Mary Reilly (11 page)

“Mary,” he said. “You’d best give that up and come into the kitchen at once. Master has come in a bad way.”

So I straightened myself as best I could, though there was nothing to be done about the black but try to keep it off the carpet as I went along, and followed Mr. Bradshaw to the kitchen.

Master sat sprawled at the table, looking more dead than alive. When I come into the room he looked up at me as if he did not know me. In fact, he seemed hardly to know he was in his own house. Mr. Poole stood over him like a mother hen, and Cook was on his other side, but they seemed not to know what to do. Cook said to me, “I don’t know how he got across the yard. He can scarce walk.” His stick lay on the floor where, I thought, he must have dropped it, seeing that the table might hold him up. His clothes was awry, the collar undone, nor did he have on his coat, and I saw the cuff on his shirt was only half fastened, as if he’d put it on in a
hurry. He put his head down in his arms and groaned. Mr. Poole seemed to recollect himself at that and began giving orders all round, to Cook to get some water boiling, to me to prepare Master’s bed, and to Mr. Bradshaw to help support Master up the stairs.

I took off my apron, brushed myself as best I could and cleaned my hands quickly in a bucket. Master lifted his head to say, “My boot. Please take it off,” and Cook said, “His poor ankle. He has done it in now.”

Mr. Poole told Cook to hold her tongue and then got on his knees to take off Master’s boots. I watched long enough to see that Master’s ankle was twice the size it should be and so tender that Mr. Poole said he must cut the sock off with a scissors. So I went ahead up the stairs to prepare the room.

The room was warm and damp to my way of thinking, but I knew Master would find it chilly so I closed the window at once. Then I turned back the bed and laid out Master’s dressing gown, filled the basin with water and opened the door to his dressing room. I could hear them on the stairs, helping him along. In a moment they were at the door, Master between Mr. Bradshaw and Mr. Poole, hopping on one foot with his head dropped forward as if he could not hold it up. They set him down on his chair so clumsily I thought he would fall right out of it, but the jolt seemed to wake him up and he looked about, seeming very weary but relieved. Mr. Bradshaw went off and Mr. Poole took the scissors from the dresser and fell to cutting off Master’s sock.

“I’d like a fire, Mary,” Master said, though he did not look at me but at his ankle, which was now exposed and was indeed such a sorry sight, swollen and bruised many colours so that we all of us could do nothing but stare at it and I said, “Lord, sir, sure it is broken now.”

But Master said, “No, only I should not have been on it so soon.” Mr. Poole took off Master’s other sock and I went to work on the coals. Master said, “Poole, help me to get undressed. I fear I shall spend a few days gazing at my footboard.” Mr. Poole said, “Very good, sir,” as he always does and got Master to stand on his one foot, then he helped him to the end of the bed where Master could hold on to the footboard. Usually Master uses his dressing room, of course, but no one could think of his making extra steps. As I had my back to them, bent over the fire which was taking some work to get up, being cold these two days, they paid me no mind. I could hear the rustle of Master’s shirt coming off, the clink of his studs and cuffs, and he gave a little moan, I thought when he put weight on his bad foot to help Mr. Poole get his trousers off.

When I stood up and turned around, Master was sitting on his bed in his dressing gown, looking like a sick boy but for his silver hair. He eased himself back among the pillows and spoke to us very weakly. “Poole,” he said, “stay with me a few moments. I have some errands that must be done at once and I shall trust them only to you.” Mr. Poole was at arranging the pillows and I could not see his face but I had no doubt it was very smug, for he likes nothing better than to be
singled out by Master. “Bradshaw can mind the hall while you are out,” Master went on. “Mary,” he said, turning to me as I was going out, “have Cook send me something. Some tea. Broth, if she has any. I could eat that. Tell her I have no appetite. She’ll know what to do.”

“Yes, sir,” I said and went down. I thought, good, I could clean myself up while Cook got Master’s tray together and so be more presentable, for I hate Master to see me covered in coal and I’m afraid to touch anything until I can get a good scrubbing. In the kitchen Cook had a big kettle going already, so I poured some of it in the basin and washed my face and neck, my hands to the elbows. Mr. Poole came through in an agitated state, saying he might be back for tea or not, as Master’s errands would send him to the corners of the earth. Then he was off and Cook and I was very companionable for a bit, getting Master’s tray together. “He needs a bit of meat,” Cook said, “and I’ve such a nice bit of pork, but there’s no point sending it as he’ll never get it down.”

“He looks very weak,” I said.

“And so he must be,” Cook replied. “I thought this assistant was to save his health, but it seems he only makes him worse.” I did the toast and Cook had some eggs cooked soft as Master likes them, turned out of their shells into a bowl, also some beef broth, a bowl of wild strawberries and a pitcher of cream which, she said, “He mayn’t eat, but they might tempt him. They are his favourites and so hard to come by,” and a pot
of tea. We put no flower on it as it was the bed tray. I put on my best cuffs, which I like to use when I am waiting on Master, and went up with the tray, which, with the white linen and bright-flowered dishes made a lovely sight, I thought, and must lift Master’s spirits to see it.

I tapped at the door with my foot, as my hands was not free, and Master called out, “Come in,” so I pushed the door open feeling now everything is right again.

Master was sunk in his pillows but his eyes was open and he smiled at me saying, “Ah, Mary. Here you are.” I brought the tray around the bed and set it across him while he helped a bit, pulling himself up and setting the legs in place so it would be steady. “I’m so cold,” he said. “Please bring me the lap robe.”

It was a wonder to me for the room was that close I felt I could scarce find my breath, but I did as Master bid me and slipped the blanket up under the tray so that he was covered down to his feet. He watched me, seeming dazed. “Should you be doing something for your poor ankle, sir?” I said, for I was arranging the blanket so that it would not rest too heavily on his foot. “Perhaps a soak in hot water?”

“No, Mary,” he said, so weak-sounding that I looked up to see he’d dropped his head back into the pillows and closed his eyes.

“Should I pour your tea, sir?” I said.

“Please,” was all he said and that without opening his eyes.

It was awkward to bend over him and pour the tea but I did it, then stood back for him to take up the cup. He looked at me as if he understood what to do but could not do it. “My hands,” he said.

“What is it, sir?” I said. “What am I to do?” He lifted one hand to me, speaking all the while. “I’ve no feeling in my hands, Mary. They are so cold.” So I took his hand in my own and felt a shudder, for it was like taking up a block of ice. “Lord, sir,” I said, and chafed his hand in my own as best I could. I did one, then the other, and he seemed to revive a little. “We must get some heat into you,” I said. Master raised himself on the pillow then and I brought the teacup to his lips. He took a swallow, then another. “Very good,” he said. “This is what I need.”

So I got one cup of tea down him, then I broke up the toast and stirred it into the eggs and fed him a bit of that. I told him to put his hands around the teapot, which he did, getting warmth from that, and I spooned some of the hot broth up for him as well. He took everything very grateful and seemed to want to do as I said. After a bit he took the spoon from me and finished up the broth, while I stood by waiting to see what I could do. He was slow, moving most careful as if it hurt him to lift the spoon, and he did not speak except to sigh as he set the spoon on the tray and said, “That’s enough.”

“Won’t you try your strawberries, sir?” I said. “Cook said they was your favourites.”

“No,” he said. “Ask her to save them for me. I have one matter to finish and then I must sleep.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, and took up the tray.

“When you’re done with that, Mary,” he said, “I want you to bring me my cheque-book from the drawing room. I believe I may have left it out on the desk.”

This gave me a jolt, as if Master’s cold hand had closed around my heart, but I didn’t let it show on my face. I said, “I found it out when I went in this morning, sir, so I put it away.” Then I felt we was both of us thinking that we both knew
he
hadn’t left the book out, as he wasn’t in the house to do it. So he seemed to me a little nervous when he said, “Yes, well bring it here, as I can’t go there. I believe I made an entry that is not complete.”

I felt a great confusion, as a buzzing in my head, and I knew part of it was sadness that Master should lie to me and I to him, but I couldn’t bring myself to say I had gone down in the night. So I stood holding the tray, frozen there, and I looked at Master with all my feelings in my face. His eyes met mine, but only an instant, for the lie stood between us and he could not look at me. I turned away and took the tray down to the kitchen where Cook poked into each dish to see what was eaten. “He’s so weak I had to feed him with a spoon,” I said, and Cook shook her head over it all, saying, “This is the worst he has ever been.”

I went to the drawing room, took out the cheque-book and filled the pen. There was the ink spot on the blotter to remind me that I had not been dreaming; it was not Master who used this book last. But, I thought,
Mr. Edward Hyde might write as much as he liked, Master’s cheque was no good without his signature, so perhaps that was what Master meant when he said he’d made an entry that was not complete. It made my hands tremble; I longed to open the book and see for myself what was there, but I hadn’t the nerve. I could have done it last night, but then I hadn’t the wits.

A sound at the window startled me—a pigeon, I saw at once, flying up to the eaves. Then I felt a movement behind and turned to see it was my own reflection in the bull’s-eye glass over the desk. “You’re as nervous as a cat,” I said to myself. It seemed the room glowered and listened to me, and that a shadow was over everything so I could not see. The big vase of roses, the little statue of a man holding up a ball, the green-and-gold angel in the fanlight over the window, all the things I usually find so friendly and comforting seemed to brood upon me and wish me ill. I hurried away, clutching the leather book that, I told myself, was really none of my concern, and ran up the stairs to Master’s room. I tapped at the door, received no answer and pushed it open slowly, for Master had bid me come back, to find him—asleep. He lay flat on his back with his hands folded over the lap robe, his bare feet sticking out at the end. I crept in a little, not certain what to do, but then, as I could see he was sleeping very sound and it would be a pity to wake him, I made up my mind to cross the carpet quietly and leave the book on his bedside table where he would find it when he awoke.

So I did and could not leave without taking a long look at my sleeping Master, for he was much altered and in such a way as to touch my heart. His mouth was open, and though he did not snore, his breath seemed to come and go with a catch at the throat. Awake, Master’s face is filled with intelligence and kindness, but asleep he seemed to me melancholy, his brow furrowed with some private worry, though perhaps this was only my fancy. It shocked me to see too that he looks old, though the bones in his face are so sharp and elegant, age only makes him the more distinguished and respectable-looking. One lock of silver hair had strayed over his brow and it was all I could do to keep from pushing it back, wanting to arrange him, I thought, as if he was dead.

Then, at the thought of Master gone forever, my heart grew heavy and I turned away. If he keeps on as he has, I thought, that day may come too soon for me to bear.

M
aster is on his feet but it has been a struggle for us all. For a few days he was too sick to do much but sleep, then for another day he was patient, for he knows as well as any the danger of thinking he must be well because he has tired of being ill. Cook and I kept ourselves busy thinking of ways to make him feel
he has no need to be up and about, Cook sending up little dishes to eat at all hours to tempt his appetite, and indeed she had great success, for even in his blackest mood Master brightens at a custard or a plate of toast with marmalade, and I by changing things about in his room, bringing fresh flowers, some coming from our own garden, trying to keep the room aired (though Master do have a horror of an open window and a cold grate) and running about the house for books, papers or journals. Mr. Bradshaw, who is so clever with things, come up with a way to adjust Master’s bed tray so that it tilts and makes a writing table, which pleased Master, for he has a great correspondence, fallen behind of late, and so he could attend to his good works without leaving his bed.

But of course after a week his patience was worn thin and he would be up hobbling about, though mindful of his ankle this time so he would ring or call out to be helped up and down the stairs. He received a few guests, Mr. Utterson and Mr. Littleton, who only makes Master angry so I do not like to see him come in, and Mr. Zeal, his wine merchant, who makes Mr. Bradshaw amused by his name and manner, which he says is all one, and so we mun hear about the zeal of Mr. Zeal and how all his customers has zeal for Mr. Zeal, which makes poor Annie laugh until she is near sick. Then Master spent two long days and into the nights in his library, trimming the lamps down to nothing, and I knew that he would soon be back in his laboratory. His ankle at least is healed and he seems to walk upon it with ease and
there is some colour to his face. This morning, just as I expected, he took his breakfast early in the library and by ten, as I was hanging out the table linen in the yard, I saw him come out the kitchen door and stroll across to his laboratory, looking cheerful, for it was a gorgeous morning, with a nip of autumn in the air but the sun pouring down from a blue sky, such a day as we rarely see, which was why I had done as much washing as I could find. He stopped at our garden and looked over it smiling. Then I came out from behind a cloth and wished him a good morning. He greeted me, saying it was a fine morning and what a wonder our garden was to see on such a day and how it had altered the whole aspect of the yard, which had once been so dingy he would never have thought to pause in it.