It is still dark when I rise the following morning. I slept only lightly, not wanting to sleep on and be late for Our Beloved. I am tired and jittery but my heart is banging away with the thought that soon I will be with him for the whole day or more. I know Beth cannot bear the thought of that. She was restless in the night too, tossing and turning for hours, as though she was struggling in some nightmare. Then she woke and scrambled over me and pulled the pot out from under the bed to heave into. ‘Can I help?’ I whispered to her. ‘Are you ill? Shall I fetch you some water?’
‘I’m fine,’ she snapped. ‘Go back to sleep.’ She crawled back into bed and curled into herself. I don’t understand why she is so angry with me. I have done nothing but worship Our Beloved, just as she does and just as everybody else does.
I thought that perhaps there was something else nagging at Beth, so I reached out my hand and stroked her back in small comforting circles. Everything will be all right in the morning, I whispered to her. She said nothing in reply, but she let me keep my hand where it was. And that was something at least.
Beth doesn’t murmur when I ease myself out of bed and pull on my clothes. But she is awake. I know she is. I can tell by the way her breaths are so shallow and uneven. She doesn’t wish me a safe journey or even turn to say goodbye. So be it, I think. Let her stew in her own juices.
I have borrowed a hooded cloak and I wrap it around myself as I step out into the cold dawn. Agatha has harnessed the two horses to the brougham, lit the lamps and taken her position on the driver’s seat. Our Beloved sweeps out of the mansion and I open the brougham door for him. As he brushes past me, the smell of him, warm from his bed, sets my skin tingling. While he settles in the carriage, I walk ahead with May to help with the gates. We swing them open and wait while Agatha drives the horses through. Then I jump up onto the dickey box next to Agatha and wave to May as she closes the gates behind us.
Out in the lane, the quiet of the hour unsettles me, and without the walls of the Abode to protect me, I feel I have been stripped naked. I pull my cloak around me as tightly as I can, and watch how my breath clouds in front of my face.
There is no one about at this hour and nothing much to see, save for the shadows of trees and the grey outlines of the few scattered cottages in the village. The carriage bumps over the rough ground and I hold tight to my seat to stop myself from slipping. It is going to be a long journey.
There is a faint ribbon of pink light stretched across the horizon and I fix my eyes upon it and watch as it turns gradually to scarlet. We pass through small hamlets and by a silvery snaking river and lonely farmhouses. I think of George and Ada and their kindly faces and how good they were to me. I promise myself I will find them again, one day soon. I will tell them of Our Beloved and of the coming Day of Reckoning, and I will bring them back to the Abode with me so they too can be saved.
I wonder, would Eli listen? Or Mama? I imagine the looks on their faces if they were to see me standing next to Our Beloved as he spread his teachings. Mama would choke on her own tongue, I think. And Eli would follow behind her to catch her when she swooned. They would never listen to me, or to Our Beloved. And Eli could never worship anyone other than Mama.
The sky has lifted now. But the day is grimy and damp. Mournful crows group on bare branches or stand shrieking in the middle of bare fields. At least it is not raining. I pull my hood further over my head so it catches the warmth of my breath.
Agatha has gloves to keep her fingers warm and a thick rug tucked around her knees. I am sorry I did not think to do the same. I watch how she holds the reins so easy between her fingers and how she controls the swaying backs of the horses. She is so skilful that I think I was wrong about her when I imagined her life before. Instead of escaping from the grip of a murderous husband, I think now, that perhaps she lived as a man. She was a farmhand, and slept in a stable, pressed up against the warm flanks of a horse. Perhaps she slaughtered the pigs and drove the farm wagon to market. And perhaps she earned her scar in a drunken brawl at a country dance. I smile to myself. I wonder what she would say if she knew what I was thinking?
I sneak a glance at her, but she catches me looking and takes it as an invitation to talk.
‘There’s the Tor over there,’ she shouts over the racket of wheels and hooves. I look to my left and see the tower-topped hill in the distance, rising up majestically from the Levels. I have heard of the town of Glastonbury and the mystical Tor, where once an abbot and his monks were hanged on a gallows, and I am all eyes now to see it. Agatha tells me it is possible to climb to the very top of the Tor and that the view from the top is the best you could ever wish to see.
Glastonbury is a small town, but very smart-looking. The houses are of a good size and the main street is bustling with traders. We pass by a bootmaker’s, a draper’s, a chandler’s, a cooper’s and then a staymaker’s. I flinch when I see that one, and I cannot help but rub at my wrists.
At the bottom of the main street, the road winds around to the left and we drive by a huge jagged stone ruin that Agatha tells me was once an ancient abbey. I am more taken by the sight of the Abbots Inn, which sits squat and inviting by the side of the road. But we drive straight past it. My stomach rumbles and I wonder when we will stop for refreshment.
We journey on, leaving the Tor behind us. We pass through a village called West Pennard and through a wood so thick it blocks out the sky. By now, I feel faint from lack of nourishment and sore from the constant jolts and bumps of the carriage and the strain of holding tight to my seat. ‘Will we stop soon?’ I shout to Agatha.
‘Shortly!’ she shouts back. ‘When we reach Shepton Mallet.’
We roll through another sleepy village, and my eyes grow heavy and my chin falls to my chest. Then suddenly, Agatha is pulling back on the reins and I lift my head to see the welcome sight of a large white painted inn bearing the name of The Highwayman.
It is good to stretch my legs. I walk up and down the grass verge while Our Beloved disappears into the inn and Agatha organises water for the horses. There is a wooden bench outside the door to the inn and when Agatha brings out two glasses of beer and some bread and cheese, we sit there and eat our meal in hungry silence. Agatha sighs and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘It’s all talk of witches in there,’ she says eventually, nodding her head towards the inn door. My eyes widen as Agatha tells me that a local woman has just been sent to the house of correction for putting a spell on a poor farmer’s wife. ‘Gave her a box, she did, with a painting of the Devil inside, some strange verse and the legs of toads.’
The wind has risen now and crows are circling the chimney pots of the inn. I am glad when Our Beloved climbs back into the carriage and we can be on our way.
It is mid-afternoon by the time we reach the outskirts of Bath. The city lies below us and from where I am sitting, high up on the dickey box, it looks like a giant bowl of smoke, confusion and honey-coloured buildings. As we draw nearer, the road becomes busier and soon Agatha is battling through a swarm of carts, omnibuses, carriages and people. The noise is overwhelming: the tremendous racket of wheels rattling over the pitted road, the heavy rumble of carts, the beat of footsteps, the shouts of hawkers, and the ringing of bells. But it is the stench that surprises me the most. Bridgwater was not the sweetest of towns, but here the air is thick with the smells of gas, coke, sweat and the stink of rotting meat. But for all that, I feel a flickering in my stomach, a thrill as sharp as a needle and the delicious promise of the unknown.
We leave the horses and brougham in the care of a groom in the courtyard of a small hostelry named the Saracen’s Head. It is where Our Beloved stays when in Bath, Agatha tells me. He is friends with the proprietor and there is always a ready and warm welcome for him.
I am travel-weary and dazed by it all, but there is no time to rest. Our Beloved emerges from the carriage looking as fresh as if he had slept the whole journey on a feather pillow. He hands me a wooden box to carry and tells Agatha and me that he wants to fill the remaining hours of the day with teachings. ‘There are souls out there waiting to be saved,’ he says. I follow him closely, petrified of getting lost in the hustle and bustle. But he is so broad and tall, and he slices through the crowds as easily as a knife through butter, that soon I am just happy to watch the elegant sway of his back and the way that people stop in their tracks and turn to watch him pass.
We make our way to the very heart of the city. The buildings are beautiful here. They are built of soft yellow stone with rows of columns holding up roofs that drip with fancy carvings. The thin October sun washes over the spires of the looming Abbey, turning the stone from yellow to golden. I have never seen such a place before and I twirl on my heels breathing in the wonder of it all.
I set the wooden box in the middle of the Abbey churchyard, which is more like a busy town square. It is filled with fashionable ladies and gentlemen wearing well-brushed hats and glossy boots. They are all admiring the beauty of the Abbey and listening to the faint strains of orchestral music that is seeping out from inside.
Our Beloved slips off his shoes and climbs onto the box. He looks magnificent. His dark frock coat and the blackness of his hair is a shock against the mellow backdrop of the Abbey. I clasp my hands to my chest and listen as his powerful voice booms out across the churchyard.
A crowd gathers at once. I feel so proud, that I am tempted to shout out and tell them all that I already belong to him, that I am already saved and that they should listen carefully if they want the same thing for themselves.
Instead, I watch their faces. I see how some of them stand with their mouths open and their brows furrowed. I see how some whisper to each other and quickly walk away. I see how some of them laugh, as if they are watching a tumbler or a clown from a circus. As some people walk away, others take their place. But none stay for long.
Gradually, the crowd thins until there is only me and Agatha left. But Our Beloved carries on preaching regardless. My heart aches for him. If there was only one soul for him to save, just one, it would make all his effort worthwhile. I look around, desperate to help. A gentleman in a green coat is strolling by. He is not taking a blind bit of notice of Our Beloved. How dare he, I think. How dare he not even spare a moment of his time. I run after the man and tug on his sleeve. He whirls around, grabbing my wrist as he does.
‘Try to lift my purse, would you?’ he splutters.
‘I would not!’ I say, fury stinging my cheeks. ‘Do I look like a pickpocket?’
The man glares at me. ‘Well, who are you then?’ he asks, pulling down the cuffs of his coat. ‘What do you want with me?’
I plant my hands on my hips and stare him straight in the eyes. ‘The Day of Reckoning is coming,’ I say. ‘Do you think you will be saved?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Why don’t you listen to him?’ I say, nodding towards Our Beloved. ‘He saved me. He could save you too.’
The man looks over my shoulder towards Our Beloved. ‘Him?’ he says.
I nod. ‘Yes. Just stay awhile and listen.’
The man snorts. Then without any warning, he spits at my feet and strides away.
I look down at the glistening gobbet, and I shudder. He has the Devil in him, I think. I watch his back disappearing into the distance and the hairs rise on the back of my neck.
‘What are you doing, Alice?’ Suddenly, Our Beloved is by my side and his voice is hot in my ear. I turn to him and see how his eyes are glinting with anger. My stomach drops.
‘I … I just wanted to make him listen to you,’ I say.
Our Beloved takes me by the elbow and leads me away, steering me through the fast-darkening streets. Agatha trots behinds us with the box under her arm. ‘I am sorry,’ I say. ‘I am sorry. Have I done something wrong?’
But he doesn’t answer. And I dare not chance to look at his face, in case the anger is still there. He is taking great strides, and I have to half run to keep the pace. The sights around me pass by in a blur. There is nothing but my boots skidding over cobbles and muck and the tight grip of his hand on my elbow.
Finally we reach the Saracen’s Head. The windows glow with warm, yellow light and a great tiredness washes over me. I long for a soft pillow and clean sheets. We stop and Our Beloved spins me around to face him. I am breathless from the walk, but he is calm and unflustered. ‘Never do that again, Alice,’ he says fiercely. ‘It is for me to save souls. Not you. Do you understand?’
I nod meekly. But I do not understand at all, and I am overcome by a dreadful disappointment, something that I haven’t felt since I was a small child trying my best to please Mama. ‘I am sorry,’ I say. ‘I only wanted to help.’
He looks at me carefully, as if he is trying to make a decision. I can’t bear it. I can’t bear it if he thinks badly of me.
Then he sighs and turns away from me, as though I am not there any more. ‘We have had a long and tiring day,’ he says. ‘We will eat now and then we will rest.’
He walks into the belly of the inn and Agatha beckons me to follow. It is bright inside and the reek of stale beer and old tobacco smoke stings my nostrils. But there are other smells too, of roasted meats and gravy, which make my stomach curdle. We are greeted by a pock-faced man with a slick of grey hair combed over his head. ‘Mr Gantrot,’ says Our Beloved. ‘We are ready for our supper now. And if you could show my companions to their rooms?’
‘Of course, of course,’ simpers Mr Gantrot. ‘My wife has already turned the beds down, and I have given you the best rooms, of course. As always.’ He shows Our Beloved to a small table in the corner of the room, where a fire crackles, orange and inviting. ‘Ladies,’ he says to me and Agatha, ‘if you would follow me.’ He takes us to a side room. There is no fire, just a dusty floor and a stained wooden table. ‘My wife will bring you supper,’ he says. ‘Then she will take you to your rooms.’
I feel like a piece has been torn from my heart. I have disappointed Our Beloved. I have angered him. I have done something wrong. I hold my head in my hands and stare at the stains and gouges in the table top.
Agatha nudges me. ‘Don’t look so woeful, Alice. We will have a good supper now, to fill our bellies. And no clearing up.’ She winks at me and takes a large gulp of the beer that has been set before us.
But I have no appetite. My stomach is too full of regret. I manage only a mouthful of potato soup and a few bites of a chop. ‘You are not ill, are you?’ asks Agatha as she scrapes my leftovers onto her plate.
I shake my head. How can I explain to her how I feel? I cannot explain it to myself. I only know that since I saw the anger in Our Beloved’s eyes I feel as though I have lost something precious. ‘I am just tired,’ I tell her.
Mrs Gantrot clears the table and asks if we would like to be shown to our rooms. We follow her ample backside through the bar and I see Our Beloved still sitting at the table in the corner. He is leaning back in his chair waving a fat cigar in his hand. There are the remnants of a meal and half a dozen bottles of spirits on the table. He is surrounded by a knot of gentlemen, their faces all flushed with drink. Some of them have richly dressed women sitting on their laps and they are all laughing uproariously. I want to walk over there and push my way through the heat of bodies and the fog of smoke to where he is sitting. I want him to smile at me and stroke my hand and tell me that everything is all right. But as Mrs Gantrot leads us past the table towards the back of the inn, he doesn’t even look my way.
I had expected to be sharing a bed with Agatha, so I am surprised then, when Mrs Gantrot shows us into separate rooms. It is a relief to wash the dirt of travel from my skin, and even though the sheets still smell of the sweat of strangers, my limbs are so heavy that a bed of straw would have been just as welcome. I lay my head on the greasy pillow and try not to think of him. I try not to think of anything other than the hours ahead of blissful sleep. The street outside is noisy with the yelling, fighting and cursing of drunkards, the noise of organ grinders, carts on cobbles, and the hollering of street performers. It all rolls into one great confused racket which sings in my ears and eventually lulls me into an exhausted sleep.
‘Alice? Are you asleep?’ The words are soft like feathers in my ear.
‘Papa?’ I murmur. I can smell the hot fruitiness of brandy and the stale tang of cigars on his breath. I reach out my hand in the darkness to touch his face. My fingers find the soft bristles of his beard and I burrow them into the familiar depth of it. ‘Papa,’ I sigh.
It is so warm in my bed that I don’t want to think that morning has come so soon. I wonder if Lillie will be long with my tray of tea. I slide back into the comfort of sleep. Eli is there. He is laughing at something I’ve said. ‘Oh, Alice,’ he says. ‘You are so beautiful.’ He strokes my hair and lifts tresses of it from the pillow. He presses it to his face. Then his breath is hot on my neck. ‘Alice. Alice,’ he is saying over and over again.
Suddenly, I am awake. Something is very wrong.
I open my eyes and for a moment I am lost. The room is all darkness, save for the faint glow of a gaslight out on the street. This isn’t Lions House. In a rush, I remember. I am in Bath. In a room. In an inn. I push the face away from my neck in a panic. ‘Who’s there? Who is it?’
‘Shush, Alice. Don’t be frightened.’ The hands are on my hair again, stroking gently. ‘Do you not recognise me?’
My heart flips. It is Our Beloved. I see him now, silhouetted against the window. He leans towards me again and puts his mouth to my neck. His beard scratches my skin. ‘Alice,’ he breathes. ‘Have you forgiven me yet for talking to you so harshly?’
The closeness of him overwhelms me. I cannot move, or speak. He brushes his lips against my neck. ‘You are very special, Alice,’ he whispers. ‘I needed to tell you that.’
Still, I cannot speak.
‘You are one of the chosen ones,’ he says. He runs a hand over the blanket, along my side and over my hip. ‘Soon, you will know how very special you are.’
A shiver runs through me. Something does not feel right. But all I can think is that he has come to me, and he is not angry any more.
‘Sleep now, Alice,’ he says. ‘Sleep well and dream well. Tomorrow is another day and there will be much to do.’
Then he is gone.
The damp wool scent of his coat and the fruit of his breath linger on my pillow. I lie rigid as a statue. The street outside has quietened now, but there is still the odd shout and whistle and the banging of doors. My ears strain to every sound. I hear someone coughing in the room next door and, from further away, an insistent grunting. I imagine I hear footsteps and with every creak of a floorboard my heart jumps into my mouth.
Calm yourself, I think. Everything is all right now. He has come to you and he is not angry any more. And you are special. Very special.
You are one of the chosen ones, he said. I say the words out loud, over and over again, and slowly, my limbs relax. My breathing comes easy again and I roll over, pulling the blanket tightly around me.
But I cannot close my eyes. I watch the shadows on the walls, stuttering in the faint light. I see the outline of a picture that I hadn’t noticed when I came to bed hanging above the tiny fireplace. And I watch how the thin curtains billow out every now and then when a gust of wind finds its way through the window frames.
A church bell in the distance strikes the hour of three. But then it seems like only a minute has passed before Agatha is banging on my door telling me it is time to wake up.