The Beloved (8 page)

Sarah comes to help me clear the mess of broken mirror from my floor. I tell her it was an accident and she says to never mind, miss. All the mirrors are covered anyway. And she hangs a piece of black cloth over the empty frame. I am to dress now, she tells me, for the photographic artist, Mr Gibbs, is on his way and I will need to look my best. I ask her if she has had much practice arranging hair, and she tells me that as she used to plait the mane of her father's horse in readiness for the springtime fair, she's sure she could manage.

Sarah helps me into a green shot-silk gown. You will do very well in this one, miss, she tells me, until your mourning gowns arrive. She brushes my hair to a shine and with a simple twist, she pins it to the back of my head. ‘There,' she says. ‘I think you are ready.'

I walk through the house towards the front parlour. Everywhere there are candles burning and whispers hanging in the shadows. I walk by the long-case clock and it is strange to see it so still. The door to Papa's study is ajar. I catch a whiff of brandy and smoke and it stops me in my tracks. I cannot resist pushing the door open to see if Papa is there, sitting in his chair with his papers before him and his brow furrowed in concentration. But of course his chair is empty. I drift into the room and run my hand across the pile of papers on his desk. I hold it there for a while, imagining Papa's hands shuffling through the pages only hours since. There is an empty glass on the desk too. I pick it up and hold it close to my face. I see the trace of sticky lip prints on the rim. Papa's lips. I press my mouth to the glass. A last kiss. But I feel no comfort. I place the glass back on the desk, and as I leave the room I whisper,
I'm sorry, Papa
.
I am sorry for my wickedness. I never meant for you to die.

I hear noises and voices coming from behind the door to the front parlour. I do not want to go in. I cannot face them all. I stand outside, hesitating, one hand on the doorknob. I want to go back to my room. I want to go back in time, to before any of this happened. If I could, I would be a small child again and I would try to be who they wanted me to be from the very beginning. Then maybe Papa would still be here. But I can't go back in time. I know that. The very best I can do is to change. I have to be the person they want me to be now. That other person, the other me, is no good. She hurts people. She made Papa die by wishful thinking.

I take a deep breath and close my hand around the doorknob. But before I have the chance to turn it, the door is pulled open from inside. I jump back. It is Eli. Relief crosses his face when he sees me. ‘I was just coming for you,' he says. ‘We have been waiting. Mr Gibbs is ready for us.'

I swallow hard. ‘I am ready, too, Eli,' I say.

The light in the front parlour blinds me for a moment. The room is ablaze. There are candles on every surface and an oil lamp burning in the centre of the table. I peer into the light and I see a bespectacled man standing in front of me. He is fiddling with a large contraption, a box on long spindly legs. ‘This is Mr Gibbs, Alice.' Eli introduces me. I nod to the man. There are beads of perspiration dancing on his forehead. ‘Ah, good,' he says. ‘We are all here then?' He gestures for us to move to the other side of the room.

I see Mama at once. She is standing stiffly with a black half-veil shading her face. And then I see Papa and I start to tremble. He is sitting in a high-backed chair with a large bowl of gaudy roses on a table at his side. The light of the candles shine harshly onto his face and his skin is grey and stretched. I stop and look to Eli. ‘Go on, Alice,' he says. ‘It is all right.' But Papa's eyes are wide open and he is staring at me. Eli gently pushes me forward. As I move closer, Papa's eyes look stranger still, like the eyes of the china doll that sits upstairs on a shelf in the old nursery.

Mr Gibbs begins to fuss around us. He arranges Mama so she is standing behind Papa's chair, then he directs Eli and me to stand either side of Papa with our hands placed upon his shoulders. ‘Yes, yes. That's good. That's good.' I am squashed next to the bowl of roses. But even the thick sweetness of them, combined with Mama's powdery lavender scent, cannot disguise the stench of old bacon that is rising from Papa. My hand sits on his shoulder, my fingertips trembling against the velvet of his lapel. Mr Gibbs adjusts Mama's skirts. He suggests that Eli puts his free hand in his trouser pocket, and he asks me to move an inch closer to Papa. ‘Perfect,' he says. He returns to his box and bends down to peer through it. ‘Now,' he says. ‘I would ask that you all remain perfectly still until I tell you otherwise. Exposure will take about ten minutes.'

And so we stand, this little family of ours, while Mr Gibbs captures our likeness forever.

It is hot in the room. My skin is prickling in the heat and I can feel Mama's quick, shallow breaths on the back of my neck. Mr Gibbs is humming quietly. He checks his pocket watch and nods encouragingly at us. ‘A moment more, if you please,' he says. Under my bodice, a bead of sweat rolls slowly down between my breasts. Suddenly, a weight falls onto my arm and my hand slips from Papa's shoulder. I look in horror to see that Papa's head has rolled from its position and is hanging awkwardly over the side of the chair. I move away and in my haste I knock into the table and send the bowl of roses crashing to the floor. Mama yelps, Mr Gibbs rushes forwards and in that moment I see why Papa's eyes look so strange. His eyelids are closed, but someone has fashioned upon them, in paint, the crude likeness of an open eye. It is this, as much as anything, that sends me fleeing from the room.

I dash out into the hallway, desperate for air. But it is, of course, all shadows and dark corners. Where can I go? Every room in the house is smothered and in gloom. The whole place is like a tomb. I look to the great double doors at the end of the hall, the ones that lead outside. I know I shouldn't, I know it is the bad Alice that wants to go outside. But I have no choice. If I don't leave this house now, I think I might die too.

I tug the door open and step out into the remains of the day. I walk down the steps, through the iron gates and out onto the pavement. The evening air is soft and warm and I swallow great mouthfuls of it. It has been so long since I have tasted fresh air, I am dizzy with the pleasure of it. I look around and see the street is empty. I should go back inside. My head tells me
that
is the right thing to do. But the thought of the darkness and the scent of roses and lavender, mingled with the stink of Papa and the heaviness of my guilt, is too much to bear. I find myself walking away from Lions House, listening to my boots slapping the ground. I come to the end of the street and I walk faster. A cab passes me on the road, sending up clouds of dust in its wake. The thick plod of horse hooves echo in my ears. Further on and there is a pair of gentlemen, strolling along deep in conversation. Then there is a girl carrying a basket of wilted flowers. She is scuffing her feet along the pavement as though she has nowhere in particular to go. As I walk on, the streets grow busier. I pass an alehouse. A group of factory workers lean casually against the walls, their caps on the floor and pots of beer in their hands. There is colour everywhere now. In the bonnets and gowns of scurrying women and in the fruits and fancy goods piled up outside the shops.

I stop and listen to all the noises: the hum of voices, the rumble of wheels, the clatter of crates and doors. I turn this way and that, seeing everything, soaking it up, feeling the aliveness of it all. A trail of people walk by and turn the corner towards the town square. More follow, and before I know it, I am carried along with them, curious as to where they are all going.

In the far corner of the square there is a tight knot of people. There are all types: gentlemen in top hats, dour women in plain dress, merchants, hawkers, flower girls and a smattering of painted ladies. I hover on the fringes of the crowd and watch how each person finds their own spot, then stands still and listens. There is a voice coming from deep within the crowd, from someone that I cannot see. But everyone is listening intently, so I move closer so that I can hear too.

‘THE DAY OF JUDGEMENT IS ALMOST UPON US! THE LAMB OF GOD WILL WALK AMONGST YOU AND THE FAITHFUL WILL CLEANSE THEIR SOULS OF ALL EVIL!'

The voice is rich and powerful. I push my way forward, trying to catch a glimpse of who the voice belongs to. The crowd parts easily. Some are muttering under their breath and are already breaking away. There is a gap at the front, and I position myself between a young woman whose pale face is covered in a riot of freckles, and an older woman who has her hands clasped tightly to her bosom. I look to the speaker and am surprised by what I see. Instead of the grey, papery preacher I was expecting, there is a tall, broad man with hair and a beard as black as mourning crepe. His hair is swept back from his forehead and falls in ringlets past his shoulders. He is standing on a wooden crate and has his arms spread wide as though trying to embrace the whole of the crowd before him.

‘ON THE DAY OF WRATH ALL PROPERTY AND RICHES WILL BE AS DIRT!'

He is dressed simply in a dark frock coat and I am taken aback to see that his feet are bare. Suddenly, he stops talking and he sweeps us all with his eyes. They are as blue as any eyes I have ever seen and are framed by long, black lashes.

‘WHO OF YOU HERE CAN SAY YOUR SOULS ARE TRULY CLEAN?'

The woman next to me whimpers.

‘My soles ain't clean!' shouts a voice from the crowd. ‘I just trod in horse shit!' Laughter ripples through the air and the crowd thins out some more as the laughter eventually drifts away.

The man on the crate just smiles. ‘What those unbelievers do not know,' he says to the few of us left, ‘is that I am the Beloved Lamb of God.'

The woman next to me cannot contain herself. She steps forward, bends to her knees and kisses his feet. He speaks again, as though he hasn't noticed her.

‘RECEIVE ME AS THE SON OF GOD AND YOUR FLESH WILL BE LIBERATED FROM SIN IN THIS WORLD!'

I cannot tear my eyes from his face: he is so earnest. And although I do not understand much of what he is saying, there is something true and comforting in his expression. He seems not to care what the dwindling crowd thinks of him. He is happy to be who he is.

The girl with the freckles puts her hand on my arm and turns to me. ‘He is wonderful, is he not?' she says, her eyes shining with tears.

I nod, unsure of what to say. ‘Who  …  who is he?' I brave.

She raises her eyebrows in surprise. ‘It is him!' she says. ‘Our Beloved.'

I am none the wiser, so I try again. ‘I am sorry,' I say. ‘But I have not seen him before. Tell me, what is his name?'

‘Henry Prince,' she says dreamily. ‘Our Beloved Lamb of God.'

The hairs on the back of my neck begin to prickle. I turn and see that this Henry Prince is looking straight at me. He gathers me up in the blue of his eyes and he holds me there while he says softly, ‘Are you for saving, little lamb?'

I cannot speak. He is staring at me so keenly I fear he can see right inside my soul, that he can see the badness inside me. My face flushes hot and I look down to my feet. Then he begins to speak again.

‘COME WITH ME AND I WILL SHOW YOU PARADISE ON EARTH!'

I turn swiftly and walk away, back across the square. I feel his eyes following me and I quicken my pace. It is not until I round the corner, to where he cannot see me any more, that I begin to breathe easy again. He has shaken me, and I do not know why.

The sun is orange and heavy in the sky. It is later than I thought. I hurry along the dusty pavements, nervous now, that I have been missed. An aproned butcher, unhooking the last pig carcass from outside his shop, turns to look at me. A tightly buttoned-up woman, pushing a squeaking perambulator, stares at me for longer than is comfortable. I realise I must look out of place. A girl out on her own, wearing neither bonnet nor shawl, is a cause for gossip.

It is not far now; I can see Lions House in the distance. My heart sinks as I see Eli too, standing outside the gate looking up and down the street. I slow my feet. I am in trouble again, and all for the want of fresh air. Eli raises his hand and comes hurrying to meet me. ‘Alice! Where have you been? We have been worried about you.' His pale face looks tired and drawn and his eyes have lost their shine. Poor Eli, I think. He has the weight of the world upon him. I am glad to see him and I forgive him, as I always do. After all, I have no one else but him now.

‘I am sorry,' I say. ‘I did not mean to go. But that room, Eli. And  …  and Papa. I just needed some air.'

‘It's all right, Alice,' he says. ‘I did the same. Only I escaped to the gardens.' He smiles at me and reaches for my hand. I take it gratefully and we walk back into the house together.

‘So. Mama. Is she very angry with me?' I ask.

He squeezes my hand. ‘She is none the wiser,' he says. ‘She is only glad that that the photograph was saved. Mr Gibbs has assured her of that.'

We stop in the hallway and look at each other. ‘So where did you go?' he asks.

I hesitate. I think of Henry Prince and the blue depths of his eyes and how he called me a little lamb. ‘Nowhere,' I say. ‘I just wandered the streets for a while.'

He frowns at me. ‘You are a funny thing, Alice. The streets are no place for a young lady, you know that, don't you?' He sighs. ‘Just promise you will tell me next time you need to go out. I will be happy to walk you round the gardens.'

I nod. ‘I'm sorry, Eli,' I say. ‘I promise.'

He bends to kiss me. ‘You and I,' he says, ‘we must look after Mama now.'

As he turns to leave, I reach out a hand to stop him. ‘Eli,' I say. ‘Am I a bad person?'

He laughs, as though I have asked an amusing question. ‘No, Alice. You are not a bad person,' he says. ‘You have just not found your place in the world yet.'