The Misbegotten (14 page)

‘Is this some mischief of yours?’ Mrs Alleyn asked eventually. Her anger had gone; she sounded small, and afraid. Tears still glimmered in her eyes.

‘No, madam. I only want what’s best.’

‘And . . . you truly think it could help him to see her? To be reminded?’

‘Since time and . . . obliteration have not worked, madam, then perhaps Mrs Weekes . . . that is, perhaps a small taste of what was lost might give him ease instead.’ Mrs Alleyn’s tears never fell. She blinked them away, and gathered herself.

‘If you are wrong . . . if he is made worse by her . . .’

‘I am sure he will not be, madam,’ Starling lied again without a second’s hesitation. She gazed at her mistress, her face a perfect facsimile of sincerity. Mrs Alleyn thought for a second longer.

‘Very well, then. Perhaps it cannot hurt to try. I will invite her,’ she said, and Starling’s heart soared.
Oh, but it can. It can hurt to try.

Starling shut the drawing room door quietly, her fingers fumbling with the handle. They were shaking. Her whole body was shaking; her pulse thumped loudly in her temples. She swallowed, and felt the dry skin of her throat pull tight.
She poisoned him!
The words rang in her ears. As if anybody who had ever known Alice could truly believe that. It baffled her that a lady like Mrs Alleyn could be so deceived. In the silence of the hallway she watched her hands as they juddered, fingertips and broken nails all blurred with movement. Then Alice’s hand took hers, and held it tightly. Starling shut her eyes and saw the palest golden hair lit up with sunlight, and smiling blue eyes with lashes like tiny feathers.
Find me some poppies, my chuck, and I’ll make you a scarlet crown
.

Alice could not see the red petals against the green grasses that grew along the river’s wide shoulders. Hand in hand, the two girls ran along, walked to catch their breath, then ran again. The ground was waterlogged, and seemed to bounce beneath their feet. There were cowpats here and there, bejewelled with amber dung flies. They shrieked and leapt and dodged them.
Here! Here are some poppies!
Starling heard her own voice, heard Alice laughing as they sat down abruptly, breathing in the warm smells of damp earth and trampled grass. The poppy stems were tough and hairy; she picked them and passed them to Alice, who plaited them into a garland.
I shall have a crown of flowers like this when Jonathan marries me
, said Alice.
And so shall you. Whichever flowers you wish for, you shall have
;
and you shall carry my train for me all the way to the church.

‘
Starling!
’ An angry whisper startled her. Starling opened her eyes to the dim light of the hallway; golden hair and sunlit eyes faded away like spectres. Dorcas was glaring at her from the servants’ door. ‘Don’t tarry there! What’s in your head?’ she hissed. Starling didn’t stay to answer. Mrs Alleyn would surely invite Mrs Weekes again soon. She didn’t have much time to make ready; to make Jonathan Alleyn ready. She meant for him to be at his darkest when he first set eyes on the woman who was not Alice. She meant for him to be ready to break, and she meant to be there when he did.

Rachel felt the weightiness of things unsaid, hovering between herself and Mrs Alleyn. She wasn’t sure how long she could go on ignoring it. It was stormy outside, and her shoulders were damp with rain from her walk to Lansdown Crescent. When the wind blew it made the flames in the grate flutter; a draught curled in under the door, cold around their ankles. She tried not to shiver, sipping her tea. The pauses between their stilted exchanges were growing longer and longer every time. Mrs Alleyn cleared her throat delicately.

‘Tell me, what social engagements have you planned, Mrs Weekes?’ she said.

‘There is . . . nothing of note upcoming, I confess,’ said Rachel.

‘But you will be going to the assembly rooms, surely?’

‘I . . . do not know, Mrs Alleyn. Mr Weekes has made no mention of any such plans . . .’

‘Well, of course he hasn’t, my dear Mrs Weekes. He is a man, and men who are married have little need for dancing. But a woman must have such things to look forward to, and to dress for. Must she not? He must take you, tell him I said so,’ she declared. Rachel smiled politely.

‘I shall indeed tell him, Mrs Alleyn. Do you care for dancing, yourself?’

‘Yes, I . . . well. I used to, many years ago.’ Mrs Alleyn’s lovely face fell. ‘It has been a very long time since I danced. My husband loved to, even after we were married. He was such a happy soul, so full of merriment.’ She looked away across the room, and sighed slowly. ‘The last time I danced was with Jonathan, shortly before he went away to the war.’

‘And never since?’ said Rachel, guessing it to be well over ten years since that dance. Mrs Alleyn swallowed, and looked back at Rachel.

‘And never since,’ she said flatly.

There was another uneasy silence. Mrs Alleyn arranged and rearranged her hands in her lap, and moved to pour tea from the pot when their cups were already full.

‘And this fine gentleman here,’ Rachel gestured at the large portrait in oils that hung above the hearth. ‘Pray tell me, who is he?’

‘That is my father, Sir Benjamin Faukes. He was a great man . . . a very great man. He had a most distinguished career in the navy. I returned to live with him when my husband died, when Jonathan was still very young. He . . . he was a kind and very loving man.’ Mrs Alleyn paused. ‘I think he’d hoped I would marry again one day, and be happy, but it was not to be.’ Rachel studied the painting, which showed a corpulent but dignified man, jovial eyes couched deep above crimson cheeks.

‘He cuts a most handsome figure,’ she murmured. ‘I was also blessed with a kind and gentle father. He was a gentleman . . . master of a small estate to the north of the city. I grew up there, and my little brother too. For a time.’

‘You have lost him?’ Mrs Alleyn leant forwards slightly, her eyes keen.

‘When he was but a child, still. Such a dear boy. It was . . . very difficult for my mother and father.’

‘And for you, I dare say?’

‘Yes. And for me,’ said Rachel, quietly. Mrs Alleyn nodded in sympathy.

‘The world can seem cruel to inflict such losses, can it not?’

‘I am sure God has a plan for us all, Mrs Alleyn.’

‘Are you, indeed? Well spoken, Mrs Weekes,’ Mrs Alleyn murmured, in a tone that was hard to decipher.

Silence fell again; outside, the wind played a mournful note. ‘You must be wondering why I asked you to call again,’ Mrs Alleyn said at last. ‘So soon after our first meeting, I mean,’ she added, hurriedly. Rachel smiled at the unintentional slight.

‘I’m sure I was simply pleased to be invited,’ she demurred, and Mrs Alleyn gave her a knowing glance, tinged with apology.

‘Forgive me. In truth . . .’ She hesitated, turning her porcelain cup in its saucer. ‘In truth, I wish to introduce you to my son.’

‘I see,’ said Rachel, uneasily. She sensed that Mrs Alleyn was trying to find a way to broach the subject of her son’s condition. ‘My husband has told me that your son suffers from . . . an illness, brought on by the war,’ she said, to ease the way. The older lady drew in a long breath.

‘Mrs Weekes, I must be honest with you. My son is considered by many people to be . . . unfit for polite society. The headaches, and the nightmares he endures . . . they can cause him black moods. He has . . . some strange obsessions, since he returned from the fighting. He speaks the contents of his mind too freely. And the things he says can be . . . he is not always . . .’ She broke off, and her eyes gleamed.

‘Mrs Alleyn,’ Rachel said softly. ‘Forgive me, but I am left to wonder why you wish to introduce me, in particular, to your son?’

‘Well might you wonder.’ Mrs Alleyn sighed, and turned to gaze out at the sky for a moment. ‘He has few friends left. He has no visitors. I know he is . . . partly to blame for that. But oughtn’t a true friend . . . make allowances?’ She shook her head. ‘But one by one they have all stopped calling, and writing. I can see that you have married beneath yourself. Forgive my candour, and I mean no slight to your husband. I have known Richard Weekes for a good many years, and I know he will try his best for you. But you have finer manners than his, and a more godly heart. It is plain.’

Rachel blushed. What she knew to be true she was not yet prepared to hear from another’s lips. She said nothing, feeling heat bloom over her skin.

‘Well,’ she said stiffly, and could not think what to add. ‘Well,’ she said again.

‘I have offended you. I am sorry for it. Perhaps I, too, am becoming unfit for polite society. I have no stomach left for the cant and hypocrisy of English manners.’ Mrs Alleyn pressed her lips together and waited, and Rachel felt as though she was being tested. She found that she wanted to please this strange and beautiful woman, and not only because Richard esteemed her so highly.

‘You merely surprised me, Mrs Alleyn,’ she said.

‘Good. There is strength in you, Mrs Weekes. I cannot quite put my finger on it, but . . . it is the kind of strength my son needs.’
Or that I will need, in meeting him?
Rachel wondered.

‘Will he be joining us today?’

‘Yes. That is . . . I had hoped—’ She broke off, as at that moment a soft knock announced a servant at the door. Rachel looked up quickly, but it was not the red-haired girl. This one had small eyes and a thin, ferrety face.

‘Beg pardon, madam. The master says he won’t come down today. He is . . . indisposed,’ said the girl, bobbing at them.

‘Thank you, Dorcas.’ Mrs Alleyn sounded weary, and disappointed. Silence fell again, and Rachel wondered what nature of thing was covered by the handy term
indisposed.
The atmosphere in the room was becoming unbearable. Rachel shifted in her chair.

‘Well, another time, perhaps . . .’ she murmured.

‘Will you go up to him?’ Mrs Alleyn said suddenly. Rachel sat shocked for a moment, but the urgent appeal on the older lady’s face prompted her.

‘If you wish it,’ she said.

Jonathan Alleyn’s rooms were on the second floor of the house. The two women went up the sweeping staircase in silence; Mrs Alleyn wore a tense, pinched expression. At his door they paused, and the older lady smoothed her hands down the length of her bodice. Rachel was suddenly afraid of what might lie within – what could cause the man’s own mother such distress.

‘Please . . .’ said Mrs Alleyn. ‘Please try not to . . .’ But she didn’t go on. She closed her mouth sadly, knocked at the door and opened it without waiting for a response. ‘Jonathan,’ she said, somewhat stridently, as she swept into the room. Rachel followed close on her heels, like an anxious child. ‘There is somebody I’d like to—’

‘Mother,’ a man’s voice cut her off. ‘I told you I did not wish to meet any more of your pointless quacks.’ Mrs Alleyn stopped so abruptly that Rachel almost ran into her. ‘I told you I didn’t want to see
you.
Not today,’ he added.

‘This is Mrs Weekes. I thought you—’

‘You thought of yourself, I don’t doubt. As you generally do. Leave me be. I’m warning you.’ Mrs Alleyn tensed visibly. Rachel struggled to see where the man’s voice was coming from. The shutters were closed, and no lamps were lit. In the dull glow of the coals, she caught the outline of a figure, slumped in a chair behind a vast and cluttered desk. She suddenly felt an odd foreboding, a feeling of entrapment. Her breath was caught behind her ribs like a bubble.

‘Perhaps another time,’ she said again, weakly, and turned to go. Mrs Alleyn caught her arm.

‘I said get out!’ Jonathan Alleyn suddenly bellowed, and only his mother’s hand gripping her arm prevented Rachel from obeying. The man sounded deranged. Mrs Alleyn turned, and leaned close to Rachel’s ear.

‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Please try.’ And then she was gone, closing the door behind her.

For a moment, Rachel didn’t dare to move. She didn’t dare to make a sound, in case the man realised she was still there.
What is this? Why am I here?
She cast her eyes around, and could see a little more as her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and her unease increased the more she saw. The room was set up as a study, with a great many shelves and cupboards, each laden with books and strange objects she couldn’t identify. Some appeared to be scientific instruments, with glass lenses and adjustable wheels, notched cogs and ebony boxes to hold who knew what. Others looked like toys. Like children’s toys. There were star charts pinned to the walls, and a painted globe showing a map of the world. On the shelf nearest her shoulder, she recoiled from the dead eyes and snarling mouth of a fox, stuffed and mounted in a pose of extreme aggression. On the desk were scattered papers and pens, more strange instruments and three large glass jars, each filled with liquid and greyish, bulbous things that Rachel decided not to look too closely at. There was a strange smell like rotting meat, faint but revolting. It made sweat break out along her brow. On the wall above the fire hung a painting of a scene from hell – human figures being torn limb from limb and consumed by gleeful demons, their faces stretched in unimaginable horror.

‘Do you like the painting?’ the man asked. His voice was hoarse now, and quiet. Startled, Rachel glanced back at him.

‘No,’ she said, truthfully, and he gave a hollow chuckle.

‘It’s by a man called Bosch. A man who dreamed similar dreams to me. Did you think you were invisible, standing there, quiet as a mouse? My eyes see a good deal better than yours in this light. I am used to it.’

‘We would both see a good deal better if the shutters were opened,’ said Rachel, in the same brisk tone she would have used with Eliza. She turned slightly as if to cross to the window, but stopped when he spoke again.

‘Do not touch the shutters.’ His voice was cold, and hard. He was no child in a temper. ‘Who are you? Why is my mother so keen for me to meet you?’

‘I . . . in truth, I am not certain,’ said Rachel. Faced with all the strangeness of the man, of his room, of her situation, her mind abandoned decorum and produced only truth. ‘Your mother suggested I might do you some good, by my company.’