Greygallows (10 page)

Clare struck Jonathan across the face. Jonathan staggered back. There was blood on his mouth, but he did not lift a hand to defend himself. I
heard Clare's voice, quiet and deadly.

'Your seconds will call upon me?'

'I will not fight,' Jonathan said. The blood dripped down onto his cravat.

'A coward as well as a bully,' Clare said.

'Call me what you like. I will not fight you.'

Clare's hand lifted, to strike again. I had to do something; I could not see Jonathan murdered, as that other unfortunate boy had been. Mr. Beam stood like a statue; why did he not intervene? My aunt would not; she would like to see Jonathan hurt. Their faces looked so strange, as if I saw them for the first time, with the masks of convention stripped away and their true characters exposed—the solicitor's essential coldness, my aunt's malice, Clare's murderous violence.

'Stop it,' I croaked, and tried to rise. My limbs would not obey me; but the ugly, naked faces all turned toward me. Then blackness swallowed them up.

When I awoke the room was dark except for the feeble glow of a rushlight. It shone on the face of my maid, who was slumped in a chair by the bed. She was fast asleep, her mouth hanging open and her cap askew.

I was in my own room, then. I felt quite well, except for an odd feeling that 'I' was located a little outside of my body.

'What day is it?' I asked.

Mary started violently.

'What ... what?' she mumbled, and then came wide awake. 'Oh, miss! How do you feel? You fainted; they brought you home in—'

'I know that,' I said impatiently. 'What day is it—what hour?'

She answered; and my heart sank down into my toes.

It was ten o'clock on the evening of the same day. At midnight Fernando would be waiting with a carriage, so we could elope.

If I had been unconscious for a few more hours, I thought irritably, then I would not have this choice still before me. I had to decide what to do, and I had to decide quickly.

There were only three courses open to me—life with my aunt, with Clare, or with Fernando. Existence with Lady Russell would be one of petty tortures, penury, and monotony. Clare was more to be dreaded; today I had seen him without his mask, and the face he had kept hidden from me was as frightening as the rumors had implied. They were cruel people, all of them, even Jonathan, who babbled love and tormented me with hideous sights. Fernando was gentle and kind; he would take me away from the hard, cruel people, away from the city that bred such horrors as I had seen. If I did not go with him, I would have his death on my conscience.

So really, there was no choice.

Feeling quite sensible and collected, I made my plans. It was necessary to lull Mary back to sleep. That would be easy; I knew her weakness. I suggested that a sip of brandy might help me sleep. She fetched me the bottle my aunt kept, ostensibly, for gentlemen visitors; after I had sipped a little I pretended to fall asleep, and my eyes were hardly closed before Mary had the bottle to her mouth. An hour later she was snoring.

As soon as I got out of bed I discovered that my feeling of well-being was illusory. I had to creep about the room, supporting myself by the furniture as I gathered together a few garments and trinkets. My cloak was so heavy, I thought I would never get it around me. Mary had left a little of the brandy; I drank it, and felt stronger, but even more peculiar than before; 'I' seemed to be hanging somewhere in midair, watching curiously as a pale girl in a blue cloak stumbled toward the door like a crippled animal.

It took hours to negotiate the stairs, or so it seemed to me. I crept down backward, on all fours. The hall was dark; my aunt had a great fear of fire and would not allow a candle or a lamp to be left burning. I had to undo the bolts and chains of the door by feel, like a blind creature.

When the last bolt was drawn, I sat down by the door. I was feeling very strange by then; I think I had forgotten why I was there. After a time a sound roused me from my half-doze; it was a sly, scratching sound, such as a dog might have made. I remembered the wild stray dogs that infested some of the streets and came awake with a start of terror. Then I remembered. Fernando. He must be waiting.

I pulled myself to my feet by means of the door handle and then found, to my disgust, that I could not make it turn. Fernando must have heard me; the handle turned in my hands, and the door opened—a bare inch, before it caught, held by the topmost chain, which I had forgotten to unfasten.

'Lucy?' It was Fernando's voice. 'Lucy. It is you?'

'Yes.'

'My heart! Undo the chain, my dearest love.'

'Yes.'

I stood on tiptoe, stretching as high as I could reach, and wondering whether my head was really going to roll off my neck, as it felt. I could not reach the chain. Fernando was hissing and sputtering outside; icy air poured in through the open crack.

'I must get something to stand on,' I said clearly.

'Hush—not so loud!'

I took hold of a heavy carved chair and dragged it to the door, ignoring Fernando's croaks of protest. The problem was to open the door. I really could not be bothered with lesser details, when it took all my energy to concentrate on the main issue. Standing on the chair I undid the chain and let it fall.

The door opened in a soft rush, and Fernando was at my side.

'We must hurry! They may have heard you, you made enough noise for—'

He broke off with a little shriek. I turned.

In the door to the parlor stood my aunt, wearing her frilled nightcap and crimson wrapper. In one hand she held a lamp; in the other, my late uncle's pistol. It was pointed straight at us.

'Stand back, Lucy, away from him. And you, sir, do not move. I was brought up in the country and have a number of skills a lady is not expected to learn.'

I don't suppose the sense of her threat ever reached Fernando; he was simply paralyzed with terror. I sat down on the chair, not because I wished to obey my aunt but because my knees would no longer hold me up. I was shivering
violently. The door was wide open and the air was cold enough to freeze one's bones.

My aunt inspected us in a leisurely fashion. She had not recognized Fernando at first; as she did so, a particularly unpleasant smile narrowed her eyes.

'I should have known,' she said softly. 'This is a nice return for my care and devotion! If I had not been awake, worrying about my poor sick niece, I would not have heard your clumsy preparations to leave. You stupid young jackanapes, did you think you could make off with the girl and her money? I would have had her back, in whatever condition you chose to leave her, before you had gone twenty miles. You have saved me a short journey, but you'll find yourself in Newgate all the same. There are laws to deal with villains like you. As for you, my girl...'

'No,' I said faintly. 'It wasn't his fault. He—'

'... is the son of a petty tradesman from Liverpool,' my aunt said coldly. 'His real name is Frank Goodbody, and he repaid his doting mother, who impoverished herself to have him trained as a musician, by running away with what was left of her scanty savings as soon as he came of age. Do you think I would have any man in this house unless I knew all there is to know about his background?'

Unbelievingly, I stared at Fernando.

It was like a transformation in a fairy tale; only now the prince had turned back into the beast. His pallid face and trembling lip tacitly confessed the truth of my aunt's accusation. I wondered how I could have thought him handsome; his face was weak, not delicate.

My aunt waved the pistol back and forth, and
laughed as Fernando whimpered.

'I ought to have suspected,' she said, with an evil good humor that frightened me more than anger would have done. 'But who would think you had such bad taste, Lucy? I thought at first it was the other. At least he is a
man,
not a sniveling peasant. He would have taken the pistol away from me instead of whining ... Down on your knees, you little wretch! I'll see you grovel, like the dog you are, and then we'll call the constables.'

I couldn't think whom she meant. But it didn't matter. My love was dead, but a kind of sick pity remained. I couldn't stand by and see—what was that awful name? I couldn't see him condemned to prison, whatever his name was. He had done nothing criminal. My weakness, my cowardice had brought me to this pass.

'No,' I mumbled. 'Let him go. He can do no more harm; I never want to see him again. But it would be too cruel to send him to that place ... Please, Aunt.'

'Hmmph,' said my aunt, studying me thoughtfully. 'Well, it is up to you. No more whining, no more complaints? You will do as you are told?'

'Yes, anything. I am so tired ... and cold ...'

'Very well.' My aunt turned to Fernando—I still could not think of him by that other name. 'Get out. Get out of London, if you know what is good for you. You may be grateful that I don't have you arrested. I may do so yet.'

He didn't even look at me. One moment he was there; the next moment the empty doorway gaped coldly. My aunt's eye turned with slow relish toward me.

'And now,' she said, 'now for you.' I could no longer speak, my teeth were chattering so hard. I knew then what my illness was; there had been several cases of typhoid the previous year in Canterbury. I was glad. Now all the doors were closed, and there was no way out for me, no way except one. I could die. And as my aunt's face, swollen by malevolent pleasure, hovered over me like a fat pink moon, I released the last frail thread of will, felt myself falling, and lost consciousness before my body struck the hard, cold floor.

I was no longer afraid of Clare. My fear of him had gone during my illness; and with it had vanished all the other emotions I had felt—love and concern and anger. It was as if those things
had belonged to some other girl, who had died long ago.

Clare's behavior during my illness would have conquered the heart of any woman who had a heart capable of feeling. As soon as I could receive visitors, he came every day, sometimes sitting in silence, sometimes reading aloud, sometimes playing the soft, gentle melodies that soothed my weary nerves. He was a fine musician, a fact he had never mentioned during my inept performances on the harp and pianoforte.

I heard him talking with my aunt one day after I was able to get about, and that conversation had its effect. My aunt was demurring about the date of the wedding; I was still tired and frail, it was too soon after my illness, another month or so -

'Not another day,' Clare broke in, with quiet force. 'I cannot wait to get her out of this pestilential place, to the peace and clean air of my native moors. There at least she can enjoy peace of mind, if not a renewal of physical strength. The city is hateful to her; and with all due respect to your devoted care, Lady Russell—'

'Do me the honor, my lord, of being candid,' said my aunt, with a sneer in her voice. 'I detest the chit, and she hates me. Nothing will please me better than to rid myself of her. As soon as our arrangements are completed...'

'We have settled those arrangements,' Clare said frigidly. 'There is no more to discuss. You do not doubt my word, I hope?'

'Doubt so honorable a gentleman?'

I crept back up the stairs before they could see me. The tone of my aunt's voice told me something I had never suspected. She detested
Clare as much as she did me. That was a testimonial in his favor; the only emotion I did feel in those days was a sullen distaste for Lady Russell and everything that had to do with her. If Clare would take me away from her and her hateful house and the hideous city...

So I stood at his side in St. Margaret's, with the organ echoing among the high rafters, and heard the words that made me Lady Clare. When he took my hand, his fingers closed over it gently, as if he were afraid it would crumble in his grasp. The ring had been made to fit my finger, but its blazing cluster of diamonds and opals felt like a lead weight. I wore white satin with an overskirt of Honiton lace, and the coronet of pearls in which my mother had been married. Her jewels, long locked in Mr. Beam's safe, had been delivered into my hands the day before, and Mr. Beam, for once living up to his name, had offered me stately and sincere good wishes.

Afterward there was a great crush at the house. I stood stiff and proper in my lace and pearls, smiling obediently at the guests. Most of them were friends of Clare's, with a few of my aunt's less raffish acquaintances. As I made my mechanical smiles and stiff bows, I realized I had not a single friend in the crowd. It seemed to me rather sad that a girl should not have one friend present on the most important day of her life.