The Trespass (26 page)

Again she looked at him most curiously. ‘I came to ask you if I could sell you her books. I need some money very quickly.’

She was so grateful for the way he asked no questions. ‘There’s nae money in books. And I think you should keep her books.’ He pronounced them
boooks,
which seemed to give them even more weight and value. ‘I’ll take them of course if tha must sell them, but – have tha no jewellery? Had Mary no jewellery?’

She thought quickly. Her father gave her expensive jewellery every year: she knew it was expensive. He often told her so. ‘Yes, I have jewellery. I should have thought of that.’
Of course. She did not need to borrow money. She could sell all her jewellery.
Mary had said:
if anything happens to me, take all the jewellery. It is in the second drawer.
She had forgotten.
My brain isn’t working. How could I have forgotten something so important?
‘But – I do not know how to sell it. It has to be at once.’

She understood he was pondering on this as, observing that her tears had stopped, he went across to raise the blind and flip the notice over again so that it read: WELCOME TO DAWSON’S BOOK EMPORIUM.

‘It’s an odd business, selling jewellery. There are right rogues about.’ He picked up a book absent-mindedly. ‘Along Oxford Street, by Bond Street, there’s a man called Sandford. I’ll go and have a word with him this evening. You go tomorrow and tell him I sent thee. And bring me any books tha can do without.’

The door of the shop opened. Harriet quickly put down her cup, pulled her veil over her face as Mr Dawson went to meet the customer, but little notice was taken of her as she came out into the shop: they were discussing the man Darwin.

‘Take her with thee, lass,’ murmured the bookseller nevertheless as she passed.

‘Thank you, Mr Dawson,’ said Harriet and through the veil, just for a second, the smile flashed and was gone again.

It was then that the customer recognised her.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Cooper,’ he said, and his grey eyes observed her gravely.

She was thrown, felt as if she had
conjured
him. She was unable to speak, gave him her gloved hand and for just a moment they stood there, among the books.

‘I am so very sorry,’ he said. ‘I understand that you loved your sister very much.’

She bowed her head so that he would not see tears.

And then Sir Benjamin Kingdom said gently, ‘Is there anything at all that I could do for you?’

Harriet kept her head bowed.
What could she tell him, of her life?
She looked up at him and shook her head without speaking.
I can sell the jewellery and pay for my passage.

He spoke again. ‘Will you be – all right?’

It was the strangest question.

I can sell the jewellery and pay for my passage.
She answered him truthfully. ‘I think – I will be all right,’ she said quietly. Only then did he let go of her hand.

She looked just once more at his face: she had for a brief moment the most extraordinary feeling, like an odd recognition, something important about him that she could not quite catch. And then it was gone.

Harriet bowed to the gentlemen and left the bookshop.

The amiable driver waited still as dusk fell over London and the first lights came on all over the city. Cecil, seeing her, climbed down to light his cab lamp. Harriet watched him for a moment. I
can sell my jewellery. I will have money.

‘Cecil,’ she said.

‘Yes, ma’am.’ He was pulling at the wick, trimming it with his fingers.

‘I need you to help me,’ she said shyly. ‘I will pay you of course.’

He waited till he had lighted the lamp at last and then turned towards her. ‘On with it, Miss Harriet Cooper,’ he said. ‘I’ll be pleased to be of assistance, payment or no payment,’ and she did not notice that he knew her name.

Sometime later Cecil drew up, whistling still, at the house in Bryanston Square.

The front door flew open as the cab stopped outside. Peters and Lucy, both looking deeply relieved after her long absence (yet who could complain of the mistress going off with Lady Kingdom of all people), came quickly down the steps to help her out of the coach, to carry her parcels. (‘A
sunbonnet
!’ Lucy confided later in the kitchen. ‘Death makes people mad.’)

‘Please pay the driver,’ said Harriet and she inclined her head upwards towards Cecil very briefly and then passed into the hall and was overpowered by the smell of meat cooking, and the drains. Behind her Peters was already quizzing the driver about the details of her journey.

She had her dinner in her room with Quintus. She did not want food, her stomach rebelled against food, her heart beat too fast for food, but she knew she must become very strong very quickly. She cut the beef into very small pieces, tried to chew them without being sick. Lucy watched her and Quintus watched her until Harriet could bear it no longer: she pushed the plate away and Quintus barked joyfully at the remains. She could not bear Lucy to brush her hair but she accepted help undressing and putting on a nightdress and a shawl. Again Lucy saw the thin frame, the useless corset. Harriet sat in a chair beside the small fire in her room. Quintus sat beside her. Her legs were weak with exhaustion but there was much more to do. She tried to make her legs and arms less tense. Then there was a tap at her door.

Her younger brother Walter stood there looking embarrassed to see his sister in her night attire. He lingered in the doorway even though Lucy held the door open for him. He pulled at his rather wispy moustache. ‘You are better now, Harry, are you?’ He’d called her Harry since she was born, but only when their father was not present of course.

She thought about what he could possibly mean:
you are better now, are you?
Remembered just for a moment Benjamin Kingdom’s different question:
will you be all right?

‘Yes, Walter, thank you.’

‘Richard will not be home until late and I am going out,’ he said. ‘Just for dinner, and to visit a few friends quietly.’ Harriet expected he was still going to play cards for money even though he wore a black band on his sleeve. And she wondered what was all the cooking for, when nobody ate it?

‘Is there anything…?’ Walter floundered.

‘Thank you, Walter. I shall go to bed soon.’

But he could not quite leave. ‘Peters said you have been out.’

No doubt Peters had. ‘Yes.’

‘Where did you go?’

She got up from the chair, moved towards him, Quintus followed joyfully. ‘I went out with Lady Kingdom. I visited some shops in Piccadilly.’

‘Ah.’ That was the kind of answer that made him feel secure. Shopping, Lady Kingdom. Good.

‘Harry,’ he said in a rush suddenly, and the words tumbled out like a prepared speech, ‘Harry, why not write your journal again, you know, TO THE DEAR READERS OF MY JOURNAL, like you used to. It – it would be good for you. Look, look, I’ve got you a notebook.’ He stood there in the doorway, holding out a book for her. His sister did not answer. ‘Would it be good for you?’ he added uncertainly.

‘I will try, Walter, if you would like me to, when I am feeling – more like writing.’ And she took the notebook from his outstretched hand, turned it over and over, saw its pale cover. ‘Thank you, Walter,’ she said.

‘I always liked them, Harry, your journals. I wanted to encourage you. It would be something for you to do.’

‘Thank you, Walter. It is very kind of you to think of it.’ And she repeated the word: thank you.

Another pause. She wondered what he thought about Mary, whether he had wept, although men did not weep.

‘Have you had a good day, Walter?’ How odd it was: they both stood there, embarrassed, yet trying. She thought of the easy manner her cousin Edward had with his sisters.

‘Yes, yes. Thank you. Well then…’ And he prepared to take his leave.

‘Walter.’

‘Yes?’

‘Thank you for the notebook.’

‘I am glad you like it. I am really glad, Harry. I liked your journals.’

‘Walter.’

He turned back yet again. ‘Yes, Harry?’

‘Could you – would you be so kind as to inform Peters that – that it is good for me to go and look in the clothes emporiums. That I will be going again tomorrow.’

‘Well of course. Yes.’

She was aware that Lucy was listening but it could not be helped. ‘He seemed to think – that he had some sort of right to keep me here. I think only you or Richard have that right.’

Walter’s immature face took on immediate understanding. Servants must know their place. He would see to it.

‘Of course, Harry. You are quite right. Of course you may go tomorrow. I will tell Peters that I allow it.’

‘Thank you, Walter.’

‘Goodnight then, Harry.’

‘Goodnight, Walter.’ She saw he was relieved to be gone.

‘Now, Lucy,’ said Harriet, ‘now I would like to be by myself.’

‘There is nothing else, miss?’ Lucy wished she could tell Harriet how glad she was that she hadn’t run away; how much she hated Peters, how he told her she must report everything and how she did not; how he spied on the servants also. But she had to keep this position One word from Peters and she would be gone, she knew that. She wished that she could say that
she guessed about Sir Charles.
(But of course she would never say that.)

‘Nothing, Lucy. Thank you. Take Quintus now.’ But before she let him go she suddenly knelt down and just for a moment buried her face in his coat. ‘Goodnight, Quintus,’ she whispered and he seemed to smile.

‘Goodnight, Miss Harriet.’

‘Goodnight, Lucy.’

She heard Lucy talking to Quintus as she went down the stairs.

And then, as if she could suddenly hardly walk, she made her way slowly across the room to her bed. Her head swam: she knew if she lay down she would not get up again. So she sat there for a moment, feeling her heart beat fast. Then with a great effort she got up again and walked to her jewellery box. She hardly glanced at the contents, removing only a tiny locket and a ring, both of which had belonged to her mother. Then she simply emptied the contents of the box straight in to the satin interior of a reticule: the bracelets and the necklets and the lockets and the jewelled brooches inlaid with diamonds that her father had begun to give her: was it enough to pay for a cabin? She had no idea.

Back to the bed. This time she did lie down and at once the room spun round and round. She had to close her eyes,
but I must stay well and I must stay awake I have only two more days to change my life.
But weakness and exhaustion overcame her and for the first night since Mary died, without the laudanum that had clamped down on her dreams, Harriet fell asleep.

*   *   *

She woke with a start. The lamp was still burning.
Was someone in the room?
At once her eyes flicked to the doorway and around the room, her heart began the over-fast beating. But the door was closed and the room was empty. And no clock ticked. The house was silent. She remembered all she had to do: she got up quickly. She went to the window and pulled the heavy curtain slightly, looked over the Square. London was in the time of most quietness: the time when it was truly night. The streetlights were burning but they were enclosed in a cold night mist, seemed like a row of ghostly candles. If there were moon and stars tonight they were not appearing, just dull, misty darkness. After a moment she made out the shape of the big oak tree in the Square. A shadowy figure walked beside the Square and disappeared into the distance as she watched. In the distance the traffic still rumbled, but muted now.

She turned from the window abruptly. She had to do this most difficult thing in the night: desperation gave her courage of a kind. She picked up the lamp, opened her door and stepped into the dark, silent passageway. She tried to breathe normally but could not still her heart, it pounded against her chest like a drum as she moved like a shade along the hall. She turned the handle of the door and walked into Mary’s room. Closing the door softly behind her, leaning against it with closed eyes, she was aware of little sounds in the room. She opened her eyes, raised the lamp, looked about the room in terror: realised after a long moment that the sounds, the small gasps of pain, came from herself.

The bed had been stripped and Mary’s books had been tidied away from the table. That was all. The pictures were still on the walls: the paintings of the English countryside, the copy of the Mona Lisa with her secret smile that her sister had so loved. But the emptiness of the room yawned at her.
Mary was dead.
With a sob Harriet put down the lamp and quickly crossed to the bed and knelt beside it.
O Lord,
she prayed,
take unto thy heart the soul of my beloved sister Mary so that she may be comforted and see thy light.
Even praying she could feel and hear the beating of her heart.
O Lord,
she whispered,
tell Mary I miss her so.

Perhaps she knelt there for a long time, for her legs were stiff and cold when she at last tried to rise and she had to cling to the bed for a moment.

Then she went to the chest in the corner and opened the second drawer.

Mary’s jewellery box had belonged to their mother. It was bigger and older than Harriet’s and contained many pieces, much that had belonged to Elizabeth Cooper. Harriet had to walk to the long mahogany wardrobe to find Mary’s reticule; opening the wardrobe door she was overcome by the
smell
of her sister, as if, truly, she was there somewhere among the gowns and the bonnets and the shawls. Harriet, shocked, stayed stock-still. Then very slowly she leant her forehead against the clothes.
Darling Mary,
she whispered again,
help me. Give me strength to do this.
The dresses in the big wardrobe did not answer but Harriet breathed in the scent of her sister, who had been her life.

At last, with Mary’s reticule in her hand, she walked back to the chest and emptied the jewel box. At the very bottom of the box Harriet knew there was another compartment: it was their secret when Harriet was a little girl. She opened it: there were some papers inside. There was a prospectus for the Ladies’ College in Harley Street. There was a letter from their mother to Mary that Harriet had seen before, the long graceful curl of the letters faded now, but still folded there. And there was a letter with Harriet’s name on it. Startled, she picked it up, turned it over several times in her hand in the light of the lamp, opened it. There was no date.