‘Instructed?’
‘In court manners. There is no time to train her up before the visit. We cannot afford a mistake. Not one! I dare not imagine the consequences. Would you see me banished from court, for Henrietta Maria’s blunders? Everything must go perfectly.’
My temper frayed beneath the creak, creak of his boots. For I did not hear squeaking leather: I heard trees in the night, waving their arms above a cloaked figure picking herbs; a pestle and mortar grinding together; mystery and temptation in the words of an old spell. ‘You seem to imply that our daughter is not perfect.’
‘You know that she is not.’
It winded me. How could Josiah say such a thing, of his own child? I do not think I have ever hated him as I did at that moment. ‘This news will break her heart,’ I told him.
‘Then I will tell her, if you do not like to. Where is she now?’
‘In the garden.’
I walked over to the window, wanting to see her at peace before he shattered her hopes. Everything outside looked strange. The plants glowed unnaturally bright under stormy skies. My new fleur-de-lis hedges were transformed into vivid green spears; the roses, clots of blood. Behind them, my Hetta knelt on the ground, tending her herbs. Her ankles showed, smeared with green. I did not mind that. Her face was full of light, despite the clouds. She looked happy; she smiled as she nodded and tilted her head up to . . .
‘Who is that?’ Josiah’s voice blared over my shoulder.
I cursed under my breath. ‘It’s that gypsy boy again. It is time he had a good hiding. I have warned him to stay away.’
‘See? Do you see, now?’ He gestured out of the window. ‘Playing with gypsies! This is exactly what I am talking about.’
I whirled round, too angry to contradict him. ‘I will deal with it,’ I said, and stalked from the room.
My feet pounded on the stairs. Blast that gypsy and his impudence, blast him for making poor Hetta’s father think ill of her!
I burst out into the gardens. The air was like stale breath. I could not wonder that the plants did not thrive; even the soil was pale, dry and cracked.
Lizzy was nowhere in sight. What was she about, leaving Hetta unattended in such a manner?
‘Hetta! Is that boy bothering you?’
She sprang to her feet and came to take my hand. Her palm was dirty, but without sweat. The humidity that frazzled me and the gardens did not touch her.
‘What is going on?’
She smiled, slowly. Her eyelids fluttered and I realised she was staring up at my diamonds. One small hand extended, reaching towards my neck.
‘Not now, Hetta. Your hands are filthy. You can look at my necklace later.’ I swatted her away and glared at the boy. He held his ground, unwholesome urchin that he was. ‘As for you . . . You should not be here. You know it well. This is your last warning.’
Belatedly, he snatched his cap from his head. ‘Please, mistress. I’m only come looking for work.’
‘Gypsies do not work—’ I began, but Hetta tugged at my arm. She gave me one of the signs we have made between us. Horse. ‘He has stolen my horse?’
She shook her head vehemently. Her lips puckered with frustration, as they always do when she cannot make herself understood. Horse. Boy. Horse.
The boy squirmed. He spoke to her in his canting gypsy language. It sounded infernal; all tongues, like something demonic. But she seemed to understand him, for she nodded and grunted.
‘Miss Henrietta Maria . . .’ He looked at me, eyes black as pitch. ‘Miss thinks you’d let me work here. With the horses.’
I wondered how he knew that; how he dared to presume he understood Hetta when I did not. ‘I would not let you within a hundred yards of my horses,’ I scoffed. ‘You would steal them.’
Hetta dropped my hand.
‘Please, mistress. Please. My people are good with horses. Now your steward has cleared us off the common, what will we do? How will I eat?’
I paused. He really did look pitiful, cringing there all ragged. Hetta signed to me again. Nothing.
‘I know they have nothing, Hetta. It is not my fault.’
No, that wasn’t it. Boy. Nothing.
‘We have stolen nothing,’ he said softly. Her eyes lit up and for an instant I begrudged him that. What communion was it he shared with my daughter – my creation? I did not want him near her. ‘In all the years we have lived on this common for the summer, we have stolen nothing from you.’
‘That may be. But I will have the King’s horses in my stable. Do you understand? How can I risk that? What would he say, if a gypsy took his horse? He would hold my husband responsible. It would ruin us.’
Hetta held out her hands.
‘You will need extra hands,’ he said. ‘For the King’s visit. Plenty of stable hands. You will be rushed off your feet.’
‘Then we will employ men. Not a gypsy boy.’
Hetta stamped her foot. To my astonishment, she put her hands to my leg and shoved me.
My temper flared. I was no longer in the gardens of The Bridge but at home, years ago. Mary was dashing for the tray of sweetmeats, pushing me aside. Laughing as I fell. Fury burnt into my hand.
The noise of our skin connecting was louder than any cry. I gasped. My handprint was red on Hetta’s cheek. I have never struck her before.
I shall never forget the hurt – the passion nearly akin to hate – burning in her eyes. ‘Oh Hetta! Pray forgive me. I did not mean to – you should not hit me! You are being so wilful today.’
Furtively, my eyes sought the window. Thank heavens, Josiah was not there. He did not see my daughter act like the hoyden he accused her of being.
‘I didn’t mean to cause trouble, mistress.’ The boy put his cap back on. ‘All I wanted was to work. I’ll be going now. Goodbye, Miss Henrietta Maria.’
A sound tore from Hetta’s lips: an awful noise, like an animal in pain. She ran after him and grabbed his coat. I cannot say what passed between them. He spoke resignedly in that heathen language and she responded with hand signals I have never seen before. At last, she let him go.
Hetta turned to her herb patch and began to clip the thistles. She did not look at me, but I saw her profile. The resentment had drained from her face. Everything vital had gone, leaving naught but sorrow.
My heart squeezed in my chest. She did not even know she was banned from the masque. I watched her bend low over the ground and water the rosemary with her tears. Dark spots appeared on the parched soil, slowly seeping into the roots.
No mother’s heart could withstand that sight. It would be bad enough with an ordinary child, wailing and sobbing. But watching my poor mute girl, so quiet in her misery, snapped my resolve like a tender branch beneath the weight of a wood pigeon.
‘Wait,’ I called out. The gypsy boy stopped still. I risked another look at the window – clear. ‘Wait.’
THE BRIDGE, 1865
‘Mabel? Mabel, may I come in?’ Elsie pushed the door open.
With the garret sealed up and an empty house, the maids had taken to sleeping in the guest bedrooms of the west wing, on the third storey. They were modest chambers, but pleasant. Blue carpet covered the floor. Small prints hung on the walls, giving it a homely feel. A washstand and a hip bath huddled next to the fire. It was a fine, comfortable place for a girl accustomed to the austerity of a workhouse, better than any maid’s quarters, but Mabel sat rigid in bed with the covers pulled to her chin. Her face was drawn, haunted.
‘Mabel?’
‘Oh it’s you, ma’am!’ she exclaimed. Her pupils shrank back to their usual size. ‘Sorry. I got muddled and I thought you was . . . I’d dozed off.’
‘Pardon me. I did not mean to startle you.’ Elsie perched on a corner of the bed. ‘How are you feeling?’
Mabel grimaced. She ran a hand over her dark, tousled hair. ‘Shook up, ma’am. I don’t mind telling you, it gave me the collywobbles.’
‘I must admit, I felt a little strange myself.’ She
looked down. Strange was an understatement. Unravelled, opened up, exposed: they were more accurate words. Fear pushed so much out of a person – she had forgotten that. ‘I think that I will call the physician in. Your cut ankle may have become infected.’
‘Tain’t an infection making me go queer. I saw it.’
‘I do not doubt that you did.’ She paused. A memory flowed back in liquid fire. She saw it again: the red eyes and the parched, gaping lips. ‘My mother, Mabel, had the typhus. Have you heard of it?’
Mabel inclined her head.
‘Poor woman. How she roasted. Once, I felt her head and I thought—’ Her voice caught. ‘I thought she was burning alive. From the inside.’ Mabel’s legs twitched beneath the bedclothes. ‘It was bad enough being so ill in the body. But she was tormented more in the mind, by the things that she saw. I won’t go into detail. The illness painted demons around the room. She saw them clear as day, but they were not there. I sat beside her the whole time. None of it was there. Yet to her it was very, very real.’
‘I ain’t going mad, ma’am. I ain’t got no fever.’
‘No.’ She folded her hands and tried to compose herself. The image of her mother remained burnt on the back of her eyes. ‘But I would like to make quite sure, just in case. Until we are certain, Helen will do your chores and Sarah can assist where necessary.’
‘I can’t sit here doing nothing, ma’am. All alone, thinking of them things.’
Elsie thought for a moment. Mrs Holt’s generosity must be catching, for the first idea she had was so wildly kind that it took her aback.
Should she give Mabel a chance to become something better than a workhouse girl?
She was still wary of putting Mabel around a young child. But perhaps, if Elsie invested time now, she could improve the maid before the baby arrived. Education – that was what Mr Underwood said, wasn’t it?
She drew in a breath and took the plunge. ‘Well, while you recover, might you like to train in some gentler work? Something less strenuous?’
‘Like what, ma’am?’
It was like moving rusty filings in her mouth, but she managed it: she managed to put on her sweetest smile and say, ‘I am in need of a lady’s maid.’
‘A what, ma’am?’
‘A lady’s maid. Someone to do my hair. Bring my breakfast, draw my bath. Washing and mending will be required too. Tell me, did you get that mud out of my bombazine dress the day I arrived?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Mucky as a pigsty, it were.’
She let that pass. ‘Good. It shows you have aptitude. Would you like to train up, Mabel? It will set you in good stead for the future. A girl with skills will not always need to stay at The Bridge.’
Mabel’s eyelashes flicked up and down. ‘Look after all your clothes and fancy things? Your diamond necklace?’
‘Yes.’
‘A lady’s maid,’ Mabel repeated with wonder. ‘That’s one of them, ain’t it? The fancy sort Helen talks about?’
‘The role is that of an upper servant, yes. Much higher than your current position.’
Mabel grinned, all traces of fright evaporated. ‘All right, then, ma’am. I’ll do it.’
ST JOSEPH’S HOSPITAL
These drugs were stronger than the last. She felt them suck at her bloodstream as she lumbered down the corridor beside Dr Shepherd.
Shapes and faces melted beneath her eyes. Everywhere she turned were the slack jaws and wet mouths of idiots. They shrieked like witches, looming large in her vision then swirling away again. Hideous phantoms haunting the place as surely as the stench of piss.
‘It is most beneficial, don’t you think?’ he asked. ‘Walking gets the blood flowing. I see no reason why you might not enjoy the same benefits as the other patients, under my supervision. Nothing has been proven against you, after all.’
Another of his ‘helpful’ prescriptions. It was more of a penance than a treat. Imprisonment was never the real punishment: it was the people you were stuck with. Lunatics were the worst; jabbering, yammering, moaning. Some couldn’t even control their bladders. That’s why she’d thrown her dinner over the old woman and given the nurse a black eye along with the plate. It was nothing personal. The only way to get privacy, and a quiet sleep, was to be branded ‘dangerous’. It meant the dark, padded cell for a few days, but also stronger medication. A fair trade, she thought.
‘But I must take care I do not tire you too much. I hoped we might have a little conversation once we are back in your room with the slate, Mrs Bainbridge? If it is agreeable?’
Agreeable? She had a notion these manners were a device of his, constructed to reawaken the social, genteel side of her character. If there still was one.
Aromas served as landmarks. Burnt porridge told her they were near the eating hall; soap, cold water and fear signalled the bathrooms. When she smelt musty bedclothes and felt her feet squeak against floorboards, she knew she was back in her own cell. It was almost like coming home.
The world was hazy as she slumped onto her bed. White walls rippled. Dr Shepherd offered her the slate and chalk. When she tried to take them, her hands seemed to waver before her eyes, slowed by the drugs.
‘Do remain lying down if you need to, Mrs Bainbridge. So long as you can write, you may pick any position you choose.’
There was no choice about it – she didn’t have the energy to rise.
‘Several interesting developments have occurred in your story. I would like to concentrate upon one for the present. You have written that your mother died of the typhus. Your father, I think, predeceased her?’ She nodded. ‘And how did he die?’
Pa’s face tried to manifest itself before her but she wouldn’t let it. She clamped her eyes shut.
‘Mrs Bainbridge? Do you remember how he died?’
The chalk grated as she wrote, No.
He cleared his throat. ‘I expected that might be the case. You see, Mrs Bainbridge, I am of the opinion that your current silence was not simply triggered by the fire at The Bridge. I believe this has been building for a good while. In fact, I believe the malady may have started with your father.’
Her eyes sprang open. She turned her head on the pillow, stared at his wavering shape.
‘Yes. I am sorry to tell you that the manner in which your father died was highly distressing. It occurred less than two months after your brother’s birth.’ She heard him rustle paper, although she could not focus clearly. ‘The police were involved. You yourself made a statement.’ A pause. ‘Shall – shall I read it to you?’
It was as though he had frozen every drop of blood in her veins. She could not move, she only blinked, but he seemed to take that for assent.
‘“Elisabeth Livingstone of Livingstone’s Match Factory, Bow, London. Twelve years of age. I am the daughter of the deceased. I have been assisting the workers in the factory since I was a girl. On the afternoon of August 2nd, about three of the clock, I was tying bundles of splints when I perceived a fire on the factory floor. It was a small fire, located beside the circular saw. I did not see how the fire began. Knowing the danger of fire in a factory, I ran to extinguish it, but I did not have a blanket or sand to assist me. I tried to beat the flames with my hands and was injured. I do not believe I called out, ‘Fire.’ Another worker may have done so. Shortly after, I saw the deceased running towards me with a bucket of water. The water sloshed from the bucket and he must have slipped. I was tending to my injury. I heard a sound like a shoe squeaking, then a clang. I looked up and realised that the deceased had fallen into the circular saw.”’
He let a respectful moment pass. How she wished he would not – in the silence she heard it again, that dreadful sound.
‘Quite a horror for any person to witness, I should think,’ he said at last. ‘Let alone a girl of twelve years.’
He had no idea.
Dr Shepherd began to pace. She was relieved: the pad of his steps replaced the roaring inside her ears.
‘From your story, I gath
er this event somewhat unbalanced your mother – as well it might. Do you remember?’
She nodded.
‘Was she perhaps – almost – mad, with grief?’
Ah, Ma, loyal to the end. How she loved him. She saw him at his worst, yet still she loved him – loved him far more than she loved Elsie.
Another nod.
‘And do you not think, Mrs Bainbridge, that the same unfortunate circumstance may have affected you in a similar manner? That there may have been a tendency, within your family? Don’t forget, you suffered a terrible loss too. And more followed.’
The irony was that she had not lost her mind completely. Every feeling, all that was good and pure in her world had been mangled, and she was still stronger than those wretches pissing themselves out in the corridor. She knew it.
‘Madness, as we call it, manifests itself in many ways. People do not always wail and shriek as you say your mother did. But it does seem to run in families, I have observed, particularly through the female line. Hysteria – womb to womb. Diseased blood will out. There is no hiding from it, I am afraid.’
Slowly, she let the slate and chalk drop from her hands.
She could feel the past stealing up on her, the way a river inches up its banks in the rain; gradually lapping at her chin, filling her mouth.
There is no hiding from it, I am afraid.
He was right about that. Now she had begun to tell her story, there was no hiding at all.
THE BRIDGE, 1865
Advent brought with it a decided decline in the weather. Mist prowled over the hills and steamed up the windows. Every time the front door opened, wind gusted in with the silver-grey scent of rain. But Elsie had promised Mr Underwood she would start attending services again, and you couldn’t break a promise to a vicar, especially near Christmas.
In October, at Rupert’s funeral, she had barely noticed the state of All Souls Church. Concentrating on the awful presence of the coffin and the body trapped within, Elsie had let her surroundings blur to nothing. But now she saw the structure take a solid form around her. It was wretched. Cold, damp and in dire need of repair.
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