Elijah’s Mermaid (45 page)

During this accusation, Freddie’s face had grown yet ruddier, his voice choked and breathless when he said, ‘For which I deserve to be lashed! For which I pray your forgiveness now.’

Next, he was imploring me. ‘Lily . . . You
must
listen. You
must
understand. When they told me that Isabella was dead I simply didn’t know what to do. I should have informed Augustus then, but my mind was too confused. I paid a maid to pose as your mother, to take a letter that I forged and apply for your care at the Foundling. Afterwards, I became a patron there. In time, I visited every week, always searching for a familiar face until Providence brought you back to me, and what a glorious day that was! How could I bear to leave you there? I knew that Augustus would raise you both, never questioning your identity . . . not when he saw Elijah’s eyes, being so very like Gabriel’s . . . the very mirror of his wife’s.’

He paused to let out a lingering sigh. ‘Well, the rest you know quite well enough. I wrote to Augustus. Augustus came . . . and what happiness you brought to his life. I confess that did somewhat relieve my guilt, to see you growing safe and
well and,’ at that Freddie’s eyes fused hard with mine, ‘every year you have come to resemble her more, the woman –
this
women,’ he looked at Isabella again, ‘a face which has haunted me for years.’

I felt such a thudding in my head. Had Freddie only been biding his time? Had he only ever wanted me as means of replacing the lost Isabella?

‘Oh, Uncle . . .’ My brother suddenly groaned, his pallid features drenched in sweat. ‘Did Papa know anything of this . . . how cruelly you dealt with our father’s betrothed, when she was in need, when he might have shown compassion and taken her into his home as well?’

A mournful look there was in his eyes when Elijah stared at Freddie then, his next words barely audible, ‘I used to admire and respect you. But now I see what a monster you are . . . no better than Osborne Black in your way, both of you conscienceless, arrogant men.’

‘Won’t you be merciful, dear boy? Don’t you know that you have crushed me?’ However poignant Freddie’s plea, he must have known the argument done, draining the dregs of his brandy glass then grabbing the bottle near to hand, bowing his head for a moment or two before he headed for the door, where he paused beside Isabella, a trembling hand reaching out for hers, as if wishing to hold it or kiss it perhaps, while, through heavy breaths, his next question was asked. ‘Who saw you? Who saw what was done to Tip Thomas, apart from the others here?’

‘Only Sarah, one of the maids.’

‘And she knows who you are . . . who you really are?’

Isabella gave the slightest nod, after which Freddie departed the room.

There was a long shocked silence, and then Samuel Beresford followed him – and I followed after the both of them, coming close to the younger man’s side when he stood beneath the house’s porch, looking down to the pavement where Freddie was standing, wearing his coat and tall silk hat and holding his
travelling bag in his hand. He looked dazed, indecisive and lost, staring out through the drifts of snow towards the building opposite; the offices of Hall & Co. Once again it was steeped in nothing but darkness, as empty and cold as a grave.

Freddie must have sensed us watching then, glancing back with the bleakest of smiles on his lips when he said, ‘Goodbye, sweet Lily. And Sam, dear friend . . . may I trouble you with one more request? Would you stay with the others, here, tonight . . . take care of the business during my absence? There are matters to which I must attend. They have been too many years
delayed.’

PART FOUR

PEARL

Dank and foul, dank and foul
,

By the smoky town in its murky cowl;

Foul and dank, foul and dank
,

By wharf and sewer and slimy bank;

Darker and darker the farther I go
,

Baser and baser the richer I grow;

Who dare sport with the sin-defiled?

Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child
.

From
The Water-Babies
by Charles Kingsley

Before we left Cheyne Walk I looked at the mermaid on the wall – the one whose hair was studded with pearls, green eyes staring back through the splintering plaster. I felt something snapping inside my head – like a rushing of air – like water. I ran out of the house and over the road, down the steep run of steps to the jetty below, where I saw such visions from my past, with the story from Mrs Hibbert’s book coming to life before my eyes, with Tip Thomas holding a child in his arms, and her toes were webbed, the same as mine – and I had to struggle against the compulsion to throw myself back into the Thames, returning to my mother’s arms.

My life was once saved, but at what cost? If Tip Thomas had never found me that night he might have let Isabella go. Isabella might never have been deceived into thinking her natural children dead, giving suck instead to an orphaned babe. And it is only thanks to her that I am here in Burlington Row, Elijah lying at my side, my love sleeping deeply though I
do not. My feet are burning. My throat is sore. But in time these little wounds will heal. I worry so much more for him. I count every wheezing breath he takes – holding mine when I see the door opening.

At first, I think it is Tip’s ghost coming to visit me again, to sit on this bed and bring me gifts. But no, it is Isabella, her face haloed with light from the candle she holds. One lingering look and then she is gone. The door is closed. All dark again.

I feel bereft. I want to call out, disentangling my arms from Elijah’s, and while he sleeps on I creep from the room, out into the hall, where a chill draught is blowing up through the house. A carpet of snowflakes gusts over the floor, the dado and picture frames above.

From the porch I see Isabella, standing outside on the pavement, and Samuel Beresford is walking towards her, approaching from the end of the street where he must have gone to hail a cab. A hansom is rattling in his wake, the clip-clop of hooves, the rattle of wheels, all hushed by the carpet of white beneath. And when it pulls up he offers his hand to help Isabella climb inside.

‘Don’t go!’ I cry out. My voice is as plaintive as a child’s, and when Samuel Beresford glances back I feel myself too conspicuous, my nightgown blown hard against my flesh – what little flesh there is these days. I am ashamed to be so exposed, to feel the heat of the driver’s leer, whereas Isabella’s smile is sad when she looks at me from the open cab and answers in the softest voice, ‘If I stay I will only blight your lives. If it is known what I have become . . . your names would never be free of stain.’

‘But I am as stained, as guilty as you.’

She lifts a finger to her lips. Perhaps she fears the cabman’s ears; the risk that my words might incriminate. ‘No . . .’ she says, ‘not you. Not you.’

She mumbles to Samuel Beresford. What she says to him I cannot hear, only able to watch when he calls to the driver and gives an address in Kensington. And just before the cab pulls
off, Samuel reaches into a pocket and gives Isabella some coins and notes, and something else, something glittering. It might only be a set of keys but the sight of her hand closing over that metal reminds me too much of the House of the Mermaids. I shudder at the clang of the door, at the driver’s whip as it cuts through the air in a slashing hiss, a sound that leaves me mesmerised, still seeing Tip Thomas’s ruined face, and I see it long after the cab has gone, only restored to my senses again when Samuel Beresford climbs the steps to stand at my side beneath the porch. He wipes a handkerchief over my cheeks. I had not known I was crying. He stares down at me through mournful eyes, ‘She said you must try and understand. She said the carpet bag is yours.’

We go back into the warmth of the house. I find the bag she left behind, still there on the floor by the sitting-room door. Inside I see the Book of Events, and the key that was snatched from the chain at Tip’s neck. I have no idea what that key unlocks. I am tempted to burn that book on the fire, to destroy every one of its wicked lies. But something stops me. I don’t know what. Perhaps that whispered voice in my head,
Ma chère, pour toi . . . pour toi
.

I am wearing one of Lily’s gowns. It falls around me like a sack, even though I have eaten all that I can, buttered potatoes, soups, porridge and rice – anything I can easily swallow down.

Elijah looks like a scarecrow too, in those clothes Lily saved from Dolphin House, supplemented by some of Samuel’s. Everything once belonging to Tip has been burned, along with the asylum gowns. My love will have nothing of Frederick Hall’s – except for some shoes, and those he must, for their feet are of a similar size and Samuel’s are much smaller, though when Samuel travelled back to his rooms he returned with a hat, and an overcoat, and divers items of underwear.

We waited most eagerly for his return, all three of us hoping to see Isabella. But Samuel arrived alone, and then he only shook his head. He said Isabella had stayed one night but now
she has gone, and who knows where, and all that was left was a note of thanks, and that message again – to forget her.

Lily took this news very badly. But when recovered sufficiently she wrote a letter to Kingsland House – completing the one she had started before, saying that we would be travelling soon. But before Samuel went out to post it we all agreed that Augustus Lamb should never know the real truth, nothing concerning Frederick Hall, nothing to say Isabella was found.

And now, even though Elijah is still coughing and somewhat feverish, we have driven through streets of rotting black straw, of melting black slime, of slippy black slush – all that remains of the once white snow. We have boarded the Leominster train, with the tickets that Samuel Beresford bought. There is barely any luggage to take, only Isabella’s carpet bag, which I insist on carrying, and Lily’s travelling portmanteau, which Samuel heaves on to the rack, during which act the whistle blows and with our departure imminent Samuel takes his hurried leave, wishing us well for our future lives. Lily smiles tightly and thanks him profusely for everything he has done to help. She stands at the window and waves him goodbye, her cheek pressed hard against the glass. She stands like that for a very long time, long after the train has pulled away. When she comes to sit down, she is crying. Elijah holds her in his arms.

I did not cry then. I do not cry now. I am blessed to be loved by Elijah Lamb. I am happy here in Kingsland House, a place where I never thought to return – and that visit last year seems a lifetime ago. But I am tormented by the fear that the scales might yet fall from Elijah’s eyes and then he will come to resent me, and all of the woes I have brought to his life – me, and the artist, Osborne Black.

I fear Osborne might try to find me here. But Elijah says that he will not – that he has no rights – that he would not dare. And Elijah says he could never resent me, that if not for the House of the Mermaids he would never have found his mother again. So some good comes from evil in the end.

But I wonder at that; to have found Isabella, and then to have lost her all over again, to have learned what we have of her suffering.

In the case of Augustus Lamb, though I only saw him once before, his suffering upsets us all. What ails him nobody seems to know. He is stricken by a creeping paralysis that makes his limbs tremble alarmingly, no longer being able to master the most basic of his toilet needs, with Lily and Ellen holding him up to piss or shit into the bowl. And his breathing is often laboured, almost as bad as Elijah’s was until his lungs grew strong again – though at times my love still struggles for breath. But it is only now and then, mostly when he needs the opium. Tip Thomas dosed him too liberally during those months of captivity, and with more than Mother’s Blessing. Without the drug he is overcome. He shakes. Perspiration stands out on his brow. He tells Lily it is but a fever. He does not wish her to know of this curse. But the doctor here, he understands, just as he does with Augustus Lamb.

The old man’s mind is so much worse, being plagued by visions – things not there – and even when Lily holds his hand, patiently talking of times gone by and hoping that way to lure his thoughts back into the realms of reality, the very next thing he forgets her name. He thinks her an angel, or fairy child. Twice now he has called me the mermaid.

But Elijah he forgets the most. When we first walked in through the door his grandfather did not know him at all. And Ellen Page, the housekeeper, there was a moment when she stood and stared, a narrowed squint, her mouth open wide and her jaw falling slack while shaking her head in disbelief. So thin and ravaged was my love. But then it was all hallelujahs and joy to see Elijah home again and she wasted no time in hobbling off to fetch the doctor to the house, and though I never thought to trust another medical man again, the one in this village has proved to be kind, and such a regular visitor that he is quite the family friend. He has cared for Elijah attentively, very often called in at the dead of night when, during the bitterest winter
months, what had started out as a sniffling cold came to settle on congested lungs. We took it in turns, Lily and I, to care for him during the hours of day, though at night he was mine, cradled close in my arms, only thinking occasionally of Tip and how I once held him the same; in those final moments before his death.