Mary Reilly (16 page)

“No, Mary,” he said. “That will be all.”

But when I was half out the door he said, “Mary?” as if he’d just thought of something, so I stepped back into the room. “Sir?” I said.

“I believe my assistant may have given you a bit of a shock the other night.”

So he spoke of me.

“Not really, sir,” I said. “I think I surprised him more than he did me.”

This made Master’s eyebrows shoot up, so I saw he did not expect it. “I fear he was rude,” Master said then.

“No, sir,” I said. “We hardly spoke once I saw who he was.”

“I see,” Master said, looking at me very close. “It’s as well you’ve met. I take a great interest in that young man.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

Then Master nodded, closing that subject, I thought, and I wondered why he even brought it up if that was all he had to say on it. “Good night then, Mary,” he said.

“Good night to you, sir,” I said and went out. As I walked along the hall it seemed odd to me that Master and I had said good night to each other, for we never have before. I went up to my room, changed into my night shift and sat by the window to brush my hair out, looking out across the housetops and at the treetops such as I can see, and the moon, which was a thin one, and the stars. I could hear the sound of a cab on the stones, and footsteps of some passerby in the court I could not see. I thought on all these strange events of the last days—that awful room in Soho and the bloody handkerchief, the few words I exchanged with Mr. Edward Hyde, who filled me with a kind of sleepy dread, such as I might feel at the beginning of a nightmare when things may go along right enough and make such sense as dreams do make, still, something is not right
and I begin to long to wake up, though certain I will not in time.

I can make no sense on it, nor speak to anyone, even Master, it seems, though I feel him close to me all the time and think we have hardly a need to speak as it seems we are walking in this strange dream together.

A
fter breakfast this morning Master went straight to his laboratory, so I took the opportunity to sweep out the carpets in the drawing room and library. It was work that needed doing, to be sure, but I had it in my head also that I would look into this book Master’s assistant felt so free to scribble upon. I made myself do the drawing room first and thought over whether it could be right to pry in this way, for I never have done such a thing before. Still, even as I thought upon it and saw that I had no business to be looking into Master’s books, I knew I would look at it. It seemed almost a pleasure to put off doing it, for I think I knew whatever I found would not satisfy me but only make everything more dark and confused than it is already.

And I was right.

I had to move all the furniture about to do the carpet, then, when I was done, shove it all back in place again, which work made me warm. All the time I
worked I knew exactly where the red book was and it seemed even when I had my back to it I could feel it there, like a light behind my head. It was on a shelf too high for me to reach, so before I put the green leather chair back in its place I jumped up quick upon it and took down the book. Then I put it on the low table which is away from the door, so if Mr. Poole should pass I might not be standing in his line of view.

I stood for a moment looking at the cover, which is a fine leather one, as all Master’s books is well bound, and edged in gold with the title worked in gold on the spine, but it was in Latin so I could make nothing of it. I opened it to the first page where the title was again, and then the next page with a list of the chapters, which it seemed was each on a subject such as “natural law,” or “physical properties,” only I glanced at them so quick I could not even make out what sort of book it was. Then I fanned the pages and saw at once that several of them was covered over in the margins with writing, which seemed to me, for I’ve seen it often enough, to be very like Master’s own hand, fine and straight so that a great many words can fit in a small space, not like mine which sprawls so across the page. I opened the book to one of these pages, where the writing was that small I had to bend over it to make out the words.

I wish I could say I did not know the meaning of what was written there. Certain they was such words as I have never spoke nor writ myself, though, growing up as I did, I was not spared the unpleasantness of hearing
them often enough. It seemed very odd to read such filth as was there, especially written in so fine a hand. I bent over the page as if I needed to read more to soften the shock of it, or to make some sense of anyone using a book in such a foul way and it seemed the words as I read them was very loud in my head, like someone shouting. But then I had a greater shock, for suddenly through the hateful words I was reading I heard a harsh voice, like a whisper, seeming very close to my ear. “Mary Reilly,” he said.

I slammed the book closed and turned around, nearly fainting from surprise. He was standing close behind me but he stepped back, as if to give me room, though not far enough to give me liberty, so I could only clutch the table, helpless to escape.

“I thought you would understand it well enough,” he said, lifting his chin to the book behind me. Then, as I did not speak, for I could not, he stood looking me up and down with a horrid smirk about his mouth. I tried to look back, though it is hard to face down such eyes as his, which for one thing is never still. After a long moment I found my breath and said, “I beg your pardon, sir.”

He gave me a sneer and turned away. “For what?” he said. “Do you think I care what you read?” Then he went to Master’s chair near the grate and sat down in it.

I had a moment to recover myself which I did by smoothing my hair and my apron. The chair was turned away from me and all I could see of him was his arm and hand. The back of his hand is covered with black
hair, the fingers blunt, so although, like the rest of him, it is small for a man’s, still there is something brutish about it. I found I did not like to look at his hand any better than I liked to see the rest of him, yet there was something that seemed to hold me still and make me stare, as a rabbit will stare stunned by a torch light. He seemed to be making himself comfortable in Master’s chair, for he picked up a book from the side table, then turned another around to see the title, as if to give himself a choice.

“Will you have a fire, sir?” I said.

He leaned out over the wing of the chair to look at me, which made me shrink against the table. His eyes is so odd, for though he is young, they are not, and there is dark circles beneath them, caused by lack of sleep I’ve no doubt. “No,” he said. “I won’t have a fire.” His way of speaking is to mock what is said to him, I thought. “But bring me a pot of tea, Mary,” he added.

Everything in me wanted to cry out, No, I will not serve you, so strong that I opened my mouth, then closed it again. He was watching me with his eyes narrowed, looking, I thought, as if he knew what was going through my head and was amused by it. I thought of Master’s words—I take a great interest in that young man—and it was that made me find my tongue and say, “Yes, sir. Will you have something to eat with it?”

“No,” he said.

“Very good, sir,” I said and went out.

Mr. Poole was not in the hall so I thought Master’s assistant must have come in through the back stairs.
When I got to the kitchen I found I was right for Cook had seen him through the window come across the yard and let himself in “as if this was
his
house,” she said. “And he was up the stairs before I could think of a way to warn you.”

“Truly,” I said, “we shall have to find a way to make the bells ring upstairs. Perhaps Mr. Bradshaw can rig that out for us, he is so clever with his hands,” which sent Annie into a fit of giggles, though Cook thought it was no more funny than I did.

“Where is he?” Cook asked.

“In the library,” I said, “asking for a pot of tea, by your leave.”

So Cook got the tea tray together while I changed my apron and put on clean cuffs, for it seemed I had got to serve it to him as Cook said Mr. Poole was out on an errand for Master. All the way up the stairs I wondered how Master could allow this man to use his books so and why, after reading what was written on those pages, he did not bar the fellow from our house. Indeed what he’d done to the book seemed worse in my mind than whatever happened in that room in Soho, not because I care more for books than for people, but because one didn’t expect to find anything but violence and grief in that other place whereas this was done in Master’s own house. But it seemed to me also that the sight of Mr. Edward Hyde must be enough to put off any person of sense. What had he to recommend him to Master in the first place? With these thoughts in my head I carried in the tray and set it down on the table.
He had not left the chair but sat there with a book open in his lap. I did not think he was reading it. He kept tapping his finger against the arm of the chair as I poured the tea out. He was nervous, I thought, and not used to sitting so long. I held the cup out to him, which he took awkwardly, seeming not used to such a fine service. He tasted it, though it was so hot I thought it must burn his mouth, then handed the cup back to me saying, “More sugar.”

I put in another full spoon of sugar so that it was sweet as treacle and gave it back to him. He held it over his lap by the saucer, as awkward as a schoolboy, though not with anything innocent about him, and taking up the cup by holding it round the top, drank it down in two gulps. Well, I thought, this does make Mr. Poole’s case that he is no gentleman, and the thought of how easily this question was settled made me smile.

“Something amuses you, Mary?” he said, setting the empty cup down on the table beside him.

His voice took the smile off my face quick enough and when I looked down at him, for I was standing across the table, I felt a line of ice run up my spine. He was leaning forward in the chair, fixing me with a look of such hatred I took a step back as if I could get clear of it. I looked down quickly and said, “No, sir,” but I could still feel his eyes burning a hole through me, nor did he move until at last I felt tears welling up in my eyes and such a sick, weak feeling in my stomach I feared I might fall down. I gathered up my courage to
look at him again and saw that he had taken up the teacup, which he was turning round in his hands, though with his cold eyes still fixed on me. I thought, he’s going to throw it at me, but in the next moment I heard a cracking sound and saw the cup break into pieces in his hands.

“What a pity,” he said, though still he did not move. I could not take my eyes from his hands, which he closed over the sharp bits, squeezing his palms together, then when he opened them I saw some of the shards had cut him and there was spots of blood on the white bits and more blood coming at the several cuts. “Accidents will happen,” he said, opening his hands even wider so that the broken pieces fell to the carpet, making a clinking sound, very soft, but it seemed a great clatter in my head. I did not know where to look or what to do. Of course, I wanted to run, but there was something so sickening in the sight of his bleeding hands, the harsh whisper of his voice, that I felt myself come over cold and clammy, the way it is when a fever breaks. I stood quite still as he got up and took the few steps that stood between us. When he leaned over the table, bringing his bleeding hand to my face, I felt an aching in my chest and a sob broke out from my mouth, but still I did not pull away. I knew the tears overflowed but I could not raise my hand even to brush them away. I closed my eyes when his hand touched my face, just at the corner of my mouth, and I kept my eyes closed while he dragged his bleeding fingers slow, slow, across
my mouth, pulling my lips apart. I gritted my teeth and tried to take in a breath of air, for it seemed I was stifling, that the room was full of the smell of blood and the air could not be breathed for the thickness of it. I could hear his low laugh, and then his horrid, whispering voice. “Don’t you know who I am, Mary?” he said.

I do not know how I did not faint, but I did not. I was still standing a few moments later, much to my own surprise, when I opened my eyes and found myself alone, with a sound almost of rushing air in my ears and the thick, salt taste of blood in my mouth.

It is hard to write this, feeling as I do, afraid to set down what happened for fear of what comes next. I want to cry out, I will not stand for this, but I’ve stood for worse, that much is certain, and I’ve no right to speak now, nor have I ever.

This was a day I looked forward to, because I can go out now, I’ve finished my work, and I was to walk in the park or look in the shops, with nothing on my mind but the pleasure of having my time to myself. But now I feel I could walk until I drop and no breath of fresh air will come to me, for everything round me is a cloud of lies I cannot find my way through. Nor may I speak to anyone of what I know, what I can make no sense of though I know it, but must carry these things about in my head where they seem to press out all other thoughts. So I write and write in my book, as if I could make the darkness come clear by setting it down on my page.

I
did make myself go out yesterday, for I could not sit in my room all day, indeed I don’t doubt Cook wondered that I stayed in as late as I did. It was cold, though fair, and I walked a long way, paying no mind to where or what I saw, for my head was so full of this strangeness in our house it seemed I took it with me. When I got to the park I sat on a bench and tried to watch the passersby, but they was all in a hurry to be somewhere, or if one or the other might loiter it was with ill intent. I pulled my cloak up close about me and hid my hands in my sleeves for warmth, then I sat, feeling I’d been thrown down on that bench from some high place and must wait to get my bearings before going on.

I began to think on my whole life, of the places I’ve worked and how I have always tried to do my best and bear my burdens without shirking or complaining, because it has seemed to me there is no other way and, in truth, I am too proud to do otherwise. I know this comes in part from my marm, who was of a like mind, so much that she will take no help from anyone, even from me; though I send her a little now and again, she always begs me not to do it. And I thought of how she is the only family I have, but because of how things fell out I hardly hear of her, nor she of me. When I do see her we don’t talk of the past, never of my father, though there’s many a scene comes to my mind of her suffering and my own, nor do I wonder why, once he was gone, Marm never went with another man. I know
she is pleased that I take care of myself, have had a good character at every place I’ve been, and I think she feels it a great wonder that I can write, for she keeps my letters; though she cannot read them, she looks at them. So I feel I could never make her life harder by saying everything was not right with me.