The Beloved (20 page)

‘Alice! Alice!' Somebody is calling my name. ‘Wake up, Alice. It is time.' I open my eyes and groan at the stiffness in my neck. Agatha is standing in front of me, looking at me quizzically.

‘Have you been here all night?' she asks.

I nod and rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. ‘I couldn't wait for morning to come.'

She smiles at me understandingly. ‘Well, Alice Angel,' she says. ‘It is your day now. You must go to the mansion to prepare.'

‘This minute?' I ask.

‘Yes,' she says. ‘They are waiting for you.'

‘Should I not wash first?' I ask in a panic. I can smell the sour night sweat rising from my clothes.

Agatha laughs softly. ‘There is no need. They will do all that is required at the mansion. Now hurry. It's not every day Our Beloved takes a new bride.'

I jump from the chair and fling my arms around her neck. ‘Thank you, Agatha. Thank you!'

‘Go on with you,' she says and a blush reddens the long scar on her face. ‘I'll see you later, in chapel.'

I take up the old carpet bag and run from the cottage, although I feel as though I could fly. The morning chill washes across my face and wakes me as well as a jug of cold water. It is misty outside and there is no one about yet. I run across the lawns and only then do I realise that I left my boots in the cottage kitchen. I laugh out loud as my feet fly through the wet grass. I have a vision then. That I am in my meadow running free. My clothes are loose around me and my hair sails behind. I am running to him, and everything is as it should be. Only this time it is not a vision at all. This time it is real.

The bloodhounds are prowling around by the door to the mansion. They growl low in their throats as I climb the steps. I swallow hard and look straight ahead. It is their yellow eyes that frighten me the most. But if I don't look, then they won't see my fear. They will know me better when I am here every day, I think, to calm myself. I enter the hallway and close the door behind me. It is all quiet and muffled inside. But someone has already lit the candles. My feet leave wet prints on the wooden floor as I walk further in, wondering where to go. I cannot go to the red room, surely? It is bad luck for a bride to see her intended on the morning before their union.

‘Hello?' My voice echoes above my head and the candle flames flicker. ‘Hello? It is Alice.' A door slams somewhere. I shout louder. ‘Hello!'

‘Alice.'

I look up and see there is someone at the top of the stairs.

‘Come on up, Alice. We have been waiting for you.'

I start up the stairs and see it is Mrs Holloway, with her buttonhole mouth stretched into a smile.

‘Follow me,' she says. ‘We are all here.'

She leads me along the landing, past at least a dozen doors. Up here, there is soft carpet on the floor and rich tapestries on the walls. The air is light and perfumed and I feel as though I should whisper. I hear a small cry from behind one of the doors. ‘That is Power,' says Mrs Holloway. ‘He is blessed with a strong voice.'

‘And is Glory well?' I ask out of politeness.

‘Oh, yes,' says Mrs Holloway. ‘She couldn't be better. There is no pain or illness in Paradise, is there?'

She opens a door and beckons me into a chamber that would make Mama's chin drop to her feet. There is a magnificent four-poster bed that looks like a ship in full sail, with its hangings of jewel-coloured silks and golden threads. The wardrobes, chests and mahogany arms of the sofa shine with beeswax, and the marble fireplace would not look out of place in the grandest of drawing rooms. The fire is blazing and there is a bath pulled up in front of it.

‘Alice!' There are four other women in the room and they clap their hands together and greet me with delight. Although I see them most days in chapel, I am not sure of their names and I hope I do not embarrass myself. They are all dressed in costly gowns and are seated around a table drinking tea. ‘Come and join us,' they say. ‘You will take some tea, won't you?'

It is a world away from the cottage kitchen and I feel a sight in my old frock with my nightgown bunched underneath and nothing on my feet. But they do not seem to notice. I put my bag on the floor and soon the women are chattering away, deciding which gown I should wear; which, of all the gowns they own between them, is the richest and costliest and would suit my colouring the most.

It is decided that I will try them all on, and every piece of jewellery too. ‘You must look like a queen,' I am told. ‘A queen that is fit for the King.'

But first I am to bathe. I am shy at first to strip in front of them, but they are so kind to me, and so excited to help, that soon I put myself in their hands and begin to enjoy myself. The bath water is deliciously hot and scented with oils. It slips over my skin like a silk gown. They wash my hair with perfumed soap and rinse it with jugs of clean water. They wash my body too, with soft cloths and gentle strokes. All the while, they tell me how beautiful I am. How they have never seen such skin as mine, nor hair as strong and thick. ‘You will make Our Beloved the most perfect bride,' they say.

They wrap me in warm towels and I sit by the fire to dry my hair. They come in and out of the room, bringing with them armfuls of gowns and petticoats which they pile on the bed, and handfuls of jewels which they scatter across the table.

They dress me layer by layer. First a chemise and drawers and then some stays. I begin to protest at the stays. They bring dark memories to the edge of my thoughts and I do not want anything to spoil this day. But the women brush aside my protests. ‘Our Beloved would have you properly attired on this day,' they insist. Then come the petticoats, frothing about my ankles, layers and layers of the finest linen and lace. Then, at last, the gown. I step in and out of one concoction and then another, until finally it is decided that the rose-pink silk taffeta complements my complexion the most and fits me beautifully.

Next, they dress my hair. They brush it until my scalp aches, then they coil it and pin it and twist it, and decorate it with silk flowers and pearls. Then they hang my ears with diamonds and my neck with pink coral. Finally, they pin a veil of milky lace to my hair and lead me to a mirror.

I do not recognise the woman I see in the glass. For it
is
a woman and not a girl. She is shapely and elegant with slender shoulders and a pair of bosoms that bloom softly at her décolletage. Her lips are pink and full and her eyes shine with contentment.

The women crowd around me, cooing like proud mothers. Mrs Holloway crosses her arms over her chest in satisfaction and nods her approval. ‘Now we will leave you for a while,' she says, ‘so you can contemplate your good fortune and so that we can ready ourselves for the ceremony.' They flutter from the room like a flight of fancy doves and a delicious silence settles upon me.

I look to the mirror again, turning this way and that, trying to see every bit of this stranger. I can't get enough of the vision. When, eventually, I have looked a dozen times upon every inch that I can, I sit myself carefully in a chair by the window. It is hard to stay still though. I twist my hands in my lap and tap my feet, now shod in embroidered satin. I wonder if this is how every bride feels, this turmoil of terror and bliss and nerves.

I pull the curtains aside and peer out. The mist has lifted, leaving behind another fine day. I watch the clouds skitter across the pale blue sky and the children chasing one another across the lawns. The mansion is built much higher than the cottages and from up here I can see over the wall to the lane beyond. I see a cart driving by and, further away, the rooftops of the village cottages. It is strange to think of that other world out there, of all the people going about their business, eating and sleeping and fighting, and none of them having any idea of how soon it will all be over for them when the Day of Reckoning arrives.
But if they choose not to listen
, I think,
then how will they ever hear?

I wonder if I will ever see Mama and Eli again. A tiny part of me would like them to be here now, to witness me dressed as a queen, all ready to wed the King of Kings. How Mama's eyes would bulge. How she would regret all her cruelties. And how Eli would regret his blindness. But I would not forgive them, no matter how much they asked me to. I would let them taste just a small drop of Paradise, then I would send them away, back to the outside, to their horses and their Lady Egertons and to the fates that they deserve.

Suddenly the door opens. It is Mrs Holloway, with a small glass of ruby wine balanced on a silver tray. I uncurl my fingers from where they have been clenched into fists. ‘Alice,' she says. ‘It is nearly time.' She places the tray next to me. ‘I have brought you a little sherry,' she says, ‘to calm your nerves and help you relax. Drink up, now.'

‘Thank you,' I reply. I am grateful for her thoughtfulness, for my stomach is indeed jumping about like a sack of frightened rabbits. I take a mouthful of the sherry. It is not as sweet as I thought it would be and I shudder as it burns a trail down my throat.

‘All of it,' says Mrs Holloway. ‘You will need every drop.'

I take a breath and swallow the rest of it. It coats my tongue with a bitter aftertaste.

‘Good,' says Mrs Holloway, with a satisfied smile. ‘Now, Alice. Are you ready?'

The chapel bells begin to ring out across the Abode as Mrs Holloway leads me from the mansion. I feel like I am floating on air. As if angels are somehow carrying me over the lawns and along the pathway to the chapel. We enter through a side door, into a room that is separated from the main chapel by a pair of gold velvet curtains. It is murky in the room. The only light comes from a slit of a window high above our heads.

I sense his presence before I see him. I can taste the promise of him in the air.

‘She is ready,' Mrs Holloway states. She nods to me then, and leaves the room.

I grow hot, all of a sudden, my whole body covered in pinpricks of heat. It is the cursed stays, I am sure. I have grown used to not wearing them, and with the heaviness of my gown and the layers of petticoats, my bridal outfit is proving a burden to bear.

‘Come, Alice,' he says, as he appears from the shadows. ‘Let me feast my eyes on you.'

I walk towards him, but my feet are unsteady, and for one dreadful moment I fear I will swoon. He holds his arm out to me and I take it gratefully. ‘You are a vision indeed,' he says. ‘A bride truly fit for the Lord himself.'

I try to smile at him, but my mouth doesn't seem to belong to my face.

‘Come now,' he says. ‘It is time.'

The thin pipes of the organ strike up and I imagine Mrs Holloway sitting primly before it, with her lips pursed in concentration. Our Beloved pulls the gold curtains to one side, and we walk arm in arm into the chapel. Every member of the Abode is out there. I see them all; the richly dressed ladies and the plainer women of the Parlour and all the children dotted in between. Even Beth is there. After all her talk last night of leaving, she is out there, sitting at the back, with her eyes locked onto Our Beloved.

In front of the altar there are two gilt thrones with velvet and gold-braided seats. Our Beloved directs me to sit in one of them and he takes his place in the other. The sound of the organ swells then. Mrs Holloway is red-faced with fervour. The congregation get to their feet and soon the whole chapel is echoing to the voices of angels. Or so it seems to me. My head has grown light and I have to swallow the urge to giggle.

The voices die away and an expectant silence fills the great space. I want to close my eyes and sleep, but I am also horrified that I should think that. Our Beloved rises to his feet. He turns and bows to me, then he takes my hand and raises me from my throne. I hold his hand tight, because the dizziness has worsened now. The edges of my vision has blurred into soft clouds.

Our Beloved begins to speak and I want so much to hear his words; the most important words that will ever be spoken to me. But he sounds so far away, as though he is in another room and not standing right beside me. His words echo in and out of my hearing.

I take Alice Angel as my spirit bride.

Divine purification.

The Holy Ghost shall take flesh in the presence of flesh.

Flesh upon flesh.

Flesh upon flesh.

Mrs Holloway is beside me now too. I didn't notice her leave the organ. But the congregation are still singing; a strange chanting hymn that makes the inside of my skin tremble. Our Beloved and Mrs Holloway lead me to a table covered in a white cloth. No. It is not a table. It is the altar. Am I to say my vows?

There is a set of small steps next to the altar. Mrs Holloway wants me to climb them. She wants me to lie down on the altar. Am I to go to sleep now? It would be most welcome.
No, Alice
, I tell myself.
You cannot sleep on an altar
. But I am lying down. I am so heavy. I can barely keep my eyes open. The singing-chanting slides over me like a thick blanket. I close my eyes.

Just for a moment  … 

My arms are being held down. Something tight around my wrists. Someone is leaning over me and I catch the sickly sweet scent of lavender.
Mama?
I retch. The bitter sherry rises in my throat. My eyes snap open.
Mrs Holloway? Why is she holding me down?

I try to move, to wriggle out of her grasp. But there is no strength left in me. What is happening? I open my mouth. But before I can scream, there is a hand clamped over it. I can feel rough callouses against my squashed lips. Mrs Holloway's face is red and contorted. She is breathing hard through her nostrils

I look around, frantically. The congregation are still singing. Can they not see what is happening? There's Beth. She is not singing. She is the only one not singing. She is crying.

I turn my head again. Our Beloved is standing at the end of the altar by my feet. He is looking to Heaven with his arms outstretched. He moves closer to me. At last. He is going to stop Mrs Holloway.