Authors: Martine Bailey
With giddy relief, I saw light ahead of me, and threw myself, sobbing, back into the wondrous, half-blinding daylight of the summerhouse. At the stove, I pulled my wet stockings off; then hauled my chair up close to dry my legs and skirts. I was still shaking, and cursing myself for the risk I had taken. The iron thimble fell to the floor, a paltry object with
‘For Mother from her Jamie,’
engraved in tiny letters along its rim. Well, Jamie and his mother were long gone from Delafosse. Replacing the trellis, I decided to tell no one of the tunnel or my misguided explorations.
As for the running woman, I could scarcely hazard a guess at what I had heard. Now I was back in the light I immediately dismissed notions of Old Dorcas or other such nursery tales. I racked my brain for a rational explanation. Perhaps, I told myself, Peg had threatened one of the staff so severely she had run away, and the bizarre acoustic effects of the tunnel had tricked me into thinking she was closer than she was. Yet hadn’t that whimpering appeal issued only inches from where I stood? Next, a powerful suggestion did strike me with horrible force: that the noises I heard were a depiction in sound, much as a magic lantern performance depicts images, from a quite different point in time, though when it was, or would be, I did not know. And the worst of it was that the identity of the woman also sprang instantly into my mind – and I shuddered to think of it – that I had heard myself, running in terror, at some unknown future date.
*
Back at the Hall, once I had bathed away my terror and changed my clothes, I found Michael waiting for me. Instead of his usual resentment, my husband set himself to charm me. Over supper he talked of our future together, of creating the perfect home, a fine country estate, and even, he hinted, the founding of a dynasty, here at Delafosse. If only we could get the mill built, all our paltry problems would end. We would make a fortune from the business and restore the house to its original splendour. It was simple.
Finally, he got to the nub of the matter. He had seen a steam engine demonstrated at Skipton. The river ran low in different seasons and our future profits were at risk. All the forward-looking manufacturers were installing steam. ‘Imagine a herd of beasts made of steel,’ he urged. Power and speed were his watchwords; but, as he talked of pistons and valves, I no longer listened, only watched his pale cheeks flush, as if he were already fired by the unnatural forces he described. There was such a curious logic to his argument that a few times it rose to the tip of my tongue to indulge him. But I knew Michael better now. Remembering Mr Tully’s advice, I kept my mouth closed. Then, as I rose to retire, he did too. He reached awkwardly for my hand, his long white fingers brushing mine. I looked up at him; at his face so intensely watching me; the sad need in his eyes like a lure. Dumbfounded, I pulled my hand clumsily away.
But once we had parted I was unable to sleep. The horror in the tunnel, followed by Michael’s febrile mood had both infected me. His talk of spending money on the Hall was difficult to resist. Anne’s visit was fast approaching, and I pictured her peering along the shabby corridors of Delafosse, disappointed by the chaos and collapse. Perhaps Michael was right, and I should spend my way out of unhappiness. If I did, would he be civil to Anne? If only she would delay her visit until spring. Even Peg had grasped what a deliverance that would be.
Anne’s letter had also contained disconcerting news: ‘I am afraid I bring momentous news that strikes at the heart of our friendship. I cannot write of it now, I must speak when we are alone.’ Had she discovered something about my father, or about Michael? My mind ran harum-scarum over nervous speculations: why might she no longer be my friend?
The church bell rang out two o’clock. Footsteps, light but clear, ran along the wooden boards below my room. Michael’s room was down there, by the Long Gallery. I sat upright and lit a candle. Apparently he could not sleep either. The answer, I decided, was to go downstairs and tell him to buy the machine. In return I hoped he would promise to be kinder to me, and to Anne too. The notion struck me that the middle of the night was the best time to speak to him. He had been excited all evening; perhaps, after his bungled attempt to caress me, he wanted to do more than merely speak?
A few minutes later I stood outside Michael’s door, hesitating as the floorboards creaked beneath my bare feet. Caution urged me to sleep on my decision, but the memory of my bed’s heart-shrinking emptiness left me standing in a sort of stupor. If I can only buy the machine he will be more amiable, I told myself. I rapped anxiously at his door. There was no reply.
The door opened without hindrance. My candle revealed Michael’s empty bed, the sheets untouched. I looked about in disappointment. There stood his pomades, brushes, and silverware, laid out before a mirror. I knew that he buffed, polished and maintained his appearance; I often caught him admiring himself in the mirror. His favourite midnight blue coat hung on a hook. I pressed my face to the fabric, inhaling his male scent, tempered with sweet cologne.
Setting down the candle on his desk, I saw from his heavily inked blotter that he had been a busy correspondent. But when I held the blotter to the mirror I could make no sense of it, save ‘The George Inn’, and the impress of his signature, an almost unreadable ‘
M
’ with a scribbled tail.
I have never been a prying person, valuing privacy myself. So it was a new emotion, to feel the perversity of maddening curiosity. I knew as I searched Michael’s room that I would suffer from the consequences, but I did it just the same. Pry into a cloud and be struck by a thunderbolt, they say.
First, I listened for any sound from the corridor. All was quiet. Holding my breath, I lifted the lid of his writing desk and delicately sifted through its contents. At first I found unpaid bills for astronomical sums, from tailors in Manchester and York, incurred on visits after which Michael had complained bitterly of his heavy labours. A bundle of letters from his mother made petty enquiries about the Hall, but contained not a single word about me. There was a torn half of a theatre ticket, and many descriptions of equipages for sale. I almost didn’t lift the copper disc lodged beneath the papers, assuming it to be an old seal. Then I grasped its crumpled ribbon and pulled it out.
A dirty old penny swung from my fingers, with crude writing scratched on its surface. I held it to the candle and read with some difficulty:
Though chains hold me fast,
As the years pass away,
I swear on this heart
To find you one day.
I felt a queer jolt of alarm, for the verse had a menacing quality. I asked myself why Michael kept such a filthy object. He surely couldn’t be the intended recipient of such a crude threat? But if he was – had the writer of the message found Michael yet? Or did he keep the coin in his desk in anticipation of being found on that promised day?
I turned the coin over, expecting to see the king’s head, or Britannia. Instead, I read with increasing uneasiness:
MARY JEBB AGE 19
TRANSPORTED 7 YEARS
TO THE ENDS OF THE EARTH
Below was a clumsily etched arrow-pierced heart. Surely it could not be a love token? The pattern of hearts and chains about the circumference recalled a sailor’s flesh inscribed with inky doves and flowers – brands that marked them as outcasts from respectable life. Mary Jebb, I mused – what an ugly name. Yet she was a young woman, or she had been when the token was made; and young women were undoubtedly prone to romantic feelings. No, I decided, there had to be another, more trivial reason for Michael’s keeping it. He had probably never even met the woman. I laid it down and put everything carefully back just as it had been before.
Perplexed, I set off in search of my husband. His study, the library – all lay empty. I doubted he had left the house, for his new horse Dancer had taken a tumble, and Michael was more concerned with his horse than his own cuts and bruises. He was at home and awake, I was convinced of it. Wanting to find him without pacing every inch of the Hall’s labyrinthine passages, I decided to go outside, and from that vantage point, search for a lit curtain. With a wild sense of purpose I fetched shoes and a cloak from my room, lit a dark lantern, and let myself out of a side door.
Outside, I shivered in a landscape of greys and silvers, the stone walls and cobbles looming pale in the wintry air. The only true colour was an amber penumbra shimmering around the moon. Beyond the silvered slope of overgrown lawn, the mass of black trees moved to and fro in the breeze, with a strange undulation like waving sea fronds. Stepping onto the frost-crisped grass, I turned back to gain a view of the house. Every window of the Hall was dark, like a colony of sleeping eyes inside a hive. Then, taking a last survey of the park, I noticed a tiny golden light above the horizon. I peered at it, unable to locate its source. Shivering but determined, I set off in the darkness towards it.
After some short time hurrying along the path, I understood that the source of the light was the hunting tower. Opening the small hinged door of my lantern and following its narrow beam, I puzzled over why Michael would go there. He had never spoken of the place, and I had thought it abandoned. Growing closer, the golden spark grew into a rectangle of warm light framed by the diamond panes of an upper-floor window. By now the cold had shocked me into full alertness, and instinctively wary, I shuttered the door of my lantern to hide its light. Soundlessly, I opened the tower door and stood on the threshold, listening.
I could hear movement and low voices upstairs. As quietly as I could, I stepped inside and gently set the door to. Then, tiptoeing to the bottom of the spiral staircase, I listened again, and heard what I at first understood to be people struggling. A woman’s voice spoke in a low murmur, coaxing or crooning. Suddenly she cried out, and there began a rhythmic slapping of flesh upon flesh. A man’s voice reached me: a wordless remonstration. With a thump against my ribcage I knew the man was Michael. I guessed that those sounds were an accompaniment to something Michael had never wanted from me – the sound of a man and a woman, taking passionate pleasure in each other’s bodies. I stood transfixed, holding back tears. I had hoped that Michael and I were taking small steps towards a life together, that one day my husband’s coldness would thaw. I had deluded myself. Now I had proof he took his pleasure with some other woman. I stood a long while in a sort of daze, until a loud scraping of furniture interrupted my wretched thoughts, portending their departure.
A table stood covered in a fusty cloth. On a whim I crouched behind it. I could have fled but I had to see
her
– it was a primitive pain I had to inflict on myself. As they came down the stairs, my heart beat so violently it seemed they must hear it. From my hiding place I had only a partial view of Michael’s legs, moving slowly. In his shadow was the woman, wearing black skirts. They did not speak; the only sound was a metallic slithering, as if she wore many necklaces or bangles. As she passed through the door I moved to gain a fuller view. She was tall, and her loose black hair tumbled past her waist. With a loud click I heard the key turn. They had locked me inside.
In my wretchedness I scarcely cared. I curled in upon myself in the darkness, the woman’s image searing my mind’s eye. I pictured her hair, lush and raven-black, spreading luxuriantly while my husband coupled with her. I guessed who she was, of course. That hair – to think that I had touched it, had even kept a long coarse strand inside my purse. Like parts of a child’s puzzle slotting together, I remembered that Michael had visited Earlby seven times before we had married. I added that strange account of Mrs Harper’s sudden departure, her impudent use of my – no, what should have been our – bed. I was convinced Michael had crept away to see Mrs Harper on our wedding night. No doubt he met her frequently, unknown to me.
A sickened curiosity gripped me to see the place where they had met. Upstairs the fire had sunk to red embers, but the room was still rich with the tang of sweat and naked flesh. There were the remains of sweetmeats on the table, and a discarded bottle and two glasses. I carried one glass to the fire and saw the rim was smeared with the tell-tale residue from a woman’s painted lips. I raised the glass to my lips; it had a spirituous reek and the lees sparkled like tiny spangles of gold. I looked about the room in despair. On such a cold night they must at first have prepared a great fire, for an untidy heap of birch kindling lay tumbled across the floor. The smell and heat made me sick, for it amplified something salty, primitive and strange.