Victorian Maiden (3 page)

The shrill whistle shrieked along the length of the train and dissolved into the warmth of the afternoon; dissolved everywhere, that is, except inside her head. There it compounded with the silent screams of her anguish and grew louder and louder and louder.

She concentrated with the whole of her being on the rhythmic clicking of the carriage wheels as they glided over the joints in the tracks. She closed her thoughts to everything except her urgings of the train to go faster, for the clicks to be louder, more staccato, to overwhelm her, to crowd out whatever it was they were taking turns to do to her body. She could feel the echoes of their hands; the rough scratch of their whiskers; the stench of tobacco on their breath.

‘Please, Lord Jesus, please make the train get to where it is going; please make it stop so that they will stop, and I can begin, again, to hide away the memories.'

But she had a knife now, in her sleeve. She couldn't remember how or from where she had got it but it was there. ‘Oh, thank you, Jesus; thank you, Mama.' She would be safe now. She wouldn't have to bear those unbearable thoughts again and again and again. With a practiced hand, she laid the stiletto point of the blade against the softness of her skin and pressed. Delicious pain swelled through her consciousness, filling it and blocking out everything else. She deserved the pain, she knew. She was a wicked, wicked girl, but oh, how it eased the torture of her mind; how it chased away those thoughts and those awful, awful memories.

 

“Miss Elizabeth seems much calmer now,” Lucie observed as the fields and hedges outside the carriage window suddenly gave way to the long lines of houses that were the outskirts of Harrogate.

“For a time, especially as we were crossing over the viaduct, I thought she might have needed another dose of your chloral hydrate.”

A smile loosened the taut lines of the nurse's face.

“She must have remembered how much she loved the railway when she was younger. Lizzie hasn't been on a train since she was a young girl, but she was always spellbound by them. She always used to watch out for them from the workhouse windows and on Sundays after church, she would sit on the embankment by the railway line and watch the trains going past for hours.”

She looked across at her charge and the warmth of the smile deepened and spread.

“Alfred Roberts used to have a shooting lodge at a place called Budle in the north of Northumberland, very near to the coast. It was an old, fortified tower and she used to be taken up on occasion on the train. The railway only went as far as Newcastle in those days but they always had the devil's own job to get her out of the carriage and into a coach.”

The smile died abruptly.

“At Budle, she would spend all day standing on the roof, gazing out over the bay and across the North Sea. She said it was a horrible, horrible place and that she couldn't wait to get back onto the train.”

“Dr Roberts insisted that she came by train,” Atticus said, steering the conversation back to the present.

“He said that under no circumstances was she to be fetched by cab, or even by omnibus.”

He shrugged.

“But he wouldn't say why.”

The nurse nodded and patted the coarse cloth hanging from Elizabeth's skeletal arm.

“It's the sound of the hooves, Mr Fox. She hates the sound of the horses' hooves and she hates being shut up in a horse carriage. They all did.”

“Where's my mama?” Elizabeth exclaimed suddenly.

She was answered only by the shrill whistle of the locomotive, shrieking down the length of the train as it coasted the long, curving approach to the Harrogate Central Railway Station.

The faces of the waiting travellers slid slowly past the window, regularly punctuated by the cast-iron legs of the station canopy and the enormous floral platform displays. Finally the train slowed and bumped once more to a halt.

Atticus stood and pushed open the maroon carriage door into the faint shroud of steam that hung over the platform like the mists of Eden.

“You're in Harrogate, Lizzie.” Sister Lovell spoke as she might do to a tiny girl. “Do you remember Harrogate, Lizzie, where you used to live with your mama? Harrogate, where all the fine ladies and gentlemen live and where all the ailing are cured?”

Sessrum House, Dr Michael Roberts' large, imposing town house, commanded magnificent views over its part of the Harrogate Stray; two hundred acres of grassed parkland that served both to open out the very heart of the elegant spa town, and to connect the many mineral springs and wells that drew the ‘Ailing' from every part of the Empire. They came to take the curious mix of hydrotherapy and light exercise known as ‘The Cure.'

The noise and bustle of the town seemed to scare Elizabeth. She drew stares; compassionate, curious and mocking from the crowds that filled the streets, as she shuffled along, softly singing the words to her nursery rhyme. She was singing the same line over and over and over again.

“Rock a bye baby, on the treetop. Rock a bye baby, on the treetop. Rock a bye baby, on the treetop.”

“When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,” Atticus snapped irritably, and then instantly regretted it. But he need not have worried; Elizabeth never broke her rote, not once, save for when they tried to pass the narrow, rubbish-strewn entrance to a ginnel. There, she seemed cowed into blessed silence and stood still, staring in dread into the deep shadows, until Mary took her hands and gently drew her past it.

By the time the little group had threaded its way laboriously from the railway station to the broad, stone steps that underscored the grand portico entrance to Sessrum House, the late summer sun had already begun to cast its broad shadow over the Stray.

“Do you remember this house, Lizzie?” Sister Lovell asked softly, tentatively. Without waiting for an answer, she added: “I don't reckon for a minute you could forget it, could you?” She turned the old woman gently around to face her, and peered into her poke bonnet. “You won't be punished any more, Lizzie, I promise. A kind man lives here now.”

“Lord Jesus,” said Elizabeth, quite distinctly.

“Not the Lord Jesus, Lizzie; just a man, but a kind man who will help you to feel better before you go to see the real Jesus and your poor, dead mama and papa, and…”

She patted Elizabeth's fingers.

“Your mama is dead but she's watching over you; the Lord Jesus is watching over you, and I'll watch over you too.”

Atticus turned to her.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

 

She's dead! Dear Lord, her dear, sweet mama is dead. And yes, it surely is true. She had seen her pall being lowered deep into the ground, lowered onto the peeling, grey, mud-smeared coffin of her dearest papa, whom she had never even known. The bell had rung, and now she had gone to be with Jesus and his angels in Heaven. Or had she? Dear Lord, had she? She hoped and hoped that the vicar was right; that her uncle was wrong, and that her mama was safe in Heaven. She prayed and prayed that she was an angel for Jesus, just like her dearest papa. But her mama had said that she would never leave her. She had said that she loved her more than anything else in the world. Everyone had said that her mama would get better; that she wouldn't die like her papa had died. Everyone had said that she would be cured. They had said that everyone is cured at Harrogate.

But her mama wasn't cured and she had died. She had left her. Her Uncle Alfie said that her mama must have been especially wicked and sinful to die so young at Harrogate. But how could someone who was so especially wicked go to be with Jesus and his angels? Jesus hates people who are wicked. Her Uncle Alfie had said that she, Elizabeth, must be wicked and sinful too; that she was a wicked little girl who must be punished and have a special kind of medicine. But why did he smile so when he said that? And why did his smile chill her to her very core?

 

Atticus' sharp rap on the big knocking-iron of the door was answered almost immediately by Petty, Dr Roberts' butler. His neutral expression hardened briefly into curious disdain as he caught sight of Elizabeth at the foot of the steps, dressed as she was, in her shabby, workhouse uniform. She was huddled against a nurse; a woman who also awakened memories he had kept carefully hidden for so, so long.

“Good evening, Mr and Mrs Fox,” he said, dutiful nonetheless.

“Good evening to you, Mr Petty,” Atticus replied.

The butler's eyebrows rose a little. Atticus had referred to him as ‘Mister' on a previous occasion, but it was still a surprise, it was still rare above stairs even for a butler to be accorded such respect as a friendly tone and a title.

“I have Miss Elizabeth Wilson, and Miss Lovell, a nursing sister from the Union Workhouse in Knaresborough, to see Dr Roberts,” Atticus continued.

Even though he had been expecting – dreading, even – their arrival, the butler's expression stiffened yet further at the mention of the names, and of the workhouse. His eyes flickered briefly towards the Stray for casual eavesdroppers, but the gods were smiling and there were none.

“You had better all come inside, Mr Fox, if you please,” he said hurriedly, and waved them in.

 

She followed the gentleman as he led her up the great, stone steps of her aunt and uncle's house. Lizzie had visited the grand house many times before, but that was always with her mama. This time she was alone, except, of course, for Mary. Her mama was with Jesus now and the house seemed different; much larger and strangely forbidding, somehow.

Her arm stung and she remembered her Uncle Alfie. He always insisted that she call him Alfie and not Alfred, even though her mama had told her that it was awfully disrespectful. He said that he'd had a special new part of the house built recently. It was called an annexe. She was to sleep there – in the Annexe – where she wouldn't be disturbed by the noise of the servants and where it was private. There would be other children there too; her cousin John, and those her mama used to call the ‘waifs and strays.' Those were the children her uncle had rescued; the ones who were to be sent on to better lives. Her arm stung and she remembered the waifs and strays. 

She remembered her uncle unlocking the door next to the scullery. It was a big door, with leather padding on the back just like a cushion, and it led to a steep, spiral staircase. She remembered him taking her around and around, down and down the staircase, with its cast-iron treads that rang when you stepped on them. The waifs and strays were all down there. They were in a big, special room called a dormitory, and they were all little girls. 

The waifs and strays had a narrow, iron bed each, and a man called Mr Otter to look especially after them. She thought Mr Otter a little discomforting to look at, with his ugly, scarred face and his eyes like a monster. He had his own room, right next to the row of beds, but she thought that she would have hated living down there; it was so gloomy and depressing. 

She thought it was strange that the girls all seemed frightened. Some of them were even sobbing. But why were they frightened and why were they sobbing? Didn't they know Uncle Alfie was a great philanthropist? Didn't they realise that he had saved them, and that now they could each look forward to a much better life?

Everyone said her uncle was a philanthropist.

When she told Uncle Alfie that the dormitory was gloomy and depressing, he had laughed. He had told her not to worry; that she didn't have to sleep in the dormitory with the waifs and strays. She was to have her own bedroom, just as if she were a grown woman and not a little girl at all. It would be the bedroom right next to his own son John's, with a beautiful, carved fireplace and an enormous brass bedstead that was almost too big to be just for one little girl. He said it was because she was his now. He possessed her. And Uncle Alfie was to sleep in the new part too – in the Annexe – so he could see her whenever he wished and he could always make sure that she was being a good, little girl.

He said that she had always to be a good little girl, and that she had always to do everything exactly as he said. If she took care to do that, then one day she too could be an angel with Jesus and see her dear mama once again, in Heaven.

 

“Mr Fox – Atticus, old fellow, and the delightful Mrs Fox – how wonderful it is to see you both again so soon.”

Dr Roberts' eyes sparkled as he burst into the library where the butler had shown them to wait. He stopped abruptly and stared.

“And you have some first rate news for me I see.”

“We have indeed, Dr Roberts,” Atticus replied, grinning broadly.

Then with a flourish: “I would like to present Miss Elizabeth Wilson, cousin of your late father and until this very afternoon, long-time inmate of the Knaresborough Union Workhouse. I also have Sister Mary Lovell, a nurse from the same worthy institution who, with your permission, is here to help Miss Elizabeth settle in.”

“You're most welcome, Sister Lovell, you're most welcome indeed. Furthermore, I hope I can persuade the Master to allow you to remain here permanently. After all, even when she's settled, I will still need someone to look after my Aunt Elizabeth through her dotage.”

Dr Roberts stooped and gazed directly at Elizabeth, his eyes drinking in every detail of her features. He made no attempt to wipe away a single, large tear as it ran down his cheek and disappeared into his rich, dark whiskers.

“My own dear Aunt Elizabeth,” he whispered huskily; “Dear God, what have they done to you?”

It seemed to cost him a mammoth effort to eventually wrench his gaze from her face. He closed his eyes tightly shut until, it seemed, he had forced something deep inside to quell itself, and then he spoke again.

“Mr and Mrs Fox, I would be honoured if you would consent to stay for dinner this evening and help me celebrate being united with my dear long-lost aunt. Sister Lovell – Mary – if you would be so kind as to help Aunt Elizabeth to get changed into her new clothes, I would be delighted if you too would join us. If you can remember her old bedroom, it has been prepared for her return.”

 

She gazed despairingly around her room at the enormous brass bed, and the two beautifully carved angels cavorting under the mantelshelf. They were cherubs and they seemed almost alive – almost. If only they were, maybe they could help. Maybe they could carry a message to her mama, far away in Heaven. They could tell her to come and watch over her at night, to be her own guardian angel. Bad things happened at night. Night was when her uncle came to tell her how naughty she had been, with his medicine for wicked girls and his eyes that froze the very blood in her veins; those ravenous, beastly eyes.

And then, as she stared at the angels – the two little cherubs – she remembered the two worst memories of all. She remembered how they waited to torment her as they festered away, deep in that farthest, most remote part of her mind that she kept especially for them and their foul and loathsome kin. Her fingers gripped again the warm, silver handle of the knife lying hidden in her sleeve and she sobbed as the pain, the delicious, soothing pain kept the two worst memories of all from slipping their bonds, and from coming to hurt her.