Twelfth Night at Eyre Hall (12 page)

I could not disclose the real events
that had occurred, but I needed to be able to threaten her with some legal
action.

“Of course I agree, Sergeant Wilson, but
let us suppose a criminal had robbed children and was selling them for immoral
reasons, such as prostitution or unpaid labour?”

“If it could be proved in a court of law
that she stole the children and sold them, she would be taken to Newgate and
later hanged. Unfortunately, none of the parents would miss a hungry baby, and
call the police to deal with the crime.”

I tried to convince him that the plight
of the babies was important, but he was unmoved.

“Have you any idea how much crime, I
mean serious crime, there is in London? Pickpockets, thieves, burglars, and
debtors, they are our curse. They threaten the honest, hard–working citizens.”

I realised there was no point in giving
him any more information, because he could not offer me any help in my search,
so I thanked him and left, dreading what I would have to do the following day.
I had learned at an early age that the only way to beat the malevolent was to
be stronger and more evil than they were. I was not proud of the lesson I had
learned, but I knew that if I had turned the other cheek, I should be dead.

It was before midday on the day before
New Year’s Eve when I knocked at Number Six Sudbourne Road, once again. Polly’s
bloodshot eyes greeted me and her feet dragged as she showed me in. She stank
of gin, which was better than the putrid smell that she had exhaled on my
previous visit.

“Mrs. Banks ain’t come back. Sent a note
saying she’d be back tomorrow, New Year’s Eve. She has business in Brighton.”

“How are the boys?”

“’Fraid there’s only one left.”

“What happened to the other one?”

“Dead this morning. How many did you
want anyway?”

“Just one. The other was for my brother,
as I told you.”

“Don’t know if the other’ll be ’ere on
New Year’s Day.” She laughed hysterically. “Ain’t got no money for milk, the
mum can’t pay, and Mrs. Banks don’t care. Give him water or gin, she says.”

  “And the girls?”

“Got seven of ’em. Bloody squealers.
They can eat porridge so they might survive.”

“Could I give you some money?”

“I’m a decent girl. That’s why I work
here and not on the streets.”

My stomach churned at her words. “I
would like to give you an advance, for the boy, so you could buy some milk.”

“I’ll need a guinea.”

I watched her put the coin in her pocket.
She hiccupped. “Ta. I’ll make sure ’e gets some milk tomorrow.”

I followed her out of the house, down
Brixton High Street, and into a sordid looking shop on the corner. She walked
out again with a bottle of what I supposed was gin under her arm. I caught her
arm and asked her where she could buy some milk. She pointed to the same shop
she had just left. I told her to go back and get some.

“I need some of Godfrey’s, too, and some
more copper,” she said, so I gave her another coin.

Back in the house, she filled a filthy
feeding bottle with a long rubber tube for the baby to suck. “He’s too weak to
pull on the bottle. He’ll die too without a wet nurse. I used to ’ave some
milk, that’s why Mrs. Banks employed me, but it’s all gone now, just I ’aven’t
told her.”

I followed her upstairs where there were
three more bedrooms and an attic. The three bedrooms were full of worn rugs, moth
eaten blankets on the floor and babies sprawled around. Some were moving their
limbs, and others were quite still. All of them were obviously undernourished;
some had yellow or grey–tinged skin, but none had healthy pink colouring. The
next two rooms were much the same in size and occupants. The rooms all stank of
vomit, sour milk, and gin. I was thankful that Jane would not be seeing this
horror.

Before passing out, Polly told me that
she had met Mrs. Banks when she had come to leave her own daughter and had
stayed to breastfeed the other babies, while her daughter was found a family.
Her daughter disappeared the following day, although Polly said she had no
knowledge of where she had been taken. She informed me that many of the babies
were ‘looked after’ by Mrs. Banks, for a monthly fee, while their mothers
worked in factories or on the streets; others were given to her with a lump sum,
never to be returned. She sold some of them, and others were lucky enough to
die soon. No one asked questions.

I walked back to the George Inn,
pondering on how I should proceed. This Mrs. Banks had obviously taken over the
house and the social work carried out by the original Mrs. Banks, except she
had made it into an illicit and vile trade. She may or may not know about
Helen, but she must know something, or she would not have written such a
detailed account of her death in the letter she sent Jane. I would give her the
opportunity of speaking the truth and redeeming her soul, but I had to be
prepared for her lack of cooperation. The following morning I bought rope, socks,
and two bottles of laudanum on Borough High Street, which I carried inside my
leather satchel.   

 I then travelled down to Camberwell,
and wandered along Rainbow Street, past the house where Susan and Dante were to
live. It was a modern three–bedroomed terraced brick house with bay windows, a
walled front garden, attic and cellar. It was not too different from the house
I had visited in Brixton, and the area looked pleasant enough, surrounded by
healthy woodland and not too far from Camberwell Green, a well–kept park
bordered by expensive–looking and large town houses. I hoped she could have at
least a maid, because the house and her new child would be too much work for
Susan.

I walked back towards Brixton, stopping
at a modern, Greek Doric style building with a tower on the eastern side, which
I learned was called the church of Saint Mathew’s. I knelt in front of the
alter, bowed my head and prayed for Helen, and all the babies who were
heartlessly abandoned, or ruthlessly snatched from their mothers, hoping God
would allow me to find her and return her safely to Jane. On my way to
Sudbourne Road, I stopped at the corner shop and bought two bottles of gin,
which I placed alongside my previous purchases in my bag.

***

I was glad to get away from Eyre Hall
again. I had never felt so uncomfortable in my own house, and the feeling was
alien to me. Annette was avoiding me. She had replied to my letter with one
short note, which I could neither understand nor accept.

The short journey to Lord Ingram’s New
Year’s Ball was fast becoming the longest and loneliest ride of my life. I
pondered sadly on the miserable shambles my existence had become in the last
week. For the first time in my life, I, jovial John Rochester, the life and
soul of any party, was not looking forward to a merry celebration.

My childhood memories used to be happy
and carefree. Christmas and the advent of the New Year had always been one of
the most joyful holidays in the year. A new year was a new hope just beginning
to dawn, and I was always certain that an even better year lay ahead. So far, I
had been able to look back with satisfaction at the waning year and with
renewed optimism for the year ahead, but this New Year was the bleakest I had
ever experienced.

When I was a child I would sit with my
mother, the person I have most loved and admired, and together we would compose
a long list of the things we should be thankful for and another shorter list
with our expectations and wishes for the coming year. Mother always said we
should be more thankful than wishful. She would keep the lists and we would
read them again on the last day of the year, and write our new lists. She must
still keep them somewhere. I wondered what she thought when she looked back at
them. Of course, she probably didn’t even remember them, for she had evidently
cast aside all memories of my childhood and the happy years she spent with my
distinguished father.

Who was this woman who called herself my
mother? What had possessed her to reject our customs and way of life? Who was
this Jane Eyre, or Mrs. Rochester, or Mrs. Mason? Who was this James Elliot, who
she claimed to be her alter ego, who wrote popular fiction? I did not know her.
It seemed I had become one of her beloved orphans.

I was riding alone to the Lord Ingram’s
New Year’s Ball. We had all returned to Eyre Hall from York the previous day,
and that morning they had all left again. Diana, the admiral and the
Carringtons had returned to Morton. Adele and Mr. Greenwood had left for Ingram
House that morning, wishing to arrive before nightfall. Dante had declined the
invitation, surprisingly preferring to stay at Eyre Hall. Annette was kind
enough to tell me that he was no longer looking for a wife, as he would marry
Susan Kirkpatrick, who was expecting his child. When I asked my mother why I
had not been informed, she told me that she did not think it was my business. I
would soon be the master of this estate, yet she insisted on leaving me out of
all her transactions and dealings, claiming I should prepare my career in parliament,
yet I had told her I didn’t want a political career. She had not been listening
to me, but she would listen from now on.

Annette had declined the invitation to
the ball, too, making it quite clear that we couldn’t have any kind of romantic
relationship. She had urged me to marry another more suitable person, as was my
duty, and make my future wife happy. I had offered her my eternal love, and she
had turned away from me because we couldn’t be married, but she was wrong, we
could obtain permission. Cousins could apply for it. No, there was another
reason. I was sure it was my mother who had turned her against me. The person I
most loved and admired was ruining my life, but why?

I jumped out of the carriage and walked
up the marble steps as stylish coaches and carriages, like mine, rattled their
way up the driveway in rapid succession, announcing a large and merry party. I
was solemnly announced at the ballroom door, and mingled with the rest of the elegant
guests. The room was still ornately decorated with Advent wreaths, while two
ostentatious, fully dressed Christmas trees watched over our enjoyment. A
pianist played waltzes unceasingly, as impeccably dressed servants refilled our
glasses from sparkling decanters, and offered endless trays of food. 

I glimpsed at familiar faces, although I
had forgotten many of their names, and I recognised some new ones, especially
the young girls searching for husbands. Many, like Clarissa, had been playing
with dolls only a year or two ago. Their mothers had no doubt taught them how
to distinguish the best catch by the cut of their coats, the tie of their neck
cloths, or the size and crest on their signet rings.

I would have revelled in the enjoyment
last year and danced with all the chits; alas, this year the music was
repetitive, the guests boring, the food insipid, and even the wine seemed
watered down. I would be leaving sooner rather than later. What good was a glum
guest at a party?

Phoebe and Clarissa had been boring me
to death at Eyre Hall, but, at Ingram House, they were positively insufferable.
Phoebe flirted shamelessly with Lord Ingram’s grandson, James, and Clarissa
giggled and threw herself at all the available young men at the ball. I
wondered if the audacious sisters had made a wager on who would flirt with the
greatest number of young men. Poor Elizabeth would be turning in her grave.

Clarissa had informed me spitefully that
if I seriously intended to marry Phoebe, I should tell her at once, because she
was tired of waiting for me, and her intention was to attract James Ingram’s
attention. Clarissa added that she loved Eyre Hall, although it was much
smaller than Ingram House, and she was still free if I would like to offer for
her. Her words were the nail in the coffin. Was I destined to marry a brainless
coquette like Clarissa and watch Annette marry a worthless dowry chaser?

I retired to Lord Ingram’s study in
search of silence and solitude, and forced myself to reminisce on the happy
times. I walked over to his desk, picked up his quill and some paper with the
intention of writing my thankful list. Agonising as it was, I could not think
of anything I was thankful for. There was only one thing I wished for the
future. I scratched the words I had never imagined I would write:
I wish to
start a new life far away from Eyre Hall
.  

Fortunately, the following four days
passed by swiftly and hazily, like a bad dream, thanks to Lord Ingram’s brandy
and some nameless chit, whose hair was long, dark and curly like Annette’s,
although I would never recall her face, even if I had wished to. I returned to
Eyre Hall with Mr. Greenwood and Adele, who spent the journey reprimanding me
for my behaviour, and assaulting my poor head insistently with unwelcome advice
regarding my future.  

***

The last day of December, I returned to
Sudbourne Road to find out the truth. Polly opened the door, as I had expected.
I offered her a bottle of gin, which she accepted with glee.

“I won’t tell Mrs. Banks if you don’t.
Why don’t you take it upstairs where she will not see you?” I winked, hoping
she would start drinking soon. She showed me into the front room, where Mrs.
Banks was reading
Black Bess
, a penny dreadful story.

She looked up with raised eyebrows as I
was announced.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Burchill. It is
such a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said with exaggerated
politeness as she stood and offered her limp hand.

She was a short and angular, grey–skinned
woman, with a hairy chin and upper lip, dark, irregular moles dotted over her
face, and bushy eyebrows, which gave her a masculine air. I asked her about
Mrs. Banks.

“I’m afraid I don’t know who Mrs.
Rochester is, or Mr. Carter. You must be looking for another Mrs. Banks. I
can’t be the only one in London, can I?”

“I have read a letter you yourself wrote
to Mrs. Rochester over a year ago.”

“I can’t read,” she said defiantly. “Or
write.”

I glanced at the magazine she had been
reading and decided there was no point in being patient. “That is very
unfortunate for you, Mrs. Banks.”

I took out my rope and, in a swift movement,
I knotted her hands behind her back and then carried her down to the basement.

“Are you mad? What’s this about?”

“I need some information, and I’m afraid
I’m in a hurry. No more lies.”

“You can’t do this! I got my rights!”

“Not until you tell me the truth, and
now we need some privacy.”

I almost fell down the stairs as she
kicked and wriggled like a wild cat. Then I tied her to one of the chairs and
started my interrogation.

“What is your real name?”

“I ain’t afraid of you. I’m Mrs. Banks.”

“Tell me about Mrs. Banks.”

“I’m Mrs. Banks.”

I filled her mouth with a sock and secured
it with a scarf tied to the back of her head, and then I took the spade and dug
it into her left foot. Her eyes almost burst out of her sockets and her body shook
violently. When the trembling stopped, I removed the cloth from her mouth.

“The next one will be on your right foot,
then your left knee, and your right knee. I will smash every one of the bones
in your legs so you will never walk again, and then I will smash all the bones
on your arms so you will never be able to hold a bottle of gin to your mouth
again. I assure you, you will be a pitiful invalid for the rest of your life. If
you are lucky, you will be hanged as a child murderer, and if you are not, you
will have to crawl around Newgate like a snake. Now, start telling me about
Mrs. Banks and Dr. Carter’s baby, and it had better be the truth.”

She was seething. “Untie me!” she screamed,
so I brought the spade down onto her right foot. This time she let out a loud
roar, and I hoped Polly had drunk her gin.

 “When you start talking.”

It took her a few minutes to recover her
breath and speak. “I was Mrs. Banks’ maid. The vicar used to bring unwanted
babies and she’d look after them until a family was found for them. She didn’t
have any children herself.”

“You are lying. She had four daughters,”
I interrupted, spade in hand.

“They were adopted. The vicar couldn’t
find a home for all of them, and she didn’t have any herself, so she kept a few
as her own, and a few more were taken up north by her brother. About eleven
years ago, she moved to Southwark and I rented her house, and carried on with
the business, except I no longer worked with the vicar, ’cos I had other
partners. There are scores of unwanted kids in London. I’ve found them homes,
good homes all over the country; others have stayed in London, some have died,
but that couldn’t be helped. I saved their useless lives. The Lord knows I do
it for their own good.”

“You will have to answer to the Lord,
when the time comes. I care very little about your soul.”

“What is it you want?”

“Dr. Carter sent a baby girl with a wet
nurse ten years ago. According to your letter, she died and the wet nurse left.
Tell me about it.”

“You know what happened. She died.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“The wet nurse came with two babies, two
little girls. One was to be left in London, once a good family was found,
because they was important people who paid well, fifty pounds up front, the
biggest sum I’ve ever had, and the other was to return with the wet nurse, but
the baby died from whopping cough.”

“You said the baby died, but there were
two babies, what happened to the other one?”

“The other baby, the wet nurse’s baby,
survived, so she took her back when she left.”

“How do you know which baby died?”

“Who cares which one died? The money was
paid and no one was never gonna ask no questions. The baby was unwanted, that
means the parents didn’t want it!”

“What was the wet nurse’s name?”

She started laughing loudly and then she
sang a song in her wild voice, which made my blood curdle.

“‘My mother she fell sick, and my
Jamie at the sea,  

And auld Robin Gray came a–courtin'
me.

Mmmmm

Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and
wi' tears in his e'e   

Said, ‘Jennie, for their sakes, O,
marry me!’

Mmmmm

I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I
couldna think it he,  

Till he said, ‘I'm come hame to marry
thee.’

Sad song, ain’t it?” she asked.

I was speechless.

 “Poor Jenny, she married Robin Gray ’cos
she thought her true love, Jamie, had died at sea, then he came back and asked
her to marry him, but she was already married. My mother used to sing it to me
when I was little, ‘be careful who you marry’ she’d say, ‘wait for your true love’.
Daft my mother was. I never married.”  

She paused and giggled hysterically.

“Cat got your tongue? Her name was
Jenny, of course, but you knew, didn’t you?”

I shivered as she sang her song one more
time and laughed. I wanted to smash her face to pieces. Instead, I hit the wall
so hard with the spade that some bricks tumbled down, and rats scuffled out
screeching and running in circles. She laughed louder.

“You’ve opened the gates of hell. How
will you get out?” The rats busied themselves with her bloody feet and I left
her in the cellar.

Upstairs Polly was lying on the floor,
her breathing shallow. I had added a great deal of laudanum to the gin. I was
not sure if she would ever wake up, yet I found it impossible to care what
happened to those wicked women.

I returned to the cellar with another
bottle of laudanum–laced gin, which I handed to Mrs. Banks after untying her
hands, although her body was still strapped to the chair. There were half a
dozen more rats scuffling around, no doubt lured by the smell of her bloody
feet.

“You can’t leave me here!” she screamed
as I turned to leave.

“I’ll be back before you finish the gin.
Drink. It will ease the pain.”   

I returned upstairs, and remembered the
surgeon’s words, “Save those who can survive”. I checked the children’s pulses.
Two girls were breathing evenly, so I wrapped them in some blankets and walked back
to Saint Mathew’s Church. I marched to the side door and asked to see the
vicar. He was out, so I told his housekeeper that I was a vicar in Scotland,
visiting relatives in Brixton, and that a poor woman by the station had left
the two babies in my care for a few minutes and never returned. She asked no
further questions. She just sighed, shook her head sorrowfully, and thanked
me. 

Drizzle and fog escorted me back to the
inn. I stopped at a public convenience near Elephant and Castle and cast away
my beard and vicar’s robes. Minutes later, a furious gale blew along Borough
High Street as I reached Saint George’s Church, where I thanked our Father for
finding Helen, safe and sound, and asked forgiveness for my sinful deeds. I
knew my criminal act would never be discovered on Earth, but I also knew my
soul was condemned. I could live with the knowledge of the inevitable divine
punishment, which awaited me, because Helen would be reunited with her mother,
at last. When I arrived at the inn, my body felt numb and my mind blank. I wrapped
my shivering body in blankets and thankfully succumbed to slumber, in spite of
the riotous noise of the New Year celebrations.

The landlord woke me up on the morning
of the 4
^th
of January, concerned because he had not seen or heard me
for days. I went down to a hearty breakfast and learned that a child murderer
had been slaughtered in her basement in Brixton. “Beaten to death like a dog,”
they told me. “She got what she deserved,” they added. I nodded and left.

I would never be proud of what I had
done. Her screams were in my mind, like the cries of the mutineers, and the
drunkard who had tried to violate Susan. Their faces plagued my dreams and
their deaths paved my secret road to hell.  

I spent the day walking around
Whitechapel, trying to remember the paths I had ambled along seven years ago
with my sister. I watched the street urchins and beggars, and tried to remember
what it felt like to live in such constant fear and bleakness, but nothing
seemed familiar any more. It had all happened in another life to another
person.  

I thought of Jane and Nell, and thanked
God that they were together. I wondered how I was ever going to tell Jane the
truth; that I had murdered to discover where her daughter was, and that Jenny
Rosset, for an inexplicable reason, had stolen her daughter and made her work
as a scarecrow and live like a peasant instead of living like the lady she was
destined to become.

Jane—beautiful, generous, gentle Jane.
Jane, who should have been worshipped from the day she was born, had suffered
so much injustice, but those days were over. I would make it my mission to make
sure she was safe and happy with her daughter for the rest of her life. There
was only one more obstacle in my way to making her my wife, but his days were
numbered.

The following day, Twelfth Night, I
walked to the Colonial Office in Whitehall, where I collected the documents I
needed for Jenny and Thomas. Later, I visited Nelson’s column in Trafalgar
Square, which reminded me how honourably my father had died, and how Her
Majesty’s Royal Navy would allow me too, to rise above my station and marry the
woman I loved.   

***