The Linnet Bird: A Novel (21 page)

I
T WAS TOO EASY
to go upstairs to the soft pallet with the thick blankets after I had washed and dried the dishes.

The next morning Mrs. Smallpiece dug through her wardrobe and unceremoniously threw one of her old frocks across my pallet. The cheap, badly made, and low-cut dress I’d been wearing—my garish working dress—was, I knew, completely unwearable in Everton. I put on the drab brown broadcloth, eying with chagrin the much-darned shawl and badly out-of-style bonnet she also unearthed for me. The dress was a poor fit, hanging loosely. I felt as dull as the unflattering outfit.

I once again followed Mrs. Smallpiece’s instructions as she put me to work after breakfast, polishing the mismatched silver—the dinnerware as well as a tea service and the gravy boat—peeling vegetables delivered to the back door by the costermonger, and making biscuits and the pastry for a beef pie. A gilt-edged card was delivered, and after reading it and mumbling “How pleasant,” Mrs. Smallpiece deposited it on a silver tray that sat on a small mahogany table near the front door. She had me read to her again from the Bible, but after five minutes her head began to nod and finally dropped to one side, her mouth open. I wrapped her shawl around me and slipped away to the clearing with its holly bush and sat with my fingers tracing the smooth grooves of the pink-streaked stone. The pain in my body was healing but there was a deep sadness that throbbed through me ceaselessly. If I was to return to Paradise, it would have to be by tomorrow—the third day in a row I had been away—or Blue would give my spot, both on the street and in the room, to someone else.

But that night Shaker came home smiling broadly—a smile that looked out of place on his narrow face. He had secured a job for me in the library. I could start the following week.

I set the plate of biscuits on the table with a thud. “You did what?”

My tone made Shaker’s smile disappear. “I said I was able to get you—”

“Did you think to ask me if I would like a job in a library? I haven’t made up my mind as to what I plan to do next. You are very kind, but I’ve just stayed this long to get my strength back, as you suggested. I haven’t made up my mind about anything.”

Shaker stood there for a moment. “Haven’t you?” he asked.

I fidgeted with the bread knife. “And besides, who would hire me without even meeting me? Who would hire a complete stranger?”

“I told my employer—Mr. Ebbington—that my cousin, Linny Smallpiece, the daughter of my father’s brother, has come from Morecambe to live under my roof and is in sore need of a position.” His voice had taken on an unfamiliar, cold quality, a quality that I recognized as indignation. Somehow it shamed me, although I refused to show it. “No, I told him when he asked, she has no letter of character, as she’s spent her life caring for her invalid father, but I told him I could attest for you, and would assume full responsibility. I don’t make a habit of lying, Linny,” he said, “but I chose to lie today.” And I felt even worse for my superior airs of a moment ago. I looked down at the crusty tops of the biscuits.

“Mr. Ebbington has put his faith in me. I have worked for him for seven years, my own position assured for me by my father before he died. He and Mr. Ebbington were good friends. The only truth in all of this is that my father did have a brother in Morecambe, although he died four years ago and had no children.” His trembling had increased, moving up his arms so that his whole body now shook.

“What would I be expected to do?” I asked, after a long moment, meeting Shaker’s stare.

“There wasn’t even an actual position available, but Mr. Ebbington told me he had been thinking of bringing in someone with a fine hand to catch up on the recording of the books. Although I am responsible for overseeing that the ordering and receiving and placement of books is carried out properly, of course I can’t write with my . . .”—he looked down at his hands with a hateful sneer—“with
these,
and although Mr. Worth, who is quite elderly, signs the books out for the members, there seems to be a problem keeping up the required recordkeeping. So that is what you would do—keep the records of the books up to date.
If,
of course, you don’t find it beneath you.”

I lifted my chin. His last sentence, and its tone, stung. “What is the pay?”

“A florin a week. Paid monthly, of course.”

Two shillings a week. More than factory work, but not a whole sight better. And I could turn a far better profit in a few slow nights on the street. Behind me, a drop of rain fell softly on the grate, sizzling on the slow fire. The yeasty smell of the fresh biscuits filled my nostrils. The cold November rain ticked against the front windowpane, although the sound was muffled by the heavy closed curtains. The dining room was heated and fragrant with the smells of cooked food; although its furniture and fittings and floral carpets were well worn and had obviously been established in their positions for many years, somehow I found a deep comfort in this.

I imagined being out in this weather, waiting, hoping the rain wouldn’t convince the customers inside the taverns and music halls to go straight to their warm beds and cold wives instead of having a quick one for less than the price of the carriage ride home. I thought of the putrid odor of the Scot in his fine brougham, of the rough, probing fingers of the fishmonger. I thought, with a queasy lurch, of raising the shears over the syphilitic lunatic’s face on Rodney Street, of the press of the point of my folding knife into Ram Munt’s throat under the gaslight on Paradise.

I thought of baby Frances, and the way her tiny curled fingers looked as if they were trying to hold tight. I never wanted to carry another stranger’s child, knowing that should it occur again I would have to destroy it before it took a firm hold.

I thought of the tall sailing masts of the ships down at King’s Dock, and knew I would never set foot on board.

I also knew I had fooled myself, as perhaps my mother had fooled me, with stories of being more than what I was, of expecting more than I should. I knew I was giving up, but I was too weary, at that moment, to fight any longer.

“Fine. I’ll take the job.” The rain lashed against the window now, the accompanying wind creating a low moan around the sash. “Thank you, Shaker.” And as I thanked him, I wondered when he would be coming to me for payment in exchange for what he was offering.

A
FTER DINNER,
Shaker asked me to come to his room, his eyes not meeting mine. I remained expressionless, nodding once. So the payment was to be immediate, then. His mother acted as if she hadn’t heard his request. I wondered how Shaker would face her afterward, and also wondered why he didn’t at least wait until she was asleep. I was surprised at his boldness and wondered how my healing flesh would accept him.

But I could never turn him down, no matter how often he wanted to take me. I owed him this much, at least.

When I followed him through the door he went to his desk and I straight to his bed—the same bed I had bloodied only a few days earlier—and lay on my back, turning my face to the wall as I hiked up the brown skirt. There was silence, and I looked back at Shaker to see why he hadn’t begun to unbutton his trousers and come forward.

“No,” he said, in a hushed, shocked voice, and I saw that he had turned scarlet, still standing by his desk. “No,” he repeated, drawing his gaze from my uncovered legs. “I—I wanted to ask your help. By writing something for me. I’m unable to hold a quill, as you know.”

I felt an unfamiliar heat in my cheeks, and knew that for the first time I was flushing as Shaker had, something I didn’t know I was capable of. I twitched down my skirt and went to the table where a large book lay open.

“This is by Bernard Albinus,” he told me, clearing his throat. His cheeks still held that high color but he spoke in a normal tone, as if he had not just seen my nakedness. “He was the most important descriptive anatomist of the last century. As well as the human skeleton, he’s illustrated the muscles of the body and the complete system of the blood vessels and nerves. I’ve taken the book from the library an embarrassing number of times. If I could have a set of notes of the most pertinent areas of my study—those on the nervous system—I wouldn’t have to keep taking the book out and trying to memorize passages. So I wondered . . . if you could write out the information I show you.” He pulled out the chair for me.

“But won’t your mother think . . . what will she think of me being here, in your room . . .” I left the sentence unfinished.

“Never mind about her. Much of her is no more than noise.” He made the rough, clearing sound in his throat a second time. I recognized it, now, as a habit, when Shaker was uncomfortable. “She wasn’t always the way you see her. I remember her laughing and enjoying herself while my father was still alive.” His face softened, and his eyes took on a faraway look.

I tried to imagine Mrs. Smallpiece laughing, Shaker as a boy, and his father, the three of them sitting at the dining room table we’d just left.

“My father was a physician,” Shaker volunteered, “although he did much more than simply prescribe drugs. He also chose to do the work of a surgeon, even though that was below him on the medical hierarchy. Instead of the expected—taking pulse and dealing with the hysterics and melancholy of the more affluent—he actually dealt with the body and all its frailities. He set bones, found remedies for skin diseases, performed surgeries at the infirmary. He sometimes allowed me to accompany him to the homes he visited and to listen and watch. That’s where I found my love of the profession. He was a kind man, my father, knowing I could never follow his path but never speaking of it. He treated many of Liverpool’s needy, usually for no payment but their gratitude. Because of that, my mother was forced to live a much more frugal life than she would have if my father had stuck to the physics for the wealthy and demanded his price. However, even though we live a fairly simple life, my father’s reputation was such that my mother can still consider herself included in what she sees as the grander social scene.”

“She’s mentioned her friends,” I told him. “I fear my presence has prevented her from inviting any of them to call.”

Shaker smiled at me. “Don’t worry about that. I’m pleased that she can still enjoy the small pleasures she knows as Dr. Smallpiece’s widow, with her acceptance in that milieu, and the invitations she receives.” He stopped, and in that moment I realized that in the short time I’d known Shaker, he had proven to be very much like the father he described.

“Shortly after my father died—seven years ago—my mother suffered that terrible apoplexy, and after that, she began seeking . . . God.” He frowned, studying the illustration over his desk as if he’d forgotten I was there. “I’ve read of these cases more than once. It seems as if there is a connection between the two—the onset of seizures with the beginning of unnatural religious fervor.”

I made a small sound, an acknowledgment, and he started, focusing on me once more. “I tried to help her. I followed all the prescribed medical treatments—restricting her fluid intake, giving emetics and purgatives. I even bled her frequently, trying to equalize her circulation. But none of it has helped. Although, as I told you, the fits are rare, at times her behavior is such that I hardly recognize her anymore.” He sighed. “And you needn’t worry about her demands on you. They’ll stop. Nan, who has always done for us, as well as her daughter, Merrie, who looks after my mother’s clothes and hair and any extra work to be done, will be back—my mother dismisses them both regularly for one infraction or another. Nan and Merrie stay away two or three days, long enough for my mother to miss them terribly, and then they simply show up again. Nan is quite used to the pattern and she and my mother understand one another.”

I picked up the quill and dipped it in the ink. “What did you mean, Shaker, when you told me I was your sign?” I asked him, before I wrote the first word.

Shaker moved to the window, fussing with the curtain. “I had decided—that night in the Green Firkin—that . . .” He stopped, then continued. “I had decided to drink as much as I could, although I rarely consume much strong drink. When I felt that I had drunk enough to give me courage, I planned to go to—to the place where Frances is buried—so as not to leave my mother to deal with . . . things—and drink a potion of hemlock I had procured.”

“Hemlock? Is it not a form of poison?” I knew I shouldn’t have interrupted Shaker’s confession, and quickly put my hand to my mouth.

From the side, I could see the corner of Shaker’s lip lift slightly. “It is. I felt there was no purpose for me anymore. It seemed the cowardly way out, and yet I could think of nothing else but ending my miserable existence. I felt there was no purpose for me anymore. I had three emotions, as I stood at that dirty counter in the public house.”