by Kim Wilkins
“No, no, I swear I …” Liza hung her head. “Sometimes I look to see … when he’s on his own … to see if he keeps his eyes open or closes them.”
“What an abominable display of disrespect!” Betty exclaimed, pinching the maidservant by her ear. Memories of all the things she may have done in full view of Liza rushed into her mind. Had Liza seen her take the books to sell? Or witnessed the lifeless conjugal relations between her and John? Or noted every undignified movement she had ever made when certain that nobody was watching her?
“Wait, ma’am, wait! I need to tell you what I saw.”
Betty released Liza’s ear, and looked at her suspiciously. “What did you see?”
“On New Year’s Eve. When you and Mr Milton were away.”
Betty suddenly became excited. “The girls? The girls did something?” Something heinous, something awful which Liza would attest to. Then John would have to send them away.
“Yes, the girls. They were entertaining a gentleman.”
“A gentleman! I knew it! How long did he stay?”
Liza suddenly dropped her head again. “Ma’am, I … ’Tis impossible …”
“What? What’s impossible? They are capable of anything, those minxes.”
Liza took a deep breath and met Betty’s eyes. “Ma’am, he disappeared into nothing. I swear, one instant he was there and the next gone. Like … magic.” Her voice trailed off to a whisper, and Betty realised the young woman was terrified. Her face had drawn chalk white.
Betty felt a sudden chill glide over her body. “Rubbish, Liza,” she said without conviction. “Men don’t disappear suddenly, they use doors.” Christmas Eve: she had heard a man’s voice, without doubt, but when she went in only the three girls were in the room.
“Ma’am, I saw it with my own eyes. I swear, ’Tis the Lord’s truth. And I heard some of the things they were saying, things about angels and devils and Lucifer himself.”
“Lucifer?” Betty said. Her voice didn’t sound like her own. A strange, excited fear had taken hold of her. But she had to remain calm and take her time, for if she made a hasty accusation, John would think badly only of her and refuse to hear any more on the issue.
“Ma’am, ’Tis true.”
Betty brushed her hands on her skirt. “Liza, you were right to tell me. I want you to keep an eye out for any more appearances of this man.”
“If the girls catch me spying, they’ll beat me. Especially that Mary.”
“For every beating you get from them, you’ll receive a threepence from me.”
Liza sighed. “Yes, Mrs Milton.”
“You may go now. Thank you.”
Liza backed out of the room. Betty returned to the couch and caught up her embroidery ring, picked idly at the stitching. Were the girls really involved in something so very dangerous as sorcery? If that were the case, would John throw them out, have them charged, disown them? What would he do to them?
She shivered as another thought occurred to her. If she told their father, what might they do to her?
Betty fell sick with a winter chill in the second week of January, throwing the whole household into chaos. A sudden icy-cold snap had gripped London, laying the streets with thick snow. Betty moaned from morning until night about the cold. Deborah had never known someone make such a fuss of such an insignificant illness; her demands were endless. Mary wisely stayed out of the house all day, preferring to take refuge in her secret room. Because she wouldn’t take Max with her — “it would frighten him too much carrying him across the ledge” — he was bored and restless and under foot. Liza ran back and forth, her cheerless eyes fixing on Deborah and Anne as she told them tonelessly that Father had ordered them to help chop and net vegetables for cooking, or wash the bed covers, or fetch coal, or find Betty’s favourite nightcap, which it was implied one of them had stolen.
On a visit to the study to find a book to read to Betty, Deborah was surprised to see Father pacing the room. He knew precisely where each item of furniture was, and walked as confidently as a man who could see the obstacles around them.
“Father? Is everything well with you?”
He turned and took a moment to find her with his sightless eyes. “Why? Do I look unwell?”
“You seem … impatient.” He was always impatient, and Deborah had to stop herself from adding, “More so than usual.”
“Betty has been ill for three days and I have not been walking,” he said petulantly, almost as though he suspected Betty had fallen sick on purpose.
“Father, ’Tis freezing outside. I nearly turned to ice going out to fetch the coal.”
“Nevertheless, solvitur ambulando.”
Deborah smiled. It is solved by walking. She wondered what problem he wished to solve. He hadn’t dictated to her for nearly a week; clearly he had reached an impasse with his great epic.
“I can walk with you, Father,” she offered.
“I think that is for the best. Ask Liza to show you where my winter mantle is.”
Deborah felt a wonderful sense of freedom as she ran upstairs to tell Liza that she and Father were going out. Out of the house, which was too warm because Betty insisted every fire in every grate should be roaring to compensate for the chill which had taken hold of her chest. Out with father — solvitur ambulando. She returned downstairs to find him waiting by the door, patiently, like a small child.
“Here,” she said, handing him his gloves.
He tried the left one on his right hand, but just as she reached to help him, he pulled it off with a look of self-disgust. Would that she were blind to that expression. Gloves fitted to the correct hands, he held his arms out for his mantle and hat. Deborah pulled on her own heavy winter cloak and hat. She couldn’t use a muff for Father would need to hold her hand, so she found a pair of mittens and opened the door.
The first blast of icy air sent Father back two steps. “Just a short walk, eh, Deborah?”
“Yes, Father. Just a short one.”
The stuffy house behind them, they linked hands and walked down the hill. At the main street, he said what he always said, “Be my eyes, Deborah.”
“The sky is perfect grey, it is barely daylight. I see lanterns burning in windows, diamond patterns of light on the snow.”
“The snow is deep,” Father said, lifting his feet high. “Hold my hand tightly for I do not wish to trip.”
“I shan’t let you go, Father. Here, walk this way, for someone has shovelled the snow into a pile on that corner.” She led him across the street. “The trees are paler than the sky. The branches are bare and damp and seem to shiver in the wind.”
“I can hear them. Is there anyone else around?”
“Not for yards. I see a woman with a basket. I think she is selling potatoes, but she is dressed very poorly for this weather. She must be cold. Do you want to go to the cemetery?”
He shook his head. With his free hand he wrapped his scarf high up over his chin. “Just around the block. ’Tis very cold, though I find the fresh air invigorating.”
“Me too, Father.”
“Let us practise our languages. Describe the world to me in Italian.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Italian, Father? It is my worst language.”
“It should be your best for it is my favourite. What use are these languages to you beyond conversing with me?”
Deborah felt a wave of pity for him. He possessed so much knowledge, was so fluent in so many languages, but had hardly anybody with whom to share his mind. The King’s return to London had signalled Father’s withdrawal from the public world and, now in retirement, blind and submerged in the tedium of domestic life, he had few avenues for his great intellect. She was vastly disappointed with herself for not making Italian her chief area of study simply because it did not appeal to her as much as the strange secret sounds of Hebrew, or the sweet complexities of Greek.
“Go on, then, what do you see?”
What do you see? Deborah looked ar
ound desperately. Houses. Case. Trees. Alberi. He had taken her by surprise and she found herself straining for the most basic of sentence constructions. Vedo … Vedo …
“Well?”
“Forgive me, Father. I am used to reading and translating the language, but to compose in it is more difficult. A moment, please.”
“Disregard my request,” Father said abruptly. “I should not have even bothered teaching you, for one tongue is enough in any woman’s head.”
“No, Father, I will try. I am simply not as confident as you.”
“I said to disregard it. I wish to return home.” He did not speak angrily. In fact, his voice was devoid of any emotion. This emptiness cut her to the quick, made her feel desperate and wretched.
“Father, be not angry with me. I do try. I’m weak, I’m stupid.”
He remained silent, and she knew that no matter what she said between now and home, what questions she asked, he would not say another word. It was his way of dealing with those he considered to be vastly beneath him.
She scuffed along through the snow next to him, wondering what she wouldn’t give not to be so very low in his eyes.
7
Devils to Adore for Deities
Four months had passed since Mary had last seen Lazodeus, and still he remained uppermost in her thoughts. As the snow melted and she sat in her velvet room alone, she thought of her angel. As the first buds began to sprout on the trees in the park while she played with Max, she thought of her angel. As she bickered with Betty, as she berated Liza for spying on her, as she sat down to take dictation from Father while Deborah rested, as she made polite conversation with Betty’s cousin Anthony, who had come to stay and didn’t look like going any time soon, she thought about nothing but her angel. How dull, how very dull life had become.
And now, as she let Sir Wallace lift her skirts and bury his bone in her, she remembered Lazodeus’s promises regarding the pleasures of the flesh. She looked around her. They stood together in an alley behind Sir Wallace’s home. It was very dark and the wall behind her was rough. A long way off she could see daylight, and people passing on the street. Wallace grunted loudly in her ear.
“Oh, Mary. Mary, you are so beautiful.” She smiled to herself. His jewellery rattled as he bumped against her, and the large red feather in his hat tickled her cheek. Wallace had eight servants. Eight! What kind of power would it be to command eight people.
Then Mary cringed as she remembered she and her sisters had once commanded an angel. And it was all her fault they no longer did. Not that she had mentioned this to either Deborah or Anne. Deborah had refused to summon Lazodeus until she knew for certain he meant them no harm, and Anne had meekly gone along with her. Neither of them were aware yet that Lazodeus had taken leave of them.
She had tried to call him, of course she had. But he had not come. Tears and rages hadn’t helped, nor had reasoning, nor had pleading. He was gone, and his absence had caused her to lapse into a profound state of melancholy, which was something she had never suffered from before. Usually it was for Deborah to be introspective, or for Anne to be gloomy. A great well of feeling swelled inside her, a feeling which could only be dispelled in one long, unknowable syllable. Until she could learn what that syllable was, she just repeated over and over, Lazodeus, Lazodeus, my angel.
Wallace was almost achieving his peak. Mary brought her mind back to the business at hand, but contemplation of Lazodeus had caused her to realise how old and how ugly Wallace was. Rather than her usual rush of excitement as his face reddened and his calls became more bestial, she experienced a disgusted recoil. As he pulled himself out of her to soil her thighs, she shrank against the wall.
“Oh, oh, oh!” he cried. Then sagged against the wall with a great sigh. “Oh, Mary. Mary, Mary.”
She patted his arm, smoothing over her skirts.
“Oh, Mary, you are so beautiful,” he said, relacing his breeches. “Come to me next Thursday. My wife is going away. Come inside the house, and I shall love you amongst the riches of my bedroom. You can choose yourself a ring or a bracelet from my wife’s jewellery box. My Mary deserves better than a dark alley.”
Here was the offer she had long waited for: taken inside, laid down among satin and velvet, adorned with jewels …
“I am uncertain.”
“What?” He stood back, surprised.
“I shall see what I have to do. My father keeps me very busy.”
“Your father? That shabby antique?”
“Nevertheless, I …” She could not finish her sentence.
“’Tis the best offer a girl like you can hope for,” Wallace said.
“Then maybe I shall come.”
Wallace shrugged. “Suit yourself. I must go.”
He rearranged his clothes, smoothed the feather on his hat, and turned away from her. She stood where she was for a moment, watching him slip through the back gate into his walled garden. At length, she started down the alley for the street. Summer had come early; a hot wind blew down Little Woodstreet, making her eyes dry and sore. She passed a man vomiting, deftly stepped around him, wrinkling her nose against the sour smell of his stomach. A family of street cats scattered as she approached. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Why hadn’t Wallace’s promise of rings and bracelets thrilled her? She felt a sudden barb of anger against Lazodeus. Before he had come along, her life had been far less complicated. She had certainly never felt such an emptiness, such a chaos of yearning and listlessness.
Thunder sounded again. She eyed the horizon and saw heavy black clouds advancing. She hurried her step. Max hated storms. She couldn’t bear the thought that he would be frightened and think she had abandoned him.
To feel abandoned was the worst kind of misery.
Anne could not remember ever despising anyone so much as she despised Anthony.
It wasn’t simply his odious personality, a rival for his cousin Betty’s. It wasn’t simply his revolting appearance: he had a body like two pillows tied together, a drooping, overly moist bottom lip, and eyes sunk back into shadows. No, by far his most detestable characteristic was the way he had installed himself as joint master of the house. And Father, clearly starved for educated male company, allowed him to do whatever he wanted.
“Anne! Come here at once, girl,” he bellowed from Father’s study. She limped in as fast as she could. Father sat in his usual position by the fireplace, Anthony opposite him in a comfortable chair he had taken from the withdrawing room.
“Can’t you move any quicker?” he asked.
She attempted to answer but found her mouth wouldn’t even produce the start of a word.
“Never mind, stupid cripple,” he said dismissively. Then, articulating loudly and clearly, as though she were a child, “Can you fetch me a cushion. Not one of those small ones from the withdrawing room. Fetch me a pillow. The one from your bed will suffice.”
“B-but —”
“Fetch me a pillow!” he roared.
Father sat unmoving and unmoved, his unseeing eyes turned towards the tiny window.
Anne nodded and backed out. She hurried up the stairs and stopped at the curtain which sealed off Betty’s room. She peeked around the curtain, saw the room was empty, and quickly grabbed a pillow. If anyone should have Anthony’s arse imprinted on her pillow, it should be Betty. She had invited him, she cooed and fussed over him, bragged about his recent education in Italy, and gloated every time he shouted one of the girls down about something.
It would all have been bearable had Lazodeus answered her calls; but it had been months now since she had last seen him. She supposed it was her ugliness and lameness that had driven him away. As she advanced down the stairs, she could hear Anthony complaining loudly.
“What is taking the girl so long? She would have been better off drowned at birth than to live and prove such a vexation to her family.”
Anne heard Father’s voice, softer, and paused outside the door to listen. Was Father defe
nding her? Her heart rose a little in her chest.
Anthony’s laughed pierced through the wall. “That’s right, that’s right,” he said, in response to Father.
“We didn’t realise there was anything wrong with her until she was two years old, and by then it would have been murder. Besides, her mother was fond of her.”
“Women are so weak.”
“But I didn’t expect the child to live. When her mother died, I did consider sending her off to another family. One that perhaps could see to it that she met an accident.”
Again, Anthony roared with laughter. Anne suddenly had trouble breathing. She knew Father bore no special love to her, but to hear that he had considered killing her … She slunk into the room and held the pillow out.
“And about time,” Anthony said. “Now I want you to … wait, where are you going?”
“I c-c-can’t —” she started to say, as Anthony grasped her around the wrist.
“You c-c-can’t wh-wh-what?” Anthony said, enjoying the game.
“Let me g-g—”
“What, Anne? What? Let you giggle? Let you graze? Let you gasp? What are you trying to say?”
“F-Father, t-tell him to l-l—” Her tears fell freely now.
“Anthony, let her go. A woman’s tears put me at the end of my patience. Go, Anne. Stop wailing, you fool.” At least he had the decency to turn his face away guiltily; perhaps he realised she had heard him.
As Anthony’s fingers left her wrist she hurried out of the room, knowing that her uneven gait did not allow her a dignified withdrawal. His laughter followed her. “Is that the best you can run? Lucky there is not a bear chasing you!”
“Leave her be now, Anthony,” she heard Father say as she headed for the stairs. But it was too late, for now the pain and humiliation were shuddering up through her body and she heard the guttural sound of repressed sobs echoing around the staircase. She lumbered up to the bedroom, relieved that Deborah and Mary were not around to see her in such a state, and buried her face in the bed. She sobbed and sobbed until it felt she might shatter to pieces. Why had God suffered her stupid, broken body to live? Was He not merciful? Surely it were mercy to have destroyed her before she could breathe and see the stars and know the feel of sun on her skin. Surely it were mercy for her not to have known such a glimmering of love for an angel; an angel who was so revolted by her that he had broken his promise to be commanded, and beat a hasty retreat.
