Goldsmith's Row (18 page)

"Nearly half my lifetime, madam," said the dark woman. "I'm flattered you knew me so quickly."

They embraced, and Grace looked curiously at Mrs. Ire-dale, the friend who had sheltered Frank and sent Mrs. Tabor the news of her death.

The two women had not met since, as they were reminding each other now.

"Your family sent you away in disgrace, and there were many questions I was not able to ask you—but that's of no account, for we have answered the most important question of all. We have recovered my grand-daughter—and here she is!" announced Mrs. Tabor, proudly indicating Grace.

"Well, as to that, madam, I fear you may be mistaken," said Bess Iredale. She sounded regretful and uneasy.

"But why should you think that?" demanded Mrs. Tabor.

Why indeed? She hardly looked at me, thought Grace. How could she tell whether or not I was the baby she saw nearly sixteen years ago?

Yet here she was, saying firmly: "I'm afraid this cannot be your grandchild, madam."

"I assure you, we have proof…"

"Mrs. Tabor, pray listen to me! When I wrote you that letter, just after Frank's death, I was in great distress and confusion of mind, besides being a very poor hand with a pen, and totally unversed in breaking bad news. So that's how it came about—though when Laurence quoted my own words back to me, I could scarcely believe that I had been such a fool. There was one circumstance I failed to make plain, relating to the baby…"

"Did the baby die also?" interrupted Philadelphia. "Is that what you are trying to tell us? Or was she deformed in some way?"

"No, not that." Bess Iredale took a deep breath. "I am very sorry, Mrs. Tabor, and I hope you will be able to forgive me. It seems that I have unwittingly misled you for the past fifteen years. Frank's child was a boy."

23

For a moment they were stunned into immobility. Then there was an uproar of questions and answers—Bess had simply given the child's Christian name, said Laurence, forgetting it was the one name that could be used for either a boy or a girl. And Mrs. Tabor, thinking of the daughter she had lost, immediately jumped to the conclusion that the child who had survived her was a daughter.

She wasn't ready to give up that conclusion; she collapsed into a flood of tears, and the more they tried to reason with her, the more hysterical she became. Laurence supported his afflicted aunt, while Bess Iredale untied her laces, and Philadelphia ran to fetch a pitcher of water. There was a general commotion, some of the servants came to see what was wrong, headed by Mr. Simeon Wacey, hovering like a vulture.

Grace was incredulous. Ten days ago she had found an answer to the riddle of her own existence, she had established herself as a real person, with roots that went deeper than the thin soil of the Charity Hospital. And now they were saying that the young girl called Frances Tabor was a myth. It was a wicked falsehood.

"She wasn't a boy," Grace burst out passionately. "She was a girl, she must have been, because I'm Frances. I can remember all those things, the cottage at Milstock and the hay wagon. And the rhyme. If I'm not Frances, how did I come to know the rhyme?"

"I suppose you were taught it by Joel, as you were taught everything else," snapped Philadelphia. "I guessed how it was, when I caught you out in a lie two months ago, only I was fool enough to keep quiet."

"It's not true," protested c race. "Joel didn't teach me the rhyme, I swear he didn't. I've known it all my life."

"Oh, for God's sake hold your tongue and get out of my way. You've done enough harm already."

Philadelphia turned distractedly to Mrs. Tabor, who seemed to be having a kind of spasm. Grace watched for a moment, and then tiptoed out of the gallery.

She took refuge in her bedchamber while she tried to understand what was happening, and how it was that she felt herself to be inhabiting the body and mind and memory of a girl who apparently didn't exist. She could see that cottage in Kent—well, not see it exactly, but she knew it was there. With a quince tree in the garden, and a dog called Punch.

She brooded over this mystery for some time, but she could make no headway, and presently other thoughts took hold. Philadelphia had sounded so angry, accusing her of lying, and of course all those other stories
had
been lies. Which meant that no one would believe anything else she said, even when it was true. What would they do to her? She thought of the kind of treatment she would get from Mr. Tucker, though even that would not be as bad as the things they could do to you in prison. She was a thief, wasn't she? And suppose poor Mrs. Tabor were to die, she had looked a very alarming purple color out there in the gallery. "Then I should be a murderer," wailed Grace, halfway between panic and remorse.

Presently one of the chambermaids appeared, saying that the master had sent for her.

"Is my gra—is Mrs. Tabor recovered?" asked Grace fearfully.

"Small thanks to you if she is," said the woman, whose name was Gertrude. She was a sour, uncomfortable person, and like so many of the Thurley hangers-on, an indigent relative of Mr. Wacey. She conducted Grace down the back stairs.

Grace was too miserable to wonder why she was being taken into the servants' quarters. She was just beginning to think this was rather odd when Gertrude opened the door of one of the brick-flagged rooms behind the buttery and pushed her inside.

She came to a halt, facing a group of eight people who were all staring expectantly towards the door. There was Temperance, another chambermaid; she was a widow with a simple-minded son and a daughter who suffered from the falling sickness. They were there too. There was also an old retired servitor called Orliss, and at the back, leaning against the wall,  three  stable-boys,  low persons  who were not usually admitted to the house. Seated in the centre, like a judge, was Mr. Simeon Wacey.

"Where's Mr. Laurence?" Grace appealed to Gertrude. "Why have you brought me here?"

"We wish to examine you concerning your crimes," declared the steward.

"I accuse her!" The widow Temperance shot out a pointing finger. "I accuse her of the vile and abominable sin of witchcraft. She cast a spell on my unhappy daughter so that she fell into a fit many times more violent than ever before…"

"Witchcraft!" repeated Grace, turning pale with fright. "I don't know what you mean, I never had any traffic in such things. Sir, I beg you to believe me!"

It was the most terrifying charge that could be brought against anyone.

"There is evidence that you used satanic arts to satisfy your evil ambitions," said Wacey.

"What evidence? There must be a mistake."

"You have claimed to know things you could not have learnt in any ordinary manner. How did you learn that rhyme?"

Since Grace did not know the answer herself, she shook her head dumbly. She was trembling so that she could hardly stand, and there was so much hostility directed towards her, in that small space, it was like a physical impact She tried to back away from Wacey, but Gertrude was behind her, blocking the door.

"Answer me, slut," said the steward. "Who taught
you
the rhyme?"

"I—don't know."

"There!" said Gertrude triumphantly. "What did I tell you? She's a witch."

The others all began to agree. Grace looked anxiously from face to face, hope dying away as she saw in each one the same irrational hatred and mounting excitement. All those inbred monsters were intoxicated with their own power. Only old Orliss said grudgingly that they had better be careful in case the wench was madam's grandchild after all.

"Why, do you think she's a man?" asked one of the stable-boys. "Give her to me then, and I warrant I'll find out."

"This is no time for levity," said Wacey. "You were allowed in here on sufferance because you had some further charge to make."

"She has a familiar spirit," put in a second stable-boy. "A cat that jumps on her shoulder when she walks alone in the garden at night."

"Does she fondle it and speak to it as though it was her paramour?" asked Temperance eagerly.

"Ay, mistress. She does just that."

This caused a sensation. The youngest stable-boy said perhaps she was fond of cats, but no one paid any attention to him. Gertrude made a more practical suggestion.

"We could strip her to see whether she has a third nipple."

"Oh, no!" whispered Grace, shrinking away.

It was a well-known fact that a witch often had this third nipple in order to suckle her familiar. Grace had no mole or blemish anywhere on her body, but the thought of being pawed and peered at by this obscene crew filled her with revulsion.

Wacey had a different test for her. Let her recite the Lord's Prayer from beginning to end without faltering.

Grace tried to do as she was told. In fact she was praying harder and more fervently than she had ever prayed before, but whether it was her bad conscience or simply her acute nervousness, she stumbled over the word trespasses, and everything else was lost in a howl of execration. This showed that she was in league with the devil.

An argument now started between the servants, some saying that they ought to take her before a magistrate, others that they needed one more definite demonstration to clinch the matter. Grace did not follow what they were saying; by this time she had been driven stupid with fear and hardly knew what was gong on. Impressions came to her in waves—ugly faces, cruel voices—she was imprisoned in a world of nightmare; she had virtually forgotten that Mrs. Tabor and Laurence and Philadelphia were somewhere in the same building. No one would hear her if she cried out, there was no one she could ask for help.

Someone said that swimming a witch was the soundest proof of all. Old-fashioned, but the old ways were the best.

Grace found she was being taken out of the house. They muffled her head in a cloak, to keep her from making a noise, and the men bundled her along between them, half lifting, half dragging her. She could see nothing, because of the stifling clock; she was pinched and bruised and she kept twisting her ankles.

They were crossing the rough grass, there was a- hubbub all round her, but she still did not know where she was until someone pulled off the cloak, and she found herself standing at the edge of the lake.

The evening was misty, the water had a cold, secret, unfriendly look; it was stagnant and covered with weeds. She gaped at it, uncomprehending, while Wacey portentously explained the custom of swimming a witch. The suspect was thrown into deep water; if she sank, she was innocent. If she floated, she was guilty and would suffer the penalty for witchcraft.

"No!" sobbed Grace, sick with terror. "No! No! No!"

She struggled frantically to escape, but she was surrounded. The youngest stable-boy said he couldn't see any sense in drowning the poor girl to see if she was innocent. Everyone else was engaged in tying Grace's hands behind her back so that she couldn't save herself.

They swung her off her feet and plunged her as far out into the lake as they could manage. She fell with a flat splash, shutting her eyes and holding her breath, certain that she was going to drown. Once her head went under she would be finished.

Her skirt fanned out and was caught in the web of weeds, so that she was suspended on the surface of the water.

A shout went up from the back. "She's floating! She's possessed by the devil! Have her out and we can deal with her!"

Grace began to scream.

24

Philadelphia helped Mrs. Tabor to undress and got her into bed. The old woman was calmer now, sad and defeated.

"I shouldn't have tried to find the child," she said. "I suppose I was asking to be cozened out of my money—that's how John would have seen it. But I so longed to have a grand-daughter, I thought she would be like Frank come to life once more. And that was foolishness; my Frank's dead, and I shall never see her again in this world."

Philadelphia comforted her as best she could. This unusual clarity, she thought, must be the result of a simple mind being painfully confronted with the truth. Mrs. Tabor was often very silly; just now she had achieved a certain tragic dignity.

She persuaded her mistress to swallow an opiate draught, but even before it had time to work, Mrs. Tabor had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion. Philadelphia gently pulled the curtains round the bed. She discovered that she was very tired. She wondered whether she ought to go and find Grace, but decided to let her stew a little longer. She was angry, not merely with Grace, but with herself for failing to pass on her suspicions to Laurence. She knew why she had failed; her contradictory feelings for him had got in the way. It was humiliating.

She found him with Mrs. Iredale in the gallery.

"How is my aunt?" he asked.

"She's gone off to sleep and I think the worst is over. I believe you will find her far more reasonable in the morning."

"I blame myself for breaking the news in such a way. The fact is, I lured Mrs. Iredale over here to put this matter straight, and she can't stay with us long. Her husband's away at sea, and she's greatly needed at home."

"Besides which," said Bess Iredale, "I doubt if Mrs. Tabor would have been able to accept the news I brought unless it had been forced down her throat. She has been dreaming of a grand-daughter for so many years—what a fool I was when I wrote that letter!"

She sounded contrite, though she looked a cheerful and resilient little person; one who would feel her troubles acutely but soon recover.

Philadelphia glanced from Bess to Laurence, and several facts fell into place. "You've known all along, haven't you? That your cousin's child was a boy?"

"Yes."

"Then why, in heaven's name, didn't you say so when you first came home?"

"It's a long story."

He paused and she sat down in the window-seat beside Bess, prepared to listen.

"When we were all young," he said, "my greatest friend was Mrs. Iredale's brother Tom. We were three years younger than her and Frank, and of course we knew, as children always do, a great deal more than our elders supposed. After Frances vanished from Goldsmiths' Row her name was never spoken, but I knew perfectly well that she'd run away with Robin Martel. I knew when she died, though that wasn't mentioned either. I dare say you've been told that Bess was immediately packed off to her kinsfolk in Somerset, because of the disgrace she'd got into through helping my cousin. However, Tom saw her at Enfield before she left, and he told me, as a deadly secret, that Frank had given birth to a son.