lowest parts of town more often than is decent. I hope that he has found some kind of happiness.
A few weeks back, George took us all for a ride out to Taunton to buy Ada a new bonnet. Taunton is not a small place, so I went with little expectation of coming across Beth. Nevertheless, as we climbed back into the cart to leave for home, with Ada balancing her new hatbox on her lap, a heavy disappointment lay across my shoulders. But then, as the cart trundled by a fancy goods shop, I happened to look behind as Eve pointed at something in the window. And there was Beth, tidying the display of ribbons, buckles and snuff boxes. She looked just the same, only softer and brighter. I put my hand up to wave, but of course she didn’t see me. But it didn’t matter. Just to see her was enough. Perhaps George will take me back to Taunton another day and I will walk into that shop and buy some ribbon for Eve, and Beth and I can talk to each of ordinary things, as if that is what we have always done.
George told me that the last time he was in Bridgwater he saw Henry Prince preaching in the town square. I was peeling onions at the time and when I heard his name, the knife slipped and sliced into my finger. I put the finger in my mouth and sucked on it. The sweetness of the blood mixed with the bitter sting of onion juice that had collected under my nails, tasted to me at that moment of life itself. Bitter and sweet all at once.
For out of the bitterness of it all, I now have the sweetest thing imaginable. I have my Eve.
And she is my Beloved.
I remember the last wish I ever made, on the day I left the Abode, the day I left my brother far behind. I remember tramping through the fields, the mud splashing my skirts and the rain stinging my face. I only wish to be happy! I’d shouted to the world. I only wish to be happy!
And as I look around me now, at all the faces that I love, and who love me back, I realise that it came true.
I wished it, and it came true.
Historical Notes
The Agapemonites (from Agapemone – meaning Abode of Love) was a religious sect founded in 1846 by a defrocked clergyman named Henry Prince.
Prince declared himself the ‘Holy Spirit’ and managed to persuade a number of believers, mostly rich widows and spinsters, to sell everything they owned for the Lord. With the proceeds, Prince set about building the sect’s headquarters in the tiny Somerset village of Spaxton. These headquarters consisted of a twenty-bedroom mansion, a chapel, cottages, stables and a gazebo. The whole site was surrounded by fifteen-foot walls and was guarded by ferocious bloodhounds.
Prince’s followers were divided into hierarchies. Those who had given the most continued to live a life of luxury, spending their days reading, playing hockey and billiards and, of course, worshipping Prince during the daily sermons in the chapel. Those women who had no riches to give to the Lord, gave their labour instead and lived as servants. They were known as the Parlour.
The very existence of the Abode of Love caused moral outrage in the society of the day, with its strict Victorian values of propriety, modesty and virtue. The newspapers were full of the scandal of it, and readers lapped up stories of brainwashing, sexual outrages and attempts to kidnap various family members. It was said that Prince took advantage of his exalted position to take many ‘spirit brides’ and to even rape a young kitchen maid on the chapel altar in front of his congregation.
In 1896, at the ripe old age of 85, Henry Prince initiated the building of a church in Clapton, North London. It was a vastly ornate building (still standing today) that included a stained glass window which depicted the submission of womankind to man.
Prince died in 1899, causing panic amongst his followers who had truly believed he was immortal. They buried him standing upright, in readiness for the Day of Reckoning.
Prince was succeeded by a man called John Smyth-Pigott who declared himself the second Messiah. Incredibly the Agapemonites grew from strength to strength, with the number of women at the Abode swelling to nearly one hundred. It was reported that
Smyth-Pigott took at least seven ‘spirit brides’ a week.
It wasn’t until the death of Smyth-Pigott in 1927 that membership of the sect started to decline. By the early 1950s only a handful of ‘disillusioned old women and frustrated young women’ were left.
The last member of the sect, a sister Ruth, died in 1957. The following year, the Abode was sold and the chapel went on to be used as a backdrop for the children’s television series Trumpton and Camberwick Green.
Alison Rattle
Alison grew up in Liverpool, and now lives in a medieval house in Somerset with her three teenage children, her husband – a carpenter – an extremely naughty Jack Russell and a ghost cat. She has co-authored a number of non-fiction titles on subjects as diverse as growing old, mad monarchs, how to boil a flamingo, the history of America and the biography of a nineteenth-century baby killer. She has worked as a fashion designer, a production controller, a painter and decorator, a barmaid, and now owns and runs a vintage tea room. Alison has also published two previous YA books about young Victorian women with Hot Key Books – The Quietness and The Madness. Follow Alison at www.alisonrattle.com or on Twitter: @alisonrattle
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First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Hot Key Books
Northburgh House, 10 Northburgh Street, London EC1V 0AT
Text copyright © Alison Rattle 2015
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