by Mary Malloy
She admitted to him that she had taken both pills. “The dreams were so vivid. . . .”
He shook his head at her.
“For a smart woman, you can do stupid things,” he said. “But I’m glad you told me.”
“Do you think it is what caused the sleepwalking?”
“It wasn’t exactly sleepwalking,” he said. “I think it would best be described as some sort of ‘fugue state.’” He explained to her that he had read of people who got into their cars and drove long distances, only to arrive at the other end with no memory of having left their house. He reassured her there was no reason to think that she would ever experience anything like it again.
She liked that explanation. It didn’t explain how she had arrived in the medieval hall a few nights earlier, but she had already made herself more comfortable by convincing herself that that episode was a dream.
As they talked, she packed up her computer and Edmund offered to take it out to his car while she got her clothes together. She went back to her room and quickly packed her things. Bette’s diary was still on the bedside table and she tucked it into her carrying case. She went to the window, probably for the last time, she realized, and looked back at the roof. She shuddered and turned to face the opposite direction. The very first light of dawn was creeping over the horizon.
Helen knocked as she was finishing her packing and when Lizzie invited her in, hovered around her like some sort of mother animal watching a cub with one eye and a stalking tiger with the other.
“I’m not sure what is happening here, Helen, but I acknowledge that you tried to warn me and I did not take you seriously,” Lizzie said. She went to Helen and put her arms around her, hugging her tightly. “Thank you,” she said.
“I can’t say that I really understand what is happening either,” Helen answered. “I just want to be assured that you are completely well.”
With some effort, Lizzie convinced her that she was. It took more effort to convince her that she could make it to Edmund’s car without leaning on her. Henry arrived to take her bags, and Lizzie followed the Jeffries from the room.
When she came down the stairs, Lizzie stopped again on the landing and looked at the painting of an innocent Francis and Eliza. As she said her temporary good-byes to them and to Hengemont she found herself feeling tumultuous conflicting emotions. On the one hand she had come to love the house and its occupants. On the other hand, it was just plain creepy.
• • • • •
Edmund made the arrangements for her room at the White Horse, which was cramped but comfortable. It had a four-poster bed, on which she placed her briefcase and books, and a small desk where she set her computer.
When her bags were delivered she asked Edmund to stay with her for a few minutes.
“Thank you for saving me,” she said. She felt suddenly shy and awkward around him.
“It was my pleasure,” he said with a sort of gallant bow.
“How did you happen to see me on the roof?”
“A sound woke me. I think you may have cried out,” he said. “I opened the window and heard you crying.” He came to stand beside her and put his arm around her.
“Are you really okay now?” he asked.
She nodded and laid her head against his shoulder. They stood together in a gentle embrace for several minutes, Edmund resting his cheek against her forehead. Then Lizzie pulled away and turned toward the window.
“Now that I am thinking a little more clearly, I have to tell you that tonight was not the only sleepwalking incident this week.”
“No?”
“No, that night that Richard came, I woke up in the main hall.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
“Because I wasn’t sure if it was a dream or not, and I had too much wine that night.” She closed her eyes. “Maybe I have a virus or something, because I’ve been throwing up too.”
“Not just tonight.”
“No, after that first strange episode, and one other time when I fell asleep in the library and had a very vivid dream.”
“Were you drinking?”
Lizzie thought about this for a moment. “Only tea, I think.” She continued to look out the window. “I’m sorry I can’t see either Hengemont or the sea from here,” she said. “I was getting spoiled in that wonderful room.”
“It is a good view,” he said. “My room is in the opposite wing but in the same corner position.”
She turned. “I wondered if it was your light that I saw last night.”
They looked at each other for a long time. Lizzie was not exactly sure if she was fully capable of controlling her behavior at this moment. She wondered what Edmund’s thoughts were on the subject. Under the circumstances, she knew that he would be professional with her. He had, after all, prescribed the drug that might be responsible for the whole nightmarish episode.
He very gently kissed her on the lips. She put her hand upon his cheek; his beard was just as soft as she had imagined.
“Get some rest,” he said, pulling back, “and I will see you later when we’re both recovered from last night’s experience.” He left quickly and in only a few minutes she could see him through the window as he got into his car and drove away.
Lizzie was filled with alternating bouts of relief and anxiety. She felt that her life was out of control. She couldn’t believe that she had actually climbed to a precipice without any consciousness of the act.
Chapter 16
After several hours of sleep, Lizzie woke to find her perspective returning. She was unsure at first whether the incidents of the night before had been a dream, but she was clearly not at Hengemont. She was, however, alive and well, and tucked into a warm bed. What had happened with Edmund, she wondered, and how far would she have gone had he shown an inclination to pursue her? Certainly they had shared a very intense emotional experience. He had saved her life, she thought with gratitude, and that was powerfully romantic.
She had no suicidal feelings or desire to harm herself, nor even a fear of having felt such feelings. They were totally absent. In fact she was anxious to get back to work. Not, however, at Hengemont, not yet. She called and talked to George.
“I’m so glad you called, Lizzie,” he said anxiously. “I have been so worried. Are you all right?”
Lizzie tried to sound jovial. “Yes,” she said, “and I’m feeling somewhat embarrassed at having hauled the household out of bed in the middle of the night.”
“Don’t worry about that,” he assured her, adding that she should not, however, underestimate the danger to herself if she stayed.
“I know,” she said. “In fact, George, I think I’ll just hang out here at the White Horse for the rest of the day and come back to wrap up at the house tomorrow. Will that inconvenience Edmund too much?”
“Not at all. He’s still asleep, and probably needs it just as much as you.”
“I’m sure he does,” Lizzie said. “I’ll see you tomorrow George.”
She hung up the phone, then picked it up again and called room service for breakfast and coffee. For some reason she was especially hungry this morning.
“I’m sorry, miss,” she was told, “but we stop serving breakfast at eleven a.m.”
Lizzie looked at the clock. It was almost three in the afternoon.
“Sorry, I had no idea it was so late,” she apologized. She was convinced that the girl on the other end of the line must think her completely crazy. “Still having some jet lag,” she mumbled as an explanation. She ordered a pot of coffee and whatever the daily special was for lunch.
Lizzie hung up the phone and turned on her computer. The cursor blinked at her. What was it she wanted most to know, she wondered? It seemed that the first thing she should do is make an integrated file of the women. She already had a file on the poems and paintings, and
now she should compare it to the list she had made of the stones in the church. She didn’t have to look very hard to find a correspondence between the two.
Room service arrived and as she ate her sandwich she made a list that incorporated all the information she had gathered from the poems, the paintings, and the gravestones. It was twelve names long, each name followed by the evidence that linked that particular woman to the others. The fact that Bette had heard the story of the first woman from her father, and that he had heard it from his great-aunt, meant that there must be a pretty strong oral tradition in the Hatton family as well. She wondered if George would be willing to talk about it at some point.
When she finished the list she sat and looked at it for a long time, draining the pot of coffee in the process.
1. Elizabeth Pintard d’Hautain, 1234-1254 (medieval tomb with effigy in the Hatton church; her story is depicted in the triptych and was told to Bette by her father)
2. Elizabeth d’Hautain, 1273-1292 (must have written the poem in French; no portrait)
3. Elizabeth Hautain, 1356-1382 (wrote the middle-English poem on vellum dated 1382 and probably had the triptych made; no portrait)
4. Elizabeth Hattin, 1499-1520 (she’s the one in the “English School” painting wearing the headgear; may have written the one-line question)
5. Elizabeth Hatton, 1583-1602 (the other contender for the one-line question and the subject of the painting by Robert Peake)
6. Elizabeth Hatton, 1698-1719 (“It was for love that she did die” poem, and portrait by Kneller)
7. Elizabeth Hatton, 1760-1781 (“Eliza”—Frank Hatton’s sister; painting and poem)
8. Elizabeth Hatton, 1812-1830 (not a great poet and no portrait)
9. Elizabeth Hatton, 1848-1930 (friend/lover of Rossetti and subject of his painting; wrote the poem for her niece; not buried at Hengemont church, but probably responsible for the memorial stones for the others there)
10. Elizabeth Hatton, 1868-1887 (the subject of her aunt’s poem, and the owner of the stationery; no portrait)
11. Bette
12.
Her pen paused above the last number on the list. She considered putting her own name there, but decided against it. She already knew everything she needed to know about herself. Then she thought about Lily and wondered if she should be on the list. Her name was also Elizabeth Hatton, but as far as Lizzie knew, she didn’t even know the story at this point.
The strangest thing about the list was still the first woman on it. She had apparently leapt to her death from the tower when she learned that her lover was dead. How had her story been passed on? The other question that was bothering Lizzie was why poor old John was still being condemned centuries later for being heartless. If he was killed in the Crusades, which Lizzie assumed he must have been, then why would all these women have persisted with the question, “Where is his heart?” Surely a man dead in battle had to be forgiven for not returning, even if he had foolishly promised to do so.
She wished she had taken the Hatton genealogy from Hengemont because now she wanted to put those ten dead women into some sort of larger historical perspective. If she could make this seem like an ordinary research project, she thought, then she could remove herself personally and emotionally from the picture.
It suddenly occurred to her that she had a sheaf of photocopied pages from Burke’s Peerage which her friend Jackie had given her at the college library before she left Boston. That now seemed like months ago.
Lizzie crossed to the bed and rummaged through her papers until she found what she was looking for. It was six pages long and in a tiny typeface, but it gave a history of the Hatton family. She went back to the bed, sat back against the pile of pillows, and read it, full of curiosity and anticipation.
The first member of this distinguished family arrived in England from Normandy in the company of King Henry II in 1153. Born, like his patron, in Le Mans, and of a similar age, Jean d’Hautain grew up with the young prince and remained his friend as long as he lived. (The name, d’Hautain, meaning “haughty,” is said to have been received from his royal friend as a jovial commentary on the young man’s pride of dress and fastidious personal habits.) In 1165 Jean d’Hautain married the Lady Matilda de Vere, who waited on Queen Eleanor; a son and heir, Henry, was born in 1168. Jean d’Hautain was elevated to the rank of Baron by his king in 1169, and received lands in Somerset where he built a castle, Hengemont, in 1180.
Lizzie read quickly through the next portion: Henry’s son, Alun, was “summoned by King John to attend parliament.” There was only a passing mention of the marriage of Alun’s two sons, Richard and John, to sisters by the name of Pintard. Alun and his son John were mostly acknowledged for being among several men in the family who died in various Crusades, in their case in a battle fought in Mansoura, Egypt, in 1250. Lizzie made a note of the name of the place and the date in her file on Elizabeth and John.
Their son, Jean-Alun, “having distinguished himself in the Scottish wars of Edward, was one of the three hundred persons of eminence knighted by that monarch at Westminster.” He married his cousin Catherine.
At some point the family name was changed from the French “d’Hautain” to “Hattin” or “Hatton,” both spellings being used, somewhat interchangeably, until about 1700, when the latter spelling was settled on. According to Burke’s, the name was not just an Anglicization of the earlier Norman-French name, but was specifically chosen to honor the men of the family killed in the Crusades. On one of the twin peaks called the “Horns of Hattin,” Christ is said to have given his Sermon on the Mount. Below this point in 1187, at the village of Hattin, Henry II’s Crusading army was massacred by the great Saladin, and the remnant of the true cross carried by the Europeans was lost.
A son born in 1360 had gone into the Navy, the first of many to do so. He served under John of Gaunt and became an admiral. This association, and his son’s career fighting in the “French wars of Henry VI,” put the family strongly into the Lancastrian camp during the Wars of the Roses. Two brothers born in 1440 and 1441 consequently found themselves on the wrong side of the war when Edward IV came to power, and were executed at Sarum by order of the king in May 1466.
The political power of the family seemed to put their heads constantly in danger. Another Hatton was executed in 1556 for having conspired against Queen Mary in favor of her sister, the Princess Elizabeth. When Elizabeth came to the throne, the family’s honors were again restored. In the next two centuries Hattons could be found in the House of Lords, in the Royal Navy, as bishops and public servants; one was Lord of the Exchequer, another Ambassador to Portugal. They often circulated very close to the Royal Family. Francis Hatton’s participation in Captain Cook’s third voyage was a highlight of the family’s adventures in the eighteenth century.
Through the various European wars the Hattons offered up son after son, attaining many honors, but devastating the family tree in the process. Mostly they were in the Royal Navy, but there were several entries that listed other military service, like “Edmund R.G. Hatton, K.G., served in the Zulu War 1879, in the Nile Expedition 1884-5, in the Sudan Expedition 1885-6, and on the N.W. Frontier of India 1897-8.” Lizzie could not help but notice that Burke’s Peerage seemed little interested in suicidal girls, and none of them were mentioned.
The two oldest sons of the family were killed in World War I naval actions, a phenomenon repeated with the same tragic details in World War II. As the only surviving son after the war, George Hatton, whom she had now come to know so well, inherited the family title and property
Burke’s appended an extensive family tree and Lizzie ran her finger down page after page of Richards, Johns, and Edmunds in the Hatton family. The girls weren’t listed and she decided to make her own version of the family tree, adding the Elizabeths who died young, and leaving out all other children who weren’t either heirs to Hengemont or known to her
through some part of the story.
The book had been published before Edmund and his brothers were born, so Lizzie added their names at the bottom without dates. The three were probably all born in the fifties or early sixties, she thought. Lily was the last Hatton that Lizzie knew of.
She put down the papers and rubbed her eyes. It was just after eight o’clock and she hoped that she could catch Martin back at home. The phone rang twice and she heard his familiar voice.
“Hello, darling,” she said, lying back on the bed again. “I’m glad you’re home. I really miss you.”
“You better,” he replied, “because I’m miserable without you.”
Lizzie asked about his trip to New York and they chatted for a few minutes before Martin asked her what was wrong.
“You sound upset, Liz, what’s the matter?”
“Oh Martin,” she said, her voice choking, “the strangest things have been happening to me.” She described the poems she had found. “You know the strangest thing though?”
He waited at the other end.
“There were a number of girls who killed themselves by jumping off the tower here.” She paused again, trying to think of how to tell him what had happened to her.
“Yes,” he said, “what about them?”
“Well, they wrote the poems. They all became obsessed with this family story about a hopeless medieval love affair.” She didn’t know what to say next.
“Lizzie,” Martin said with some urgency, “what’s wrong.”
“Well, strangely enough, last night I sleepwalked up to the roof.”
“What?”
“I ended up on the roof without having any memory of going there.”
She tried to explain that she had been having trouble sleeping, had become agitated about the suicides, and that George Hatton’s son, who was a doctor, had given her a sedative to which she had a weird reaction. She spoke very quickly, and breathlessly, ending with a somewhat garbled description of a “fugue state.”
