The Beloved (12 page)

Glory is happy to see me again. At least she does not seem unhappy. She does not say it, but I think she has been waiting for me to come back out into the gardens. ‘So, Alice Angel,' she says. ‘Are you staying with us?'

I nod, shyly. ‘I am,' I say. ‘I am to join the Parlour. He  …  he  …  Our Beloved, said you would explain it all to me.'

‘Of course. I thought as much.' She smiles. ‘Come. I will show you.'

I follow her through the gardens, and I notice how finely she is dressed, despite her condition, in a lemon gown so beautiful that even Mama's Paris creations could not compare. Her ears are splashed with pearls and she has a jewel-encrusted cross hanging from a silver rope around her neck. I am puzzled. Do these things not count as earthly riches? But there is no time for me to wonder any further, for Glory has led me into the kitchen of one of the cottages, and she has flung her arms open wide, as though she is presenting me with a palace.

‘Your new home!' she exclaims brightly. ‘The others will be back for their midday meal soon. They will know better than me what your duties will be.'

The kitchen is small, and although scrubbed clean, it is furnished in the most basic manner, with only a wooden table, an assortment of chairs, a shabby dresser stacked with plates and teacups, and a large black range. I force a small smile. I do not want Glory to see my disappointment. But I think that even the lowliest maid from home would not think much of this place.

‘Who are the others?' I venture to ask.

‘Why, the Parlour, of course. They are like you. They had no worldly goods or riches to give up, so they have given up their labour in order to follow Him.'

‘What  …  what sort of labour will I be expected to do?' I ask.

‘As I said,' says Glory, ‘the Parlour will show you exactly what is expected. But it will be the usual servants' duties: washing, cleaning, cooking  … ' Her voice trails off, then her face lights up again as she thinks of something else. ‘I expect you will bed down with Beth. She is about your age, I think.'

I do not know what to say. The joy that filled me just a moment since is seeping away now, like a pail of fresh, creamy milk that has sprung a leak, and it has left me with a cold, empty space inside. Suddenly, I am confused. Have I done the right thing in coming here? I think of Eli, alone in Lions House with Mama, and the missing of him hits me in the stomach and makes me flinch.

‘You have turned quite pale, Alice,' says Glory. ‘Sit a while. The others won't be long.'

I fall into one of the old wooden chairs, suddenly exhausted. I remember Eli's last words to me as I was dragged from my chamber. ‘It is for your own good, Alice.' I press my hands to my stomach to quell the pain. Even Eli, at the very last, did not reach out to me. What choice did I have then? To be locked away in the madhouse and left to rot? Or to do what I could to become the sister and daughter I am expected to be? I look up and Glory is gazing down at me. ‘You are safe here,' she says as though she has read my thoughts. ‘Our Beloved will take care of you, I promise.'

There are voices then, and clattering footsteps. Half a dozen women crowd into the kitchen, bringing with them the scents of sunshine, freshly dug earth and the musky sweat of labour. They are dressed plainly in grey linsey frocks and white aprons that are smeared and splashed with soil, grease and soot: the evidence of their various activities. Their chatter stops when they see me. One of the group, the oldest by far, places her hands on a pair of ample hips and says, ‘So, who have we here, Glory?'

I am taken aback by her tone of voice and her familiarity. She has addressed Glory as an equal! I wait for Glory to react, to give the woman a sharp dressing-down, as I remember Mama's fury if a servant were to ever speak out of turn. But Glory seems not to notice. ‘This is Alice Angel,' she says, as she rests a hand on my shoulder. ‘She has come to join us.'

The older woman nods. ‘It is good, the word is spreading.' She looks at me directly. ‘Welcome,' she says. ‘You are most welcome.'

I smile at her gratefully and then I notice a young woman hovering in the doorway. I recognise her large green eyes and the freckles that are scattered across her face. It is like seeing an old friend, and the fears and doubts that have been growing in my mind like creeping ivy are brushed aside by the brilliance of her smile. ‘Hello, again,' she says. ‘My name is Beth.'

Beth shows me around the cottage. It is, she tells me, where all the women and girls of the Parlour live. Other than the kitchen, all the rooms are divided into bedchambers. I am to share a bed with Beth, in a chamber at the top of the cottage. The room is all scuffed wood with shabby rugs, a rickety washstand and a stained bowl and ewer. The bed looks barely big enough for one person, but when I pull back the thin blanket, I see that at least the sheets and pillows are snowy white.

Beth drags a small trunk from under the bed and rummages through the contents. ‘There!' she exclaims. ‘I knew I should find you something.' She hands me a grey frock, identical to the one she is wearing. ‘You do want to change your dress, don't you?' she says, when I look reluctantly at her offering. ‘You will not be wanting as gown as fine as this here, will you?' says Beth as she fingers the black lace at my cuffs.

‘I suppose not,' I reply.

‘I'll leave you to it then,' she says. ‘When you're ready, come and join us in the kitchen.' She clasps my hands in hers and plants a small kiss on my cheek. ‘I am so glad you have come to join us, Alice. So glad.' She skips out of the room and I hear her tip-tapping down the stairs and the murmur of voices from the kitchen.

Alone for a moment, I stare out of the small bare window which looks out over the grounds of the Abode. My new home, I think. It is all so neat and ordered; the lawns cut short and sharp around the edges, a stable block with tidy piles of hay stacked outside, pink velvet pigs snuffling in a sty, and geese, as clean and white as fresh linen, waddling and flapping along the pathways. I look to the grey frock in my hand. Wearing it is not too much to ask, I suppose.

I strip quickly and then fold my mourning gown and tuck it into a small carpet bag that I find under the bed next to Beth's trunk. Then I go to the washstand and rinse the dust from my hands, face and neck. I slip the grey frock over my head. There. It is done. There can be no more doubts now. As I am about to leave the room, I remember one more thing. I unclip the gold locket from around my neck and hide it in the folds of my mourning gown, then I push the carpet bag back under the bed.

Beth has saved me a seat. She pats it with her hand and beckons me to sit. I sidle in between her and a mousy-looking creature who is so slender her collarbones jut like knife edges above the scoop of her neckline. The women pause in their dining to glance at me or to nod, and some murmur, ‘Welcome, Alice.' Heat stings my cheeks, but I manage to nod back and say thank you.

Beth passes me a dish of potatoes. ‘From our own gardens,' she says. I spoon a couple onto my plate. ‘And some pork?' she asks. ‘From our own pigs.' I take only one thick, pink slice, although my stomach is so hollow with hunger I could eat the whole platter. As I chew the first salty bite, the chatter around the table starts up again, and I feel that the worst has passed and it was not so very bad or awkward at all. With just a few nods and words of welcome, I have been accepted, with no questions asked. I fork another piece of pork from the platter and take a generous spoonful of applesauce.

Afterwards, I help Beth carry the dirtied plates out to the scullery. ‘You haven't done this sort of work before, have you?' she says.

‘Is it that obvious?' I shudder, as my thumb slides through a slick of pig grease left on the side of a plate.

Beth laughs. ‘I'm afraid so. Your hands  …  look at them. They're as soft as kid leather! See, look at mine.' She holds her hands out to me and I see how the skin is red and raw and how her fingernails are torn and ragged.

‘No matter,' I say, not wanting her to think I am weak or unwilling, ‘I am sure I can wash plates as well as anybody else.'

‘Only if you have water,' she teases. She hands me a pail and reaches to the back of the scullery door to unhook an apron. ‘Here, take this too,' she says. ‘And you'll find the well just around the back there.'

It is not so bad, this washing of dirty plates, especially once the water has been heated on the range. ‘You see?' I say to Beth, as I dry the cleaned plates to a squeak and stack them neatly on a shelf. ‘There is nothing to it.'

By the time evening falls, I am having second thoughts. My back aches, my legs ache and my hands are so sore it feels as though they have been trampled upon by horses. Under Beth's instructions, I have swept and scrubbed floors, heaved countless pails of water from the well, beaten the dust from a dozen rugs, scoured tables and flicked a hundred cobwebs from the dim corners of every cottage.

I have learned, by listening to Beth's continuous chatter, that the Parlour is responsible for the smooth running of the Abode. Although we have our own cottage, we must also attend to the other cottages and the mansion. ‘The work is shared equally,' Beth explained between grunts, as we beat one of the larger rugs together. ‘Some of us do the household chores and others attend to the gardens and the animals.'

‘And what of the others?' I ask her. ‘The ones who do not belong to the Parlour. What work do they do?'

‘They have done their work already,' she tells me. ‘They have given up all they own to the Abode and to Our Beloved.'

I do not understand. I have seen a few of the others, strolling around the gardens, sitting in easy chairs with books on their laps, or clustered in small groups taking tea and cake. They are all dressed as Glory had been, in fine gowns and jewels, and would not look out of place in Mama's drawing room. But before I can question Beth further, a bell tolls loudly and she beams at me. ‘Tis time for chapel,' she says.

It is not like being in a church at all. Although the air is as solemn as it was at St Mary's, and although a brilliant stained glass window throws rainbows of colour upon us, everything else is peculiar. The chairs are not the hard wooden ones I am used to, lined up in regimental rows, instead there is a gathering of wing-backed chairs, covered in velvet and chintz, and a few equally comfortable-looking sofas. There is also, strangest of all, a billiard table standing next to the altar.

I take a seat next to Beth, near to the back, and watch as the rest of the Parlour and at least thirty other finely dressed women, and a dozen children of all ages, stroll in to take their seats, all the while gossiping and laughing gaily. One of the others, a haughty-looking creature with lips pulled tight as a buttonhole, seats herself at the organ and begins to thump out a tune. It is no hymn that I recognise, but I stand with everyone else and listen as the whole congregation sings as heartily as factory workers clocking off after a hard week of labour.

As the final notes die away, there is some coughing and clearing of throats. Then a gold velvet curtain hanging behind the altar is pulled aside, and Henry Prince emerges. I am surprised to see Glory too, with her arm hooked through his.

The chapel stills. It seems even the flies that were buzzing around the ceiling beams have frozen their wings mid-flight. I hold my breath and the moment stretches as taut as piano wire. Then Glory drops her arm from his and moves to sit in a chair by his side.

He is wearing a long white gown which pools at his feet and unfurls like giant wings when he slowly, slowly spreads his arms wide.

‘MY FLOCK!'

His words hover in the air above us and then float down and settle on each and every shoulder. I imagine the words to be white feathers, soft and pure. I look around and see that every eye is upon him and every face is flushed with pleasure. I look back to him and my skin prickles with heat as his eyes lock with mine.

‘OUR NUMBERS HAVE SWELLED!'

He scoops an armful of air and throws it in my direction. Every eye is upon
me
now, and my skin is on fire. I want to shrink into the floor and melt into the flagstones. Then I feel fingers reaching for mine. Beth curls her hand around my hand and squeezes.

‘ANOTHER HAS JOINED US. ANOTHER WHO, COME THE DAY OF JUDGEMENT, WILL NOW BE SAVED. ANOTHER WHO WILL BOW DOWN BEFORE GOD HIMSELF AND BE MADE CLEAN IN THIS LIFE.'

My arms goose pimple. I wish they would all stop staring at me. Suddenly, Henry Prince drops his head to his chest and holds out his arms. There is silence again, thick and expectant. Beth nudges me. ‘Go to him,' she whispers. ‘He is waiting for you.'

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry.

‘Go on,' urges Beth.

I move slowly. The others, standing alongside me, move back to let me pass. Some of them smile and nod at me encouragingly. My footsteps echo on the flagstones as I walk towards the altar. I bow my head as I stand in front of him because it seems the natural thing to do. He moves close to me, so close that I can feel the heat of him, and I can taste the bitter aroma of stale cigar smoke. For a moment I am back in Papa's study.
I am doing this for you
, I say to him.
So you will forgive me.

Then Henry Prince lays his hand on the top of my head.

‘Are you ready to give yourself up to the worship of your Lord?'

The heavy warmth of his hand seeps through my skull and coats my mind. ‘I am ready,' I whisper.

Henry Prince sighs deeply, and his hand trembles and presses harder on my head, so I sink to my knees. He begins to talk, to pray. His words are long and flowery and complicated and they drift away from me. I try to catch them, like butterflies in a net. But the ones I do catch do not make sense on their own.

‘Immortal'

‘Judgement'

‘Salvation'

‘Lamb of God'

‘Reckoning'

‘Anointed'

Then the whole chapel is filled with voices and the organ starts up again.

‘You may get up now, my child.'

I look up and he is smiling down at me with eyes that are soft and sparkling. He offers me his hand and helps me to my feet. I feel as though I have done something wonderful, but I don't know what. The feeling stays with me as I walk back to my seat and it carries me out of the chapel with Beth and all the others.

‘You are truly one of us, now,' Beth says, and she hugs me tight to her chest. I think she is right – I already feel the weight of guilt being lifted from me. I hope that wherever Papa is, he will begin to forgive me for my selfish wishes and I hope that one day too, Mama will be able to love me.