Mama has not come to my room to strap my hands to the bed. It is not like her to be late. Lillie is keeping tight-lipped. The mistress is indisposed, is all she will say when I ask after Mama. For all her sharpness and spite, though, Lillie can be quite dull at times. I realise, with a tiny thrill, that as she leaves my room, she has quite forgotten to lock the door.
I savour the feeling of freedom for a while, but I dare not close my eyes. Mama is bound to come soon, and if she finds I have fallen asleep untethered, there will be another day of punishment tomorrow. I turn this way and that, I plump up my pillow, and I listen to Lillie moving about in her room. Soon though, I am bored with waiting. The thought that I could get out of bed if I wanted to, and even leave my room, nags away inside my head. I am curious about what could have happened to make tonight so different. Mama is never forgetful or shoddy in her intentions. Will it make matters any worse if I creep out of my room to find Eli?
I climb from my bed and put a shawl over my nightgown. I take a lighted candle and open the bedroom door softly, so as not to alert Lillie, and then I am out. I stifle a giggle as a joyous rush of possibilities sets my skin tingling and my heart racing. I don’t know what to do first. Should I go straight to Eli? Or should I go to the kitchen and see what I can find to eat? I wolfed down Eli’s thoughtful package of bread and cheese an age ago, and now my mouth is watering at the thought of some thick ham, or cold potatoes, or even a spoonful of honey eaten straight from the jar. I creep barefooted down the back stairs and make my way to the servants’ territory. I flit along the kitchen corridor feeling like a wraith on a haunting mission. The lowest of the maids will still be on duty, I know. But they pose no danger to me. I slip into the kitchen. It is hot and steamy and a small girl is on her knees scrubbing the flagstones in front of the great fire. She jumps when she sees me and clutches her brush to her chest. Her frock and cap are wet and soiled and her apron is filthy with ash stains. I put a finger to my lips as I walk past her to get to the larder. The cool air inside is filled with the smells of good things. There are muslin-covered jars lining the shelves, a cooked ham glistening with fat and a huge pie with a golden crust that looks thicker than my arm. I put down my candle and pick up a knife that is lying near to the pie, then I cut myself a generous slice and eat it with my fingers. Mama would be struck down by apoplexy if she could see me now. The pie is delicious. It is full of jelly and meat juices that dribble down my chin, and creamy slices of potato and salted bacon. I swallow great mouthfuls of it and am thinking of cutting another slice when I hear voices in the kitchen. I am sure it will be no one of any importance, at least no one who will report me to Mama. But I decide to stay where I am just in case. And besides, I want more pie.
The voices in the kitchen are low and furtive. I wonder if the girl by the fire will tell the newcomer that I’m in the larder. I quickly fill my mouth with pie. ‘The mistress is in a right state tonight,’ says one of the voices. ‘By all accounts, she is upset beyond reason by Lady Egerton’s mishap. Though why she should take on so, I really don’t know.’ I stop chewing and move closer to the door. There is the sound of water being sloshed around and the clanking of metal on metal. ‘Hurry up with that, Ivy,’ says the voice. ‘I want to get to my bed before midnight, if you don’t mind.’
I am curious. What mishap are they talking about? I stay still – listening – but nothing more is said. Brushing pastry crumbs from the corners of my mouth, I go back into the kitchen. The girl is still there, on her own, wiping around the inside of an enormous copper pan. She looks to the floor as I walk by. I hope she doesn’t get the blame for the missing slices of pie.
I tiptoe through the house, my ears straining to every creak and knock. My heart hangs motionless for a moment as I walk past Mama’s room to get to Eli’s. There is a flickering sliver of light coming from the gap under her door and a whiff of fusty lavender. I hold my breath until I get to Eli’s room, then I tap my fingers lightly on the door – thrice, then twice, then once, like we used to when we were children. I wriggle my toes in expectation and wait. ‘Is that you, Alice?’ I hear him whisper. I tap again and Eli opens the door and beckons me inside. He looks at me warily. ‘What are you doing?’ he asks as soon as he’s closed the door behind us. ‘Why are you not in your room?’
‘I was just looking for Mama,’ I tell him. ‘I have not seen her since this morning.’
‘No,’ he says slowly. ‘She was very distressed earlier when Lady Egerton failed to keep her appointment. She has been in her room ever since.’
‘But I saw Lady Egerton’s carriage arrive,’ I tell Eli.
‘It was a servant who came in the carriage,’ said Eli. ‘To pass on the news of Lady Egerton’s accident.’
‘What accident?’ I ask.
‘She tripped on her petticoats and fell down the stairs at Bridgwater Hall. I believe she has broken her ankle.’
I catch my breath and reach out to a nearby chest of drawers to steady myself.
‘What’s the matter, Alice?’ says Eli. ‘You’ve gone quite pale.’
‘It’s nothing,’ I manage to reply. ‘Just these hideous stays. They rob me of my breath sometimes.’
Eli colours slightly. ‘The perils of being a woman,’ he murmurs. Then he frowns. ‘Maybe I should check on Mama. It’s unusual for her to have kept to her room for so long.’
‘No, no,’ I say. ‘Don’t do that. I am sure she is fine. Wait for the morning, Eli. Let her rest.’
He looks at me and narrows his eyes. ‘You will not take advantage of the situation, will you Alice?’
I shake my head.
‘You will go straight back to your room and do as you are supposed to do?’
‘Of course I will! What do you think of me?’
‘You know quite well what I think of you, Alice. You are my sister and I love you, but I wish you would not cause Mama so much heartache.’
Sometimes I want to hit my brother hard in the face. Maybe the pain of a bloody nose would open his eyes to the truth. ‘Don’t worry,’ I say instead. ‘I’m going. Back to my room.’
Eli smiles at me. ‘I’m glad to hear it, little sister,’ he says. He leans towards me and kisses me tentatively on the cheek. ‘You should learn to trust Mama. She knows what is best for you.’
Usually, I would snort with derision at his remark and ask him how he can be so foolish as to believe that, but I am desperate to be on my own so I can think about the miracle that has just happened.
Back in my room, I take a candle and stand in front of the mirror. I stare into my eyes. I stare for so long that all around me blurs into misty shapes and colours. Only my eyes remain clear: dark and shining; floating in the candlelit mirror. I put the palms of my hands on the glass to stop them from shaking. My wishes have never come true before. What did I do that was so different this time? I look deep into my eyes once more, trying to see if something has changed. I see nothing but a long, empty darkness. Then my breath, heavy with expectation, mists the glass, so I walk away and go to my bed instead.
It is late now; I feel how the air in my room has cooled. Mama will certainly not come now. I am free to do as I like. But, strangely, this unexpected gift of liberty has me at a loss as to what to do next. I pace the room for a while, thinking of Lady Egerton and her broken ankle. I need to wish again, I decide. It’s the only way I will ever know for sure that her mishap was of my doing. I need to test myself. A small wish. Just to see.
But there are so many things to wish for. Where do I begin? I pick up my journal and flick through the pages.
I could wish for a horse of my own so I could ride out on the moors with Eli.
I could wish for Papa to see the truth of what is under his nose.
I could wish for him to stand up to Mama.
I could wish to be allowed to study the things that Eli studies.
I could wish never to have to complete another piece of embroidery.
I could wish for Mama never to hurt me again.
My mind races with all the possibilities. There is so much that I wish for that I cannot decide where to begin.
I sit on the edge of my bed, and as always, my stays take my breath away with their steel grip. Just one night, I think. What bliss it would be to have one night when my body is not tortured by Mama’s ambitions.
I hear a small cough from the room next door. Lillie is safe in her bed. No one will know. I can easily remove the stays myself, and if I am careful to tighten them as much as I can in the morning, who will be any the wiser?
I push my nightgown up over my hips and reach my hands around to the knot of laces at the back of my stays. I pick and pick at the knot, until it eventually loosens and I am slowly able to pull the stays apart. I gasp out loud at the aching relief. After a moment, when I have got used to being able to breathe normally again, I stand and peel the loosened stays from my body. Then I step out of them and kick them across the floor.
I run my hands over my body where the stays have kept it prisoner. My skin is sore and bruised and as I lift my nightgown and chemise, I see the steel bones have left deep red marks. Suddenly, a hot rage ignites inside me and before I know what I am doing, I have taken the stays from the floor and pushed them into the fireplace. They are immediately smudged and streaked with old ashes. I take my candle and with shaking hands hold the flame to the stiff fabric. It singes but will not catch. I look around my room desperately, for something that will help set the flames. Seizing my journal again, I rip some clean pages from the back of it and then crumple them into the fireplace. The pages soon burn and, with them, the stays at last burn too. I watch the flames turn blue and green, and listen to the sizzle and cracks until there is nothing left in the grate but steel bones: twisted and strange like some monstrous carcass. My rage dies with the flames; I blink hard as if waking from a dream and look in horror at what I have done.
I hug my knees tightly. Suddenly I am afraid, very afraid. I cannot imagine what Mama will do to me now. My eyes are drawn to the three small scars on my forearm: ragged circles of pale skin, each one the size of a threepenny bit. I remember, it was my eighth birthday and Papa had given me a book as a gift. ‘You can read well enough now,’ he had said proudly. It was a beautiful book, bound in soft buttery leather. I read the words on the front cover, Household Tales, The Brothers Grimm, and a shiver of terrified delight ran through me as I weighed the book carefully in my hands, sensing the power of the stories that lay within. A book! All of my very own.
But Mama had been furious, and had snatched the book from me before I had even opened a page. ‘How could you, Arthur?’ she had raged. ‘This is not suitable reading for a girl! Especially not for Alice.’ She threw the book onto the drawing room table and Papa raised his eyebrow to me in apology. ‘I forbid you to read it,’ said Mama. ‘Do you understand me, Alice?’
I nodded at her mutely, but I already knew I would disobey. The book was my gift. It sat there on the table, all fat and stretched tight with hidden treasures. My fingers itched to turn the pages.
I waited until after dark, when the house had stilled and I was sure everyone was asleep. Lighting a candle, I crept from my chamber through the shadowy house until I was back in the drawing room. There was my book – still on the table where Mama had left it. I picked it up and caught the sweet scent of leather and ink. It made my heart beat fast. I clutched the book tightly to my nightgown and padded back to my chamber as quickly as I could, the flame of my candle dancing nervously across the walls. I clambered back into bed and placed the candle on the table beside me. I laid the book on my lap and when I had recovered my breath and my heart had stopped racing, I ran my hands over the cover, feeling how each letter sank into the leather and I could read the meaning with just my small fingers. I balanced the book on my raised knees to be closer to the candle flame, and then I opened the cover and smoothed the pages inside. The paper, yellowed by candlelight, was thick and as crisp as bread crusts. Words danced in front of my eyes and my mouth began to water as I started to read.
The Golden Bird
A certain king had a beautiful garden, and in the garden stood a tree which bore golden apples. These apples were always counted, and about the time when they began to grow …
I didn’t hear her come in. I had been so enthralled with my gift. But suddenly, the book was snatched out of my hands, and I yelped before I knew what was happening.
‘You little thief!’ she whispered. ‘This is what happens to sneaky children who defy their mother’s wishes.’ She pulled my arm towards her, her hand locked tight around my small wrist. Then she lowered her candle and tilted it over my bare skin. One. Two. Three drops of hot wax splattered onto my arm. I clenched my teeth together, so as not to cry out. But the tears rolled out of my eyes before I could stop them and it was then I looked up at her and saw the satisfied turn of her lips.
I never saw that book again. I wonder what she did with it as I brush my fingers tentatively over the faded scars. Did Mama burn it in the fire? I look again at the charred remains of my stays, and my heart turns ice cold.
I jump as the door opens. But it is only Lillie. She stumbles in, rumpled-haired, clutching a shawl around her pokey shoulders. ‘I smelled smoke, miss,’ she says as she rubs her eyes awake. She walks over to where I am still sitting by the fireplace. ‘If you had wanted a fire, you had only to call me,’ she says testily.
I stand quickly and try to block her view of the grate. But I am too late. Lillie’s stare flicks from my unfettered form, to the burned mess behind me. Her hand flies to her mouth in disbelief. Then she stiffens and sniffs. ‘I’ll have to tell the mistress of this,’ she says, her weasel eyes glinting.
‘But you don’t, Lillie. You don’t have to tell her anything,’ I say, knowing as I speak that my words are wasted.
Lillie’s mouth twitches. ‘Oh, I do,’ she says defiantly. ‘And I will. First thing in the morning.’
I look hard into her face – at her eyes, like two shrivelled currants pushed into a ball of raw pastry – and, suddenly, I know how I can stop her. ‘As you like,’ I say to her. ‘But remember, Lillie. Everyone gets what they deserve in the end. Everyone.’ Lillie makes a noise at the back of her throat, like a disgruntled dog, then turns on her heels back to her room.
I laugh bitterly. I will make her regret this. Somehow, I will make her pay for her spitefulness. I know I cannot hide my burned stays from Mama, but I will not give Lillie the pleasure of tattling. I will teach that piece of poison a lesson she will never forget.
I climb into bed and try to clear my mind of all thoughts, except one. I lay my head on the pillow and close my eyes. I concentrate as hard as I can on my next wish. I imagine Lillie’s pale, pinched face, her eyes gleaming with delight as she rushes to Mama’s room to tell of my terrible sin. I imagine Lillie opening her mean little mouth and finding to her horror that there is no sound to come out of it. I imagine her voice, shrivelled to a black lump, rolling off her tongue and falling to the floor. I wish and I wish as hard as I can, and as I fall asleep, all that is in my head is a picture of Lillie with her mouth, empty of words, gaping wide like a goldfish.