The Misbegotten (8 page)

‘Mr Weekes, how do you do?’ she said. A smile crowded his eyes with folds of pouched skin.

‘Mrs Weekes! I am all the better for seeing your lovely face, my dear. How do you do? And how fares my son?’

‘We are both very well, sir, thank you. I was just out walking . . .’

‘Very good, very good. I’m happy to see you again. And how are you finding our fair city of Bath? Is it to your liking?’ As he spoke, Duncan Weekes swayed, just a little. He peered at her closely, his eyes roving her face with a kind of meandering but relentless scrutiny that Rachel found almost intrusive. His breath was sour, and he spoke with a strong West Country accent.

‘Oh, very much, sir,’ she said. ‘I’d been here before, several times, with my family. It’s wonderful to become reacquainted with it.’

‘And where are your family now, my dear?’

‘They have . . . passed, I regret to tell,’ she said. Duncan Weekes’s face fell, and he nodded.

‘A sad thing, as well I know. You have my sympathies, my dear. Richard’s mother, my own dear Susanne, was taken far too soon, when Dick was still just a lad.’

‘Yes, he told me he scarcely knew his mother.’

‘Oh, he knew her well, and loved her better. But he was just eight years old when she died, so perhaps his memories of her grow dim,’ said the old man, sadly.

‘What was she like?’

‘Well, the handsome face my son inherits did not come from me, I dare say you can divine.’ He smiled. ‘To me she was as lovely as a summer’s day, though she had a temper that could scare the birds into flight five miles away, and a voice to match. So perhaps not a lady as refined as you, my dear, but a lady as dear to me as my own breath.’

‘I am not so very refined,’ Rachel demurred.

‘Oh, nonsense. Nonsense.’ The old man paused, and his eyes explored Rachel’s face again, full of that strange scrutiny. ‘Tell me . . . where did he find you?’

‘He . . . we . . .’ Rachel stammered, given pause by his odd turn of phrase. ‘I was governess to a client of his, outside Bath. It was there that we met.’

‘Outside Bath, you say? Well, well.’

Duncan Weekes paused, nodding in thought. ‘I could not be happier for my son, to have taken one such as you to wife. I have seen him strive to rise above the lowly situation of his birth . . . And he has done it, for certain. For how else would he win such a lady, if he had not made himself worthy?’ Duncan smiled again, but his eyes were full of questions. Rachel reflected for a moment, and thought of the long and lonely path that had led her to accept Richard’s proposal.
Would that it were as simple and true a matter as his fair face, his self-improvement, and my admiration of both.

‘I have wanted to apologise to you for . . . for the abrupt way in which my husband dealt with you at our wedding feast. I should have liked for you to join us, since we are family,’ she said, a touch awkwardly. Duncan Weekes hesitated before replying, and his tired eyes blurred a little.

‘Ah, but you are a kind girl, as well as a fine one. My son harbours a staunch grudge against me, and has these many years. He is angry with me. Aye, still angry.’ He shook his head.

‘But whatever for?’

‘Matters long past. The list is a long one, and there are doubtless things upon it that I do not even remember . . .’ Duncan trailed into silence, and looked away as if not wishing to meet her eye. Rachel was sure that she was not being told the whole truth.

‘Forgive me – it’s no business of mine what has passed between you. But I can see that it saddens you, and I’m sorry for it. Perhaps if I speak to my husband, sir . . . I might be able to persuade him to let bygones be bygones?’ she suggested.

‘Do not risk his displeasure on my behalf, Mrs Weekes,’ he said. Rachel considered for a moment, then took his hand and held it in hers. His fingers were thick, the knuckles ridged with old scars and arthritis. He seemed so tired, so sadly disordered; but his hand in hers soon felt conspicuous, and she was made uncomfortable by her own gesture.

‘I can make no promise of success, sir,’ she said. ‘But I understand the importance of family; I hate to see such a valuable thing cast aside, so I will try.’

Duncan Weekes suddenly looked uneasy. He cleared his throat, and his next words sounded wary.

‘Have a care, my dear; wiser not to speak of me to my son. Old wounds are not easily healed, and he has some of his mother’s temper, as well as her looks.’

‘I have never seen him show a temper,’ said Rachel, releasing his hand. She suppressed the urge to brush her fingers on her skirt.

‘Indeed?’ Duncan frowned, but then his expression softened. ‘And indeed, who could show a temper to someone as sweet and kind as you, my dear. Perhaps you might come and visit with me sometime? I should be honoured to have you . . . we might take a brandy together, to toast your marriage, since I was absent from the feast.’

‘I will have to ask my husband, of course, but I should like—’

‘If you ask him, he will refuse it,’ Duncan interrupted, anxious again. ‘He would be wroth with you and I both, my dear, if you ask him outright. He might even seek me out to offer a reprimand.’

‘I’m sure he would not, sir . . . and I must ask him – of course I must.’

‘Then that is a great pity, for I had hoped you might indeed come.’ Duncan Weekes tucked his fingers into his waistcoat pockets and looked away along the street, his face losing all animation. Rachel wasn’t sure what reply to make to him. The old man was shivering slightly.

‘You must carry on, sir, and not stand about to get chilled here in the street. But do give me your calling card, so that I will know where to go,’ she said.

‘My card? My card . . .’ he muttered, patting his pockets absently. ‘My card. Yes. I fear I have none, my dear. But I will tell you the place, if you can remember it?’ Rachel committed it to memory, and as she took her leave Duncan Weekes caught her hand again. ‘But do have a care, sweet girl,’ he said earnestly. ‘Do have a care.’

That night she lay close to Richard, after they had made love. She’d tried, as she did each time, to find the physical pleasure that her mother had hinted at, on the few occasions when they’d spoken of marriage and what Rachel could expect. But while there was no longer any pain, there was no real pleasure either. Nothing other than a faint ache that she was curious to explore; a feeling that might be satisfying to pursue, like the pressing of a bruise. But Richard had always come to his climax, gasping for breath in the crook of her neck, before she’d had a chance to examine the feeling properly. She told herself that she was happy to give satisfaction, without needing to take any for herself, but at the same time couldn’t help but feel mildly disappointed.

But the warmth of Richard’s body, lying tangled with hers, was comforting. He felt solid, and real; something like an anchor when she had started to feel oddly cut adrift. She clasped her fingers tightly into the dense flesh of his shoulders, and pressed her cheek into the top of his head.

‘Are you all right, Rachel?’ he whispered.

‘Yes, my love,’ she said. She felt him smile.

‘That’s the first time you’ve called me that. Called me your love,’ he said.

‘Do you like me to?’

‘Very much so. I like it . . . very much.’ Richard’s voice was muffled, but she could hear that he was moved. She kissed his hair, and shut her eyes tight, suddenly afraid that she would start crying. She could not have said what the tears were for. ‘Are you . . . are you happy, here? With me? You have no regrets?’ he asked. Rachel did not answer at once, and Richard pulled back, rising onto his elbows above her so that she could just make out the shape of his face in the weak light from the street outside. ‘Rachel?’ he said anxiously. She put up her hand, cupped it around his chin.

‘I have no regrets,’ she said, hoping that this answer, to only part of his question, would be enough. Richard smiled again, and kissed her hand.

‘You are an angel, my love,’ he said, his voice thickening with somnolence. He returned his head to her shoulder, his chin digging into her collarbone, and was asleep within moments.

Rachel lay awake a long while. She could smell the faint grease of Richard’s hair, and the bitter tang of the coal smuts in the grate.
When he plants a child within me, my love for him will grow along with it. Then we will truly be a family, and all will be well.
Through the walls came sounds of movement and words; the bass rumbling of a man’s voice, raised in anger. The wooden skeleton of the building creaked with footsteps. A cold draught seeped in around the window frame, and touched Rachel’s face with a promise of the winter that was coming. When she slept, it was to dream of a sparkling river, fast running and lively with sunlight. She both loved and feared this river, in her dream, with a foreboding like gathering thunderclouds. She seemed to hover above the water’s surface, suspended somehow; she heard a shout of fear, and it wasn’t her voice. There was a smell of green summer all around, and the notion that the pretty river wanted something from her.

The next morning, Rachel waited until Richard had had something to eat and drink before she raised the subject of his father. He was often sullen and unhappy first thing after waking, and she had quickly learnt not to talk too much, or too loudly, until he had breakfasted. She fetched him slices of bread spread with honey, and some boiled eggs, putting them down around him as he stared at the table top and swigged from a tankard of ale.

‘You won’t guess who I chanced upon yesterday,’ she said, lightly, when the moment seemed right.

‘Oh?’ The word was spoken low, and barely interested.

‘Your father, Duncan Weekes.’ Rachel sat down opposite Richard, and her smile faltered in the face of his bleak expression. ‘We happened upon one another in the street, and . . .’ She trailed off. ‘He asked after you. Asked how you were,’ she said instead.

‘It is no business of his how I am, and you’ve no business talking to him. About me, or about anything else for that matter.’ Richard’s voice was low, but his words shocked Rachel.

‘But, my dear, he is your
father
! And since I have none, he is my father now too—’

‘No, Rachel! He is
not
your father! Not one whit!’

‘Haven’t we spoken of the pain of losing family, Mr Weekes? Haven’t we spoken of how important such people are, and how we wish to be a family to one another?’

‘I have disowned that man. He is no longer my father! Do you understand?’ Richard thumped the table top with his hand, making the cutlery and his wife jump. Rachel’s heart hammered, but she persevered; she was sure she had the right of it, that she could persuade him.
Have a care.
She remembered Duncan Weekes’s words, but rejected them.

‘No, I do not understand. What can he possibly have done to turn you away from him like this? And . . . even if you feel yourself aggrieved . . . he is but an old man, and clearly poor and in need of our charity . . .’

‘If I feel myself aggrieved?
Do you doubt me, then? Do you think I would turn away from my father on a
whim
?’ Richard’s voice was rough with anger; he jabbed a finger at her as he spoke. ‘How dare you? That man would not be half so poor if he did not drink his every wage within a day of being paid it! He is a sot, and a fool, and he has blighted my life in ways you can’t possibly imagine! He killed my mother – did he tell you that? So do not seek to lecture me on how I should or should not treat him! You will have nothing to do with him, or by God I will hear about it!’

Rachel flinched away from him, from his raised voice and his pointing finger, and the anger stringing his body as tight as piano wire. She was robbed of speech by the shock of it; she had never been spoken to that way before, had never even heard such anger before. Richard glared at her, then picked up his mug to take another swig of ale, as Rachel simply sat and stared, her cheeks flaming and her mouth and mind empty of words. She was still trying in vain to find something to say when Richard stood and drained his drink. ‘I must be gone,’ he said, calmly but coldly. ‘Let us hear no more about this.’ He strode from the room with a scowl on his face, and Rachel sat in his wake feeling as though she’d been stripped naked in public – outraged and ashamed. It took a long time for her heartbeat to return to normal, and for her fingers to stop shaking.

Nine nights since Dick Weekes’s wedding and still Starling could not sleep. She lay on her narrow bed in the flawless dark of her room, and listened to Sol Bradbury huffing and mumbling in her sleep. There was a stale smell, sharp and feral, rising from her own body, and she realised she’d forgotten to wash. She clenched her fists tight, angry with herself. She’d been sleepwalking through the days since she set eyes on Dick’s new wife – on that face – with only a small portion of her mind tuned to any task and the remainder caught up in what she had seen, and what it might mean. One day she hadn’t noticed that the spit jack was jammed, and a shoulder of pork had been charred to cinders on one side. She’d ruined three gallons of ginger beer by adding too much yeast, so that those bottles that hadn’t exploded tasted vile. Even cheerful Sol had started to tut and sigh at her vacant expression and distracted frown.

When Starling pictured Dick Weekes’s bride, her breathing quickened involuntarily. She pictured large, heavy-lidded blue eyes, high cheekbones and a pointed chin with just the hint of dimple in it, a small, neat mouth, a stony pallor on smooth skin, and pale hair the colour of fresh cream. It could not be a coincidence. There had to be some meaning to this woman’s sudden appearance in Bath, and there certainly had to be some way in which Starling could use her. This was the chance she’d been waiting for, the chance she’d been longing for. She was not yet sure what would happen but the first step, she decided as the solid black of night began to pale, was that Dick Weekes must introduce his wife to Mrs Josephine Alleyn, mistress of the house on Lansdown Crescent. There was no other way that this new Mrs Weekes could be brought into the house, no way Jonathan Alleyn could be confronted with her alarming face, than by her first being seen by his mother, Josephine.