The Linnet Bird: A Novel (18 page)

I moved the handkerchief aside with my index finger.

She lay on her side. Shaker had washed her; her skin was clean, the soft gray-blue of a mourning dove’s breast, and a fine down covered her entire body. She was perfectly formed but unbearably tiny, transparent eyelids and fingernails.

I reached out and stroked the cool velvety forehead, the arm, the back. My fingers were trembling, or perhaps not, perhaps it was the baby trembling from the vibration of the basin in Shaker’s hand.

I wanted to weep. I tried, for it was as if the lining of my throat had swelled to an unbearable size, so thick and membranous that it was difficult to swallow. Saliva filled my mouth, my nose ran, but still, no tears came to my eyes.

“I’m sorry. I knew it would do no good for you to—”

I had to work at my throat and finally my voice returned, although it was only a dull croak. “Her name is Frances.” I took my hand away from the baby and put it into my lap, where the other hand clenched it. “And I’m glad she didn’t live. Glad, for what kind of life is it for a girl in this world? What kind of life for a girl?” I believed it at that moment.

Shaker gently set the basin back on the washstand, looking down at the baby.

“You won’t dump her down a midden, will you? Give her to me and I’ll take her and bury her myself.”

Shaker continued to look at the dead child.

“If you want me to leave, I’ll leave right now. I’ll take her and go,” I said, somehow angered by Shaker’s stooped shoulders, his trembling hands, the sorrow that seemed to be a part of him. What right did he have to grieve for her, for my Frances? He had no right at all. He knew nothing of me, nor I of him.

I tried to swing my legs to the floor and involuntarily cried out at the sharp dark pain. The blanket fell away.

“I’ll let you do whatever it is you wish with her, of course,” Shaker said, turning to me now, standing so still except for the fluttering hands, which he eventually tucked under his own arms. “What is your name?”

“Linny Gow,” I said, sitting there, naked but for my thin chemise. I put my palms on either side of me on the bed, preparing to push myself up. “I must go,” I said.

“Why?” Shaker asked.

I didn’t have an answer. My eyes went to the basin.

“Would you like to lie here, for a few hours at least, until the worst of the bleeding stops and you have enough strength to get home?” He came closer.

When I didn’t answer, he continued. “You know you mustn’t go right back to work. At least not for a few days. Your body needs time to heal.”

Of course he knew what I was. He hadn’t needed his mother to point out my occupation. He’d known right from the first moment I stepped beside him in the public house, although his manner toward me had been so respectful that I had actually believed that he might have been fooled for a short time.

At his mention of going back to work I was overcome with exhaustion. The thought of going out into the cold pre-dawn and walking all the way back to Jack Street seemed, suddenly, completely impossible. “I’ll rest for an hour at the most,” I told him. “Only an hour.” I lay back down.

Shaker rearranged the thick wool blanket over me, and as he did so, his eyes flickered over my scar, and I heard an almost imperceptible sigh. Then he closed the window, stoked the fire, turned out the lamp, and left.

As I lay there, warm, sleepless, in the first pale rays of morning light, I looked away from the basin, toward the window. A bare wet branch touched the glass cautiously in the remains of the wind that had now died away. The sky was pearly. I thought about Shaker and for the first time wondered that he had known what to do. I thought of the sadness on his face as he held the washbasin toward me, and then later, as he stared down at my dead baby.

I
AWOKE TO BRIGHT SUNLIGHT
streaming through a window that was clean as any I’d ever seen. I threw back the blanket and sat up, stiff and aching everywhere, as if I’d been beaten far worse than the few blows from the Scot in the carriage. I felt skinned, both inside and out, as if even a word would produce pain. I stood slowly, my legs shaky, and dressed.

As I let down my tangled apollo and struggled with the matted tangles I looked to the washstand. In place of the basin was a small tin-plated box no longer than two of my hand lengths. Shaker must have come in while I was asleep. A box for storing jewelry was my first thought, or for special keepsakes. I went to it and ran my fingers over it, realization striking, and then opened the lid a tiny bit. I saw the crisp white of the linen handkerchief, touched it and felt the small curled contents. I closed the lid.

The rest of the room contained a broad, austere desk and a straight chair. Stacks of books were piled on the desk and one lay open. On the wall over the desk was the drawing of a man with no flesh, just muscle, sinew, and veins. There were other drawings of bones, one of a skull, split in half, with a wormy mass showing on the open side. And then I saw them, on the floor beside the desk. Jars.

For one horrible moment I was back in the brightly lit room with its terrible collection.

I went closer, afraid of what I might see. But these jars didn’t contain hair. At first I thought the contents to be food storage, for shapes that I had only seen in a butcher’s stall floated there. Then I realized they were organs, parts of the body, preserved, obviously, by their white, waxen appearance. Some I didn’t recognize, although I did see kidneys. A heart. A liver. Looking into the last jar, I put my hand over my mouth to stifle the sound, but I wasn’t fast enough. The door opened and Shaker hurried in to find me backing away from the desk.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think . . .” He was stuttering, snatching up the jar so rapidly that the large-headed fetal beginnings of a human surged and bobbed in the eddying formaldehyde.

I stared at him, stricken, feeling my own face as lifeless and bleached as the contents of the jars.

“I study the human body,” Shaker said, too quickly, as if guilty. “I . . . I wanted to be a physician. Of course it’s impossible for me—a physician, or even a surgeon, even the most rudimentary of barber-surgeons—like the one who once attended to you.” His eyes rested on my scar for the briefest of moments, then he shook his head. “Impossible, being the way I am—my hands,” he continued, as if he needed to clarify, “but it remains a passion.” He had managed to hide the jar behind his back as he spoke. “I’ve made some beef tea,” he said, “and you should have some tartar emetic, for making the blood stronger. But you need a physician’s recommendation; it’s only available at the dispensary. Are you feeling terribly indisposed?” He was babbling, his tongue tripping over the words in trying to explain himself.

I had lowered myself onto the ladder-back chair at the desk. “I just became lightheaded from standing too quickly,” I lied, not wanting him to think me weak. “I’ll be on my way in a moment.” I looked toward the pretty box on the table. “Will you be wanting your box back?”

“Oh, no. Please. You had said you wanted to bury it—her, and I thought . . .”

I studied the box, not wanting to look at Shaker as he backed out of the room. He reappeared, carrying a shawl, in less than a moment. “I’m so sorry to have upset you, Miss Gow. Please.” He handed me the shawl—his mother’s, of course. I put it around me. “At least have a cup of the beef tea I’ve prepared. It’s across the hall, in my mother’s room. She’s just returned from church, and her room is warmer. The fire hasn’t been laid downstairs yet; Nan will arrive shortly and see to things. Come and sit in the other room. Please,” he added, again.

The suggestion of the meaty drink made saliva rush to my mouth. “All right. Thank you, Mr.—”

Color spread upward from Shaker’s neck. “Oh, it’s just Shaker, as I told you last night. Started as an unfortunate jest while I was at school but it stuck, and so it remains.” He smiled briefly, revealing slightly crooked teeth, but it was a natural smile and it warmed his plain face. It crossed my mind that I hadn’t seen this kind of smile on a man’s face for a long, long time. Not from any of the men who looked at me. “My surname is Smallpiece. But please. I’d prefer if you’d call me Shaker. If you don’t mind the informality.”

“Thank you, Shaker,” I said, realizing that it would indeed be ridiculous to carry on with any pretense. “For . . . last night. For helping me.” I studied his trembling hands. Did they ever stop their dance? Had they shaken as he gently guided the tiny blue girl out of me?

He balled them into fists, then, and I was ashamed for staring.

“You must think me a right ninny,” I said, raising my eyes. “To be robbed like that. Me, of all people. I should know the games of the street.” I shrugged. “There’s no way I’ll ever get my money back, I know that.”

Shaker jammed one hand into his pocket. “It’ll be spent on cheap gin and who knows what else by now. But I went back to the Green Firkin this morning and the publican let me in, even though it’s the Lord’s Day. I asked him again, as you did last night, if he knew who the woman and the child were. Of course he would say he didn’t; likely he would be in on it, and demand his share for letting her work his place. But I did have a look round, and found this kicked into a corner. Of course, it could be anybody’s.”

He pulled his hand out of his pocket and held out my pendant. At the sight of it, twirling slowly on the end of its gold chain, the grief over having all of my dreams stolen in one night came out in a dry, explosive sob. I reached for the pendant, snatching it from Shaker’s fingers, and held it against my cheek.

“Her name is Frances,” I said, knowing I had already told him that. “After my mother.” And then, finally, it was possible to cry. After so many years. I sobbed in an embarrassing, noisy, and unfamiliar way, with a high-pitched keening, my nose running, eyes squeezed shut, rocking back and forth on the edge of the chair. I felt Shaker’s hand on my shoulder, the trembling violent now, but it was a comfort nonetheless.

When I at last was able to control myself, my sobs replaced with a stuttering in my throat, wiping my eyes on the shawl, Shaker removed his hand and took a step away from me. He showed great interest in the drawing of the skinless man, then in the open book, the jars, whatever lay in view from the window. He looked everywhere but at me, as if seeing me cry had been more embarrassing to him than what he’d seen the night before as I lay on his bed and he knelt between my bent legs.

He finally rubbed his hands together nervously, clearing his throat, but he seemed unable to decide whether to go or stay, or the best way to deal with a woman in distress.

Chapter Eleven

O
VER THE CUP OF STEAMING BEEF TEA IN THE ROOM ACROSS THE
hall, which was, as Shaker had promised, warm, with a hearty fire blazing in a good-size fireplace, I told Shaker my plan of going to America. About how I’d been put into the business by Ram Munt, how I’d been saving every penny I could for the purpose of leaving this life in the only way open to me. How I almost had enough. How I had planned to raise my baby there in America and live a respectable life.

Why did I tell him all of this? I don’t know, other than I felt that it was my duty to explain to him who I was; perhaps to thank him in the only way I could, other than offering my body—by being honest with him. And as I talked and watched his face, I realized his opinion of me mattered, something I’d never felt before.

The whole time his mother was there, in her cane rocking chair facing the long window, tatting lace. She didn’t acknowledge me when Shaker accompanied me into her room, one hand resting lightly on my back. He pulled out a chair for me at the small deal table in front of the fire. Shaker acted, likewise, as if she wasn’t there, and in time I also ignored her presence.