Resurrectionists (47 page)

In fact, I sometimes feel a strange resentment towards the little creature, simply because I now have so much to lose. I know this must all sound as though I find him unpleasant, and not at all a joy. But this truth is born of love, and it
is
the truth. I named him after my father. Perhaps that was a strange thing to do. I still have not told Virgil about my parents’ death, and the greater the distance of time between the event and the present, the greater my reluctance to tell him. Now I risk angering Virgil for keeping it a secret so long, or causing him to feel that I have no faith in his fortitude (I do not, I confess, have any such faith). So this is how I have dealt with it. And had it been a little girl, she would have been called Anne after my mother. Their names are all I have left of my parents now.

But of course, it was not a girl, and I knew it would not be, for Flood predicted it. Flood, who I am to thank for returning us to a decent kind of life, for now we have food in our bellies, and coal and real wax candles and wine. I have bought a new dress – nothing extravagant, you understand –

because my body has changed so much in the past months. I know some women try their old clothes after having a child and find them too small. Mine are rather all too large. Because of my huge belly it was hard to see how thin I had grown, but now it is quite evident that I am gaunt and bony. I shall endeavour to fatten up, though it is too late for poor Henri – my breast milk simply does not flow

sufficiently to keep him fed. We must buy goat’s milk from the village every morning instead.

I have not seen Virgil touch his laudanum for over a month, though he protested loudly when I offered to dispose of it. “Who knows when we may need it,”

he argued, “for it has medicinal properties.” I suppose I must trust him. I have, however, memorised to which particular point of the bottle the laudanum is filled. I check daily, and it has not changed. For that, I am grateful. I am sure that as soon as Henri is a little older, we shall be able to leave Solgreve behind and return to a good – though still simple –

life elsewhere. I shall not allow my son to have a grave-robber for a father.

Friday, 1st August 1794

Today Henri is four weeks old. He is sleeping at the moment, in an old cradle which Virgil brought back from the village and fixed and painted. Virgil sits beside him, gazing upon him as lovingly as any angel ever gazed upon a poor sinner here on earth. I often see him in such a posture, and it warms ***** *****

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***** **wish we could afford a proper physician. But Mr Edghill, the surgeon, will have to do for now. He says that Henri is not robust as a child his age should be, but attributes that solely to my not eating enough during pregnancy. It merely means that he may be a little prone to illnesses until he is more grown, but Mr Edghill assured me it would have no lasting ill-effects. He is such a dear thing, my Henri, with his tiny fingers and his perfect nose. I know it is far too early to tell, but I think he will resemble my family rather than Virgil’s.

Virgil has worked every night this week. He says that Flood talks about coming very close to a kind of breakthrough, and his need for specimens is overwhelming. I asked Virgil where Flood stores all these bodies.

“What do you mean, Gette?”

“He has only limited space in his chambers.”

“He disposes of them in the poor’s hole. Or rather, he pays someone to do so.”

I suddenly had an idea. “Could you not do that job? Surely it would be less disturbing.”

“Oh, far
more
disturbing, Gette.”

“For what reason?”

“Sometimes they are . . . unrecognisable when he has finished experimenting with them.”

“And so who fulfils that task?”

“I believe it is the Reverend.”

The Reverend! What kind of a man of the cloth would perform such a task? The sooner we are out of this village, the better. Henri began grizzling at this point and so I had no opportunity to ask further questions. Indeed, having to fulfil the role of a mother – softness and sweet love – means I

necessarily cannot worry myself with Virgil’s affairs. My son deserves for me to ***** ***** *****

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******* was sitting in his customary position beside Henri’s cradle, but I could not help noticing that he seemed rather less contented than he usually is about such an occupation. Virgil is so transparent to me, and always has been. Perhaps this is why I fell in love with him. He has scarcely entertained a thought than it immediately appears on his countenance. And this morning, the way he gazed upon Henri was too melancholy, as though the love he felt were causing him despair rather than joy.

I put down my darning and went to Virgil’s side, rested my hand on his shoulder. “Are you troubled, my love?” I asked.

“No,” he answered quickly, forcing a smile. I knew he was in turmoil, and the fact that he lied about it immediately alerted me to its cause. This, Diary, was guilt. I had not checked the level of the laudanum in weeks, for it had not moved and Virgil seemed so very capable and mature. As soon as I could do so without arousing suspicion, I went to the bedroom. On Virgil’s side of the bed, tucked away, almost behind a small table, I found his Decanter. It was full to the brim, which meant that he had drunk the remains and refilled it – I could never even guess how many times. I could not believe that I hadn’t noticed. I have been tired. I have been involved in being a mother which means I am sometimes awake half the night and asleep at odd hours during the day. He had taken advantage of my inattention to renew his habit. No, I should not say “taken advantage” for it implies that Virgil deliberately sets out to cause me pain. He does not. He simply can do no better for he is weak: weaker than I, because I am a mother and cannot afford the luxury of weakness. It seems that much is made of the idea that men are stronger than women. Perhaps this may be so if only physical ability is considered, but beyond that there is little evidence to support the conclusion.

Thursday, 4th September 1794

An unexpected letter arrived this morning. Virgil took delivery of it at the front door. I heard him call out,

“Gette, that cur Edward Snowe has written!” I was feeding Henri at the time so I did not spend a second thought upon it, until a few moments later when Virgil entered the bedroom and held the letter out to me, unopened.

“Yes, Virgil, I heard you. Edward has written.”

Virgil’s hand shook, a tiny movement. “It is addressed only to you.”

I reached for the letter, apprehensive. What could Edward possibly want to say only to me? Now Virgil watched me closely. I thought about how Edward had kissed me, and how I had been so vain as to allow him express his desire. Guilt rolled into my stomach. For if Edward made mention of those things, how was I to keep it from Virgil? If I hid the letter, he would be suspicious and mistrustful. Yet if I showed him the letter he would know.

Virgil took Henri from me, and I quickly opened and scanned the letter.

Bootham, 3rd September

Dear Georgette,

I have now set up practice in York and I am
living here permanently. I know that Virgil will
not want to see me again, but I wrote this short
note to inform you of my new address, and to
offer you my services if ever you need them. I
should be delighted to see you again, and if
matters become unbearable for you up in
Solgreve, you are most welcome to contact me.
Your friend, EDWARD SNOWE

“He has moved to York,” I said, dropping the letter on the bed with feigned carelessness, yet hoping that Virgil would not pick it up. Of course, he did pick it up.

“May I read it?”

“Certainly.”

He did so, then returned his attention to me.

“What does he mean ‘if matters become unbearable?’”

“I expect he means if we need any financial

assistance.”

“He means if
I
become unbearable, doesn’t he?”

“Virgil, of course not.”

“Why would he write to you in this manner? Have you shared our secrets with him?”

“Virgil, he was here when you were ill. He was once your best friend. He knows our situation.”

“But he offers no assistance to me.”

“You have made it clear you are no longer

interested in his assistance.”

Henri grew tired of our strained conversation and began to cry. Virgil rocked him absently. “It seems curious to me that he should write such a letter to you.”

“Perhaps it is curious, but you appear to be punishing the recipient of the letter rather than the sender,” I said sulkily. For I knew that I had encouraged Edward’s intimacy by not discouraging it earlier. Virgil turned and went to the window, the whole time rocking Henri who had quietened down to a sniffle. I watched his back. He appeared tense, even angry.

“What is it, Virgil?” I asked. “Why are you so upset?”

He turned. “You looked anxious when the

letter arrived.”

“I . . . thought it might be bad news.”

“And once, when I was sick, I thought I saw Edward about to kiss you.”

“That’s nonsense.”

He came forward, all pleading eyes. “Please swear, Georgette, that you’ve never felt more than is appropriate for Edward Snowe.”

“I swear.”

He held out Henri to me. The little creature came happily to my arms. “We shall keep no secrets in our house,” he said.

But we keep the very worst secrets in our house. I am orphaned and I have not told him. He is once again drinking laudanum and he has not told me. It makes me afraid that a sickness may begin to eat away at our love if we cannot speak to each other more freely. The trouble is that only Virgil will be hurt by bringing these matters into the open. He will be offended that I could not trust him with my grief. He will be anguished to have me witness to his opium shame. So I must go about my life, raising my child and ignoring the dark horror which lurks below the surface.

Wednesday, 10th September 1794

I have been ill these last four days and feel only a little better today. I’m sitting up in bed and Henri is sleeping peacefully next to me. An early autumn breeze is in the trees outside, and the sun still shines and the sky is still blue. It is all such a welcome contrast to the awful dreams my illness brought trailing with it; dreams in which I saw my mother again and again go to the guillotine. I had not even the comfort upon waking of knowing the dream was not real. For at some point my mother really did put her white neck upon the block, and the most unimaginably cruel violence was done to her. This is what happens to a wound not tended to; it festers and grows worse. I should share my loss with Virgil, but he has so much else to concern him. He has been an Angel the last few days, taking care of everything so that I may recover. I had a fever – not nearly as severe as the one which gripped Virgil earlier in the year, but enough to warrant a visit from Mr Edghill. Still, that is all behind me now. One must become sick every so often so that one appreciates more the times of good health.

On Monday night, when my fever was at its

height, Virgil sat between my bed and Henri’s cradle, watching vigilantly over both of us. I was barely aware of my surroundings, drifting in and out of a fevered sleep, but at one point I became aware that Virgil was speaking in a low voice to Henri. I opened my eyes a crack. He had just one candle burning and was whispering so he wouldn’t disturb me. He was telling Henri a story.

“Once there was a little boy named Henri,” he said, “who was the most beautiful little boy in the land. A prince, lost on his way to Heaven. His Mama was a beautiful queen, but his Papa was but a poor man. Yes, Henri’s Papa was wicked. He didn’t want to go to work to buy food and clothes for his family, but still he went to work because he needed his magical drink …”

At this point, Virgil’s head nodded forward and came to rest on the corner of the cradle. I could not see his face, but I suspected he was crying. I was too weak to utter any words of comfort.

“Ah, Henri,” he said, “if I did not love you so much I should take myself forever from your sight. But I am selfish.” He lifted his head again and quietly muttered.

“Everything is wrong. Everything … is wrong.”

He composed himself, then resumed his story. “But one day, an angel will come to Henri’s Papa, and the angel will forgive him. And because the angel can make fire, he will burn Papa’s sins and he will not be such a wicked man any more, though the fire may cripple or blind him. Because Papa has tried and failed to be a good man. So now his fate is in the hands of the angels.”

Virgil leaned over and kissed Henri’s sleeping face, then turned to me. He saw that I was awake.

“Gette? I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

I shook my head. My skin felt clammy and yet I was very cold. “I heard what you said. I know that you have been at your laudanum again.”

“I cannot stop myself, Gette. It is the only thing that makes my work bearable.”

“Then do not stop, my love. Only, can you not try to find another occupation?”

He curled up next to me on top of the covers, his head resting on my chest. I felt such tenderness towards him, like I had not felt since the child was born and stole my heart. He did not answer.

“Virgil?” I asked.

“Do not concern yourself while you are sick.”

“Surely it would be better to be a law clerk than a resurrectionist?”

“Gette, I am in too far.”

“I do not understand.”

“He has me, Gette. For now I know some of his secrets, and now I have kept them for long enough to make me complicit.”

“You will have to explain yourself better, Virgil,” I said, “for you are making little sense.”

He began to sob. I touched his hair and closed my eyes. He was right, I was too ill to deal with this. My mind tried to form the question, “What secrets does Flood have?”, but my body refused to comply. I sank back into sleep. When I awoke, Virgil sat on the end of my bed, facing neither me nor Henri, just staring into the emptiness before him.