The Feast of All Souls

by Simon Bestwick

  And so I obeyed without question, as what choice did I have? Arodias became the god of my circumscribed world – capricious, inscrutable, rarely seen or heard. While I had no friends among the servants, I would have given anything for a minute’s conversation, but they had been instructed to say nothing to me; even those who’d howled and cackled loudest at my degradation spared me neither word nor glance, kind or cruel.

  Except for Arodias’ rare visits, I was alone with my memories, and these turned vicious as time passed. I’d known only four people with any real intimacy. And that included Arodias Thorne, who, it seemed, I had truly known only in the Biblical sense. I had been wholly ignorant of his true thoughts until he had flung them in my face.

  But now, I felt, I did know him – and there was little enough to know. Beneath his fine speeches, airs and pretensions, he was a child. We forget, I think, what children are, Mr Muddock – do you agree, Mrs Rhodes? The current fashion is for sentiment; sweet and simpering cherubs. Angels, we call them – and perhaps in that is an unwitting truth. It was God’s angels that destroyed the Cities of the Plain; an angel of God who slew the Egyptian first-born. The innocence of children is not as we think. Children know no evil, true – because they don’t know what evil is, any more than good, until we teach them. Nothing can be crueller than a child; they can be utterly selfish, and pitiless in that selfishness. Most have love, at least, to temper that. If Arodias Thorne had, he’d never understood it. In any case, he had looked on the world and coveted, and whatever he coveted, had taken by force or guile. He’d clawed his way up, made his money, but even that was not enough. He would never feel safe if his playthings could be taken away from him, whether he still wanted them or not.

  So what hope had I of ever escaping his control? I was his; why should he relinquish me? Even if he let me go, with wealth and feigned respectability, he would always be able to take all of it away with a word, if he chose. Even when he died, he might conceal some final twist of the knife in his will.

  Yet oddly, that gave me hope. With the knowledge that Arodias’ punishment would always be a Sword of Damocles above my head came a kind of calm, born from resignation. Sooner or later the blow would fall, and accepting that drove the worst of the fear away. I could not prevent that, but by guile might delay the event for as long as I could, and find what joy I might. That would be my victory.

  But first, I had had other torments to face. Do you know Milton, Mrs Rhodes? There is a line of his: the mind is its own place, which can make a Heaven of Hell, or a Hell of Heaven. And shut off from all human intercourse, as mine now was, it can turn upon itself, like a trapped fox gnawing off its foot to escape.

  The other three souls I had known well in life were my father, and the two men whose offers of marriage I had refused: Tristan Moreland and Denys Landen. None of them, thank God, could see me as I was now, but my fancy now ran amuck, and my memory was able to furnish it amply with all it needed to raise them – from the dead, in my father’s case, and from happy marriages and prolific families in those of Tristan and Denys – to sit in judgement on me.

  In my mind’s eye, my father turned from me, pity and loathing in his eyes; Tristan and Denys, cruel having been spurned, mocked my erstwhile piety and present misery, parading sow-like wives and hordes of children. Some nights I screamed aloud at them to leave me – then clapped my hands over my mouth, lest my cries rouse Arodias’ fury. They never did, thankfully, but my imagination taunted me with pictures of Kellett and the other servants listening and sniggering amongst themselves to see the haughty Christian woman who had thought herself so pious and full of rectitude brought so low – brought, indeed, to the very threshold of madness itself.

  Arodias’ visits were the nearest I had to relief. He was my only flesh and blood companion, though whether they served as any respite depended entirely upon his mood. Sometimes he was kindly, bringing some small gift – sweetmeats of some kind, or a new book – although he would, often as not, taunt me with it until I’d abased myself sufficiently. At other times he was full of lust, despite my condition, and woe betide me if I did not give him his way quickly enough. Or, sometimes, even if he did.

  At other times he would come only to torment me, holding up a mirror to my wretched state – crawling in that now-filthy room, in clothes little more than grimy rags. Occasionally he brought me new clothes to wear, and hot water to wash in, but that was for his pleasure, not mine.

  The days, the weeks, the months passed by; I thought my ordeal might never end. That was how I strove to think of it, for an ordeal, at length, comes to an end. But at times it seemed as though all the years of my life would be spent this way. More than once I thought that Hell would be this room, but for a true eternity, without even the hope of release through death. At other times I wondered if, indeed, I was in Hell – if I had died in my sleep to pass unknowing into that realm of eternal misery.

  I would not allow myself to believe it, because this much theology I knew: the worst sin of all is despair. To believe oneself to be beyond God’s mercy is an act of supreme wickedness and arrogance. So I told myself, over and over, that I still lived, and therefore still had hope of redemption.

  But I came close; dear God, I came close.

  Even though Arodias had dismissed the very idea, I was tempted, at least every other day, to end my own life and that of the child in my womb, to spare it the fate Arodias had devised for it. But I dared not. Suicide was a mortal sin; so was taking the life of an innocent. And more practically, should I make such an attempt and fail – or worse, end the child’s life but not my own – Arodias’ vengeance would be terrible.

  I did not doubt the existence of God, but as to His will or nature I now felt utterly ignorant. At times I could almost believe Arodias, that God was no loving Father, personally concerned with the fate of my soul, but a cruel and capricious deity to whom we were all no more than insects. “As flies are to wanton boys...”

  But if God was, indeed, the God of my father and not that of Arodias Thorne, perhaps temptation was being put in my way. Perhaps this was a test of my faith, an opportunity for redemption; bear whatever blows this life had to offer with Christian fortitude, and I might hope for salvation; self-murder or infanticide in an attempt to evade worldly suffering would assuredly condemn me to Hell.

  I was tempted still – less for my own sake that that of the child to consider. But neither the will of God, nor the future, can be known. Who could say what future events might deliver my child from Arodias?

  And so I prayed. I prayed morning and night, for guidance, for mercy, for forgiveness.

  I clung to my reason by the slenderest of threads. All too easily it might have given way, and then it would have truly been the madhouse for me, from which Arodias would have ensured I never emerged again. I was on the brink, until one day – one dark night, indeed...

  I cannot be sure, now, that it was not my fancy. I was, after all, near madness at the time. But at the time, I was certain: perhaps I felt I had no choice but to believe and hold fast to it.

  A figure appeared in my room – a female one, its arms held open. I could not see her face in any detail; it was pale and indistinct, and it glowed, with a soft, gentle light. It was the Virgin Mary, Mr Muddock, Mrs Rhodes, of that I had no doubt.

  You will ask, no doubt, why I should have seen so – well, so Romish an apparition, and I have no answer for you. It was that, indeed, that convinced me of what I had seen. It was one thing for my father, my suitors and other images from my past to haunt me, but this was... something other. God had revealed Himself to me in a form I could not mistake. Let Arodias sneer at my faith and call it a child’s tale. I knew again, once more, that my God was real.

  And there at last I came to my final hope; that, whatever my ending on this Earth, I might still find grace after death: reunion with my father, and the happiness that had eluded me here. In that darkness, Mrs Rhodes and Mr Muddock, I found my faith and my God anew, and prayed. Over and
over, in the morning, at noon, at sundown and in the night, I prayed for His mercy, and dedicated myself to Him.

  You might ask why, having seen the Blessed Virgin, I did not turn to the Catholic faith. Perhaps it was because, as Arodias knew so well, I am not the stuff of which Christian martyrs are made, I am too prone to doubt and question at leisure. The comfort of my father’s faith was easier to embrace once more. More practically, as a Catholic I must make a full confession of my sins – and that I did not believe I could bear to do. And indeed I could not, until now.

  Only a week after this, I felt the air outside change. There was, even through the distant reek of the city’s smoke, the scent of something else. A freshening, a taste of something better to come.

  In the garden, green shoots sprouted, and buds appeared on tree and bush. Leaves unfurled. As my belly grew, trees blossomed, like a carpet of brilliant foam. Winter became spring. I cannot tell either of you what that meant to me. There was the sense of change and renewal, of rebirth, redemption, that that whole season brings.

  I found memories now that were a comfort: the services my father had held at Easter, the hand-painted eggs. But most of all, I knew now that, try as Arodias and the rest might to make me despair, time was passing. To all things there was an end. A day would come, and with it my child. Perhaps my death also; perhaps not. But in either case my current state would not, could not, continue in perpetuity. I would die in Springcross House, or live outside it. If the first – I could not be certain of God’s grace, for I had sinned and there had been no minister to counsel me, but I had prayed and repented, and had, at least, the hope of salvation. If the second, I would build as decent a life for myself as I could. Nothing excessive, for had I not seen how poisoned a chalice wealth was? If I might still have a family of my own – a loving husband, children – that would be the highest bliss on Earth. And if not, my eyes were set on Heaven.

  And then, at last, the birth came. I cried out for help when the pains began, and they went unanswered. But when at length my waters broke – ah, then I understood, and cried out that the child was coming. I cannot help but smile, despite everything, when I remember how great a difference that made – his whole damned household came running at that!

  What a panic and a performance that was. A doctor was sent for, with a nurse. Were they Arodias’ creatures, like the servants, or simply paid to perform a task and keep silence afterward? I do not know. They had kind faces, I recall, but I was well aware of how little that meant.

  What else? I remember the pain of childbirth, of course – but I shall not describe that in great detail, Mrs Rhodes, as Mr Muddock is beginning to look distinctly bilious. Forgive my levity, sir, I know none of this can be pleasant to hear. I can only say it was still less pleasant to endure.

  At last, the pain ceased and a small wailing red-faced thing was placed on my breast. I am hard put to describe what I felt then. I experienced a wave of love and tenderness so great as to set the rest of my ordeal at naught, though I knew it was valueless in the face of Arodias’ earthly might. Even should I escape, he would spare no effort to hunt me down. So I told myself then, and tell myself now. I had no choice. Even had I killed him, Kellett and the rest would have avenged his death and disposed of the child. Yet had I done that, at least the child would not have been his to dispose of...

  But I had only bare minutes with my child. Then they came and took him, and I was too weak to fight. I howled in my anguish, and so did he. But I never saw him again.

  “A MISCARRIAGE, MISS Carson,” said Arodias several weeks later. “Or stillbirth, perhaps. Such things are unfortunate, but they happen, and must be endured.”

  “Yes,” I said, “perhaps that would help.”

  We sat in the garden, sipping tea. I wore a white dress and bonnet, he, as always, an immaculate suit. It was July, I think.

  I was a little uncertain of time, since following the birth and abduction of my child I had been on the very edge of madness, if indeed I had not crossed over for a time. I’m not sure if, having returned from such a state, one can ever be entirely whole again, but I regained a degree of lucidity, at which point they told me my child was dead. I did not believe them, of course, but a part of me wished to.

  Looking back, I have no doubt Arodias knew that. When I review my time with him, the skill he manipulated me with is almost impressive. First he had been the stern man of business with a hidden heart; next, the cruel and arbitrary master who drove me to the point of desperation and made me a cringing slave. And now, having almost destroyed me with his cruelty, he resumed his kindly mien. The fiction he maintained was that I had ‘fallen’ through a dalliance with some scoundrel who had subsequently absconded, to be rescued by Arodias’ charity. I dared not say otherwise for fear of the madhouse, and in truth I almost wondered at times if perhaps I had only imagined what had gone before.

  “Here is my proposition,” he said. “You will leave Springcross House, and restrain yourself from making any utterances that might – shall we say – embarrass your former employer. In return, a discreet silence shall be maintained about your own – ah – fall from grace?”

  He sat there, eyebrows raised; finally I nodded assent.

  “Excellent,” he went on, and laid some papers on the table by the tea things. “These documents detail your marriage to Captain Hartley, an officer in a Guards Regiment, now deceased.” Captain Hartley himself, Arodias assured me, enjoyed the advantages of having been quite real, as well as undistinguished and entirely without close friends or family. Favours owed to Arodias by certain public officials on the one hand, and by a highly accomplished forger on the other, had done the rest.

  “This Will and Testament,” he went on, laying down a further sheaf of documents, “and these solicitor’s letters, confirm you as sole beneficiary of his not inconsiderable estate.” The real Captain Hartley’s ‘estate’ had consisted of gambling debts and a good deal of indecent literature, but it served as a suitable fiction to explain the very generous sum Arodias had provided me with.

  “No blot on your reputation,” he said, “and you will live out your remaining years in comfort. I am a man of my word, Miss Carson – or should I say, Mrs Hartley?”

  Yes, he was a man of his word – when it suited him. For motives best not thought on, it did so now.

  “But remember,” he added, leaning across the table, “that what I give, I can take away. Very, very easily, Mary. Never doubt that.”

  “I will not, Mr Thorne,” I told him. I had neither stomach nor desire for argument; I only wanted to be as free of him as I could ever hope to be, and at once.

  Birds sang in the trees; a host of blooms perfumed the air. Rarely have I known surroundings more beautiful or tranquil than the gardens of Springcross House. In them, the past few months seemed an impossibility. I could almost believe the version of events he related.

  “Then I believe our business is concluded. Kellett will take you wherever you wish to go, when you are ready to leave. Goodbye.”

  He rose, gave a short bow, and walked away.

  And that, Mrs Rhodes, was the last time I ever saw Arodias Thorne, save in my nightmares.

  I wish I could have found the courage to defy him at the last, but I could not. How damnably well he knew me. He saw my weakness of character, and, perhaps, my capacity for self-deception. In the years that have passed since leaving Springcross, I played my part so well I came to believe in Captain Hartley, that I was his widow and the mother of his stillborn child. Part of me, of course, wished to, rather than admit the truth. At times I found the courage to admit the lie, if only to myself, but I refused to look beyond the deceit that lay below it, that Arodias Thorne had saved my honour and reputation when I fell pregnant through an illicit love affair. At most, I might have acknowledged that Arodias was the child’s father, but not the worst truth of all – the truth of the Moloch Device and the Fire Beyond.

  Until now, of course. Soon enough I shall discover at first-hand ex
actly how merciful – or otherwise – my God is.

  What else was to be done? I went to my rooms. They were unrecognisable either as those I’d moved into that first day or as the filthy, stinking chambers I’d spent my confinement in. While I’d been lost and raving, the servants had stripped, cleaned, repainted and scrubbed, then burned all that could not be cleansed. They gleamed and shone as new and were utterly unwelcoming, alien to me.

  My belongings were packed, and I had already arranged lodgings in Liverpool; Sodom and Gomorrah could not have been more loathsome to my sight than Manchester by then. I would have dearly loved to return to Burscough, but feared I would be unable to deceive the people among whom I had grown up. Instead I had rented a clean, roomy house where I would have quiet, for the prayer and repentance I had resolved to spend my life in.

  I heard soft footsteps on the landing, spied a shadow at the periphery of my sight; Kellett, his usual smirk upon his lips. “Ready, Miss Carson?”

  I walked by him without a word, loathing even the sensation of my skirts brushing him as I went past.

  WE ARE ALMOST done, Mrs Rhodes, and indeed Mr Muddock knows my history since then. Within two years of moving to Liverpool I met a gentle Welshman, a childless widower called Geraint, whom I can honestly say was the one true love of my life. You knew him, of course, Mr Muddock, for he became my husband: within a year of that meeting I was a bride – truly one, for the first time – loved, and cherished. My life was transformed, and for the better, in every way.

  And in very short time, I was a mother again. Despite my age, I bore Geraint three healthy children – a boy and two girls – all of whom have survived to adulthood and borne children of their own. I am, Mrs Rhodes, truly blessed. I could almost believe that God was recompensing me for past hardships... but then I think on my sins, and my greatest dread over the years has been that He will take my loved ones from me as a punishment.