The Beloved (6 page)

It is early morning. The clock has only just struck six. I am restless, hungry and longing for someone – even if it just Sarah – to come and open my door. My mouth is watering at the thought of toast and a pot of hot tea. Will I be permitted to breakfast downstairs? I could see Eli then, and tell him what I overheard between Mama and Dr Danby. But even as I pretend to myself and imagine that things could go on as before, there is a much bigger part of me that knows with a hard and cold certainty that nothing will ever be the same again.

I climb out of bed and stretch. I look down and realise I have slept in my gown. I have never done that before. This small thing somehow helps. It is as though there are no rules any more; and that from now on, anything is possible.

Time passes slowly. Hunger grinds at my insides and boredom weighs heavy on my shoulders. If I shouted and banged and kicked at the door, surely someone would come.
You could wish for someone to come. You could wish for someone to come
, a voice in my head tries to persuade me. I shake it away. I dare not wish for anything, not after what happened to Lillie.

I walk to the window. It is going to be another beautiful day. A day when, if I wasn't me but somebody else altogether, I could sit in the garden at the back of the house with a parasol to shade me from the sun when it grew too hot. There would be a jug of lemonade by my side, with chips of ice inside it, bobbing and sliding between stray lemon pips. Ice – all the way from the mountain lakes of Norway – that Papa paid the ice-man to deliver in a block, every day. There would be cucumber sandwiches too, cool slivers of cucumber, salty butter and wafer-thin bread. Eli would come and sit next to me and we would read to one another or play backgammon. I would beat him, of course, and he would feign disappointment before smiling chivalrously and chasing me across the lawns.

But I am not somebody else. I am only me.

I start from my daydream. There is a cab rumbling down the street. It is a black, plain affair, much like the one Dr Danby uses. My heart catches in my throat as I watch it draw nearer and nearer. I close my eyes, praying that when I open them again, the cab will have passed by, taking its early-morning travellers to a destination that is anywhere but here. But it is not to be. I do not need to open my eyes to hear the cab jangle to a halt outside the house. Who would call at this hour of the day? My heart pounds in the back of my throat. It can only be Dr Danby.

He has come to deliver the news of my fate.

I open my eyes and watch as the driver steadies the horses. Then the cab door opens, but instead of Dr Danby's thatch of salt and pepper hair, it is the thinning flaxen hair of Papa's valet, William, that emerges. How can that be? I must be seeing things. Then, as William holds the cab door open, the familiar and solid shape of Papa climbs down the cab steps and alights on the pavement. Before I can stop myself I am banging on the window until the glass rattles in its frame and I am shouting, ‘Papa! Papa!'

He rubs at the back of his neck wearily, then looks up at me and raises his hand in greeting. Papa is home! And I did not even have to wish it. Before I can grasp the full marvel of it all, the bedroom door opens and I turn to see Mama, and Sarah, struggling under the weight of a laden tray, following close on her heels. Mama looks stern, her lips set in a tight line. As she crosses the threshold, her nose wrinkles in disgust. She takes a handkerchief from her sleeve and puts it to her face. Then she gestures to Sarah. ‘Open the window, girl. Air this room and get it cleaned up.'

Sarah begins to bustle around the room. I am glad to see her remove the soiled chamber pot from under my bed. I look back at Mama. She is staring at me as though I am a stranger. ‘And you,' she says. ‘You are a disgrace. You will wash and change your gown immediately. Illness is no excuse for uncleanliness.'

‘I am not ill, Mama.' I hate the whine in my voice. ‘Why do you insist on saying that I am?'

Mama raises her eyebrow in a small, triumphant arch. ‘But it is not only me who says you are ill, Alice. If you remember, you were examined by Dr Danby only yesterday. It is his opinion that you are ill. And we cannot argue with a doctor, can we?'

I cannot bear that she looks so pleased with herself. So I walk over to where she is standing and cross my arms over my chest as I look her straight in the face. ‘And you would have me put in a madhouse, wouldn't you? I say.

Surprise, then annoyance, flash across her face. But only for an instant. She licks a shine of moisture across her bottom lip, and her face settles back into its usual perfect blankness. ‘Sarah!' she barks. ‘Please leave us now.'

Sarah scuttles out of the door, her face flushed red.

Mama glares at me. ‘Do not talk of such things in front of the servants!' She crosses her arms over her bosom too. ‘If Dr Danby recommends that you are sent away to be cured, then that is what will happen.'

I want to shake her. I want to take her by the shoulders and rattle her so hard that her teeth knock together and her eyes jump in their sockets and her tightly coiled hair comes loose and hangs in trembling tatters around her face. I want to shake her until her beautiful, hard shell cracks and the pieces smash to the floor and all that is left behind is a soft and ordinary woman who will put her arms around me and love me like a mama should. But I won't do that. Not because I don't dare to. But because I am scared that if I do crack her shell, I will find there is nothing inside but a hollow space.

And then what would I do?

‘Papa won't allow it!' I scream at her. ‘He will never let you send me away!'

She smiles at me pityingly. ‘But your father is not here, Alice. And therefore the decision falls to me.'

‘But  … ' I quickly glance back to the window.
Does she not know he has returned?
A smile slides across my face. Now it is my turn to be triumphant. Before she can stop me, I push past Mama and rush out of the door. I hear her gasp as she stumbles against the door frame, but by then I am at the top of the stairs and I am flying down, taking two steps at a time and calling out ‘Papa! Papa!' As I turn the last curve of the staircase, there he is, standing in the hall, pulling his gloves off, finger by finger.

‘Alice?' Papa has no time to brace himself, before I fling myself at him and wrap my arms tight around his waist.

‘What a greeting! But do let me take my coat off first.' The reassuring tone of his voice soothes me like a cooling ointment on a cut. I cling to the firm comfort of him and for a moment I am lost for words.

‘Arthur! You are home unexpectedly. You should have sent word and I would have had the servants prepare for your arrival.'

I turn my head and there is Mama gliding down the staircase towards us. She has her eyes fixed upon me. ‘Papa, Papa,' I whisper urgently into his shoulder. ‘She wants to send me away. She wants to send me to the madhouse. Please don't let her. Please!'

Papa pulls my arms from around his waist and studies my face. His brow wrinkles in concern. ‘Calm down, Alice. Why are you so excitable? What do you mean you are being sent away? Temperance, what is the child talking about?'

Mama is beside me now; the cloying scent of her lavender hangs between us. She takes my wrist and squeezes it tight. ‘Alice needs to go back to her room,' she says. She tries to tug me away. ‘Come on, Alice. I have to talk to your father.'

‘No!' I slap her hand from me and grab Papa's arm. ‘Please, Papa. Don't listen to her. She wants me in the madhouse.' Papa looks at me, his eyes wide and puzzled. Then he looks back at Mama.

‘Take her to her room, Arthur. You can see she is hysterical. Please take her now, and then I will explain everything to you.'

‘Yes  …  yes,' murmurs Papa. ‘I think that is a good idea.' He puts his arm around my shoulders and takes one of my hands gently in his. ‘Come on, my darling girl,' he says. ‘Let's get you upstairs and comfortable, then we will see what the problem is.'

‘I told you!' I hiss. ‘She wants rid of me.'

He presses his hand into my back and I lean into him, suddenly exhausted, as he leads me up the staircase and back into my room. ‘Now,' Papa says as he settles me on the bed. ‘I will have some tea sent up to you, and you will stay here and calm yourself, while I go downstairs to talk to Mama.'

‘Don't leave me, Papa.'

Now he is here, I cannot bear for him to go. I hold tight to his hand. Panic grips at my heart and sets it racing. ‘She will tell you things that are not true. She hates me, Papa, she hates me!'

‘Oh, Alice,' Papa kisses me gently on the top of my head. ‘You know that is not true.' He sighs deeply. ‘Let me go now.' He eases his hand away from mine. ‘And please don't worry yourself. I will sort out this problem, whatever it is.'

‘Promise me, Papa?'

‘I promise,' he says. He smiles at me, and because he looks so sincere and because of the way his eyes crease so kindly around the edges, my heart steadies and I allow myself to believe him.

Arthur Angel listened patiently as his wife recounted the events of the last two days. He watched as her white, tapered hands gestured and pressed to her breast. He gazed at the green of her eyes as they flashed hard then grew soft with tears. He was always amazed that, whenever he came back to her after being away for any length of time, her beauty had the power to shock him all over again.

He had been glad to cut short his business trip when he had been taken ill on the first night. A piece of rotten meat, no doubt. His stomach had always been sensitive. He was glad to come home because, in truth, it was where he wanted to be the most; as near to Temperance as he could be, and with his children as solid evidence of her love for him.

But his surprise homecoming had not been as he had imagined. As he listened to Temperance tell him of Dr Danby's visit a great sadness twisted at his heart and brought beads of sweat to his forehead. His darling girl was severely disturbed, that much was clear; he had seen it for himself. And Temperance, normally so calm and collected, was at her wits' end.

But an asylum? It was such a gruesome word. One he had always associated with pitiable unfortunates or the lowest of criminals. How could he agree to send poor, sweet Alice to a place like that?

He could not deny that Alice needed help. For some reason, her temperament was not as it should be. He had been soft on her. He knew that. As a young child, her wild spirits had amused him, but he had always assumed she would grow out of it. That she would settle down and embrace her position in life. But it had not happened. She had attacked the doctor, for God's sake! Arthur reached for his handkerchief to mop at his face. He did not feel as steady as he should. The illness that had afflicted him the other night had obviously not left his system. He would call for William, to bring one of his brandy tonics.

‘Arthur? Are you listening to me?' Temperance slapped her hand lightly on the polished oak of his desk.

‘Of course I am, my dear.' Arthur adjusted himself in his chair. He did not feel comfortable at all. He took a deep breath and turned his attention back to Temperance. As he let his eyes travel from his wife's pearly pink lips, down the length of her white throat and into the soft shadows of her bosom, she told him about a place in Bristol – ‘a
private
asylum, Arthur,' – that promised to offer a cure for Alice's affliction. ‘No one need know,' she impressed upon him. ‘And if we don't act now  … ' She left the sentence unfinished and Arthur felt the weight of responsibility fall upon his shoulders.

Could he truly send his only daughter to a lunatic asylum? Could he send her to a place where she would have to endure all manner of unmentionable treatments? Arthur pinched the top of his nose and rubbed his hands over his face. But what was the alternative? To lock her in her bedchamber, or hide her away in the furthest corner of the attic – Arthur grimaced – and watch her grow worse every day? His hands felt clammy, and he wiped his handkerchief across his palms. ‘There must be something else we can do,' Arthur said hopefully. ‘A second opinion at least. Or we could send her to Bath, to take the waters.'

He knew his feeble suggestions had fallen on deaf ears when he saw a pink flush spread across, and mar, the perfect creaminess of Temperance's décolletage. ‘If you do not agree to this, Arthur, I shall never speak to you again.'

Arthur knew then that he really had no choice in the matter.

I cannot believe what I have just heard. I wish I had stayed in my chamber now, instead of sneaking down to listen outside Papa's study door. Eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves.

If I had stayed in my chamber, I could have remained ignorant and carried on pretending – for a while at least – that Papa might protect me. But he didn't even try. I want to hate him, but I can't. All my hate belongs to Mama. It is easy to hate Mama. It is a straightforward feeling with clean, sharp edges, all neatly packed in a box. But I can't hate Papa, not even now. What I feel for him is muddled and cluttered and it spills out of me in an untidy mess. I do know I am ashamed of him though, because the thought of what he has done makes my toes curl and my face burn hot. He has betrayed me. He has made it as clear as polished glass that Mama comes first every time.

I want to fling the door open and spit my venom at them both, but isn't that what a madwoman would do? I won't give Mama the satisfaction. I learned a long time ago how to harden my face and my feelings against her. But Papa  … 

I always thought that when it really counted, he would step in to save me. He has only ever done it once, but I have held onto that all these years, thinking and praying that he would do the same again when the time came.

I was only five. It was a cold winter and snow had fallen thickly onto the back lawns. It weighed down the branches of trees and sat in small drifts at the base of each windowpane. It had fallen onto the street at the front of the house too, but had soon turned brown and sludgy under the wheels of carriages and the hurried footsteps of well-wrapped pedestrians. I had never seen snow before and as I pressed my nose against the chill of the nursery window, I wanted nothing more than to run outside and touch this strange white stuff that had iced my world so prettily. But Mama had forbidden me to go outdoors.

‘Only fools and thieves go out in this weather,' she said.

I knew that wasn't true because I had seen the gentlemen in their thick overcoats going about their business and the servants were still in and out all day, the hems of their frocks flapping wetly around their ankles. So I waited until Mama was busy with her household books and I slipped the catch on the double doors in the library and stepped out into the dazzle of the gardens.

My boots crunched into the whiteness and I was amazed at how soft it was and how deep my boots sank into it. I bent down and touched it with my fingers. It was cold, but my fingers burned. I took some more steps, then I stopped and looked behind at the trail of footprints I had left. I was dismayed to see that I had ruined it all. I had spoilt something that had been so perfect. I didn't know how I was going to fix it, but before I could even try, there was a shout from the house and I turned to see Mama standing at the library doors. Her face was quivering with anger. At first I thought it was because I had made all those footprints in the snow and that it was as bad as if I'd walked mud across one of the expensive rugs in the drawing room. But it wasn't that at all.

I had disobeyed her and gone outside.

She made me take off my boots and my stockings then she shut the library doors in my face and locked them. I was out there for hours. Eli came to look at me once. He pressed his face against the library window and his breath frosted the glass. He waved at me sadly before he turned to go, leaving a small hole of clear glass where his nose had been.

I stood where Mama had left me. I didn't dare to move in case I messed up more of the snow. But I was so cold. Too cold to even shiver. After a while I stopped caring about messing up the snow and I lay down in the softness of it and tried to pretend it was a pile of warm blankets and that it was all right for me to go to sleep.

That is how Papa found me. Half asleep and half frozen in the back garden. He picked me up and carried me indoors, and I cried bitterly when the hot flames from the fire brought the feeling back to my toes and feet.

‘Never do that again,' he said to Mama in a strange, tight voice, as he wrapped a blanket around my shoulders.

‘She had to learn a lesson,' Mama had said. ‘I was just about to fetch her in, in any case.' She left the room without saying another word and Papa held me to him for a while.

‘I am sorry, Alice,' he said.

I thought then that he was saying sorry for what Mama had done to me, shutting me out in the snow to half freeze to death. But I know better now. I understand what he really meant. He was saying sorry for loving her better than me.

A hand on my shoulder startles me. ‘You shouldn't be listening at doors, Alice,' whispers Eli.

I turn to face him. ‘And what of it?' I whisper back. ‘Have they told you what they are planning to do to me?'

Before he can answer, there is a shift of noise from inside the study and Mama's voice moves closer. I don't want her to find me here, so I push past Eli and run back upstairs to my chamber. But I don't miss the guilt that flashes across Eli's face, like a rat running for cover.