‘Good morning, Miss Todd.’
‘Good morning, Mrs Morwood. Are you well?’
Jessamine sits beside me. I’m in the small walled garden to the side of the house, where there’s a goodly crop of medicinal plants. The children are sketching a selection of those – or rather Albertine and Connell are doing so, while Sarai picks flowers and turns them into chains and crowns – and I’ve settled myself on a stone bench with a notebook to plan the week’s lessons.
‘Thank you,’ she says and I note she merely acknowledges the enquiry, does not say ‘yes’. Out in the daylight her skin appears translucent as if, on the right angle, the sun might shine through her. There are streaks of white in her hair that can be seen up close, though she’s tried to hide them with careful coiffing; I could tell her that wilder locks and curls would be a better concealer, but I don’t. She’s not coming to me for fashion advice. Her smile is brittle as she looks at the notebook in my lap.
‘You are very clever,’ she says.
‘I believe most women are, Mrs Morwood, whether it’s acknowledged or not.’ We smile, but her own is brief and fades quickly.
‘I am not. I am beautiful. I’m sufficiently clever to know that. It got me a husband.’ I say nothing. ‘My father was a merchant with enough money to attract a bridegroom of pedigree, if little fortune.’ She looks at the children, and her expression is complex. ‘He thought that was important, the name, the lineage. He thought such a match was the greatest kindness he could do for his dim little daughter.’
‘The Morwoods were rich, surely?’ I say before I can stop myself.
She shakes her head, lowers her voice. ‘I was told by Leonora, when first I came here, that Luther’s father had been a spendthrift. He would travel to the city of Breakwater and gamble for days and weeks, as long as the coin held out. Sometimes he won, but as is the way of such things he eventually began to lose more than he gained…’ She purses her lips, as if she regrets beginning the story. ‘It was not how he always was, but there was a tragedy – I know not what – and Mr Morwood depleted the family fortunes and died soon after.’ She leans closer, lowers her voice: ‘Leonora’s room? All her precious things? She hid them so he couldn’t sell any of it.’
I touch her hand. ‘It’s an old story, Mrs Morwood. I take it your husband did not inherit this particular flaw?’
‘Not that one, no.’ She shakes her head, lips a thin line. ‘He was gone before Luther brought his suit to my father’s door.’
I nod slowly. ‘Did you love Luther?’
‘He was handsome,’ she says and I take this to mean she thought she did. ‘But men are often different inside than out. My own father was a singular man, open and honest; what came from his mouth echoed what was in his mind.’ The corners of her lips quirk upwards, but it can hardly be called a smile. ‘What was your father like, Miss Todd?’
‘I never knew him, Mrs Morwood. My mother raised me alone.’ I remind her. Truth. Mostly. My mother’s periodic consorts could hardly be called “fathers”.
‘And you have never married?’
‘Never.’
‘Then perhaps you are as inexperienced as I was in the ways of men.’ She looks at me with what seems to be grief. ‘I was not prepared for Luther.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, for it’s all there is to say.
There is that strange quirk of her lips once more.
‘My children are my joy,’ she says and her voice shakes.
‘Of course, and they adore you, Mrs Morwood.’
‘My mother-in-law decided the children were ignorant, I think, though she’s not seen them for some time, not since she took to her rooms. She said she did not wish to see anyone. There was but one governess before you.’ She stares at Sarai, who is staring back, watching us both; in her now-still hands, a chain of tiny crimson bell-shaped flowers that look like drops of blood on her white dress. Then goes on: ‘The children liked her well enough but never loved her.’ She shrugs. ‘Perhaps she was simply not here long enough.’
Jessamine slips her hand from beneath mine, switches her grip to dig her nails into my flesh; her eyes jump back and forth between her children. ‘Don’t take my children’s affections from me, Miss Todd. Take my husband if you will—’
Oh no. ‘Mrs Morwood, I—’
She speaks as if I did not. ‘—He doesn’t look at you the way he looks at others.’ You are so plain. ‘But perhaps there is something else about you. Luther has never been a faithful man… I could bear that… but my children’s love… that is the one thing I cannot lose. Not their hearts.’
‘Mrs Morwood. Mrs Morwood, you’re hurting me.’ For a moment she tightens her grip. Then I’m freed before I need to struggle.
Jessamine rises. ‘Please, Miss Todd, I beg of you.’ She moves off, stopping by each child in turn to touch their faces and give them a trembling smile, before walking out beneath the archway of the garden. I rub my hand, feel where the skin almost broke, now marred by halfmoons. It stings much as my cheek still does.
In Whitebarrow I saw many women whose husbands called them hysterics, and whose doctors’ diagnoses supported the verdict. Indeed, some of them were mentally unwell, but sometimes as a result of ill treatment, constant bullying and abuse. Women with nowhere else to go; women from all strata of society; women who, subjected to relentless torment, finally snapped. I saw them in hospitals and examination rooms, paraded through lecture theatres for clever doctor-professors to opine over. I saw them in marketplaces, in modistes’ shops, at operas and on cold slabs. Each and every one wore the same expression, the one on Jessamine Morwood’s lovely face. I cannot know what’s been done to her over the years, but I can imagine.
‘Are you alright, Miss Asher?’ Albertine calls. Did she notice her mother’s behaviour? Or is it simply that I’ve been staring into nothingness for a few minutes?
‘Yes, Albertine. Thank you. Just daydreaming.’ I smile. ‘I do believe it’s time for your lunch. Go and wash up. Tell Mrs Charlton I shall be along presently.’
* * *
Sometimes stealth is called for, other times a more direct offensive is the best choice. I cross the gardens towards the small building with the millwheel. Should anyone see me, I’ll not look like a sneak. The little structure is surrounded by high-set windows to let in light, so until now I’ve merely gotten the most passing of glances inside as I walk by on tiptoe. The door looks stout. I knock loudly. If it is answered, I will have a question, if not… I knock again; while my right hand rap-rap-raps, my left jiggles the handle.
It swings open. Unlocked. Unloved. I step inside, pulling the door closed behind me.
Big enough to hold four rooms, it’s been turned into one large space. No other entrance, but a tapestry (a hunting scene) hanging where one might have been expected. There’s dust on the shelves, but the flagged floor is remarkably clean – I wonder if the Binions come in here and do the bare minimum? It is like some of the teaching laboratories at Whitebarrow University: against one wall is a long bench holding a collection of glass jars, mortars and pestles, tubes of clear glass, bottles of powders; there are bookshelves on another wall, and yet another is covered by glass-fronted cupboards. Inside are rows of tiny bottles in blue, green and red – several of the blue vials are missing from a row; blue vials that were sent to the Lewis family, filled with “medicine”. Those on one shelf are empty, those on another are full of liquid or powder, yellowing handwritten labels peeling away; they’ve been here a long while. There’s an apothecary’s set of drawers filled with needles, spatulas, scalpels, bandages… a perfect collection of a doctor’s tools. A hearth, stacked with dust-covered logs, stands cold.
There is a desk, cabinets with drawers, a chair at the desk, and one beside it as if for a visitor or patient. In one corner an entire skeleton, human, hangs from a frame. Beside it is a glass-topped display case: inside is a skeleton I do not recognise. It appears human but for the skull, which is elongated, its jaw distended, lined with long sharp teeth. One of Eli’s ancestors, perhaps, a wicked wolf boiled back to the bone and put on show? I know several men of Whitebarrow University who’d give their eyeteeth for the chance to examine such a thing. It almost distracts me from my task.
In the middle of it all is a table, metal and stone with a thin mattress, for examinations. To the right, part of the room drops away to show it’s built over the river, and part of the waterwheel is actually inside the house. I smile; a mill once, then repurposed.
Yet the air of neglect cannot be ignored, and it’s more than merely weeks or months, but years. This place waiting as if prepared to receive a medical man who never arrived… I think of Eirlys Lewis saying Luther had studied once…
Suddenly there is a noise, a rattling. The hanging at the back is flung aside to show Connell pale-faced, wide-eyed in another doorway. He hisses, ‘Father is coming!’
I hurry towards the boy, slip out. Connell closes the door swiftly and quietly. He grabs my hand, dragging me towards a gap in a hedge behind the building. He pulls me on, down the sloping bank to the edge of the river, then tugs me with him beneath a very low overhang that I can barely fit under, then I’m slithering after him into a short trough-like depression and end up in a muddy hole, splashing as I hit. I look at the ruination of my white blouse and blue skirt. I feel the damp seep into my boots. Surely this was not necessary.
‘Connell—’ I begin but he puts a filthy finger to my lips; his face is so bloodless in the dimness that he almost shines. I struggle to right myself, lying against the cold muddy ground beneath the riverbank, and peer over the edge of our hidey-hole. The water’s flowing swiftly by, the other bank looks terribly far away at this angle, and above it fields roll to the tree line where the woods proper begin. I’m about to speak again when I hear heavy footsteps. Then a voice, crooning, although there’s nothing consoling about it.
‘Connell?’ Luther Morwood. ‘Connell, where are you? Have you been sneaking again? You know what Father promised last time.’
I glance at the boy beside me and his eyes are dark pools of fear, enormous. When I touch his shoulder, he’s shuddering. I know why I’m fleeing the man above – why is his son? I pull him into a hug; for my own comfort I spin the mourning ring around my finger, a nervous habit, recently developed.
‘Connell? Cooonnneeellll?’ The singsong of Luther’s voice is eerie and I begin to tremble myself, wondering how often his wife and children − all his family − have heard that tone and felt their guts turn to water. I fight against memories of a similar tone in my own childhood when fire rose in my mother’s temper. I wonder how Leonora feels about him; she never eats with the family for any meal and it occurs to me only now that I’ve never seen her interact with her son. That doesn’t mean it never happens, but… It’s another few minutes before Luther leaves; I hear his tread retreat. Five minutes more before I speak again, five long minutes of lying in mud and fluid, of crawling things skittering across my hands, over my back. Twice, otters peer into the hole with umbrage.
‘Connell,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
‘Father’s mean. He gets angry,’ he says with a trembling pitch.
I touch his face with my grubby hand − it doesn’t matter, his cheek is equally covered in muck − and he gives me a tremulous smile. ‘I will protect you from him, Connell. I promise.’
‘No one can.’
‘I swear to you, I can. Trust me, Connell: ogres can be defeated.’ I smile and he returns it. ‘You come to me anytime you need to; hide in my room if need be.’ Fine enough with my secrets hidden beneath the floor. ‘Even if I’m not there.’
Slowly he nods.
I’ve never taught before, never had the care of children, but these – I can identify with them. Feel their needs and wants, what will appeal to them best. And I do want to protect them. How strange.
We scramble out of the hole. In the sunlight we look even worse. It will be difficult to go back into the house like this. ‘Connell, is the water deep here?’
‘Here yes, but not a little further down.’
We wander past a bend in the stream and he points. ‘Here is shallow.’
‘Right. In. No, don’t remove your boots and make sure your head goes under too.’
Once we are both thoroughly soaked and much of the mud is washed away, we head back to the house, shivering. I grab a handful of plants on the way. He’s a good lad, not complaining about the icy bath and the cold of the day, but both our teeth are chattering.
We tramp in through the kitchen door, much to Mrs Charlton’s surprised displeasure.
‘Gods, what happened? Look at that shirt, Master Connell, ruined! And Miss Todd! Your lovely skirt!’
‘It’s just water, Mrs Charlton,’ I say mildly, dripping on her clean floor.
‘Wait there,’ she grumbles. There’s a wicker basket of fresh laundry on one of the benches and she extracts two towels from it. She hands me mine, then begins to rub Connell down with a fervour that might start a fire were he not so wet. She asks again, ‘What happened?’
‘Yes, what did happen?’ Luther’s voice sounds from the door that leads to the rest of the house.
Connell’s gone paler still. I step in front of him and Mrs Charlton, and smile, undoing my hair. It unwinds like a dark serpent to below my waist. Luther watches its journey.
‘Connell was helping me search for this.’ I hold up the stalks of water betony. ‘It grows by the riverbank – very good for cleaning wounds.’ I indicate the graze on my cheek. ‘Connell was being a good lad and it got him soaked. He slipped and fell.’
‘And naturally you jumped in to save him?’
I feel irrationally aggrieved that he’s not making an effort to hide his disbelief. ‘Of course. How would it look to let your son and heir drown when he’s in my charge?’ I shake my head. ‘Bad enough he’s wet through.’
‘I commend your diligence, Miss Todd.’ Luther nods slowly, but I can’t help feeling he knows I’m lying. ‘A warm bath for both, I think, Mrs Charlton, lest a chill set in.’
As if I too am a child beneath his hand. Then Luther is gone and Connell is staring at me like I’m the sun and moon all rolled into one.