by V. H. Leslie
Kirsten wound her way back towards the house, making her way through what appeared to be an orchard. The boughs were empty, skeletal. She weaved her way through, the outstretched branches attempting to entangle her. And then as the path cleared, Kirsten saw the woman with the dark hair.
She was standing by the riverside, staring in Kirsten’s direction. Kirsten could see her more clearly than before. She appeared to be wearing a long green dress. It looked old-fashioned and was torn and frayed. Her hair hung loose about her shoulders, slick and glossy as if it was wet. In fact, despite the distance, Kirsten was convinced that it was wet, dripping down onto her dress.
Kirsten only paused for a moment, changing direction from her intended course towards the river to take a more direct route back to the west wing. She walked fast but with control, all the while trying to rationalise what she had seen. There was no reason to be afraid of a woman with wet hair. It was perfectly normal for someone to walk along that public path by the river, even a curious kind of woman, dressed in such an odd way.
Without breaking her stride she cast a glance over her shoulder towards the spot beside the river.
The woman was gone.
Kirsten stopped and looked around. Where had she disappeared to? Perhaps back the way she had come along the bridleway. Just then it began to rain and Kirsten saw her.
She was in the orchard, where Kirsten had just been. She could never have covered that much ground while Kirsten’s back was turned. And she was closer now than before, in the grounds of Wakewater.
Kirsten picked up her pace, trying her best not to break into a run. She began to dig in her pockets for her keys; she wanted to be inside and to close the door against this strange figure and the panic that was mounting inside of her. As she approached the west wing, with Wakewater Apartments emblazoned in blue lettering, she fought the desire to look behind her. She struggled with the keys, her fingers cold from the rain.
It was then that she noticed. Through the glass door she could see the lobby illuminated. The entrance lighting was activated through movement, but there couldn’t be anyone inside. Kirsten was the only resident.
The light went off and then flickered on again, breaking into an incessant blinking. It must be some kind of loose wire, she reasoned, as the key finally slid into the keyhole.
But she had paused long enough outside the entrance to feel that the strange woman had narrowed the distance between them. As clearly as she could feel the rain trickling against her skin, she could sense someone at her back.
She turned slowly.
There was no one there.
It was with relief that she opened the door, swinging it wide and stepping out of the rain. But in the blinking light, she could see that the floor tiles were covered in a film of water. It had been dry when she left. There was no one else here to leave any marks. But there, across the lobby floor, was a trail of wet footprints.
16
Evelyn
‘Melusine. Melusine,’ Evelyn whispered into Milly’s ear. They lay entwined in bed, their clothes cast over a chair. Evelyn had acquired some temporary lodgings for Milly: a set of rooms in a modest part of town, away from the disreputable haunts that Milly was more used to. Milly couldn’t have stayed in the refuge indefinitely, and until Evelyn managed to secure her some work in service, this seemed like the most suitable answer. She had never imagined that she’d be spending so much time in these rooms as well.
Milly smiled and sank deeper into Evelyn’s embrace. She let Evelyn stroke her long dark hair, brushing the tendrils from her face. It was the middle of the afternoon. They’d pulled the flimsy curtains against the sunlight, but it still filtered through. It felt so blissfully wicked, lying in bed in the middle of the day. Love didn’t adhere to clock time. These few hours each day had become such a welcome delight to Evelyn. When she was at the refuge or back in her father’s house, she knew that Milly was here, safely ensconced in these little rooms, waiting for her to return. It was such a singular feeling, knowing that somebody was missing you, counting the hours until you came back to them.
Evelyn stretched, ‘I’ve got to go soon.’
‘No, no,’ Milly replied, sleepily. That was the only drawback. She was becoming more despondent each time Evelyn had to leave. Evelyn could understand why. Though Milly had made it clear how thankful she was to have left that life behind, how indebted she was, she relied entirely now on Evelyn for her happiness. She didn’t know anyone in the neighbourhood and the old friends she’d kept would not have been welcome in this part of town. She wasn’t used to her own time. She had no education; no way to channel her introspection
‘I’ve got to attend a Rescue Society meeting,’ Evelyn said, sitting upright.
‘There’s no need, you’ve already rescued someone.’
Evelyn smiled and kissed her lightly. ‘There are more souls to be saved.’ She climbed out of bed, slipping her dress over her smock. Milly grabbed her by the hand.
‘Don’t worry about those other girls, just save me.’
Evelyn laughed, ‘But you are saved, my Melusine.’
Milly frowned and sank back into the bed. Sometimes she acted like such a child.
Evelyn sat beside her. ‘I’ll never let you go back to that life, I promise.’
‘Then take me with you?’
Evelyn hesitated; part of her wanted to. The Rescue Society opened its arms to fallen women; she’d be welcome there. But another part of her wondered if her feelings would be too transparent and everyone would know what existed between them. She couldn’t risk that. She desperately wanted to keep this bit of herself secret and locked away from the rest of the world. She shook her head.
‘I don’t mind you parading me around,’ Milly continued, ‘as an example of one of your reformed girls.’
Evelyn smiled. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea.’
Now Milly got out of bed. She strode across the room on lithe limbs, snatching at her clothes. There was a confidence in her nakedness, as if she knew the power she exerted on those who gazed upon her. Evelyn was struck again at how perfect and unblemished her body was, despite the many ways it had been mistreated.
‘And what am I supposed to do while you save all the whores in London?’ she asked.
‘Milly, please…’
‘I’m nothing but a kept woman.’ She stepped into her dress, fastening it with speed, as perhaps she’d had to do once too often.
Evelyn laughed. ‘I am not one of your gentlemen callers who pays for your services.’
‘But you do pay. You pay for me to stay here, in this prison. You pay to keep me all to yourself.’
Evelyn sat down on the bed, stung. Was that how Milly saw their relationship, as some kind of exchange? She was so used to selling her body that perhaps she had no idea that love was given for free. For the briefest of moments, Evelyn wondered if Milly had been performing a part, acting the role of a lover in exchange for bed and board.
‘Milly, I do it for you, not for myself.’
But Milly was already striding toward the stairs, struggling with the ribbons of her bonnet.
‘Where will you go?’ Evelyn called. The door slammed in reply.
17
Kirsten
Kirsten opened Manon’s door. She’d arranged for a locksmith and Manon had given her a set of keys when she’d visited her in hospital. The fall had done more damage than it was first assumed, but Manon was healing well. She hoped to be home soon. Until then there was a wealth of knowledge about Wakewater and its secrets just within Kirsten’s reach. She knew Manon would understand. Stepping over the piles of books that littered the threshold, Kirsten made her way inside.
It made sense to begin in the study, though there was so much information scattered throughout the flat that could also prove useful. She wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for, but she guessed t
hat if she was going to understand more about the river, the study was probably the best place to start. The flat was still unnaturally warm, despite the heating being turned off. The study especially seemed to radiate heat; the papers and books incubating the secret knowledge Kirsten hoped to garner. She started at the desk. A series of Post-it notes had been stuck against the veneer. She glanced over them, deciphering Manon’s frantic handwriting:
– Birth and Water – In Summerian, the word for ‘sea’ is the same as the word for ‘womb’, both ‘mar’.
– The Maya and Ancient Egyptians thought that their worlds originated with the waters of the primordium.
Kirsten looked towards a pile of binders instead. She lifted one folder and a dozen postcards and pictures slipped through their plastic envelope and onto the floor. She crouched to pick them up.
Mostly reprints of Victorian paintings, they displayed an array of women in water. There were some images she recognised, like Waterhouse’s Lady of Shalott depicting the eponymous heroine’s last voyage upon the water, and others that Kirsten had never seen before. What was striking about them however was that they all portrayed women as being frail and weak. Looking through the scattered images, she recognised the sickly pallor of the consumptive; the anorexic archetype that had become so fashionable. They seemed to promoting the idea that the most beautiful woman was a dead one. She rummaged through the pile and drew out Millais’ Ophelia. Now this was a painting she was familiar with. How often had she spent her lunch break at the Tate, staring across at Millais’ most famous work, watching the crowds of school children and tourists gaze at Ophelia’s floating corpse, the bridal wreath she’d made drifting alongside her.
She’d read how Millais’ model, Lizzie Siddal, had lain in a bathtub to provide a more realistic impression for the artist. Kirsten wondered what Lizzie had thought about lying for hours in that cold water, pretending to be a dead girl. Perhaps her thoughts had turned from Ophelia to all the other spurned women who ended up in the river. Could she hear them calling to her beneath the surface, pulling her down to join them? Lizzie had contracted pneumonia after sitting for Millais and overdosed a few years later on opium. Perhaps she’d never been able to escape the weight of the water after that, of the slippery feeling of death.
Kirsten sighed. It was like wading through Manon’s mind. But where were the viragos, the temptresses, the sirens and nymphs? Manon didn’t have any of images of those women, though Kirsten knew that the mythical ones resided in the water too.
Returning Ophelia to the pile, Kirsten brushed against a leather-bound notebook. She opened it, knowing at once it was what she was looking for. It was filled with Manon’s scribbled notes, a little unorganised, though it seemed to include a list of various mythical water women. Under the heading ‘Rusalki’ Manon had written:
Rusalki are Slavic water spirits. It is believed that when women die in or close to water, especially those who have committed suicide or those who have been intentionally drowned by others, they often return to haunt that particular body of water. Women who are pregnant at the time of their death are believed to be especially potent. Typical of water women, they lure mortals with their song, usually entangling them in their long hair. They rarely leave the water but have been known to dwell amongst the trees, sometimes climbing them. Rusalki are known for their long wet hair, which lends them an immortality away from the water. If their hair dries, they expire.
Kirsten closed the book and smiled.
18
Evelyn
Evelyn placed her hand over her mouth to stifle the laughter. Blanche had buried her head into Evelyn’s shoulder, but it did little to stem the sound of her giggling. They were standing at Evelyn’s bedroom door, Blanche still in her nightgown, trying to stage her escape. The house was already awake and they could hear the other guests making their way down to breakfast. Evelyn was fully dressed – though it had taken much longer than normal due to Blanche’s caresses – ready to check that the coast was clear or to provide a distraction while Blanche snuck out. It had been reckless allowing her to stay the night. Now they had to run the gauntlet to get her back to her room.
It wasn’t a laughing matter, but they had woken up so light-hearted and carefree. Embarrassed that they had shared so much the night before, self-conscious that they had woken to find their bodies intertwined, Evelyn hardly cared what happened now. She felt so deliriously happy that Blanche was here; what was impropriety compared to this feeling?
It was a feeling she knew. She’d felt it before but had lost it. That had been her mistake; she’d locked her love in a room, hoping that was enough to keep it safe. But she’d stifled it instead and it had flown. She hadn’t expected to feel this way again and she knew now that love needed a little space. She was prepared to let Blanche go.
‘Let’s try again,’ Evelyn said, her hand on the door handle.
Blanche nodded in reply, before giggling once more. Laughing seemed to be the only thing to counter the fear of being caught.
‘I’m going to go out and see if anyone’s around,’ Evelyn said, holding her by the waist, ‘then I’ll signal to you to follow.’
Blanche smiled, breathing deeply. ‘Yes. I’m ready.’
Evelyn opened the door as soundlessly as possible and slipped out onto the landing. She heard Mrs Goddard’s approach before she saw her and closed the door swiftly behind her.
‘Good morning, Mrs Goddard,’ she said, slightly louder than normal, hoping Blanche would hear.
‘Good morning, my dear. Are you heading down to breakfast?’
Evelyn wavered, struggling for an excuse. Her back against the door as if guarding it. ‘Yes,’ she said finally, falling into step. It seemed better to divert Mrs Goddard and provide Blanche with the opportunity to make her getaway.
In the dining room, Mrs Miller served a simple fare of porridge and toast. In keeping with Wakewater’s philosophy, breakfast was a relaxed affair and punctuality wasn’t strictly observed. Only a handful of guests were gathered around the table.
‘I must say, the water is doing wonders,’ Mrs Goddard announced cheerfully, ‘but I can’t wait to have sausage and bacon again.’
Mrs Wilmot concurred and Evelyn watched as other women fell into conversation. She wasn’t interested in small talk; her mind drifted back up the stairs to Blanche and her memories of the night before.
‘Mrs Arden’s late this morning,’ Mrs Wilmot said quietly at Evelyn’s side. It was true; Blanche was usually one of the first to breakfast; she didn’t like to miss out on any potential gossip. Evelyn shrugged, feeling her blood rush to her cheeks. Everyone knew that she and Blanche were friends; there was nothing implied in the remark, she told herself. But Blanche wasn’t the only one with an appetite for gossip. She wondered if anyone had seen them in the orchard, or had heard them giggling in her bedroom.
At that point Blanche walked in, looking fresh and radiant, not at all capable of clandestine visits in the night. She shot Evelyn a playful glance as she sat down.
Dr Porter often breakfasted earlier than everyone else; his plate was empty save for a few crumbs, and a newspaper lay in his stead. Mrs Miller had set about gathering the crockery and reached for the paper.
‘Now, now, let’s have a look at what’s going on in the outside world,’ Mrs Goddard said, taking it off of her. Mrs Wilmot tutted. Though not forbidden, most of Wakewater’s guests had been prescribed a course of ignorance – no intellectual stimulation allowed under any circumstances, which especially included reading. At Wakewater, the rest of the world didn’t exist. The river truly was a moat, protecting its charges from the dangers of outside.
‘Another poor wretch pulled from the river,’ Mrs Goddard sighed, stretching out the broadsheet.
‘You should ask Evelyn,’ Blanche said, helping herself to a slice of toast. ‘She’s done a lot of work with the Rescue Society, trying to save those kin
ds of women.’ The comment was well intended and Blanche smiled as she said it. But seeing the look on Evelyn’s face, she realised how tactless her remark had been, especially considering what Evelyn had disclosed the night before.
‘It’s … very charitable,’ she stammered.
‘I hardly think this is a suitable topic to discuss in company,’ Mrs Wilmot said. Evelyn sat upright. She was used to this argument. How often had respectable women refused to listen to what was really going on, hiding behind the pretext of decorum and etiquette.
Mrs Goddard laughed. ‘It’s only us women. If we can’t talk about these things amongst ourselves, the men have truly won.’
‘But it’s hardly ladylike,’ Mrs Wilmot retorted.
Nor was the notion of selling you body, Evelyn thought, but the women she met didn’t have that choice. They had not been born with a lady’s privileges, to fret over propriety and respectability.
Mrs Wilmot lifted a serviette to the corner of her mouth. ‘I admire your efforts,’ she said, directing her attention to Evelyn, ‘but I fear there is not enough water in the world to cleanse those poor girls.’
‘The water is where most of them will end up, sadly.’ Evelyn stood. ‘Excuse me.’
She made her way back up the stairs to her room, hardly caring that she’d left the table in such an obviously irate manner. That morning she’d woken up in Blanche’s arms feeling so untroubled, but now she could feel only anger swelling inside her. Just when she’d begun to forget Milly, Blanche had dragged her back out of the water.
For the first time since being at Wakewater, Evelyn craved the river. She wanted to walk alongside it, to lose her thoughts in its gentle undulations, to get away from the house and all of its guests, Blanche included.
