Twelfth Night at Eyre Hall (14 page)

Miss Elliot jumped up from the chair and
started to cry.

“Please forgive me. I did not wish to
upset you, Miss Elliot. I have spoken too much and too cruelly.” 

She sobbed, so I stood and embraced her.
“There, there, Miss Elliot. Please sit down and tell me all about it.” I
realised her reaction had been too emotional not to be due to a personal
matter.

“My daughter was stolen, ten years ago.
My husband and my doctor told me she was stillborn and they took her away to
London to one of those women.”

“Dear God. Mr. Rochester was responsible
for such an abominable act? How can you be sure?”

“He confessed on his death bed, and his
physician confirmed the information.”

“I cannot imagine your pain. Please
forgive my heartless words. Do you know if the child survived or where she
might be?”

“Michael is helping me find her.”

“Who, may I ask, is Michael?”

“He is the man I love.”

“He is a fortunate man, indeed, but he
is not your husband, I presume?”

“No, he is not my husband,” she sighed. “He
was my valet at Eyre Hall, but he left when I became engaged to Mr. Mason. I
offered him the position of secretary and asked him to stay by my side, but he
did not accept.”

“Why did you marry Mr. Mason, may I ask,
if you love Michael?”

“It is a marriage of convenience. I
married Mr. Mason to protect my son by keeping family secrets away from him.
Mr. Mason married me for money and position.”

“I see.”

We sat in silence for a while. I knotted
my fingers and rubbed my thumbs absently, while I watched her restless hands smoothing
her silk skirt. I had not confided in many people regarding my private life in
the last ten years. Although it was known that I did not live with my wife, I
made sure my secret romance remained unknown.

“So we are both in a similar position,
my dear. We are both married to a person we do not love, and we are in love
with someone else, who is not appropriate. They are the wrong age, and the
wrong social class. There is family opposition, and society’s disapproval, and
so on”

“How do you cope, Mr. Dickens?”

“I’m afraid I cannot offer you any
advice. I cope miserably. Over a year ago, I was involved in a train accident,
as you will remember. I was on the tidal train travelling back from Folkestone
to London, when we were derailed due to an unfortunate accident with some
repair work on the railway line. Ten passengers were killed and forty injured.
I was able to squeeze out through the window of my compartment and help the
injured. It was a devastating scene. I shudder when I recall the mass of pain
and death. No imagination can conceive the ruin of the carriages and the screams
of terror.”

“I heard about the accident, and I was
told you were on the train but survived unharmed.”

 “Unharmed physically, but overwhelmed
emotionally. You see, I was not alone. Ellen was with me. I realised then that
life is all too short and finite, and although we must live each day to its
full potential, we have a duty to those we leave behind. I am separated from my
wife, as you know, and I am in love with Ellen, as very few people know. Our
relationship is secret, and it causes me great distress, but there is no other
way.”

“Well, my situation is similar to yours.
We must keep our relationship secret, and it also causes me great distress. I have
tried, but I cannot leave him. He is in the navy now. Michael is a lieutenant.” 

“My son, Sydney, is a lieutenant in the
navy, too. He is twenty–two years old. He is a hardworking and ambitious lad.
How old is Michael?”

“He is twenty–three.”

“Good grief! He is younger than Ellen.
She is twenty–eight.”

“Well, I am also younger than you, Mr.
Dickens, by over ten years!”

“Again that is your fortune; you have at
least ten more years of happiness than I have left. What are you going to do?”

“My husband and I lead separate lives.
He spends most of his time in London or Jamaica, where we own a plantation. For
the moment, I will wait for Michael, and I intend to make use of every
opportunity I can to be happy. There has been too much sadness in my life.”

“How invigorating! Are you going to
shock us all and defy the laws of propriety? How brave of you!”

“Not at all. I am unable to live without
Michael, so I must live with him. That is all I know. I love him. I do not
think I am brave at all.”

“Love is such a delicate balance between
beauty, respect and affection, is it not? Look at Nancy, mistaking love for
protection, or David Copperfield mistaking love for admiration and submission.”

“Indeed it is a mystery to me.” She
smiled wistfully.

We sat drinking brandy after dinner by
the fire. It was a restful moment after such an intense conversation. I
examined my host. Jane’s pale complexion and delicate frame stood in stark
contrast to her confident movements and assertive manner, which denoted a remarkable
strength and serenity of character. Her flawless features fit perfectly in her
heart–shaped face. Her dainty fingers and soft hands caressed her dress distractedly
as she watched the fire. Her russet hair was tamed with several pretty hair
clips, and her inquisitive green eyes held a gentle gleam when they rested on
mine. She was one of those fortunate women who grow more beautiful as they age.
Her voice was soft and melodious and her manner charming. It was a pleasure to
be in her company.

“Perhaps when you are next in London,
you will be joined by Michael, and I shall introduce you to Ellen.”

“That would be delightful, Mr. Dickens.
I look forward to the occasion.”

“The time has come to end this wonderful
evening. I would not like to tire you, or I shall not be invited again.”

“Endings are so sad in real life, and so
hard to write in fiction. How does an artist know a work of art has reached its
end? And what is a good ending to a great story?”

“Indeed. It is no secret that I struggle
with every ending.”

“I prefer happy endings, as you know,
Mr. Dickens. Readers prefer a satisfactory conclusion. It makes the reading
more rewarding.”

“Perhaps you are right, my dear Miss
Elliot, but I am afraid it is not always possible.”

“Who should we bear in mind when writing
the end, the reader or the story?”

“The reader always. We write for our
readers. I had a more pessimistic ending for
Great Expectations
, but my
dear friend Wilkie Collins persuaded me, or shall we say convinced me, that my
readers would prefer a more positive ending, so I left the door open for Pip
and Estella.”

“And are you pleased with this
modification?”

“Yes. I have no doubt the story will be
more acceptable with the altered ending. After all, I think Wilkie was right. It
is for the better.”

“I must admit, it is one of my favourite
novels, and I am glad you decided to present a happy ending. Would you read the
last chapter before we retire?”

“It would be a pleasure, Miss Elliot.”

She handed me a copy of
Great
Expectations
. I opened the last chapter and read the ending she wanted to hear. 

“
‘I took her hand in mine, and we
went out of the ruined place; and, as the morning mists had risen long ago when
I first left the forge, so the evening mists were rising now, and in all the
broad expanse of tranquil light they showed to me, I saw no shadow of another
parting from her.’
”

Seconds later, I closed the book and
watched a single tear slide down her cheek.

“Thank you, Mr. Dickens. That is the
most perfect ending anyone has ever written.” 

I wanted to add that it was a mere
illusion, because there can be no happy ending to any story. We will have to
surrender everything we have, in the end, and we will leave this planet as naked
and helpless as we came, but I was silent. Why spoil the magic moment?

She hugged me affectionately and we retired
to our respective bedrooms. The unpretentious luxury at Eyre Hall was comforting.
The views from all the windows of the surrounding countryside were unparalleled.
I could easily stay for longer than would be considered civil in this
entrancing paradise.    

Miss Elliot had convinced me to stay
another day, with the excuse of showing me around the grounds during the
daylight hours. I looked up at the clouds and smiled, looking forward to
smelling the country rain with its thousand fresh scents, associated with
growth and life. In the city, the rain developed only foul stale smells, and
was a sickly, dirt–stained, wretched addition to the gutters.

The following day flew by, and I set off
back to London with regret, the morning after my tranquil interlude. I was
looking forward to joining Ellen, and I had another reading of
The Christmas
Carol
scheduled for Twelfth Night at St. James’s Hall in Mayfair. I was too
busy to savour every moment as I would have wished, but every second was
precious now that I sensed my time was running out.

***

The morning after Twelfth Night, I
had planned to leave London and return to Eyre Hall. I was having breakfast on
my own by the hearth, when someone crept up behind me and sat down on the chair
to my right. I looked down at his hands, which were trembling alarmingly, while
his long brown woollen coat was dripping puddles on the floor. I wondered if he
was going to ask me for money or try to rob me. I turned cautiously and saw Simon’s
tormented face.

“Michael, I done it. I killed him,” he
whispered.

“Simon, what are you doing here?”

“You told me you’d be staying at the
George Inn, so I came.”

“Why are you not at Eyre Hall?”

“Did you hear me? I’m in big trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I killed him. I killed a man.”

“Be quiet, man, or you will get us both
arrested. Eat and drink, and then we shall go up to my room and you can tell me
what happened.”

“I can’t eat or drink or think. They’ll ’ang
me. You gotta help me, Michael. You know me. You know it was an accident.”

I called the host’s wife. “More kippers
and ale for my friend.”

I turned to Simon.

“Do not speak until I tell you to.”

He nodded and obeyed. If he had come
down from Eyre Hall that morning, he had to be hungry, thirsty, and tired. He
looked a wreck and sounded like a madman. It was hard enough making sense of
his jabbering when he was under normal conditions, so I needed to make sure he
calmed down before he told me what had happened. When we were seated in my
room, he started rambling incomprehensibly again.

“Simon, I want you to answer my
questions. Don’t talk.”

“I tell you, I killed him.”

I knew Simon was incapable of killing
anyone, at least not purposefully.

“Who did you kill?”

“Mr. Mason.”

Could he be dead already? So soon? Could
my greatest obstacle have been removed?

“Simon. Just say yes or no. Is Mason dead?”

“Yes.”

He was dead and Jane was a widow. It was
too good to be true. Could it be true? My pulse raced as I asked more
questions.

“And you killed him?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I poisoned him.”

“How?”

“With laudanum.”

“Go on.”

“We gave him drops every day he was at
Eyre Hall, in his wine and in his brandy. He drinks all day long, so he must
have taken loads of it.”

“Who is we?”

“Beth and me, but I’ll take all the
blame. Don’t tell no one it was her who ’elped me.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Michael, he’s evil. Mrs. Mason, she
don’t know, or she don’t care about his goings on.”

“What goings on?”

“He beats up Jenny.”

“You killed Mason because he beats up
Jenny?”

“Yes. I mean, no, not for Jenny, but for
Beth, and for Christy, too. He wanted them all in his bed together, every time
he was at Eyre Hall. Mrs. Mason was too busy guarding herself from him to
notice what he’s doing to the others. Jenny didn’t mind, but he’d had enough of
her, so he wanted Beth and Christy. Beth used to go, but she didn’t want to
anymore, not now we’re going out, and Christy, she don’t like men. She sleeps
with Daisy.”

“Why did you not inform Mrs. Mason?”

“Since you left, she ain’t been the
same, Michael. First, she was ill, and then she married Mason. Lives in her own
world, like a sleepwalker half the time. She don’t know what goes on, and she
don’t want to know. She don’t care about us.”

“You are wrong, Simon. She cares about
all of you. You should have told her.”

“She don’t even realise that Jenny and
Thomas are bashing Nell.”

“What?”

“Jenny hates her own daughter, locks her
in the pantry, beats her and then tells her to say she fell down the stairs.
Her brother bullies her, too.”

“Why?”

“They’re jealous of her ’cos she’s Mrs.
Mason’s pet. She wears nice clothes Mrs. Mason bought her. Eats with her. Spends
all day with her. Sometimes she even sleeps in her room, too. They’ll do some
real damage to her one day.”

I had already found a way of getting Jenny
and Thomas out of Eyre Hall and far from England as soon as possible. It would
not be hard to convince Jane to agree to my plan for them. However, my priority
now was finding out how Mason had died.

“Tell me exactly what happened on
Twelfth Night at Eyre Hall, Simon.”

“After breakfast, Mr. Mason went up to
his chamber and probably started drinking. We’d laced the brandy in his room
with laudanum, too. When he came down before lunch he was already foxed, but we
gave him some more, to be sure. During lunch, he had some more in the wine and
after lunch in the brandy. Then he went up to his room for a nap, and I had a
hard time getting him up and dressed for dinner, but he didn’t stop drinking, Michael.
He kept taking more and more of it, so we must’ve overdone it, ’cos when I went
up to see him, he didn’t move. He was dead.”

“Are you sure he was dead?”

“It was an ‘orrible sight, Michael. He
didn’t budge, but his eyes were open in ‘orror, like he’d seen a ghost. He was
lying on the bed, fully dressed, and face up. I think he choked on his vomit ’cos
it was brown and disgusting, dribbling down his chin. He smelt like the devil’s
shit.”

“So, what did you do?”

“I went down to the servants’ quarters
and told Beth, and she said we could get ‘anged, so I said I’d take all the
blame. I told her not to say anything about the laudanum. I didn’t know what to
do, so I came to London ’cos I had to get away from Eyre Hall. I can’t lie,
Michael. I look as guilty as sin. They’d catch me. We didn’t mean to do it. We
didn’t want him to die, we only wanted him to sleep and leave the girls alone.
What have we done, Michael?”

“Let me think. If he died in his sleep,
it may look like apoplexy. He was not a young man. He was at least Mr.
Rochester’s age. They may never discover he was poisoned. I am not convinced,
Simon.”

“Why not? I tell you I done it!”

“I presume it would take a much larger
quantity of laudanum to kill a man. Tell me what happened after dinner last
night, from the time he retired to his room to the moment you found him
lifeless.”

“After the meal, they all moved to the drawing
room, as usual. Mr. Mason almost fainted. He said he felt ill and retired. Mrs.
Mason offered to call young Dr. Carter, but he said he had eaten and drunk too
much, and that there was no need to fetch the doctor. I was glad no one
insisted, because I would have had to go and get him, and it was late, and
deathly cold, and raining. Shortly after, Mrs. Mason left, saying she was
tired. I watched her go upstairs and into Mr. Mason’s room, so he must have
been alive then. I was surprised ’cos she never went into his room, so I
waited, in case she needed me, but she didn’t stay long, and then she walked up
the next flight to her room.

  “The next person to leave was Miss
Mason, but Master John followed her out. Miss Mason asked for her cloak and they
went out for a walk. I saw them chatting, well, it was more like arguing. While
they were outside, Adele went upstairs and Mr. Greenwood and Dante stayed in
the drawing room, arguing too. Then Master John came back to the drawing room
and had some more brandy with the other two, who stopped arguing.

“A few minutes later, young Mr. Greenwood
left, but he didn’t go up to his room. I saw him go downstairs. Beth told me he
sat in the kitchen with Susan and they chatted for a long time. Then I saw him
go up to his room, but his father and Master John were still drinking in the
drawing room. Then they told me I could retire, and that’s when I went upstairs
to see if Mr. Mason needed anything.”

He stopped. “Wait a minute. I saw
someone else coming out of his room before I went in.”

“Who, Simon?”

“Jenny. She was carrying something under
‘er arm.”

“Then what happened, Simon?”

“Then I went into the room and he was
dead.”

“We need to go back to Eyre Hall, Simon.
You must tell Mrs. Mason you came to visit a sick relative. You will have to
invent a good excuse.”

“The only person I know in London is my Uncle
Pete who works at the Savoy Hotel, at least that’s where he used to work.”

“Then we must go and see him, in case
they check out your alibi. We will visit him before we take the train back to
York. Do not worry. There is no proof that Mason was poisoned or that you had
anything to do with it. We must return and act perfectly normal. You left him
in his rooms and he was feeling sick but alive. That must be your story.”

“Michael, you are so clever, but what if
they find out it was me? I’ll be ‘anged”

“Nobody will find out. One more thing,
Simon. If anyone asks you, do not even mention that Mrs. Mason entered Mr.
Mason’s bedroom. You saw her go straight up to her room.” 

Although I was sure she had had nothing
to do with his death, I knew the police might not agree.

“Michael, Mrs. Mason is a widow again.
It’s a good thing you was in London yesterday; you’ve got the biggest motive.
We’ve all seen you challenge Mr. Mason, and we all know you were the mistress’s
pet, not hard to put two and two together, is it?”

“In any case, Simon, he may well have
died of natural causes. In fact, if there is no evidence to the contrary, that
is what everyone will believe.”

I paid my bill and we left the inn and
walked across the river to the Savoy Hotel. Then I stopped at a jeweller’s for
some presents for Nell and Jane, and persuaded Simon to buy Beth a present,
too.

Simon shrugged and threw his hands in
the air. “Ain’t got no money for presents.”

I told him I would lend him some money
for a small token.

“You’ll have plenty of money soon, won’t
you, now that Mr. Mason’s dead and…”

I grabbed him by his coat collar and
pushed him against the wall. “Don’t ever say that again. I am lending you my
money. Money I have earned risking my life at sea for six months. Do you hear
me?”

Simon covered his face with his hands
and apologised profusely, insisting that he had meant no offence, and I knew he
was being truthful. I removed my hands from his coat.

“I am sorry, Simon, but do not ever even
insinuate that I am with Mrs. Mason for her money. Do you understand?” He
nodded.

I did not want to be regarded as her
amusement. I loved Jane and I hoped I would one day be able to make her my
wife, but I was not yet ready for the scrutiny of my peers or hers.

***