The Beloved (7 page)

Arthur spent the rest of the day in his study. He felt too guilty and too unwell to see Alice again. How could he face her, knowing what he was condemning her to? He ate a light lunch at his desk and spent a pleasant hour with Eli, going through the mill accounts. The boy was bright and Arthur was confident that before too long, Eli would prove to be an asset to the business. They didn't talk about Alice, although the unspoken words hung in the air between them and made them squirm uneasily in their chairs.

As the day came to a close, Arthur felt a great weariness descend upon him. He drained his glass of brandy and took up a candle to light his way to bed. William had turned his sheets down and laid his nightgown out. There was a small fire burning in the grate, warm water on his washstand and a fresh glass of brandy beside the bed. It was good to be home. It would be better still if Temperance was lying in the bed waiting for him, her auburn hair spread across the pillows like a carpet of autumn leaves. Maybe when all the trouble with Alice was resolved, Temperance would be more generous with her affections. Arthur could only hope.

He climbed into bed and settled himself against the feather pillows. As he reached for his glass of brandy – a final tot before sleep – he felt a weight press upon his chest. A weight so heavy, he thought, it could have been the great roller at the mill and he could have been a solitary grain of wheat being crushed and ground into flour. The glass of brandy dropped from his hand and smashed onto the floor. It was the first thing that William saw when he went to try and wake Arthur Angel the following morning.

Something has changed. As soon as I open my eyes, I can sense it. An emptiness. A blankness. As though this new day is the first page in a book full of clean, white pages. It is not an unpleasant feeling and I lie in my bed and soak it up as I watch the morning light steal through the gap in the curtains. I don't want to move. I don't want to break the spell. I want to stay here forever so that nothing will ever happen and the pages of the book will never have to get written upon.

After a while, I realise there is a strange quietness too. I have not heard the usual sounds of the day beginning.

‘I am Alice Angel,' I say out loud, to reassure myself that I have not been struck deaf.

I hear my voice quite clearly inside my head and outside too. So I begin to wonder then, why the house is so quiet. Even though I do not want to wonder or think about anything. But it is too late now, I can feel the spell begin to break. Bit by bit the cracks appear. They spread like tentacles across the surface of the day. Then, like a broken mirror, the spell shatters into splinters of glass and comes crashing down around me.

Fear and despair creep through me, as stealthily as the sun sneaks across the wooden floor of my chamber. Will today be the day that I get taken away? Will it be Dr Danby who comes for me? Or will it be rotten-toothed men, snarling like dogs, who rattle through my door with clinking chains to fasten my limbs together and with knives to hack off my hair? I torture myself, imagining dark, damp cells crawling with cockroaches and infested with lice. I imagine filth-caked women with long, yellow fingernails and breath that reeks of dead things. And I imagine a long oak table covered in white linen that is laid out with gleaming scissors, knives, scalpels, metal hooks – all the hideous tools I saw in Dr Danby's leather bag, and more besides. Soon, I will be laid out on the table too, and a faceless doctor with ice-cold hands will plunge each gleaming tool into my soft flesh and I will be helpless to resist.

I shake my head, in a bid to fling these terrible notions from my mind. But they refuse to leave. They cling on tightly, inside my head. And soon they are joined – by the one thing I have been trying my hardest not to think about. And my heart is crushed and twisted once more when I remember how easily Papa agreed to send me away.

I am scared. So scared. I am not good enough as I am. That much is clear. Mama, Eli and now even Papa think I am not the person I should be. So I have to be sent away. I have to be cured of being me.

I hear noises now. Doors opening. Doors closing. Feet on stairs. They are coming for me. I wrap my arms around the bedpost and hold on tight. I will not make it easy for them. My heart is kicking furiously in my chest and throat and ears. All I can think of is this moment and what I can do to get rid of the fear. So despite what happened to Lady Egerton and Lillie, I close my eyes tight and I wish and I wish with all my heart and soul that something,
anything,
will happen to prevent me from being sent away.

I keep my eyes closed as I hear my chamber door opening. The floorboards creak as someone enters. I tighten my grip on the bedpost and ready myself for rough hands to rip me away. But nothing happens. Instead I hear shaking breaths and a familiar voice speaks my name. I open my eyes and there is Eli, in his nightgown with his hair still tousled by sleep, standing in the doorway. His eyes are swollen and red, and tears are pouring down his face. ‘Alice,' he says again, and half chokes on the word. I am surprised that he has come to say goodbye. But he isn't trying to help me, so I hate him too.

‘Go away,' I tell him. ‘I don't want to see you.' It hurts me to say that when I love him so much. But he has not been the brother he should have, and I want him to know that he has failed me.

‘No, Alice,' says Eli. ‘You need to listen.' He comes closer and reaches out a hand to me. I shrug it away. Eli takes a deep breath. ‘It's Papa, Alice,' he says. ‘It's Papa. He  …  he's dead.'

I stare at Eli. Why is he being so cruel? Saying such things?

He wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Alice?'

I blink. ‘What  …  what are you telling me, Eli?'

‘William has just found Papa in his bed. And he has gone, Alice. He is dead.' Then he turns, and after taking a minute to set his shoulders square, he leaves my bedchamber.

Everything is still. Even my heart, it seems, has stopped beating.

Then the long-case clock begins to strike. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven times. Eli has left the door ajar.

Papa's bedchamber is next to Mama's, a few doors away from mine. I walk along the corridor. Daylight never reaches this part of the house when all the doors are closed. There are usually lighted candles in the sconces on the wall, but this morning there are none. So the corridor is a hazy grey tunnel, the floor cold on my bare feet and the air as stale as morning breath. I push at Papa's door. Inside, his chamber is full of shadows; the curtains shut tight as sleeping eyelids. A single candle burns on the dresser. The flame trembles.

They are all in here. There is Mama, sitting beside the bed. Her head is bowed and her hair swings loose across her lace-dressed bosom. Her long white hand rests on the eiderdown. Eli is standing behind her. His face is pale and his shoulders are twitching. William is standing to one side with his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

And there is Papa. His head is resting on a pillow, his greying hair brushed back from his forehead. There is a linen handkerchief folded under his chin, the ends fastened in a knot at the top of his head to keep his jaw fastened shut. The candlelight plays on his skin, which shines damp, although his worry lines have softened and he looks as well as I have ever seen him. I would swear he was sleeping, if it were not for the two silver coins balanced on his eyelids.

I walk to the bed, the opposite side to Mama, and I stand in silence and stare down at Papa. The eiderdown is stretched tightly across his chest. I watch carefully. There is no movement. His arms have been placed on top of the eiderdown and they lie peacefully by his sides. I look at the lace cuffs of his nightgown. One has ridden up and the grey hairs on his wrists spill untidily from underneath. His gold rings seem too big for his fingers now. His hands are yellow and withered and I notice the nail on the little finger of his left hand is torn at one corner.

My eyes flick to his face: to his mouth, which is partially hidden by the brittle growth of his moustache and his beard. His lips are cracked and dry and there is a white stickiness at the corners of his mouth. As I study the yellowing edges of his moustache, I realise with a twist of my heart that Papa will never smoke another cigar. He will never lick his lips moist again, nor trim his beard. He will never taste another morsel of food nor utter another word of comfort to me. I reach my hand out to straighten the cuff of his nightgown.

‘Don't touch him!'

I snatch my hand away and hold it to me as though it has been burned. Mama is glaring at me. ‘He is not to be touched,' she says again, but calmer this time. She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. Then she leans over Papa and kisses his forehead. Her lips linger there and for the first time in my life, I see how Mama loves him. My heart twists tighter. I thought he was only mine to love. Mama has always had Eli, and I have always had Papa. To see her kiss him like that rips at my insides. I turn away and push the heels of my hands into my eyes to stop the hot tears that are spilling down my face.

‘Now,' says Mama. ‘There is much to be done.'

I turn back and she is on her feet. Her face is composed, though full of purpose. She sweeps from the room and William follows close behind, like a lost dog looking for a new master.

It is just Eli and me now.

‘What happened?' I whisper.

He shakes his head.

‘I cannot believe he is gone, Eli.'

‘I know,' he whispers back.

We stand there, either side of Papa, not knowing what to say, while Papa lies on his deathbed listening to our silent grief.

Eventually Eli moves. He comes to my side and puts his arm around my shoulder. He turns and leads me out of Papa's chamber. ‘I think the doctor is here,' he says. ‘I will talk to him. I am the man of the house now.'

I stop, and feel the blood drain from my face. ‘He has come for me, hasn't he?' I say.

Eli glances at me and frowns. ‘He has come to see Papa,' he says.

‘He has not come to take me to the asylum then?' I whisper, hardly daring to believe.

‘Alice.' Eli's voice is full of disappointment. ‘How can you think of yourself at a time like this?' He lets his arm slip from my shoulder. ‘I am sure Mama has much more important things to consider now.' He looks at me hard. ‘And I hope
you
will start to consider Mama now and curb your behaviour. It is not going to be easy without  …  Papa.' He stumbles on the final word, then turns from me and heads to his chamber. I turn towards my chamber too. I am shaking now and my head is spinning with a terrible realisation.

I sit in my chair by the window and grip onto the arms. I
dig my fingers hard into the chintz fabric. It is not the shock of Papa's death that has knocked me off my feet. It is something much worse. I swallow the howl that rises to my throat. Then, with unsteady legs, I stand and walk to the mirror and stare at the girl who looks back at me. Her face is pasty and greasy as pig's lard. It looks all the worse framed as it is by ropes of dark, unkempt hair. But it is her eyes that frighten me the most. They are black and glittering and wild. Like the eyes of a madwoman. Like the eyes of a murderer.

‘You did it, didn't you?' I say to the creature in the mirror. ‘You murdered Papa.' The girl's lips move in time to my words. ‘You wished this to happen,' I say. ‘You wished for something, for anything to happen, so you would not be sent to the asylum.' The girl in the mirror widens her eyes. ‘Don't look so surprised,' I tell her. ‘What did you expect?'

She looks back at me at steadily, with her bold accusing eyes. But she doesn't answer. So I take the poker from by the fireplace and I smash it into her face, until she shatters to the floor in a hundred pieces.

Mama has taken to mourning with a passion. I think perhaps she was born to be a widow. The word slips over her head and fits her as neatly and as perfectly as the most costly gown in her wardrobe.

By midday, she has had every mirror in the house covered in black crepe. The pendulum has been removed from the long-case clock in the hall and the time has been stopped at six, the nearest hour to Papa's passing. She has instructed that every window in the entire household is to be covered. Not a chink of natural light is to penetrate Lions House. She has banished the sunshine until further notice.

I slip through the house unseen. No one has bothered to lock my door. No one seems to remember I exist. Everyone is too busy dealing with the business of death.

The dressmaker comes and Mama orders a selection of modestly cut gowns made in the finest of black silks. She also chooses a dozen black veils of intricate lace and a selection of exquisite mourning jewellery fashioned from the finest quality jet. She sends William to purchase a sheaf of writing paper, edged in thick black, with matching envelopes. I watch through the door as she sits with a straight back at her desk in the parlour, scratching with a pen across one sheet of paper and then another. The notes are sent from the house to all those of any importance in Bridgwater, to inform them of Papa's death.

Eli will not come out of his room. I have knocked a few times, but all he will say is, ‘Go away, Alice,' in a weary old man's voice. I wander down to the kitchens. No one notices me there either. It is all hustle and bustle. Cook is rolling out a rich, yellow slab of pastry on the kitchen table. Some other girl is polishing crystal glasses. And another is drawing hot water from the copper and setting aside clean rags. It is as though nothing terrible has happened at all. The only difference between now and before is that all the servants are wearing black armbands.

It is my fault,
I think.
He
is only dead because of me.

I stand with my back to a wall and watch all the comings and goings. The smell of hot fruit – gooseberries perhaps – drifts towards me. But instead of making my mouth water, the green sweetness makes my stomach lurch. I think I will never eat again.

Sarah scurries into the kitchen. She bobs quickly when she sees me standing there. Then she hurries over to the kitchen fire and fills a bowl with water from the large kettle and picks up a pile of washcloths and clean rags.
For the laying out,
I think I hear her say to Cook.
Missus has asked me to help.
She passes by me again on her way out, but now her face is rigid with concentration and she doesn't acknowledge me again. I follow her through the house and up the stairs. She walks carefully, steadying the bowl of water in her hands. The bundles of cloths are thrust under her armpit. It is only when we reach Papa's bedchamber that I understand what she is about to do.

‘Are you coming in, miss?' she asks.

I shake my head. ‘I can't,' I whisper.

She tuts in sympathy then nods at the door. ‘Would you mind opening it for me, miss?'

I do as she asks and she slips past me and into Papa's chamber. The smells of lavender and burning wax coil out of the room. And another smell too: the warm comfort of Papa's tobacco. I find that I cannot close the door on it. So I leave it open, but just a snatch, and I stand still and watch.

I see Mama first. She is hovering at the foot of Papa's bed. Then I see William. He is stripping Papa of his nightgown from under the modest covering of a sheet. He pulls the nightgown over Papa's head and hands it to Sarah. I watch, with my heart sliding around in my chest, as William then packs freshly laundered rags into Papa's mouth and deep into his nostrils. I let out a breath. Then Mama ushers Sarah to the bed. She brings with her the bowl of water and bundle of washcloths.

Sarah wets one of the cloths and wrings out the excess water. Then she reaches under the sheet and begins to wash Papa's body. She washes him from his neck down to his feet and not once does she baulk at her task. She might as well be wiping down a table. I can't help but wonder what it must be like to touch Papa now. Is he still warm? Or is his body already cold and stiff like the pig carcasses I sometimes see hanging outside the butchers on Friarn Street? I shiver in disgust, but I can't help feel a pang of envy that Sarah is able to be so close to him.

William brings a set of clothes over to the bed and with Sarah's help he dresses Papa for the final time. Between them, they put Papa in a white shirt with a high, starched collar and then they bend his arms into a low-cut embroidered vest. They pull a pair of tapered woollen trousers onto Papa's useless legs and then they button him into a matching frock coat with velvet lapels. Finally, William ties a black cravat softly at Papa's throat and tucks Papa's gold pocket watch into his vest.

I swallow hard. Papa looks so handsome now. Except his hair is ruffled from where William and Sarah moved him. I want to go and smooth it back. It is the least I can do for him. I push at the door gently. It whines at the hinges. Mama whips her head around and she fixes me with a glare.
I haven't forgotten about you
, she says, without even opening her mouth. Then, as though she has read my mind, she walks to Papa's side and smoothes his hair flat again.