Mrs. Engels (32 page)

I have no choice. Only one road lies before me. From this day on, every farthing I spend will be a farthing less for a creature on this earth more deserving, so every farthing I spend must be matched by a farthing put aside for him. Compared to what goes to Karl and the Cause, what I take will be like spit in the sea. It's to rebalance the accounts that I'll do it. At the end of the day, it's the poor that must do things for the poor.

Aye, it's a thing to be changed and put right. But it must be careful done. Charity is best pulled off so that, if someone asks, nobody knows.

November

XXXIII. Love Brings Death to Itself

The letter carrier brings a note from Moss. I step out and ask him to read it.

“Commemoration of Manchester Martyrs. Tomorrow. Eight o'clock p.m. Sixteen Maynard Street. Come. Or have you decided against me again?”

I thank the boy and send him away with a penny. Come back inside and put the note in the fire.

Decided against him? Until this moment, I didn't know this is what I've done; now I see that it is.

I sit by the window and look out at the winter coming on, the trees at the bottom of Primrose Hill trembling, and I think that the only pity—God's greatest rig—is that the people we want to help are so seldom those who want it; the desperate, we decide against.

And is it any different with love? Isn't love the reverse side of the same medal? To love is to have, but rare does it happen that what we have is what we love. Love buys cheap and seeks to sell at a higher price; our greed is for gain that lies outside our reach. We desire those who don't desire us in return.

The wind comes to rattle the panes. I pull a rug over my knees, and realize, now, that Moss must be told. I must go to his commemoration and make it clear to him: I'm cleaned out, my money is needed elsewhere, by a cause more noble than the delivery of any nation. That we loved once, long ago, is not in question. But it does not give him a claim on my means. He is to leave me alone and stop looking at me to fund his ideas. If he insists on staying in London, he is to make as if I've emigrated or passed over.

He will play with me, of course. He will say that he has heard this before, that between us it'll never be for the last time; there'll always be another chapter, a new phase. We are bound by invisible string; tied to our wrists is a length of Diamond Thread; we cannot make the final break. And when his playacting doesn't work, he'll become angry, as is his nature. But his nature will only strengthen mine. I will stand in defiant endurance of it.

“Your love?” I'll say. “I wouldn't want it again at any price.”

The Manchester peelers put out a reward of three hundred pounds for the recapture of Kelly and Deasy, two hundred for the seizure of anyone known to have attacked the police van. Mobs maraud the streets in search of stray Irishmen to drag away. The peelers roar like fire through the District and Little Ireland and Ancoats and Hulme and Salford, and hundreds, thousands are rounded up. They knock on my door, but seeing only a matron living alone, they don't overturn the furniture like they do in other places; a quick sniff around and they're gone again. I pray to God Moss has made it to London and won't be found. Frederick reads me the newspapers, and every day it comes as sweet relief when his name isn't spoken with the others.

“Are you looking out for someone in particular?” says Frederick. “A relative or a friend?”

He has noticed my nerves, which I'm too nervous to hide, so I tell him out. I was involved, I says. I hid some of the Fenian men in the house. It was an act of loyalty. An obligation I had to my people. He's nettled at first. He judges me foolish for risking arrest in political actions that, on account of their lack of proper forethought, are destined to end in disappointment and failure. Once his piece is said, however, he softens, and his admiration comes out, free-spoken.

“You are no ordinary woman, Lizzie Burns,” he says, and kisses me. “A fighter, just like your sister.”

Three men are convicted of killing the peeler during the rescue. They're to be executed outside the New Bailey. Frederick wants to go and watch, it being just a walk away. He thinks it an event of importance that we oughtn't miss. He says that if there's no reprieve given and the executions are carried out, they will be the start of a new phase in the struggle between England and Ireland; a true Irish rebellion might follow. And, after that, perhaps even a revolution in Britain.

Says he: “Ireland lost, the British Empire is gone, and the class war in England, till now somnolent and chronic, will assume acute forms.”

Important or not, I'm not fain to go and see it. I think it gruesome to make a spectacle of a man's end. But when the news reaches me that the priests have banned us from attending, I turn proud and decide to join Frederick, after all. There ought be witnesses. A free road oughtn't be given to the ruffs and bandits who are sure to make a Protestant mockery of something that's sacred.

By the time we arrive on the morning of the event, huge crowds have already formed. Men, and women too, and babbies. They've been here since last night, it seems, roughing it out for good vantage. The beerhouses are doing a capital trade. Singing, laughing, shouting, brawling: it's like a national holiday. Pushing through, I don't hear any Irish voices till, by some miracle, a man gets through the line of peelers at front of the scaffold, climbs the barricades, and begins to speak out on the plight of Ireland and the bad things the hangings will bring about. He's dragged down, and while the peelers beat him, he's taunted by the mob, wild and terrible.

We take places where we can find them, outside Sidebottom's tobacconists. At the strike of eight on the jail clock, the men are brought onto the scaffold. A yellow fog has come down, but when the air moves and a clearing happens, it's possible to see the leather straps that have been passed around the men's waists, their elbows held by loops, and their hands fettered to the front of their bodies. The man Allen comes first, his face white as a sheet. O'Brien, next, is holding a crucifix and praying out. His words are passed back through the crowd.

“Christ, hear us,” he's saying. “Christ, graciously hear us.”

Larkin, the third man, has lost control of his legs and is being held upright by a warder on either side. He stumbles up the flight of steps and has to be half-carried to his place.

The three men, stood now beneath their ropes, turn to each other and give blessings. Before the cap is put over his head, O'Brien takes hold of Allen's hand and kisses it. It's a sad scene; I keep being about to cry.

The ropes are put over their heads. Larkin faints to his right. Now, held up by a warder, he slumps to his left. I can't bear to look, and yet I do. The hangman pulls the lever and the three men drop. The rope holding Allen sways for only a short time, and now hangs still. The other two jerk and swing for many minutes. The crowd break their silence to share their revulsion, to delight in it. The hangman goes down the steps that lead underneath. The ropes bounce as he tugs down on the men's legs to end their suffering.

We make our way out of the crowds and walk home without saying a word. Only once we're well inside and our drinks are poured can we bring ourselves to talk a little.

“Well, all you lacked were martyrs,” Frederick says. “And now you've got them.”

I look into my glass and try to put a shape on my feelings. “It was well organized, that's for certain.”

“Good planning. That's what that is.”

I look out the window. Naught to see only the fog. “That's me done now,” I says. “I've had enough of the politics. I want a quiet life.”

He nods, understanding. “You've had a long and hard run of it, Lizzie. And it won't be long now till you get your rest. I'll be rid of the mill before you know it. Then we'll be in London, and you'll have a proper house, run by people. And Tussy, and Jenny, and plenty of friends to go about with. I was even thinking that, before the move, we could take a trip to Ireland?”

I drink down and sigh out. “That'd be nice.”

I'm not prepared for this moment. In spite of the stink of death that lingers all around, the happiness rises up from a deep place, a great and earnest feeling.

What can you do, only press ahead?

Maynard Street is as I expect: a back room in a falling-down house. Inside the door is a table with piles of caps stacked. I'm the only woman, I see. I keep my bonnet on.

Word is sent to Moss that I've arrived, and he comes to bring me in. He throws a boy off a stool to let me sit down. “Thanks for coming,” he says.

The crowd is the common sort, and the speeches are the same; common things are hard to die. The lives of Colonel Kelly and Captain Deasy are recounted. The particulars of their rescue are gone over. Prayers are offered that their new lives abroad will be happy and long-lasting.

After a pause to allow a more somber mood to settle, the three martyrs Allen, Larkin, and O'Brien are invoked. These men, we're told, were put to death by the British for an act they didn't commit. The peeler was not murdered, as the authorities say, but was caught by a stray bullet during the normal course of his duties. None of the executed men could have fired the shot. Their fingers didn't touch their triggers. Witnesses put them in positions where a clear mark would have been impossible. Their arrest and hanging was a spiteful act of revenge: an act of war. And it's a war, now, that's being fought, and it'll go on till the independence for which our fathers yearned, struggled, and suffered is won.

A minute's silence is observed. A song is sung. Moss reads a poem. The meeting is moved to a tavern down the road.

“Will you come for one?” says Moss.

“Nay, I've to get back,” I says.

“Well, you're good for coming out.”

“It's the last time now.”

He looks down at his feet. “If that's what you want.”

“And I can't give you anything. I've other things to look after. And, anyhows, I've no guarantee you wouldn't be hurting people off the back of it.”

I hear myself, and I wince, for I'm only being righteous, a hypocrite. I know what a rebellion is, what it looks like on a man's body.

“If it isn't in your heart to give it, Lizzie, then we'd rather not have it.”

There's no hint of the anger about him. If he's feeling something, it's compassion: pity for human shortcomings. Men like Moss are easy once you know it's in your power to leave them.

“I don't want to know what it is you're up to, Moss. What actions you have planned. If you get caught, I won't be visiting you in jail. I'll not be a visiting woman.”

He gives a gentle nod, as if to say, “I understand.”

“You're to forget about me, do you hear? I'm going to vanish out of your life. Don't bother about me anymore.”

“No one's stopping you from going your own way.”

“That's right. So this is the last last-time I'll be seeing you. This is the end with no fresh beginnings.”

He reaches out a hand to show me the right road away. “Go on, then. Off with you. But do this, Lizzie Burns. When you get back to your big house, and you fall to believing whatever it is you like to believe, remember it was
you
came looking for
me.
I didn't ask to be found. Not this time, not the last time, not ever.”

XXXIV. A Secret Society

Janey's engagement dinner, and Longuet himself does the cooking. Sole in a cream and cider sauce. I'm wary, but it turns out to be better, much better, than that beef he made for us at New Year's. This, at least, has been heated through. We're served by the men Wroblewski and Brunel. Two lieutenants like them oughtn't be let up; they ought be confined to their chairs and have their every need attended on, but they seem to want to do it. They're making a game out of it. Fussing with napkins. Sniffing the wine before they pour it. Ooh-la-la-ing when they lift the lid off a salver. Pointing at our plates and explaining what's on them, what went into the preparation, on the chance that we'd want to fix it for ourselves and not make a German muck of it.

It's the first time I've seen Nim sitting at the table for a whole supper. They've put her in a privileged position, at the center beside Jenny, and she seems comfortable enough there, in her gay dress and with her educated graces, her laughter always well timed; a good humor that's hard to account for, knowing the state of the kitchen that awaits her. Toasts are made. Wedding dates are debated. Our faces turn red from the lush and the heat of the fires. Karl cries. Frederick makes jokes about Karl's lack of any except unbidden emotions. The only spot dulling the high shine of the evening is Tussy. She raises her glass when it's called for, and she answers with politeness the questions directed to her, but it's clear her effort is forced, that her true feelings are out of temper with the celebrations. I'd wager she's angry because Lissagaray hasn't been invited; I'd bet my life that's what's wrong with her. She has fought with her parents about it. What we're witnessing are the final vapors of a tantrum. No Lissagaray, no ball.

The pudding is baked apples, which everyone agrees are delicious. Not even Jenny leaves something on her plate for manners. A round of sweet wine, and now brandy, and the party moves to the second fireplace to play games. Nim stays at the table to clear up.

“Can't you leave it till tomorrow?” I says.

“I'd prefer to make a start on it now,” she says.

“Well, let me help you, then.”

She doesn't object. I load plates onto a salver and carry it to the kitchen. On the way back up, at the top of the kitchen stairs, Tussy catches hold of me.

“I need to talk to you, Aunt Lizzie.”

“I'm helping Nim.”

“This is important. Please.”

It goes against my mood. Whatever she has to tell me would be better kept till we're not so overtook with drink; I'd rather it waited till I'm clearer of mind and have more patience for it. But I oblige. Out of obligation, I oblige.

She takes me upstairs to her room. The fire has wasted out, leaving the place gloomy and cold. She lights a lamp and puts it on the bedside. Sits on the bed and wraps herself in a rug. Makes space for me to sit beside her. I stay where I am by the door. The lush pounds behind my eyes and in the tips of my fingers.

“What's the matter with you, Tussy? Aren't you happy for your sister?”

“That's not it, Aunt Lizzie. I rejoice for Janey.”

“What is it, then?”

Her eyes glimmer big and wet in the light. “I, too, am engaged to be married.”

Sudden, the appetite for the drink I've already drunk leaves me, and I turn dizzy and sick. “Oh, Tussy.” I go to the chimneypiece and lean on it. “You haven't told them.”

“You know they disapprove of him.”

I look into the grate, at the burnt bits and the ashes. Why can't people learn to keep themselves dark? Why must they insist on telling themselves out? For now I must do what it isn't my job to do: I must try to turn her away from it.

“Aunt Lizzie? You are happy for me, I hope.”

I turn to look at her. Her face is open, awaiting my indulgences. “Perhaps if they knew how you really feel.”

“Oh, they know. They
know.
”

“They think it an infatuation.”

“They hate him. He is a free thinker, that's why.”

I come away from the chimneypiece. Take my support from the bedstead. “Tussy, I don't understand it. Why would you want to marry a man your parents disapprove of?”

She throws the rug off her shoulders. Clasps one hand to her breast. Points at me with the other, accusing. “Oh no. Not you as well!”

I flap a hand in the air to dismiss her pointing finger. “Have some reason, girl. They see what you cannot because you're under the sway of feelings. They have your best interests at heart. You must find a match that suits the family, that fits with the position that your parents desire for you.”

She jumps to a stand. Paces forward. And now back. “Oh, God. Everyone is against me. Everyone! Even you!”

“What were you expecting, child? You think me so different?”

“Not anymore. Not after
this
!”

“Tussy, I've heard enough. I'm going back downstairs.”

“What? You're just going to leave me. Leave me here alone?”

I try to make the door before my temper rises. But I'm too slow. My hand hasn't yet reached the knob when the drink in my gut spits its poison up.

“Why can't you keep your business to yourselves, you people? What do you want us to do with these secrets you insist on making public? Carry the load around so you don't have to? Do you ask us, before you empty your dirt upon us? Nay, you just decide for yourselves that this is the best course, as if you had special rights to our understanding. Well, here's a thing, Tussy Marx. We don't want to know what's inside you. We couldn't care less for what you carry about in your private wraps. We struggle enough with our own cares as it is.”

I leave her gasping and sobbing into the quilt.

Back in the kitchen, I beg Nim for some water and quaff it down. “I think it's time I go home.”

She steadies me with a strong hand. “It's early yet, Mrs. Burns. Sit there and get your head straight. They'll be done soon.”

I sit in the chimney corner and watch her work. When she's close to finishing, she boils up some tea. Stirs me a mug. Now she sits with me. We talk about the rising price of things, to be saying something. The dogs are barking in the yard. Laughter and clapping waft down from upstairs. I don't hear Tussy coming down. She must be feeling the indignity that comes when you let go of what's hidden; let her steep in it.

“Thanks for the tea, Helen. My strength is up, I think. I must get myself home.”

She gives me some leftovers in a dish. “Take this with you.”

I accept it with a smile.

“I was thinking, Nim. I might go back to see Freddy soon. The scandal seems to have passed, but we ought make absolute and sure there's no danger facing him.”

“Mrs. Burns, please don't.”

“It'd be a chance to bring him something, if you have anything you think he'd like to have.”

She shakes her head in a sad way. “No, Mrs. Burns.”

“This time, however, it might be an idea to tell Frederick. He has a right to know I'm going.”

“Don't. Don't tell Mr. Engels anything. And don't go there, to Freddy. It's none of your concern. I was mistaken to ask you to go before. It was a misjudgment on my part.”

“Far from it, Helen. I was glad to go. And Freddy, I'm sure, appreciated the—”

A new seriousness takes hold of her. She takes the dish back from me and puts it on the table. “Sit down again, Mrs. Burns.”

“I'm grand standing.”

“Sit, please. I can see if I don't tell you, you will cause further harm.”

“Tell me what?”

She leads me back to the chimney corner, but I don't sit in it.

“Mrs. Burns, you should know. Freddy is not Mr. Engels's son.”

The words knock me out of myself, leave me struggling for sense.

“What, what are you saying?” I says, feeling sudden sober.

“Mr. Engels gave the boy his name in order to save the father from ruin.”

The father? The question comes, but I stop it in my throat, for I've neither the right nor the need to ask it. I understand—sudden—that it's Karl she's speaking about.

“It was a fine and admirable thing Mr. Engels did,” she says. “I don't see why you must suffer in ignorance for it.”

I hear the words—these words intended to exonerate—and I feel naught, naught except the unease that comes from being told that something is fine and not being able to feel that it's so, like being blind when people talk of the earth and the sky.

“Is what you say true? The simple truth?”

She nods, solemn. “I'm sorry. I don't understand why you were never told.” She turns her face to the floor, so it's impossible to know what she's feeling in herself.

I no longer feel the drink, but only the numbness that comes after a shock.

“Thanks for your frankness. It can't have been easy.”

She gives a weak smile; a thanks of her own. I make to leave.

“The leftovers?”

“Nay. You've plenty of mouths to feed here.”

On the way back up, I pause in the hall a moment, to fathom it. What is worse, I wonder: to be Mary and to believe for all your life a false thing against Frederick; or to be Jenny and to know the truth of what Karl did, and to live with it. It's confusing to know.

And what about Frederick himself? How ought he be judged? By putting the man Marx before everything—by being more loyal to
him
than to his own woman, his own name, his own
life
—he has made of Karl something like a wife. Those of us who really love Frederick have had to fight over what remains after Karl has had his way, and in truth, there's rare much there to wake up to.

Curse these infernal times! How is a body meant to think about them? The most I can say is that it's no better here than in Manchester; no easier to get a grasp on the working of things. The wide views and the fresh air I once hoped to find have been replaced by the same dark courts and winding passages that lead nowhere.

Back in the parlor, Janey is playing the piano and Jenny is singing, her voice restored after the attacks of pleurisy; stronger and clearer than ever before. I sit in my place, beholding, and unexpected chords stir within me: sympathy and pity and esteem. A woman must expect trials, a politics woman more than most, but to watch your maid grow big with your husband's bastard is a calamity requiring inhuman forbearance to live down. What agonies she must have suffered. What lonely hours passed. What grit to keep from falling down. What cleverness to have Frederick deliver her from the shame. I've been led into a mistake about her: she's a good wit and a survivor; in my eyes, twice the person she was.

And Karl? Karl, there, with his god's beard and his foot beating out the time? How often we admire the wrong thing.