I have expended much thought upon Lady Morton. Courtesy dictates we return her invitation to dinner, although I scarcely expect her to come. Imagine that skull-face, crossing my threshold; shedding a cloud of powder and dead skin over my carpet! No, I do not want that woman in my house, any more than I want the inexorable Mrs Pearce.
Papa once told me that all good company forsook him once my mother converted to Catholicism. This I have used to explain the absence of family friends, anxious for my upbringing, and the sad state of affairs that led my father to set his sights as low as Mrs Pearce. Yet now, I wonder.
Lady Morton did not speak disrespectfully of Mama. Indeed, there are Catholic ties in the Morton family which would make it hypocritical of her to do so. The more I think upon that dinner at Heatherfield Manor, and the tea we shared after the meal, the more I believe Lady Morton’s distaste has sprung from another source. She no longer calls because she does not like Papa.
Mama and Lady Morton were friends. Searching through her remaining belongings – the silhouettes and the dried flowers, the little handkerchiefs half-embroidered – I have found several notes from one to the other, signed Your Affectionate G.M. I have memories of Lady Morton calling at the house, so she could not have deserted us, as Papa would have me believe. But she has not set foot here since Mama died.
Do you not consider it strange? Illness aside, I would expect a letter from time to time. Something. A woman – a childless woman – does not watch her dear friend die, leaving an only daughter, and take no interest in the girl’s welfare. Not unless a weighty consideration keeps her away. And Papa, I am increasingly convinced, must be that consideration.
Papa has been nothing if not civil to her, yet I recall the satirical look upon her face as she spoke of Mama’s ‘sad illness’. As if she blamed him for failing in her care.
Last night, as I was preparing for bed, I decided to quiz Tilda. I sat in my nightgown before the dressing table, where two candles burnt in their holders. My hair fell about my shoulders, loosened from its ties. Tilda worked it with the silver-backed brush, preparing to weave it into plaits.
‘Tilda,’ I said, watching her in the mirror, ‘you worked for us, did you not, at the time my mother passed away?’
The brush slowed in its path. ‘Yes, miss. I was in the kitchens, then.’
‘Indeed you were. I recall it now. Not a great deal older than I was.’
‘I was … fourteen, I believe, miss.’
Fourteen years to my seven. Much may escape the notice of a child, but at fourteen Tilda would have the ability to look about her.
‘Do you remember much, Tilda? About how my mother died?’
A tug on the end of a lock. My scalp prickled. ‘I can’t say I do. It was very sad, of course. But I was busy downstairs, in the scullery. I daresay you remember more than I do, miss.’
What do I recall? Vomiting. Terrible circulation. I used to hold Mama’s dear hand in mine and chafe it, breathing hard upon the skin, in an attempt to warm the icy fingers.
‘That is the difficulty. Certainly I nursed her, young as I was. Yet even now, I do not comprehend exactly what complaint she died from. What did they say in the kitchens?’
‘A … wasting disease, I think.’
Tilda threaded my hair between her fingers and began to plait. Her eyes were focused on her work; they did not meet mine in the mirror.
‘But the name of the disease? I do not suppose any of the servants saw what was written upon the death certificate?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t know that.’
‘There was no inquest, no examination of the body?’
She pulled the plait, tight. ‘No. Dr Armstrong was in attendance, wasn’t he? He’s always been the master’s friend. He saw the poor thing all the way through her illness.’
I am not a devotee of Dr Armstrong. He appears slapdash, uninterested, as if medicine is a great inconvenience to him. Indeed, I believe it is, for he has told Papa on more than one occasion that he wished he had gone for a soldier instead.
Perhaps that forms the basis for Lady Morton’s dislike? She would have employed a better doctor, but Papa, of course, went straight to the friend he trusted.
Tilda must know more. Servants gossip; it is in their nature.
‘I worry, you see,’ I said, trying a different tactic. ‘I am approaching the same age. Suppose the condition should be hereditary? I must know what symptoms to watch for.’
By the candlelight, I saw her fumble. A lock of my hair sprang free. ‘Nonsense. You’re stout and hearty.’
‘I am sure that is meant to be a compliment.’
‘What I mean, miss, is … well, your mother. She had those big glittering eyes and roses in her cheeks. Ladies like that never last long.’
‘You think it was consumption, then?’
Tilda’s fingers regained their rhythm. ‘Maybe. I’m not a doctor, am I?’
‘There was no cough,’ I muttered, casting my mind back. ‘It was more like acute gastritis.’
‘If you say so, miss.’
We were silent for a moment. I watched my reflection, shimmering by the flames of the candles, and tried to trace Mama in my face. Very little of her remains, either there or in my skull. It is in temperament we are alike. Always busy. Always active. Until …
‘Perhaps I should ask my father to see the death certificate.’
‘I wouldn’t do that, miss,’ Tilda said quickly.
She is right. It will only upset him. Papa is not the bravest of men. He has a terrible aversion to talking of sickness and death. I slept in Mama’s chamber every day of her decline, yet he hovered on the threshold, peering through the doorway. Cautious.
That could be another reason for Lady Morton’s disdain. If you did not know Papa, as I do, you would think it cowardly, or even heartless behaviour.
By now, my temples were beginning to ache. ‘Enough, Tilda. You have pulled that exceedingly tight.’
‘Sorry, miss.’ She handed me my nightcap. ‘Will there be anything else?’
A hasty curtsey, then she was gone.
Without a doubt, Tilda knows more than she has told me. She has a well-developed organ for Secretiveness, which has not gone undetected by my watchful eyes. But I must not blame her. People do not always conceal facts through base motives; perhaps she fears distressing me with talk of my mother’s demise. And if Lady Morton and my father did quarrel, Tilda would hardly tell me.
All the same, I am uneasy in my spirit. I do not like to think, even in supposition, that Lady Morton blames Papa for Mama’s death.
But grief, as I have often observed, is a strange distorter. It makes one believe the most fantastical things.
Look at Ruth Butterham. Her tale spins ever more wildly, veering out of control. Her fantasies of punishing her childhood tormentor. It is bordering on puerile, even for a girl of sixteen.
Ruth may amuse herself in this manner as much as she pleases; it is nothing to me, so long as I can measure her head. She takes me for a credulous fool – I have forgiven her that. But at the end of the day, I am not the one who suffers.
It is she who needs to confess and repent.
With the trial approaching, this is no time to evade God’s mercy. The days are running short. Ruth must be purged with hyssop, daubed with sacrificial blood, before she takes the last drop.
How long, really, can a person continue lying to themselves?