At the prison, I have often heard one inmate inform another that she has ‘a maggot in her head’. By this they mean a curious notion or an idea that cannot be displaced. Ladies of my class would call it a freak or a whim, but I find in this instance the common tongue is more articulate. That is precisely what this feels like: a maggot wiggling deeper and deeper, gnawing at my healthy brain matter.
The carriage toils up the hills in the direction of Heatherfield, jerking so wildly that I am obliged to hold on to the leather strap in order to keep my seat. Wind sings past the windows and bristles through the trees. So swiftly do the clouds move that the sun comes in fitful bursts. Perhaps it is not wise to attempt the journey in such uncertain weather. It is most definitely unwise to attend the meeting I am jostling towards. But there, you see, I have a maggot in my head. I cannot rest easy until I hear what he has to say.
I must confess, when the second letter arrived from Sir Thomas, I was perturbed beyond words. The very envelope seemed to tremble with disappointment. I believed the missive inside could run along one of only two patterns: either a wail of despair or pages and pages of furious upbraiding. I was mistaken. Instead, Sir Thomas thanked me for my kind words and requested a private interview, if I did not consider it too mortifying to my feelings. He did not wish to embarrass me, he wrote, but he must urge me in the strongest terms to submit to one conversation. That conversation is to take place in the graveyard of Heatherfield parish church.
What am I to make of this? For years I have been arranging assignations with David, but my invention never lit upon a destination so morbid. Certainly, it is a location any two persons may have a right to visit without arousing suspicion, and yet … Perhaps I am grown too sensitive. My talks with Ruth are making me shrink from anything related to death with abhorrence, where I used to find a melancholy fascination.
At length the road levels out before us. Hazarding a glance out of the window, I see a grey stone spire reaching for the clouds, its tip as sharp as one of Ruth’s needles.
‘We must stop here.’ I knock upon the roof and order Graymarsh to slow the carriage. I do not wish for him to see Sir Thomas. If news of this visit were to get back to Papa, I should have no end of difficulties. As the sound of hooves gradually dies away, I turn to Tilda. ‘You are to remain in the carriage.’
It is my Mistress of the House voice, the one that brooks no argument, but Tilda has the skull of a person who cannot let any point go uncontested. ‘It isn’t proper, miss,’ she chides. ‘Suppose someone saw you, without a chaperone?’
‘Saw me, up here? There is nothing but heather for miles.’
‘And what if Sir Thomas were to behave … improperly?’
‘In a graveyard, beside a church? Upon my word, you have a very low opinion of the gentleman.’
‘I only want to protect you, miss.’
This catches me. I have spent so much time marking the signs of stubbornness and vanity in Tilda’s skull that I have not dwelt upon her organ for Friendship. Her bonnet hides it at present, but I feel as if I can discern what is written there. The sentiment is manifesting itself not through the head, but in the eyes. Eyes that know something they will not tell, and yet cannot forget.
It is a landslide of feeling I am unprepared for. I conceal it in my brisk voice. ‘I do not doubt it, Tilda. You are a good creature. Now come along, do as you are bid and there shall be no quarrels between us. Rest assured that if I need you, I shall scream.’
We have reached a standstill. I open the door myself, not waiting for Graymarsh, and make an undignified exit. The wind is strong here, up in the hills. It pushes me back, tries to prevent me from taking a step towards the church. Head down, I defy it and walk boldly on, but not without misgiving. One could almost imagine it an omen, a sign that I should not proceed.
As I approach, I perceive that Heatherfield Church and its graveyard are tidy, if ancient. The grass is rough but kept short. Dwarf willow creeps in a pleasant mat over the paths. Tombstones jut at a variety of angles, most of them hazed with moss, and the wind makes a gentle lament as it moves between them.
Part of me expects to find Sir Thomas prostrate on a grave, howling with sorrow. I have read too many romances. Of course Sir Thomas is standing quite sensibly beneath the porch of the church, the capes of his great coat flapping in the wind. A top hat is wedged firmly over his hair.
He raises his cane in greeting when he sees me, and begins to walk in my direction. My stomach knots. I dare not observe him too closely, for shame. Even if I were to venture a long stare, it would be of no use: the key to his character, his head, is hidden from me beneath that top hat.
He opens the creaking little gate that leads into the graveyard, holding it for me to pass through. I do so with acute embarrassment. If I had returned a different answer, he might have met me here with an embrace. We might have been married in this very church. He must be conscious of this, too.
He clears his throat. ‘It is very good of you to come, Miss Truelove. I am immensely grateful.’
I wait until I have reached a gravestone, pocked with black lichen, and can lean upon it for support before I answer him. ‘Your letter expressed urgency, sir.’
‘Yes.’ He bites his lip. At this moment, it is difficult to imagine him fervent about any topic. His eyes are customarily tired and phlegmatic. He walks at a stately pace. ‘There are some words that … I could not forgive myself, if I failed to speak them.’ He must see my expression, for he adds, ‘Do not be alarmed. I am not here to press my suit or make violent love to you.’ He gives a wry smile. ‘I almost wish that I were.’
‘I know you are a straightforward man, Sir Thomas. There is no prevarication about you. Please be so good as to say these words quickly, so neither of us may find the interview more distressing than necessary.’
He heaves a sigh. For the first time, his visage grows troubled, and I find myself obliged to study the tombstone; the worn letters and its patches of white and gold. I did not believe he truly cared for me. But that sigh …
‘It will distress you, Miss Truelove. There is no helping that. The matter has distressed me a great deal, and you know I am not the sort of fellow to make a fuss over nothing. But I believe you have a strong constitution and you can take the blow. Should you wish never to see me again after I have spoken … Well, I daresay I shall survive that.’
His voice rings clear, even through the wind. I regard him quizzically, caught off my guard. These are not the sentiments of a lover. Yet is there not something kind in his words? Something like that gleam in Tilda’s eye: a tenderness born of secret knowledge.
Sir Thomas passes his cane into the other hand. ‘I do not wish to mortify your maidenly pride, but you are aware – I think you must be aware, after that dinner party, Miss Truelove – that I have been under some pressure from my sister to enter the state of matrimony.’
He is right: it does wound my pride, even though I have long suspected it. ‘You proposed to me at your sister’s bidding?’
‘Yes,’ he says slowly. ‘I came to this part of the country and ingratiated myself with your father, all at her request. But you are not to consider me a weak fool under petticoat government. I would not have complied if I did not possess a certain fondness for you and … if my sister did not have a compelling reason for her actions.’
I had prepared for dudgeon from him, yet I am the one who is upon my dignity; it is me who speaks with a waspish sting. ‘Her reason was the money, I expect? Heatherfield Manor is in need of some repair, perhaps?’
He looks not at me, but at the church; he appears to be asking it for strength. ‘You are mistaken, Miss Truelove. If you will be so kind as to recollect, you yourself informed me of your father’s plans to remarry long before the engagement was announced. Indeed, it was Mr Truelove’s preference of Mrs Pearce that first alerted my sister’s attention to your unmarried state.’
He has me there. All the same, my feeling of discomfort lingers. Greed may at least be understood. ‘Forgive me for my naivety, sir, but if you do not love me and you do not seek my dowry, I am at a loss for your motive in proposing marriage.’
‘My sister and I acted under the same motivation,’ he addresses the church, softly. ‘We meant to take you under our protection.’
The graveyard has moved and subsided over time; that is why it feels as if the ground is unsteady beneath my feet. The strange, drowning singing in my ears – that must be from the wind. ‘Your protection? I do not require guarding. You seem to imply I am in some kind of danger, Sir Thomas.’
‘It is my sister’s firm belief that you are in danger, Miss Truelove. Grave danger.’
‘Nonsense. As you can see, I am perfectly well.’ I strive for a jovial tone, but my voice sounds peculiar, as if it is originating from somewhere outside of my body.
‘Pardon me, you are not well. You look as if you would faint. Sit here upon this stone wall.’
I allow Sir Thomas to prop me against the wall, feeling thoroughly foolish. ‘I did not break my fast this morning,’ I explain. ‘I am in need of some refreshment. But as to danger—’
He grips my arm. ‘What I have to say, I must say now, and quickly. Be so good as to refrain from interrupting me.’ The tone is decided, but not devoid of kindness. ‘These things are best completed fast, like the pulling of a tooth.’
I nod, wary.
‘You know, perhaps, that my sister and your mother were once intimate friends. You may also be aware that your mother caused a storm of gossip by converting to Roman Catholicism. I am pleased to say the friendship survived the trial. My sister did not desert Mrs Truelove. She would have continued to accompany her to the theatre and invite her for supper parties, if your father had not … taken his wife out of circulation.’ A breath. ‘Before she could re-enter society, Mrs Truelove … Well, as you know, she passed away.’
He has bid me not to interrupt him, but the words pop from me like a cork. ‘Papa says it was the onset of her illness: the conversion. He says that she behaved most erratically afterwards, it may have been a fever on the brain …’ I stop, conscious that I am parroting Papa’s words, words I have previously scorned.
‘You do not subscribe to that diagnosis. You certainly do not believe that Roman Catholicism is a sign of madness.’ He presses my hand, squeezes tears from me. ‘And neither does my sister.’
I recall that bone face, the way it glared at my papa, and I am thankful for the solid stone wall beneath my thighs. Without it, I feel I might drift out to sea. ‘Lady Morton appears to be a woman of very strong opinion. Pray, what exactly does she believe?’
‘I must be blunt. She believes that your father was ashamed, and made a social pariah by his wife’s actions. She is witness to the fact that he argued with her and tried his utmost to control her. But he could not contain the damage and …’ His voice has grown so soft, I must lean in to hear him. ‘And he poisoned her.’
‘How dare you?’ I explode.
He jerks away from me, hands raised. I regret it immediately; without him by my side, the wind is fierce and ready to topple me over. I force myself unsteadily to my feet. The graveyard undulates around me.
‘He poisoned her,’ Sir Thomas reasserts with a dreadful gravity. ‘His friend Dr Armstrong concealed the crime.’
‘What nerve—’
‘You must hear me! My sister did not report her suspicions …’ He frowns, as if he disagrees with her actions. ‘She feared your father’s disgrace would blight your future prospects. And she did not truly believe any man would harm his only child. But … she regrets that now. The circumstances begin to look painfully familiar. Your father cannot control you. He cannot marry you off. You stand in the way of his own matrimonial designs. You are causing him embarrassment. Do you fathom my meaning?’
This is lunatic invention – worse than Ruth’s fevered tale. My outrage is so strong that I can scarcely draw breath. I estimated Sir Thomas as a good man, a gentleman. He has deceived me.
‘Is this my punishment, Sir Thomas?’ I spit. ‘This gross insult in return for refusing your hand and denting your pride? I could not love you, but I had thought better of you.’
He shakes his head sadly. ‘I have said my piece. My conscience can demand no more.’
Can he really speak of conscience? When he has invented such falsehoods! And yet …
There are those bumps, on Papa’s head. Signs of cunning and evasion. Tilda has more than once said she would not like to cross him. But that is not the same. It is one thing to be a stern master, quite another to murder one’s own wife!
‘Truly, you do look unwell. Might I …’ Sir Thomas shifts uncomfortably. ‘Would you permit me to walk you to your carriage?’
‘No, you may not. You may not write to me, you may not speak to me. You have offended me more than words can express.’ I possess some dignity yet. Tossing up my chin, I stalk past him, over the uneven graves, through the gate. My fumbling fingers cannot fasten the latch behind me; I hear the gate banging in the wind as I march down the road. It is all I hear, above the roaring in my ears.
I cannot think. I cannot allow myself to think. All I can do is focus on the distance between me and the carriage, willing strength into my tottering feet. I must make it without fainting. I must not let Sir Thomas believe, even for a moment, that I credit his words.
For I do not.
I resolutely do not.