The Passage

by Irina Shapiro

  The door was opened by a middle-aged woman, who bid us to wait in the chilly side room probably once used as an antechamber by the lord of the castle. It was made entirely of stone; cold and silent as a tomb, and almost entirely bare except for a hard wooden bench pushed up against the wall. At last, our host appeared, and my feeling of dread dissipated. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the man who came toward us was smiling in welcome, his eyes twinkling with mirth. He was bald as an egg, but had bushy whiskers which hugged his generous jowls like the flaps of a hat.

  “Lord Everly!” he exclaimed. “We’ve been expecting you. I trust all is well? And who is this enchanting young lady?” Mr. Finch took my hand and kissed it lightly as he smiled into my eyes. “You are most welcome, my dear. I’m glad to see Hugo has finally found some female company. He’s in danger of becoming a monk.” He gave Hugo a sly look, and I couldn’t help wondering if he were in some way referring to Hugo’s Catholicism, but Hugo didn’t seem put out in any way, and I decided that his secret was probably safe.

  “Your room is ready, as is supper. We’ll wait if you prefer to freshen up, but I must admit that I don’t like my meat cold.”

  “I take your meaning,” Hugo said, taking my arm and leading me down a narrow, dim hallway to what must be the dining room. I would have liked to change and wash my hands at least, but I followed obediently, eager to sit down on something that wasn’t moving. The room was lit by a brace of candles, which did little to dispel the overall gloom. Much as the foyer, it was all stone, hung with several paintings and tapestries of hunting scenes. We must be in the old part of the house, I thought as I took in the small windows tightly covered with shutters against the spring evening.

  “May I present my son, Lionel Finch and his charming wife, Frances,” Mr. Finch the elder announced for my benefit. Hugo obviously knew Lionel Finch already. The two men gave each other a stiff bow, something unspoken hanging between them as they both sat down. I smiled in greeting and made a small curtsy as I sat down on the hard chair. The candlelight was at eye level, so I was better able to make out the faces of Lionel and his wife. Lionel Finch looked nothing like his father. He wore an elaborate wig of blond hair and was dressed as if he were dining at Court. His face was narrow and lean, dominated by large eyes that appeared almost colorless against his pale face and blond wig. He gave me a smile of welcome, but the smile never reached his eyes, which seemed to be studying me as if I were a particularly interesting specimen. I felt uncomfortable under that basilisk stare and turned my attention to his wife.

  Frances Finch appeared to be no more than fourteen. She was slight and pale, but beautiful in a way that a doll would be beautiful; her features perfect, but somehow lifeless. Blonde ringlets framed her heart-shaped face, and her wide blue eyes were huge in her face, the dancing reflection of candlelight reflected in her dilated pupils. Her lips slightly quivered as she shyly met my gaze across a platter of fowl. I wasn’t sure if it was the work of the shifting shadows, but I thought I noticed a bruise on her cheek, unsuccessfully covered up with a layer of powder. Frances hastily averted her eyes and stared down at her hands, like a child who was expecting a talking-to. I tried to engage her in conversation, but her answers were hesitant and limited to monosyllables and practiced smiles.

  I attempted to follow the conversation of the men, but I was too tired to really care about what was being said. Hugo was on the far side of the table, his gravelly voice washing over me as he answered Mr. Finch’s numerous questions about Court and commented on some of the more prevalent political issues of the day. The younger Finch didn’t say much, but I sensed an anger in him that seemed to be directed at his father. He appeared resentful of the old man, and his few comments were meant to undermine and disrespect. Mr. Finch seemed not to notice, but Frances stiffened every time her husband spoke, shrinking deeper into the huge chair. She reminded me of Alice in Wonderland after she drank the shrinking potion; everything appeared too large as she sat at the table, trying to become invisible.

  After the last course was finished, Mr. Finch gave Frances a meaningful look and she hastily rose to her feet. “Mistress Ashley, if you would be so kind as to join me in the parlor,” she said. I thought her voice shook, but I wasn’t sure. I followed her out, happy to leave the men to their talk and just sit quietly for a while. I didn’t expect any meaningful conversation from the lady of the house, which was just as well since I was too tired to keep up the facade. I longed for a hot bath to drain the tension from between my shoulder blades and my lower back and a soft bed, but I’d have to wait.

  Frances led me to a small parlor which was furnished with several chairs, a round table which might be used for dicing or card games, and a harp. The back wall was decorated with a large tapestry depicting some hero on a battlefield, surrounded by fallen soldiers who were either already dead or dying. The knight had his helmet off, a look of naked desperation on his face as his surveyed the carnage and evidently resigned himself to die fighting. Blotches of red thread depicted his wounds, which were bleeding profusely, the blood running down his shiny armor as he raised his sword, possibly for the last time. The scene was awfully depressing, especially for a room intended for relaxation and pursuit of pleasure.

  Despite the fire, the parlor was chilly, so I settled in a chair in front of the fireplace, enjoying the warmth of the flames and the smell of burning wood. Frances took a seat in the chair opposite and tried to smile. Now that she was lit up by the firelight, I could see a dark shadow on her breast, which was also dusted with powder. She flinched as she saw where my gaze fell and opened her mouth to say something, but closed it again, suddenly shy. Her pupils were still dilated, but slightly less, and she appeared to be a little more animated.

  “Have you been married long?” I asked, in an effort to draw her out.

  “Just over a year,” she whispered, her eyes not meeting mine.

  “It must be daunting being the mistress of such a large house.” I had no idea what to say to the girl, but we couldn’t just sit there in silence, and she didn’t seem inclined to pick a topic.

  “Not really,” she replied. “My husband doesn’t want me involved in the running of the house. There are servants who see to everything, which is just as well since I wouldn’t know where to begin. Lionel wants everything done as it would be at Whitehall Palace and gets very angry if something doesn’t meet with his approval. He’s not titled, you know, but he likes to pretend that he is, especially at home where he can lord it over everyone.” That was the longest speech I’d heard from Frances so far. Encouraged by her desire to talk, I tried to continue the conversation.

  “Do you visit the tenants?” I asked, mindful of the conversation I had with Hugo earlier.

  “No. I’m not permitted to leave the grounds.” Frances finally raised her eyes to mine, and I thought I saw the shimmer of tears. “You are the first woman I’ve encountered in months, besides the servants.”

  “What of your family?”

  “My mother died just after I was born, and my father was only too happy to see me married. I was a burden to him, you see. He has my brother to keep him company. I haven’t seen either of them since my marriage.”

  “It must be lonely for you,” I remarked, hoping I wasn’t upsetting her.

  Frances just nodded, her eyes fixed on her folded hands. I knew I shouldn’t have asked, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “How old are you, Frances?”

  “Fourteen,” she whispered. So, they married this poor girl off at thirteen, or possibly even twelve, to a man who had to be in his mid-thirties. What was her life like in this tomb? She seemed so fragile.

  “Frances, are you unwell?” I asked, still conscious of the strange appearance of her eyes.

  “The drops make me feel somewhat muddled,” she replied apologetically.

  “What drops?”

  “Lionel brought me drops from London. He said all the fashionable ladies use them at Court. I’m to put them in my
eyes before I come down to dine. He says it makes my eyes more beautiful, but I start to feel confused and light-headed, and I can’t see clearly. They are starting to wear off now, so I see you better. Does Lord Everly ask you to use them as well?”

  It took me a moment to comprehend what Frances was referring to. I’d read something about ladies using belladonna drops in their eyes to make their pupils appear dilated and, in their estimation, more seductive, but I could have sworn that practice originated in Renaissance Italy and wasn’t actively practiced in seventeen-century England. However, belladonna was a known poison, also referred to as deadly nightshade. If used improperly it could kill, or at the very least, cause disorientation, hallucinations, and nightmares.

  “Frances, are they drops of belladonna?” I asked carefully.

  “Oh, yes. Lionel says that belladonna means beautiful lady in Italian.”

  “Have you told him that these drops make you feel unwell? Surely he wouldn’t want you to become ill.” I wanted to scream at her that she should stop using them, but Frances was clearly under the spell of her husband and wouldn’t listen to me anyway. At least her face wasn’t coated with thick lead-based face paint which over time could kill her, but then, she was still very young. That was probably still to come.

  “Lionel likes me this way. He says that the drops make me behave more appropriately in polite company. He says that children should be seen and not heard.”

  I nearly gagged at this statement, but I had to proceed carefully. I was a mere visitor in this male-dominated society, and riling up poor Frances to rebel against her husband would only cause her harm. Most women of the age used their wiles and backhanded tactics to achieve their goals while playing the docile and obedient female in public. Perhaps Frances knew how to manipulate her husband to get her way, but it didn’t seem like it.

  “I wish I was dead,” Frances suddenly said, raising her blue eyes to mine. “I’d take my own life if it weren’t a mortal sin. I’d even considered drinking all the drops at once, but the thought of going to Hell scares me far more than the thought of living. So I wish that I would die naturally. It would be a very welcome relief.” She no longer sounded shy or afraid. Her voice was strong, and I got the distinct impression that she’d given this a lot of thought. To hear such sentiments from a fourteen-year-old child was disturbing, to say the least. What would make her wish for death? Her life didn’t seem very fulfilling or fun, but by the standards of the day, she was a very lucky girl, one who had every comfort and security.

  “Why, Frances?” I’d only met this girl a few hours ago, but I wanted to help her. She seemed so lost, so tragic. Perhaps it was just need for attention that made her say those things, but I couldn’t just ignore what I’d heard.

  “I begged my father not to agree to the marriage, but my husband paid handsomely for me. My father didn’t have a dowry to give me, but I have a title, which was more desirable. My husband hoped to improve his prospects and thought that I would help him do that. He’s been disappointed on that score.”

  “Is he unkind to you?” I asked, thinking of the bruises I’d glimpsed.

  “I make him angry,” she whispered. “He says that it’s my fault that I haven’t gotten with child. How can I when he can’t do his part? He tries, but then says that I’m not woman enough to arouse him. He flies into a rage and hits me until I beg him to stop. He likes it when I beg. Sometimes that makes him…” Frances suddenly stopped, realizing that she’d said too much. She reached out and took my hand, her own cold as marble on mine.

  “Makes him what?” I asked, terrified of what her answer might be.

  Frances shook her head, unable to answer my question. She’d clearly spoken to no one about this, and ladies didn’t discuss intimate subjects in polite company, especially with someone they’d just met. I could see that she’d been desperate to confide in someone, but now she was afraid that she crossed a line.

  “I wish I was dead,” she repeated softly, gazing into my eyes. “There’s nothing for me in this world. One day he won’t be appeased by my crying and he’ll kill me in a rage. And no one will care or even notice. They’ll just bury me and forget I was ever even here.”

  “What about the elder Mr. Finch? Does he know? He seems like a nice man. Surely he would come to your defense.”

  “Yes, he knows. I overheard him telling Lionel that he should beat me more carefully, so as not to leave bruises on my face or damage my womb. When we were first married, he stayed in the room and watched as Lionel…”

  A tear slid down her cheek as she looked at me, her eyes begging me for help. Had this been the modern world I would advise her to leave, to get a divorce, to seek help, but what could I tell this poor, defenseless girl? At this moment, I was almost as helpless as her. I was at the mercy of Hugo Everly, and should he choose to beat me, I’d have nowhere to go and no one to turn to. The thought suddenly made me realize how dire my situation really was, but I pushed it away and tried to concentrate on Frances instead.

  “Was he able to consummate the marriage?”

  Frances nodded miserably. “He was. At first, he performed his husbandly duties almost every night. I thought I would die, but this is far worse.”

  “Was he kinder to you then?” I asked, curious about what caused Finch’s impotence.

  “Not by much, but at least he didn’t beat me. He just took his pleasure and left my bed. He was brutal, but at least it didn’t last long,” she confided. I was actually surprised that she would tell me all this, but this girl had obviously been isolated for a very long time, and she assumed that being Hugo’s mistress, I was well-versed in the business of love, or in this case, hate.

  “What happened to cause him to stop eh…?” I wasn’t sure how to phrase the question appropriately, but she got my meaning.

  “It began to happen after I started my menses, and my body began to change. It seemed to repulse him,” she said simply.

  Now I understood. This guy was a pedophile. He wanted to have sex with a child, not a woman, and once Frances began to look like one, he lost his desire for her and blamed it on her. I felt sick to my stomach, imagining what it must have been like for her to be married before she even reached puberty. Poor girl. Her husband would either beat her to death one day or find himself some poor child to slake his lust on, if he hadn’t already. There had to be plenty of children on the estate, some of them orphaned. Finch could have any of them as the lord of the manor, and no one would be able to do anything to stop him.

  “Frances, is there anywhere you can go? Anyone you can turn to? Would your father listen?” I asked gently, trying desperately to think of a way I could help this child.

  “No, he wouldn’t. My father feels his duty to me has been satisfied. There’s no one, Mistress, no one at all.”

  She was about to say something more when the men came in, looking jovial and a bit worse for drink. Lionel Finch gave me a hard stare before turning to his wife. “Time to retire, I think, my sweet.” The tone of his voice when he said ‘my sweet’ sounded as if he were saying ‘my dog,’ but Frances obediently rose to her feet and curtsied before leaving the room. I watched her go, my stomach in knots.

  Hugo held out his hand and I took it, suddenly angry with him as well. I wanted to cry and rage, but I meekly allowed Hugo to escort me from the parlor and followed a servant up the spiral staircase to our room. I felt utterly helpless and scared. For the first time since I came to the seventeenth century I allowed myself to wonder what would happen if I couldn’t get back to my own time. Up until this point I’d refused to entertain the idea that something might go wrong and I might get stuck here, but after my conversation with Frances, I was suddenly very much aware of my own vulnerability and it left me terrified.

  I sank down on the bed, tears coursing down my cheeks as a baffled Hugo threw his coat over a chair, removed his wig, and sank to his knees in front of me.

  “What is it?” he asked. “Are you ill? Does something hurt?”


  I shook my head, avoiding his eyes. I didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to talk. I just wanted to go home and be away from all this. Forever. I lay down on my side and pulled my knees up to my chest, curling into a fetal position, but it gave me no comfort.

  “Neve,” he said gently, as he took my face in his hands and forced me to look at him. “What happened?”

  “I just can’t. I can’t be here,” I choked out. I couldn’t say any more without betraying myself, so I closed my eyes and let the tears come again. Hugo got off his knees and sat down next to me on the bed, pulling me into his arms and letting me cry as he handed me his handkerchief.

  “Is it Frances?” he asked softly.

  I looked up at him, surprised by the question. What did he know? “Why do you ask?”

  “I saw the bruises, and I know Lionel Finch. This wasn’t the first time our paths crossed.”

  “What do you know?” I asked suspiciously, wanting to blame someone, but finding that I couldn’t quite blame Hugo.

  “I know that Lionel is a cruel man,” was all that Hugo said, but from his tone, I guessed that he knew much more. Maybe that’s why Lionel seemed to resent him. His preferences were not something he’d want as fodder for gossip. There were plenty of men who enjoyed the company of whores, but that was perfectly acceptable in this day and age, even for married men. Preferring children to grown women was something that most people would find abhorrent, even in this time, but it was a thriving trade in any age.

  I’d read something about the prostituting of children in Victorian England. Men paid handsomely, and often even outbid each other, for the privilege of deflowering a child. Of course, once the children became a little older and less desirable, they wound up in regular brothels working their way down in status and the fee they could command until they were turned out and solicited customers in doorways and parks; doing it behind a bush or against a wall for lack of a place to go. Life expectancy wasn’t high, which was probably a blessing in their case.