Alias Grace (45 page)

Then something came clear to me which I used to wonder about. There is a quilt pattern called Lady of the Lake, which I thought was named for the poem; but I could never find any lady in the pattern, nor any lake. But now I saw that the boat was named for the poem, and the quilt was named for the boat; because it was a pinwheel design, which must have stood for the paddle going around. And I thought that things did make sense, and have a design to them, if you only pondered them long enough. And so perhaps it might be with recent events, which at the moment seemed to me entirely senseless; and finding out the reason for the quilt pattern was a lesson to me, to have faith.

Then I remembered Mary Whitney reading that poem with me, and how we would skip through the dull courtships, and move on to the exciting parts, and the fighting; but the place I recalled best was the poor woman who’d been stolen away from the church on her wedding day, kidnapped for a nobleman’s pleasure, and had gone mad from it, and wandered about picking wildflowers, and singing to herself. And I considered that I too was being kidnapped after a fashion, though not on my wedding day; and I feared I might end up in the same plight.

Meanwhile we were coming into Lewiston. James had attempted to sell the horse and wagon to those on board, against my better judgment; but he asked far too low a price, which aroused suspicion. And because he’d offered them for sale, the Customs Officer in Lewiston put a duty on them, and detained them because we did not have the money to pay it. But although James was angry at first, he soon passed it off as being of little importance, and told me we would sell some of the other things, and come back the next day for the rig. But I was quite anxious about it, as it meant we would have to spend the night there; and although we were in the United States, and should think ourselves safe, as we were in a foreign country now; yet that never stopped the slavers up from the States from seizing runaway slaves they said were theirs; and altogether it was far too close for comfort.

I tried to make him promise not to sell Charley Horse, though he could do as he liked with the wagon.

But he said, Horse be damned; and I believe he was jealous of the poor horse, because I was so fond of him.

The scenery in the United States was much the same as that of the countryside we had just come from, but it was indeed a different place, as the flags were different. I remembered what Jeremiah told me about borders, and how easy it was to cross them. The time when he had said that to me, in the kitchen at Mr. Kinnear’s, seemed very long ago, and in a different lifetime; but in reality it was just over a week before.

We went to the nearest tavern, which was not a hotel at all, as was said in the broadsheet poem about me, but only a cheap inn by the wharf. There James soon swilled down a lot more beer and brandy than was good for him; and then we had supper, and he drank yet more. And when it was time to retire, he wanted us to pretend we were man and wife, and to take a room together; for, he said, it would be half the cost. But I saw what he was after, and said that as we had started on the boat as brother and sister, we could not change now, in case any remembered us from the boat. So he was given a room with another man in it, and I had one to myself.

But he tried to push his way into my room, saying we would be married soon enough anyway. And I said we would not, and I would sooner marry the Devil himself, than him; and he said he would have my promise off me anyway. Then I said I would scream, which would be a different thing in a houseful of people than in one with only two corpses. And he told me for God’s sake to shut my mouth, and called me a slut and a whore; and I said he should think of some new words to use, because I was heartily tired of those. And he left in a foul temper.

I resolved to get up very early, and dress, and steal away. For if I was forced in some way to marry him, I would be dead and buried in one shake of a lamb’s tail; as if he was suspicious of me at present, he would be more so later. And once he’d got me into a farmhouse, in a strange neighbourhood with no friends about, I would not give two pins for my own life, as it would be a knock on the head for me, and six feet deep in the kitchen garden, and I would be making the potatoes and carrots grow, a great deal sooner than I cared to think.

Happily there was a door that latched, and so I latched it; and then I took off my clothes, all except my shift, and folded them neatly across the back of the chair, as I used to do in the little room at Mrs.

Alderman Parkinson’s where I slept with Mary. Then I blew out the candle and slid myself in between the sheets, which were nearly clean for a wonder; and I closed my eyes.

On the insides of my eyelids I could see the water moving, the blue heaps of the waves as we came across the Lake, with the light sparkling on them; only they were much bigger waves, and darker, like rolling hills; and they were the waves of the ocean which I had voyaged across three years before, though it seemed like a century. And I wondered what would become of me, and comforted myself that in a hundred years I would be dead and at peace, and in my grave; and I thought it might be less trouble altogether, to be in it a good deal sooner than that.

But the waves kept moving, with the white wake of the ship traced in them for an instant, and then smoothed over by the water. And it was as if my own footsteps were being erased behind me, the footsteps I’d made as a child on the beaches and pathways of the land I’d left, and the footsteps I’d made on this side of the ocean, since coming here; all the traces of me, smoothed over and rubbed away as if they had never been, like polishing the black tarnish from the silver, or drawing your hand across dry sand.

On the edge of sleep I thought: It’s as if I never existed, because no trace of me remains, I have left no marks. And that way I cannot be followed.

It is almost the same as being innocent.

And then I slept.

Chapter 40

This is what I dreamt, as I lay asleep between the nearly clean sheets, in the tavern at Lewiston.

I was walking up the long curved drive to Mr. Kinnear’s, between the rows of maple trees that were planted at either side. I was seeing it all for the first time, although I also knew I had been there before, as is the way in dreams. And I thought, I wonder who lives in that house?

Then I knew that I was not alone on the driveway. Mr. Kinnear was walking behind me, to the left; he was there to make sure no harm came to me. And then the lamp came on in the parlour window, and I knew that Nancy was inside, waiting to welcome me back from my journey; for I had been on a journey, I was sure of it, and had been absent a long time. Only it was not Nancy, but Mary Whitney who was waiting; and I felt so happy, to know I would see her again, restored to health and laughing, as she was before.

I saw how beautiful the house was, all white, with the pillars at the front, and the white peonies in flower by the verandah glimmering in the dusk, and the lamplight blooming in the window.

And I longed to be there, although in the dream I was there already; but I had a great yearning towards this house, for it was my real home. And as I felt that, the lamp was dimmed and the house went dark, and I saw that the fireflies were out and glowing, and there was the smell of milkweed blossoms from the fields all around, and the warm damp air of the summer evening against my cheek, so mild and soft. And a hand was slipped into mine.

And just then there was a knocking at the door.

Eleven - Falling Timbers

Chapter 41

To Dr. Simon Jordan, care of Major C. D. Humphrey, Lower Union Street, Kingston, Canada
West; from Mrs. William P. Jordan, Laburnum House, Loomisville, Massachusetts, The United
States of America.

August 3rd, 1859.

My Dearest Son:

I am in the greatest state of apprehension, at not having had a letter from you, for so long. Do
send me at least one word, to let me know that no disaster has befallen you. In these evil days,
with a calamitous War looming ever nearer in the distance, a Mother’s chief hope is that her
dearest ones, of which I have only you remaining, should be safe and sound. Perhaps it would be
best if you would remain in that country, to avoid the inevitable; but it is only a weak Mother’s
heart that urges it, as I cannot in all conscience advocate cowardice, when so many other Mothers
will surely be prepared to face whatever Fate may have in store.

I do so long to see your welcome face once more, dear Son. The slight cough, which has troubled
me ever since the time of your birth, has increased of late, and is in the evenings quite violent; and
I am in an agony of nerves, every day that you are away from us, for fear that I should be taken
away suddenly, in the middle of the night perhaps, without having the opportunity of bidding you
a last fond farewell, and giving you a last Mother’s Blessing. Should War be avoided, which we
must all hope for, I do so pray that I may see you well settled, and in a home of your own, before
that inevitable date. But do not let my doubtless idle fears and fancies take you away from your
studies and researches, and your Lunatics, or whatever you are doing, which I am sure is very
important.

I hope you are eating a nourishing diet, and keeping up your strength. There is no blessing like a
solid constitution, and if one has not inherited it, then even more care must be taken. Mrs.

Cartwright says she is so thankful that her daughter has never been sick a day in her life, and is
as strong as a horse. The inheritance of a sound mind in a healthy body would be the best legacy
of all, to leave to one’s children; one which your own poor Mother was, alas, not able to provide,
to her own dear Boy, though not for lack of wishing. But we must all content ourselves with the
lot in life, in which Providence has seen fit to place us.

My faithful Maureen and Samantha send their respect and love to you, and beg to be
remembered. Samantha says that her strawberry preserves, which you loved so much as a Boy,
continue as good as ever, and you should hurry back for a taste of them, before she “crosses over
the river,” as she puts it; and my poor Maureen, who may soon be as crippled as your Mother,
says she cannot eat a spoonful, without thinking of you, and remembering happier times; and they
are both most anxious for the renewed sight of your ever-welcome countenance; as is, to a
thousandfold extent,

Your always loving and devoted,

Mother.

Chapter 42

Simon is in the upstairs corridor again, in the attic, where the maids live. He senses them waiting behind their closed doors, listening, their eyes shining in the semi-darkness; but they don’t make a sound. His footsteps in their thick schoolboy boots ring hollowly on the boards. Surely there ought to be some kind of carpet here, or matting; everyone in the house must be able to hear him.

He opens a door at random, hoping to find Alice, or was her name Effie? But he’s back at Guy’s Hospital. He can smell it, almost taste it — that dense, heavy smell of damp stone, damp wool, halitosis, and septic human flesh. It’s the smell of trial and disapproval: he is going to be examined. Before him is a draped table: he must make a dissection, although he is only a student here, he hasn’t been taught, he doesn’t know how. The room is empty, but he knows he’s being watched, by those who are there to judge him.

It’s a woman, under the sheet; he can tell by the contours. He hopes she isn’t too old, as that would be somehow worse. A poor woman, dead of some unknown disease. No one knows where they get the cadavers; or no one knows for certain. Dug up in the graveyard by moonlight, goes the student joke. No, not by moonlight, you fool: by the Resurrection Men.

Step by step he approaches the table. Does he have his instruments ready? Yes, here is the candlestick; but he has no shoes on, and his feet are wet. He must lift off the sheet, then lift off her skin, whoever she is, or was, layer by layer. Strip back her rubbery flesh, peel her open, gut her like a haddock. He’s shaking with terror. She will be cold, inflexible. They keep them on ice.

But under the sheet there’s another sheet, and under that another one. It looks like a white muslin curtain.

Then there’s a black veil, and then — can it be? — a petticoat. The woman must be down there somewhere; frantically he rummages. But no; the last sheet is a bedsheet, and there’s nothing under it but a bed. That, and the form of someone who’s been lying here. It’s still warm.

He is failing desperately, failing his examination, and so publicly too; but now he doesn’t mind that. It’s as if he’s been reprieved. It will be all right now, he will be taken care of. Outside the door, which is the same one he came in by, there’s a green lawn, with a stream flowing beyond it. The sound of the running water is very soothing. There’s a quick indrawn breath, and the smell of strawberries, and a hand touches his shoulder.

He wakes, or dreams he wakes. He knows he must still be asleep, because Grace Marks is bending over him in the close darkness, her loosened hair brushing his face. He isn’t surprised, nor does he ask how she has managed to come here from her prison cell. He pulls her down — she is wearing only a nightdress — and falls on top of her, and shoves himself into her with a groan of lust and no manners, for in dreams everything is permitted. His spine jerks him like a hooked fish, then releases him. He gasps for air.

Only then does he realize he’s not dreaming; or not dreaming the woman. She’s really here, in the flesh, lying motionless beside him in the suddenly too-quiet bed, arms at her sides like an effigy; but she is not Grace Marks. Impossible now to mistake her boniness, her bird’s ribcage, her smell of singed linen and camphor and violets. The opium taste of her mouth. It’s his thin landlady, whose first name he doesn’t even know. When he entered her she made no sound, either of protest or delight. Is she even breathing?