The Snow Rose

by Lulu Taylor

  The man at the bottom of the scaffold looks round and sees me. He grins. He’s another youthfully good-looking boy with a supremely fit body, tanned and muscly, as they all seem to be. Is it a requirement of being here? I wonder. All this physical beauty? And if it is, how the hell did they let me in?

  ‘You must be Rachel!’ he calls in an American accent. ‘Hi! Good to meet you.’

  ‘That’s right.’ I go forward to him, smiling shyly. The man on the top level of the scaffold is still whirring away with his drill. Then it stops and he lifts up a pair of goggles and turns to look down at the sound of our voices. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘I’m Rocky.’ He gestures upwards. ‘Up there – that’s Fisher.’

  Fisher, swarthy and stubbled, looks down through the planks of the scaffold and grunts a greeting. He looks back at the shutter as if keen to return to work but he holds off as long as I am there.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

  ‘Fixing up a bit of internal support,’ Rocky says, smiling at me.

  ‘It’s rather industrial, isn’t it?’ I frown. ‘Are you allowed to do that? I mean, I would have assumed this place is protected . . . listed . . . whatever it’s called.’

  Rocky shrugs. ‘I dunno. I have no idea. We just do as we’re told. You’d have to ask Archer about that.’

  ‘What do you need great thick shutters like that for?’ I go closer to the scaffold, curious.

  ‘They’re going on all the windows. And we’ve got Linus – he’s a real tech expert. He’s designed it so that they can be controlled from inside with the touch of a button. One sense of danger and pow, down come the shutters. The doors will be reinforced too. In about ten seconds, you have yourself a safe house.’

  ‘Oh. Right. I see. Why do you need one of those?’

  Rocky laughs as though I’ve just cracked a really good joke. ‘Yeah, sure . . . I’d better get on now, if you’ll excuse me, but very nice to make your acquaintance. See you round.’

  Fisher is already pulling down his goggles, ready to drill again. A second later the whining cut of the drill fills the hall and sparks fly around the top of the window.

  I go towards the small sitting room that was my refuge when I was here alone. Opening the door, I find a group of women sitting around the table, each with a computer open in front of her. Another couple sit on the sofa, which has been covered with a blue woollen blanket, and they seem to be sewing something large and intricate. All of them turn to look at me, their chatter stopping at once.

  ‘Hi,’ says one, getting up. ‘You are . . . ?’

  ‘I’m Rachel,’ I say, intimidated. They all seem so confident and sure of themselves, sitting here in the room I considered my own not so long ago. ‘Archer . . . knows me.’

  ‘The sick old woman,’ one whispers under her breath to her neighbour.

  ‘Okay,’ says the woman, standing. She looks Chinese but her accent is pure, well-bred English. She’s wearing tight white jeans and an equally tight white T-shirt with ‘Genius’ written across it. ‘Yeah. He did talk about you. Didn’t he, girls?’

  They all nod and chime in with their agreement.

  ‘We hope you’re feeling better,’ says another, a friendly, round-faced girl with pink cheeks and a mass of messy fair hair gathered up in a hairband.

  ‘Yes, thanks, I am.’ I look around at them. ‘What are you all doing?’

  ‘Chores,’ says one from the sofa, putting down her needle and making a face. ‘My finger really hurts. I’m going to have to stop for a bit.’

  ‘We’ve all got work to do,’ says the Chinese girl reprovingly.

  ‘Yeah, but you guys are on your computers. I’m fucking sewing!’

  ‘That’s enough, Kaia.’

  ‘Sorry,’ says Kaia. ‘But I’d challenge anyone not to go out of their mind doing embroidery.’

  ‘I like it,’ murmurs the girl next to her, still sewing away in red silk, her tiny exquisite stitches making up the petal of a rose.

  ‘What are you sewing?’ I ask pleasantly. ‘It looks very pretty.’

  ‘An altar cloth,’ replies Kaia, shaking it out so I can see the intricate pattern they are creating. In the centre is a white lamb, its front hoof raised, a blazing crown on its head. It stands in a field of beautiful flowers, and angels hover over it. There must be hours of painstaking work in it.

  The Chinese girl is watching me intently as I examine it. Then she says, ‘Will you excuse us? We really have to get back to work.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll be on my way.’ I smile at Kaia, who seems very friendly. ‘When do you hope to have it finished?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nearly done. It’ll be ready for the ceremony on Friday. Are you coming to that?’

  ‘Kaia,’ says the other woman, warningly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘Maybe. We’ll see what Archer says.’

  ‘Maybe see you there. If not before.’ Kaia starts threading her needle with more silk, green this time.

  ‘See you later, Rachel,’ the Chinese girl says and I can hear the note of dismissal in her voice.

  ‘Yes. See you later.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ‘Arthur! Where have you been?’

  Letty sits up in bed, all worries about wrapping the sheets around her to preserve her modesty long since gone. Instead she’s been driven frantic with worry about Arthur, whom she has not seen all day. He was not at lunch, or at dinner, but his empty place was not remarked upon. Everyone was still taken up with the shock and unpleasantness of Emily’s death. There is a rumour that she left a note but no one has seen it. Letty went up to bed, miserable.

  I shouldn’t care so much. At least, not until his soul is saved.

  But she can’t help it. She’s grown to need his presence. Without it, the house is lustreless.

  Now, at last, here he is, panting and still in his outdoor things. ‘I went for a walk,’ he says, striding in, smiling.

  ‘Did you? All day?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘a very long walk. A horribly long one. And now I’m ravenous and dinner is over. What shall I do?’

  ‘I suppose one of the Angels might bring something,’ Letty says doubtfully. The Angels do a wonderful job of ministering to them all, but they don’t like any inference that they are no more than servants or waiting staff.

  ‘No. Let’s go down and see what we can scavenge.’

  Letty cannot stay cross for long, she is so delighted to have him back. His eyes sparkle and he is full of life and vitality. She is like a vampire now, needing his youth and freshness to invigorate her. The desiccated ladies around her are drying her out. As they go downstairs, he takes her hand and they skip down together, laughing.

  ‘Why are you in such a good mood?’ she asks. ‘Have you been to a party?’

  At once her smile falls as she’s struck by the thought that he’s been off meeting some of his university friends. He’s had time to take the train somewhere and then come back. Perhaps he’s been drinking, dancing with beautiful girls with tight dresses and loose morals. The thought fills her with violent jealousy.

  ‘No,’ he says, not noticing her change in mood. ‘Not a party, I’m afraid. It’s been so long since I’ve been at one of those that I’ve forgotten what they’re like. I say, why don’t we go up to London one day? I’ll take you to the Savoy and we’ll drink cocktails and watch the world go by.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps!’ she says brightly, feeling better. Could it happen? The Beloved would not permit it, but there’s no harm in pretending just for a moment. Is there? She knows that the Beloved’s grip upon her is loosening as her need for Arthur grows. Does that make her a fool?

  I won’t think about it. I only want to be with Arthur.

  She leads him to the kitchens, which are now in darkness except for the fire glowing in the range that sends a red flickering light over the slate floor. The evening work has been done and the place restored to order.

  ‘Let’s see what we ca
n find,’ Arthur says, going to the larder and switching on the light. ‘Ah, a meat pie. How delicious, and just the thing. Whatever you might say about this place, the grub is first rate. And there’s some bread and butter too. Why, it’s a veritable feast.’

  He brings out plates balanced precariously on one another, and puts them on the scrubbed pine table. He sits down and starts to eat hungrily. Letty goes to find him some wine and brings a glass for him, then sits down to join him.

  ‘I’ve decided to be very positive about all of this,’ Arthur says, munching on the meat pie. ‘I’m going to turn it to my advantage. When it’s all over – and it will be – I’m going to write a book about my experiences here. It might be a novel or it might be non-fiction, I haven’t decided yet. Anyway, it will cause a sensation and make me a fortune and a celebrated author. This has cheered me up no end.’

  ‘I can tell,’ Letty says, laughing.

  He looks over at her mischievously. ‘You do believe me, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes . . . in a way.’

  ‘In a way?’

  ‘I believe you want to,’ she says, admiring the way that the firelight is gilding his cheekbones and his hair and making his grey eyes almost honey-gold. ‘I believe that if things were different, then you could.’

  ‘If things were different?’

  She can’t let it all go, just like that, no matter what Arthur might want. It is still her truth. She says slowly, ‘If it weren’t for the fact that it won’t be long before we move beyond this world, and into the next.’

  His smile fades a little and he turns back to his meal for a moment. Then he takes a gulp of his wine and says heartily, ‘My dear little missionary, I’m always forgetting that we are diametrically opposed to one another. It’s a sad thing, but there it is. I’m amazed that you can go on with your very touching and absolute faith in someone who says one thing, and right in front of you does another.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Spiritual marriages! Denying the flesh! Repudiating this, that and the other! All the while, raking in other people’s riches, driving them mad with threats of hellfire, and bedding whoever he wants.’

  Letty gasps in horror. ‘What do you mean?’

  Arthur leans forward and says in a low voice, ‘Emily Payne didn’t drown herself because she was possessed by the Devil. She did it because when Phillips wasn’t enjoying your sister’s bed, he was in hers. And she won’t be the only one. I’ve seen his kind. He’s a practised seducer, unable to resist the temptations of the pretty girls around him. He’ll be worse with the servants, mark my words. There’s nothing like a nubile laundress to get a man like him hot for the chase.’

  Letty puts her hands over her ears. ‘No! It’s not true. I won’t hear it.’

  ‘You may not hear it, but you’ll have to see it with your own eyes soon.’ Arthur takes another bite of his pie, a vicious one this time. ‘Come on, we both know perfectly well you can hear me. You’ll have to admit it when your sister actually gives birth to the old fraud’s child.’

  She is dumbfounded. How did he guess? Arabella isn’t showing yet, and her sickness is subsiding. She is able to attend meals, though she still looks grey and tired.

  He can read her thoughts on her face. ‘So you know already? Well, you’re not the only one. Rumours, my dear child. Rumours. How do you think I found out about Emily Payne? The old rogue isn’t the only one who can charm laundresses. So you see, my darling wife, soon you’ll have to admit to yourself that your hero isn’t so pure after all.’

  The jokiness between them is gone, though Arthur still seems happy enough as they go upstairs together. He takes his place on the chaise longue and is soon fast asleep, while Letty stares unhappily into the darkness. It feels as though, with Emily’s death, something has shifted. She has grown to believe what the Beloved has said, week after week, in his raging sermons: that death has been banished, and that here, at the house, they will not know suffering. And yet, here is death. Here is the prospect of a child. It seems that the same mortal cycle goes on, whatever the Beloved says.

  That serpent of doubt uncoils within her and begins to hiss its message in her ear.

  Until now she has been able to put the picture of the Beloved in bed with Arabella out of her mind, though she knows deep down that he has been unable to resist the fleshly temptations of a carnal marriage. She closed her mind to the truth. But after what Arthur told her about Emily Payne, she cannot shift images from her brain.

  These, she is sure, come from some diseased part of her: a place owned by evil. What else would conjure up the lewd pictures of the Beloved arranging meetings with the younger Angels, in quiet places where they won’t be disturbed, for the saving of their souls – a process that requires the swift unbuttoning of their white blouses, the lifting of their white skirts, the Beloved’s strong brown hands rifling in their drawers, a pushing back against the wall while he takes his pleasure . . .

  No! Stop it! It sickens her. The hot excitement that sometimes roils through her when she thinks of it appals and disgusts her even more. One night she is tormented by a dream when, instead of an Angel, hands wet from the mangle and hair askew, it is she, Letty, that the Beloved desires. He finds her in the church, and presses her down on the altar, kissing her with hot, fierce kisses as she resists, trying to tell him to stop but muffled by the force of his lips. Then she realises that it is not the Beloved after all, but Arthur, and she is flooded with happiness, surrendering to it with pleasure . . . only to wake breathless and ashamed, with the sound of Arthur’s breathing filling the dark room.

  After that, she can hardly look the Beloved in the eye, and finds it easier if she avoids him. That magnetic presence and the great force of will that once drew her to him now repels her, reminding her that it brings with it other qualities: selfish desire and a need to control all around him.

  Kitty finds her in the sewing room, with its pretty Chinese wallpaper and view of the garden, mending some stockings. ‘The Beloved wants to see you. In the library.’

  ‘Ouch . . . Bother, I’ve pricked my finger. Never mind, it’s nothing.’ She sucks off the blob of scarlet blood on her fingertip, then says, ‘Very well. I’ll go at once.’

  Flutters of apprehension whirl in her stomach, but she makes an effort to suppress them and appear normal. Well, I am normal. Nothing has changed.

  Nothing outwardly, anyway.

  But the Beloved has a way of knowing. Suddenly, with certainty, she knows that this is his secret: his intuition, and ability to read the minds of those in his thrall. He can sense the slightest hint of dissent in a glance. He must have a reason to want to see her. And that must be . . .

  He knows.

  The Beloved sits behind his huge desk, as imposing and impressive as ever, with piles of books in front of him. ‘Ah, Letty. Here you are.’ He stands up, turning the full force of his smile upon her. ‘Bless you, child. It’s good to see you.’

  ‘Thank you, Beloved.’

  ‘Please sit down.’ When they are facing each other over the red leather top of the desk, he says, ‘It feels as though I haven’t seen you for a long time, not alone at any rate. But I’ve perceived lately that you’re troubled. I want to help you. Tell me your worries.’

  ‘I’m not troubled,’ she says, and smiles.

  ‘Now, come, come, I can sense that you are.’ He fixes her with the piercing blue gaze that makes her feel as though he can read every thought in her head. ‘Is it because of . . . Emily?’

  She looks down at her hands. ‘Well . . . yes. Of course I’m saddened. I don’t understand what happened to her, why she did it.’

  ‘The Devil wins many battles, even here, in this holy place. I myself do constant battle and I do not always succeed in conquering. If I can fail, how much more can others fail?’ He leans across the desk towards her. ‘Are you failing, Letty? Is that what is making you unhappy? Is the evil one triumphing over you, despite your prayers?’

  She
blushes. He knows what she’s been thinking, how she’s been imagining him, and how she’s been feeling about Arthur. She lifts her eyes to him. ‘Yes,’ she whispers.

  ‘As I thought.’ The Beloved sits back with a satisfied smile. ‘You have been unable to resist the temptations of the flesh. Your husband has persuaded you to fulfil his desire, hasn’t he? He’s not one of us, not yet. And you’ve been unable to force him to pray the lust out, haven’t you?’ His eyes glitter.

  ‘No, not at all!’ Letty says indignantly. ‘We are pure!’

  He stares at her, eyebrows lifted in surprise. ‘You are?’

  ‘Yes, Beloved, I swear it. We have remained chaste, as you commanded.’

  ‘Well . . . that is good, Letty. That is very good.’ The Beloved stands up and paces behind his desk, thinking. Then he stops and turns to look at her suddenly. ‘But pure in heart, Letty? Do your thoughts and desires remain clean?’

  She opens her mouth to insist that they do, then looks away in awkward embarrassment.

  ‘Of course they don’t.’ The Beloved comes around the desk and crosses to her, kneeling beside her and grasping her hands. Letty is astonished to find him in such a supplicatory position in front of her, and cannot look into his burning gaze. ‘You are not alone, my child. I myself am subject to thoughts and desires and sometimes I am impure. I confess it, and I repent and I am still saved. You may do the same. If Arthur’s carnal needs demand satisfaction and you must obey despite your desire to remain a spiritual bride, then you may surrender in the full and certain knowledge of forgiveness. I will forgive you, my child, and that is the same as the Lamb forgiving you, is it not? The plan is mysterious. Sometimes we must appear to do evil, if we are to do good.’