BONE HOUSE (13 page)

I
n the morning I go directly to my mistress. To my relief, I find her awake and somewhat improved from the previous day, though she remains only the shadow of her former self. When I enter she is sitting up in bed, propped against her cushions, staring toward the window. Cook has evidently brought her breakfast, for she clutches a small tankard tightly in her hands. She startles when she hears me, spilling some of the ale upon the bedclothes, but does not appear to notice. She turns her eyes full upon me, and I see that they are glazed with illness, like boiled sweets.

“It is you,” she says slowly. “How long you’ve been away.” Her voice is heavy with the burden of infirmity.

“I’m sorry, mum. I shall not leave you today,” I reply, taking a seat beside the bed. I have already resolved to forgo any more sessions with the painter; he cannot possibly need me further, now that he has seen his subject in the flesh. My mistress waves a hand as if to say it is no matter. She takes a sip of ale and her hand trembles as she lifts the cup to her withered lips.

“Edward remains with the painter today,” she says after a moment.

“Yes, mum,” I murmur.

“I cannot think why I wished my own portrait to be done,” she says. “I feel that if he paints me in my present state he will rob what little life is left.” She smiles wanly at me.

“No, mum. I’m sure that is not so,” I say, but believe that she is right. At any rate, there is no question of her sitting for him, as she is far too weak.

“They found her body, did they not?” she says suddenly.

I pause. “Yes, mum.”

“I overheard the others,” she says. I wonder what else she has heard.

“She will be buried again soon,” I say cautiously.

“A body must be laid to rest,” she says, her eyes wide. Does she speak of herself? She turns to me.

“Edward was fond of her, you know,” she says point-blank. I stare at her a moment before replying.

“No, mum, I did not,” I lie.

She sighs, looks down at the half-empty cup in her lap as if she does not recognize it. “He did not wish it to be known. But a mother has her ways.”

“There were many who admired her,” I say, somewhat at a loss for words.

“I thought perhaps that he might take a wife . . . now that she is gone.” She turns her watery gaze to me.

“Yes, mum. It is possible.” Such a thing could not be more unlikely, I think.

“I should like to see him settled before I die,” she continues. “It is true that he has lost his youth. But he is generous of spirit, and kind of heart. His disfigurement has made him so.” She looks at me for concurrence.

“Yes, mum. He has been a good master to us all.”

“He would make an even better husband. Loyal. And rue.” Suddenly her meaning becomes clear, for it is me she has in mind.

“Yes, mum. I’m sure he would,” I stammer.

She sighs and looks away toward the window. “He has never known the love of a woman. It would be a great tragedy if he never did.”

I think of his unbridled passion, his obsessive longing for the great-bellied woman. She does not know her son is capable of such ardor, nor that he has struggled like a web-caught insect in its grasp.

“Of course there is no question of children,” she continues in a rambling tone. “One would not want the risk. And like his father, he would not be equal to the stress. But there are other things to occupy a woman’s time. A household to run. A husband to serve. These things are ample enough reward.”

“Yes, mum,” I murmur, for her mind strays now, and she does not appear to hear me.

“She would have a title. And wealth. And would bring honor to her family.” She turns back to me pointedly. In a flash I think of my mother and the closed circle of her world. My mother dwells outside the realm of wealth and titles, has no need for them, and even less desire.

“Shall I read to you, mum?” I say.

“No,” she says quietly.

“You must rest now then,” I tell her.

“Yes.” I take the cup from her, and as I turn away she reaches out a bony hand to grasp my arm. Her grip is surprisingly strong, and I feel a little rush of panic as she pulls me back to face her.

“You will see to it when I am gone?” she asks, her tone desperate. I look deeply into the well of her eyes; they are awash with delirium.

“Yes, mum,” I say. She lies back against the cushion, but does not let go my arm, as if her hand is somehow disconnected from the rest of her. Then, as if an afterthought, she relaxes her grip and closes her eyes, and I take up the tray and hurry from the room.

When I arrive in the kitchen, Cook shakes her head at the tray. “She is not long,” she says with characteristic brevity.

“She may yet recover,” I reply, for I can still feel the claw of her iron grip upon my forearm.

“Death is with her now,” says Cook. “He is there, in that
room.” It is true, for I had felt it the minute I entered—a sense of decay and imminent doom. Cook shakes her head again and I see that she has assembled a bunch of medicinal herbs on the table. But they are not the usual sort, the ones that cure: they are herbs used to relieve pain and suffering, to ease one’s passage into death.

“Perhaps we should send for Lucius,” I say tentatively. Cook shrugs and lifts a cauldron of water onto the hook over the fire.

“Do what you will,” she says. “He can do nothing for her now.”

I go at once to see my master, to inform him of his mother’s condition. I find him in a state of total disarray. There is a wildness in his eyes, as if he has not slept in days. His clothes are crumpled and his face is unshaven, and his desk is a mass of open books and scattered papers. When I tell him that his mother’s condition has worsened he looks at me as if I am speaking in tongues.

“I think it best we send for her physician,” I say emphatically, hoping to impress upon him the urgency of the situation. He nods then, finally.

“Yes, of course,” he murmurs. “I shall send a steward for him at once.” But he remains motionless, his hands frozen to the desk, and I wonder if he too believes her death is imminent, unstoppable. Or is it that he is half-crazed with grief and longing? Truly he acts as if possessed. Perhaps Dora is more real to him in death, for now she inhabits his private world, the universe of his dreams.

“You took him to see her?” he asks all of a sudden.

“Yes,” I say. He nods.

“Then surely he will be capable of rendering a likeness.” I hesitate slightly.

“I presume so, yes.” I do not speak of her rigid death-face, of how unlike it was.

“They will bury her today?”

“I have not heard, sir.”

“I should like to know,” he says.

“Perhaps I could inquire,” I suggest.

“I would be most indebted,” he replies. I nod and turn to go, as anxious to be rid of his presence as I had been earlier in his mother’s chamber.

“There is one more thing,” he says absently. “The painter is above. He wishes to see you, at your convenience.”

I stare at him a moment. “I’ll go at once,” I say.

I climb the stairs with mounting resentment. What more could he want from me? I pause outside his door to gather my wits. Despite my earlier resolution, it seems it will be difficult to avoid him. When I knock I hear a rustling from within, and after a moment the door opens. Like my master he is unshaven and his hair uncombed. He runs a hand through it self-consciously.

“Forgive my appearance,” he says. “I worked late into the night.” He stands aside for me to enter. I take a step into the room, but only one, then turn to face him.

“You wished to see me?” My voice is distant, formal.

He nods. “I worked late into the night, but she eludes me.” He indicates the portrait on the easel, does not meet my eyes. I cross over to look at it, and he is right. He is further from her now than before. I offer no words of encouragement.

“I cannot succeed without your help,” he says. “I need your eyes. And your words.” I look again upon the portrait. There is something grotesque about it, as if it too has died.

“I do not know,” I say hesitantly. For truly I am not sure that I can take him any further. Perhaps she is like the bird upon the mountain. Perhaps it is not possible to capture her within the frame.

“I beg of you,” he says. I look again at him and he is on the brink of despair. Why does it mean so much to him? Is it merely a matter of pride? Or has she taken root in him as well?

“I will try,” I say finally. He smiles a little, is visibly relieved. There is an awkward silence.

“You had better get some rest,” I say coldly. “I’ll come to you this evening.”

He nods. And then without his thanks, I go.

I send for Lucius myself, knowing that my master is incapable of making decisions, and feeling that I must do something for my mistress. When Lucius arrives, he is somewhat taken aback, for it is clear that she is fast declining. He asks to confer with her other physician, Carrington, as if the burden of her care is suddenly too onerous for him alone, and so a servant is dispatched at once.

I offer him a drink and he accepts readily, suggesting we take it in the parlor downstairs so as not to disturb her, but truly it is plain that he is anxious to be free of her death-room. Her condition unnerves him and he is overly talkative, telling me he has just come from the village.

“I was asked by the magistrate to examine the body,” he explains, sipping from his glass.

“He has already arrived?” I say. Lucius nods.

“Early this morning. Most anxious to attend the case.”

“You saw her?” I ask cautiously. Lucius nods. “What did you find?”

“He wished to know the extent of damage. I told him it appeared their only aim was removal of the fetus. There were no other acts of malice that I could detect.” I nod. “The job was crudely done, but effective,” he adds, not meeting my eyes.

“Is there a suspect?” I ask.

“No. But there is talk of another search. If they find the fetus, they’ll have the culprit.” I do not reply, but it seems unlikely they will find the fetus when they could not even find the corpse.

“There is talk of sorcery,” he continues. “Or some other of the black arts. Given the nature of the crime, I should not be surprised.”

“When is the burial?” I say, thinking of my master.

“That I do not know,” he says. “Not immediately. The body is the only evidence at present.” I think of her lying there upon the sledge, of what she was, and what she now will be—evidence at her own trial.

Not long after, Carrington arrives. He remains frail but of a piece, and the two men withdraw to her antechamber to examine her and confer. In the meantime I send for my master, thinking he should hear their diagnosis firsthand, knowing it will reflect badly upon him if he doesn’t. He arrives looking slightly more composed, for he has shaved and combed his hair, and his shirt is clean and pressed. When the physicians emerge they return again to the parlor to confer with my master, and I make a point of serving drinks again so as to be present. When I enter there is much talk of humors and imbalance, but it amounts to little in my eyes, and they conclude by saying they wish to observe her over the next few days, rather than take immediate action. My master listens in his somewhat absent way, nodding and thanking them profusely for their efforts. As I leave it strikes me that they are powerless, and wonder whether they themselves are aware of this.

And then I return to the kitchen, where Cook is busy brewing herbs. The smell is pungent, musky, and faintly exotic, and it stirs something deep within me. For we are all secretly enthralled by death.

When I was very young, the graveyard was my haven. I went there often to play among the headstones, and over time I came to know each one: its size and shape and markings. My mother told me that graveyards were the home of lost souls—those whose spirits were doomed to walk the earth forever in search of peace. This notion caught my fancy, and I resolved to search for lost souls each time I visited that place.

When I asked her what they looked like, she told me only that
they could not be seen by ordinary eyes. I assumed that if I wanted to succeed, I would have to alter my vision in some way. Squinting was the most obvious means, so I would crouch behind the gravestones for what seemed like hours with my eyes narrowed to barely more than slits. When the lost souls did not appear, I tried to tilt my head as far as possible to one side, so that the graveyard and its headstones were turned upside-down.

It was in this way, with my forehead resting lightly on the grass, that I was startled one day by the bedraggled figure of a man, his face bloodied and his tunic soaked with dark stains. He came limping into the graveyard, one arm crooked tightly against his side, and collapsed not two lengths from where I hid behind a tree. He fell to his knees panting, his good arm propped in front of him, his eyes wide with pain. He stayed that way for several seconds, gasping for breath and staring at the ground, and I watched as the blood trickled from a deep wound upon his forehead, gathered on his brow, then fell in a tiny crimson thread upon the grass. He did not see me and I was terrified to move—so I watched him from my upside-down position. Here at last was a lost soul, though he was not at all what I’d expected.