Midsummer at Eyre Hall: Book Three Eyre Hall Trilogy (23 page)

I didn’t feel sad the day my father
died. It wasn’t a surprise. In fact, it had all been arranged as if it were a
wedding or any other planned family ceremony. My father had chosen his
headstone, the epitaph, and the location of his tomb in the family vault. He
had even spoken to Mr. Friar, the clergyman at St. John’s Chapel on the hill,
where he wanted the service to take place, with instructions regarding the
music and readings.

Helen was surprised and upset by the way
my father approached his own death. It was a transition, he said, so he wanted
to make sure everything he left behind was taken care of. Helen wanted to cry
every time she saw him, which was often. It was summer, and we were both on
holiday, so she was allowed to visit almost every day, on the condition that
Mrs. Benson was always with us as we did our homework and read together.

Mrs. Benson was over seventy. Her memory
had been failing for some time, and she was prone to falling asleep on her
chair, even while she was knitting. Sometimes she would even stop mid-sentence,
and when we looked up, her head was bent and she was fast asleep.

Mrs. Benson would wake up suddenly too,
and shout our names if we were not sitting by her side. Sometimes we were
throwing pebbles in the water or running along the shore, other times we were
holding hands and chatting about life and death. Helen was terrified of her
mother dying in childbirth. She said she couldn’t bear it if anyone she loved
died. She had nightmares with Michael disappearing at sea, although he never
went out to sea, but she told me he had done so, when he had been in the navy.
I laughed when she told me she also had dreams where I was kidnapped and
tortured. I supposed it was because she had had such a hard start in life.

She made me promise never to mention
that she had been kidnapped by her father and sold to a child farmer in London.
Her first mother, the mother she had known for the first nine years of her
life, had beaten her and forced her to work as a scarecrow, until her real
mother took her in at Eyre Hall, although neither of them knew they were mother
and daughter. Michael found out who she really was, and they had both taken
care of her after that, as well as an older relative, called Annette, who had
always been kind to her. Her brother, John, hated her, and her half-sister,
Adele, ignored her. It was not surprising that she was so frightened of pain
and suffering.

I wondered how she was always so
cheerful, except when I brought up the subject of death, and she told me how
she managed to overcome the sad things in life. She’d close her eyes, place the
negative image in her mind and pull a dark red curtain over it at once, so that
it would be completely covered, and then she thought of someone she loved and
smiled. She told me she used to see her mother’s kind face, or Michael in his
navy uniform, but lately, she confessed that it was always my face she saw,
when she smiled.       

I loved her sparkling green eyes and
curly auburn hair. She needed heaps of hairpins to tame it, and even so, the
wind would rustle it every day. I loved the way she read, with a clear
intonation, changing her timbre and pitch according to the character who was
speaking. I loved the way she held my hand and told me not to be sad when I
voiced melancholy thoughts. I loved the way she lifted her skirt and ran
shoeless along the water’s edge, laughing every time a tiny wave washed over
her feet and splashed her. I loved the way she picked up every single crumb
from Mrs. Benson’s fairy cakes, which had fallen on her napkin, and licked them
off her fingers. I loved the way she sipped her tea, even when it was cold. I
loved the way she pretended not to see me when we played hide-and-seek in the
woods, and the way she screamed when I caught her and claimed a kiss on her
cheek. Most of all, I loved the way she tasted and the muffled sounds she made
when she let me kiss her.

I prayed Mr. Kirkpatrick would never
catch me kissing Helen, because I knew he would flog me until I bled. He had a
vicious streak, which terrified me more than my father’s. I’d heard rumours in
the village that he’d beaten up a few of the violent drunkards, and even killed
a man. Fortunately, Mrs. Kirkpatrick seemed to be able to keep his darker
instincts under control, but I dreaded ever finding out what he was capable of.
My father had warned me never to get on his bad side and to obey him, because
he had promised to look after me as if he were my father. Lately, I had noticed
he spent more time and effort in making conversation with me. Once he even
surprised me by telling me he knew I’d be a good man one day. 

The Kirkpatricks had been moving in, at
my father’s macabre insistence, since he had told them about his imminent death
and sold them half of Manderley. My father hoped I would one day marry Helen,
because she was a pretty, kind and generous girl who came from an honourable,
ancient, and wealthy Yorkshire family, although her older brother had taken
over the estate. Her mother was a respected author and social campaigner, and
although he didn’t agree with her political views, he acceded that they were
full of good intentions.

My father had hated John Stuart Mill,
Gladstone, and Lord Shaftsbury. He wouldn’t hear of them and their
revolutionary theories to empower women, workers, and even children. “What’s
the world coming to if men and women are equal?” he would complain. “Can the
moon heat the land or make the crops grow like the sun?” He could never
understand the need for education reform. “What will happen if all the paupers
learn to read and write? How will that help them sweep the chimneys or work in
the dairies or fisheries?” But when I heard Mrs. Kirkpatrick and Helen talk
about the need for children to go to school and not work long hours, as well as
hospitals for the poor, I began to think they might be right. I hadn’t argued
with my father, especially during his last days, but I realised the world he
was leaving behind was changing irreversibly. 

My life did not change substantially
when my father died, and the changes that did occur were, in fact, for the
better. It was pleasant to have a mother figure again. When Mrs. Kirkpatrick
moved in, I realised I had missed my grandmother more than I had ever admitted.
Mrs. Kirkpatrick was always warm and welcoming, dropping kisses on my head, and
asking me how my studies were progressing, how I was feeling, or if I needed
anything. Mr. Kirkpatrick was lucky to have such an angel in his life.

Practical, household affairs also
improved. The food was much better, because Mrs. Kirkpatrick employed a new
cook and made sure the meals were varied and to our liking. She always asked us
what we preferred as she prepared the weekly menu. More servants were employed
and the whole house was open and cleaned regularly, because Mrs. Kirkpatrick
said she didn’t like locked rooms in a house. She also made sure our weekends
and holidays were complete with scheduled activities such as reading the Bible
and the classics, horse riding, music and singing. Helen loved outdoor
activities and sport, so Michael promised he’d teach her to swim. She also
begged to learn how to dance, but her mother said that would have to wait at
least two years, when she would go to finishing school in Cheltenham, while I
was at Oxford.  

Mrs. Benson was appointed a new young
girl to help her in Cove Cottage, which was a much-needed improvement, although
it meant Helen and I had to be more creative about finding ways to be alone
together. I was sure Betty had been given strict orders by Mr. Kirkpatrick to
watch over us. But it didn’t matter, because I knew I’d marry Helen as soon as
her parents authorised the wedding. When we were at home, we spent almost all
day together. We had breakfast, lunch, and dinner side by side; we studied,
read, rode, and strolled along the beach together every single day. There were
plenty of secret passages and hideouts at Manderley. I had the advantage that I
knew them all. Some were easy to find, but others would be kept secret from Mr.
and Mrs. Kirkpatrick, at least until we married, or were officially engaged. I
didn’t dare risk Helen’s stepfather’s wrath.

***

1870 was a hard year for us all. The
agony commenced on the 9th of June when Mr. Dickens died quite suddenly. He had
expressly requested a private funeral, so Michael and I were not able to
attend. The date and place had been kept a secret, but Mr. Collins was kind
enough to inform me that he would be buried in Poets’ Corner at Westminster
Abbey, in the early morning of June 14
^th
. When we arrived the
following day, the spot chosen for his eternal rest, under the statue of
Shakespeare and next to the great Handel, was covered in flowers and tears, and
the grave remained open for the many mourners who paid their last tribute to
such a great man
.

Mr. Dickens’ character had been such an
extraordinary combination of intellectual and moral integrity that it was
impossible not to venerate him. I had no doubt that we had lost the foremost
Englishman of our age, and I had lost an exceptional friend. He was a literary
genius, as well as the kindest and most generous person I had ever known. I was
so upset that I spent the next day in tears, walking along the cobbled streets
where he had taken me, supported by Michael. Mr. Collins came too. I had a lump
in my throat for days, which wouldn’t allow me to eat or sleep. 

If he hadn’t encouraged me to write
The
Asylum
and brought my case to the attention of Lord Shaftsbury and
parliament, I might have been obliged to return to the Retreat. As a result of
Mr. Dickens’ intervention, Michael had been asked to sit on a Select Lunacy
Committee in the House of Lords with an aim to modify the manner in which sane
persons could be detained in asylums. Lord Shaftsbury had also asked Michael if
he was prepared to take part in the education reforms Gladstone’s government
was dedicated to promoting. Michael was not fond of London, but he was becoming
used to his monthly visits for Select Committee meetings.

Michael’s pilchard business was coming
along very prosperously. He had negotiated with the admiralty for a contract to
supply the Royal Navy with canned fish. He was always very busy and made me
feel so proud. I missed him when he was away, but he was so loving when he was
at home that I really couldn’t bring myself to complain. Michael had invested
part of the profits in education by offering scholarships to grammar schools
and colleges. I had also donated most of the profit from
The Asylum
to
making Grimsby Retreat one of the most modern and well-equipped asylums in
England.

Our marriage had been blessed by the
birth of James, who was a cheerful, clever and obedient child. Michael adored our
son. He read stories to him even before he could speak. Later, he taught him to
read and found time to play with him every day. Michael was also very caring
with Helen and considerate with Max, who admired him greatly. They chatted for
hours about politics, and although Max’s father was very much a Conservative,
Michael was making young Max into a staunch Liberal.

I soon realised that Helen and Max would
make a happy couple. Helen enlivened his moody character, and Max appeased her
nervousness. I could imagine how their mutual respect would lead to a happy
union. At first, Michael and I worried about their close friendship. Max was
five years older than Helen, and they were so obviously in love that we didn’t
know how much longer we would be able to keep them from intimacy. Fortunately,
they were both away during term time. Helen had promised me she would complete
her two years at Cheltenham Ladies College before she made any decisions
regarding her future; Michael had made Max promise he would finish his studies at
Christ Church, but as we suspected, they asked for permission to marry as soon
as Helen was eighteen and Max was twenty-three. His father had indeed predicted
his son’s future accurately. They now had a lively little girl, whom they
called Beatrice, and Manderley was once more alive with the cries of a baby and
the bustle of nannies, parents and grandparents fussing over her.

Children are indeed a blessing, and
Michael and I were overjoyed with our grandchild. Michael said he hoped we
would have many more.   

My cousins Mary and Diana had written a
letter, in an attempt to justify their actions while I was an outlaw. It wasn’t
an apology, and I couldn’t bring myself to forgive them for the way they had
treated Michael. I replied telling them I couldn’t understand or forget their
cruel behaviour towards us. I haven’t had news from them since. However,
Michael had heard that the admiral had died and Diana had moved to Wales with
Mary, whose husband was bedridden after a stroke. I was glad they had each
other for mutual support during their difficult times. 

I took over Manderley, easily and
willingly. It was such a beautiful house that it was a pleasure to run. I never
imagined my life would be filled with so much light and love, and I thanked God
every day that I had found Michael and Helen, and that James was born, because
they had given me a second chance of happiness.

The following years were busy, but
peaceful. I wrote the second and third part of
The Asylum
, describing
the lives and vicissitudes of some of the inmates after their release. They
were very successful. People like to read about hopeful situations, second
chances and happy endings, and although I’m not convinced they always exist,
I’m sure it’s worth believing in and aiming for a better life for each one of
us.

We visited Westminster Abbey every year
to place one of the many wreaths on Mr. Dickens’ gravestone, and spent some
days with Adele, Mr. Greenwood, Susan and Dante. Shortly after our visit on the
third anniversary of Dickens’ death, we received news of Adele’s accident. She
had been run over by a carriage. We returned to London and found the best
physicians, with Harry’s advice, but they all convened that they would have to
partially amputate her leg, so she would be confined to a wheelchair. She
seemed in good spirits when we had last seen her in June, but the following
Christmas, her wound reopened and the doctors were unable to stop the bleeding.
She died of a haemorrhage on the second of January, 1874. Mr. Greenwood
informed us that her desire had been to rest in the family vault with her
father, so we all returned to Eyre Hall for the first time since John and
Annette’s wedding.

When I remembered the wretched, broken
woman who received Richard Mason’s visit almost nine years ago at Eyre Hall, I
couldn’t believe I had been allowed to be transformed into a new woman, with an
extraordinary home, an adoring husband, two wonderful children and a
granddaughter.

Yet sometimes, as I sat at my desk, I
cried for Mr. Dickens and for Adele, who left us when they were too young, and
for Mr. Greenwood, Susan, Dante, John and Annette, who are enduring
discontentment in their lives, and I remembered Bacon’s wise words -
in
order for the light to shine so brightly, the darkness must be present.

Happiness cannot be everlasting. I cried
bitterly for Michael and myself. One of us would have to attend the other’s
funeral. I selfishly prayed it would not be me, because I would never be able
to smile at the sun or gaze at the moon with joy, if Michael were not by my
side. I knew he would suffer without me too, and I knew that he would probably
be the widower, due to our age difference, so I made Helen and Max promise they
would look after Michael and James when I died.

I had never seen such a bleak house as
Eyre Hall, or at least so it seemed to me. A dark silence seemed to cover the
rooms like a heavy blanket, and the trees whispered agonising cries. Annette’s
face was pale and drawn, and my son had aged a decade. I wondered why they were
so discontented, but did not dare ask. Susan, who was expecting her fourth
child, also looked very depressed; although Mr. Greenwood suggested that his
daughter-in-law was suffering from melancholy, we all knew about her financial
and marital problems. I congratulated myself on my wonderful, doting husband,
whom I loved more each day that passed.

I was heartbroken by Adele’s death, but
I never imagined this visit to Eyre Hall would change our lives once again so
unexpectedly.

***