Stephen

by Amy Cross

  “Go!” Doctor Brooks said firmly. “Leave the room and shut the door!”

  I hesitated.

  “LEAVE, WOMAN!”

  For a moment I could not help staring in shock at Mrs. Brooks, as she struggled against her husband's hold and screamed that same sentence over and over again. Finally, however, she almost slipped free, and in my fright I stepped back and swung the door closed, and then I stepped back again in the cold, bare stone corridor. My heart was pounding, and I could not comprehend what I had just seen and heard.

  “That's not what the last governess did!” Mrs. Brooks screamed frantically behind the door. “That's not -”

  Suddenly I heard a loud smacking sound, and her voice stopped in an instant. A moment later there followed a faint thud, as if a body had crumpled to the floor, and then came silence. After a few seconds, just as I was about to hurry away, the door opened and Doctor Brooks came out. I remember noticing that he opened the door only as far as necessary, and that he closed it carefully as if he did not want me to see into the room.

  “Please prepare the kitchen for morning,” he said, his voice drained of all emotion. “Check on Stephen as well, and then you may retire for the night.”

  I nodded.

  “One of your duties will be to prepare breakfast.”

  I nodded.

  “After that you will have to go to the nearest town. Speak to Mrs. Brooks in the morning and determine a time when she can spare you.”

  I nodded.

  “And make sure that she has plenty of time to herself,” he added. “She might want to stay with Stephen the whole day, but it is very important for her to get back to some of her old ways, so that she has a chance to...”

  He hesitated.

  “I'm sure you understand,” he said finally.

  “I do.”

  “Good night, Ms. Seaton,” he continued, before opening the door and slipping back into the now-silent room. “I trust that you will sleep well.”

  “Good night,” I replied, but the door bumped shut before I finished, and I was left once more all alone in the corridor. After a moment I heard muffled voices coming from the dining room, but I thought it sinful to eavesdrop so I turned and hurried away.

  Oh how I wish I had stayed and listened. If I had, the rest of the tragedy might have been averted, and I would not be writing this account now.

  Chapter Nine

  That night my dreams were full of the convent, and of Mother Superior. I dare say I tossed and turned in my bed, and perhaps I even spoke in my sleep. I had often revisited the convent in my dreams, although that night I found myself returning to the moment when Mother Superior had told me I must leave.

  “But I wish to stay here,” I told her, trying not to panic. “I wish to make my life here at St. Winifred's, maybe even to join the order.”

  “You are not the right sort of girl,” she replied. “We have spoken of this before, Beryl.”

  I remember stepping closer to her desk and dropping to my knees. I was only nineteen then, this being about six months before I traveled to Grangehurst, and the thought of leaving St. Winifred's filled me with the most immense feelings of horror.

  “I'm begging you,” I sobbed, clutching my hands together as Mother Superior sat stony-faced watching me, “let me stay. Even if I cannot join the order, let me remain here and work for the good of the sisters. I can clean, I can cook, I can -”

  “You can do all those things in the world beyond our walls,” Mother Superior replied. “I am thinking of your needs, Beryl. I am thinking of what is best for you.”

  “Do I not work tirelessly?”

  She sighed. “Yes, but -”

  “Do I not spend my every waking moment following you and the other sisters around, asking what I can do to help?”

  “Oh, you most certainly do, but that is not -”

  “So can I not continue to do so?” I asked. “What if I take a vow of silence? I shall never speak again, and I shall endeavor to keep from even being seen.”

  She sighed again.

  “I have an even better idea!” I remember telling her. “I can sleep during the day and only come out from my room at night! While everybody else is asleep, I can quietly work in the pantry or the kitchen, or I can clean the common areas. You'd never have to know that I was even here!”

  “I'm sure there would be signs,” she replied.

  “I could be nocturnal!”

  I seem to recall that this went on for some time. I was perhaps rather obsequious in my desire to serve Mother Superior, but all of this was born of fear. I had entered the care of the sisters at the age of five, so I remembered next to nothing of my life anywhere else. In truth, Mother Superior had been occasionally pressing me to leave the convent ever since I had turned sixteen, but previously I had always managed to dissuade her. This time, however, she seemed more determined than ever, perhaps as a result of having held a meeting with the other sisters during the previous evening.

  I know not what they had discussed during that meeting, but I believe now that I had most certainly been an important topic. The sisters wanted what was best for me, and they felt that I should go out into the world. Looking back now, four decades later, I suppose they might have been right.

  I even offered to clean Mother Superior's feet with my tongue, nightly, but she gently declined the idea. And so it was that I was soon told to go into London and stay at a room that had been arranged for me. The sisters had pooled their meager resources together in order to fund my travel and accommodation, and Mother Superior had arranged some job interviews for me. This was all very generous of them, but I still felt a little rejected on my final morning as I stood outside the front of St. Winifred's.

  The sisters had not come to bid farewell. I suppose they did not wish to upset me, although they were all watching from nearby windows. Mother Superior had come out, however, and I still remember her partings words to me. They were words of wisdom, words intended to guide me, and they have helped me ever since:

  “You would do well to think for yourself, Beryl,” she said solemnly, “rather than seeking out people who will tell you what to do or say. This is for your own benefit, as well as the benefit of others. It can be rather tiring to be followed around all the live-long day by someone who wants to know how to help. You must learn to use your initiative. No good will come of you constantly seeking a master to rule over you.”

  I did not entirely comprehend the meaning of those words as I walked away from the convent with my suitcase, but of course now forty years later I am much wiser and I understand. Mother Superior was warning me to trust myself, to be myself, and to not look to others for my strength. I have tried ever since to follow her advice, although I must confess that I felt very scared as I left the convent that morning.

  In the six months that followed, I tried on several occasions to return and ask Mother Superior for clarification on some matters. Unfortunately, nobody was ever at the convent when I visited. I suppose they were all out working with the needy, so my knocks on the door went unanswered. And then finally I went to Grangehurst, where on my first night I was afflicted by such vivid dreams of my former life. Perhaps I was missing the convent, or perhaps I was simply uncertain.

  Either way, I woke the next morning at daybreak and immediately sat up in bed, drenched in sweat and almost overcome by palpitations. I did not know what my first full day at Grangehurst would bring, but I could not help thinking of the child that was waiting for me in the nursery. Indeed, as I rose from the bed and prepared to start the day, I felt a strange tightening sensation in my chest.

  By the time I was out of my room, I could tell that Doctor Brooks and his wife had not yet risen from their beds. I made my way to the kitchen and checked that everything was in order, and then I realized that I was once again delaying the inevitable. With a heavy heart, then, I made my way back upstairs and through to the nursery, where I gently opened the door and headed over to the crib.

 
Stephen was, of course, exactly where I had left him the previous night. His dead eyes stared up toward the ceiling, and I leaned over the crib until my eyes looked directly into his. For a moment it was as if we were staring at each other, but I quickly disabused myself of that foolish notion. Reaching into the crib, I took hold of the boy and lifted him up, cradling him in his blankets. As I did so, I heard the usual faint creaking sound coming from inside his dead and dried body, and then the room fell silent around us.

  Every time I moved him, however, I heard that same heart-breaking sound.

  Chapter Ten

  “I'm so very sorry about the unfortunate display you had to witness last night over dinner,” Mrs. Brooks said as I carried Stephen over to join her in the conservatory. “I'm afraid that on occasion I can allow my emotions to run rather high. I hope you'll accept my sincerest apologies.”

  Leaning down, I placed the child in her arms.

  “No apologies are necessary,” I told her. “Please, think no more of it.”

  She was very careful in how she took him, adjusting her hold several times before she finally seemed confident enough to lean back with him. She cradled him with great tenderness, rocking him oh-so-gently, and she beamed down at his little face with absolute maternal pride. As she did so, I could not help but wonder what she saw. Was there a wriggling, gurgling, happy child in her arms?

  “There, sweet one,” she purred, “I've got you now. See? Just because you have a new governess, that doesn't mean anything is going to change.”

  With that, she leaned down and kissed his forehead.

  “Mummy's little boy,” she continued, before glancing at me with a broad, genuine smile. “I'm sorry, you must think me rather foolish, but he's my only child and I just can't help molly-coddling him like this. Perhaps one day, Ms. Seaton, you shall be a parent yourself. Then you'll understand the power of the bond. It's quite normal.”

  I managed a weak smile in return, but I am sure that any normal person would have seen through that in an instant. Severine Brooks was not, of course, a normal person, although I did not at that stage quite understand the true depth and nature of the madness that gripped not only the woman before me, but the entire house. I was starting to notice certain things, of course, but I was refusing to contemplate them in any great detail.

  “I was thinking I would clean the nursery today,” I explained, watching as Mrs. Brooks unbuttoned the front of her dress. “If you can spare me for an hour or two, that is.”

  “There's some laundry that needs doing,” she replied, pulling the dress aside to expose her underwear, “but after that, of course you may clean the nursery. Stephen would love that. Wouldn't you, my little angel?” She laughed. “Yes you would! Oh yes you would!”

  I opened my mouth to tell her that I would attend to the laundry immediately, but then I was shocked as she pulled her underwear aside and exposed her large, slightly swollen left breast. Her nipple was cracked and sore, with many visible veins running to its edges, and I watched with a growing sense of unease as she raised the dead child's face as if she expected him to feed.

  Finally, feeling desperately uncomfortable, I began to turn away.

  “Wait a while,” Mrs. Brooks said suddenly.

  I froze.

  “Just in case I need anything,” she added, glancing at me. “You're not embarrassed by such things, are you? We are both women, after all.”

  I managed to shake my head, but I could not take my eyes off the obscene sight of the child's lips being pressed against the bloodied nipple. Even now, writing these words, I feel desperately uncomfortable.

  “It is as nature intended,” Mrs. Brooks continued, before looking down and taking a moment to adjust her hold of the child. “Why, I imagine even Mary nursed the infant Christ in his first months. She must have, must she not? People don't think about that, though. If you ask me, the human body in all its forms is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  I nodded again. My throat was too dry for me to speak, and my belly was filling with another high tide of nausea. I was trying to look away, but somehow I could not stop glancing back toward the chair where Mrs. Brooks was sitting.

  “There,” she said softly, using a finger to open the dead child's mouth a little, and forcing him to latch on to her breast. “Mummy's little boy needs all the strength and nourishment he can get. Don't worry about hurting Mummy. Just drink as much as you need, and you'll grow up to be a big, healthy boy.”

  She hesitated, watching his dead face for a moment.

  “That's right,” she added, as if she truly believed that he was feeding. “Good boy. Well done.”

  I wanted so very much to leave the room, but I did not dare say anything. Even now, I marvel at my lack of confidence, and I feel as if I want to reach back forty years and scream at my former self to act on my doubts. I want to shake that foolish young girl, that pious little prig, and make her run far away from the Brooks family. I can do no such thing, of course, so I am only left to reflect upon the fact that I stood silently and obediently, waiting to be told that I could leave the room. It is astonishing how one can perform mental gymnastics and persuade oneself that left is right, up is down and so forth.

  Then again, had I left when I wanted, I would not have seen the trickle of white liquid that eventually began to run down the underside of Mrs. Brooks' breast and onto the folds of her scarred belly.

  Milk.

  I wondered then, as I wonder now, exactly how she was able to express milk from her breast in such a manner. At the time, I assumed simply that while her child was dead, her body was still in a state of readiness for motherhood, in which case it seemed natural that she would still be producing at least some milk. I supposed that she was merely forcing it out through sheer willpower, although now I have certain doubts. Still, as a second dribble ran down the side of the dead child's cheek, I felt an overwhelming sense of awe, even though after a moment I saw a very faint line of blood in the milk.

  “Perhaps that is enough for now,” Mrs. Brooks said finally, lowering the child to her lap. She did not immediately move to cover her breast. “Oh, listen to you,” she continued, smiling down at Stephen, “always wanting more. If it were left up to you, I should be drained on each occasion and left like a prune.”

  She turned to me, with her breast still exposed and another trickle of bloodied milk running down the side.

  “Mummy's boy,” she said with a proud smile. “That's what he is. Why, I wonder however I am going to wean him off when the time comes. I imagine I shall have the most terrible difficulty. All part of growing up, I suppose.”

  I nodded, although in truth I was once again feeling nauseous.

  “The last governess had no ideas,” she added with a sigh. “Anyway, I think I shall be quite alright here. If you wish to go and do the laundry, then by all means do so.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, before turning to walk away. And then, for reasons that utterly elude me today, I stopped and turned back to her. I suppose curiosity got the better of me, but I wish I could reach back in time and zip my mouth shut. “Might I ask one thing, Mrs. Brooks?”

  “Of course.”

  “I was just wondering about my position,” I continued meekly. “I mean, about the person who filled the position before I filled it. As it were.”

  “What about it?”

  Shut up! I want to shout at myself. Keep your mouth closed!

  “Well, I know that Stephen had another governess before me,” I said. “I heard mention of another governess last night, and again this morning. I am just wondering why that lady moved on.”

  I waited, but Mrs. Brooks simply sat staring at me, and now the smile was entirely gone from her face. I remember thinking at that moment that I had made a terrible mistake, and that I had overstepped my boundaries by asking a question that was none of my business. Indeed, it was only at that moment that I realized Mrs. Brooks' outburst the night before had seemingly been prompted by mention of my predecessor. Now
I feared that the lady might erupt again before me, and this time I did not have her husband at hand to intervene.

  “I should go to the laundry,” I stammered, “and -”

  “The last governess had to leave,” she said, interrupting me. There was a coldness to her tone now, a hint of steel. “It was unfortunate, but these things happen. And now we have you, so at least one good thing has come out of it. Stephen is certainly a great deal happier.”

  “Of course,” I replied. “I'm sorry.”

  “Somebody must go to the market,” she continued. “That will be your job, I suppose.”

  “Your husband said,” I told her. “When would it be convenient for me to go?”

  “Convenient?”

  “I suppose the walk there and back will take at least two hours,” I pointed out. “At what part of the day would you best be able to spare me?”

  She stared at me for a moment, as if I had asked the queerest question in the whole world, and then she turned and looked at the window. She paused, before turning back to me with a smile.

  “I shan't spare you at all,” she said finally, as her smile slowly returned. “Rather, I shall come with you. Stephen and I could do with the fresh air, couldn't we darling?”

  She turned to the child. I looked at him too, and in that moment I could not possibly comprehend how anybody could entertain the idea of taking a dead baby out into the world. Staring at Stephen's glassy eyes and rotten features, I felt certain that I was misunderstanding, and that there was no way he would actually leave the house. The whole idea just seemed monstrous.

  “See?” Mrs Brooks continued, her voice filled with excitement. “He can't wait!”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Bumpsford is a slightly queer place,” Mrs. Brooks said quietly, with a rather conspiratorial tone in her voice, as she pushed the carriage ahead of us across the cobbled market square. “The people who live here are rather simple folk, so you won't get much conversation out of any of them. And if you did, it would only be about mines and beer and so on and so forth.”