Chapter Nine

A Question of Judgement

 

 

The Confession of Mary Carson

 

FOLLOWING THE INCIDENT in the music room, I passed the remainder of the day on tenterhooks. Mr Thorne had not seemed displeased, and yet... I was not wholly ignorant in the ways of men – or, indeed, women.

My father once warned me that most people have an image of themselves, of who they are or wish to be, but that this image is oft-times at war with their true desires and nature. Some care first and foremost for presenting an outward image to the world, and practise sin in secret – many are those who preach chastity in public, but in secret slink off to dens of vice.

But they, my father said, were as nothing to those who deceive themselves. Lustful men who believe themselves chaste; cowards who believe themselves brave; cruel men who believe themselves kind.

Or, sometimes, perhaps, might a man pride himself on his hard-heartedness, but at depth harbour softer emotions he dare not acknowledge, for fear they might rob him of the qualities that had earned him his wealth?

In either case, I remembered too well what else my father had said. “Such men are to be feared, for they will seek to silence the truth they do not wish to hear. And in doing so, they will strike out at any who behold them as they truly are.”

From the first, Mr Thorne had shown me a face of unrepentant hardness, but now I had seen beneath it. What might he do to punish me for that?

It was no help to recall that if our next meeting ended in my discharge, I could blame but myself. If I had only stayed out of that wretched music room! But I had not, and must now accept the consequences.

You can, I am certain, imagine the trepidation with which I approached Mr Thorne’s office the following day, Mrs Rhodes. My one hope, I thought, was that he might choose to behave as though the episode had never occurred; if I did the same, all might be forgotten and life resume as before.

Nothing had changed. The fire crackled in the grate – even in spring, the house was often cold – the portrait of a younger Mr Thorne stared down from the wall, and Mr Thorne himself sat waiting behind his desk, jotting down some note or other, barely glancing at me as I entered.

I waited for him to speak. At last he finished the note, but only glanced up and said, “Ah, Miss Carson. Take a letter, please.”

He began dictating; I took it down, and so the rest of the day passed. By the time it was done any memory of what had happened in the music room felt like a dream. I breathed easily again: clearly he had decided the matter best forgotten.

So I was allowed to think, at least, for several days. We resumed our old routine and roles: the stern, flinty employer and the efficient, emotionless secretary. Soon I had almost entirely forgotten the music room, and then...

It was Mr Thorne’s custom that we take luncheon in the study at noon each day, for a period of precisely half an hour – no more, no less. There was a small dining-table and chairs by a window overlooking the garden; when the clocks chimed twelve Mr Thorne stopped speaking, sometimes in mid-sentence, and made his way there.

At that same moment, each day, the study door opened and Kellett entered, bearing a cold collation on a platter in one hand, and a pot of tea, with milk, sugar, cups and saucers, on a salver in the other. Mr Thorne and I would dine in silence until the clocks chimed the half-hour, at which he would return to his desk, sit and, as the chimes ended, begin where he had left off. And woe betide his secretary should she fail to be ready at her station when he did!

On this particular day, I happened to glance at the clock as I ate; I recall, quite vividly, that the hands stood at nine minutes past the hour, for it was at that exact moment that Mr Thorne, breaking our accustomed practice, spoke.

“Miss Carson?”

“Mr Thorne.” I was startled.

“I would like to speak candidly to you, if I may.”

“I would like to think you have always been able to, Mr Thorne,” I said, but my stomach was tense and I felt my heartbeat quicken.

“It concerns what transpired in the music room,” he said, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin.

I put down my knife and fork. I could not have eaten another morsel; indeed, it was with difficulty that I swallowed the food in my mouth. Mr Thorne put down his napkin. After a moment, he began to speak again.

“I said at the outset that I come from humble beginnings. Allow me to clarify that statement. I was born not far from here at all, in Browton. My father was a farm labourer who drank most of his pay and beat my mother when unable to perform the sexual act. Do I shock you, Miss Carson? No matter. It is necessary that you fully understand.

“I was one of twelve children. A thirteenth was stillborn. Of all that brood, I am the last alive. Five never reached adulthood. Life, it seemed, was to be squalid, fearful and desperate – that, and short.

“When my father died, I and two of my brothers set off for Manchester and found work in a local mill. For lodging, we shared one room in a rat-infested tenement with six others, on a street no wider than I am tall, down the middle of which a constant stream of liquid effluent ran. Within two weeks of our employment, my elder brother caught an arm in the machinery and it was torn off. He died two days later.

“I contrasted the conditions of our lives with those of the mill owner, and concluded, as any man with a scintilla of intelligence would, that the second was infinitely preferable to the first. Therefore I sought knowledge – knowledge that would permit me to rise in society. For I had also observed that many mill owners had risen from lowlier stations in life. I knew what I desired was not impossible.

“On the one hand, I ingratiated myself with my employer. On the other, I set out to improve my own prospects. I could not read or write, but another employee at the mill could. When he received rough treatment at the hands of his more loutish colleagues, I persuaded them to let him alone.” Mr Thorne’s tone persuaded me not to enquire how this had been achieved. “In return, he taught me. Out of the money I should have sent home to my mother and younger siblings, I purchased books with which to educate myself. In the longer run, after all, my family would benefit.”

The clocks struck the quarter hour. Mr Thorne paused to sip his tea; when the chimes had finished, he began again.

“I gained promotion at work, and with it came better and better understanding of business. I saved money, and was able to convince others to loan me theirs. Until, at the age of five-and-twenty, Miss Carson, the illiterate farm labourer’s son could buy his own plot of land and build a mill thereon. A small operation to begin with – I was careful to select those employees who would work hardest for the least pay. My brother I employed as a foreman, but he proved incapable. I was forced to dismiss him – I ensured he found work at another mill, as an ordinary labourer. It would have been humiliation to reduce him in status and force him to work alongside... those others, in my employ. I shock you, Miss Carson?”

“No,” I lied. “Not at all, sir. A business is a business, after all.”

“And has no space for sentiment. You grasp, Miss Carson. There is, I fear, only one morality in commerce, one commandment: thou shalt make profit.” He actually smiled; it was a startling sight on that sombre face. “Forgive me. I forget myself – or rather, I forget that you are a good Christian woman.”

I wondered if he was mocking me, but his tone gave no hint of derision.

“Nonetheless, it is true. Whatever awaits us in the next life, in this one we must live – and, for preference, do more than simply scrabble for scraps to survive, and perish leaving the world no different for our brief presence there. And no, Miss Carson, I have not forgotten that you too have known hardship. I mean no disrespect, but you were not born to it as I was; you did not have so high and steep a climb. To learn things you were taught in your cradle required great work and sacrifice on my part. I dared not fail – there were no guarantees of success, and it is easier, by far, to fall than to rise.

“And so I prospered, intending always to install my mother and siblings in comfort and luxury. Unfortunately, the intervening years were not kind: hunger, cold and sickness took its toll on them all. Only two of my younger siblings still lived; my brother took them in, but they were too weak from their privations to live long. As for my mother – she was by now a wreck, a shell. I ensured she was well-cared-for, for her few remaining days.

“And then I met Antonia. A fine woman. I found her, picked her out of many others. She had been born to better circumstances than mine, but, like me, she sought to rise. I saw her hunger, her determination, and something else besides: that to be a rich man’s ornament would not content her. She became my ally, my helpmeet. We married – for years she was my secretary, as you are now, Miss Carson. In business, in life, she was my constant and unfailing companion. In only one regard did she fall short: I have, as you see, no heir. She conceived more than once, but none ever carried to term.”

I struggle to describe his tone of voice. It was calm, sober, without emotion, yet that only made its impact on me stronger. Arodias Thorne, I understood, was a man of iron self-control, of will above all else, and he laid out the facts of his life before me in plain. Had he made shows of remorse or grief, I would have thought them feigned; as it was, I believed he suffered, but concealed it well.

If nothing else, I felt I understood him better. He had, truly, had little option but to be single-minded, even ruthless, to succeed. And succeed he had. Considering the odds he had faced, it was impossible not to respect his achievement, or the personal qualities that had brought it about. Too, I now understood his disinclination towards sentiment or reflection; the cost of his prosperity had been such, he dared not look back.

At least, not until now.

“My wife’s passing was unexpected,” he said. “She was still a young woman – younger than I. It was a wasting illness. One day, without warning, she experienced pain and weakness; four months later she was a skeleton clothed in skin, in constant pain, barely capable of motion. And with her death, I am alone. I am no longer young, Miss Carson. When one finds oneself alone at my time in life, it’s only natural to take stock. I am financially secure, as far as anyone can be – but sooner or later, I shall die. Without friends, heirs, family – what legacy, what memorial shall I leave? This house, my business, my properties, will pass to others or pass away. And it will be as though I never was. And then, of course,” Mr Thorne took another sip of tea, “one’s thoughts turn to the life to come.”

He paused for a moment, seeking, it seemed, for words.

“All my life,” he went on at last, “I have had little use for fear. It breeds hesitation, irresolution. Things I cannot afford. Time and again, I have steeled myself to press on regardless. But now, Miss Carson, there is a fear I cannot simply leap over or push aside.”

Mr Thorne studied me carefully. Then he looked down, and began sawing at the remnants of his chicken with knife and fork.

“Judgement, Miss Carson,” he said. “I fear judgement. What will they say of me when I am gone? How shall I be remembered?” He snorted. “I have hardly to guess, have I? I’m no fool: I know what’s said of me behind my back. Old skinflint, greedy swine... do you know, Miss Carson, they say that I have never done a kind deed in my life?”

He pushed a piece of chicken into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. After a moment, he sighed, placed his knife and fork together on his plate, and looked back up at me.

“Perhaps,” he said, “they’re right. Of course, once I’m dead, words are nothing. ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones’, as the saying goes. But...” the grey eyes were intent upon me now “... but it is not the judgement of men I fear.”

At last I found breath to speak. “Do you mean God, Mr Thorne?”

“Well, His is the judgement all men must fear – is it not, Miss Carson? It cannot be hidden from or ignored. And no amount of wealth will buy Him off.”

“No,” I agreed. I was no theologian, but I – everyone, I would have thought – understood that much about God.

“Therefore,” he said, “as I still have some years left, I ask myself if it’s possible to atone for my past actions.”

I have no idea how I must have looked in that moment; I think I stared at him in uttermost astonishment. In fact, I know I did, because Mr Thorne chuckled. Chuckled! Perhaps you can guess how startling a sight that was. The smile had been out of place, but this was as though a lion had padded up to me and begun singing a comic song. “I’m sorry, Miss Carson,” he said, “but your face was an absolute picture. In any case, what do you think?”

“Think, Mr Thorne?”

“What should I do? How might I devote myself to expiating my sins?”

Now my astonishment was complete. “Mr Thorne – you are asking my opinion?”

“Why, of course I am, Miss Carson. Who better?”

“Sir, I am no priest –”

“Your father was.”

“But – surely there are clergymen you could ask –”

“Fools and hypocrites, for the most part,” said Mr Thorne. “They spend the bulk of their lives flattering men like me, soothing them that their wealth will be no barrier to God’s grace, no matter what measures they obtained it by. And always, always, their eye is on acquiring some donation for themselves. No, Miss Carson; I would be naïve to trust such men. You, on the other hand...”

“I?”

“I will not insult you by calling you a simple woman, Miss Carson – I have no doubt of your intelligence. However, you are not a trained religious. Your skills lie in administration and organisation: thus you helped your father’s cause. You haven’t been trained in clever sophistries. You have your father’s example and, I believe, faith that is not simple but straightforward. Direct. Do you think that a fair accounting?”

“I – yes. Perhaps, yes.”

“Good. That is what I have need of, Miss Carson. Now, tell me truly – without fear or favour. Am I, do you think, beyond all hope of redemption?”

“My father always taught me,” I said, “that no human soul is beyond redemption. If there is repentance, true repentance, there can be salvation.”

“Good,” said Mr Thorne. “Good. It is what I hoped. I suspect your father would have said that actions speak louder than words, however – yes?”

“Of course. If you had been a trader in slaves, he would have expected you to give that business up.”

“Naturally. So, a man must repent both in word and deed.”

I am not sure even now if he expected any reply from me, but at that moment the clocks rang out the half-hour, and he stood. “In any case,” he said. “To work! But thank you, Miss Carson. I will give your counsel a great deal of thought.”

And with that he returned to his desk and readied himself to take up where he had left off. I hurried to my place and carried out my duties, transcribing his letters and memoranda. And so the rest of the working day passed.

Up, at least, until the final half hour, when Mr Thorne ceased dictating.

“Miss Carson?” he said, and there was a note in his voice I had not heard before. It was almost shy.

“Yes, Mr Thorne?”

“I was wondering if I might make a request of you.”

“Of course, sir. You are my employer.”

“Nonetheless, this is a request of a more personal nature.”

I froze. What was he about to suggest?

“The music room,” he said. “I wondered if we might retire there – and, if so, if I might prevail upon you to play again.”

I hesitated. This was unfamiliar ground to me, in more ways than one. In terms of my relationship to my employer it was a new departure. In another, simpler sense... well, as I have said, there had been two suitors for my hand in my youth, but, other than my father, it had been a long time since I had had any conversation with a man beyond the purely professional. I had a sense of treading terra incognita, some hitherto uncharted domain of whose codes of conduct I was ignorant, where the penalty for a wrong step might be fearful.

If I said yes, what else might I be held to have implicitly agreed to? But my very ignorance of these rules made me loath to refuse; perhaps the offer was, in fact, a sign of forgiveness for my earlier trespass in the music room – if trespass it had been – and to spurn it would be an insult. And besides, there was that piano, beautiful even beneath its dust, even out of tune. “It would be a pleasure,” I said at last.

“Good.” He smiled at me again. “Shall we go?”

It had been, beyond doubt, a day of surprises, and I soon learned that they were not yet over. When we reached the music room doors, Mr Thorne flung them wide, and I was astonished to see the transformation that had been wrought. The music room – and most of all, the piano – had been cleaned to spotlessness, and soft lights burned in their sconces on the wall.

“Miss Carson.” Mr Thorne indicated the piano stool. “Please.”

I sat there – much more self-consciously and with far less assurance than I had the other day. The piano looked brand-new, and expensive to boot. The deep brown wood gleamed.

Mr Thorne, meanwhile, walked past me and sat in the front row of the chairs, arms folded on his belly, watching me. I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment; I felt awkward beyond words, and that, of course, was the problem. I was, most decidedly, uncomfortable, but I had no words in which to express my discomfort. Certainly, I saw no alternative but to continue with the game – if game it was.

I folded back the lid and cleared my throat. “What shall I play?” I asked him.

“I think,” he said, “the piece you played the other day. You played quite beautifully, you know, Miss Carson.”

Again I dared not look at him. I flexed my fingers, reached out and touched the keys. The sonata’s first movement: adagio sostenuto. I played the first notes, then stopped. Not only had Mr Thorne had the music room cleaned, he had re-tuned the piano, and now the notes sounded as the composer had intended, full and rich and clear, gently wafting through the room.

Mr Thorne’s presence continued to make me uncomfortable: I had no idea how to react to it, and so ignored it insofar as was possible. I did not look at him; I focused solely on the piano, the keys and the music.

Only once did my self-imposed resolve fail me, and I gave into the temptation of stealing a glance at him. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed, a slight smile hovering on his lips. I looked away, feeling as though I was intruding on some intimate moment.

And so on I played. First the adagio sostenuto; then, with barely a pause, the allegretto, and then at last the presto agitato.

At last I was done. I was angry, in a way; I’d found something private, something secret, some warmth and comfort in a comfortless place. Mr Thorne had robbed me of that, made it a command performance for his benefit. Was that how it would be now? The piano-playing as just another extension of my duties?

Fingers trembling, I folded down the piano lid as the last notes faded. As I did, I realised Mr Thorne was applauding.

“Very good indeed, Miss Carson,” he said, getting up quickly. His voice was a little hoarse, and he did not let me see his face. “Very good indeed. Thank you.” And then the music-room door swung shut behind him, his footsteps fading down the corridor’s panelled floor.