Burnt Norton (10 page)

Has Molly Johnson settled in well? I hope you like her a little better, for I have sincere hopes she could become your friend. Though she is in service, she is also a companion to our dearest sister. Try not to be hostile, and remember, while she is in our home, it is our duty to make her welcome.

Dorothy put the letter down. It was as if Thomas were beside her, reading her mind. Picking up the letter again, she skimmed the details of his initial miseries, which she had already read.

I am moving in exalted circles. A new friend, Horace Walpole, is the son of our current first lord of the treasury. I smile when I imagine our grandmother’s delight at my social elevation. He is more eccentric than your brother. He writes sonnets, and his rhymes are more fantastic. Can you imagine the irony? Father hoped I would be made into a ‘man’ and I am encouraged to write poetry! I have actually received commissions of a romantic nature, though as the author I am required to remain anonymous. Whilst my pockets remain heavy with change I have no cause for complaint.

We have something else in common: Walpole despises physical exercise and any sport which involves killing one of God’s creatures. At last, I am not alone! Anyway, sister, I have run out of time. Know that on my first night, your violets were my only source of consolation. They remain in my prayer book, and the scent, though diminishing, reminds me of you.

Keep well, and keep the sordid details of this letter to yourself. Mama would be horrified. Please write to me with your news, and I apologize if I have lectured you in any way, it’s only with the best intentions.

Send my regards to Lorenzo.

Yours always,

Your devoted brother,

Thomas

She tucked the letter into the pocket of her pinafore. He had lied. The violets were not his only source of consolation – Molly had seen to that.

She went downstairs, and seeing Lizzie alone in her usual window, she sat down beside her and took the letter from her pocket. ‘From Thomas?’ her sister asked eagerly.

‘Yes, shall I read it to you?’

‘Please, Dotty. I long for Thomas’s letters.’

When she had finished, Elizabeth took her hand. ‘You mustn’t be envious, little one. He’s a boy. Maybe one day things will change and girls will go to school, but for now we have to accept our lives as they are.’ Once again her sister surprised her. It seemed that both of Dorothy’s siblings recognized her inner torment.

‘Elizabeth, am I a bad person?’

‘Of course you aren’t,’ she laughed. ‘But jealousy can eat into your soul. I love you with all my heart, but life is what you make of it. Don’t let the things you don’t like about yourself destroy you.’

Dorothy smiled wryly. Fortunately her sister hadn’t witnessed the scene in her bedroom, and she didn’t suspect any other reasons for her jealousy.

Molly’s honeymoon with Norton lasted for less than three years, but it was long enough to make friends and establish herself within the household. Then, two separate events hastened her undoing: Sir William gave up his constituency in Warwick, and Thomas returned home a year earlier than expected, having passed his final exams.

Sir William’s manner changed slowly – a smile, a lingering glance – but with each day Molly’s isolation grew. If Sir William were to make an advance, would her new friends believe her? Would Annie and Ruth accept her story? She doubted it, for like a cloud, trust breaks in a storm. Never mind Dorothy, with her knowing looks – clever Dorothy, who watched and waited – or Mrs Wright, who would take out her innards with a spoon.

The worrisome scenarios she had formed in her head remained there and were never given voice. She sat with Elizabeth, her head bent to her sewing, her mind a thousand miles away.

‘Are you all right, Molly? You look troubled.’

Looking into her sweet face, she longed to confide. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘It’s only a headache.’

As Christmas approached, a fever of anticipation coursed through the household. Only Sir William shared none of the good humour. His eyes followed Molly relentlessly. She began locking her door at night. Fear shadowed her.

On the night of the servants’ party, the tenth of December, she had finished her work and was closing the door to her mistress’s bedroom. ‘And Molly? No need to hurry in the morning. Enjoy yourself.’

‘Thank you, milady. Goodnight.’

She leant against the wall, resting her tired shoulders. She smoothed the folds of her beautiful mint gown, the silk rustling beneath her fingers. It was mended now, the seams invisible, the bodice altered, and where the hooks were fastened she had sewn her own initials. She straightened, looked this way and that. The landing was clear; no one loitered in the shadows. But as she hurried to the stairs, a hand grabbed her in the darkness.

She ducked and tried to get away, but he held onto her skirt. She could hear the silk rip as it tore between his fingers. She screamed, but he caught her, covering her mouth. ‘Be quiet, I only wish to talk to you. Why do you avoid me?’

‘I don’t, sir. Please let me go.’

‘But you do. Are you saving yourself for someone else? My son, perhaps?’

‘No, sir, please let me go. There’s no one, sir.’

He leant towards her, his words slurred. She smelt the whisky upon his breath. ‘All lies from your pretty lips. Do you know the punishment for lying? Dismissal. Shame on your family.’

She was trapped: the humiliation of disgrace or of compliance. A black cloud exploded in her head. She punched at his chest, clawed at his face. ‘Leave me alone! Your wife will hear. For pity’s sake, let me go!’

He pinned her arms. Tears poured down her cheeks as he dragged her through his bedroom door. ‘You’re not getting away from me this time.’

He slapped her face. She staggered, holding her ringing ears. He grabbed her hair, pulling her head backwards. His mouth crushed hers. His hands tore at her clothes. Her breasts slipped free of the last restraining fragments of silk, and for a moment he stopped and cupped them in his hands. ‘Molly, you are driving me mad,’ he whispered. Thrusting his knee into her groin, he threw her onto the bed, skirts pulled upwards, hands between her legs, pushing, forcing, invading.

He fumbled at his breeches. She closed her eyes and turned her face away as he mounted her. The pain ripped through her body, and she could smell his alcohol-pungent sweat, could feel the rough bristles on his cheeks as he struggled to hold her down, could hear his panting as he forced his way further between her thighs. She prayed for unconsciousness, but it didn’t come, only a sickening shuddering as he pushed himself violently into her. Then it was over, and he fell heavily forward, his weight crushing her chest.

She pushed him from her and climbed from the bed. Taking the towel from the washstand she rubbed at the blood on her legs, and covering her body with the remains of her dress, she stumbled from the room.

Sir William woke to a pounding head and a heavy heart. He had broken every code of honour. He had betrayed his family. He had violated a young girl who was under his protection, and whose exuberance brought nothing but pleasure to those around her. Had he found the courage to kill himself at that moment, he would have done so, but now he accepted cowardice as yet another of his vices.

An empty bottle lay on the floor beside him – whisky, hazel, the colour of her eyes. With a sick feeling in his stomach, he threw it against the fireplace, where it shattered. He rose to his knees and crawled across the broken glass, hoping the shards would carve his corrupted flesh.

When she was twelve, Molly Johnson had sat in church with her mother while they listened to the Very Reverend Charles Pearson, Dean of Warwick, deliver his sermon. ‘And God said: If a man find a damsel that is a virgin, which is not betrothed, and lay hold on her, and lie with her, and they be found, then the man that lay with her shall give unto the damsel’s father fifty shekels of silver.’ When she had questioned the validity of the sermon, her mother had been unable to reassure her.

Now she remembered this. If these were God’s words, then God was a man no better than all the rest. She stared at the ceiling, but no sleep came. She raised herself up, took off her ruined dress, and walked to the mirror. Dead eyes stared back. She touched her bruised thighs, her swollen mouth, and as she hid the dress at the back of the cupboard, a small laugh escaped her lips.
You thought you could have it all, but you have certainly paid the price.

She took Thomas’s poem from beneath her pillow, tore it in half and threw it away. She lay down again, closed her eyes and slept restlessly, a lonely figure curled on an iron bed. In her dream Thomas was waiting for her. His arms were open, and she ran towards him, but when she reached him, Sir William stood before her instead. ‘You’ll never be free,’ he said.

In the morning she retrieved the torn paper and replaced the two halves beneath her pillow. She washed her body, scrubbing her thighs with a brush until her skin chafed. Still she felt soiled, for the stain lay deep.

‘Are you all right, Molly? You look sick,’ Ruth asked, full of concern.

‘Yes, a little tired, that’s all.’

‘Lord,’ Ruth said to Annie, ‘she’s been having it with someone; I’d stake my life on it. Do you think it’s our Mr Whitstone? He’s lusted after her for weeks, so he has.’

By the morning’s end, all the downstairs staff were talking.

Mrs Wright stood before Molly triumphantly; the bloodied sheet a trophy in her arms.

‘Found this on the master’s bed. When the mistress finds out, you’ll see what happens, my girl. It’s the workhouse for you! What do you think of pretty Molly now, Mr Whitstone?’

Dorothy was on an errand for her mother when she heard the whispering.

She pushed open the swing door and was halfway down the passage when she heard hushed and excited voices coming from the scullery. Dorothy couldn’t make out the words, and when she entered the room, the talking stopped.

‘Please, may I have some rose water?’ she asked Mrs Wright.

‘Yes, Miss Dorothy. I’ll get you some immediately.’

When Dorothy retreated down the passage she wondered what had caused such fuss. Mrs Wright’s sharp eyes had looked flustered, and her prompt response was unusual.

She forgot about it upon seeing a letter on the hall table. It was from Thomas, his final letter from school. On this occasion, hers was the only letter. She took it to her bedroom and shut the door.

Darling Dotty,

I am not sure whether you will receive this letter or your brother first. Either way I am writing to you with a mixture of anticipation and regret.

I shall see you at last, but if I am honest, my days in this damp, low-lying town beneath Windsor Castle have been some of the happiest in my life.

How time has flown. I imagine you must have grown enormously. I hope not as much as your brother, for I am now over six feet.

I have grown to love Eton. I play fives in the buttresses of the college chapel. It is a sociable form of exercise which needs cunning rather than skill. (Would our dear father count it as sport? I rather think not.) I am a member of the college chapel choir
– how you would love the singing.

Two incidents occurred last term. I won’t bore you with the details, but it is now generally believed that I have supernatural powers. It has secured me quite a reputation. In retrospect both occasions were rather more luck than anything else but it seems sometimes even this most unwanted gift can have certain advantages.

There have been many changes, mostly good. The dreadful ritual ‘Tossing the Blanket’ has been banned from my house and lock-up abolished, and though we work hard, we are given more time for our own amusement.

On Sunday afternoons in fine weather, we row on the River Thames. We tell stories, anecdotes of things we have done, and countries we would like to visit. I believe my dreams have been rekindled and I shall travel after all. In the winter months we take tea in our lodgings and regale each other with news and political gossip. Even Kirkpatrick has softened and shares the occasional joke. Gilbert Paxton-Hooper continues to be my friend and I have spent time with his family. You would love them
– chaotic, learned and totally unlike us.

Yesterday, according to tradition, I inscribed my name into the lid of my desk. When I had finished, Paxton-Hooper added a postscript, ‘Thomas Charles Edward Keyt has the gift of second-sight.’ And so I am there, buried in the wood for future generations to find.

Tomorrow I will say goodbye to my friends and teachers. Lorenzo will come to collect me, and, little sister, I will see you again. We shall spend Christmas together, and you will help me to decide how to spend the rest of my life.

In anticipation,

Your affectionate brother

Thomas

Dorothy folded the pages. Unlocking the bureau, she placed it beside his previous correspondence. Afterwards she took out another letter, one addressed to Molly Johnson. Many times she had considered destroying it too, but something had restrained her.

When Thomas arrived two days later, they were all waiting in the drawing room: Lizzie, her mother, even her grandmother had come for the occasion – everyone except Sir William. When the carriage stopped in the courtyard, Dorothy was the first to the door, opening it before Whitstone or the footmen had time to get there. Lorenzo stepped down from the box and held the horses while the grooms ran towards him. At the same moment, the dogs dived down the steps and hurled themselves at Thomas. Dorothy followed, throwing her arms tightly around her brother’s neck.

‘Are you trying to kill me before you have said hello?’ he asked, laughing.

‘Well now, quite the handsome gentleman, aren’t we? I’m sure you must have cut a dash amongst the female population of Windsor.’

‘And you are as pretty as ever, if a little taller, and still with the same impossible tongue!’