FIVE
I’d given Justine the evening off, so I had to prepare the wash water myself. I was too tired to wait for a whole bath, so I heated enough water for two basins and let Kettlesing take one. I’d had Justine make up one of the spare rooms that afternoon so Kettlesing didn’t have to go home.
I went to my own room and set the basin and gently steaming jug on the bureau. I washed my arms, but it wasn’t until I looked in the mirror that I realised there was blood in my hair. For a moment I just stared at my reflection, then took the jug of unused water and dumped it over my head, digging my fingers deep into my scalp until it hurt. A few long curling strands of hair floated on the surface of the basin water, light blonde stained dark with Lenore’s blood.
I sank down onto the floor and buried my head in my arms, shuddering with revulsion. I could see her face, Lenore’s face, her lips flecked with rich red blood, her cheekbones sharp as knives, her skin puckered with suture lines, her dead lank hair spreading out over her pillow, the patches of new skin I’d had to sew together over her chest where her own skin had given way.
She would never be able to nurse her own child. She probably wouldn’t be able to give birth either. She would never be able to marry; no man would want her. She was a patchwork of mistakes. She was an abomination. Lenore was gone. The thing on my table downstairs wasn’t Lenore. It was a monster.
What had I done?
I’d done the best I could.
That thought made me pause, and for a second, it steadied me a little. I’d done the best I could. It wasn’t my fault that the thing I’d done was wrong. I’d had to do it, and I’d done the best I could. My workmanship was impeccable. No one could blame me for that.
I reached for the edge of the bureau and pulled myself up. My head swam. I realised how very tired I was, so I staggered towards the bed, pulling my shirt off over my head and kicking off my boots before crawling between the sheets.
I fell asleep almost immediately, but I dreamed of Lenore’s face, maggots crawling out of her eyes and blood gushing from her mouth as she smiled at me. Lord Deveraux’s eyes were on fire. ‘I know what happened in Ingolstadt,’ he told me, his clawed hand digging deep into my shoulder. I looked down and saw blood spreading down the front of my shirt but Lord Deveraux scowled at me and the fire in his eyes spread and split into a thousand torches held high in the night and I had to run, run and run and run for my life, but there was a lead weight around my neck holding me back (‘Adam!’) and a sickening feeling of guilt until I felt that the best thing to do would be to stop and let the torches burn me up, as if that would stop the horrible screaming rising up in the night behind me, the screaming of women who wailed out of grief for the dead. And there was a child crying, crying on and on, sobbing for its father, and when I reached out to comfort it, it buried its face in my neck and only cried harder until we were both rocking back and forward in shared grief.
It was bright daylight when I awoke. I stretched out under the coverlet, shivered, and curled up again, wrapping my arms around my knees and burying my nose in the pillow. I could feel the cold air bite the back of my neck, so I huddled down deeper. Someone had lit the fire; I could hear it crackling in the grate. I raised my head a fraction.
Clean clothes laid out, a steaming wash jug, and a tray with teapot and cup and saucer. Justine, I thought, and hoped she’d done the same for Kettlesing. Had I told her to wait on him? I couldn’t remember.
I slid out of bed and padded across to the basin. In the cold new morning light, I saw that there was blood under my fingernails. I stared at it, wondering how it could have seeped through my gloves, before I remembered the blood in my hair. I stopped cold for a second, then swallowed and began my ablutions. I dressed, poured myself a cup of tea which I drank too quickly, scalding my tongue, and hurried downstairs.
Justine was in the kitchen, singing something about true love’s dream. ‘Good morning sir,’ she said cheerfully.
‘Good morning Justine,’ I said absently. ‘Is Kettlesing up?’
‘He was asleep when I lit his fire, sir. Can I get you anything?’
‘No, I had the tea.’ I wandered over to the back door and opened it. The rain had washed the mud from the street cobbles and they sparkled under the sun. The morning smelled fresh and clean, and my eyes were drawn to the mountains rising up behind the lake, bluer than the grey morning sky, and capped with gleaming snow.
‘Sir,’ Justine said, firm but polite. ‘The draft’s not doing the fires any good.’
‘Sorry,’ I said.
‘Sir. The door.’
‘What?’
She came to my side and closed the door. Pulling the latch to, she looked up at me and asked, ‘Is anything the matter, sir? You seem distracted.’
Her face was very close to mine, and I could see how dark her eyes were, and her remarkable her lashes, long and dark and thick, like a deer’s. She smiled, and she stepped closer, holding her shoulders back and her head up. ‘Sir?’
I shook my head. ‘It’s nothing, Justine. I’m just tired.’
‘Do you need anything? Anything I can give you?’
‘Another cup of tea would be nice.’
She retreated back a few steps, rubbing her arms. ‘Yes sir. Of course.’ She rubbed her arms as though she were cold, but her cheeks were flushed pink.
I sat down at the kitchen table and drank my tea, but I was thinking of the mountain and the lake, their peace and beauty, and it was these thoughts that I took down with me to my workshop.
Lenore’s body was small and still under the white sheet, and I sat down on the chair, breathing in the comforting smell of iodine and formaldehyde. The air was very still. I could vaguely hear Justine moving about upstairs, but nothing else except my own breathing.
The body was so still that for a moment, panic gripped me, and I hastily lifted the sheet to check that she was still breathing. She was. In and out, slow and steady, her stitched chest rising and falling. I felt suddenly ashamed watching her like this, and realised that there was nothing left for her to wear. I had cut her nightgown off her last night because that had been easier than undressing her, and I had not been thinking further than getting the whole horrible business over and done with. Now I realised that she was naked under the sheet. My face flamed with shame and I dropped the edge of the sheet back over her and retreated back to the chair.
The stillness was deafening, my breathing loud and awkward. I shifted in the chair and stared at the ceiling, then took a coin out of my pocket and began to flip it over my fingers. The faint light filtering through the grate at the end of the room glinted off the silver and I closed my eyes, focusing only on walking the coin across my knuckles, the coolness of it against my skin, the stretch and flex of the tendons in my hand.
A whimper.
I started, and the coin rang on the floorboards. I leapt to my feet and dashed to the table, lifting the sheet. Lenore’s eyes were moving back and forth under her eyelids. Her lips quivered.
‘Lenore?’ I said softly.
Her eyelashes fluttered, and her whole face convulsed, a shudder running through her body. I touched her shoulder, and her eyes flew open. She stared at the ceiling, her chest heaving, her eyes wide and blind. She blinked.
‘Lenore?’
Her head snapped sideways and she stared at me. Her mouth opened a little, her lips dry and cracked. She began to say something but stopped. She swallowed. One of her hands fumbled up out from under the sheet and traced a shaking path over her face. She felt the suture lines across her hairline and down her temples and her eyes opened wide.
‘Lenore,’ I said. ‘It’s all right. You’re safe. You’re—’
‘No.’ It came out cracked and broken.
‘It’s all right,’ I said quickly, reassuringly, ‘everything’s all right, you’re—’
She hoisted herself upright, and the sheet fell down around her waist. She looked down at herself, at the puckered black lines of stitches across her body, the terrible purple bruising standing out starkly against her white skin; and she raised her hands again to her face, digging her fingers into her hair. She began to shake her head.
‘Your parents will be here soon,’ I said.
‘My parents?’ Her voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘My parents are dead.’
‘No,’ I exclaimed, shocked. ‘No, no, they’re not.’
‘My parents died of the pox when I was...’ Her voice trailed away. ‘No, no, they’re... they’re dead, they... they died of the pox when I was... no, they’re alive, they’re... they died of the pox...’
‘Lord and Lady Deveraux,’ I said gently. ‘Your name is Lenore Deveraux. You were ill, but you’re better now.’
‘Lenore?’
‘Lenore Deveraux.’
‘My name is Marie Trier, I’m not...’
She was digging her fingers into her scalp. ‘Your name is Lenore Deveraux,’ I said, reaching out to take her hands, but as soon as I touched her, she began to shake her head wildly from side to side, her hair flying out around her.
‘No,’ she moaned, ‘I’m not, I’m not, I’m not dead, not dead, Mama said no I wouldn’t be but I’m dead I know I’m dead I have to be dead I’ve always been dead—’
‘Lenore—’
She began to scream, tearing at the suture over her face, shaking back and forth. I caught at her arms but she beat her fists against my chest, trying to claw my face. ‘I should be dead!’ she screamed. ‘I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m dead! You shouldn’t have, you’ve just made me dead again but I was already dead! I want to be dead, I want to be dead!’
I held her down on the table, pulling the sheet up around her to keep her still. She was not strong enough to fight me, and her screams gave way to gasping tears.
‘You’ll tear your stitches,’ I said gently.
Tears ran down her chin but she didn’t wipe them away. I lifted her to tuck the sheet more firmly around her body. She said, ‘I wish I was dead.’
I held her against my heart and pressed my cheek against her brittle hair. ‘I know,’ I whispered.
She let loose a shuddering breath. ‘Mama wouldn’t let me die. I wanted to die. Papa said there was nothing wrong with that, that I was brave enough to face it. But Mama...’
‘Your parents love you,’ I told her. ‘They love you more than anything in the world. Especially your papa.’
‘Then why am I here? I should be dead but I’m not alive. I’m... I’m not what I was. I don’t feel Lenore. I feel others... I feel more. My parents... they died of the pox...’
‘It’s just flesh,’ I whispered. ‘You are Lenore and you are alive and your parents love you.’
She began to cry again. I felt her tears seep through my shirt, and I kissed her hairline and laid her back down. ‘Go to sleep,’ I said. ‘You need to sleep. I’ll stay with you. Go to sleep.’
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