The Misbegotten (50 page)

‘Yes, Mrs Alleyn. I thought it would be beneficial . . .’

‘So it was your idea, and not Jonathan’s?’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘I see. And do you think it was proper of you, to suggest such a thing? My son is an unmarried man . . .’

‘But I am a married woman, Mrs Alleyn, and retained as companion to your son.’

‘To read to him within this house, as I recall our arrangement.’

‘Forgive me, Mrs Alleyn. I had not meant to cause offence. I only hoped to cheer your son with some fresh air, and a change of . . . vista. I understood that my role was to cheer him.’

‘To cheer him, perhaps. Not to flirt with him, and expose him to public ridicule.’

‘What ridicule have I exposed him to, Mrs Alleyn?’ Rachel was at a loss. The accusation made her even more nervous.

‘Cajoling him into leaving the house – for I cannot imagine he went willingly – when his appearance is so dishevelled, and his health so reduced. And on the arm of the wine man’s wife! Not to mention in your current state of . . . injury.’ She nodded to indicate the cut on Rachel’s lip, still visible though the bruising had faded. ‘I’m surprised at your boldness, going about so openly with your face thus disordered. And what if he had fallen, or taken a chill? Do you have any idea how disastrous that could be for my son?’

Rachel stood in stunned silence for a moment. Without raising her voice or changing her tone, Josephine Alleyn had thoroughly upbraided her, and cut her to the quick.
The wine man’s wife.
Her cheeks burned in humiliation, but she felt a spark of defiance as well.

‘Forgive me, Mrs Alleyn. If I . . . overstepped my role, I am truly sorry. But it seemed to me, in fact I am sure, that the walk did Mr Alleyn a power of good. We walked out of the city and onto the common, so as to suffer no unwanted scrutiny.’

‘You walked the length of the crescent before you reached the common, however. Do you have any idea how the neighbours watch me? Watch
us
, my son and I? They are
always
watching, and wagging their tongues.’

‘Such . . . rumours and falsehoods that are spread about your son can only have been undermined by seeing him in the flesh, and well enough to walk out, surely, Mrs Alleyn?’

‘You were asked to read to him, Mrs Weekes. Nothing more.’

‘Yes, Mrs Alleyn.’ Josephine Alleyn watched her calmly for another long moment, then blinked slowly and turned her head away. At once, the tension in the room seemed to lessen, and Rachel breathed a little easier.

‘If it is true, what you say, and my son was revitalised by this walk, then he will be encouraged to walk more often. Properly attired, of course. But it is not for you to accompany him, Mrs Weekes,’ said Josephine.

‘I do not think he would like to walk by himself,’ Rachel murmured. Josephine’s gaze returned to her at once.

‘Then I shall walk with him. Or I will invite one of his gentlemen friends to do so.’

‘Yes, Mrs Alleyn.’

‘I hear from your tone that you don’t think he will go with them. Do you think you have special powers over him, Mrs Weekes?’

‘No, Mrs Alleyn. No special powers; or powers of any kind. Only the . . . beginnings of trust, and friendship.’

‘Trust? And he does not trust me, you mean to say? His own mother?’

‘I am sure he does, madam,’ said Rachel, hastily.
My mother lies.

‘And how does this trust show itself to you? Tell me. Does he confide in you? What does he speak to you about, if you have not been reading all these weeks, but making friends instead?’

‘He speaks of his experiences in the war . . . Of their terrible nature. He speaks of growing up, and of his grandfather.’ Rachel met Josephine Alleyn’s cool gaze and hesitated before going on. ‘He speaks of Alice Beckwith, and the loss of her.’

Josephine Alleyn reared backwards slightly, as though Rachel had struck her, but she quickly recovered herself.

‘How could he not, when you look so much like the wretched girl?’ she said tersely.

‘Forgive me, Mrs Alleyn, but I had understood that it was my resemblance to Abi that led you to engage me here in the first place?’

‘Abi? Who is this Abi?’

‘Abi?’ Rachel blinked, startled. ‘Alice. I meant to say Alice.’

‘And so it was. But I think now . . . I think now that perhaps that was a mistake.’ She watched Rachel carefully for her reaction, and Rachel struggled to keep her face composed when fear sizzled through her, so quick and surprising that the hair on the back of her neck stood up.

‘I think that it is partly not knowing exactly what . . . became of Alice that hinders his recovery, and keeps his mind trapped in . . . circles of questioning, and wondering,’ she said.

‘What do you mean, not knowing what became of her? She eloped. She disgraced herself and insulted my family. What more is there to know?’ Josephine frowned in consternation.

‘Miss Beckwith wrote to him before she disappeared. A letter that reached him in Brighton, just after he landed back from Spain—’

‘A letter? Impossible!’ For the first time, Josephine Alleyn’s voice rose, and colour appeared in her cheeks. ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Weekes. It is . . . painful for me to speak of that girl. After what she did. And after we learned of her intentions towards Jonathan, she was forbidden to contact him. I had assumed that she would have enough respect for my father to comply with his wishes.’

‘You knew, of course, of the profound affection that existed between your son and Miss Beckwith.’

‘He was young. He . . . his head was turned by her. That was all. He could never have wed the girl, it would have made him a laughing stock.’ Josephine twitched her skirts, though they were perfectly draped. ‘Pray tell me, what did the girl say in this letter to Brighton?’ The question was carefully spoken, her composure impenetrable once more.

‘I do not know exactly, Mrs Alleyn, other than that she wrote to break off all connection with your son.’

‘Well. Strange that she had the decency to do that, before acting so abominably.’

‘Strange indeed,’ said Rachel, attempting to emulate Josephine’s tonelessness. She didn’t altogether manage it. Mrs Alleyn watched her for a while, as if thinking something over. Then, to Rachel’s surprise, the older woman smiled benignly.

‘My dear Mrs Weekes, forgive me if this conversation has seemed . . . censorious in tone. But I take my son’s wellbeing, and my family’s good name, most seriously. It would be to the greater good if from this day you consulted with me beforehand on all matters regarding any extra . . . activities. Stick to reading, Mrs Weekes. I know what’s best for my son. And perhaps it would be more . . . tactful of you not to encourage him to speak so openly about private, family matters.’

‘Yes, Mrs Alleyn,’ said Rachel, when it became clear that she would not be released without having agreed.

‘You may go up to him now.’ Mrs Alleyn waved her fingertips in an elegant gesture of dismissal. Rachel turned and left her, on legs that felt shaky after the encounter. She couldn’t tell if what she felt was anger, fear, or embarrassment.

She climbed the stairs, through the column of old air that ran through the Alleyns’ house like slow, dying blood. It caught in her chest, and she was gasping by the time she reached Jonathan’s rooms. He was there to open the door for her, ready for her knock. He smiled, but then cocked his head quizzically at her breathlessness.

‘I might come down next time, to meet with you. We needn’t always stay in my rooms. Although, I do prefer to be away from . . . prying eyes,’ he said, and Rachel shook her head. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

‘Abi! I said Abi, instead of Alice . . . just now, to your mother . . .’ Rachel spoke almost to herself, and shook her head again, in disbelief. She swallowed. There was a hard lump in her throat; her face felt hot and ugly.

‘Abi? Who’s Abi?’ Something about hearing her sister’s name on Jonathan’s lips was so sweet that Rachel couldn’t stand it. Her chest shook, and tears wet her face.

‘Why do you weep? Come.’ He took her hands and led her to the armchair by the window. ‘Sit. Tell me what has happened.’ Rachel sat down and pressed her eyes with her fingertips.

‘Your mother . . .’ she began, but couldn’t decide what to say.

‘My mother what?’ said Jonathan, bleakly. Rachel looked down at his long-fingered hands, cradling hers, and tried to calm down. Outside, the wind tossed the trees and seethed through the cracks and corners of the city, sounding like a hungry ocean. The house creaked and shifted around them, as draughts nosed through doors and windows, down chimneys and under roof tiles.

‘No . . . it’s nothing. It’s only . . . she questioned me just now, on the wisdom of our . . . recent walk . . .’

‘And this questioning has left you in tears?’ He spoke angrily, ever ready to flare up against his mother.

‘No! No, it was not that . . . I made a mistake, that’s all. We were talking about . . . about Alice. And I said my sister’s name instead.’

‘Your sister? I had no idea you had a sister – you’ve never mentioned her.’

‘She . . . is lost. Drowned. It’s thought by everyone – everyone but me – that she has been dead these twenty-six years . . .’

‘Then she must have been a tiny child when she was lost.’

‘Yes. Not yet three years old, and swept away by a river in spate.’

‘But that is a bitter cruelty, to have lost a sister and a brother both. And her name was Abi?’

‘Yes. Abigail. But don’t you see?’ Rachel stared into Jonathan’s face, searching it, hoping that he would make the connection.
If he thinks it could be true, then it could be. It could be
. But Jonathan only looked puzzled. ‘Abigail was my twin sister; identical to me. Nobody is quite sure of . . . the details of Alice’s birth. She was delivered into Bridget’s care as a child of around three years,
not
as a baby. Abi was carried away by the By Brook, which runs to join the Avon at Bathampton . . . And . . . and . . . our
faces
, Jonathan! We wear the same face!’

For a long moment neither one of them spoke. Rachel’s tears went cold and stiff as they dried. She hardly dared to breathe, and then Jonathan stood and turned to the window, folding his arms. His shoulders were broad, sharp protuberances under the faded blue cloth of his coat; he’d tied his hair back with a thin black ribbon at the nape of his neck.

‘I don’t know . . .’ he said at last, quietly. ‘It is a strange thought, that Alice might have had a sister, and that you are she.’ He turned to face her again. ‘I can understand why you would want it to be so.’

‘I have always felt that she was not gone . . . Throughout my life, I have always felt Abigail’s presence in the back of my mind, and heard her voice, like a shadow, but one that comforts me . . .’

‘Her shadow indeed, perhaps. Many people believe that our loved ones never truly leave us.’

‘No, it is more than that . . . I can’t explain it very well. There was a bond between us, something special and strange. And I never truly felt that bond break, though I can hardly remember having her with me; I can hardly remember those days. Yet I never truly
felt
her to be gone.’ She gazed up at Jonathan imploringly, longing for him to believe it too. When she saw doubt in his eyes, her throat ached.

He sat beside her again, took up her hands and pressed her fingertips to his lips, and again his kiss made her feel both weak and strong, and quietened all her thoughts.

‘You have Alice’s kind heart. And you have the mirror of her face, but there are many differences between you. You are taller, and stronger in frame. You are stronger in other ways too . . . you have greater resolve. You are braver . . .’ he said.

‘All that could be the result of growing up, surely; of growing older?’

‘And why would my grandfather take in and sponsor a foundling child, of unknown parentage? He was generous to his own, but he was no great philanthropist . . .’

‘Abigail . . . Abigail was the sweeter of us two. My mother always said so. She was the sunnier, the more ready to laugh. Perhaps she charmed him, and he took pity on her . . .’

‘If anybody could have charmed Grandfather, it was Alice,’ Jonathan conceded. ‘But it does not stand to reason, my dear Mrs Weekes. How would he have come by her?’

‘By serendipity! By that same force that means I might find her now, after so many years, and after I thought myself cut off from family for the rest of my days. By
that
same force! For there must be some balance, some fairness, must there not? We can’t always suffer only loss, and never also feel God’s kindnesses, can we?’

‘God’s kindnesses?’ Jonathan echoed, with a bitter smile. ‘Dear girl, I don’t believe in any such thing. Some balance? Some fairness? No. There is none to be had.’ Rachel hung her head, but then felt his fingers lifting her chin towards him. His face was mere inches away, and in the light from the window she saw coppery flecks in his irises, hidden till then. ‘Take this current unfairness, for example. For years I have punished myself for the things I have done. And how is this balanced? That you seek me out, and find me, and yet come to me already wed to the least worthy man I can think of. And you speak of God’s kindnesses?’

Rachel opened her mouth to answer but it was empty of words. There was only the shine of light in his eyes and the feel of his skin against hers. All sensation, all awareness, seemed to crowd into the places where he touched her, so that nothing was missed, nothing not noticed.
He regrets that I am wed.
As simply as that, her mind cleared of all other hopes and fears, leaving a sudden, perfect clarity that, while it lasted, felt like the answer to everything.
If he kissed me now, I would be his.
Part of her yearned for him to do so, but behind that came relief when he did not. This relief clamoured to be heard; it grew into the perfect calm of the moment like threads of ice growing into water. It was fearful relief, it had doubts; it sent her the black, frightening thought that the hand now holding hers was the one that had taken her sister’s life.
If that is true, I will know he is right – there are no kindnesses in this world. But I must know.