Eve

  Still aghast with disbelief, I protested, ‘But – that means if we – if ye go to bed wi’ someone else – then ye’re committing adultery!’ He didn’t answer – but he must have known it was true. I tried to find some explanation – some excuse. ‘Does your wife – does she commit adultery, too?’

  His only reply was a very clipped, ‘No.’

  So he had no excuse at all. I stood up and faced him. My voice was shaken but determined as I told him, ‘What you’re doing is wrong. A husband, he should be loyal and honest and true to his wife – and how can ye be that, when ye’re committing adultery all the time?’

  Turning away from him I almost ran to the door – then paused with my fingers on the handle to look back for one last time. He was standing there unmoving.

  I flung my final words into his expressionless face, ‘I wudna be your mistress now, not even if ye paid me!’ Turning the handle I shot out into the hall.

  I’d reached the front door before the astonished footman even had time to rise from his chair. Finding the handle I thrust it open and ran full-tilt down the steps.

  Outside I drew in great gulps of air fresh from the darkening river. How could he, how could he have been such a rotter? And I really had liked him so much!

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  I spent a miserable weekend. I tried not to think about it, but I couldn’t stop – how could he have been so disloyal, so treacherous?

  But by Sunday evening distress had turned into humiliation. What a fool I’d been! I knew the Wenlock Court guests sometimes visited without their spouses – he hadn’t been the only married ‘bachelor’ – I’d just assumed… Oh, why ever hadn’t Glad, or Lucy, ever mentioned him having a wife? But obviously they hadn’t known, either – presumably he’d come without her the previous year. But the older servants, H.H. for instance, they must have known; if only I’d had the sense just to ask, ‘Is there a Lady Rothbury?’ I’d have learnt the truth. No wonder he’d been so cautious in the first half of the servants’ dance, while the upper servants were still present – and I’d been stupid enough to believe his tale about it being to protect my reputation!

  All that eavesdropping, and I’d not picked up something as elementary as his being married. Then I thought, just a minute, that comment about ‘Dear Helen’ having tried so hard to hook him, surely if—? You fool Eve – ‘Helen’ was obviously an adultery committer too, but she’d failed to get him to join her in that pursuit because he preferred tarts. Or housemaids. Oh, forget it, Eve! But naturally, I didn’t. Horseface married – I just couldn’t believe it.

  On Monday humiliation was overtaken by anger. Every time I thumped down the treadle of my machine I imagined it was his great rotten nose I was stamping on. But as I trudged wearily home that evening I told myself firmly that I was being even more stupid wasting time fretting about someone as worthless as him, so after bolting down gristle pie and bullet carrots I set off for the Little Theatre, and the first night of ‘The Blindness of Virtue’ – which was very interesting, being all about whether or not a young girl ought to be told ‘everything’. Anyway, thanks to Glad and Flo I knew it all already.

  The rest of the week I walked miles across London every night to pay my 1/- for a seat in the gallery, so I could lose myself in the light and colour of the stage, and escape for a while from the dreary drabness of my own world.

  After the bombshell of the previous week I nearly didn’t go and visit Mr Parton on Saturday afternoon. But it wasn’t his fault that his friend was faithless, and I had decided to go before – so I went.

  I was glad I had, because Mr Parton was completely different from rotten old Horseface. Not only did I gain entrance with ease, but within half an hour I was sitting down with a cup of tea in my hand – and he’d offered me a job. Good old Mr Parton.

  He was so easy to chat to. I explained I was now working at a laundry in Kensington, and told him about my shirt and collar machine, all the plays I’d seen, and how awful the food was in my boarding house. He held the muffin plate out to me again. ‘Do have the last one, I’m not at all hungry myself.’ Such a nice man. I’d also managed to extract the information, quite casually, that Dr Travers was coming back from America in the spring – and was a bona fide bachelor.

  I queried, ‘An’ ye’re not married, Mr Parton?’

  He looked terribly surprised, as if the idea had never even crossed his mind. ‘No, no – not at all!’ So thank goodness they were genuine.

  Then, before I could start dropping hints about jobs – I’d decided not to ask directly, since I’d lost the one he’d found for me (no impertinent questions about that from Mr Parton, of course) he offered me one.

  It wasn’t exactly a job, more a way of making some extra money by acting as his informant. Apparently he’d decided to write an extra chapter on the east coast of Caithness, so could I tell him something about what it was like to live in that area? He said he’d glance through his own notes and then jot down some questions about fishing and crofting. I offered, ‘I cud tell ye a wee bittie about the poaching, too!’

  He laughed. ‘That would be most interesting – I’ll just see if I can find my notes.’

  We were having tea in a different room today; it was smaller and obviously his study, with books and papers stacked everywhere. After rummaging rather helplessly through the piles he decided that what he wanted must be upstairs — and he’d find me some pencils and paper, too, so I wouldn’t be out of pocket. Good old Mr Parton again. Not that he was that old – in fact from something he’d said I’d realised that although he looked older he was actually about the same age as Horseface – Oh no, I wasn’t going to think about him, not ever again.

  To distract myself I jumped up and went to look at Mr Parton’s paintings. My eye was instantly drawn to the largest one, because it was obviously set in an eastern country. There was a high, ornately decorated archway, with a courtyard containing a pool behind it. In front of the archway were a couple of steps, and reclining on them was a girl of about my own age. The evening sun came slanting through the arch to fall on her face. She was so pretty – no, more than pretty – beautiful. Shining gold coins threaded on delicate chains nestled into hair black and glossy as a raven’s wing. Yet her eyes were a soft violet-blue, and her skin as clear and pale as milk. She was wearing a robe of deep, rose-pink silk, which swathed her figure in graceful folds.

  As she lay there, gazing out of the canvas, she reminded me of something — a deer – a hind, when it senses you’re near but hasn’t seen you. Underneath the rose-pink silk her slender body had that same quivering uncertainty, trembling on the edge of fear. It was there in her face, too – so that you wanted to reach out and pat her, and tell her not to be frightened.

  I looked down at the title: ‘Sybella at Sunset’, and the date, ‘1900’. But I couldn’t read the scrawled signature on the picture; when I peered more closely it broke up, in the irritating way oil paintings do when you get too near them.

  I stepped back a little, and was still gazing at her when Mr Parton came back. He came and stood beside me, his eyes on her too – and a kind of yearning expression on his face. I asked, ‘D’ye ken her?’

  ‘She is my cousin.’

  ‘Ach, I thought she wasna foreign – though that place has a look of it.’

  He said quietly, ‘She is half-Italian, but she was brought up in Morocco, by my late uncle, who painted that picture. She – lost her mother, in infancy.’

  I felt a great surge of fellow feeling – suddenly I wanted to tell Mr Parton all about Apa, and India – but I knew I couldn’t risk it. I turned away, very brisk, and said, ‘Now, when d’ye want the answers tae your questions?’

  He suggested that I bring the first pages next Saturday, when we could discuss them over tea, and by then he would have decided on some more. ‘Does that suit you?’ I’ll say it did. I now had something to keep me occupied on Sunday afternoon, and another tea-party to look forward to the following Saturday.
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  Except it didn’t work out like that. When I arrived at tea-time the next week I was met by Mrs Clark, his housekeeper, who told me that Mr Parton was in bed, ill. ‘He’s always had a weak stomach, ever since he was a little boy – and he’s fretting because tomorrow’s his Sunday for visiting his cousin.’

  Interested, I asked, ‘The one in the picture?’

  Mrs Clark nodded, before saying with a sigh, ‘Poor creature.’

  ‘Is she poorly, too?’

  ‘Not in her body, but,’ Mrs Clark tapped her forehead significantly. ‘She’s so afflicted, that for her own safety she has to live in an asylum.’

  Poor Sybella – I was shocked. ‘What a shame!’

  ‘Yes, and she was such a sweet girl – but where was I? Ah yes, Mr Fred was taking some things down to her, just trifles, but sometimes they amuse her. So he asked if Mary would mind taking them tomorrow, but Mary’s sister’s coming to tea – it’s her free afternoon – and of course, I can’t leave him when he’s like this, so I suggested you might go instead. He’ll pay your fare, and there’ll be something extra for yourself, and it’s very nice countryside, just by Windsor Great Park, so you might fancy a walk – once you’ve delivered the parcel the rest of the afternoon is your own—’

  She paused for breath and I reassured her, ‘I’d like that fine.’ She looked relieved. I asked her, ‘Is that all I’ve got tae do – deliver a parcel?’

  ‘If you could bring back a report of how she is – he’s bound to ask.’

  I handed over my notes, she handed over my fare and the parcel. It wasn’t very heavy, and it rustled intriguingly when I shook it. I was curious as to its contents, but no matter, I’d find out tomorrow – because I’d already decided to go and see Sybella myself. I thought of her like that, because although I knew she was older now than in the picture, I couldn’t really imagine it. To me, she was a girl of my own age who just like me, had been brought up in the East by her beloved father – whom she must now miss as much as I missed Apa.

  I knew from what Mrs Clark had said that she would be a little – odd – but I wasn’t bothered about that. Lots of people in India were a bit odd. Sadhus were, going round all smeared with mud and ashes, but you could still talk to them. And she’d be disappointed at Mr Parton not turning up, so she could have me as a visitor instead. It must be horrid for her, shut up in an asylum like that – perhaps they’d let me take her out for a walk in Windsor Great Park?

  I had to persuade them to let me see her, first, of course, and I didn’t even know her full name – but I was sure I could bluff my way in. Only then I looked down at my cheap coat and even cheaper black stockings and remembered Lord Rothbury’s footman informing me that the tradesman’s entrance was round the corner. So I knew what I’d have to do. But just this once I’d risk it, for Sybella’s sake – it was unlikely I’d see Mr Henderson inside, in any case. And I had cleaned my boots for church this morning. Re-adjusting my gloves so the holes didn’t show I stalked confidently up to the door of what looked like a very large country house – except for the uniformed porter outside.

  He watched me coming up the steps, standing at his ease – but the moment I opened my mouth he snapped to attention. As Aunt Ethel always said, in England it’s not what you say, but the way you say it. In my own accent, nicely sharpened by Apa’s clipped tone of command, I announced to the porter that Mr Parton was unhappily unable to visit his cousin today, but he had sent a parcel down for her, and concluded, ‘So perhaps you would be so good as to inform me of her whereabouts?’ He summoned a nurse at once.

  In the same confident tone I repeated my request to her. The nurse said, ‘She’s in the great hall.’ There was a slight reserve in her manner as she added, ‘But I don’t know if—’

  I said firmly, ‘I’m sure I’ll recognise her.’

  He brow cleared. ‘Oh, you’ve been here before.’ She turned and led the way. Well, I hadn’t said I had – but I would recognise her.

  Though I couldn’t, not at first, because there were several groups of people in the great hall, which was enormous, with a gallery all round, and two nurses stationed up there, one each side, as if watching. And there were others down below, one in each corner of the hall, doing the same, like sentinels. It was all slightly unnerving. I remembered Mrs Clark’s, ‘for her own safety’, and felt a worm of unease begin to wriggle. Then, ‘Ah, there she is.’ I’d spotted her, sitting sideways on to us – and, incredibly, looking exactly as she had done in that painting twelve years ago. What a relief!

  I marched up to her. ‘Good afternoon, Sybella. I’m afraid Cousin Fred couldn’t come today – his usual stomach trouble.’

  She turned and looked at me – and it wasn’t the same girl at all, I’d made a mistake – except the nurse obviously didn’t think so. She was announcing to her loudly and clearly, ‘Mr Parton couldn’t come, dear, but he sent—’ she glanced at me in query.

  I supplied, ‘Eve.’

  ‘—Eve, instead. Isn’t that nice?’

  The girl looked up at me, and it was the same girl, with the same violet-blue eyes – now totally blank. Then they flickered a moment – and slithered sideways. I’d never seen anything like it before; I felt my heart begin to pound. But I got a hold on myself. She was startled, that was all. I picked up her hand, shook it firmly, then replaced it on her lap. The nurse had pulled up a chair for me so I sat down, and held out the parcel. ‘Cousin Fred has sent a present for you. Would you like me to open it?’

  In a voice low-pitched with cunning she asked, ‘Scissors?’ She made a cutting motion, raising her hands to do so – and I watched in horror as the lace frills fell back from her wrist and exposed a cries-cross of scars and waving, red lines snaking up her arm. ‘Scissors!’ The demand came again, high and sibilant. She made the moves of opening her imaginary pair of scissors, and stabbing at her arms, hard. ‘Scissors!’ The word was a wail now. Her hand reached out, and I saw how her nails were cut right back, and guessed why even as she grabbed my hands, tugged off my gloves and inspected my finger-nails one by one. But they were cut short, too, because of the laundry, and moaning her disappointment she thrust my hands away from her.

  Oh why, oh why had I come? But I was here, now – so I must try. I began to untie the string. The minute I finished she reached out for it – but the nurse had already whisked it away, into her pocket. Smiling at me she murmured in explanation, ‘Mr Parton sometimes forgets. I’ll leave you now.’

  Sybella gave a small wail. ‘No string?’ And I glimpsed the quivering uncertainty of her picture – but not trembling on the edge of fear now – even as I watched she skidded over into stark terror. Then the blankness returned, and she began to rock from side to side.

  Pity came to my rescue. ‘Look, let’s see what Cousin Fred has sent you.’

  Toys – children’s toys. I rattled a rattle, tossed a coloured ball on to her lap, waved a toy windmill. No response. Then, I held out a model bird, with brightly coloured, real feathers. She reached out, and touched them, very gently. For the first time her eyes caught mine for a moment before they slid away again. She whispered, ‘I used to fly.’

  ‘Did you?’

  She nodded – too many times. Then, ‘I had wings, like silver – but they cut them off.’

  I tried to follow. ‘Who did?’

  ‘He did.’

  I asked, ‘So now you can’t fly?’

  ‘No-o-o.’ She bent forward very close, seized my hand and put it up over her shoulder and on to her back. ‘Feel. Feel the knobs – there.’ Her hand pressed mine down, on to her shoulder blades. Voice low and conspiratorial, she asked ‘Can you feel them?’ Face very close to mine she whispered, ‘New wings, growing.’ Then fear lanced across her face and pierced her eyes with terror as she wailed, ‘Don’t tell him – or he’ll cut them off, too!’

  Desperately I tried to reassure her. ‘Oh, I’m sure he won’t.’

  ‘He will! He will! They say he will!’

 
‘Who says that?’

  ‘The voices – they told me so.’ Like a beautiful bejewelled talon her hand gripped my wrist as her own voice slid into frantic fierceness. ‘Promise you won’t tell him – promise, promise!’

  Hastily I said, ‘I promise,’ and added without thinking, ‘On my herring gutter’s knife.’

  Her voice rose to a shriek, ‘Knife! They want a knife – give it me, give it me!’

  Quickly I told her, ‘I haven’t got it with me – I left it behind.’

  And suddenly her excitement was wiped out and she went limp, her eyes blank again. She began to rock jerkily from side to side.

  I did try. I went back to the parcel, took the toys out and began to play with them in front of her. The only one she responded to was the bird, so I made its wings flutter down, into her lap. She began to shake – and talk. But now her speech was just a string of words, all in the wrong order – in no order at all – there were no connections between them. Yet she stopped, and waited expectantly for me to answer. So I replied in Gaelic, but she looked puzzled – I shifted to Hindustani, tried Pahari, then the Bhotia dialect of Byans – I could only manage simple sentences in that but she seemed to prefer it, as she replied in a gibberish that became less and less recognisable as any language at all. It was like the Mad Hatter’s tea party, but worse – much, much worse.

  Then a nurse came to my rescue, a different one. She bent over Sybella, now sitting motionless in her chair, and said with a bright smile, ‘Aren’t you lucky, dear – another visitor! And your husband was here only yesterday, too.’

  Her husband! Her eyes were completely blank by now, and she was carefully plucking every feather out of that wretched toy bird, so I could see what I’d failed to notice before – that one of the rings on her left hand was a plain gold band.

  How awful, to be married to her. It wasn’t her fault she was mad, of course – but how simply awful. As the last brightly coloured feather fell to the ground she wailed, ‘He cut off my wings!’ And began to rock again, eyes blank.