I am preparing Our Beloved’s breakfast. I do this for him every day. He says that no one prepares it better than me. He likes his bread cut very thin and barely toasted. He will only have the two slices and these have to be spread with Gentleman’s Relish and topped with two softly poached eggs.
I go to the mansion’s kitchen at seven each morning. Mrs Holloway supervises my cooking and always checks the tray before I take it to the red room. Our Beloved likes me to sit with him while he eats and to pour his tea. He never talks while he is eating and he expects me to be silent too. After he has mopped up every last smear of yolk from his plate, I fetch him one of his cigars and light it for him. If he is moved to talk, it is when he blows the first plume of smoke into the air that he will begin. But otherwise he will motion for me to leave and I am left with a terrible craving for him that is only satisfied when he calls for me again.
Yesterday was a good day. Yesterday I spent over an hour with him at breakfast.
‘I knew it from the moment I first saw you, Alice,’ he said to me. ‘I knew you were different. I knew you belonged here with us.’
He sucked deeply on his cigar and blew another spiralling cloud into the air. ‘Even among all the chosen ones here, you stand out,’ he said. You rise above them all.’ He looked at me questioningly. ‘Where you came from – they did not understand you, did they?’
I shook my head. How did he know these things? How could he see so deep inside me?
‘They didn’t understand you, because they know no better,’ he said. ‘How could they? They are the ignorant ones. But you, Alice – you heard the calling and you came.’
He reached out for my hand and he enclosed both of his around it. His hands were warm and strong, his knuckles smooth and white, and the strings of veins that ran towards his fingers were a pale violet. I stared at them for so long that I saw the blood pumping through them. Holy blood – that would run through his veins forever. I was trembling with the glory of it all when he finally bid me to leave with the tray of dirtied breakfast dishes.
I spoon the last poached egg onto the plate now, and arrange it on the tray with the silver teapot and the thin china cup and saucer in which Our Beloved likes his tea to be served. Mrs Holloway places a silver dome over the eggs and toast and moves the teapot an inch. ‘There,’ she says. ‘That will do very well.’
I carry the tray carefully through the mansion towards the red room, my heart beating wildly as it always does when I am about to be with him. I as walk through the hall, I see Beth on her hands and knees running a duster along the thick wooden skirting boards. As she sees me, she scrambles to her feet and brushes a stray hair from her face. ‘Morning, Alice,’ she says. Her eyes dart to the tray I am carrying.
I am surprised she has spoken to me, considering how she has behaved towards me of late. But here she is, twisting her duster around in her hands and smiling. It warms my insides at once to see her and I realise how much I have missed her friendship.
‘Beth!’ I say, my voice light with pleasure. I smile back at her, wanting her to see how glad I am that she has bid me a good morning. I wish I could stop and speak with her, but Our Beloved is waiting and his eggs must not grow cold.
I keep my eyes on Beth’s face as I walk past and I keep my smile wide. That is why I don’t see her foot shoot out in front of me. But I hear her snort of satisfaction as I stumble to the ground and the tray crashes heavily beside me.
By the time I have cleared up the mess and cooked Our Beloved some more eggs, I am nearly a half hour late with his breakfast. ‘I am sorry,’ I say as I place the tray by his side. ‘I had an accident and I had to cook for a second time.’
He looks up from the book he is reading and nods at me to sit. But he says nothing about my lateness and I feel stupid for even thinking he would be concerned with such trivia. As he eats his food the usual silence feels heavy today and painful. I sit in agony waiting for him to finish and praying that he will ask me to stay.
He eats slowly and thoroughly, every mouthful takes forever to slide down his throat. Eventually there is only one forkful left, so I stand quickly to fetch his cigar.
‘No,’ he says suddenly and my footsteps falter as I stop.
My heart falters too at the tone of his voice.
‘Leave my cigar,’ he says. ‘Go to the kitchen and bring back a bowl of warm water, some soap and a towel.’
I hurry to do as he asks. I do not stop to wonder why he might want these things, I am only too glad to do his bidding.
When I return to the red room he is already sucking on a cigar that he must have lit for himself. ‘Over here,’ he instructs me, and I place the bowl of water on the floor at his feet.
‘Is your faith strong, Alice?’ he asks.
I nod. ‘Yes,’ I manage to say.
‘You believe in me? You believe I am God made flesh?’
Again, I nod. ‘Yes … yes, I do.’
‘And yet, when you are trusted to serve me, you abuse that trust and you are late.’
‘I … I am sorry,’ I say. ‘It was just an accident … ’
He holds his hand up to silence me. ‘Kneel, girl,’ he says. ‘Kneel at my feet and wash them clean.’
I drop to the floor and with shaking hands I pick up the soap. I dip it in the water and rub it to a lather. He is angry with me. He is angry with me. The thought stabs at my heart and hurts as much as any knife. I lift one of his feet and lower it into the bowl. As it is his habit to go barefoot, his feet are black with grime. I soap first one foot and then the other. I rub over his soles and between his toes and soon it is the water that is black with grime. I soap his feet again, sliding my fingers across the now clean skin, all the while hoping that he will forgive me. But he doesn’t speak. He just sucks on his cigar. I cannot bear it any more. It is like all those times I was locked in my chamber at Lions House feeling the weight of Mama’s displeasure closing in around me. I rest his feet on the towel in my lap and carefully pat them dry. There is nothing more I can do now. His feet are clean and dry and still he has not forgiven me.
There is only one thing left to do. I lower my face to his feet and I kiss them in turn; first one and then the other, and all the time I murmur, ‘Forgive me, Beloved. Forgive me.’ I am crying and my tears mingle with my kisses so his skin grows damp with my remorse.
Eventually, he places his hand on the back of my head. ‘Rise, child,’ he says. ‘You have done enough. You may go now.’
His voice is soft again and although he does not say the words, I can tell by the gentleness of his touch that he is with me again and all is not lost.
As I carry the bowl and towel back to the kitchen, my thoughts turn instantly to Beth. It is her doing. All of it is her doing. Her envy has turned sour. She doesn’t want to share Our Beloved with me, or with anyone. A flash of anger strikes at my insides. She needs to learn a lesson. She needs to know what it is like to lose something precious so she can be grateful for what she still has. Before I know it, I am wishing this on her. But it feels like a good thing to wish. To cure someone of selfishness cannot be a bad thing, can it?