by Kim Wilkins
“Yes, I believe it is.”
“Perhaps I should return home,” I said, stopping and placing my hands self-consciously over my belly.
“Nonsense,” Edward said. “It’s no shame to be seen as you are.”
And so within a few moments the Reverend was close enough to say hello. He stopped, as did we, to exchange pleasantries.
“Good morning, Reverend,” Edward said.
The Reverend smiled tightly. “It is afternoon. In any case, good afternoon to you.” He dealt with Virgil and I with a quick, condescending glance. “And good day to you, also. Is all well with you?” Never had a man’s words and his sentiments been so ill-matched. His thin lips, his distant tone, his barely disguised recoil from us, all spoke of a man who had no care at all if we were well or if we were dying. I had been worried that my pregnant body would offend him, but clearly our humble clothes were of more concern. I know not why I was so anxious that he approve of me – perhaps because he did not know that I was really a fine lady of high birth. So I foolishly blurted out, “Very well, sir. We expect to hear any day from my father, who lives enormously in Lyon. You may not see us in Solgreve for very much longer.”
“Is that so?” he said, nodding towards Virgil. “Doctor Flood will be most displeased when he hears. I must get on with business. Forgive me. Good day.”
And with that he was gone.
Virgil immediately turned on me. “Why on earth did you say that, Gette?”
“I’m sorry, I simply couldn’t bear him looking down upon me.”
Edward huffed a cynical laugh. “His opinion is hardly worth anything, Georgette.”
“He is the parish priest.”
“He is not what he appears,” Edward replied.
“Now I shall have to see Flood this afternoon to assure him I am staying,” Virgil muttered. “Really, Gette, I wish you had said nothing. He is not a man whom we need impress.”
“I doubt that the Reverend would mix with your Doctor Flood, if he can hardly be civil to us,” I protested. “I only wanted him to know that I am not the lowly thing he thinks he sees.” I knew I was guilty of a crass silliness, of displaying a Pride which I had long ago given up as my right.
“Reverend Fowler knows full well what you are, Gette. And that is because I have told Flood and Flood would have passed it on,” Virgil replied. He turned his back to me to face out to sea. I had upset him greatly, not only because it meant an extra meeting with Doctor Flood, but because I had reminded him of the difference in our origins.
“Besides, Georgette,” Edward added, leaning idly against a gravestone, “there is hardly anyone lowlier than Reverend Fowler himself.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean –”
“Don’t tell her,” Virgil snapped, whirling around. “She doesn’t need to know.”
“Know what?”
“Sorry, Georgette,” Edward said.
“No, that isn’t good enough. What is there to know about Reverend Fowler?”
Virgil sighed, pressed a restless hand against his mouth. Both of them were silent.
“Come, no secrets,” I said.
“Reverend Fowler knows, Gette,” Virgil said at last.
“Knows?”
“About Flood’s experiments. He and the Doctor are very close.”
“And he lets it happen? Right beneath the church?” I was appalled.
“He encourages it to happen,” Edward said. “He benefits from it as much as anybody else in this community.”
“Benefits from…from that monstrous business?”
Edward nodded. “As will you. If you stay here long enough.”
“I do not understand.”
“Flood has performed some work here, a new kind of science,” Virgil said, not meeting my eye, “to profit the residents.”
“Have I told you my great-uncle’s father lived to one hundred and nine?” Edward asked me pointedly.
After a moment of confusion, the connection became apparent. I looked from Edward to Virgil and then out to sea. “Why, yes, Edward,” I said softly. “Yes, I believe you have.”
Tuesday 18th March 1794
Last night, Virgil had to go out to work, and so Edward and I sat together by the fire. I remember the look in Virgil’s eyes watching the two of us there, warm and untroubled. I despise what he does, and I am beyond horrified to know that Flood uses some inexplicable, heinous science to extend the lives of the residents, but what on earth can we do? We have a child on the way and there are days we can barely feed ourselves. And so while I see Virgil’s pain at having to go outside into the dark, I must shut off that urge to cry, “Don’t go! We shall manage without, my love. Do not go.”
After he had left, Edward asked, “Are you worried for him?”
“Of course,” I replied. “But there is no other way.”
“You could both return to London.”
“I cannot travel so far with a child inside me.”
“After the baby is born?”
“Perhaps. Would Virgil find work there?”
Edward considered. “If he stopped taking the opium, he might.”
“I fear Flood has a hold over him. He pays him in the drug sometimes.”
Edward fell silent. I shifted my chair a little closer to the fire, extended my hands towards the flames.
“He has nightmares, Gette.” Again the use of my pet name while we were alone.
“Nightmares? Why, everyone has nightmares,” I replied, not looking at him.
I heard him rise and go to his room. When he returned, he carried a tray with ink and paper. He sat down and began to write. I watched him with the edge of my gaze, scribbling, crossing out, but not cursing and wailing as Virgil curses and wails. He continued to write, working at the paper, growing excited sometimes and dipping his pen too hastily, sometimes slowing, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the tray. I envied him for Virgil’s sake, poor Virgil who had not written in so long.
I began to doze in my chair, and was considering retiring for the evening when the front door opened and Virgil burst in, a good deal earlier than usual, shaking palely as though with shock or fear, his clothes in disarray.
“Virgil!” I exclaimed, leaping to my feet and leading him to the fire.
“Gette…I saw…I saw…”
“I’ll get some brandy,” Edward said, hastily laying aside his work and heading for the kitchen. Edward had kindly brought some brandy and other medicinals with him. As much as Virgil had always condescended to his trade, Edward’s being an apothecary proved very useful from time to time.
“What did you see, my love?” I asked, kneeling before him and taking his icy fingers in mine.
“Something in the graveyard.”
A chill swept over me, and at first I believed the door must still be open, and the last of a winter breeze had crept in. But the door was firmly closed, the fire hot enough to defend me from any external cold.
“What was in the graveyard?” I asked, my throat so tight the words barely made it to my lips.
“Here, drink this,” Edward said with authority, pushing a glass of brandy towards Virgil. Virgil took it with both hands and gulped it greedily.
“He says he saw something in the graveyard,” I told Edward.
“Something in the graveyard, Virgil? What could it be that has you so upset?”
Virgil finished the brandy and let his arm go limp, dropping the glass gently beside him. “I was out near the cliff, readying myself to dig. The moon, though not full, was bright, the sea quite calm beneath me. I picked up my mattock and was about to plunge it into the earth, when something moved in the distance. Instantly, I dropped my tools. I did not want to be seen about my work. I tried to focus on the figure but it seemed to adhere to the shadows, gliding towards me from shadow to shadow, as if gravestones and uneven ground meant nothing to it. It stopped, perhaps thirty feet from me, pressed against a tree, and watched me.”
“What was it?” Ed
ward said.
“A figure. Cloaked, I think, in brown. But there was something awful, stretched and attenuated, about its shape.”
“Then it was just a person?” I asked, relief washing through me. Not a spectre, not a monster, but a person.
Virgil shook his head. “I believe it was a ghost. Perhaps a ghost of one of the poor souls I have uncovered in my work.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Virgil,” Edward said, his voice strong and confident.
“It watched me, and I heard it breathing. Even over the rattle of the leaves in the trees I could hear it breathing: wet and eager, like a dog about to devour a half-rotted corpse. I could not pick up my tools again. I ran home. Flood will be displeased with me. Oh, I cannot bear it. Such a phantom, sinister among shadows. Do you know that as I ran, I looked back over my shoulder to see if it was following me. But it had disappeared. Vanished into nothing.”
“You imagined it, Virgil,” Edward said. “Ghosts do not exist.”
“Perhaps you are unwell,” I said soothingly, brushing his hair off his brow.
“I hate myself for saying it,” Edward began carefully, “but perhaps you have had too much laudanum. It can addle a man’s senses.”
Virgil sank back into the chair. “I pray you are both right, for I would rather be unwell or addled than believe that such a thing as that phantom exists. I have disturbed too many graves to believe myself undeserving of some reprisal.”
“I will come with you to see Flood tomorrow. Explain you were taken ill,” Edward offered. “He will not be angry. He has enough experiments to keep him busy.”
“Thank you, old friend,” Virgil said. “I feel much calmer already. If only you would bring me my laudanum I’m sure that –”
“No. Not tonight.” I know not from whence I found the voice to say this. “Please, Virgil. You may be ill.”
He looked at me with dark, anxious eyes. Reluctantly he said, “All right, Gette. If you insist.”
“I think it’s for the best,” Edward said. “Here, let us entertain you instead. Perhaps we can take your mind off your shock. I have just this evening written a poem. Would you like to hear it?”
I wanted to cry out, NO! The last thing Virgil needed to hear was the fruit of someone else’s creative labour. But he could not help himself, he had to know if Edward had managed anything worthwhile, so he said, “Yes, of course.”
Edward picked up his paper, sorted the bad lines from the good with a mark of his pen, then began to read a lovely ballad, perhaps fifty or sixty lines long. I leaned close to Virgil the whole time, feeling his body tense tighter and tighter. As I had suspected, it was more than he could bear. After Edward had finished, Virgil rose to his feet wordlessly and headed towards the bedroom.
“What do you think, Virgil?” Edward asked – still, after all, as vulnerable to opinion as Virgil.
“I am unwell. I must to bed,” Virgil muttered. We watched him go, close the door behind him.
“It was very good,” I said softly to Edward. “I think I should go to him.”
“Of course,” Edward replied, shuffling pages with embarrassed hands.
“Really. It was a lovely poem,” I said again.
“Thank you.”
I found Virgil lying, rigid, in bed. I climbed in with him and attempted to embrace him. He did not move.
“Virgil, you aren’t to fret so. You will write again, of course you will.”
He would not answer me. Though he pretended to be asleep, I suspected his eyes were open, staring up at the dark ceiling, poisonous jealousy in his heart.
I slept eventually, but for some reason awoke in the early hours of the morning. Perhaps I heard movement in the house, perhaps I simply became aware that I was alone in my bed. I rolled over and saw Virgil was not with me. Under the door I could see the faint glow that signalled somebody burned a candle in the kitchen. I arose, pulled a shawl around me, and tiptoed out into the hallway.
My husband was slumped over the kitchen table, paper, ink, pens strewn all around him. He was not moving, nor did he look like he was indulging in the comfort of sleep. I rushed to him, pulled him upright. “Virgil, are you all right?”
He lifted his head, focused mad, mad eyes on me. “I cannot. I cannot.”
“You cannot what?”
“I cannot write another word. I have tried and it has nearly killed me.” He extended a clumsy arm, knocking the pages off the table. “Burn them, Gette, burn them all. Promise me. It is all terrible, the worst lines ever committed to the page. Burn them.”
I helped him to his feet. His body was too hot, his skin clammy. “Virgil, you are ill. Come to bed immediately.”
“Promise me you’ll burn them,” he said, clutching my arm with long, bony fingers.
“Of course. Now, to bed.”
I returned him to his bed, feeling his skin over and over, trying to convince myself it was not so hot and sickly. I tried to sit with him, to soothe him, but he would not relax until I had gone to the other room and cast his papers upon the fire. I went to the kitchen, gathered up the papers and scanned them anxiously. Senseless writing about swamps and crocodiles covered the pages. I took them to feed to the embers. They curled and blackened quickly.
“It is gone,” I said, closing the bedroom door behind me.
“Thank you. Now I can sleep.”
I sat with him as he drifted off, trying not to let my concern for his infirm state transform into panic. He had been ill before, I supposed, and he would be ill again. People grew ill, then recovered.
When he finally slept, I went to the box where I hid my Diary and fetched it out. I came to sit here in the kitchen to write about what has happened, for writing it down often makes it clearer, less frightening. For example, now I am not so worried about what Virgil saw in the graveyard. Of course it was not an evil spirit. Virgil was feverish, delirious, and had imagined it.
No, I need only fear the spectre of illness, not the spirits of the dead.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Wednesday, 26th March 1794
My husband is still ill, and I begin to despair of seeing him well again. Edward has just this morning left, following a terrible argument with Virgil. It breaks my heart because Edward has been so good to me, to us, in this awful past week.
When the sun came up on the morning I last wrote, I was awoken by a strange heat in my bed. It took me but a few moments to realise the heat was coming from Virgil, whose condition had worsened in the few hours he had been sleeping. His skin was now burning to the touch, a sheen of perspiration gleamed on his forehead and cheeks, and he shuddered and shook beneath the covers. I arose and dressed, and immediately went to wake Edward.
Within minutes, Edward was standing solicitously over Virgil, listening to his breathing, feeling his burning skin, asking him if joints ached, if his chest felt tight. Virgil did his best to answer Edward’s questions, but was slipping in and out of delirium as he spoke.
“Edward, beware. Stand not so close,” he said in a raspy voice.
“I’m fine, Virgil. Please, can you tell me if your fingers and knees feel sore?”
“Stand not so close. The crocodile is under the bed.”
“There is no crocodile under the bed,” I said soothingly. “Crocodiles do not live in Solgreve.”
“I ache all over,” Virgil said. “I will probably die from this ague.”
“You won’t die,” Edward said. “You must rest. You must stay warm.”
“My blood boils,” Virgil replied. “I am too warm already. I will die and be buried, then Flood will dig me up and feed me to the crocodiles.”
“Do you have a pain in your side? A sharp pain?”
“No, indeed I do not. Give me quinine, Edward, for I know I have malaria. The swamps, the heat, have brought it on.”
I looked across the bed at Edward, who raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “If you rest, Virgil, you will be well again in a matter of days. Do not worry yourself so. You do not have
malaria, there are no swamps or crocodiles nearby. I will bring you a cordial as soon as I can, but until then, try to sleep. We will be at hand if you need us.”
Edward beckoned me from the room and said in a hushed voice, “He is delirious. We will keep close watch on the fever. I do not think it serious, but if he insists upon worrying about these phantom reptiles, he may make himself more ill.”
“I shall sit with him and try to soothe him.”
“And I’ll go to the village for a cordial. If he is no better by tomorrow morning, we will have to call a surgeon.”
I nodded, wondering how on earth we would afford a surgeon.
But the next day, when Virgil’s illness appeared more acute, it was apparent to me that we had no choice. A physician was well beyond our means, and I doubted if one even resided in Solgreve. But Edward knew a Mr Edghill, a surgeon from the village, who agreed to come that afternoon. Although I was relieved that calling for Flood had not been suggested, I still had to ask Edward why not. After all, he knew Virgil, and may perhaps deduct the fee from his wages.
“Flood does not come above ground, as far as I know,” Edward replied.
“Never?”
“I don’t believe so. Besides, he is a scientist, not a physician.”
And so Mr Edghill arrived at around two. He was a long, thin man with a large moustache and a booming voice. We led him to Virgil’s bedside where he reached for my husband’s wrist and felt for his pulse. Virgil had barely been aware of his surroundings all day, but for some reason the presence of the surgeon unsettled him.
“Who is this shadow?” he said, his voice tight with fear.
“Hush, Virgil, it is merely Mr Edghill, a surgeon come to help you be well again.”
Mr Edghill dropped Virgil’s hand and reached for his case. “His fever is too high. I will have to let some blood, at least twelve ounces.”
Virgil struggled to sit up, but couldn’t manage. I pressed his hand in my own and told him to be calm.
