Angel of Ruin (5 page)

Father fixed her in his blind gaze. “N-n-nice?” he said, imitating a high girlish voice. “I’m g-glad you th-think so.”

Anne dropped her head, sucked in her bottom lip.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Betty said. “Mary, Anne. You are both fond of clothes and fabrics are you not?”

Anne dared not answer. Mary, her mouth half full of
bread, squeaked. “Fond of? I
love
dresses.” She swallowed loudly. “Anne has no interest though. Can’t you tell?”

Betty smiled a smile which didn’t quite reach her eyes. Anne saw her hand steal out to tap Father’s lightly.

“Go on then, Betty,” he said.

“No. You should tell them.”

Father wiped up some soup onto his last piece of bread, ate it, dusted his fingers and sat back in his chair. “We have plans for you, girls.”

Anne’s lips moved to form the words, “What kind of plans?”, but no sound would come out. Deborah jumped in for her. “Plans, Father?”

“Deborah, you are to stay here by me and take my dictation daily, and read to me. My last amanuensis has lately left for Cambridge, and Betty has no languages. It will have to be you.”

“I should be pleased to, Father.”

“And what of us?” Mary said, her jaw set in challenge. “What plans for the ugly sisters?”

“Mary, I can see neither you nor Anne, and know not if you are ugly,” Father said evenly.

Betty jumped in. “A lacemaker in Surrey has need for two apprentices and —”

“What!” Mary gasped. “You want to send us out as apprentices!”

“Your father hasn’t enough to support you all,” Betty started. “He hasn’t —”

“Is this your idea,
Mother?”
Mary said caustically.

“Mary, I have made up my mind on this issue,” Father said in his implacable way.

“Fine, then,” said Mary. “If you’ve made up your mind.”

Anne glanced across at Mary, curious. Why was she giving in so easily? This was not Mad Mary.

“Yes, he has,” Betty said.

“And the lacemaker in Surrey knows we are the daughters of Milton?”

“Yes, I expect so,” Father said, a slight frown turning down the corners of his mouth. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, ’tis nothing really. Only, I should imagine they’ll be mightily surprised when they see Anne.”

Anne turned an uncomprehending gaze on her sister.

“What do you mean?” Father asked. His fear of the opinion of others was his weakness.

“Well, can you imagine? The great Milton, autodidact, revered thinker, linguist, poet, defender of the Good Old Cause … I’m sure Anne — with her lame legs and her stutter — I’m sure she will give them something to talk about.” Mary had reached a hand under the table to squeeze Anne’s, as though the small sign of affection was enough to banish the sickening disillusionment of hearing her sister speak of her in such away.

Father frowned. Betty began to say, “I’m sure nobody will —”

“No, Betty. Let Mary speak.”

“Father, she’s an idiot. Certainly, I could be there to look out for her, make sure she doesn’t say or do anything too stupid, but I can’t make her appear normal if she’s not. And people may wonder, how did the great Milton father such progeny?”

Deborah’s hand now crept under the table and grabbed Anne’s fingers in her own. Anne shook off both her sisters and pressed her palms under the table. Mary’s words stung like fire. She wanted to stand up and say, “I
will
be a lacemaker’s apprentice. And I will show all of you what I am capable of.” But she knew such eloquent displays were beyond her.

“And if you keep Anne here,” Mary continued, “you’ll have to keep me. For Deborah will be busy
working for you, and somebody has to take care of Anne. Why, she can barely fend for herself she’s such a simple.”

Anne could read on Father’s face that he believed every word. To him, possessed of such a fiery intellect, of course she would seem to be touched in the head. Of course he thought her a simple, for she could barely read or write, and knew not a single other language like her sisters. But that was only because she had never been taught, because everyone had assumed that she had less than half her wits.

Betty turned to her husband. “John —”

“Mary has a point,” he said quietly.

“But we haven’t enough for —”

“We have enough, Betty,” Father said. “And we certainly have room for them.”

“Now you make mention of room, Father,” Mary started, “I wonder if I might swap with Deborah and take the closet. Only she’s so very much taller and …”

She trailed off when she saw how Father stared at her, his lids jerked up wide to reveal his unseeing eyes. “You have said enough,” he said quietly. “Deborah will sleep in the closet. You will share a bed with your sister. You will be her constant companion, and you will ensure that I am not embarrassed by her, for it appears you are staying in London.”

Mary nodded, squeezed Anne’s hand under the table, a little gesture of triumph. “Yes, Father.”

Mary had seen it a thousand times before. Anne could only express her anger in mute, teary looks of accusation. She flung herself on the bed and gazed up at her sisters, words forming but not making it past her lips.

“Oh, you know I don’t mean the things I say,” Mary said, her guilt making her impatient. Deborah moved
about the room, stoking the fire and stripping down to her shift for bed.

“Then you sh-sh—”

“I know I shouldn’t say them. But he was about to send us off to Surrey. To split the three of us up.”

“I would have gone. I would have p-proved to you that I’m not useless.”

“Nobody thinks you’re useless.” Deborah joined them on the end of the bed. “Mary and I know that you are clever and thoughtful and wise.”

“I hate it. I …” Not another word came out of her mouth. She sat there, her mouth popping open and closed, tears running down her cheeks. Mary locked her arms around her sister and squeezed tight.

“I love you, Anne. Please, Annie, don’t cry. We’ll stay together this way.”

Deborah leaned forward and stroked Anne’s hair. After a few moments she began to calm and pulled out of Mary’s embrace, sitting up and palming tears from her cheeks. “I want us to stay together,” she said softly.

“And we shall. Come, no more tears,” Mary said. “Let’s all squirm into this bed together — yes, you too, Deborah — and tell riddles until we fall asleep.”

“I have a riddle for you,” Deborah said as she wriggled into bed between her two sisters. “Why on earth did Father marry Betty?”

They giggled, even Anne.

“She’s a witch!” exclaimed Mary. “An ugly old witch.”

“She has such a b-big nose,” Anne said.

“And her face is so pink and shiny,” Deborah added.

“And as for those silly superstitions! Max not allowed under the table because it is —”

“Extreme bad luck!” her sisters chorused, laughing.

“Well,” Mary said, making herself comfortable on her side between the dusty blankets, facing her sisters,
“she certainly wasted no time trying to rid herself of us. I hate her already.”

“Me too,” said Deborah. “If I were granted a wish right now, from a genie, I would wish her sent to Surrey to be apprentice to a lacemaker.”

Mary scowled. “Surrey is a pretty place. I would wish her dead.”

“Mary, no!” cried Anne.

“Oh, here again,” Mary said. Anne’s righteousness was so tiresome. “For goodness sake, I don’t
mean
it, Anne.”

Deborah leaned close to Anne, touched her cheek lightly. “What is wrong sister? You are pale.”

“A very long time ago, I wished someone d-dead and …” She fought with her words for a few moments. “And it d-did indeed happen.”

“Are you talking about Johnny again?” Mary asked. For some reason Anne had always blamed herself for the death of their baby brother Johnny, when they were little more than infants themselves.

Anne nodded.

“Oh, Annie. You are too soft. You were only a child. And though you may have wished him dead, ’twas not your fault he died. He grew sick, as so many babies do.”

“B-but it was my fault,” Anne whispered in the firelit room. “It was.”

“You were a tiny little girl,” Mary said, reaching for her hand.

Anne pulled away.

“Really, Anne, why do you have this fixation about Johnny?” Mary said impatiently. “Did you poison him?”

“No!” Anne cried. Then softer, almost under her breath, “No.”

“Then what —”

“If I tell you,” Anne said, “you are not to wish B-Betty dead ever again.”

Mary’s curiosity was aroused. “Certainly.”

“No, swear. Swear on the grave of our d-dear mother, that you will never wish Betty, or anyone, dead.”

“I swear,” Mary said, imbuing her voice with as much solemnity as she could muster.

“And Deborah?” Anne said. “Do you sw-sw—”

“I swear, Anne,” Deborah said. “What great secret is this that we must swear on Mother’s grave?”

“’Tis a secret about Mother,” Anne said.

“Then tell us,” Mary said, trying not to sound impatient. Anne was far too serious. In fact, it was frightening her. The room was very dark and empty compared to their bright, cluttered room back at Forest Hill.

“Just ere D-Deborah was born, Mother grew ill. Remember, Mary?”

She did remember, though she had only been four. It was the first great terror of her life, seeing Mother so pale and walking with such a stiff gait. “Yes.”

“She t-told me something. She t-took me aside and told me something about what she had d-done to make sure we would be safe. If she d-d-died.”

Mary waited while Anne drew her breath. Long sentences were difficult for her. Deborah looked apprehensive, all wide watchful eyes. Mother had died three days after Deborah was born. Mary felt such pity that her younger sister had never known Mother’s warm hands and soft eyes, and the safety of her embrace.

“She had been to a wise w—” She struggled over the consonant. “A wise woman. The wise woman summoned for her a g-guardian angel. To watch over us. M-Mother gave me the instructions to c-call upon him, should we be in danger or p-p-pain.”

“An angel?” Deborah asked.

Anne had drawn pale at the remembrance, which made Mary curious. She had heard of such magic, but had never expended much energy on wondering if it were possible.

Anne nodded. “She made me repeat the summoning over and over, until I g-got it right. Within two weeks, she was d-dead.” She fell silent a few moments, and the only sound was the crackling of the fire, and the faraway noises of carts rolling over cobbles. Anne drew a great breath. “Johnny was always Father’s favourite.”

“I remember,” Mary said.

“And when Mother died …”

“Father all but forgot we existed,” Mary finished for her. “You and I, and tiny Deborah. He talked only of Johnny, and what a fine man he would become.”

“Y-yes.”

“Go on,” Deborah said. “What happened?”

“I was jealous. One night, when everyone was asleep, I c-crept out of bed and went to Johnny’s crib. And I summoned the angel.”

“You weren’t imagining it?” Deborah asked gently.

Anne shook her head, her lips pressed together to hold back tears. “Oh, no. ’Twas more real than anything I’ve ever s-seen. He was t-taller than a man, b-beautiful, wise and knowing.”

Mary was momentarily speechless, her imagination swelling. Anne, she knew, was incapable of insincerity. Could this be truth? “You called an angel?
Our
angel?”

Anne nodded.

“What was his name?”

Anne continued as though she hadn’t heard. Her voice had dropped to a whisper. “He asked me how he c-could serve me, and I said that I wished my brother d-d-d—”

Deborah touched Anne’s cheek with her fingertips. “Oh, Anne. You were just a child. Perhaps you dreamed it.”

“It was not a d-dream.”

“What did he say?” Mary asked. “Did he say he would kill Johnny?”

“He said my wish would be g-granted.” She choked back a sob. “Johnny died the next day.”

“How did you summon him?” Mary asked. “Was it hard? Would he come again? What words did you use? Magic words or ordinary?” Somehow she understood that these questions were distressing Anne, but she could not stem their flow.

“I cannot tell you, for I don’t remember,” Anne said. “I was too small.”

“Yes, you were small,” Deborah said. “So you mustn’t feel guilty. Perhaps you dreamed it. Or if it were true, perhaps the angel meant that Johnny was already sick. Angels don’t go about killing children.”

“No, of course not,” Mary said. “Anne, you simply
must
remember the summoning. What was the angel’s name? How about the wise woman?”

“I remember n-n-nothing!” Anne said, her voice quavering. “Do not ask me again, sister.”

Mary stared at her, astonished. How was she expected to sleep, knowing that her mother had provided them with a guardian angel whom they could command, and that Anne could not remember how to call upon him? “Anne, you must remember. I shall die if you don’t remember.”

“Nobody will die,” Deborah said dismissively. Sometimes she was so reasonable she seemed she might be the eldest rather than the youngest; especially now with Anne flushed and damp from crying. “’Tis the fancy of her childhood. The angel is not real.”

“He is real,” Anne said. “I sw-swear that he is real.”

“Then we must call upon him, we must —”

“Mary, no,” Anne said. “The w-words are erased from my memory. I vowed never to use them again, and so I shall not.”

“But —”

“Mary,” Deborah said. “Why don’t you take my bed tonight, and I shall sleep by Anne.”

“I merely want to know —”

Anne began to sob in earnest. Deborah gave Mary a gentle push. “Go to, no more talk of angels and dying. Sleep, and all will be well again in the morning.”

Mary reluctantly climbed out of the bed. She grabbed Max from where he slept in front of the fire, and went to the closet. He wriggled into bed beside her, a warm bundle of love in her arms, and she smiled down on him in the dark, kissed the top of his little head as he drifted off into dreams. Sleep didn’t come for her, however. Her mind was too full of the possibilities. Her very own angel, and Anne determined not to remember a single word of the summoning!