The Beloved (14 page)

Eli Angel looked out of the study window onto a damp and chill October morning. The sky was a patchwork of sullen clouds and pale blues. Every now and then, a shy sun would inch its way out from behind a cloud, only to be smothered again almost immediately. The day looked like Eli felt inside, miserable and uncertain.

Things were not going well at the mill. The workers were unsettled and had not taken too kindly to the news that their futures were now in the hands of an eighteen-year-old boy. The mill manager, a fastidious little man called Ernest Wraith, was of the same opinion.

Although Eli had grasped the rudiments of running the business from evenings spent at his father's side in the study, out in the real world, the day-to-day management, the bickering, the negotiations, and the finer points of it all, were just a fuddle in his brain. It didn't help that since his father's untimely death, his mother had taken to her room and as each day passed she was becoming more and more difficult. Whenever he was in the house, she demanded every moment of his attention. She would have him sit for hours at her bedside, holding her hand and reassuring her that she was still beautiful. She didn't want to hear about the mill, or about Ernest Wraith, or the workers, or the stack of bills that were sitting accusingly on the desk in the study, waiting to be paid. All she cared about was the fading lustre of her hair and the lines on her face and how many calling cards had been left that day. If there were none, which was often the case, she demanded to know why, or she would weep and lament her disgrace and console herself with a draught of laudanum.

And then there was Alice. There was always Alice. She hovered on the edge of Eli's thoughts all day and every night. She gnawed at his dreams, so he awoke bad-tempered and tired, and he couldn't pass the door to her room without his heart contracting.

Temperance, however, seemed to have wiped Alice from her memory. Eli had learned weeks ago that it was futile to even mention Alice's name in front of his mother. She would set her mouth in a tight thin line and turn her face to the wall, or worse, she would begin to shake and spit obscenities at him. It shamed him to his very core, but Eli had to admit to himself that he had been blind.

Alice had tried to tell him so many times. Since she had first been able to talk, she had tried to tell him. But he had never seen it. He had never seen the truth of it. He had bathed in the adoration of his mother. He had thought she was perfect. He had thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. But he saw her now for what she really was. As Alice had
always
seen her.

Eli sighed heavily and turned from the window to look at the pile of letters on the desk. The advertisement that he had placed in the
Bristol Gazette
had elicited a number of responses during the last few weeks. At first, it had seemed promising. A young woman answering Alice's description had been seen in a lodging house in St Philips, Bristol. Eli had set out, full of hope and apprehension, to meet the writer of the letter. He had met the man, who gave his name as Samuel Wakefield, in a dingy inn on the outskirts of the district. He had been obliged to purchase a jar of ale and to furnish Mr Wakefield with a handful of coins before he would agree to take Eli to the lodging house.

They had set off walking through a network of courts, alleys and side streets, with Eli struggling to keep pace. He had never seen such places before. It was all so dim and filthy and the ground was thick with rotting vegetable peelings, stinking offal and ashes. The stench was unbearable and Eli had to pull his handkerchief from his pocket and hold it over his nose, just to stop himself from retching. Mr Wakefield had laughed and told him it was only the stink of the scavengers' yards and the nearby alkali works, and he should be glad it was not a hot day.

Eli became distracted by the filth that was sticking to his shoes, and had stopped to scrape some of it off on the edge of a brick wall. When he looked up, Mr Wakefield had disappeared. Eli had not realised at that point that anything was wrong. He assumed they had just lost each other in the tangle of alleys. Eli had pressed on and had enquired of an old beggar woman as to the whereabouts of the nearest lodging house. She had pointed to a nearby doorway and Eli had taken a deep breath to ready himself for the state he might find Alice in.

The lodging house keeper made no effort to hide his scorn. After Eli had finished describing Alice, the man held out his fingers one by one. ‘We have a pedlar, a cordwainer, a laundry maid, a splint maker and a horsehair weaver, but I'm afraid I don't recall no
young lady
.' He'd winked at Eli and chuckled to himself.

It was only then that Eli realised he had been duped. He had been led on a wild goose chase and had been left with nothing but empty pockets and shit on his shoes.

After that, he'd been more careful. He'd kept his money in his pocket, refusing to hand over a single coin until he had proof of Alice's existence. But of course, the letter writers had all been charlatans, snakesmen, vagabonds and thieves.

The worst of the lot had been the young girl with the head of tatty yellow hair who had sworn she was his long-lost sister. He had met a large-bellied man in a greasy suit on a street corner in Totterdown; a man who had written to say he had Alice. The man led Eli to a small room at the top of a crowded house in a place called Fox Court. On his way up the dark, winding stairs, Eli had to step over a least a dozen drunkards.

The girl had been sitting on the edge of an unmade bed and when Eli entered the room, she flung herself at him and begged to be taken home. ‘Brother. Dear brother,' she kept saying. ‘You've come for me at last.'

Eli had to wrench her from him, and in his hurry to get away he had pushed her too hard and she had fallen backwards and hit her head on the iron bedstead. She didn't scream or make a sound, but the man had roared at him and Eli had run, tripping and stumbling over the slumped bodies on the staircase until he was back out on the stinking streets. The sound of the girl's head hitting the bedstead, the dull thud of bone on iron, had haunted him for days.

It had been the last time he had gone to look for Alice, and although the letters kept arriving, he couldn't bring himself to open any more.

Eli picked up the letters from the desk and weighed them in his hands. Was Alice in there somewhere? Was he about to throw away his only chance of ever finding her? There was a knock on the door, and the maid, Sarah, came into the study and bobbed him a small curtsey. ‘Mr Wraith is here to see you, sir,' she said. ‘And the mistress has been asking for you too.'

Eli sighed. Could he never have a moment to himself? ‘Thank you, Sarah,' he said. ‘Please show Mr Wraith in. And I will attend to Mama shortly.' As Sarah closed the door behind her, Eli tightened his grip on the letters until they bent and crumpled in his hands. Then he threw them onto the fire and watched for a moment as flames blackened the edges of the paper and the lies and deceits of strangers were turned to smoke and ashes.

I am sitting in the cottage kitchen with a pile of mending at my side. I remember how I hated to embroider those pointless stitches on handkerchiefs and coin purses. I remember how Mama would make me unpick the stitches over and over again until the fabric was mottled with my blood and the piece was only fit for a cleaning rag. It is different now. There is a purpose to the work and Lizzie often praises the neatness of my stitches and the deftness of my fingers. Her words swell my heart with pride.

I am sliding my needle through torn linen and frayed silk, hemming and cross-stitching, when Glory comes into the kitchen. ‘Alice,' she says, her voice breathless with the heaviness of her belly. ‘Our Beloved wishes to see you. Come quickly.'

My mouth drops open as the sewing slides from my lap. The tightness of my throat squeezes my words to a whisper. ‘Have I done something wrong?' I ask.

Glory's laugh tinkles like the row of teacups hanging from hooks on the dresser. ‘Why would you think that? It is an honour that he has summoned you. Come now. We must not keep him waiting.'

It is wet outside from the recent rain and a low mist hangs over the Abode like a damp dishcloth. The women of the Parlour hurry about their duties with their heads bowed low and their shawls pulled tight across their shoulders. Beth is struggling across the courtyard with two pails of water. She rests them on the ground and watches me closely as I follow Glory to the mansion. I smile as I walk by, but there is a faraway look in her eyes and she does not return my gesture.

Glory leaves me in the hall of the mansion. ‘You know your way,' she says. ‘I must rest now.'

I wait until she has climbed the stairs and disappeared into the shadows of the upper floor before I turn to the mirror. I see a different person from when I stood here last. The girl in the mirror has a bloom to her cheeks now. Her eyes are bright as jet and her hair, which is pulled into a loose knot at the back of her head, shines like a pool of ink. I smooth my frock and check that my apron is clean, and then with my heart skipping in my throat, I open the door to the red room.

‘Ah, Alice,' his voice greets me as soon as I enter. He is standing with his back to the window and the watery October light quivers around him like a silver lake. ‘Come and sit with me,' he says, and he gestures towards the chairs that are pulled close to a blazing fire.

I sit opposite him and stare at the floor. I know that if I were to look him in the eye, I would blush furiously.

‘You are looking well, Alice,' he says. ‘A far cry from when you first came to us. Life here agrees with you?'

‘It does, Beloved,' I answer. ‘It agrees with me very well.'

‘I am glad to hear it,' he says. He reaches out then, and takes my hands in his. His fingers are warm and soft and he moves them in small circles over my skin. ‘You have been working hard, I see?' he says gently.

‘I am doing my best,' I reply, trying to stop my hands from trembling

‘Your efforts for the Lord have not gone unnoticed,' he murmurs. ‘Look at me, Alice,' he says suddenly.

I slowly lift my eyes and can already feel a tide of crimson rising up my chest. He is wearing a fine woollen suit and I stare at the weave of it as my eyes travel the length of his pinstriped trousers and over his frock coat and black vest. He is wearing a patterned silk scarf at his throat and I stare at the intricate swirls of blues and greens and gold before I finally dare to lift my eyes to his.

‘Don't be frightened, Alice,' he says. He must hear the terrible thumping of my heart. The blues of his eyes are ringed with black. He continues to stroke my hands. His lashes are long and silky. He blinks slowly and they sweep to his brows.

He is God made flesh.

The enormity of it all fills me to the brim and I want to stay here forever, with his hands on mine and with his eyes smiling down on me. It is only when he reaches out to wipe a tear from my cheek that I realise I am crying.

‘Hush now, my child,' he says. ‘There is just one thing you need to do, if you are ready.'

I nod, to let him know I will do anything for him.

‘Confess your sins to me,' he says. ‘All that blackens your heart, you must tell me now. I will forgive you and you will be made fresh and clean as a newborn.'

So I tell him. I tell him all of it. It babbles out of my mouth like a fast-running stream. I tell him how I was born so bad my mother hated me, and I hated her in return. How I didn't know it before, but I know it now that I have the power of the Devil in me and I can make wishes come true. But they are terrible wishes and my Papa died because of it. And I want the power to go away and I want my mother to love me and I want my Papa to come back from the dead.

By the time I finish telling him, I am sobbing wildly and my apron is sodden.

He takes me by the hand and pulls me to standing. ‘You have done well, my child. It is good you have unburdened your soul. And I will forgive you, as I said I would.' He puts his hand under my chin and lifts my face to his. Then he presses his lips on mine and I taste the smoke and fire of him and the salt of my own tears.

He lets go of me and I am trembling terribly. I understand now what he meant when he said I would be made clean and fresh as a newborn. I feel like a lamb testing its legs for the very first time.

He sits back in his chair and crosses his legs. Then he takes a cigar from an inside pocket and runs it under his nose. ‘Delightful!' he sighs. He points the cigar towards the fire and glances up at me. ‘Would you?'

I am confused for a moment. But then I notice the jar of spills on the mantelpiece. I take one and hold it into the centre of the fire. When it catches, I turn back to him and hold the flame to his cigar. But I am shaking so much, the flame quivers madly and he has to hold my hand to steady it.

He blows a plume of scented smoke into the air.

‘Thank you, Alice,' he says. ‘You may go now. But tomorrow you will travel with me. We are to go to Bath to spread the teachings. We will leave just after dawn, so please be ready.' He leans back in his chair and sucks deeply on his cigar.

My insides are burning as hot as the spitting fire and my lips, where he kissed me, are bruised and throbbing. I toss the used spill onto the fire, and then I walk from the room as though in a dream. I wander across the courtyard with no mind to where I am going. All I know is that something miraculous has just happened. He has forgiven me everything. I told him my secrets and he forgave them all.

Bad Alice has gone, kissed away by God himself.

I touch my lips with my fingertips. No one has ever kissed me there before. Only Eli or Papa has ever kissed me at all, but on my cheeks or on the top of my head. It is a wonder, I think. Our Beloved must love me very much to kiss me on the lips. I want to tell someone how wonderful I feel, how astonishing it is to have all the darkness driven away and to be left as spotless and fresh as a newly laundered sheet.

I find Beth outside one of the cottages, on her hands and knees scrubbing the front step. As I walk towards her she sits back on her heels and stretches her back. She glances up at me, but then quickly looks away. Before I can reach her, she has risen to her feet and is carrying her brush and pail back inside the cottage. ‘Beth!' I call out. ‘Wait a moment!' She doesn't stop, and when I catch up with her, she is in the scullery emptying the pail of dirty water down the sink.

‘Leave me be,' she says, before I have a chance to say anything. She clanks the pail to the floor and begins to scrub the sink furiously.

‘What is wrong, Beth?' I ask. ‘Has something upset you?'

‘Nothing that is any business of yours,' she answers tersely.

Her words smack me in the face, like a jug of cold water.

‘But  …  but what has happened?' I try again. ‘Why are you being like this?'

She sucks in a breath between clenched teeth and throws the brush into the sink. Then she whips around and glares at me. ‘What were you doing in the mansion, Alice? What did he want with you?'

It is a strange question, but I suddenly understand why she is acting like this. I can almost see the green tinge of envy blooming along the set line of her jaw.

‘I had to go to him, Beth,' I say gently. ‘He asked for me.'

‘Why?' she asks. ‘What did he want?'

I sigh. ‘Do not be like this, Beth,' I say. ‘He loves you too. We are all his children. You told me so yourself.'

She picks up the brush and starts scrubbing at the sink again. There is a horrible silence between us then. The moments pass and I cannot bear it any longer.

‘I am to go with him tomorrow, to Bath,' I say carefully. ‘Perhaps you could ask to come too?'

She stops her scrubbing and there is another moment of silence. Then she turns to me and suddenly she is all smiles. ‘No, Alice,' she says. ‘There is no need for me to ask. It is your turn now. And I am glad for you.'

She wipes her hands on her apron and throws me a last tight smile before she turns and walks away.

It is cold in the scullery and I rub my arms where they have goose pimpled. Where I was shining before, now I am tarnished. Because I know, that despite what she said, Beth is
not
glad for me at all.