The Passage

by Irina Shapiro

  “He beats her,” I whispered. “She’s just a child.” The memory of Frances’s haunted blue eyes and fresh bruises tormented me, making me feel responsible for her plight somehow.

  “Not enough of a child,” Hugo said, confirming my suspicions. “He has something of a reputation for seeking out young girls, ones who haven’t been touched. He pays handsomely, especially for girls under the age of ten. There are plenty of orphans, girls and boys, who are plucked off the streets and taken into brothels. They are clothed and fed and led to believe that they will be looked after. Then, they are sold to the highest bidder. The younger the child — the higher the price. I suspect Finch only married her out of a need to produce an heir. His interest in her couldn’t last.” Hugo said this so matter-of-factly that I wanted to hit him, or rage at him at the very least. How could a decent man be so accepting of such cruelty? But deep down, I knew that he could do next to nothing to change the conditions of society. He was on a crusade of his own, and his had nothing to do with protecting children.

  “We have to help her. We must.”

  Hugo shook his head, giving me a rueful smile. “We can’t. We must leave them to it, and we will come morning.”

  “We can’t just leave. He’ll kill her. I know it,” I moaned, hoping that Hugo would take me seriously.

  “Neve, Frances belongs to Lionel Finch. She’s his by law, and he can do with her as he pleases. She’s his property as much as his horses and his hounds. A man is allowed to beat his wife if he chooses, sometimes unto death. There’s nothing we can do to stop him.” I jumped off the bed, my fists hitting his chest in helpless fury.

  “What do you mean he can beat her unto death? Are you mad? What kind of world is this where a man can beat a helpless girl and no one cares?” Hugo grabbed my wrists and pulled me to him, wrapping his arms around me to prevent a further assault. I was thrashing against him, my self-control finally gone, partly due to Frances’s situation, and partly due to my own, for at this point, Hugo owned me just as much as Finch owned Frances. We weren’t married, but I was entirely at Hugo’s disposal. My very life dependent on his.

  “It’s the kind of world where a man can do as he pleases,” he replied firmly. “A woman has to rely upon the kindness and decency of her husband or benefactor. That’s the sum total of it,” he said. His face was awfully close to mine, and I looked into his bottomless eyes, suddenly unsure of the type of man he was. What did I really know of him and his own tastes? I’d only known him properly for a few weeks, and although he gave the impression of being a good man, I had no idea of his attitude toward women.

  Hugo must have seen my thoughts in my face because he hastily let go and got off the bed, putting a respectable distance between us.

  “I know that you don’t know me very well, but I’d like to think that I’m a decent human being and an honorable man. I would never hurt you, Neve, so please don’t be afraid of me. I will protect you with my life, if necessary. However, Frances Finch is none of my affair. I have no right to interfere, so please don’t ask me to. Now, go to sleep. Tomorrow is another day, and you will see things in a more positive light.”

  Chapter 27

  Perhaps things would have seemed brighter in the morning had I not been woken up in the middle of the night by desperate screams. At first, I wasn’t sure what I was hearing since the sounds were muffled and swallowed up by the thick walls, but as I lay quietly for a few minutes, I heard Frances’s pitiful crying. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but it sounded as if she were pleading with her husband. It got quiet for a moment, and I thought that maybe he’d finally had his fill, but then something went crashing to the floor and the sound that filled the narrow corridor was one of someone being torn apart limb from limb. I flew out of bed and ran for the door in my nightdress, but Hugo’s strong arms grabbed me from behind and lifted me clear off the floor, pinning my arms to my sides like a vise.

  “You’re not going anywhere, especially dressed like that,” he said quietly as he set me down, turned me around to face him, and took me by the shoulders. “What were you planning to do?”

  “She’s hurt,” I screamed at him. “She’s fourteen, for God’s sake. I have to do something.”

  “Neve, have you considered that you might actually make things worse? Finch can’t take his anger out on you, so he will take it out on Frances and punish her for your interference, and will continue punishing her long after we are gone. Think, woman!”

  “I am thinking, and I can’t just stand by and watch a helpless girl get abused by a man who’s more than twice her age just because he can. He beats her to punish her for his own sexual impotence, and eventually he will either do irreparable damage or kill her. Or, she will kill herself, regardless of the consequences. I don’t really believe in Heaven and Hell, but she does, and she will die knowing that her soul will forever be damned, and her body will be buried at a crossroads; her grave condemned to eternal desecration and shame. What kind of God allows that to happen to a mere child who has no say in her own fate?” I raged, staring Hugo down and daring him to give me one good reason for ignoring what was happening just down the corridor.

  Hugo suddenly went very still, his eyes opening wider as he took in what I said. “You can see this?” he asked. “You see her taking her own life?”

  “Yes, I see it. I see it as clearly as I see you in front of me,” I spat out, suddenly aware of the powerful weapon at my disposal. Hugo would not interfere in a domestic dispute between husband and wife, but if he believed that Frances was going to commit suicide, a mortal sin in the eyes of a Catholic, then he might be induced to act, driven by his faith to save her soul from eternal damnation and torment.

  “Stay here.” Hugo hastily pulled on his breeches and tucked in his shirt as he left the room, closing the door firmly behind him. I wanted to follow him, but deep inside, I knew I didn’t want to be a witness to whatever was about to happen in Finch’s bedroom. Hugo probably resented me for forcing him to interfere, but I simply couldn’t help it. I was a modern woman, accustomed to justice and at least some sort of social responsibility. I wasn’t naïve enough to believe that people in my own time didn’t commit atrocities or hurt one another intentionally, but I simply couldn’t stand by and watch it happen, especially to Frances, who had no one to turn to for help and no place to run when things became unbearable.

  This wasn’t just a one-off; this was a regular occurrence, one that would become more frequent and probably more vicious as Frances grew older and resembled a child less and less. Perhaps in time she would produce an heir and die in childbirth, if she were lucky, but what would happen to the offspring of Lionel Finch? Who’s to say that he wouldn’t abuse the child, especially if it happened to be a girl, a useless commodity in a man’s world; one who might even arouse his desire and have no ability to fight back should he attempt to force himself on her? The thought made me shake with horror and rage, particularly when I remembered how often I’d heard stories just like that in my own time.

  I put my hands over my ears as I heard another crash from down the hall. The growl of raised male voices was muffled by the sounds of struggle, shattering glass, and splintering wood. I was suddenly afraid of what I had done. This wasn’t just a heated argument between two men; this was a brawl where only one of them could come out victorious, and what if it were Lionel Finch? Hugo had gone in there unarmed, but what if Finch had a weapon at his disposal and used it on Hugo? He seemed to be the kind of man who lost all sense of reason when his passions were aroused and had no qualms about going as far as murder. In the eyes of the law, he would be justified in anything he had done, just as he would be justified in punishing Frances and doing God only knew what to me if Hugo wasn’t there to protect me. “Oh, dear God,” I mumbled, “what have I done?”

  I nearly jumped out of my skin when the door crashed open, kicked in by Hugo, who was carrying the prone figure of Frances. He laid her gently on the bed and stepped aside, allowing me to
sit next to her. His shirt was torn, and his face bore marks of a vicious fight, but he seemed unaware of his injuries. Hugo carelessly wiped his bloodied mouth with his sleeve, smearing the blood across his chin and exposing his bleeding knuckles. He had a gash beneath his left eye, which was oozing blood and already turning a nasty shade of violet. A few millimeters higher and he might have lost an eye. Hugo’s gaze burned with an unholy fire, and the man himself seemed to be vibrating with a manic energy which could only be described as an adrenaline rush, fueled by anger and bloodlust. He could barely stand still as he looked around, grabbed his coat and strapped on his sword before turning toward the door.

  “Help her,” was all he said as he strode out, leaving me with Frances. The fire had died out, but a feeble morning light was beginning to seep in, the rosy glow of the rising sun filling the room with a peachy haze which did nothing to liven Frances’s ashen pallor. She moaned and opened her eyes. They were filled with terror as she wildly looked around, expecting to see her husband advancing on her.

  “Frances, you’re in my room. Please don’t be afraid,” I said as gently as I could, brushing the hair off her forehead in an effort to calm her. Her lip was split, but otherwise her face appeared undamaged, angelic as ever in the pale light of the dawn. Frances moaned again, her hand flying to her stomach as she winced and gasped with pain.

  “Let me see,” I said.

  “No,” she wailed, her eyes growing even more agitated. “Don’t look.” Frances clamped her hand over mine, but I shook my head and pushed her hand away as I lifted the ruined nightdress. I gasped at the sight of her abdomen. A huge, blood-tinged bruise bloomed all over her belly, covering the area between her breasts and her pelvis. The taut skin was nearly black, angry red blotches bursting like muted fireworks through a thundercloud.

  “He kicked me with his boots,” she whispered. “He said I was useless anyway, so I didn’t need a womb.”

  Never before had I understood the desire to kill as I did at that moment. I didn’t consider myself to be a violent person, but the hatred that surged through me took me utterly by surprise; a tidal wave of rage that knocked me off my feet and left me breathless with a desire for vengeance. I couldn’t speak, so I just patted Frances’s hand, sprang to my feet and marched from the room. I had no idea what I was going to do, but I was on auto-pilot, my mind no longer in control.

  I burst into the bedroom, but Finch wasn’t there. There were noticeable signs of struggle: a silver candlestick with a gutted candle overturned on the nightstand, Frances’s torn dress in a heap next to the bed, as ruined as the poor girl who wore it, a chair in splinters by the hearth. An ewer and pitcher had been smashed to bits, shards of glass littering the floor like a colorful mosaic that could cut your feet to ribbons if you weren’t careful.

  I ran downstairs, looking in every room until I found Lionel Finch in the parlor, sitting in a hard-backed chair beneath the tapestry of the knight who was about to martyr himself on the battlefield. Finch was nursing a cup of something, a murderous expression on his battered face as he looked up, momentarily astonished by my disheveled appearance. His shirt was torn as well, liberally stained with blood (hopefully all his); his hand wrapped in a cloth which was quickly turning a shade of rust brown. He looked older without the elaborate wig, his thin brown hair cropped close to the skull and matted with blood just above the temple. His left ear seemed to be missing a piece, but I didn’t look too closely for fear of being sick. My lust for murder seemed to have abated at the sight of him, but I was still enraged, desperate to hurt him in the only way I could. This man didn’t deserve to take another breath, much less enjoy an existence in which he was master of his domain and everyone in it.

  “You miserable swine,” I yelled. “How dare you? What gives you the right to treat a human being with such cruelty? If I were a man, I’d drive my sword straight through your gut, putting an end to your pathetic existence, but first I would take a wooden club and sodomize you with it until you begged for mercy, so you’d know what it feels like to be violated and hurt in that manner.” I was panting with fury, my hands clenched into fists, and my body shaking with outrage. I wasn’t sure where that last bit came from, but it was the worst thing I could think of doing to him short of murder, and it seemed to have the desired effect.

  Lionel Finch was on his feet in seconds; advancing on me with an expression of such menace that I knew I’d made a terrible mistake. He had no claim to me, but that wouldn’t stop him. I looked around frantically, but the house was silent, all the servants either still asleep or hiding in their rooms for fear of getting involved in whatever was happening. If he beat his wife so savagely, I feared to think of how he treated the people he believed to be inferiors. I was sure that more than one person had the marks of his whip on their back or lost a tooth or two to his fists.

  I stepped back hastily to get away from Finch, but there was nowhere to go. A massive carved cabinet that took up almost the entire wall was right behind me, and the path to the door was blocked by an advancing Finch. I pressed myself against the cabinet, shaking with terror when Jem came running into the room, his eyes round with fear. He was fully dressed, his wooden sword at his side, banging against his thigh as he made for Finch.

  “You leave her alone,” Jem screamed as he grabbed Finch’s arm and tried to pull him away from me. “Leave Mistress Ashley alone.”

  Lionel Finch didn’t so much as look at him as he seized him with both hands and threw him against the wall. I heard a terrible cracking sound as Jem’s head collided with the stone wall, his eyes large and full of surprise as he slid down the wall and crumpled into a heap on the floor, leaving a trail of blood on the stone wall. His eyes fluttered closed and his skin turned gray, only a shade lighter than his blue-tinged lips.

  “Jem!” I screamed. “Oh, Jem.” I tried to get around Finch to get to the boy, but he drove his fist into my stomach, leaving me breathless with shock and pain as he grabbed me by the hair and drove his knee into the very spot he’d just hit. I collapsed to the floor, gasping. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, blood was roaring in my veins and obliterating all other sound but the pounding of my heart. I’d been in pain before, but that was a mere tickle compared to what I was feeling. It was as if all my insides had been rearranged haphazardly, wrapped around each other and squashed up against my diaphragm. I felt as if I were suffocating, the air I was gulping not quite reaching my lungs. I finally opened my eyes just in time to see Finch’s boot coming toward my face, ready to smash it to a pulp. I threw my hands in front of me to protect myself from the coming blow. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything but heart-pounding terror. All I felt was the instinct to protect myself from this brutal man.

  I cried out as I felt the toe of the boot against my hands, but the blow wasn’t hard, merely a glancing contact as Lionel roared in rage. I curled into a fetal position on the floor and peeked through my fingers to see what had caused him to spare me. Hugo had Lionel Finch in a chokehold as he dragged him away from me and pushed him against the wall. He was breathing hard, his eyes glazed and unseeing as he wrapped his hands around Finch’s throat and lifted him off the ground, choking the life out of him. Finch kicked wildly, striving for purchase, but Hugo lifted him higher and pinned his legs with his own. Their eyes locked as Hugo held him in a death grip, his face only inches away from Finch’s and twisted with fury. Lionel struggled for breath, his eyes rolling in terror as his face went from red to a mottled mauve, the whites of his eyes turning blood red from the pressure in his head. His kicks were becoming feebler as horrible suffocating sounds came from his open mouth, a trickle of blood running down his chin and onto Hugo’s hand.

  “Hugo,” I screamed. “Stop, you’ll kill him.”

  My voice seemed to bring Hugo to his senses. He released Lionel Finch and stood aside as Finch collapsed on the floor, gasping for breath and clutching at his bruised throat. Despite the air he was sucking in, he still seemed to be suffo
cating, possibly due to the swelling of his neck muscles. Hugo paid him no mind as he rushed over to Jem and took him in his arms.

  “Jemmy, can you hear me?” he whispered. I could see that Hugo was crying, his voice a bare croak as he touched his forehead to Jem’s, his tears falling onto Jem’s cheeks. “Jem, wake up,” Hugo pleaded. “Please, wake up.”

  Jem remained motionless in Hugo’s arms; his dark lashes fanned out against his pale cheeks which were so round and childish that they broke my heart. I sank to my knees next to Hugo, silent sobs wracking my body as Hugo wrapped one arm around me, pulling me closer.

  “It’s not your fault,” he whispered, as if reluctant to disturb Jem. “It’s not your fault.” That made me cry even harder because I felt as if it were. I’d done what I believed to be right, but what had I accomplished besides this terrible carnage? I reached out and took Jem’s limp hand. It was limp, but still warm, and as I moved my fingers toward his wrist, I felt a weak pulse.

  “He’s alive,” I whispered urgently. “He’s still alive.” I sprang to my feet and grabbed the cup Finch had been drinking from. It contained what smelled like brandy. I held the cup to Jem’s lips, urging him to take a sip. He didn’t, but the smell of alcohol seemed to revive him, and he finally swallowed a little and began to cough.

  “Jemmy?” Hugo called out softly to him. “Jemmy, can you hear me?”

  I nearly sobbed with relief when I saw Jem’s eyelids flutter. He was still very pale, but color was coming back into his face as he tried to reply. He couldn’t form the words, but he raised one small hand to Hugo’s face and touched his cheek before closing his eyes again. His breathing seemed to be more even now, but he’d slipped into sleep.

  “Don’t let him go to sleep,” I said as I struggled to my feet. “He’s concussed. He needs to stay alert.”