Mary Reilly (6 page)

The theatre had made me feel sad. To see a room no one cares for is to me like seeing a child or an animal that mun struggle without love, or perhaps it is because the rooms of those who don’t care for life—or for anyone
in it—are so often neglected. So this room gave me a start, for this was a room Master loved, but there was something else I cannot name, some deep sadness, of one, I thought, who is not loved. Everything was neat, as is Master’s way, and I saw he don’t need any help to keep it so. There was a fireplace with a good chair drawn up to it and a tea table beside that. The fireplace had a fine brass fender on it with two beautiful brass babies on either side, lying back a bit as if to warm their feet, such bright smiles and a happy manner about them as lifted my heart to look at them and think of who might have been amused to make such pretty things. They are finer than any of the fenders we have in the house, and, of course, in want of a polishing, though there was no dust on them, so Master, or Mr. Poole, must rub them with a cloth. There was a good carpet on the floor and shelves lined with books. A big old blackened kettle on the hearth, such as is used in the country, and tea things, very fine, with a rose and a pansy in the pattern. This was one end of the room, a proper study and retreat for any gentleman. The far end was a different picture. There were three long windows with a ledge before each, wide enough to sit upon and looking out into the court, I imagined, and they let in the light, and a deal of it there was, pouring over the long table set before them, and over the three big presses filled with drawers, each labelled in Master’s fine hand. The carpet ended well before, so the table stood on the cold flags. On the table was all manner of strange bottles and containers, long glass tubes with cork stoppers
leading from one to another, and such tools as funnels, odd-shaped spoons, measures and scales, screens—so many and different kinds that I could scarce take them in—and though everything was orderly, there was so much I had a feeling of confusion. Mr. Poole and Mr. Bradshaw had sent the knife boy off and was unwrapping the glass in the corner; they’d put it down in the end of the room that was like a sitting room, which I thought was right as it seemed such a fine old piece would look like an orphan child in this cold part of the room, and I wondered if they chose the spot out of the same sense I had, or if it was Master’s wish to keep these two worlds forever apart. I stepped back onto the carpet, feeling as I did so fair in retreat, and I stood looking back at the table which I understood was where Master did his science and I had this thought, that here was the place that was killing him and I hated it. I set my heart against it.

Then Mr. Poole called my name impatiently, saying I might go back to my work, and I turned to see myself looking at my own reflection in the glass, for they had it all unwrapped and in place, and as I peered at my own figure for a moment it seemed I was looking back at myself from the edge of the world, and if I didn’t step carefully I would fall off into nothing. I shook myself, for I seemed to be standing in a dream, and took myself back to my work, but though I was busy the rest of the day I felt such ill-content as makes every move a chore.

Oh, why is my heart so heavy?

I know it is that Master called me fair, and has
stirred up my vanity to be something I am not. Before I sat down to write I lit the candle and looked at my face in the glass for a long time. As I put on my shift I stopped a moment to look at my body. How white my skin looks in the candlelight. I brushed my hair down and let it fall over my breasts and I thought, is this a sight my master would care to see?

T
en days has passed with us all so busy I haven’t had the time to put down a word. Master is with us and in high spirits. He goes in and out and has had company three nights in five, including a dinner party for eight what had Cook and me run off our feet two days in preparation. He has not gone to his laboratory once and seems not to think of it. When I said to Mr. Poole that the dinner talk mun be very scientific, all the gentlemen being learned doctors (except Mr. Utterson who mun have what I’ve heard called a legal mind and so adds in his views as they might be useful), he laughed at me and said, “Why, Mary, the talk is all of a show Mr. Littleton has seen, in which a young lady flies over the audience on a trapeze, hanging upside down by her knees and even by her ankles, dressed in a bit of a suit covered with silver stars that shows off her figure completely and leaves naught to be imagined about her.”

This shocked me and I said, “Surely Master has not been to such a spectacle.” Mr. Poole gave me one of his long, dry looks which may of meant, “Of course he has,” or “How could you think of it?” I’ve no idea which.

Master has been drinking and eating more than usual as well, which I think cannot be bad for him. He has a fondness for good wine and Cook says our cellar is as good as can be found in London. These days Master has been sending Mr. Poole into it regular to fetch some bottle as has achieved “a perfection” so Cook calls it, and Mr. Poole says it is a wonder how Master knows just what is down there and how long it’s been and even exactly where it is. These he serves to his visitors, being a most generous host who shares the best he has, and afterwards when they are gone he may take the opened bottle into the library and finish it off over a book, or just sitting quiet before the fire. There I found him last night after dinner when Mr. Poole sent me to get up the fire, as it was dying and the house has a chill in it of late, though it is fair summer, that we cannot seem to drive out with coal or cleaning.

Master was standing close to the fire, as is his way, and only turned to say “Come in” to my knock. “I’ve come to see to your fire, sir,” I said and he nodded, stepping back, but only a little, as if he couldn’t bear to be separated from the bit of heat that was left, and he said, “Good, Mary. I believe it is nearly gone and I’m feeling so restless I don’t think I’ll attempt sleep for a while.” So I had to kneel down at his feet, which made
me uncomfortable, and go about gathering up what ash was left and laying in a new store of coals.

“You must be chilled yourself, Mary,” Master said. “Our kitchen is such a vast, dark cave of a place.”

“No, sir,” I said. “Cook has had the big oven up all day, so it’s like a furnace to me. I don’t mind the cold anyway, for I’m used to it.” As I spoke the coal was taking and a swell of heat seemed to pour out from under my hands, so I fell back on my knees while the wave rose up before me.

“There,” Master said, drawing close and holding his hands out before him. “Good. I can never get used to the cold, I’m afraid.”

I stood up and backed away, wiping my black hands on my apron, so that Master could go back to his fire-gazing, and I said, “That’s because you’re a gentleman sir, and have thinner blood than mine, no doubt.”

Master gave a little laugh and spoke to me without looking at me. “As a doctor and a scientist Mary, I feel it is my obligation to tell you that your theory has no basis in fact.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” I said, meaning I was sorry to have spoken foolishness, but Master thought I had not understood him so he turned to me and said, “All human blood is the same, Mary. Under the microscope I could tell your blood from a monkey’s, perhaps, but not from my own.”

“I see, sir,” I said. I felt a little annoyed to be lectured on my stupidity, so I looked right at Master and to my surprise he seemed to blush, though perhaps it
was only that the fire had made his blood rise, which I felt timid to observe in my own head as it might be another mistake on my part. Master took up the decanter from the tray Mr. Poole had brought in and poured himself out a glass of port while I stood watching, not able to think what to say next. Looking on me seemed to soften his thoughts for he asked pleasantly, “How does your gardening progress, Mary? I haven’t looked at it in weeks, it seems, I’ve been so preoccupied with projects.”

“Hardly have I, sir,” I said. “But it do seem that as soon as some seed we planted comes up, two such as we don’t want are on each side vying for the sun.”

“Weeds, Mary,” Master replied, setting his glass down hard on the tray as if to crush out the weeds growing there. “Where do they come from if you haven’t somehow put them there?”

“Why, the air must be full of them, sir,” I said. “For they are so much about that we see whole forests as is grown up without cultivation. But what strikes me is why, once they find a bit of soil, are weeds so much stronger than the things we want to grow?”

“And do you have an answer to that question, Mary?” he asked.

“I have thought on it, sir,” I said. “And it seems, being wild, they have a greater will to life.”

Master gave me a ghastly smile and repeated what I’d said as if it was some profound truth he’d just received from an opening in the sky.

“I think it’s true of many things as is deprived, and
children too,” I said, “that they grow strong when no one cares for them and seem to love whatever life they can eke out and will kill to keep it, while the pampered child sickens and dies.”

Master poured out another glass of port and I saw his hand was shaking. His face was pale and drops of moisture had formed on his upper lip and forehead, so he looked like a man having a fright instead of talking with his housemaid on the subject of weeds. He brought the glass to his lips abruptly, seeming not to taste the little bit he swallowed and gazing at me over the glass with lowered eyelids as if he couldn’t believe what his eyes showed him and so sought another line of vision.

“Sir,” I said, “are you well?”

“Why do you strike me so, Mary?” he replied, sounding hoarse.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” I said.

“The things you say and that earnest, sober manner you have, as if you always mean more than you say.”

I looked down as he spoke, feeling I couldn’t ever look up again, and so confused my mouth went dry. Master stood just so without moving, his glass in the air.

“I’m sorry for it, sir,” I said. “If I seem forward. I only want to be honest and answer you always as best I can.”

Still Master said nothing and while I stood waiting we heard the sound of raindrops against the window, very soft and seeming far off, so that the room, with the
flickering fire and drawn curtains, was a haven from the cold darkness outside.

“How many people know about you, Mary?” he said at last. “How many know how you came by those scars on your hands?”

I drew my hands away, so surprised was I to hear Master speak of them. “Only you, sir,” I said. “It is not a story I care to tell.” I wanted to add that no one had cared to know, which struck me as the wonder of it, but Master cut in quickly.

“I thought you could not tell it,” he said. “It was for that I asked you to write it down.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “You was right in that.”

“Can I trust you, Mary?” he asked. “As you have trusted me?”

Then I thought Master must be planning to give me a piece of writing on his own life, which did strike me as too fanciful, especially as he seemed so uncertain and anxious about asking me. “I hope you can, sir,” I said, “in all things.”

He put down his glass and peered at me another moment, so that I thought he was trying to read my character. “Yes,” he said. “I think I can.” Then he went to his writing desk and took out an envelope, which he tapped against his palm as if still weighing whether to give it me or not. “You have a half-day this week, don’t you, Mary?” he asked, still looking at the letter.

“I do, sir,” I said. “On Thursday.”

“I want you to deliver this letter for me,” he said.
“It must go by hand on that day. And no one must know of it—not Mr. Poole, not Annie, you understand.”

“I do, sir,” I said. He held the letter out to me but I felt too timid to step forward and take it, though I was that curious to read the address I could not take my eyes from it. So we stood there a moment, very awkward, then Master closed the distance to me and I put my hand out not thinking, except as I might to stop him. When he stepped back the letter was in my hand.

Master watched me closely as I turned it over and read the address. I struggled to keep my face from showing what I felt, for I knew exactly where it was and I wondered how Master even knew of such a street. No gentleman could have any business at that address as could do anything but bring ruin to his name. That it was addressed to a Mrs. Farraday troubled me further. How could Master know of a
woman
who would live in such a place as I knew this to be?

“Can you deliver it, Mary?” Master said softly.

I turned the letter over again so I would not have to look at it, then, feeling it was burning my fingers to hold it, I opened my wrist buttons and slipped it up my sleeve. “Yes, sir,” I said. “I can certainly do it.”

“There will be no reply, other than a yes or no. This you can give to me on Friday, when you have returned.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“It’s a matter of some importance to me,” Master said. “I must be able to count absolutely on your integrity
 … and Mary,” he paused until I looked up and met his steady, calm gaze, “on your silence.”

“Please, sir,” was all I could say.

“Then I am confident,” he replied, “and now I put the business from my mind.” With that he turned back to the fire while I stood a moment looking at his back, at his hair which is thick, silver and a little long for the fashion, curling over his collar, and I thought I would like to cut a lock of it. Then, shocked at my own strange whims, which it seems I never can control, I went out, closing the door quietly behind me.

I
t is very late and our house is asleep, but I cannot sleep. I lay beside Annie for hours, staring into the darkness, having such thoughts as leave me bitter and confused. I got up at last and lit the candle to sort things out if I can by putting them down. The moon is full tonight and makes a white, chilly light all along the windowsill where I sit. There’s no view but the back of the house next ours and a small space filled with blackness and stars.

It’s all very well for Master to say he can now put the matter out of his mind, and doubtless he has done so while I am left sleepless, feeling not trusted and valued as I should, but anxious and afraid. The letter lies
hidden in my dresser, folded inside my other night shift, and there it must stay for another night before I can set myself to the unhappy task of delivering it.