The Beloved (9 page)

I drop my hand, but as he walks away I know that he is wrong. I am a bad person. I am wicked. I am a lamb that needs saving. And all of it is of my doing: Lady Egerton's broken ankle, Lillie's terrible accident and especially,
especially
Papa.

The day of Arthur Angel's funeral dawned the hottest in living memory. By nine in the morning, the whole of Bridgwater was withering. Dogs lay sulking in the shade of doorways, the pavements hummed with heat and handkerchiefs were damp with the sweat of brows. The two mutes who had been standing outside the front door of Lions House since daybreak were melting in their heavy black cloaks. They consoled themselves by thinking of the jugs of ale that would soon be theirs after they had pocketed a few shillings for their morning's work.

An enormous hearse, topped with plumes of ostrich feathers, waited on the pavement below. The six horses, with their black flanks shining like glass, stood with their heads bowed. Other carriages, at least ten of them, stretched out in a long line behind. Suddenly, the front door opened and the two mutes moved aside as the ornate oak coffin containing Arthur was carried down the steps and loaded into the hearse. The mutes followed behind and joined the dozen other hired mourners, pallbearers and pages that stood waiting either side of the hearse. Then there was silence, save for the steady whisper of horse breath and the odd scrape of hoof on stone.

Temperance Angel emerged from Lions House into the glare of the day and, like an actress taking to the stage, she surveyed the waiting world with a mixture of apprehension and exhilaration. She was gratified to see such a turnout. She spotted Lady Egerton's carriage at once, and although she knew it was empty – Lady Egerton still being too unwell to attend – it swelled Temperance's heart with vanity to see that her Ladyship had at least sent her carriage as a mark of respect.

The funeral entourage stood still, waiting for Temperance's cue. Not a feather fluttered in the dead air. Then Eli and Alice stepped out of the house, and Eli offered his mother his arm. Temperance slipped her black-gloved hand through the crook of his elbow and with her other hand, she flicked open a large, black, ruffled fan. They both walked slowly down the steps, leaving Alice to descend on her own, trying hard not to tread on the hem of her mother's voluminous skirts.

The hired mourners stood to attention and waited until the family were seated in their carriage behind the hearse. Then the hearse driver flicked his whip and with a great creak and groan the funeral procession began its solemn journey. Temperance fanned herself feverishly. It was stifling inside the carriage and she wanted to keep her composure. It would not do, if she emerged from the carriage at St Mary's with a face as red as a farmer's wife. She glanced to Eli sitting opposite and her insides softened for a moment. He was so handsome and determined. He would not fail her, she was certain. Then she looked to Alice, and the familiar weight of disappointment and bitterness settled in her stomach like a bout of indigestion. Black did not suit the girl at all. She was beyond pale; sickly almost. Her gown looked dreadful. It was too wide on the shoulders and too loose about the waist. Not that Alice cared an inch for her appearance, that much was obvious. Temperance turned away. She would not let Alice ruin the day. Instead, she looked out of the window and consoled herself with the view. She saw shopkeepers pause in their work to watch the procession. Some leaned on brooms and others put their baskets on the ground and touched their caps. The carriage moved slowly along the streets, and everywhere the pavements were lined with onlookers. Temperance had instructed the funeral director to lead the procession the long route to St Mary's. That way, not a single person in Bridgwater would be left unaware of the passing of Arthur Angel and the magnitude of grief felt by his beautiful widow.

Temperance was in her element. She gazed out of the carriage window and soaked up the attention. If it had not been so unbearably hot inside the carriage, she would have been happy to stay there forever. Parading up and down the streets, knowing with every second that passed, she was foremost in the thoughts of every bystander.

Eli shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He felt suffocated. His collar was tight on the damp skin of his neck, and he longed to tear it off. The scent of his mother's perfume was overbearing and the sight of Alice slumped in the corner of the carriage, looking for all the world like a lost waif, heated his blood and made him want to take her by the shoulders and shake her. It was time he stopped thinking of her as poor little Alice. It was time he stopped feeling sorry for her. Papa had spoiled her and had ignored Mama's efforts to correct things. If Alice couldn't behave as she should, then it was her own fault. It was time she grew up.

The carriage crawled towards St Mary's. And with every yard onward, Eli's anger grew. He was angry with his father for dying; angry that he had inherited the mill, when he might have wanted to do something different with his life; angry with having to become a man so soon and angry with having to sit in the airless carriage for such an interminable amount of time. Both Eli and Temperance were so absorbed in their own separate musings that neither of them noticed the barefoot man standing on the edge of the town square. Neither of them noticed the piercing blue of his eyes or the soft ringlets of hair that hung down his back. And neither of them noticed how Alice turned her head or the rapt expression on her face.

He is there again. Henry Prince. As we pass the town square, I see him standing before a small crowd. His arms are stretched wide. My heart jolts. I wish I could hear what he is saying. But the air in this carriage is so heavy it seems to muffle all sound from outside, except for the slow heavy creak of the wheels. I drink in the sight of him. He is like no one I have ever seen before. There is something about him, something in his eyes; something that I can't explain. But it makes me feel scared and thrilled all at the same time. As we pass by, the crowd turns to look at us. He turns too. For a moment, he looks straight at me, and it is just like before. It feels as though he has looked straight into my soul. I shudder.
Someone's just walked over your grave
, Eli would have said when we were little.

I follow Henry Prince with my eyes, craning my neck to catch a last glimpse of him. As he disappears from view I am left with an empty feeling; a hunger for something that I can't describe. I will see him again. I know I will. I will find a way to leave the house. I will walk to the town square and if I have to wait all day to see him again, then I will. Even if I have to go back day after day, I will find a way to see him.

I slump back in my seat, and look across at Eli. He is itching at his collar and scowling like a little boy. It is hard to imagine that he is the man of the house now. I wonder if Mama will even let him be the man of the house. I wonder if she will be different now that Papa has gone. Will grief soften her? Will she be grateful for what she has left? I look at her, wafting her fan and gazing out at the onlookers as though she is royalty or some such.

She turns her head to me and glares. ‘Sit up straight, Alice,' she commands. ‘We are nearly there now. All eyes will be on us in a moment, and you will
not
embarrass me. Do you understand?' Then as though she has read my thoughts, she leans towards me and whispers over the top of her fan, ‘Just because your father has died, do not think things will be any different.'

She snaps her fan shut and traps a fly between the lacy ribs. And, like the fly, any hopes I had of a gentler Mama are crushed. The carriage jolts to a standstill. We have arrived at St Mary's, and although the sun floods into the carriage when the door is opened, I have never felt as miserable in my whole life.

The hole is bigger than I thought, and much deeper. It looks dark and cool at the bottom, where the soil is soft and damp. I step away from the edge. I cannot imagine how Papa will like it down there. Especially once the earth has been piled on top of him and the worms have eaten their way through his frock coat and shirt and into the flesh of his belly.

They are lifting his coffin over the hole now. The pallbearers' faces are greasy with the heat and the effort. The thick rope slides through their fingers, and there is a slight thud as the coffin hits the bottom of the grave.

‘For as much as it has pleased Almighty God to take out of this world the soul of Arthur Charles Eli Angel, we therefore commit his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, looking for the blessed hope when the Lord Himself
 … '

Reverend Piggott's dreary voice drifts lazily around the churchyard. He must have said the same words a thousand times before. I wonder why God would be so pleased to take Papa when he was quite happy here on earth. I think perhaps Reverend Piggott is lying. It is my fault Papa is dead and not God's. God didn't want Papa yet, I know it.

Reverend Piggott's bare head is pink and there are dark patches spreading from under the armpits of his white surplice.

‘ … 
shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and the dead in Christ shall rise first
 … 
'

He throws a scattering of earth on top of Papa's coffin. I imagine Papa inside, squashed into the darkness, wondering where he is. Perhaps the earth landing on the wooden lid sounds to him like rain pattering on a roof? I wring my hands together. Does God know it is my fault? Does Reverend Piggott know it is my fault?

‘
 … 
we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air
 … 
'

Reverend Piggott is looking at me now. His eyes are grey, dull and accusing. There is no forgiveness in them, and no understanding. My throat tightens. It is as though I am choking on the soil the Reverend is brushing from his hands. My temples throb.
I didn't mean it, Papa
, I shout inside my head.
Please don't leave me
. I think of the man in the town square again. I haven't been able to stop thinking about him. He looked at me too. But in a different way. As though he knows what I have done but will forgive me nonetheless.

‘ … 
and so shall we ever be with the Lord, wherefore comfort ye one another with these words.'

Mama throws a handful of earth onto Papa's coffin. She does it carelessly, as though she is discarding a soiled handkerchief, then she inspects her gloves to see they have not been marked. It is Eli's turn next. He throws the earth with force onto the lid of the coffin, so the bigger lumps explode into dust. Then he blinks hard, from the glare of the sun or the prickle of tears, I do not know.

All eyes are on me now. It is hard to breathe with the heat pressing down on me from all around. I stoop to the ground, my legs trembling. I reach out to the earth that is piled along the edge of the grave. It is warm and dry and crumbles to my touch. I close my hand around it and a trickle of powder pours through my fingers. I try to stand, but my head feels light: full of clouds. ‘Eli,' I whisper. ‘Please help me up.'

He bends to take my elbow and hisses in my ear, ‘Compose yourself, Alice.'

His tone of voice stings me and I am horrified to feel hot tears gathering behind my eyes. I clutch at the grains of earth in my hand and move my feet forwards. I look down. I am so close to Papa now. Only a few feet of space and the thickness of the coffin lid separate us. I open my hand and let go of the earth. Then everything slows down. I see each grain of soil peel away from my palm and float gracefully, one by one into the grave. Suddenly, the sun strikes the brass coffin plate that is engraved with Papa's name and a knife of light blinds me. Silence pounds in my ears. The scent of dark earth and dead things fills my nostrils and I am hovering over the coffin, moving closer and closer. A long drawn-out scream breaks the silence.

Then everything turns black.

‘Miss? Miss? Try some tea, will you.'

There is a hand on the back of my head. I open my eyes to see Sarah leaning over me with the steam from a cup of hot tea misting in front of her face.

‘There, there,' she says. ‘Just a sip. A small sip.' She brings the cup to my lips and I take a drop of the scalding liquid. ‘That's better,' she says and she lowers my head onto a pillow.

As the tea burns a trail to my insides, I look around and see I am in my bedchamber. I am lying on my bed, still dressed in my mourning gown. Except it is patched with smears of mud now.

‘You didn't 'alf give everyone a fright,' says Sarah. ‘Whatever made you do it, miss?'

‘Do what?' I croak.

She looks at me oddly. ‘Why, jump into your father's grave, of course. You've caused a right old stir, you have. The whole house is in uproar.'

I groan and close my eyes again as I remember: the heat, the earth, the light and Papa in a box, forever.

‘I fainted, Sarah,' I whisper. ‘That is all.'

‘All?' Sarah's voice squeaks. ‘You have no idea, do you miss?' She sighs. ‘The whole town is talking about it. The mistress  …  well. She is in such a tizz. I've never seen the like. In fact,' she says, her eyes darting back to the chamber door, ‘I shouldn't be here at all. Only no one was looking out for you, and I wanted to make sure you were all right. You won't tell on me, will you?'

I am not surprised that Mama and Eli have not been to see me, but I am touched that Sarah has thought of me at least. I struggle to sit and as I pull myself up, I lurch forward and knock the tea from Sarah's hand.

‘Oh, miss!' She grabs the cup, but the brown liquid has already spilled on to the bed sheets. I watch as the stain spreads over the white linen. It is fanciful of me, I know, but I swear I see a face appear. A bearded face with staring eyes. I reel backwards. Papa! He has come to haunt me already.

‘You've gone quite white, miss,' says Sarah. ‘But don't worry yourself. It's only tea. It'll wash off, no trouble.'

And I think to myself that she is right. It is only tea. But when I look down again, the face is still there. But it's not Papa any more. This time, the face is smiling out at me from a halo of ringlets.

‘Sarah?' I reach for her arm as she turns to go. ‘I saw someone in the town square. Just after Papa died. A man with bare feet and black ringlets. He was preaching to a crowd  …  Do  …  do you know of him?'

Sarah laughs. ‘Everyone knows of him, miss. He's a strange one, all right. Henry Prince is his name. He has a place in Spaxton. Where me Pa lives. Surrounded by high walls it is. The gates guarded by bloodhounds.' Sarah lowers her voice. ‘They call it the Abode of Love.'

I want her to tell me more. I like the sound of it,
the Abode of Love
, but there are noises at the door and her eyes are panicked. ‘Thank you for the tea,' I say. ‘And don't worry, I shan't say a word.' She bobs to me, but before she can leave, the door opens and Mama, Eli and a man I have never seen before, enter the room. Mama looks daggers at Sarah who bows her head and sidles quickly out. I am so glad to see Eli that I don't at first wonder who the man is. I hold my hand out to my brother, searching his face for some sign.

But his eyes won't meet mine. He looks everywhere but at me. I turn cold then. I drop my hand and look to Mama. She still has daggers in her eyes and they are pointing sharply at me.

‘So, this is Alice?'

I turn to the man and see he is talking to me. He has a slight curl of a smile on his lips.

‘How are you feeling?' he asks, with his head cocked to one side.

‘I don't know,' I answer. Because that is the truth.

‘I am here to help you, Alice,' he says. ‘My name is Dr Fox.'

Then everything happens at once. A thickset woman appears in the room and takes me by the arms. She pulls me from the bed and sets me on my feet. Before I have a chance to gasp, she wraps a shawl around my shoulders and holds me tight to her side. My nostrils fill with the smell of her: rotten meat and chamber pots. She marches me from the room and all I have the chance to do is to shout Eli's name.

‘It's for your own good, Alice,' he calls after me. ‘You'll soon see.'

Mama is nowhere to be seen.

I try to twist out of the woman's hold, but she is strong. She grips me so hard, I fear she might squeeze the breath out of me. My feet barely touch the ground as she whisks me down the stairs. The man, Dr Fox, is striding ahead. ‘Discretion, Mrs Abbot,' he says over his shoulder. ‘Remember. Swiftness and discretion.' Although he is quick and wiry, he doesn't take after his name. He is more like a pigeon, with his grey suit, beady eyes and bouncing head. Then we are outside and there is a carriage waiting at the pavement, with its doors already open.

‘Where are you taking me?' I manage to ask. But before the words are out of my mouth, I have been thrown into the carriage. ‘Stop!' I shout. But the doors are banged shut and in a blink I find myself huddled on a hard wooden seat with the looming figure of Mrs Abbot sitting opposite me.

‘Tis no use carrying on,' she says. ‘What's done is done and you might as well sit quiet now.'

I look around frantically. The curtains are drawn, but not tightly, so daylight filters through and I see the interior of the carriage is shabby, the walls scuffed and the floors covered in dirty straw. The air hangs heavy and hot and is filled with the odour of Mrs Abbot. The carriage jerks forward and I grab the leather hand strap to steady myself. Mrs Abbot grunts as the horses take up a steady pace, and her chins jiggle with the motion.

‘Where's Dr Fox?' I demand, trying to keep the fear from my voice. ‘Where are you taking me?'

‘He's up top with the driver. He doesn't like to ride with his patients.' Mrs Abbots blows her nose noisily on a large, grey handkerchief. She inspects the contents, and then looks to me as though I am of much less importance than what has just come out of her nose. ‘Anyway, it is no concern of yours. Just settle quietly. We have a long way to go.'

The terrible truth hits me hard in the stomach. ‘This isn't meant to happen!' I scream at her. ‘Papa died so I wouldn't be sent to the asylum!'

‘Did he, dear?' she says. ‘Yes, yes. Well, I'm sure we'll soon cure you of that notion.' She smiles to herself.

‘I am not mad,' I say firmly. ‘I am not mad.'

Mrs Abbot fumbles in her skirts and takes out a small silver flask. She eyes me as she unscrews the lid and takes a sip of whatever is inside. She licks at the corners of her mouth. ‘That's what they all say, dear,' she says. ‘That's what they always say.' She folds her arms under her bosom and purses her lips.

‘You can't do this,' I plead. ‘You can't just take me from my home!' Mrs Abbot blinks lazily and purses her lips tighter.

I gesture to my mud-stained gown. ‘Look at me,' I shout. ‘I have just come from my father's funeral. I need to be with my family!'

Suddenly, Mrs Abbot leans forwards and slaps me hard across the face. ‘Shut up!' she hisses. ‘Or there'll be worse to come.'

I hold my hand to my face. My cheek stings with heat and furious tears; I am too angry to speak. Mrs Abbot holds out her grey handkerchief to me and I shake my head dumbly. ‘Perhaps,' she says,‘we can have a peaceful journey now.' She shifts about in her seat, then sighs, as though she has found a comfy spot. But then the carriage swings around a bend and I am flung to one side, and Mrs Abbot is nearly thrown from her seat. ‘Gently! Gently!' she screeches and reaches up to thump on the ceiling.

I stay in the corner of the carriage with my head knocking against the curtained window as the carriage lurches its way onwards. I watch Mrs Abbot settle down again. She folds her hands in her lap and rests her chin on her bosom. Then she takes out her handkerchief again and dabs at her forehead and at the crease under her chin where its folds meet her neck. ‘Beastly hot, int it,' she mumbles.

I turn away from her and try to put from my mind frightful images of darkness and filth and cold stone; I want to close my ears to the dreadful screams of lunatics and madmen. It is as though I am falling down the deepest darkest hole and there is no way out. This is my punishment. The price I have to pay for wickedness, for being the wrong person and for letting Papa die. I press my head hard against the carriage wall, desperate to banish all these thoughts. The curtains hang in front of my nose, and I realise that from where my head rests, I can see a sliver of the outside world through a gap in the side of the worn velvet. There is an edge of blue sky, which disappears and reappears with the motion of the carriage. I see marching chimneys and pieces of rooftop. Then underneath all that are glimpses of brick, shop windows, the flick of a horse's tail, the shocking green of summer leaves and the passing faces of people I will never know.

I inch my fingers towards the curtains and lift a corner. A shaft of sunlight darts across my skirts. I see we are passing the town square, which is milling with people.

‘Shut that curtain!' Mrs Abbot suddenly bellows, and my hand drops to my lap as though burned. I have only been in this carriage a matter of moments and already I have had more than a taste of what is in store for me. I lean back on the seat and close my eyes. If I can sleep, maybe I will wake up and all this will be a bad dream. The carriage rattles onwards, but of course, sleep won't come. Mrs Abbot's wheezy breath, the stench of her and the closeness of the air, remind me all too clearly where I am. Is the town square to be my last glimpse of Bridgwater? I think of Henry Prince, and I wonder if he was still there. My skin prickles as I recall his face, and how I seem to have known him before I even saw him. How could that be? And why? I puzzle over these questions and try to remember what Henry Prince said on the day that Papa died. What was it he wanted me to hear?

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

The remembered words spark a flicker of hope deep in my belly. I think of the girl too, the one with the freckles. The one who had stood in front of Henry Prince and looked at him with such light in her eyes.
Our Beloved
, she had called him.
Our Beloved
.

I know what I have to do now. There is only one place I can go. And it won't be to the madhouse.

There is a low rumble from Mrs Abbot. I look across to see that her head has fallen into her bosom and the slack skin of her cheeks is jiggling to the rhythm of the carriage. I keep my eyes upon her as I dare to sneak my hand to the curtain again. I tweak it open. Mrs Abbot doesn't flinch. I turn to peer out of the corner of the window and I see we have left the town now. The horses have picked up their pace and we thrum past fat hedgerows and fields of wheat baked golden. I wonder which field of grain is destined for Papa's mill. Then an ache grows behind my heart as I remember it is now Eli's mill.

Time passes and Mrs Abbot keeps snoring. I can't sit still. The further away from home we travel the more my insides seem to fall apart and the more my head fills up with fragments of memories and lost things and broken hopes. My feet tap insistently on the floor, scuffing around the old bits of straw. My hands twist in my lap or fly upwards to grab strands of my hair that I pull and wind round and round my fingers. I am leaving myself behind. That is what it feels like. I hear Dr Fox shouting something to the driver. I hear the crack of a whip. Then I hear a low humming, a flat desperate sound that I realise is coming from my own throat. I clamp my hand to my mouth, not wanting to disturb the slumped form of Mrs Abbot.

I can't bear it any longer. I feel like Papa must feel, alone in the darkness, buried deep in the cold ground with the weight of the world above, and a mountain of earth pressing down on him. I want to escape. I want to smash through wood and stone, and claw through the earth to reach the light. I look out of the window again and see the hedges have flattened out to moorland and ditches, and there is a flock of birds wheeling and diving high up in the still, blue sky.

It is then that I do it. There is no moment of decision. There is just my hand twisting the brass door handle and pushing open the carriage door. There is the unsteady hovering of my boots on the edge of the doorway and a great rush of warm air on my face. There is a roar from Mrs Abbot and a roar from me as I throw myself away from the great snarling wheels of the carriage and land with a sickening thud on a grassy bank. There is silence and panic as the breath leaves my lungs and there is none to replace it. There is the clattering and skidding of hooves and the creaking and squealing of wheels. There is shouting and cursing. There is a huge pain in my chest as I manage to steal a precious swallow of air. Then there are my legs and tangled skirts, and running and running, and more pain in my chest and the distant figures of Mrs Abbot with her hands on her hips and Dr Fox waving a walking stick in the air.