by Luccia Gray
“Which kind of illnesses were most frequent at St. Thomas’?” I asked.
“Much the same as in Millcote, unfortunately, Smallpox, consumption, cholera, and syphilis.”
“How dreadful. Is it not depressing to be surrounded by pain and illness, Dr. Carter?” Annette asked.
“It is not pleasant to watch people die, however, on many occasions, the patients recover and I experience great satisfaction. I am succeeding in lowering the death rate of children at Millcote hospital by promoting the new methods taught to me by the tireless and incomparable Miss Florence Nightingale. Have you heard of her?”
We all nodded with vacant looks, so the enthusiastic and rather boring doctor spoke on. “Miss Nightingale is a nurse who believes in keeping the air clean, as well as the careful cleaning of utensils, bedding, and hands. Her patients have fewer infections and more chance of survival. I am trying to convince the doctors at Millcote to use carbolic acid as an antiseptic, as the famous Dr. Lister proposes, with wounds and surgical equipment.”
“How fascinating, Dr. Carter. We are fortunate to have you in this part of the country. I sincerely hope you will stay with us. Your father must have been very proud of you,” said Mrs. Mason.
“My parents made great sacrifices so that I could study at medical colleges. Tuition, books, and board and lodgings were very expensive indeed. Fortunately, I was lodged with my aunt, in Southwark. She lived a stone’s throw from the hospital. When I was awarded my licence, I moved away to private lodgings.”
I saw Michael shoot a look of disquiet at Jane who turned to the doctor. “Your aunt Mrs. Banks?”
“Yes, Emily Banks, my mother’s sister. A loving and generous soul. She had four daughters. She used to pamper me and say I was the son she never had. Did you ever meet her, Mrs. Mason?”
“Not exactly, but your father did mention her. Do you ever visit her?”
“I’m afraid Aunt Emily died almost two years ago, and I have not seen my cousins since my father’s funeral last year.”
Mrs. Mason’s face turned white and my brother jumped towards the cabinet, poured some water from the decanter and handed her the glass. She shook her head. “Would you prefer some tea, Mrs. Mason?” he asked.
Mrs. Mason was still stunned, although none of us understood why. Michael shocked us all by bringing the glass to her lips and saying, “Please drink some water, Jane,” but instead she looked at him and whispered, “Michael,” and closed her eyes.
Dr. Carter rushed towards her. “Let me take your pulse, Mrs. Mason.” He held her wrist and took out his chain watch to count the beats. “It’s too fast. Do you feel unwell?”
“I feel dizzy and warm,” she mumbled.
“Could you open the window, Lieutenant, and we’ll take her nearby so that she can breathe some fresh air.”
Michael opened the latch, threw open the latticed pane, and pulled over an armchair, as Dante and Dr. Carter brought her to the window. Annette took a Spanish fan from a drawer and shook it near her face anxiously, and the doctor took her pulse once more. My brother stood behind her dotingly, with his hands gripping her shoulders.
I disliked her capricious and moody character, which had so obviously bewitched my naïve brother yet again. I was grateful for her help, but I suspected her motivation was to trap poor Michael in her dishonest web. I hated myself for giving her the excuse for taking advantage of him, and hoped he would realise she was just using him as an amusement, once more.
“Mrs. Mason, how are you feeling, now?” asked the young doctor with a furrowed brow.
She smiled. “Much better, thank you.”
“Your pulse is back to normal.” He put his hand to her forehead, “and your temperature has decreased. Shall we close the window?”
“No. Please leave it open, but do not concern yourselves with me.” She turned to Dante. “Dante and Susan, you have many matters to discuss, please feel free to do so in private. Susan, you are entitled to a dowry for the years you have worked at Eyre Hall, so you will be able to cover your housekeeping costs for at least a year. I will speak to your father, too, Dante. He must let you use the house you inherited from your mother in London. It is your birthright.”
“Mrs. Mason, there are not sufficient words in Mr. Johnson’s dictionary to express my gratitude, and there are not enough colours in the rainbow to paint a just picture of your generosity and goodness to us. We will never be able to repay your kindness, but we would be most honoured if you would be our son or daughter’s Godmother.”
“I would be pleased to fulfil such an obligation to your firstborn. How kind of you to bestow such a privilege.” She raised her hand to hold Michael’s, which was still on her shoulder, looked up and asked him, “Will you be back by then, Lieutenant? I understand you will be the Godfather, being Susan’s only male relative.”
“I will be back in July. Could you wait until then, sister?”
“Of course we can wait, brother. Nothing would please me more.” I pulled his arms away from Mrs. Mason and hugged him. “I’ll miss you so much, Michael.” I recognised Jane’s expensive perfume on his skin, and realised wretchedly that he had become her slave all over again.
“Annette, why don’t you show Dr. Carter around Eyre Hall and the estate? I’m sure no one has taken the time to do so since his arrival last year.”
I saw Annette blush uncomfortably and watched the doctor smile hopefully. There was something about Annette’s stunning beauty that displeased me. I was relieved but also offended that she did not seem to care for Dante. Did she think he was not good enough for her? Of course, she had a large dowry, so she could choose any man. Why would she settle for an aspiring artist with no fortune? I loved Dante with all my heart. He was kind, generous, sensitive, and so intelligent. His paintings and sculptures had a magical and mystical quality to them, like the colour of the Venetian sky, which suggested devotion and spirituality. I could watch his beautiful face and listen to his melodic voice eternally. He was so easy to love, and I was so fortunate that he had deigned to look at me and love me. God had placed him in my path, and I was unable to resist his gift. Our love was as pure and innocent as the child in my womb.
The four of us left Michael and Mrs. Mason alone in the drawing room. I made an excuse, slipped into the dining room, and listened behind the heavy crimson curtain that hung between both rooms. Silence. I peeked in to see my brother’s head bent over hers on the couch, obviously kissing her. I wanted to interrupt their disgusting behaviour, and then I heard her breathless voice.
“Michael, if she’s dead, who wrote the letter?”
“Let me worry about that, Jane. I will find her. You have enough to deal with at Eyre Hall.”
Another long silence, and then they stood and walked out of the room. I moved back to the door and watched them walking hand in hand up the staircase. Her long wavy hair had been untied from its usual bun and hung loosely down her back. I cringed in disgust. On my way out of the room, I bumped into Dante.
“I hate her, Dante,” I told him. He hugged me, then placed his hand on my tummy, and smiled lovingly. “You don’t mean that, Susan. You are just concerned about your brother, but he knows what he is doing. They both do. Love, like the sea, knows no limits. The bounds of age or social class are powerless.”
“I hate watching her use him.”
“They are in love, Susan, like us.”
“Don’t compare us to them. Their union is perverse.”
“Let’s forget about them and worry about us and our baby. We still have to break the news to my father, and make plans for our new life together in London.”
***
Part Two: Memorable Days
“That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But, it is the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it, and think how different its course would have been. Pause you who read this, and think for the moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound
you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day.”
Pip, Great Expectations, Chapter 9
But he that dares not grasp the thorn
Should never crave the rose.
The Narrow Way, Anne Bronte
Chapter XI – Mrs. Banks
I left Eyre Hall with the daunting task of finding Helen. My first days in London were spent getting my bearings, as my most recent recollections were over a year ago at the Naval Academy at New Cross, near Greenwich, far from the bustling city. I had spent almost all my time on the lawn of the main building, on a full–rigged model of a ship learning to use the compass and how to read navigation charts, as well as the intricate workings of a naval ship.
I had lived in a poor house at Whitechapel, north of the Thames with Susan for two years as a child, after our mother died. My recollection was of the mossy walls, clammy air, flea–ridden blankets and knotted mattresses, and the rumbling of my painfully empty stomach. Worse than the hunger or the filth was the cold sweat, which shook my body every time a drunkard took notice of Susan or me, until I grew stronger and braver and struck back with an anger I never knew I possessed; anger that I have spent the rest of my life keeping under control, lest the deadly animal inside me should ever be set loose again.
The rage had been as asset at sea, when the rival had been both human and natural. The unruly convicts and the savage sea were both formidable adversaries. I had fought every day against both, until I was dreaded and then respected by the crew, and had managed to control my fear of the dark and voracious waters.
When I left my lodgings on the icy morning of the Day of the Holy Innocents, I mused on how Herod could have ordered the execution of all young male children in Bethlehem, to avoid the loss of his throne to a new–born King of the Jews. It reminded me of Jane’s first husband, another monster who would have killed his own daughter because he refused to let Jane love anyone else. How can an adult fear or hate a small helpless child?
I had told Jane that I did not mind never fathering a child, but it had been a necessary lie. I would give my right arm to watch her womb swell with my seed, and to hold our child in my arms. If I had not left her, that might have happened. It was my fault and I would die with the pain of knowing I was responsible for the death of the child we could have had. I had to find Helen, safe and sound, somewhere in this vast, chaotic, and sinful city; a city that smelt like the bowels of hell, of putrid waters, sour horse urine, fly–ridden manure, and stale smoke. No wonder the long–suffering residents looked sick, deformed and decaying.
The equinoctial gales were blowing out at sea that morning, and the vicious south–west wind was roaring through the steeple of St George's red brick and limestone church, as I walked inside to beg Our Father to help me find Helen. I then walked down Borough High Street into The Elephant Coaching Inn, where I dressed for the part I was about to play.
The wind pushed me down the Newington Causeway, yet seemed almost gentle as it cut through the leafless trees in Kennington Park. By the time I arrived at Brixton Road, the salty smell of the furious waters had vanished and the putrid stink had decreased to an occasional waft of filth and decay.
I had had no idea when I set out that my destination was a good hour’s walk from St Thomas’ Hospital. I walked into the White Horse Coaching Inn for travellers on their way to Brighton, close by the brand new Brixton Railway Station. I was feeling hungry enough to eat a hearty meal, and made sure I introduced myself as Mr. Burchill, Vicar at Thornhill, before I was directed to Sudbourne Road, which I already knew was a few minutes away.
As I left the inn, I looked at the coachmen and their thirsty horses, resting, eating, and stocking up at the inn, and I wondered what would happen when trains took over their work, as they were already doing. Travellers would no doubt continue to rest and eat at the inns, but what would become of the horses, the coachmen, the riders, and the blacksmiths? Would they all become train drivers and station masters? The world was changing, slowly but surely, and the changes would soon affect isolated Eyre Hall, too.
London was smellier, dirtier and more crowded than ever, no doubt thanks to the steam trains, with their endless carriages and hordes of travellers unleashed every day in the city. I liked London even less than before. I worried about Susan living in such a hellish place, but she had assured me that her new residence in Camberwell was almost in the country, well away from the uncleanliness of Whitechapel.
Sudbourne Road was a long tree–lined street with identical, tall terraced houses on either side. They all had bay windows overlooking small square gardens and identical, cast–iron gates outside.
I approached Number 6, unlatched the gate, and lifted the handle on the lion’s head brass knocker, hitting the wooden door twice with quick, sharp blows. Minutes later, a young girl in a sullied maid’s uniform opened the door and asked my name.
“Mr. Burchill, miss.”
“And the missus?” A nauseous stink shot out of her mouth as her blistered lips parted, showing only a few black and broken teeth.
I hesitated before replying. “Mrs. Burchill was not able to come. It is a long journey from Thornhill to London.”
“Where’s that?”
“Scotland.”
“Another one from up north. Ain’t you got no babies up there?”
I smiled, realising I had arrived at my destination. She spoke again at once. “It’s usually the missus who picks ‘em. We don’t accept no returns.”
“I assure you there will be no returns.”
“Mrs. Banks can’t see you anyways. She’s out.”
“I’m afraid I’ll only be in London for a few days, and I need to speak to her urgently.”
“It’s always urgent, ain’t it?”
I made an effort and smiled again, hoping my ecclesiastical costume might impress her. “My parishioners are expecting me back soon. I have weddings and funerals next week.”
She looked carefully at my white clerical collar and double–breasted cassock before speaking. “Well, you’re lucky, Mrs. Banks got a couple of boys just came in. I bet you’d prefer a boy, wouldn’t you?”
I cringed at the thought of two innocent and helpless baby boys in her care.
“Could I wait for Mrs. Banks?”
“Dunno when she’ll be back.”
She turned inside as she heard the sound of children wailing.
“I have come all the way from Whitechapel, on foot. Perhaps I could wait until night falls, and if she has not returned I will come back tomorrow.”
“Hurry up inside then.” She beckoned. “Those screaming brats tire me out, bawling all bloody day long!”
She led me into a room sparsely furnished with two chairs and a rickety table.
“Sit down. Make yourself at home, Mr. Burchill. I’ll be back when I’ve fed ’em.”
I thanked her and walked inside the gloomy room. The walls were covered in faded patterned paper, and a frayed, striped curtain hung over the window. The front wall was ornamented with two old coloured prints in black frames, each representing a wartime naval engagement. The other walls had dark shadows of assorted shapes revealing places where pictures had once hung. Two lumpy, horsehair chairs stood against the wall, and an old corner cupboard housed a dusty bible and a prayer book. An old rag lay before the fireplace, by way of a rug, and two iron candlesticks were fixed into the wall over either side of the empty hearth.
I heard the girl, presumably in the kitchen, banging cupboard doors. I wondered why the children were under her care, and who their parents were. Could they have been removed unknowingly as Helen had been, or abducted from the streets? What kind of people would buy and sell children? I was close to finding Helen, but the dread of not finding her alive was growing alarmingly.
The young girl returned. “They won’t be waking up till tomorrow. I just made sure of that with Godfrey’s drops.”
“Godfrey? Mr. Banks?” I asked, wondering if he might be her husband. She burst out l
aughing, and a disgusting view of her whole putrid mouth was made available to me.
“Ain’t no Mr. Banks. Doctor’s prescription. They sleep like logs.”
“How many are there?” I asked, appalled.
“Why do you want to know?”
I hesitated. “I was wondering because my brother would also like a son.”
“They all want boys, don’t they? What are we supposed to do with all the girls?”
My heart froze. “What happens when they are not wanted?”
“My, you ask plenty of questions, don’t ya?”
I smiled innocently, stroking my false beard and hoping she would not suspect anything.
“They all get an ’ome, some ’omes is cheaper than others, that’s all. Others waste away, cause they ain’t all meant for this ’ard world, is they?”
I smiled again, waiting for her to elaborate, but she turned and left the room. “’Fraid I got some work to do.”
I wondered if any of the barely clad and murky–faced children I had seen begging around London Bridge station this morning had come from this house or others like it.
I heard her walk upstairs, so I decided to explore the rest of the rooms downstairs. I ventured into the kitchen, which was little bigger than the long, narrow pantries at Eyre Hall. It smelled of sewage and rotting food. Several feeding bottles and plenty of empty gin bottles lay in the grimy sink. I opened the cupboards to find only stale bread and porridge.
On the other side of the kitchen was a spacious, fine–looking room with an oval brass–framed mirror, furnished with a couch and several armchairs, all covered with the same dark burgundy cloth. Some ugly china ornaments sat on the mantelshelf above the waning fire, and the stained carpet had seen better days. I presumed the trade was not as lucrative as I had thought.
On my way back to the small room, I saw a door, which looked as though it led to a cellar. It was pitch black and smelled like death. I brought a candle I had seen in the front room and ventured down the creaky wooden steps, covering my nose with a kerchief or I should have retched. There were some chairs, several large boxes, a garden spade, a fork, and other smaller garden tools. I thought the smell must come from the boxes. I lifted one of the lids and saw the source of the odour, some pieces of decayed meat, which on a closer inspection looked like the remains of what might have been a child.
