Twelfth Night at Eyre Hall (11 page)

“Your pulse is back to normal.” He put his
hand to her forehead, “and your temperature has decreased. Shall we close the
window?”

“No. Please leave it open, but do not
concern yourselves with me.” She turned to Dante. “Dante and Susan, you have
many matters to discuss, please feel free to do so in private. Susan, you are
entitled to a dowry for the years you have worked at Eyre Hall, so you will be
able to cover your housekeeping costs for at least a year. I will speak to your
father, too, Dante. He must let you use the house you inherited from your mother
in London. It is your birthright.”

“Mrs. Mason, there are not sufficient
words in Mr. Johnson’s dictionary to express my gratitude, and there are not
enough colours in the rainbow to paint a just picture of your generosity and
goodness to us. We will never be able to repay your kindness, but we would be
most honoured if you would be our son or daughter’s Godmother.”

“I would be pleased to fulfil such an
obligation to your firstborn. How kind of you to bestow such a privilege.” She
raised her hand to hold Michael’s, which was still on her shoulder, looked up
and asked him, “Will you be back by then, Lieutenant? I understand you will be
the Godfather, being Susan’s only male relative.”

“I will be back in July. Could you wait
until then, sister?”

“Of course we can wait, brother. Nothing
would please me more.” I pulled his arms away from Mrs. Mason and hugged him.
“I’ll miss you so much, Michael.” I recognised Jane’s expensive perfume on his
skin, and realised wretchedly that he had become her slave all over again.

 “Annette, why don’t you show Dr. Carter
around Eyre Hall and the estate? I’m sure no one has taken the time to do so
since his arrival last year.”

I saw Annette blush uncomfortably and
watched the doctor smile hopefully. There was something about Annette’s
stunning beauty that displeased me. I was relieved but also offended that she
did not seem to care for Dante. Did she think he was not good enough for her?
Of course, she had a large dowry, so she could choose any man. Why would she settle
for an aspiring artist with no fortune? I loved Dante with all my heart. He was
kind, generous, sensitive, and so intelligent. His paintings and sculptures had
a magical and mystical quality to them, like the colour of the Venetian sky,
which suggested devotion and spirituality. I could watch his beautiful face and
listen to his melodic voice eternally. He was so easy to love, and I was so
fortunate that he had deigned to look at me and love me. God had placed him in
my path, and I was unable to resist his gift. Our love was as pure and innocent
as the child in my womb.

The four of us left Michael and Mrs.
Mason alone in the drawing room. I made an excuse, slipped into the dining
room, and listened behind the heavy crimson curtain that hung between both
rooms. Silence. I peeked in to see my brother’s head bent over hers on the
couch, obviously kissing her. I wanted to interrupt their disgusting behaviour,
and then I heard her breathless voice.

“Michael, if she’s dead, who wrote the
letter?”

“Let me worry about that, Jane. I will
find her. You have enough to deal with at Eyre Hall.”

Another long silence, and then they
stood and walked out of the room. I moved back to the door and watched them
walking hand in hand up the staircase. Her long wavy hair had been untied from
its usual bun and hung loosely down her back. I cringed in disgust. On my way
out of the room, I bumped into Dante.

“I hate her, Dante,” I told him. He
hugged me, then placed his hand on my tummy, and smiled lovingly. “You don’t
mean that, Susan. You are just concerned about your brother, but he knows what he
is doing. They both do. Love, like the sea, knows no limits. The bounds of age
or social class are powerless.”

“I hate watching her use him.”

“They are in love, Susan, like us.”

“Don’t compare us to them. Their union
is perverse.”

“Let’s forget about them and worry about
us and our baby. We still have to break the news to my father, and make plans
for our new life together in London.”

***

“That was a memorable day to me,
for it made great changes in me. But, it is the same with any life. Imagine one
selected day struck out of it, and think how different its course would have
been. Pause you who read this, and think for the moment of the long chain of
iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for
the formation of the first link on one memorable day.”

Pip,
Great Expectations
, Chapter
9

But he that dares not grasp the
thorn

Should never crave the rose.

The Narrow Way,
Anne Bronte

I left Eyre Hall with the daunting task
of finding Helen. My first days in London were spent getting my bearings, as my
most recent recollections were over a year ago at the Naval Academy at New
Cross, near Greenwich, far from the bustling city. I had spent almost all my
time on the lawn of the main building, on a full–rigged model of a ship
learning to use the compass and how to read navigation charts, as well as the
intricate workings of a naval ship.

I had lived in a poor house at
Whitechapel, north of the Thames with Susan for two years as a child, after our
mother died. My recollection was of the mossy walls, clammy air, flea–ridden
blankets and knotted mattresses, and the rumbling of my painfully empty stomach.
Worse than the hunger or the filth was the cold sweat, which shook my body
every time a drunkard took notice of Susan or me, until I grew stronger and
braver and struck back with an anger I never knew I possessed; anger that I
have spent the rest of my life keeping under control, lest the deadly animal
inside me should ever be set loose again. 

The rage had been as asset at sea, when
the rival had been both human and natural. The unruly convicts and the savage
sea were both formidable adversaries. I had fought every day against both,
until I was dreaded and then respected by the crew, and had managed to control
my fear of the dark and voracious waters.

 
When I
left my lodgings on the icy morning of the Day of the Holy Innocents, I mused
on how Herod could have ordered the execution of all young male children in
Bethlehem, to avoid the loss of his throne to a new–born King of the Jews. It
reminded me of Jane’s first husband, another monster who would have killed his
own daughter because he refused to let Jane love anyone else. How can an adult
fear or hate a small helpless child?

I had told Jane that I did not mind
never fathering a child, but it had been a necessary lie. I would give my right
arm to watch her womb swell with my seed, and to hold our child in my arms. If
I had not left her, that might have happened. It was my fault and I would die
with the pain of knowing I was responsible for the death of the child we could
have had. I had to find Helen, safe and sound, somewhere in this vast, chaotic,
and sinful city; a city that smelt like the bowels of hell, of putrid waters,
sour horse urine, fly–ridden manure, and stale smoke. No wonder the long–suffering
residents looked sick, deformed and decaying.

The equinoctial gales were blowing out
at sea that morning, and the vicious south–west wind was roaring through the
steeple of St George's red brick and limestone church, as I walked inside to
beg Our Father to help me find Helen. I then walked down Borough High Street into
The Elephant Coaching Inn, where I dressed for the part I was about to play.

The wind pushed me down the Newington
Causeway, yet seemed almost gentle as it cut through the leafless trees in
Kennington Park. By the time I arrived at Brixton Road, the salty smell of the
furious waters had vanished and the putrid stink had decreased to an occasional
waft of filth and decay.

I had had no idea when I set out that my
destination was a good hour’s walk from St Thomas’ Hospital. I walked into the
White Horse Coaching Inn for travellers on their way to Brighton, close by the
brand new Brixton Railway Station. I was feeling hungry enough to eat a hearty
meal, and made sure I introduced myself as Mr. Burchill, Vicar at Thornhill,
before I was directed to Sudbourne Road, which I already knew was a few minutes
away.

As I left the inn, I looked at the
coachmen and their thirsty horses, resting, eating, and stocking up at the inn,
and I wondered what would happen when trains took over their work, as they were
already doing. Travellers would no doubt continue to rest and eat at the inns,
but what would become of the horses, the coachmen, the riders, and the
blacksmiths? Would they all become train drivers and station masters? The world
was changing, slowly but surely, and the changes would soon affect isolated
Eyre Hall, too.

London was smellier, dirtier and more
crowded than ever, no doubt thanks to the steam trains, with their endless
carriages and hordes of travellers unleashed every day in the city. I liked
London even less than before. I worried about Susan living in such a hellish
place, but she had assured me that her new residence in Camberwell was almost
in the country, well away from the uncleanliness of Whitechapel.

Sudbourne Road was a long tree–lined
street with identical, tall terraced houses on either side. They all had bay
windows overlooking small square gardens and identical, cast–iron gates
outside.

I approached Number 6, unlatched the
gate, and lifted the handle on the lion’s head brass knocker, hitting the
wooden door twice with quick, sharp blows. Minutes later, a young girl in a
sullied maid’s uniform opened the door and asked my name.

“Mr. Burchill, miss.”

“And the missus?” A nauseous stink shot
out of her mouth as her blistered lips parted, showing only a few black and
broken teeth.

I hesitated before replying. “Mrs. Burchill
was not able to come. It is a long journey from Thornhill to London.”

“Where’s that?”

“Scotland.”

“Another one from up north. Ain’t you
got no babies up there?”

I smiled, realising I had arrived at my
destination. She spoke again at once. “It’s usually the missus who picks ‘em. We
don’t accept no returns.”

“I assure you there will be no returns.”

“Mrs. Banks can’t see you anyways. She’s
out.”

“I’m afraid I’ll only be in London for a
few days, and I need to speak to her urgently.”

“It’s always urgent, ain’t it?”

I made an effort and smiled again,
hoping my ecclesiastical costume might impress her. “My parishioners are
expecting me back soon. I have weddings and funerals next week.”

She looked carefully at my white
clerical collar and double–breasted cassock before speaking. “Well, you’re
lucky, Mrs. Banks got a couple of boys just came in. I bet you’d prefer a boy,
wouldn’t you?”

I cringed at the thought of two innocent
and helpless baby boys in her care.

“Could I wait for Mrs. Banks?”

“Dunno when she’ll be back.”

She turned inside as she heard the sound
of children wailing.

“I have come all the way from Whitechapel,
on foot. Perhaps I could wait until night falls, and if she has not returned I
will come back tomorrow.”

“Hurry up inside then.” She beckoned. “Those
screaming brats tire me out, bawling all bloody day long!”

She led me into a room sparsely furnished
with two chairs and a rickety table.

“Sit down. Make yourself at home, Mr. Burchill.
I’ll be back when I’ve fed ’em.”

I thanked her and walked inside the
gloomy room. The walls were covered in faded patterned paper, and a frayed,
striped curtain hung over the window.  The front wall was ornamented with two
old coloured prints in black frames, each representing a wartime naval
engagement. The other walls had dark shadows of assorted shapes revealing
places where pictures had once hung. Two lumpy, horsehair chairs stood against
the wall, and an old corner cupboard housed a dusty bible and a prayer book. An
old rag lay before the fireplace, by way of a rug, and two iron candlesticks
were fixed into the wall over either side of the empty hearth.

I heard the girl, presumably in the
kitchen, banging cupboard doors. I wondered why the children were under her
care, and who their parents were. Could they have been removed unknowingly as
Helen had been, or abducted from the streets? What kind of people would buy and
sell children? I was close to finding Helen, but the dread of not finding her
alive was growing alarmingly.

The young girl returned. “They won’t be
waking up till tomorrow. I just made sure of that with Godfrey’s drops.”

“Godfrey? Mr. Banks?” I asked, wondering
if he might be her husband. She burst out laughing, and a disgusting view of
her whole putrid mouth was made available to me.

“Ain’t no Mr. Banks. Doctor’s
prescription. They sleep like logs.”

“How many are there?” I asked, appalled.

“Why do you want to know?”

I hesitated. “I was wondering because my
brother would also like a son.”

“They all want boys, don’t they? What
are we supposed to do with all the girls?”

My heart froze. “What happens when they
are not wanted?”

“My, you ask plenty of questions, don’t
ya?”

I smiled innocently, stroking my false
beard and hoping she would not suspect anything.

“They all get an ’ome, some ’omes is
cheaper than others, that’s all. Others waste away, cause they ain’t all meant
for this ’ard world, is they?”

I smiled again, waiting for her to
elaborate, but she turned and left the room. “’Fraid I got some work to do.”

I wondered if any of the barely clad and
murky–faced children I had seen begging around London Bridge station this
morning had come from this house or others like it.

I heard her walk upstairs, so I decided
to explore the rest of the rooms downstairs. I ventured into the kitchen, which
was little bigger than the long, narrow pantries at Eyre Hall. It smelled of
sewage and rotting food. Several feeding bottles and plenty of empty gin
bottles lay in the grimy sink. I opened the cupboards to find only stale bread
and porridge.

On the other side of the kitchen was a spacious,
fine–looking room with an oval brass–framed mirror, furnished with a couch and several
armchairs, all covered with the same dark burgundy cloth. Some ugly china
ornaments sat on the mantelshelf above the waning fire, and the stained carpet
had seen better days. I presumed the trade was not as lucrative as I had
thought.

On my way back to the small room, I saw
a door, which looked as though it led to a cellar. It was pitch black and
smelled like death. I brought a candle I had seen in the front room and
ventured down the creaky wooden steps, covering my nose with a kerchief or I
should have retched. There were some chairs, several large boxes, a garden
spade, a fork, and other smaller garden tools. I thought the smell must come
from the boxes. I lifted one of the lids and saw the source of the odour, some
pieces of decayed meat, which on a closer inspection looked like the remains of
what might have been a child.

I ran back upstairs in horror and watched
the day merge into night, lost in brooding thoughts. I decided to go to
Scotland Yard the following morning and pay a visit to Sergeant Stanley Wilson,
as Captain Carrington had suggested. This young girl would be easy to
intimidate, but this false Mrs. Banks was probably a very dangerous criminal
who had been in this ungodly business for years.

The young girl popped back into the room.
“Perhaps you should come back tomorrow, sir.”

“Certainly, Miss…?”

“Polly, just Polly.”

“Certainly, Polly.” I forced another
smile. “I shall return tomorrow after lunch.”

“I imagine she won’t be out tomorrow,
too. She tires easily. It’s her legs. They swell like tree trunks when she’s
stood too long.”

I imagined how I would kick the
monster’s legs until she told me where Helen was, and then I would tie her
arms, fill her pockets with heavy stones and throw her into the river.  

I returned by train on the South London
Line to Victoria Station. Foreboding thoughts accompanied me as I walked along
the Embankment past the Houses of Parliament. The wind whipped my face as I
paced past Westminster Bridge, Waterloo Bridge, Blackfriars Bridge, and Southwark
Bridge. I finally crossed the smog–covered Thames at London Bridge and strolled
down Borough High Street to my lodgings at the George Inn, a stone’s throw from
Saint Thomas Street, and the hospital.

I had steak and roast potatoes washed
down with ale for dinner, and then I was charged an exorbitant sum of money for
a tub of water in my rooms. In spite of the incessant brawling in the street
outside my window, I slept like a log until the dawn light woke me.

I made my way along Southwark Street and
then Stamford Street to Westminster Bridge to avoid the muddy roadworks along
the Victoria Embankment. I continued along Whitehall and turned right, past
Horse Guards and the War Office into Great Scotland Yard Street, and reached the
imposing sturdy white stone walls and tall rectangular windows of the London
Police Headquarters.  

Sergeant Wilson was a round sort of man.
He had a round red–veined face, a large round belly, and fat chubby fingers. I
imagined he was a man who enjoyed his food and drink over any other pleasures
in life. When he spoke, his slurred and jovial voice convinced me he would
never be seen chasing anyone or even organising a chase. I informed him of my
suspicion that a woman under an assumed name was buying and selling babies. I
was appalled at his lack of interest in the topic.

“There are too many children in London, Lieutenant
Kirkpatrick, far too many. They are often born in the wrong families, who cannot
feed them or clothe them, so they are taken to other better–off families. It is
often a question of social justice. Many of the intermediaries are religious
orders. Children are left on church or convent doorsteps, others sadly fall
into the hands of dubious individuals such as the one you mention, but in any
case, the children who survive will have a better life, don’t you think?”