Angel of Ruin

by Kim Wilkins

  “I shall miss you, too.”

  “I shan’t miss the puritan and the moron.”

  Mary giggled. “Gran, that’s not very nice.”

  “Go,” she said. “Find a wealthy man in London and make him marry you. And make sure you write me letters.”

  “Every day, if you do the same.” Grandmamma had never been taught properly to read and write, so her letters would be full of entertaining spelling mistakes.

  Mary took off once again towards the house, rounded the corner to see the coach, laden with their trunks, waiting out the front. Mary was keenly looking forward to London; even looking forward to meeting her new stepmother. Her last stepmother had been a beautiful, mild-tempered woman whom they had all adored. And London was so exciting, so full of people and promise.

  Anne, Deborah and Liza were already in the coach.

  “Come on, snail’s pace,” Deborah called out the window.

  Mary poked her tongue out as the coachman opened the door for her, and she climbed in. Liza held a disconsolate Max on her lap. Mary had barely sat down when the coach surged forward, and they were on their way.

  “Here, he doesn’t like me,” Liza said, thrusting Max into her arms.

  “Dear little man, handsome little fellow,” Mary cooed as Max licked her and settled into her lap.

  Deborah leaned across and plucked a strand of hay out of her hair. “Have you been saying goodbye to Sir Adworth?”

  “He gave me a bracelet.” She thrust her arm out, but Deborah sniffed dismissively.

  “Jewellery does not interest me.”

  “’Tis mighty p-pretty, Mary,” Anne said.

  “Your father wouldn’t be happy knowing where you got it,” Liza said.

  “Shut up,” said Mary. “’Tis none of your business, you’re just a servant. And if you tell Father, I will beat you.” She considered the bracelet vainly. “I’d wager it cost a pretty penny.”

  “You’re such a fool for these old men, Mary,” Deborah said.

  “And you are jealous.”

  “Jealous? Hardly.”

  “’Tis n-n—” Anne’s eyelids began to flutter, and her top lip jerked up and down. Her stammer always put Mary at the end of her patience, but she forced herself to wait — Anne was her sister, and despite what Grandmamma said, despite what Father said, despite what everybody said, Anne was not really a fool. For all that she sounded like one.

  “’Tis not wrong to accept g-gifts from someone you love,” Anne said finally.

  “But she doesn’t love him, Anne,” Deborah said. Anne looked uncomprehending, and Mary reached out to touch her hair fondly. Her older sister’s most endearing folly was that she always assumed Mary loved the men she dallied with; credited her with a fickle heart and nothing more dissolute. Anne didn’t suspect that she lay with them, though Deborah had probably deduced it. Her little sister was far too watchful and clever for Mary’s liking sometimes.

  Mary fingered the amber stones and thought about Adworth. Neither of her sisters would ever understand the feel of victory she derived from her conquests: when they were inside her, all their power and dignity disappeared. The mighty became the vulnerable, the wealthy became supplicants, the most scholarly were as mindless babes; all they had care for was her.

  “Sir Adworth is older than Father,” Deborah was saying. “’Tis revolting.”

  “He’s richer than Father, too,” Mary countered.

  “You are a fool, Mary. If he adores you so, why does he only ever meet with you in the stables? Why does he only buy you amber and silver, instead of rubies and gold?”

  Mary opened her mouth to reply, but found too much truth in the remark to rebut it. Sometimes she hated Deborah for being able to say precisely what would hurt her most.

  “P-please don’t fight,” Anne said. “Mary may love whomever her heart leads her to love.”

  “Love! Oh, I shall be sick!” Deborah exclaimed.

  Mary, seething at Deborah’s earlier comment, chose a barb that would be equally hurtful in response. “Sir Adworth said that Father was strook blind by God for siding with Cromwell.”

  Liza gasped and even Deborah could not speak for a few moments. Finally Deborah said, “That’s not true. God would not punish a man who sacrifices himself for what he believes. Sir Adworth has never made a sacrifice in his life.”

  “You are such a tedious puritan, Deborah.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then why do you dress like one and act like one?”

  “I simply prefer plain clothes,” Deborah said. “Like Father. And I believe in Christian liberty — each man should be able to worship as his conscience dictates, for we cannot know for certain what God is or what God wants of us.”

  “That’s one of Father’s ideas, too, is it not?” Mary teased.

  “Father is a wise man.”

  Mary contemplated Deborah for a few moments. She was the only one of the three of them who resembled their father: his soft, fair complexion, his pale red-gold hair, his wide hazel eyes. Anne and she were dark like their mother, though Mary flattered herself that Anne was less robust, more pinched in the face, her hair lanker and straighter. Deborah, the youngest by four years, already towered over them both. She often wore her long hair loose, and despite her taste for sober colours, her stature and the golden sweep of her hair drew gazes wherever she went.

  “I know not why you worship Father so,” Mary said finally, and she meant it. It wasn’t just another dart thrown into the argument. “He’s unkind to all of us, you included.”

  “He is angry because he is blind. We must do our best for him.”

  Mary leaned back in her seat. The coach bumped as it hit a stone on the road. “I only hope that his new wife is kinder to us than he is.”

  “I’m sure she will be,” Deborah said. “What say you, Liza, for you have met her?”

  Liza shook her head. “’Tis not for me to judge, ma’am.”

  “Is she nice? Is she kind?” Mary asked.

  But Liza would not answer, and her silence spoke volumes.

  Evening had descended on London by the time their coach rattled up towards Father’s house. A butcher’s wagon blocked the Artillery Walk, so they pulled down their trunks and set off on foot up the hill. The Walk was a dark, narrow alley, the upper jetties of buildings blocking out the sky. A light drizzle dripped mournfully, making the ground muddy. Deborah kept her eyes on her feet so she wouldn’t slip.

  “It is the one on the left where you can see the light in the window,” Liza called behind her.

  Deborah blinked rain out of her eyes. Why had Father chosen the darkest, narrowest street on the block? Then she admonished herself, for she suspected she knew. Since the return of the King, Father’s fortunes had foundered. Perhaps the Walk was all he could afford. After the wide open fields and fresh air at Grandmamma’s place, dank, noisy, cramped London would be hard to get used to.

  Moving ahead of them, Liza pushed open a door. The girls hurried inside and stood dripping in the doorway.

  Liza indicated the door on her right. “He’ll be in there.”

  “Liza?” Father’s voice. “Is that you?”

  “Yes, Mr Milton, sir,” Liza said, ushering them through ahead of her. “Your girls are home.”

  Father sat, straight-backed, in his austere chair by the fire, his head cocked slightly to one side as though he considered a conundrum. He was surrounded by low bookshelves, a harpsichord, and a carved writing desk which he could not use now he was blind. In one corner of the room, two battered trunks of books were stacked, more books haphazardly perched on top. He was dressed sombrely, his jacket closely buttoned and his white collar crisp, if slightly stained, above it.

  But he was not the puritan Mary denounced him for: Father would never allow himself to be part of a flock. Deborah felt a surge of love and admiration for him. His shoulder-length hair glinted gold by the firelight. Only a few strands of grey were visible and his pale face was still remarkab
ly youthful. As always, Deborah was amazed by his eyes. Even though he had been blind for many, many years, his gaze appeared to be alert. He had trained his eyes to follow sounds almost precisely. Nobody who met him for the first time would be able to guess his blindness until he miscalculated and glanced slightly too far to the left or right, or until he let his guard down and his eyelids drooped. Deborah suspected embarrassment led him to such a pretence, for she knew Father hated being less than whole.

  His eyes rested on all of them in turn, assessing them. “Who is wearing silk?” he said.

  “I am, Father,” Mary said, stepping forward.

  “Mary? I heard it upon your entrance. You still have that ugly dog? I can smell him.”

  Mary had first found Max when he was an injured stray living off rubbish on the streets of London. The legacy of his hard years was one ear which had been bitten in half, and a patch of white fur missing from his back. But Mary loved the odd-looking creature as if he were her child.

  “Max has had a bath just a month ago,” she protested.

  “And Anne, I hear you still hobble like a cripple,” Father continued as if he hadn’t heard Mary.

  “I c-c-c—”

  “No, do not respond; I haven’t the patience. Deborah, I suppose your idiotic grandmother hasn’t bothered keeping up with your lessons. I expect you’ve forgotten all your languages. Your Hebrew?”

  “No, indeed, Father,” Deborah said, stepping forward quickly. “For even when Grandmamma hasn’t the time to help me —”

  “Hasn’t the wits, you mean,” Father mumbled.

  Deborah took a breath before continuing. “Indeed, Father, I have read every day in seven languages.”

  “Come then. Show me.”

  Deborah felt her face grow warm and her heart speed a little. “Ro’lsi He’Horim V’Hinei Ro’lasim.”

  Father’s face was set in stone. “And what am I to do with that sentence? Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”

  Deborah felt the pit of her stomach hollow out.

  “Ro’lsi He’Horim V’Hinei Ro’lasim,” Father said, correcting the pronunciation.

  “Thank you, Father. I am sorry.”

  “I hardly count it your fault. Liza, fetch Mrs Milton. It is time the girls met their new stepmother.”

  Liza hurried out, leaving the three of them standing there, still damp from the rain, their trunks at their feet.

  “Have you been well, Father?” Deborah asked. “It has been so long since we had word of you.”

  “I’ve been well enough,” he said, not managing even the ghost of a smile.

  “And your writing? Have you published anything of late?” Mary asked.

  He didn’t answer. This was one of his most unnerving habits: if he didn’t feel a question was worth answering, he simply remained silent. The girls stood without speaking for another moment or two before Liza returned with a young woman who had white-blonde hair, pale eyelashes and a bulbous nose.

  “I’m here, John,” she said.

  “Betty, meet my daughters.”

  The girls introduced themselves in turn, and Betty took their hands briefly, recoiling from Max’s attempt to lick her.

  “A dog!” she exclaimed. “Does he bite?”

  “No, he’s the gentlest, good boy,” Mary said.

  “I hate dogs,” she said.

  “Does not the youngest resemble me?” Father said.

  Betty fixed her gaze on Deborah. “Why, yes, John. The likeness is remarkable.”

  Deborah smiled. Her father had never actually seen her — he had been blind before she was born — but so many people had remarked upon the likeness that he must have formed a picture of her in his mind.

  “Where are we to stay, Father?” Mary asked. “Only, our clothes are damp and we should like to unpack our trunks.”

  “There is a room to share at the top of the stairs,” he said. “It has a large closet which Deborah may take as her own room because she is the smallest.”

  “Father, Deborah is now five inches taller than me,” Mary complained. “She’s almost taller than you.”

  Deborah was secretly pleased at this display of favouritism, though she knew Mary hated to share a room.

  “I have made up my mind,” he said. “And the room will suffice you until we can decide what to do with you.”

  “D-do with us?” Anne ventured, and Deborah could see her whole face concentrated on not stuttering. “Are we n-not to stay with you?”

  Betty hurried forward. “Come along, girls. I’ll take you to your room.”

  “Deborah,” Father said before they left, “do you still have a fair hand?”

  “Why, yes, Father,” she said, “but not as fair as Mary’s. Her handwriting is the envy of all of us.”

  “Go now, and change into dry clothes. We shall speak again over supper.”

  Betty led them up the rickety stairs — narrow and steep — to the second storey.

  “Here is the withdrawing room, and Liza and I sleep over behind those curtains,” she said, indicating around her. The wall hangings were faded and ragged, the chairs old and chipped, but the room was clean and bright. It smelled of fresh whitewash and was free of the dust and grime which Deborah was used to at Grandmamma’s house.

  “And where does Father sleep?” Mary asked mischievously.

  “In the very chair in which you just saw him. He finds the stairs hard to climb without his eyes to assist him. And besides, I’m sure you are familiar with how early he likes to rise.”

  Mary rolled her eyes. “Deborah is the same. Up at dawn, spectacles perched on her nose, reading a book.”

  “I’m studying to be a physician,” Deborah offered.

  “Idiot. Women don’t become physicians,” Mary said.

  Betty favoured Deborah with an indulgent smile. “You really are your father’s girl. Come, let me take you upstairs.”

  The instant Betty’s back was turned, Mary had kicked Deborah gently in the back of the knees. Deborah impishly flicked a curl away from her sister’s ear.

  “Here it is,” Betty said.

  The attic room was very dark, with old, faded wainscoting, grey curtains, and bare floorboards. A large posted bed, two candlestands and an oak dresser were all the furnishings. The fire had been lit, and it filled the room with a warm glow. Mary placed Max on the floor and examined the bed while Anne stood stiffly by the dresser. Deborah went to the window to peek between the curtains, and found herself looking at the house across the street from them, at this height only two feet away. If she looked down she could see onto the Walk. A cart rolled slowly up the hill, leaving deep tracks in the mud.

  “Draw the curtain!” Betty squeaked, and Deborah spun round to see her new stepmother advance.

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  Betty twitched the curtain shut. “’Tis a new moon.”

  Deborah shook her head in confusion. Over Betty’s shoulder she could see Mary trying not to laugh. “A new moon?”

  “’Tis bad luck to see a new moon through glass.”

  Deborah vaguely remembered hearing this superstition before. “Oh, I see. Fear not, I shan’t look at it.” Mary smothered a giggle.

  Betty turned away and gestured around her as though nothing had happened. “We intended to buy some rugs ere you arrived, but then your father heard of some second-hand ones from a friend’s house,” Betty said. “They should come sometime this week. Your father hasn’t as much money as he once had.”

  “I’m sure we’ll be perfectly happy here, Betty,” Mary said, flipping open her trunk and pulling out dresses and ribbons and combs at random.

  “Deborah, your closet.” Betty showed her to a door, through which lay a narrow, windowless room. A small bed with a dirty white spread had been set up in it. “Now I see you, I think the bed may be too small.”

  “No, no. I think it will be fine,” Deborah said, although she could clearly see it wasn’t true. It was a child’s bed, and the way her lim
bs kept growing she couldn’t imagine that it would take her full length. But she was so gratified that Father had singled her out for special attention that she didn’t mind.

  “I shall leave you to settle yourselves,” Betty said, heading for the stairs. “When you come down for supper we shall talk of our … plans.”

  “Thank you, Betty,” Deborah called to her new stepmother as she left. The instant Betty was out of the room, Anne’s lip started to jerk up and down.

  “What is it, Anne?” Deborah asked.

  “She d-d—”

  Mary led Anne to the bed. “What’s wrong?”

  “She d-doesn’t like us.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “They’re p-planning to g-get rid of us.”

  “Nonsense,” Mary said. “Father only just sent for us. Oh, Anne, you really have too wild an imagination.”

  Anne fell silent, and Deborah wished once again that her oldest sister wasn’t afflicted with such a dreadful stammer. Sometimes important things went unsaid, simply because she couldn’t manage the words.

  “Death! I’m so tired,” Mary said, flopping down on the bed. Max scrambled up next to her. “Deborah, check under the bed. Has she given us one pot or two?”

  Deborah flipped up the blankets and checked. “Two.”

  “Good, I hate to share.” She turned on her side, looking at her sisters. “Is Betty not the ugliest woman you’ve ever seen?”

  Deborah couldn’t help herself, she began to giggle violently. Anne smiled guiltily.

  “’Tis a good thing Father is blind,” Mary continued, and in an instant they were all convulsed with laughter.

  “I don’t think she liked Max,” Deborah said.

  “Well, that is bad luck. Wherever I go, he goes.”

  “You’d b-better keep him out of her sight,” Anne said. “She might p-poison him.”

  “I’ll poison her!” Mary exclaimed, still in high spirits and laughing. “For I’d sooner see my father’s ugly wife dead than my sweet little champion.”

  Anne gasped as though winded, then said in a low voice, “Sister, you should n-n-n—”

  “Never say such things, I know.”