BONE HOUSE (5 page)

On the reverse of the frame is etched a tiny signature that I cannot make out, for the silver has been tarnished badly with age. I turn it over and stare again at the woman in the tiny frame, and this time it strikes me that she shares a few similar features with the great-bellied woman: mainly in the shape of the mouth, which is wide and full, and in the eyes, which are large and pen
etrating in their gaze. I glance over at the boy; the woman in the portrait must be his grandmother. He too shares a trace of resemblance to the portrait about the mouth and eyes, though that is all.

The boy coughs in his sleep and I quickly close the lid of the box and replace it. I move to his side as he stirs and wakes, blinking several times. He looks at me and yawns.

“Are you hungry?” I ask.

“Where is the other woman?” he says. He has known my mother all his life and yet he does not refer to her by name.

“My mother has gone home to rest,” I tell him. “She will return later.”

His eyes drift to the bread on the table. I rise and fetch him some broth from the pot simmering over the fire. He is still weak and I must help him sit up, but I am relieved when he is able to feed himself. He eats the soup hungrily, noisily, and asks me for some bread. I break off a hunk and give it to him, then wait while he finishes and take the bowl when he is through. He lies back against the pillow, his eyes darting restlessly about the room.

“What happened?” he says.

“You had a fever,” I tell him. “But it is gone now.”

“Who else was here?” he says.

“The doctor,” I reply. “He came yesterday, and again this morning.”

“I have seen him here before,” he says. He picks at a feather poking out from the bedclothes.

“Your mother asked him to look after you,” I tell him.

“My mother?” He looks up at me expectantly.

“Before she died,” I add. Can it be that he does not remember? He looks past me at the wall for several moments. I draw a chair up to his bedside and sit down. I hesitate a moment, unsure how to proceed.

“Long Boy, your mother carried a child when she died,” I say slowly. “Did you know of this?” He looks at me uncomprehend
ingly. “In her belly,” I explain. “She had an unborn baby in her belly.” Inadvertently my hands go to my own belly, and Long Boy follows them with his eyes. We both stare at my hands for a moment, splayed across my belly, until I feel self-conscious and remove them.

“What happened to it?” he asks.

“It died when she did,” I tell him gently.

“Why?” he says.

“Because an unborn baby cannot live without its mother,” I explain.

“Did you see it?” he asks intently.

I shake my head slowly. “No.”

He frowns. “Then how can you be sure?” he says.

I hesitate, and I realize that I cannot be sure of anything.

“The doctor told me,” I say finally.

He appears satisfied with this answer, and looks down at the covers once again.

“The baby had a father, Long Boy,” I continue. He flashes me a questioning look. “All children do,” I say, by way of explanation.

“I don’t,” he says immediately.

I bite my lip. “No. But this baby did.”

Long Boy ponders this a moment. “Where is he?”

“I do not know,” I say.

He nods and makes an odd grinding noise with his teeth, as if he is preoccupied.

“This baby’s father,” I tell him. “I should like to know who he is.”

“Why?” he says.

I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. Why indeed? I can think of no answer suitable for someone of his age. “Because,” I say finally.

He nods, but does not realize I am asking him for the answer. I lean forward, catch his gaze.

“Did any one man come to visit more than the others?” I ask.

Long Boy’s eyes come to rest on the vial of camphor, still lying on the table. “He came,” he says.

I nod. “More than the others?”

“No,” he replies.

I frown. My instinct tells me that Lucius is not the man I seek. Then I remember the glass vial hidden under my kirtle. Slowly I withdraw it and take the vial from its pouch, holding it up for him to see. He clearly recognizes it, for his eyes flicker briefly to the wooden box near the fireplace, then back at me. I blush a little.

“This was your mother’s?” I ask.

He shakes his head slowly no. “It was his.”

“The doctor’s?” I ask, confused.

“No. The crooked one.”

He speaks of my master, with his crooked spine. “He came here often?” I ask.

The boy nods.

“More than the others?”

He shrugs. “It is possible,” he adds.

“Did she . . . favor him?”

He frowns then. “Why would she?” he says in an accusing tone.

“I do not know,” I say to placate him. “I only wish to know a little more.” His face relaxes a little.

“Was she . . . afraid of him?” I ask cautiously.

He gives me another dark look, as if this suggestion is even more offensive. “No,” he says. “She feared no one,” he adds, more than a hint of pride creeping into his voice.

I nod, smile a little at his loyalty.

“She was strong,” he continues. “Stronger than all of them.”

“Of course she was,” I say, and know it to be true. We sit in silence for a moment, and my mind reaches back to a time as a child when I came upon her in the forest. She was bathing in the river a short distance from the village when I spotted her through the undergrowth. At once I was entranced by the sight of her
naked flesh. Her back was turned to me and I saw that her shoulders were broad and muscled and smooth as ivory. I watched as she scooped water over her head with a small wooden bowl, tilting her head right back, her hair stretching nearly to her waist in a glistening ribbon of wetness. She closed her eyes to the flow but kept her mouth open wide, allowing the river to course right through her. Over and over she doused herself and I stood rooted to the spot, unable to tear my eyes from the sight of her, even more unwilling to reveal my presence lest she stop. I did not breathe or stir until she had dried herself and gone, and only then did I emerge from the thicket, like a fawn at dusk, to kneel beside the river’s edge and dip my fingers into the icy waters that had caressed her only moments before.

Long Boy has lost interest in our little talk, and I am left with only the spit and crackle of the fire. He keeps his silence in the corner, curling like a leaf toward the wall, while I ponder his answers. Although I had not been aware that my master frequented this place, the news does not surprise me, for he is a man like any other, even if his spine is bent. Despite his mother’s wishes, he has never sought a wife, though there was talk in the village many years ago of a match. With youth and wealth, he might have found a woman who would tolerate his deformity, but having lost the former this now seems exceedingly unlikely. And too, there is the matter of his character, which can only be described as eccentric, though perhaps this is unfair, for his deformity has resulted in his isolation from society.

At any rate, who would choose him as the father of her children? To marry such a man would entail considerable risks on the woman’s part. She would live in perpetual fear of monstrous births, for it is known that those who are disfigured are many times more likely to produce deformities among their offspring. Perhaps this is what Dora feared: a monstrous fetus inside her, and the risk that it might kill her in childbirth.

I dwell upon this notion for a time. If she had good cause to believe the child was his and was malformed, she would be right to fear a dangerous labor. Pregnancy is a calamitous journey at the best of times, and many women perish from the birth of normal, healthy babies, let alone monstrous ones. Even my mother lives in fear of such cases, for on the rare occasions when she has delivered a malformed child, the labor has been both prolonged and exceedingly torturous for the mother. She is forever advising those under her care to take precautions against such births, believing fervently that they can be prevented by a woman’s conduct. According to my mother, if a woman harbors perverse thoughts when she lies with a man, or indeed dwells too long upon strange objects, this can alter the development of the child within. Or if she lies with a man during her monthly courses, this too can result in death or deformity of an unborn child. Those who crave unnatural substances such as earth or coal in their diet also run such risks. There are many tales of such women being delivered of worms, toads, mice, even serpents. Indeed, the perils of childbirth are so numerous and so varied, I have often felt that it is a wonder any women are prepared to undergo them at all.

But this was not the case with Dora, who throughout my childhood was pregnant more often than she was not. Indeed I cannot remember her as anything but great-bellied, though in truth her figure altered little regardless of her condition. She was truly built for childbearing, with magnificent wide hips that rolled with grace when she walked, and a frame that was broad and square. Her belly, though indeed great, was never out of proportion to the rest of her, and her neck was long and surprisingly delicate given the size of her frame. Her eyes were large and luminous, and like a spring sky, changed color with the sun. Even in death her appearance had been striking, as if God had claimed her just as she was.

Despite this, her births were dogged by misfortune. Most of
her children died during labor, though one or two survived a short time before illness claimed them. With the exception of Long Boy, who was born when I was nine, I cannot recall any living beyond a few days. She buried them all behind her cottage, and asked God for his blessing, even if as bastard children they were not entitled to a proper Christian burial. She had not conceived a child in recent years, however, and I, like many others, believed that she was past the time of childbearing.

But Long Boy is right: fear was not in her nature. She regarded her pregnancies as both right and natural, and believed that God would not spurn either her or her children in the end. It seems clear to me from his response that Long Boy did not know of her condition, nor of her reasons for alarm. And while I am disappointed I am not surprised, for like any good mother she took steps to shelter him from the outside world and its dangers. If I am to unravel the questions surrounding her death, I shall have to seek my answers elsewhere, for I sense that there is little more to be learned from him directly.

My mother returns at dusk, appearing some degree refreshed. The boy seems relieved when she enters, and she goes to him directly, spanning his forehead with her hand to check for fever.

“He is fine,” I say. “I gave him the tonic.” They both ignore me, she concentrating on the feel of his brow. After a moment she releases him and nods.

“I am grateful for your help,” she says a little tersely. “You can return now to the Great House.” I hesitate a moment, watch her move to the fire, give the pot a stir. She cannot stay here indefinitely, but she is not likely to leave him thus. What will she do when he is recovered, I wonder? She lights a candle and places it on the table, then seats herself by the fire and takes out a ball of newspun wool and her knitting needles. My mother’s hands are never idle, and they fly about the needles like two swallows worrying a nest. The boy lies peacefully in the corner, and I hear him
sigh as I put on my coat and slip out the door, leaving the two of them to their silence.

In the scullery of the Great House Cook is scolding Little George, the roasting boy, for allowing a joint to burn. When I enter, she leaves him cowering and comes toward me, wiping her hands on her bloodstained apron.

“You were overlong away,” she says.

“My mistress?” I ask.

“I had to keep her from your room,” she scolds me. “I told her you were deep in sleep.”

“I am grateful,” I reply.

“Aye,” she says with a grimace, waving me away. I dash up the rear stairs and hasten to my room. Once inside I remove my kirtle and lay it on the bed, then I take the glass vial out of its pouch to examine it once more. Just as I do, I hear a soft knock on the door. Quickly I lie down on the bed, shoving the vial out of sight beneath my kirtle. My mistress enters and I feel my face flush, though I manage to smile at her in greeting.

“You’re awake,” she says.

“Yes. I am much improved.”

“I am glad to hear of it,” she says with a nod. Her eyes flicker briefly around the room searching for a place to sit, and for a moment I fear that she will sit upon the kirtle, but to my relief she settles herself on the wooden chest at the foot of the bed.

“Lucius gave you a fright, I think,” she says a little archly.

“I was . . . overcome for a moment. I cannot think why,” I say. “It was silly of me,” I add with a smile.

“Was it?” She raises an eyebrow. “At times our minds and bodies are in complete accordance. If one succumbs, so does the other.”

“I suppose so,” I say, shifting awkwardly.

“Still,” she continues, “if you consider it, her death is not so very surprising. The great-bellied woman lived in a state of per
petual sin, my dear. She must have known that God would claim her in the end,” she says pointedly.