Now, I know the young are inclined to be fanciful. I am not so far past the age of sixteen that I do not recall my own freaks and vagaries. But even bearing that in mind, it strikes me that Ruth Butterham’s tale is veering too forcefully into the realms of imagination.
I have visited other prisoners who allege impossible things, yet Ruth does not seem to be of apiece with those who talk of demons and visitors from beyond the planet, only to be transported to secure hospitals. On some topics she is collected, thoughtful even. Had her education been what it ought, she might be an able interlocutor. But her monomania about these stitches …
I can only suppose the girl lost sight of her reason amidst the chaos that, she claims, blighted her early years. Grief is a violent emotion, a sort of acid that eats away at the best parts of us. The bereaved are in agony, yearning for someone to blame, and if they cannot find a culprit, they turn their fury upon themselves. Hence Ruth, buffeted by disaster after disaster, sought to give her suffering a meaning by attributing it to a supernatural power. Well, that is my theory, at any rate.
Today I decided to take a holiday from the wearisome demands of planning my party and journey into town, to research the matter further. I reasoned that if I could establish some details about Ruth’s family, I might gain a better understanding of her character and how truthful she has been with me. In relation to the sister, Naomi Butterham, I did not hold out hope of finding more than the mere facts of the unfortunate child’s birth and death, but I thought the father, James Butterham, might yield more interesting information.
I was right.
James Butterham, it transpires, was an aristocratic by-blow!
I pieced the clues together myself. Newspapers cannot always be explicit, and I do not have a great deal more from the archives than journalistic nods and winks. However, with the help of an assiduous little archivist, I found enough to establish that a certain Lord M— caused a stir locally by dismissing an octogenarian gatekeeper who had served his family loyally for threescore years, and lifting a stable hand into the vacant place. This groom, or whatever he was, took immediate possession of the gatehouse along with his ‘widowed’ sister. No one in the locality recalled the woman’s late husband – a curious circumstance, given the swelling belly that denoted he had been dead for less than nine months. Stranger still, when her son James was finally born, he resembled no one so much as the owner of the estate himself.
Imagine the scandal! There was a Lady M— with her own children besides. A miserable existence it must have been for her, living with a rival at the end of the drive, glimpsing the proof of her husband’s infidelity each time she came in or went out! The son was never formally acknowledged, however, and his education befitted his expectations in life. There was no question of him growing up alongside his legitimate siblings.
From there, James Butterham would have dropped out of notice had he not taken to the business of portrait painting. Society could not resist commissioning such a youth and sneaking a look at him. Added to which, Butterham possessed some talent. Perhaps he would have made his way after all, were it not for the heiress Miss Jemima Trussell.
The elopement of these two young, ill-matched persons blazed across the old society magazines. No doubt they exaggerated when they said the shock of it fairly killed Lord M—, but it is true that he died very soon afterwards. As for Miss Trussell, she had breached contract with a most eligible match arranged by her family. She was cut off without a penny.
Part of me had hoped to find a happy ending for the young lovers. Notoriety is by no means a death sentence in the world of art; I thought perhaps patrons would be caught by the glamour and excitement of the pair. Alas, Lord M—, Mr Trussell and the young lady’s intended were all darlings of the world, not to be offended. The Butterhams sank, and they sank fast.
So much for love conquering all! This is a lesson for me to heed, when I am tempted to run away with my David. We must be prepared, we must do things properly.
The next newspaper entry to mention James Butterham was bleak indeed: a coroner’s jury finding the verdict of self-murder at the age of thirty-six. It is not incredible that a man, on the day of his daughter’s funeral, harassed by money troubles and quarrelling with his wife, should put a gun to his head. Do not mistake me – it is a sin against God and his remaining family alike – but is the motive not comprehensible?
The jury declared Butterham sane at the time of suicide, which ruled his property forfeit. For another family this might have been a calamity, but the deceased’s estate was eaten up by debt, to the extent that an artist planning to sue Butterham for breach of copyright gave up there and then. Bailiffs took possession of all.
A charitable subscription had saved Naomi’s body from disgrace, but that could not be the case here. Not with a suicide. According to custom, James Butterham’s remains were toppled into an unmarked grave on the north side of the church – the Devil’s side – under the cover of night. There were no mourners, and he received no service of burial.
Although I am back in my own room with Wilkie trilling, and I have scrubbed the newspaper print from my fingers, I cannot stop thinking about the history I have read. I begin to wonder if it is true that a child pays for their father’s sins. Lord M— fell, then James suffered, and now Ruth …
I tidy my hair back into its combs and strive for rationality. Ruth’s silly fancies must be taking a stronger hold on me than I thought. But sad as they were, my discoveries are a positive thing; they do not paint Ruth as either a liar or a madwoman. She has simply told herself a story to deal with the grief she cannot face.
I expect we can all understand that.
I apply a dab of salve to my lips, watching my reflection in the mirror. I am not content with the image I see.
I must return to Ruth. Conscience upbraids me with neglecting my other women: Liz Carter, who I am teaching to read, and Jenny Hill who requires constant encouragement. But they will be incarcerated for many years yet; I shall always have them to call upon. Not so with Ruth.
Now we approach the meat of her history, the time when she met her victim for the first time. This is the story I particularly wish to hear.
My heart skips along. My eyes look brighter, and I know I will appear to far more advantage in prison, listening to Ruth, than I will at my own birthday party.
Perhaps Papa is right to be concerned about that.