The Misbegotten (35 page)

Rachel saw Starling more often than she saw Mrs Alleyn. The red-haired servant seemed to have free run of the house, though she was a kitchen maid. She was a near constant presence; appearing in the corner of Rachel’s eye, flitting up a stair, or beckoning her from the servants’ door to come and exchange a word. And since there was far more to be said and done at the Alleyns’ house than there was in her own, Rachel came to anticipate her visits with a kind of eager anxiety. She thought about them whenever she wasn’t there; about what had recently passed, and what she would do on her next visit. Richard was away from Abbeygate Street more and more, and when he was home didn’t seem to notice her increasing preoccupation. He rarely asked what she did at Lansdown Crescent; only took the money and pocketed it with a distracted smile, and bade her always to send his warm greetings to Mrs Alleyn.

Rachel’s visits were sometimes very short; far shorter than the time it took her to walk there. On one occasion, Jonathan was asleep when she knocked softly and entered; slumped over his desk with a quill in his hand, ink stains all over his fingers. His crossed arms hid what he’d been writing; an empty wine bottle sat next to him, and a stained cup. Rachel had the idea of looking for Alice’s box of letters then, but the thought of being caught doing so made her skin crawl.
Besides, Starling said she’d already searched. I must find some way to ask him.
Often he sat dumbly while she read, gazing out of the window or directly at her with a startling intensity, saying nothing. When he did that, Rachel found her heart racing in such frenzy that it made her voice shake, and spoiled her reading. Sometimes, she found herself stealing glances at him when his attention was elsewhere; at his face, his hands, his body inside his clothes. That he was a murderer, and that she could sit so close to him, seemed unreal. Each time she thought it a jolt of fear and amazement went through her.

One mild Wednesday afternoon, Rachel walked in on Jonathan in the grip of one of his headaches. He was sitting in the dark with the shutters latched, and when she opened the door the light from the hallway made him recoil. He was at his desk with his head gripped in his hands, trembling; his skin pale and shining with sweat. When Rachel asked, shocked, if she should leave him, he could only give a curt nod, keeping his mouth and eyes tightly shut. Another time she walked into one of his nightmares. He was in his sleeping quarters, and Rachel hesitated to go near him, for decency’s sake; but the noise he was making was terrible to hear, and she worried that he might be feverish again. She lit a lamp and, steeling herself, went to his bedside. He was lying on it fully clothed, and there was no evidence of him having been drinking. He was panting and his body made panicky movements – arms and legs jerking as though he was trying to run from something. His head twisted to and fro on his neck, and he was muttering, spitting out odd words that made no sense.

‘Mr Alleyn,’ said Rachel; quiet and fearful. She cleared her throat and said his name again, more strongly. ‘Mr Alleyn, wake up. You’re having a bad dream . . .’ At the sound of her voice his body went still, but he continued to breathe rapidly and gave a low moan, as if he was in pain. Tentatively, Rachel put her hand on his forearm and squeezed gently. ‘You must wake, sir,’ she said. And in a heartbeat, he did just that.

His eyes flew open, and he lunged towards her, catching her hand as she tried to retract it.

‘Is she dead? Is she dead?’ he said, in a voice that rasped. Fear washed coldly over Rachel. She remembered his hands around her throat on their first meeting, and the way she’d felt her own death come crowding in like a swarm of flies.

‘Mr Alleyn, please let go. It’s only me. Mrs Weekes . . . you were having a nightmare.’

‘I tried to make it right,’ he whispered, still clasping her arm. His eyes looked through her, tortured and afraid. His body was wracked by a sudden sob, and Rachel knelt down, trying to prise his fingers from her arm.

‘Tried to make what right, Mr Alleyn?’ He caught her other hand too, squeezing her fingers. Tears streaked down his face.

In spite of her fear, Rachel’s heart softened at the sight of such anguish, and she stopped struggling against him.

‘It was only a nightmare, Mr Alleyn. Rest now. You’re safe here.’
But am I? This man is a killer.
But in that moment he didn’t look like a killer; he looked like a frightened boy. Gradually, Jonathan let himself be soothed, and was asleep again within moments. The next time Rachel called, he seemed to have no memory of the incident.

Starling seemed impatient, as if she had expected some instant revelation. Often, the girl appeared by Rachel’s side as she left the Alleyns’ house, and walked partway down the hill with her, always taking her on some hidden route through a tiny alley rather than being seen out on the main street. She walked briskly to keep up with Rachel’s longer strides, and tucked her hands into her armpits for warmth. Rachel always asked to hear something else about Alice; always wanted to know her better. Starling seemed happy to talk about her, as though she’d long wanted the opportunity to do so. Her face lit up when she did; a warmth and animation that sloughed off her habitual expression of suspicion and displeasure. So Rachel learnt of Alice’s penchant for marzipan, and hatred of oysters; her skill at the piano and her flat, tuneless singing voice; her grace, and intelligence. How she had educated Starling, as her own governess had educated her.

‘Mrs Bouchante, she was called. A widow, from France. She taught Alice until she turned sixteen and then left, so I never met her. Alice said she smelled of bitter almonds, and that her skin was as dry as a lizard’s,’ said Starling, with a smile. Rachel heard about Alice’s colour blindness, and her heart that fluttered and kept its own time; about her love of animals, and the little drawings she did of the insects and flowers they saw along the riverbank. ‘I wish I had one to keep. To remember her by. She sent most of them to Lord Faukes.’

‘What was Lord Faukes like?’ asked Rachel one day. ‘Mrs Alleyn says he was a good and great man.’ Starling stopped in her tracks at this, closing off in an instant.

‘He was all guts and garbage; a man who took without asking. He’s good now he’s dead, and I’ll say nothing else about him,’ she snapped. ‘See you again, Mrs Weekes,’ was all the farewell she gave as she turned and walked back up the hill, leaving Rachel startled.

When Rachel next saw Jonathan, he was restless and unable to keep still. He had deep shadows under his eyes, as he paced from chair to desk to window and back again, limping on his lame leg. Rachel watched him uneasily. His movements were jerky, and unpredictable. He spent a good deal of time rummaging in the drawers of his desk, searching for something with a frown of distraction.

‘What are you looking for?’ she asked at last, exasperated. Jonathan looked up with a start, and then froze as if confounded by the question. He stood up slowly, his hands hanging limply at his sides.

‘I . . . do not remember,’ he said, troubled.

‘Please, come and sit down. Have you not slept?’

‘No, no. I cannot sleep. I do not sleep,’ he muttered, and began leafing randomly through the papers on his desk. ‘The note. The note from the lovers’ tree,’ he said quietly. ‘I was looking for it. I thought . . . I thought perhaps I had read it wrong. Perhaps there was something in it, some clue I had missed.’

‘The lovers’ tree? What is that? What note?’

‘The note! Not written by my hand, and not by hers . . . whose then?
That
is the question!’ His hair was falling into his face and he scraped it back impatiently with fingers that shook.
He is exhausted.
Without thinking, Rachel moved towards him. She put one hand on his arm to still him, then took his hand and drew him towards his chair, surprised by the warmth of his skin.

‘Mr Alleyn, please come and sit down. Come and sit with me. You are overwrought,’ she said softly.
And now I hold that hand that would have choked the life from me
, she thought, wonderingly.
He would have killed me, and I am told he has killed another. Why then can’t I feel that, in my heart? Why don’t I believe he is a murderer?
As if caught off guard by her touch, Jonathan let himself be led. He sat down on the edge of the chair, still frowning absently, and when she took her hand away she felt his fingers cling to hers, just for a second, as though he would have liked the touch to remain. That harrowing look of pain and regret was in his eyes, and Rachel felt pity gnawing at the unease he caused her.

‘You were looking for a note from Alice? A note she left you?’ Rachel asked. With a swell of nerves, she saw her moment to ask. ‘Perhaps it is with all the other letters? I will search for it amongst them, if you tell me where?’ The words sounded so duplicitous to her own ears that her mouth went dry, but Jonathan didn’t seem to notice.

‘Other letters? What other letters?’ He shook his head, and when he spoke his voice was heavy with despair. ‘No, it was a note
for
Alice. Not written by me, but left in our secret place. A place only she could have told him about. The other . . . person.’

‘The lovers’ tree? It was a place you used to meet at?’ she asked, and Jonathan nodded. ‘And this . . . other person, who left her a note. You think that it was a sweetheart?’
Starling swore it could not be so. But if he saw a note?

‘I was told . . . I was told she’d been seen with another. I did not believe it, not for a heartbeat. Still, I do not . . . And yet . . . and yet . . .’ He shook his head, perplexed. ‘I found a note left for her, with a time and day to meet. It was not signed . . . but it was not in her hand. Who, then, was she to meet?’ he said, in quiet desperation. Rachel thought for a moment, her strange but ever strengthening loyalty to Alice Beckwith shaping her answer.

‘It could have been entirely innocent, could it not, Mr Alleyn? People are ever quick to impugn a lady for the most harmless of gestures . . .’

‘That’s why I wished to read it again! But I can’t find it . . . I’ve looked everywhere . . . I searched all night. What if I . . . what if I never saw it? What if my mind is playing tricks on me again?’ He chewed savagely at his lower lip, and Rachel saw a thin line of blood spring up where he tore the skin.

‘Stop. Stop doing that.’ She took his hand again, pulled it away from his mouth. ‘You’re exhausted, and you need to eat something . . .’

‘I will not eat until—’

‘You will eat, sir. I will see you do so, or I will come no more; for I won’t sit by and watch you sicken.’

‘Watch me sicken?’ He almost laughed. ‘Madam, I sickened years and years ago.’

‘That much I can see, and perhaps it is time for you to stop revelling in it so,’ said Rachel, crisply. Jonathan frowned as she went to the door and called to Dorcas to bring coffee, bread and cheese.

‘Let me have some wine if I must take something.’

‘It’s not yet noon, sir. And there are more than enough wine-soaked men in my life as it is.’ Jonathan watched her steadily as she came to sit back down. ‘Do not eye me so, sir. I know your opinion of my husband well enough; I’m sure I don’t need to explain any further.’

‘You are different today, Mrs Weekes. You are bolder.’

‘I am tired too, Mr Alleyn.’

‘The kind of tired that sleep does not cure?’

‘Yes. That kind.’ For a moment they looked at one another, and neither one blinked.

‘Then perhaps we begin to understand each other,’ Jonathan murmured at last. Rachel looked away, suddenly selfconscious.

When the tray was brought up Rachel had some coffee as well. She cut a thick slice of bread and topped it with cheese for Jonathan, and watched him steadily while he ate. He seemed to recover his appetite as he did so, reaching for more without her prompting. The hot drink steamed the window glass, obscuring the view of brown autumn trees and city roofs. It gave the impression of the room closing in around them, isolating them from the rest of the house, the rest of the world. Rachel was surprised to find this comforting.

‘You said to me before that you wished to unsee things you had seen, and undo things you had done,’ she said at last. ‘Will you tell me which things?’ Jonathan stopped eating at once, letting the last piece of bread fall from his fingers.

‘Why would you wish to hear such things?’

‘Because . . . because I do not understand you, Mr Alleyn. But I wish to. And because I think, perhaps, long years of holding these things to yourself, and staying silent, have not helped you to forget them. Perhaps if you spoke of them, if you shared them . . .’

‘You would take up half my burden for me?’ he said bitterly. Rachel watched him, silently. He chewed his final mouthful and swallowed it laboriously. ‘Such things are not fit for a woman’s ears.’

‘Oh, what is a woman, but a human being?’ Rachel replied, irritated. ‘You haven’t borne the knowledge with any great stoicism, or grace. Why should I fare any worse than you?’ Jonathan stared at her and, slowly, his face filled with something like dread, and she understood that some part of him wanted to speak, and yet feared to.

‘It is not the knowledge I must bear, but the deeds,’ he said. ‘I have never spoken of them.’

‘Try it, sir. Only try it, and then let us see,’ she said.

‘I don’t know where to start.’ Rachel thought quickly; to ask him outright about Alice would get her nowhere.

‘Tell me how your leg was injured. Tell me of that battle,’ she suggested.

‘Battle? No, indeed. It was at B . . .
Badajoz
.’

His voice failed him, as if the word were too much; it was spoken in a hoarse whisper, raw and fearful. ‘It was no battle. It was a hell on earth, a heinous orgy of destruction and grief . . . No.’ He shook his head vehemently. ‘I cannot start there, for that is the end, not the beginning.’

‘Tell me of the beginning of the war, then. I was still young, at that time. My father didn’t encourage me to hear much about it, but I saw news of our victories on the side of the mail coach. They would decorate it with ribbons, too.’

‘You were still young? As was I, Mrs Weekes, as was I. I was that concerned with assembling my baggage, and with turning out my horse just so, that I’d given almost no thought to fighting. To why we were going; to what a war would be. I had not known what it would be. Jars of coral tooth powder and pomade, with silver lids – that’s what I spent my last few days trying to find. Isn’t that a perfect folly? That’s what I thought I needed. A jar of hair pomade with a silver lid.’ He shook his head incredulously.