Mary Reilly

by Valerie Martin

  So I jumped up and Master got himself up on one foot. Then he put one arm across my shoulder and I, feeling awkward at first, put my hand across his back. In this way we got into the hall door, then he used the rail to get upstairs while I hovered along beside him. At the top he leaned upon me again and we got down the hall to his room. He collapsed in his armchair near the fire, looking so white and shaken I feared he would faint, but he only put his head back on the cushion with a sigh and said, “I can manage from here, Mary. But I must ask you to go and fetch my boot.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I’ll bring it here.” I went out and down the stairs in a hurry, though there was not much need for it as neither Master nor the boot was likely to go anywhere. I stepped out into the yard, thinking of what was done for such an injury—was it best to soak it in hot water or perhaps wrap it up in bandages to keep it from moving?—which was useless for me to think on as I know nothing about such matters and Master surely does, so I walked out into the yard and discovered the fog was still so thick I could not see Master’s boot. It seemed my head was up in the fog but when I looked down I could see my own feet plain enough, so I thought I must kneel down and look under the fog. This I did, looking towards the theatre where I thought it must be, but I didn’t find it. So I turned towards the house and there it was, but I felt a strange thud in my chest for it was on the other side of the garden.

  I felt sure I had not crossed the garden to get to Master, though I could have, by running between the edge and the house; still, it just did not seem to me to be right and I felt sure that Master had fallen on the near side from where I was kneeling. But I told myself I mun be mistaken. No one would move the boot even if someone had come into the yard, for what would be the purpose of it, so I went quickly and picked it up, chiding myself as such things happen often in a fog as thick as this one was, and one cannot even be sure of hearing correctly, so that a voice may seem far away when it is really near. Then, as if to prove this, I heard a voice call my name, “Mary,” as if it was next to my ear. It startled me so, I stood clutching Master’s boot to my chest and I felt my skin go so cold that drops of moisture formed on my forehead. What direction am I facing, I asked myself, the house or Master’s laboratory? And I did not know whether to run or stand still, but turned around slowly on the flags until it came again, “Mary,” sharp, but this time I recognized it. I said, “Mr. Bradshaw, I am here.”

  “Come in, then,” he said, more friendly, as it is not his way to be cool to his fellows, and I followed his voice in through the fog. “The master has hurt himself,” he said, “and Mr. Poole is looking everywhere for you.”

  Nothing is as it should be. Master would not stay in his bed one day but he was up and hobbling about with a walking stick, saying he could neglect his work no longer, so after lunch yesterday he struck out across the yard to his laboratory and did not come back. Though he’d got no orders, Mr. Poole had Cook make up a dinner tray and brought it out. Then he came back looking perplexed, saying Master must have fallen asleep in his cabinet, as he didn’t answer, so he’d left the tray at the door. We had our own dinner and tidied up. I did a bit of sewing downstairs while Cook went over her shopping lists and Mr. Poole closed himself up in his parlour, the three of us too anxious to go to bed, though it is not that uncommon for Master to go off, still there was something not right about it. We sat up until nearly eleven waiting to hear Master come in, but he did not. Just before I went up, I made an excuse that I’d forgotten to bring in my brushes (which was true enough, I had forgot) so I went out into the yard. We have finally a little summer with us and it was warm, very damp, the air pressing all round, full of scents from the garden, so it was pleasant to stand still and look about, letting my eyes grow used to the dark. I looked up at the blank wall of Master’s laboratory. The big door made a patch of black against the grey stone, and it seemed if I looked at it hard enough I could make it open and Master come out, for I was filled with some fear for him and the wall was to me like a blank, eyeless face, full of secrets. Of course he did not come, so at last I went in and put up my brushes. Cook looked up at me as if she thought I might have seen something, but I only said good night to her and climbed the long steps feeling I should never have the strength to get to the top. I fell asleep straight away and did not wake up until nearly morning. There was just that dull glow to the air before light comes and, as the window was open, the rustling of the birds even came to me, otherwise the world was very still. Yet I felt something had waked me and in the next moment I knew what it was. Someone was walking quickly across the yard, in at the kitchen door without a pause and then up the back stairs. It is Master, I thought, but I knew at once it was not, for Master’s injury would not let him move so quick. Then I knew this was the same step I had heard before, in the passage, light but dragging somehow. I sat up in the bed. Annie lay beside me, her back to me, but I knew there was not much chance of her being awake. I sat straining my ears to hear and one of the things that seemed very loud was my own heart. The footsteps went up to the first floor, but then not, as I expected, on up to Master’s room, but rather very directly, knowing his way it seemed to me, without a pause to Master’s drawing room.

  This cannot be right, I thought. I must go down and see what this is about. I put my legs over the side of the bed and stood up, feeling shaky, but I scolded myself, saying, what have you to fear, you must only go down and knock on Mr. Bradshaw’s door. Then I came so much to myself that I thought, you cannot call Mr. Bradshaw out in your night shift, so I took my old cloak from the peg and wrapped myself in it. In this time I heard the intruder open a drawer, then fall silent.

  This is such boldness as will be met, I thought, and quick as I could I opened the door, made my way down to the landing, quiet and fast as possible, then stopped. Now the footsteps had begun again. He was leaving the drawing room, running to the stairs, and in a moment would be gone. If I hurried down the next flight I might run into him.

  I cast a hopeless look at the door to Master’s bedroom. Was he there? Had he come in without my hearing? Now my heart was thudding, for the footsteps was just below me. He was on the landing beneath mine and if I took one step forward he would look up to see me standing above him. Indeed he was not moving but seemed to have paused on the landing, waiting for me to make myself known. I felt he would be known, that he willed me to take that one step, yet I could not take it. Rather I stepped back, leaning against the wall to hold myself up, feeling my mouth go dry and my knees give way, so that my only thought was, don’t fall. In that moment he hurried down the stairs while I sank down onto the carpet, my face in my hands. I heard the kitchen door open, then close. Wave after wave of fear flowed over me and it was strange, for I knew he was gone and I had nothing more to fear. But I was crouched on the floor, quivering, trying to make myself small and cursing the tears in my eyes. He always hated me to cry, it enraged him more than anything I could do and I always paid for it if he saw me. I had the thought that came to me so often as a child, when I heard him coming for me, when he was in the room, but I hadn’t the courage to look up and see where, because if I kept myself small I hoped he would not notice me. So I thought, oh please, oh please, don’t let him see me, don’t let him think of me.

  Who was it I pleaded with?

  After a time I came to myself, dried my eyes and remembered where I was. The window over the landing is of stained glass and the dim morning light cast spots of red, like pools of blood, on the carpet, on my hands. I did not get up at once but sat giving myself some counsel. First I told myself this intruder must surely be Master’s assistant, as he came in with no difficulty, so he must have a key, and though it was an odd hour to be in our house, doubtless he was on some mission for Master. I got up, straightened my cloak over my shoulders and went downstairs quietly, for in another hour the house would be awake and many as sleep light in that last hour—I know I do. I went to the drawing room, which was dark as the curtains was still drawn, and I stood in the d
oorway looking to see if anything was amiss. Master’s desk under the window was open and the drawer pulled out. For some reason this gave me a shudder. I went to look at it and found Master’s big book of cheques lying open, the pen next it—not in the holder, as Master always leaves it, but laid aside and dripping ink onto the blotter. Without thinking I righted the pen, closed the book and slipped it into the drawer. Then I thought perhaps I should not have touched it.

  But most of all I thought why is Mr. Edward Hyde, for surely it was he, writing cheques in Master’s own cheque-book at such an hour and in such a hurry?

  I closed the desk and turned my back on it, feeling so uneasy it was as if I turned my back on a bad dog who might suddenly knock me sprawling, so I fairly crept out of the drawing room and up the stairs. On the landing I stopped and looked again at the door to Master’s bedroom.

  Was he asleep behind it?

  I knew he was not, though how I knew I cannot say. Nor why I felt then such anger and such boldness to do the strange thing I did. I went to the door and rapped softly upon it, having no idea what I would say if Master called out for me to enter, for I knew he would not. Then I opened the door, slowly at first, until I could see the big bed, empty and neatly made up, as I had done it that morning. In a moment I entered the room and closed the door behind me. I know every inch of Master’s room, for I have cleaned it often enough, yet it seemed to me I was in a strange place full of secrets. Perhaps it was the light, which was very dim, though I could see my way about easily enough. The windows was open and the lace curtain puffed in a little from the breeze, which was warm, very damp. Soon it would be raining, I could smell that in the air.

  How odd I felt! How odd I was! I went to Master’s shaving mirror and looked at my face in the glass. My hair was down and wild around my face, which looked very pale and vexed to me, and my eyes seemed bright, no doubt from being washed by tears. I saw there was two lines in my forehead and I rubbed at them. I dropped my cloak on the carpet to look at my neck and shoulders—also, it seemed to me, too pale even against the white of my night shift. But my shoulders and arms are strong, from the heavy work I do, especially getting the coal up, and it gave me a little pleasure to see that though I am small, I do look strong and healthy. I would have looked in the cheval glass but it is gone to Master’s cabinet where even now, I thought, perhaps Master is looking up from his work to see himself, or Mr. Edward Hyde who has come running in with a cheque. That fancy vexed me so that I turned away from the glass and stood looking at Master’s bed. It is a fine piece—heavy, dark, carved with strange fruits and flowers across the headboard, which is high, and the footboard, also higher than most, I think, with feet that look like a bird’s claw holding onto a ball of gleaming wood. Whenever I am polishing it, or making it up, or turning the mattress, I cannot but admire it. I felt so bold then that I went over to it and smoothed the coverlet, then rested my cheek against it. All my fear was vanished, and even it seemed most of my sense, for at the thought that Mr. Poole might come in and see me in my shift, swooning over Master’s bed, I had to hold down a laugh.

  Then I stood up still, thinking I might be heard, that even my bare feet on the carpet must give me away if I so much as made a move for the door. I leaned against the bed, looking at the room around me, Master’s shaving basin, the fireplace—cold now, for it had not been lit since the day before—the wine-coloured chair he sometimes draws up before it, the pictures on the walls, all drawings and paintings of scenes, all in heavy, dark frames, the heavy, winy curtains with the lace beneath rustling in the breeze. Then a sadness come over me and I felt I was sinking very low, from my fear on the stairs and the memories stirred up of being hunted and noplace to hide. I thought, I cannot live if I am not to feel safe in this house, with this master, who has cared for me and talked to me, who values me as no one ever has. If I must cringe and weep in this house, then what will become of me?

  I put on my cloak, which I wrapped around me tight, for I felt cold of a sudden and weak, and went out as quiet as I could, down the hall and up to my room. Annie was asleep and in a moment I slipped in beside her, where I lay still but not sleeping, until a long hour had passed and it was time to get up and go about my work.

  We all of us spent the morning in a bad temper, airing rooms, polishing silver, brushing clothes, cleaning pots, keeping a house for a master who is not there. Mr. Poole went out and came back with Master’s dinner tray which had not been touched. It is warm and the fires in the hall and drawing room has been down these two days, so I made up my mind to take advantage of it. After lunch I dressed in my oldest apron, took up my brushes and polish, and set to cleaning and blacking the grates, getting out all the ashes in scuttles, a job which makes me as black as a sweep. I was halfway up the chimney in the hall when Mr. Bradshaw scared me out of my wits by touching me on the back, but when I saw his face I could not be annoyed, for he looked as if he was the one who had had a shock.

  “Mary,” he said. “You’d best give that up and come into the kitchen at once. Master has come in a bad way.”

  So I straightened myself as best I could, though there was nothing to be done about the black but try to keep it off the carpet as I went along, and followed Mr. Bradshaw to the kitchen.

  Master sat sprawled at the table, looking more dead than alive. When I come into the room he looked up at me as if he did not know me. In fact, he seemed hardly to know he was in his own house. Mr. Poole stood over him like a mother hen, and Cook was on his other side, but they seemed not to know what to do. Cook said to me, “I don’t know how he got across the yard. He can scarce walk.” His stick lay on the floor where, I thought, he must have dropped it, seeing that the table might hold him up. His clothes was awry, the collar undone, nor did he have on his coat, and I saw the cuff on his shirt was only half fastened, as if he’d put it on in a hurry. He put his head down in his arms and groaned. Mr. Poole seemed to recollect himself at that and began giving orders all round, to Cook to get some water boiling, to me to prepare Master’s bed, and to Mr. Bradshaw to help support Master up the stairs.

  I took off my apron, brushed myself as best I could and cleaned my hands quickly in a bucket. Master lifted his head to say, “My boot. Please take it off,” and Cook said, “His poor ankle. He has done it in now.”

  Mr. Poole told Cook to hold her tongue and then got on his knees to take off Master’s boots. I watched long enough to see that Master’s ankle was twice the size it should be and so tender that Mr. Poole said he must cut the sock off with a scissors. So I went ahead up the stairs to prepare the room.

  The room was warm and damp to my way of thinking, but I knew Master would find it chilly so I closed the window at once. Then I turned back the bed and laid out Master’s dressing gown, filled the basin with water and opened the door to his dressing room. I could hear them on the stairs, helping him along. In a moment they were at the door, Master between Mr. Bradshaw and Mr. Poole, hopping on one foot with his head dropped forward as if he could not hold it up. They set him down on his chair so clumsily I thought he would fall right out of it, but the jolt seemed to wake him up and he looked about, seeming very weary but relieved. Mr. Bradshaw went off and Mr. Poole took the scissors from the dresser and fell to cutting off Master’s sock.

  “I’d like a fire, Mary,” Master said, though he did not look at me but at his ankle, which was now exposed and was indeed such a sorry sight, swollen and bruised many colours so that we all of us could do nothing but stare at it and I said, “Lord, sir, sure it is broken now.”

  But Master said, “No, only I should not have been on it so soon.” Mr. Poole took off Master’s other sock and I went to work on the coals. Master said, “Poole, help me to get undressed. I fear I shall spend a few days gazing at my footboard.” Mr. Poole said, “Very good, sir,” as he always does and got Master to stand on his one foot, then he helped him to the end of the bed where Master could hold on to the footboard. Usually Master uses his dressing room, of course, but no on
e could think of his making extra steps. As I had my back to them, bent over the fire which was taking some work to get up, being cold these two days, they paid me no mind. I could hear the rustle of Master’s shirt coming off, the clink of his studs and cuffs, and he gave a little moan, I thought when he put weight on his bad foot to help Mr. Poole get his trousers off.

  When I stood up and turned around, Master was sitting on his bed in his dressing gown, looking like a sick boy but for his silver hair. He eased himself back among the pillows and spoke to us very weakly. “Poole,” he said, “stay with me a few moments. I have some errands that must be done at once and I shall trust them only to you.” Mr. Poole was at arranging the pillows and I could not see his face but I had no doubt it was very smug, for he likes nothing better than to be singled out by Master. “Bradshaw can mind the hall while you are out,” Master went on. “Mary,” he said, turning to me as I was going out, “have Cook send me something. Some tea. Broth, if she has any. I could eat that. Tell her I have no appetite. She’ll know what to do.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said and went down. I thought, good, I could clean myself up while Cook got Master’s tray together and so be more presentable, for I hate Master to see me covered in coal and I’m afraid to touch anything until I can get a good scrubbing. In the kitchen Cook had a big kettle going already, so I poured some of it in the basin and washed my face and neck, my hands to the elbows. Mr. Poole came through in an agitated state, saying he might be back for tea or not, as Master’s errands would send him to the corners of the earth. Then he was off and Cook and I was very companionable for a bit, getting Master’s tray together. “He needs a bit of meat,” Cook said, “and I’ve such a nice bit of pork, but there’s no point sending it as he’ll never get it down.”

  “He looks very weak,” I said.

  “And so he must be,” Cook replied. “I thought this assistant was to save his health, but it seems he only makes him worse.” I did the toast and Cook had some eggs cooked soft as Master likes them, turned out of their shells into a bowl, also some beef broth, a bowl of wild strawberries and a pitcher of cream which, she said, “He mayn’t eat, but they might tempt him. They are his favourites and so hard to come by,” and a pot of tea. We put no flower on it as it was the bed tray. I put on my best cuffs, which I like to use when I am waiting on Master, and went up with the tray, which, with the white linen and bright-flowered dishes made a lovely sight, I thought, and must lift Master’s spirits to see it.