The Misbegotten (38 page)

She went with Harriet Sutton and Cassandra to buy new shoes with the money Mrs Alleyn had given her, on a day of such pervading chill that the chief topic of conversation was the distant dream of the coming spring and summer; the picnics and boat trips they would take together; the short-sleeved dresses they would wear, the flowers in their hat bands.

‘With the coins she gave you, you could buy a far finer pair,’ said Harriet, as the cobbler measured Rachel’s feet, and she chose a style from his design book.

‘I know. But this way we can all go and have tea afterwards, and I can treat us to cakes to go with it. If you would like to?’

‘Oh, can we?’ said Cassandra, her face lighting up.

‘Those old shoes of mine were far too lightweight for walking right across the city two times in the week, as I now must. A simple, sturdy pair like this will serve far better.’

‘And Mr Weekes will not mind? Your spending money on us?’ Harriet asked this quietly, for Rachel’s ears only.

‘He will not know of it,’ she replied. ‘And if he did, why should he begrudge me the rare pleasure of entertaining friends? I know, in truth, that he wishes me to be out in society more.’

‘Oh, I am sure he would not begrudge it.’ Harriet smiled again, but her eyes showed some misgiving. ‘But perhaps we are not quite the society he would encourage you into.’
She thinks of the money he lost at cards, and she knows it was not the first time. She knows how he hoped I would make him richer.
Rachel found that she was not embarrassed by this, but grateful for her friend’s understanding. ‘It is an adjustment, is it not?’ Harriet went on, kindly. ‘The pocket money my father used to give me was far more than I had to spend during my first years as Captain Sutton’s wife.’

‘Well, perhaps that is also true for me. But it has been many years since I had any money to spend whatsoever. Do not discourage me from enjoying a small bonus such as this,’ said Rachel, with a smile.

‘Oh don’t, Mama! Don’t discourage her,’ said Cassandra imploringly. She turned from examining the many-coloured swatches of fabric and leather on the counter, her black hair swinging like a sombre pennant.

‘Listen to how she pleads! I never knew a girl more enamoured of cake as this one,’ said Harriet. ‘Or one so spoilt by her parents to have become so.’ Cassandra widened her eyes, quite artfully, her demeanour gravely slighted. ‘See how she tricks me!’ Harriet laughed.

‘Cassandra, my dear girl, I can think of no better reason to trick your mother than for cake,’ said Rachel mischievously. ‘But in this instance you are quite safe – no such tactics are needed. Cake will be had.’ The little girl went back to the swatches, and Rachel smiled at her mother. ‘Let me, dear Mrs Sutton, to thank you for all of your many small kindnesses since we met,’ she said.

But Rachel could not stay away from Lansdown Crescent for good. Jonathan Alleyn took a deep breath when he saw her.

‘I didn’t think you would come again,’ he said stiffly.

‘Well,’ said Rachel, as she stepped into his study. She wrinkled her nose. ‘The stink of that . . . liquid still lingers.’

‘The ethanol . . . I know. Starling has scrubbed and scrubbed, much to her distaste. But to no avail.’

‘I daresay it will fade, in time.’

‘As will the memory of what caused it, I hope. Mrs Weekes,’ he said, looking down at the offending patch of floor. ‘Mrs Weekes, forgive me. To behave in such a manner was . . .’

‘Unforgivable?’ she supplied. Jonathan glanced up in dismay, and relaxed a little when he caught the humour in Rachel’s eyes.

‘Yes. Unforgivable. But here you are. I am . . . glad.’

‘Your temper is your enemy, sir. You must not let it command you.’

‘Yes. It was not always so, but . . .’ He rubbed at his face, then yawned uncontrollably.

‘Have you still not slept since I saw you last?’ said Rachel, incredulously.

‘Perhaps I have . . . a little. I don’t remember.’ He looked up again with a bitter smile. ‘Sleep is the soul’s ease, remember, and I have none.’

‘Let’s not have this again. I do not believe we can lose our souls, or even that they can change. Like life, they are God-given, and immutable, and if I risk another of your rages to say so, then so be it. But perhaps the soul may be wounded; perhaps it may sicken, and retreat deep inside us,’ said Rachel. Jonathan slumped, as if her words exhausted him.

‘Some things are easy to say, more difficult to prove.’ He turned away and sat in the chair behind his desk, staring listlessly at the clutter that covered it.

Rachel thought for a moment, and then went to the shelves. ‘Do you mean to cast another of my specimens at me, in revenge?’ said Jonathan.

‘No. I mean to show you some proof.’ She held out her hand to him, and in her palm sat the clockwork copper mouse. ‘You were meditating on what made people, and animals, different from automata, you told me. Was it really necessary to craft such an exquisite toy in the process? Or did you do it for the pleasure of it?’

‘I . . . I don’t know.’ He frowned.

‘This is a beautiful thing, Mr Alleyn. Truly, a beautiful thing, and it came from within you. From your heart and soul to your hand.’ Rachel wound the key and watched the little mouse run. Jonathan watched it too.

‘I was thinking of Alice, when I made it,’ he said. ‘She loved . . . all creatures. Small, furry things; helpless things. She had a pet harvest mouse for a while, when she was a child. It had lost a leg to the farmer’s scythe, and she nursed it. She kept it in a tinder box, and named it Harold.’ He paused, watching the mouse run as if he’d never seen it before. ‘Did you ever hear such a ridiculous name for a mouse?’ He smiled at the memory. Rachel swallowed, ever uneasy in the face of his shifting emotions. They seemed to race through him like clouds in a blustery sky.

‘There, then,’ she said softly. ‘It is as I said. Your soul is intact, sir. It’s only your heart that’s broken.’ Jonathan Alleyn gave her a long look, and when the copper mouse stopped running he took it from her, and held it in his cupped hands. ‘You . . . you slept once before, as I read to you, Mr Alleyn. I wonder if you might again?’ she said.

‘I’m in no mood for poetry, Mrs Weekes,’ said Jonathan. ‘And sleeping in this chair makes my body ache.’

‘I brought something other than poetry to read today. Something to take your thoughts away from your own troubles, and fix them on far-off times and places. Why not recline, while I read it?’

‘You mean to tuck me into bed like a child?’

‘I mean to do no such thing. But if it’s sleep we’re aiming for, then you may take yourself to bed without fear of embarrassing me.’

Jonathan watched her steadily for a while, and then rubbed at his eyes so fiercely that he turned them red. He rose unsteadily and crossed to the far end of the room, to the doorway that led through to his shadowy sleeping quarters. There he paused.

‘When I thought you would not come again, I . . . I liked it not. Will you . . . will you come again soon, Mrs Weekes?’ he said. Rachel faltered to hear him sound so vulnerable.
Does he need me, now?

‘As soon as you wish it, Mr Alleyn,’ she said. Jonathan nodded, and turned away from her. Rachel heard the bed creak as he lay down upon it.

‘Whatever it is you plan to read, I’ll hear precious little of it if you remain right over there,’ he called out to her. Rachel approached the darkened threshold, and knew that she must not cross it. She fetched the chair from his desk and positioned it near the doorway, then took out the book she’d brought with her, brand new, the spine pristine.

‘I haven’t read this yet myself, so we will begin it together. It’s a novel by Sir Walter Scott, and the title is
Ivanhoe
.’

‘A novel? I don’t care for novels.’

‘How many have you read?’ she countered, and was met with silence. ‘As I thought. A good many gentlemen claim to have no interest and find no merit in a fictional story, when they haven’t given themselves the proper chance to sample one,’ she said.

‘Men’s minds have greater cares and responsibilities than women’s. What is there to be gained from wasting time reading the fancies of others? Such things are for the entertainment of young boys.’

‘Listen, and perhaps you will find out what’s to be gained,’ Rachel replied, tartly. There was a loaded silence from the unlit room, and so she began to read.

She read for an hour or more, until her mouth was dry and she had reached that state of deep tranquillity that came when she was carried away by a piece of writing. Finding herself at a natural pause in the text, she listened. From the darkness the only sound was of heavy, regular breathing.
He sleeps.
Rachel closed her eyes for a moment, filled with a powerful sense of satisfaction. Before leaving she sat a while in silence, and found herself wishing she might look in on him in his sleep, and see his face in repose for once, free from anger and fear and misery.

Starling had been waiting for Mrs Weekes to quit the house for a good long while. Her visits to Jonathan seemed to grow longer every time, and Starling struggled to find good reasons to remain within earshot of the front door closing. When at last she heard it, she darted quickly up the servants’ stair and caught the woman’s attention with a stifled hiss. Mrs Weekes turned quickly, with a startled expression that was almost like guilt. Starling was suspicious at once, and realised how flimsy a thing her trust yet was. It bothered her that she knew not what passed between Jonathan and Mrs Weekes in his rooms.
Does she keep things from me?
Mrs Weekes was so pale; walked with her back so straight and her shoulders so still.
She walks like a statue might. Like an effigy of Alice.
Next to her, Starling felt short and scruffy. She felt again like the guttersnipe she’d once been, and it made her prickly, defensive.

Together, they walked a short distance away from the house, keeping close to the high wall of the garden so that they would not be seen from inside, then turned to face one another.

‘Well, then,’ said Starling, for want of a better commencement.

‘Well. Your face has finally healed; I’m glad to see it,’ said Mrs Weekes.

‘I’ve healed far worse wounds in my time. You’ve said nothing to Dick Weekes? Good,’ she said, when Rachel Weekes shook her head. ‘And what did you discover from Mr Alleyn today? Have you found Alice’s letters?’

‘No. I mentioned them to him some days ago but he . . . he didn’t know what I was talking about. Starling, I don’t think he has them. He was looking for something in particular, though – a note he said he found in the lovers’ tree. Do you know of such a place? He said there was a note to arrange an assignation, left in that place, but not written by him or by Alice – though it was addressed
to
Alice.’

‘He’s lying,’ Starling said at once, though the news made her stomach turn over.
There can’t have been.

‘He was confused . . . he seemed to think it might be a letter sent to Alice from the man she eloped with. He’d been searching for it in his room; he wanted to read it again in case it would tell him something new. But how could it, after so many years?’

‘It’s
you
, Mrs Weekes. The way you look so much like her . . . You’re bringing it all back to him.’
As you are bringing it all back to me.

‘But why has he not mentioned this note before? To anyone?’

‘It is an invention. There’s no such note, and Alice had no other lover. He seeks to deceive you, Mrs Weekes!’

‘It did not seem that way. He was not calculating. He was frantic . . . confused . . .’

‘In what way confused?’ Starling demanded. Mrs Weekes seemed taken aback by her tone – she was always so sensitive, yet so measured. It ruffled Starling all the more, and impatience gnawed at her every thought.

‘He . . . he did say he wasn’t sure he had seen this letter, truly. But it seemed to me that he had.’ Rachel Weekes sounded uncertain.

‘Well, how can you be sure if he had, if he is not sure and the note cannot be found?’ said Starling, tersely. When Mrs Weekes made no reply she took a deep breath to calm down, clenching her teeth.
I should not have encouraged this woman to interfere.
Dick’s wife was disturbing things – upsetting the fine balance she’d wrought between Jonathan’s sanity and his madness; tipping it the wrong way. Rachel Weekes wore a reproachful look on her pale, serious face.

‘He spoke of your pranks. “One of Starling’s little pranks”, he said, when he mentioned the stink in his rooms the first time I called. What do you suppose he meant by that?’

‘How should I know what he meant? He is only half sane at the best of times, and hardly knows what he’s saying.’ Guilt nudged at her. Somehow, knowing that Jonathan was aware of her persecution made her feel almost embarrassed; like a child caught out.

‘He doesn’t seem mad to me. Only . . . disturbed,’ Rachel Weekes said stubbornly. ‘Sick in spirit.’

‘Aren’t they one and the same thing? You have a very forgiving soul, Mrs Weekes, or perhaps it is only a short memory.’

‘I have not forgotten how he attacked me; believe me, I have not. But he was not himself that day. As I come to know him a little better, I can see that he was not himself.’

‘And what of more recently, and the smashed jar? He was not drunk then – why did he attack you?’

‘I . . . we were speaking of love and fate, and of . . . selfmurder.’

‘You condemned it?’ said Starling.

‘Of course I did,’ said Rachel Weekes. Starling grunted.

‘Well, that would do it.’ She glanced up at the woman’s incomprehension, and took a deep breath. ‘He tried to end his own life. A few years ago.’

It was after his mother ordered all caches of opium removed from his rooms, and he was locked inside to rail and curse against her and God and the world. For days the door stayed locked, and nobody went in to him. Wild sounds of destruction were heard; vile curses bellowed out in pain and rage. Starling saw Josephine Alleyn standing with her back against his door, listening in silence, all ashen and clammy with anguish. When peace returned they opened the door just long enough to push through a tray of food and water. And so it continued.