CULLIE KNOCKED ON THE DOOR SOFTLY. On damp days such as this one, Jarius liked to take a foot-bath before bed in the conviction that it kept away colds and influenza. She had brought up the pitcher of water.
“Come in.”
She could hear the impatience in his voice and she shrank. Jarius never shouted at her or slapped her the way Frank did, but she was more afraid of him than anybody else in the household. Whenever she had a task to do, like build up the fire or, as now, bring him hot water, he never allowed her to get on with it but sat watching. She sensed something in that scrutiny not exactly malevolent, but not kind either, and her nervousness always made her clumsy.
She entered the room. He was sitting by the fire, wrapped in his shawl, already undressed for bed. His nightshirt was pulled up to his knees, exposing his spindly calves.
“Ah Janet, good. I’ve been waiting.”
“Sorry, Mr. Gibb, I had the water bottles to fill for Missus.”
He waved his hand, indicating she should pour the water into the enamel bowl that he’d placed by his feet. She came closer but, as she poured the water, it splashed over his legs.
He yelped. “Damn it, girl, what are you doing?”
“Oh I’m sorry, sir, I …”
“Get a cloth.”
She put the pitcher on the floor and scurried to the washstand by the bed to fetch a towel. He didn’t take it from her but pointed at his legs.
“Wipe them off.”
“Yes, sir.”
She dabbed at the pale, hairy shanks, all too aware of the parted knees protruding from the flannel nightshirt. Jarius made no attempt to assist her or to do it himself.
“That’s enough. Finish pouring the water and be more careful.”
She tried again but he didn’t move back, which forced her to bend closer to the bowl on the floor. This time she managed not to splash. He eased his feet into the water. Gibb was of middle age but his feet were old man’s feet, his toes bent, reddish corns on the joints. Janet hovered beside him waiting for her release.
“Where’s the mustard?”
She gasped. “I, er, I-I’m sorry, Mr. Jarius, I’ll go get it.”
“No! It’s too late now. Remember next time.”
“Yes, sir.”
The girl squirmed in her misery.
Jarius hitched his nightshirt up his thighs. He was looking into the fire, not at her, and when he spoke his voice was quite gentle.
“I hope you weren’t too frightened by the police officer today.”
“No, sir. He was very kind. Not frightening at all.”
“I see. That explains it.”
She waited but he didn’t seem as if he were going to continue. The silence was unbearable. Like a fly caught in a web, Janet could only hold out for so long.
“Beg pardon, sir. What does it explain?”
Now he looked up at her. “My sister tells me you had a lot to say to the kind detective. You seem to have told him all sorts of things about the family. Unnecessary things.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Jarius. It sort of burst out. He asked me to tell him anything I could.”
Gibb reached over and caught her hand. He started to stroke it with his thumb.
“Janet, you are a silly girl to imagine gossip is of any importance to the police. But tell me truthfully, what exactly did you say?”
“Nothing really, sir. Just that there’d been a big row on Saturday night and that Mrs. Eakin had shut herself up in her room. Wouldn’t eat nor drink.”
He continued to stroke the back of her hand and his touch burned.
“Did you by any chance also load the poor man’s ear with why there was a quarrel?”
“No, I didn’t. If you remember, Missus sent me out of the room when it all started.”
“Quite so. Was the detective at all curious?”
“I can’t say especially. He listened to everything and wrote down things in his book.”
Jarius released her hand.
“I’m sure that is the last we will see of him, but if by chance he does come back, you will be more discreet, won’t you, my dear? You will keep family matters to yourself from now on.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean no harm.”
“Of course you didn’t. Now get off to bed with you. It’s eleven o’clock.”
Janet curtsied and headed gratefully for the door. Her legs were trembling. In fact she did know what the quarrel was about because she had listened at the dining room door. But she hadn’t told Murdoch that. Her mistress had insisted on being present during the interview and she knew, if she had told everything, she would have been dismissed sure as houses.
She was just about to close the door behind her when Jarius called out.
“Janet, you forgot to bring me my writing box.”
He indicated the scribe’s desk that was on the dresser. She hurried back and he waited for her to place it in his lap.
“Thank you, my dear. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
She hurried off.
Jarius waited a moment, then fished under the chair cushion and pulled out a flat leather pouch. He untied the thongs, removed a key, and unlocked the lid of the desk. He took out his ledger and the fountain pen. Then momentarily distracted, he watched the fire. As a child he’d sat like this many an evening, making up stories about the castles and cliffs he saw in the glowing coals. He had created that imaginary world to escape from the misery of his life. A mother who was never well, hardly ever laughed that he could recall, and who demanded from her young son an emotional sustenance he could not provide. His eyes were starting to itch and he looked away. Then, taking up his pen, he began.
So draws to a close this most difficult of days. I had little patience with any of my customers today, which I suppose is not surprising. There were five all together wanting to marry before the year is out. One of the women showed clearly that she was already with child, but she and the prospective groom dabbled in each other’s palms as if the prize was still to be had. The men smack their lips when they name the wedding date. You can practically see their members quivering in their breeches. Most of the girls, for that is what they are, act coy but I can always tell the ones that are pretending. Who are as eager for a screw as their men. There are more of that kind than we think.
Jarius paused. He’d understood at once when Peg came into his room that it was not from desire for him. He hated her even more that she thought he would be brought down by such a pitiful display. He was not the least like the eager men he saw in his office every day.
They said she fought like a trapped vixen when Ferrier came. She had to be sedated. “A needle right into her arse” was how Frank put it, in his usual delicate way. They intend to keep her in the asylum for several days to assess her state.
He stopped writing and wiped his pen with a piece of felt. The clock on his dressing table chimed the hour. He heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. Augusta was going to bed. She paused and he knew she was considering coming in to talk to him, but she thought better of it.
Father has stayed in his room all day. I went to see him before supper but he had little to say. “A peck of trouble,” was all he would offer. I am sure he is sick of her but who knows if that will stop him rutting. It is strange to write this but I am quite exhilarated. Tired yes, but excited. It seems as if I am able to resolve these same troubles.
He had been out of mourning for one month for my wretched stepmother when he claims to have met up with the tart. However, I strongly suspect he was dallying with her long before. And she of course would have no respect for his state. The sooner married, the better for her. A chance for his money.
The memory of that first meeting was bitter to him. Peg, small and plain, but dressed in a cream silk and lace gown for her wedding day. His father doting over her, kissing her on the mouth without heed to anyone else. Her child, silent and watchful, ugly.
He blotted his page and closed the ledger. There was a carafe of water and a glass on his desk and he poured out some water, swilled it around in his mouth, and spat into his handkerchief as if he had a foul taste in his mouth.
For a moment he wavered, wanting to go to bed but his need was too great, overriding the desire for sleep. He took up his lamp and left his room quietly, hurrying down the backstairs as if he were a harried servant.