Drood (87 page)

After I had bathed and dressed especially well, I heard bustling coming from the kitchen downstairs.

Agnes had also dressed to the apex of her poor ability—the thought that she was in her best clothes to travel caused a flurry of panic in me—and was in the process of fixing a full breakfast for me as I came into the kitchen.

The girl actually flinched, pulling back into a corner.

I gave her my warmest and most avuncular smile, even as I held both hands up, palms towards her, and stopped in the doorway to show her that I held no aggressive intentions.

“Good morning, Agnes. You are looking especially lovely today.”

“G-g-g-g-good morning, M-m-m-m…
Mr
Collins. Thank ’ee, sir. Your eggs ’n’ beans ’n’ bacon ’n’ t-t-t-toast is almost r-r-ready, sir.”

“Wonderful,” I said. “May I sit here in the kitchen with you to eat it?”

The idea obviously horrified her.

“On second thought, I’ll have it in the dining room as always. Has the
Times
arrived?”

“Y-y-y-yess—yesss—sir,” she managed. “It’s on the dining room table, as always.” She omitted the second “sir” rather than get stuck on it again. Her face was a bright red. The bacon was burning. “D-do you want coffee this mornin’… Mr Collins… or tea?”

“Coffee, I think. Thank you, Agnes.”

I went in and read the paper and waited. Everything on every plate she brought was either burned or raw or—somehow—both at once. Even the coffee tasted scorched, and the girl slopped it into my saucer when she poured it. I ate and drank it all with every sign of relish.

When she came in to refill my cup, I smiled again and said, “Can you sit down and talk to me for a minute, Agnes?”

She looked at the empty chairs at the table and gave me another look of horror. Sit at the master’s table? Such things were not done.

“Or stand, if you’re more comfortable with that,” I added amiably. “But I think we should chat about…”

“I di’n’t hear nothing las’ noon,” she said in a tumble of rushed syllables. The main word came out as
nothink.
“N-n-nothing at all, Mr Collins, sir. And I saw nothing as well. I di’n’t see anyone else there with you in your study, Mr Collins, I swear I di’n’t. And I heard nothing…”
Nothink.
“. . . about Mr Dickens or nobody and nothing else.”

I forced a chuckle. “It’s all right, Agnes. It’s all right. My cousin was visiting…”

My cousin, yes. My identical-twin cousin. My
Doppelgänger
cousin
.
My perfectly identical cousin of whom I had never spoken, never mentioned to George or Besse. Identical down to the glasses and suit and waistcoat and belly and hint of grey beginning in the beard.

“. . . and I would have introduced you to him if you’d not left in such a hurry,” I finished. It was hard to hold such a wide and gentle smile in place for so long, especially while speaking.

The girl was shaking from head to foot. She had to set one hand on the back of a chair to help hold her upright. I noticed that the already-bitten nails were now bleeding.

“My… cousin… is also a literary gentleman,” I said softly. “It’s possible you heard the tag end of a fanciful story we were devising… about the murder of a writer somewhat like Mr Dickens, whom you know has visited here often and would have been amused by our tale.
Like
Mr Dickens—we used his name as a sort of shorthand—but not
really
Mr Dickens, of course. You are aware that I write sensationalist stories and plays, aren’t you, Agnes?”

The girl’s eyes were actually fluttering. What would I do if she fainted or screamed or ran out into the street in search of a constable?

“At any rate,” I finished, “neither my cousin nor I wanted you to get the wrong idea.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Collins. I di’n’t see nor hear nothing.” She repeated this four times.

I set down my paper and pushed back my chair. Little Agnes jumped half a foot into the air.

“I’m going out for a few minutes,” I said briskly. There would be no more mentions of last night from me. Ever. “I shall be back shortly. Would you be so kind as to iron my eight best evening dress shirts?”

“They was ironed by Mum jus’ before she left,” managed Agnes, her voice constricted. At the words “Mum” and “left” her eyes grew moist and her hands shook more fiercely.

“Yes,” I said almost harshly, “but they were not ironed to my satisfaction. I’m going to the theatre several times this week and will require those shirts to be perfect. Could you do that at once, please?”

“Yes, Mr Collins.” She ducked her head and left with the coffeepot. As I went to the foyer closet to find my overcoat, I could hear the iron being heated in the kitchen.

I had to keep her busy the next hour. I had to be sure she would have no time to write and send a letter, nor time enough to think and then run away.

If I could keep her here the next hour, there would be nothing for me to fear.

Nothink.

M
ARTHA R
—
— WAS HAPPY
to see me at her door. She was
always
happy to see me at her door. And her door was only a short distance from Gloucester Place, and I’d been lucky enough to find an empty cab leaving Portman Square near my home. With a little more such luck, I’d be back before Agnes had ironed the first shirt, much less before she had time to write and go post a letter.

At first blush, Martha—known to her landlady and other Bolsover Street residents as “Mrs Dawson”—would be an unlikely place to find £300, despite the fact that I gave her a most generous allowance of £20 per month. But I knew Martha’s habits. She purchased almost nothing for herself. She ate frugally, sewed her own dresses, and got by on very little. She always set aside some of the money I gave her monthly and had brought some savings with her from Yarmouth.

I told her what I needed.

“Of course,” she said and went into the other room and came back with £300 in various bills and coins.

Perfect.

I had not taken off my overcoat and now I thrust the money into my coat pocket and opened the door. “Thank you, my dear. I will return the amount first thing Monday, after the banks open. Perhaps before then.”

“Wilkie?”

Her voice stopped me. She rarely called me by name.

“Yes, my dear?” I had to work to keep the impatience out of my voice.

“I am with child.”

I blinked rapidly behind my small round glasses. My neck was suddenly very warm and prickly.

“Did you hear me, Wilkie? I am with child.”

“Yes, I heard you.”

I opened the door to go but paused. She had no idea how precious were these seconds and minutes I was giving her. “How far along?” I asked softly.

“I believe our child will come in late June or early July.”

A little over two months ago, then. It had been that night in October after all—the night of Caroline’s wedding.

I smiled. I knew I should take three steps forward and put my arms around her—I knew that Martha expected this, even though she usually expected or asked for so little—but I could not. So I smiled instead.

“We shall have to raise your allowance when the time comes,” I said. “Perhaps from twenty pounds to twenty-five pounds.”

She nodded and looked down at the worn carpet.

“I shall return this three hundred pounds as soon as I can,” I said. And then I left.

C
OME INTO THE PARLOUR
, child,” I said.

Agnes had been ironing my third shirt when I returned. I’d left the cab waiting outside. During the ride back from Bolsover Street, I’d given careful thought to where the girl and I should have our conversation. The kitchen was too informal… and I did not want her in that room yet. Normally, I would have asked a servant who needed a talking-to to come into my study, but that would have frightened Agnes now. So it was the parlour.

“Sit down, please,” I said. I had taken the large leather chair near the fire and I waved her to a lower, less comfortable wooden chair I had pulled into place. This time my tone left no room for her not to comply.

She sat. Her eyes were down, focusing on nothing save for her red hands folded on her lap.

“Agnes, I have been giving much thought recently to your future.…”

She did not look up. Her entire body was trembling slightly.

“You know that not too long ago I placed Carrie… Miss G——. . . in a wonderful position as governess to an excellent family?”

She said nothing.

“Speak up, please. You
are
aware of Miss Carrie’s new position?”

“Yes, sir.” The syllables were so soft that an ember crumbling in the fireplace could have muffled them.

“I have decided that it is time for you to have the same opportunities,” I said.

She looked up then. Her eyes were as red-rimmed as her fingernails. Had she been crying while she ironed?

“Please read this,” I said, handing her a letter I had written the night before on my best stationery.

The heavy cream paper vibrated in her hands as she read—slowly, her lips moving as she silently sounded out the words. Finally she finished and tried to hand it back to me. “That is… very kind of you… sir. Very kind.”

At least the d—— ned stutter was gone.

“No, you keep it, my child. That is your letter of reference and an excellently worded one, if I do say so myself. I have chosen the family you will work for. They have an estate near Edinburgh. I have sent word to them that you are coming and that you will begin your duties there tomorrow.”

Her eyes widened and continued to widen. I thought she might faint.

“I don’t know nothing about governessin’, Mr Collins.”

Nothink.

I smiled paternally. I was tempted to lean forward and pat her shaking hands, but was afraid she might bolt if I did so. “That doesn’t matter at all, Agnes. Miss Carrie knew nothing about being a governess before she began her employment. And look how wonderfully that has worked out.”

Agnes’s eyes darted down to her folded hands. When I stood suddenly, she physically flinched. I began to understand at that moment why thuggish men beat their women; when someone acted as a puppy acted, the urge to beat them like a puppy was very strong. I was too aware of the heavy iron poker by the fireplace.

I parted the drapes. “Look out here, please,” I commanded.

Her head came up, but her eyes were wide and wild.

“Stand up, Agnes. That’s a good girl. Look out here. What do you see?”

“A closed carriage, sir.”

“That’s a cab, Agnes. It’s waiting for you. The driver shall take you to the railway station.”

“I ain’t ever ridden in a cab, sir.”

“I know,” I sighed, allowing the heavy drapes to swing closed. “There are all sorts of new experiences waiting for you, my dear child. This will be the first of many wonderful new things.”

I went to the nearby table and returned with a writing board, a page of stationery, and a pencil for her. In her current state, I did not trust her with pen and ink.

“Agnes, you are now going to write a short note to your parents, telling them that a wonderful employment opportunity has arisen and that you have left London to pursue it. You will give them no details… simply tell them that you will write them once you have begun employment there.”

“Sir… I… I cannot… I do not…”

“Just write what I dictate to you, Agnes. Now take up the pencil. That’s a good girl.”

I made the note short—four sentences as simple as this dull child would write—and I looked it over when she had finished. The clumsy letters were formed in a spidery, nervous hand, the capitalisation was random, and several simple words were misspelled, but that would have been true in any case.

“Very good, Agnes. Now sign it. Add your love and sign it.”

She did so.

I put the writing board and pencil back and folded the note, slipping it into my pocket.

I set the £300 on the ottoman between us.

“This is for you, my child. The family to whom I have recommended you will pay you, of course… pay you very well, in truth, even more than Miss Carrie is currently earning (old families in Scotland can be very generous)… but this amount, which you must admit is also very generous, will allow you to purchase new clothes, more fitting for your new employment and responsibilities, upon your arrival in Edinburgh. Even that shall leave adequate funds for your first year or two.”

I had never noticed the girl’s freckles. When she looked up at me now, her round face was so pale that those freckles stood out in bold relief. “Me mum…” she said. “Me dad… I can’t… they…”

“They will be
delighted,
” I said heartily. “I shall explain it all to them as soon as they return and they will almost certainly come to visit you as soon as they are able. Now go on upstairs and pack everything you want to bring to this new life. Do not forget your prettiest dresses. There will be parties and balls.”

She continued sitting.

“Go!” I commanded. “No! Come back! Take the money with you. Now go!”

Agnes scurried up the stairway to pack her clothing and few pitiful personal items.

I followed her upstairs to check that she was complying. Then I went down to the basement to the workbench and toolbox that George kept in order there. Selecting the large hammer with its pry jaws and a heavy pry bar, I went back upstairs.

D
EAR READER
from another time, if at this point you are tempted to judge me, I would ask you not to. If you knew me in real life as opposed to through these mere words, you would know that I am a gentle man.

I have always been gentle in demeanour and actions. My fiction is—was—sensationalist, but my life is—was—a testimonial to quiet gentleness. Women always sensed this about me, which is why a short, bespectacled, slightly rotund gentleman such as myself was so popular with the ladies. Even our friend Charles Dickens used to joke about my gentleness, as if a lack of aggression were a reason to be made fun of.

During my ride home from Martha’s, I’d realised again that I was incapable of harming a hair on young Agnes’s head, no matter how devastating her inevitable indiscretion would be to my life and career. I had never raised my hand against anyone in anger.