The Misbegotten

1821

After their argument over Duncan Weekes, Rachel felt strange and constrained around her husband. She had begun to understand just how much bad blood lay between them, but if Duncan Weekes had been responsible for Richard’s mother’s death, surely he would have been punished by law? She pictured the old man, with his fumbling steps and almost desperately kind compliments, and the fathomless sadness in his eyes. Could it possibly be true? She longed to know. Here was something she and her husband shared, after all – the loss of a beloved mother. She knew very well how that pain could linger. She wanted him to know that she understood his suffering, that sharing it might ease it. That he should lose his father at the same time seemed too hard, but had she any right to attempt to reconcile them, if blame truly lay with the old man?

So Rachel could almost understand why Richard had been so angry with her for talking to Duncan Weekes. Almost, but not quite, since she couldn’t have known his grievance. He has his mother’s temper, the father said. Do such tempers not burn out as quickly as they flare? But with his eyes snapping and his face tensed up in fury, she’d hardly recognised him; the thought of it made her bite her tongue when her instinct was to raise the subject and talk it through calmly, as husband and wife. Richard seemed to sense her thoughts, and was wary, watchful; tensed as if ready to berate her again. This as much as anything kept her silent. But then when he’d come home on Tuesday with an invitation for them both, and a delighted expression on his face, all memory of the trouble between them seemed forgotten. Rachel had felt knots of worry in her stomach relax. You have your whole life to come to understand his grief. You need not rush him.

After their midday meal on Thursday, they made ready.

‘Do hurry, Rachel. We are to be there at four o’clock, and we dare not be late.’ Richard was agitated as he tugged his cravat into a more voluminous shape, and brushed crisply at traces of sawdust on his coat sleeves.

‘My dear, it’s not yet ten past three, and a matter of twenty minutes’ walk from here to there…’

‘Do you intend to gallop there? You can’t arrive glowing and gasping for breath, with your hair all loose like some blowsabella, Rachel!’

‘I have no intention of galloping, I assure you,’ she said coolly. Sensing her tone, Richard stopped correcting his outfit and came over to her. He put his hands on her arms, and squeezed gently. His expression was sweet, almost boyish. An excited flush suffused his face.

‘Of course you don’t. I am only trying to impress upon you the… importance of this acquaintance. Mrs Alleyn is a very great lady, much esteemed in the highest circles of Bath society. She has been something of a patroness to me; a loyal client of exquisite taste, since the very early days of my business…’

‘Yes, all this you have already said, and I am delighted to be invited to meet her.’

‘I’m delighted too. I had not heard from her in some time… not from her personally, though the household continues to buy its port and wine only through me. It’s you, Rachel.’ He gave her a little shake, breaking into a smile. ‘You have occasioned this invitation. And now we are invited as guests into as fine a house as you will ever have seen… Well,’ he corrected himself, perhaps remembering her upbringing and her employment at Hartford Hall. ‘As fine a house in Bath, anyway. I do hope she approves.’

‘Of me?’

‘Indeed,’ said Richard, returning to the mirror and recommencing with his tie.

‘As do I,’ Rachel murmured, suddenly more nervous than she had been. And if she does not, what then? asked the echo in her head, mischievously. Rachel hushed it.

However excited her husband seemed, she, who knew a little more of higher society and its workings, had no doubt that their invitation was some form of continued patronage. They were like as not invited as vassals, rather than as esteemed guests, but she decided then to make as good an impression as she could. He hopes to impress this Mrs Alleyn with me, so let me play my part as best I can. She put on her fawn cotton dress again, though it was too lightweight for the weather, and draped a tasselled shawl – soft grey, patterned with sprigged roses – around her shoulders. She took her mother’s pearl earrings from her trinket box and screwed them securely to her ears.

‘Do you think she might not approve, then?’ Rachel couldn’t help asking, as they left the house at last. To her chagrin, Richard seemed to consider the question for a moment. Seeing her expression, he smiled.

‘Please don’t worry, my dear. It’s only that… the lady has had great difficulties to suffer, in spite of her grand station in life. She can be somewhat… hesitant, to warm to people. But I am sure she will warm to you, dear Mrs Weekes.’

‘What difficulties has she suffered?’ Rachel asked. She saw a tiny flicker of impatience cross Richard’s face, but then he took a deep breath.

‘Rumours abound, so perhaps it will be better that I tell you the full truth, as I understand it. Some ten or twelve years back, I forget the exact time, it emerged that her son – her only child – had been engaged in secret to a most inappropriate girl, even though he was intended for another from birth…’

‘Oh, poor children…’ said Rachel.

‘Not so – Jonathan Alleyn was a man grown by that time, and ought to have known better than to bring such scandal upon his family.’

‘What made the girl so inappropriate? Hadn’t he fortune enough for both of them, if she was poor?’

‘It wasn’t her lack of dowry so much as her lack of breeding and manners, as I understand it. But I don’t know for certain – I never saw the creature. I only know what the servants have tattled: that the family objected to the match in the strongest possible way.’

‘And so he wed her? This inappropriate girl?’

‘Not a bit. She showed her true colours before it came to that – she abandoned him, and eloped with another man, and thus proved herself as fine as any cow turd stuck with primroses. Her low nature won out, in the end. She made an utter fool of the man, and left him broken-hearted.’

‘Feckless girl!’ Rachel breathed, somewhat taken aback by Richard’s language.

‘Quite so. She was not heard of after she fled, which ought to have been the end of the matter.’

‘Was it not?’

‘Alas, no. Her betrayal seemed to lead to a kind of… collapse, in Mr Alleyn. A madness of some type, from which he never recovered. His wild behaviour meant that many of Mrs Alleyn’s old acquaintances cut all ties with her. These days he keeps largely to his rooms, which is a mercy, perhaps. But the damage is done. His affliction weighs heavy upon the lady, constantly.’

‘You mean he has not improved, in all this time?’

‘It’s hard to say.’ Richard shrugged. ‘No one has seen him, not for years. So I cannot say. But the whole experience wounded Mrs Alleyn very deeply. She is… somewhat fragile, now; she does not trust easily.’

‘Indeed, poor lady.’ They walked in silence for a while. Rachel lifted her skirts carefully over the puddles on the pavement, not all of which were water. Poor son, the echo in her head whispered, softly and sad. ‘The poor man’s heart must have been in tatters, for the girl’s betrayal to cause such lasting damage,’ she mused aloud.

‘Perhaps, but I think his mind must have been frail to begin with, don’t you? To be so undone?’ Rachel considered this, but said nothing. After a minute, Richard added: ‘Say nothing of what I have told you to Mrs Alleyn.’

‘Of course, I wouldn’t,’ Rachel assured him.

They made their way slowly across the city, climbing the steep hill of Lansdown Road at a pace that bordered upon not moving at all, such was Richard’s fear of arriving dishevelled. Rachel looked up at her husband’s handsome face as they neared the top, smiling apprehensively, tightening her hand around his arm. Richard’s answering smile was distracted, and he loosened her fingers absently.

‘You will crease the sleeve, my dear,’ he said.

Number one, Lansdown Crescent, sat at the eastern end of the curved street. The house reared up four storeys above street level, and gazed imperiously to the south-east. The rain that morning had left dark, sorrowful water marks on the stone, as though the windows had been weeping. The house had a bay front, to match its opposite number at the far end of the row, and was fenced in by iron railings painted Prussian blue. There was an elegant filigree lamp-post on the corner of the pavement outside, and the main door opened through the side of the house, from an alleyway leading to the rear of the crescent. The door was sheltered by a columned portico, and reached by a fan of stone steps. To the left of this a set of steeper, narrower steps led down through the railings, to a lower level courtyard at the front of the building, and the servants’ entrance. In front of the crescent the ground dropped away steeply, so that even the trees at the bottom of the slope would not hinder the residents’ southerly views. Behind and beyond the crescent the high common stretched away, a sweep of pasture dotted with sheep, bordering the edge of the city. They were high above the river and the air was noticeably clearer and less humid. There was a faint tang of chimney smoke on the breeze but also a freshness, a purity which suggested that the lower reaches of the city sat huddled in a pall of their own stink.

As they paused to take in the house’s grand situation, a curricle drawn by two smart grey horses turned into the crescent, and Richard stepped forwards hurriedly.

‘Come, my dear. We must not be seen to stare like a pair of simple come-latelys,’ he said, and automatically began to descend the small stairs to the tradesman’s entrance. Rachel pulled his arm to stop him. With a pang of sympathy, she saw that he felt as unused to his surroundings, as conspicuous in them, as she had first felt in Abbeygate Street.

‘Mr Weekes, if we are invited here as guests, surely we ought use the main door?’ she said quietly. Richard blinked, and a slow blush crept into his cheeks.

‘Yes. Of course,’ he muttered, sheepishly. He cleared his throat as they climbed the front steps, cleaned his boots as best he could on the scraper, and tugged at the hem of his jacket as he rang the bell.

The door was answered by a liveried manservant, tall and monolithic, who allowed them ingress in spite of his obvious disdain. From the inner hallway rose a wide stone staircase, turning around on itself to the top of the house. A rich carpet, the colour of blood, was laid down on it, and the edge of every riser had been scrubbed as smooth as skin. The air smelled of beeswax and flowers; and oranges, from a bowlful of spiced pomanders on a side table. The ceiling, far above their heads, was patterned with elaborate plasterwork and lit by a sparkling glass chandelier. The walls were hung with painted paper, showing an intricate design of long-tailed birds and oriental blossoms in gold, teal and crimson. Two enormous mirrors faced each other on either side of the hall, so that ranks of Richards and Rachels stood shoulder to shoulder in both, stretching back into infinity. Here’s an army of us, now, ready to conquer Mrs Alleyn, said the voice in Rachel’s head, and she smiled inwardly.

The butler led them to a huge doorway on the left of the hall. Rachel’s heels tapped quietly on the stone floor, and she felt the strongest sensation of being watched. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and she glanced over her shoulder, seeing nothing and nobody behind her. And yet there was something unexpected, and somewhat uneasy about the house. It was too quiet, she decided. There was no music, there were no voices. No footsteps on the stairs or in the servants’ passageways behind the panelling; no muffled sounds of industry from below stairs, no guttering of flames in hearths. Even the sounds of the street receded to nothing as soon as the door was shut behind them. Rachel swallowed, and fought off a sudden, inexplicable impulse to flee the place. It seemed as though time had halted, as though the house slept, or perhaps held its breath. Her chest burned, and she realised that she was doing the same. Richard’s face was stiff with nerves; his fingers twitched, his eyes were restless.

‘Mr and Mrs Weekes, madam,’ the butler announced, bowing to the room’s occupant as Richard and Rachel walked past him.

‘Thank you, Falmouth.’ The lady who spoke was wearing an old-fashioned gown of green silk brocade, ruched and over-embellished with bows and ribbons. She was standing on the far side of the room, by the window, feeding seeds to a canary through the delicate bars of its gilded cage. If she had been there for two minutes or more, she would have seen Richard begin to descend the servants’ stair, Rachel realised. She hoped that Richard wouldn’t think of it. The room was choked with drapes and furniture, the walls dark with large paintings, their gilded frames gleaming dully. The canary cheeped, and its voice came loud through the still air. With the light behind her, it was hard to make out the lady’s features distinctly. ‘How do you do, Mr Weekes? It has been some months since I saw you,’ she said, brushing fragments of seed from her fingers.

‘Mrs Alleyn.’ Richard bowed deeply, so deeply that Rachel glanced at him in surprise. He’d shut his eyes, and seemed to gather himself. What does he fear? ‘Please allow me the honour of presenting my wife, Mrs Rachel Weekes,’ he said, as he straightened up at last. Mrs Alleyn came a few steps closer to them, smiling graciously. At once, Rachel noticed her great beauty, and was about to curtsy when the older woman halted, and her smile faltered.

‘Good heavens,’ she murmured indistinctly, pressing the back of one hand to her lips. Her eyes grew very wide.

‘Madam, are you unwell?’ Richard asked, stepping forward to offer his arm. Mrs Alleyn waved him away.

‘I am quite well.’ She stared at Rachel for a few seconds more, silent, until Rachel, bewildered, made her postponed curtsy and said:

‘It is an honour to meet you, Mrs Alleyn.’ Do I shock her, somehow? Does she think she knows me?

‘Well,’ said the older lady. ‘Well. A pleasure, Mrs Weekes. Please accept my blessings on your recent marriage.’

‘You are most kind, Mrs Alleyn.’

‘Do come and sit down,’ said Mrs Alleyn, and with each moment that passed she regained more composure, until Rachel grew unsure of her first intuition – that it was something about her own appearance that had given the lady pause.

The conversation moved politely from the change in the weather to Richard’s business, and who was coming to Bath for the season. Mrs Alleyn gave all the names and addresses she could think of, providing Richard with a list of potential clients.

‘I shall mention you to them, when I write,’ she said.

‘You have my thanks, as ever, Mrs Alleyn. I have a shipment recently arrived into Bristol of a very fine Bordeaux wine, one of the best I have ever tasted.’

‘Ah! How wonderful. Jonathan will not be pleased, but I cannot change my tastes in this: it is the finest-flavoured wine to be had.’

‘Jonathan must be your son, Mrs Alleyn? Does he not care for Bordeaux wine?’ said Rachel. There was a tiny pause, and Richard gave her a look of mute appeal that told her she had erred in some way.

‘My son fought the French in Spain and Portugal, Mrs Weekes. And though he accepts that the war is now over, he cannot be reconciled to the old enemy. He would prefer that I buy wine from Spain, or Germany.’

‘And the King would agree with him, for the crown tariffs on French wine still greatly limit our imports.’

‘I can’t see what is to be gained in bearing such grudges,’ Mrs Alleyn said with a sigh. ‘But I am in the minority, I am well aware. An acquaintance recently wrote to chastise me for tactlessness! But I fail to see why we should have to drink unspeakable rotgut from Spain, and allow the French to keep all of the Bordeaux for themselves! It seems a curiously backward way to punish them, in my opinion.’

‘You are quite right, Mrs Alleyn,’ Richard agreed, readily. ‘And it grieves me also.’

‘But it keeps the prices high,’ she said, smiling knowingly. Richard shifted uncomfortably. ‘Oh, I understand how business works, you need not look shamefaced. And I trust you not to charge an overly inflated price. To me, in any case; though I must buy in small amounts, and hide it from Jonathan.’ She smiled again, but this time the expression was colder.

‘Does your son live here with you, then, Mrs Alleyn? I had not realised,’ said Rachel. Again came a pause, a significant look from Richard. ‘It must be a comfort to you, to… have him so near to you,’ she stumbled on.

‘Indeed,’ said Mrs Alleyn, tersely. ‘I quit our house in Box after my father died. It was far too large for a woman alone, and I thought that the city would offer more opportunities for society and company. When he had recuperated from the war my son joined me here.’ The words came in such a frigid tone that Rachel found no way to reply. The silence stretched on, and Mrs Alleyn watched her without blinking. When Rachel tried to find something light and innocuous to say, she found her mind entirely blank.

Eventually, Mrs Alleyn turned her unsettling gaze to Richard, and asked after his progress with an introduction she had made. Rachel breathed more easily, and decided not to speak again, however many times Richard turned, and smiled, and urged some comment from her. She held her tongue, and smiled politely, and tried not to notice the way Mrs Alleyn kept glancing at her, almost reluctantly, as if she couldn’t help herself. Rachel saw an inexplicable mixture of calculation and curiosity in her eyes, and it increased the feeling she already had of the house being watchful. She was glad when, after forty minutes or so, Mrs Alleyn dismissed them with exquisite good manners. As they crossed the hallway once again, a flash of movement and colour caught Rachel’s eye. Through a narrow door behind the main staircase, where the back stairs led down to the cellars, a servant was watching them – a red-haired girl with long eyes and a keen expression. With a start, Rachel recognised her as the girl who’d served them, just the once, at their wedding feast. The girl who’d also paused and stared at her peculiarly, just as Mrs Alleyn had.

‘I did advise you not to ask about her son, did I not?’ said Richard, as they walked away down Lansdown Road.

‘No. You did not,’ said Rachel. ‘You said only to mention nothing of the misfortune that befell him with the girl he was engaged to… I thought Mrs Alleyn might like to speak of him, since I gathered she has little opportunity to.’

‘The whole subject of her son is one she feels most acutely. Perhaps too acutely to discuss with a new acquaintance.’

‘Well, how could I know if you didn’t warn me?’ said Rachel, rattled. She felt uneasy in a way she couldn’t explain. The lady thought she knew this face. Something about that realisation gave her a peculiar, expectant thrill. ‘Mr Weekes – I think I just saw the serving girl from the Moor’s Head, working there as a servant.’

‘Sadie?’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sure not.’

‘No, the other one. The one who served the wine one time, and spilled it on my hand. You must remember – the red-haired girl?’

‘No. There’s only Sadie working there at the inn, and why would she be at the Alleyns’ house on Lansdown Crescent?’

‘I do not say that I saw Sadie, I say that I saw the other girl… I’m sure of it,’ Rachel insisted.

‘Well. I’m sure you must be mistaken. I saw nobody. You did well, though, my dear. I’m sure Mrs Alleyn approved of you.’

‘I am not so sure. She watched me most peculiarly, and you must have noticed when you introduced me – how startled she seemed. Do you think she thought she recognised me from somewhere?’

‘How could she recognise you, my dear? I did tell you that she is not always the easiest company. I’m sure she wasn’t watching you with anything other than the curiosity of making a new acquaintance…’

‘It startled me to learn that her son was there above us all the time, hidden away.’

‘Yes – forgive me. I thought you’d understood. His infirmity goes beyond a mere darkening of the spirits – he was injured in the war as well. One leg is all but useless, and he suffers terrible headaches, I am told. Pains that last for days, and obliterate all thought.’

‘Poor man,’ Rachel murmured.

‘As I said, I have seen him but once or twice in all the years since his downfall. He is a strange and difficult man, impossible to know.’

‘Such suffering might make any one of us strange or difficult.’

‘You have such a kind heart, my dear,’ Richard said, squeezing her hand where it rested on his arm. He seemed to have relaxed in the short distance that they’d walked from the Alleyns’ house, his nerves dissipating to leave him buoyant, almost jubilant. ‘She is a fine lady, is she not?’ he said, smiling. ‘And beautiful, though none so lovely as you.’

Rachel smiled at the compliment, but she still wondered about Mrs Alleyn’s strange exclamation, and repeated glances; and she wondered about the red-haired serving girl she’d glimpsed at the top of the stairs. And while she could not have said what any of it meant, or if it was significant, it only added to her unusual suspicion that she had been watched, and that much had gone unsaid.

From the hill where Lansdown Crescent sat, aloof, the rest of the city was a tangled mess. As they descended into it there seemed to be less light from the sky, even; the air thickened with the stink of human endeavour. Rachel stepped around piles of horse muck and oily puddles, but could not keep her shoes from getting spattered. Pattens, she made the mental note. I must acquire a pair of pattens. Richard left her near the abbey, to meet with a man on business, and Rachel walked a convoluted route back towards the house above the shop. She was starting to enjoy the noise and bustle of the narrow cobbled streets, which in places were scarcely wide enough to allow two people to pass without their shoulders bumping. What had once seemed like crowding had come to feel more like community.

Since her retreat from Milsom Street, she had taken to exploring the narrower streets behind and between, where the backs of buildings piled on top of one another as they marched up and down the city’s steep hills. Everywhere were tangled gutters and gables and rough cobble walls; chimney pots like rows of broken teeth, stable doors and sink holes, outdoor stairs and crooked sheds; all making a mockery of the strict and serene façades that faced the front. Here Rachel was not noticed, she was not remarkable. She drifted through the hotchpotch, learning its hidden paths and places; the steep, mossy steps that carved unexpectedly beneath a terrace of houses; the butcher’s shop built into the arches beneath a road, where cooks and housekeepers queued for the best cuts in Bath. Here there were no confectioners selling fudge or candied fruits, no glovers with wares in silk or kid leather. Here there were coopers selling barrels and baskets, and cobblers hammering new soles onto men’s work boots. There were rag shops and haberdashers, and communal bake ovens for those too poor to have their own. Rachel had begun to feel that she knew the city better now than she ever had before.

Buying a paper cone of hot chestnuts from a barrow boy, she checked over her shoulder a couple of times, to be sure Richard was nowhere around, before turning into the street that led to Duncan Weekes’s lodging house. She hadn’t been sure that she would visit him until that exact moment, but curiosity convinced her to. It had been several days since she’d spoken to her father-in-law outside the Moor’s Head, and she now understood that Richard would never consent to her calling on him. Just as the old man foresaw. He warned me not to ask, but he lied about the bad blood between them, and the cause of it, she thought, uneasily. How could he refer to his wife’s death as ‘matters long past’? Richard had said such damning things about his father that Rachel was having trouble reconciling his portrait with the sad old man she had met, who had praised her kindness and gentility. Underneath the blame and anger there must be love. Is there not always love between parent and child? She thought of Mrs Alleyn, whose life had been so blighted by her son’s misadventures and persistent affliction. But she does not abandon him, and I should not abandon Duncan Weekes so very easily. Not until I have his version of these events.

She had the worrying feeling that she might come to regret her decision, but she needed to know; because if what Richard had told her was true, then perhaps any love between him and his father had indeed died, and the reconciliation Rachel hoped for would be impossible. It was disquieting, that she should feel too nervous of her own husband to ask him what exactly had befallen his mother. Keep that curiosity secret, urged the soft voice in her mind. Still, the sadness in Duncan’s eyes fretted at her memory, and he had praised Richard with unmistakable pride. He loves his son, that much is clear. And he seems to have precious little else left to him. Duncan Weekes was the only kind of father that remained to her, but as she made her way to him, Rachel prepared herself to sever all connection with him should Richard’s condemnation prove well founded.

The building she came to was tall and narrow, cramped awkwardly between warehouses and workshops in the southwestern reaches of the city, near the riverside with all its mud and stink. The walls were streaked with soot, the windows opaque. Washing lines were strung from the upper storeys, and threadbare clothes hung limp in the still air. On the front steps sat a little girl no more than three years old, dressed in a canvas pinafore and a tattered cap. She gave off a strange, unwholesome smell, like fish and milk. Rachel bent down with a smile.

‘Hello, little one. Do you live here? What’s your name?’ she said. Shining wet trails ran either side of the child’s mouth, from her nose to her chin. She regarded Rachel with steady, wide eyes, and said nothing. Rachel took out her handkerchief and tried to wipe the girl’s face, but she shied away, got up and ran down the steps. Just then the door opened, and a woman with a pinched face came out carrying a basket on her hip. She squinted suspiciously at Rachel as she slipped in through the open door.

Inside it was cold and damp. A gloomy hallway with bare floorboards, where the sounds of footsteps and voices and children crying came creeping through the walls. There was a stink of tallow and ammonia. Duncan Weekes’s lodging was on the lowest floor of the house, so Rachel went to the stairs at the far end of the hallway, and down into stagnant darkness. Small as it was, the basement was divided into two rooms, and Rachel turned to the one on the right, as instructed. Her hand was shaking slightly as she raised it to knock. She thought of the rooms on Abbeygate Street, and how poor she’d thought them at first. Now the place where her father-in-law lived put a knot of shame and disgust in her stomach, and she fought hard to smile as she heard the bolts slide back within. Duncan Weekes looked almost frightened as he peered out, eyes all rheumy and bloodshot. His wig was off, revealing the scanty grey shreds of his own remaining hair, and without it he seemed smaller, denuded. He smiled and gave her a slight bow, and all the while radiated a kind of anxious shame.

‘My dear Mrs Weekes – it is so kind of you to call, so kind… I had not thought you would. I fear the condition of my lodgings must disgust you…’

‘Nonsense, Mr Weekes,’ Rachel murmured, but could not make herself convincing. She smiled to belie herself, and handed him the cone of chestnuts as she came inside. ‘Here – they’re still warm.’

‘Thank you. Too kind. Come now – come and sit by the fire.’ Duncan Weekes bustled clumsily, clearing a cup and a half-empty bottle of wine from the mantelpiece, and the fallen pages of a newspaper from the single armchair by the hearth. He had but one room, and that was cramped and dark. A narrow bed was against the back wall, with a trunk at its foot; beneath the only window, which was high in the wall and let in little light, stood a plain desk and a bentwood chair, and next to the door was a chest of drawers. The fireplace was mean – just a small grate for coals, a sooty hotplate for a kettle, and nothing more. It cast a meagre circle of light and warmth. Duncan Weekes fetched the bentwood chair and sat down opposite her, awkwardly, with his hands on his knees.

‘And how are you, my dear? How is my son?’ he said keenly. There was wine on his breath, and she saw his glance drift to the bottle he’d removed from the mantel. He snatched his eyes back guiltily, his face wearing a constant apology. He is ashamed. Of himself, as much as his poverty. And so eager to befriend me. Rachel felt a renewed resolve – that if she was wrong to disobey her husband, still it had not been wrong to come to these poor lodgings, to take this first step.

‘I am well, as is Richard, thank you, sir. I… I did speak to him about you, but…’

‘He would not hear it?’ said the old man, sadly.

‘Not yet. His… pain over the rift between you is yet strong, and persuasive. Perhaps, with time…’

‘A great deal of time has passed already, my dear, and none of it has dulled his anger. He spoke sharply to you, when you mentioned me?’ Duncan Weekes’s watery eyes fixed on her, full of concern.

‘I… a… a little, yes. I am sure he did not mean…’

‘Poor girl. You are too kind and good, to be reprimanded over the likes of me. I am but a ruin of what I once was. ’Tis scant wonder my boy wants nothing to do with me.’

Butterflies took flight in Rachel’s stomach. She swallowed before she spoke again, and found her throat dry.

‘Forgive me, sir, but I must have it from you. My husband… my husband told me that you killed his mother. Does he speak the truth?’ Her voice shook audibly; there was a long and deafening silence afterwards. Duncan Weekes stared at her, his eyes gone wide and empty. Rachel suddenly realised that she had no idea how he would react to her terrible question. Fool! To come here, and be alone with him, and say such a thing! Rachel started up to her feet and made for the door.

‘Wait! Don’t go yet, I beg you!’ Duncan called after her. Rachel paused, and glanced back. The old man’s eyes were no longer empty, or alarming. His whole body had collapsed in misery, shrinking in on itself as though she’d kicked him. ‘Forgive my silence, only… only you did shock me so. It did shock me, to hear you say it,’ he said.

‘Then… it is not true?’ Rachel whispered.

‘I… I cannot say it is wholly untrue. Alas, I cannot say so.’ He wiped at his eyes with a juddering hand. ‘But you must believe me, please, when I say that I never had any intention of harming my Susanne. I loved her more than any man ever loved a wife, and never laid a finger upon her in anger… For all she did upbraid me often, and point up my many failings.’ A fragment of a desolate smile crossed his face. ‘I loved her truly, and meant her no harm.’ Rachel stayed where she was for a moment longer, then took a step back towards the chair. Duncan Weekes’s sorrow was like a physical thing, like something she could touch.

‘Do you… do you swear this to me, sir?’

‘I swear it upon my very soul, Mrs Weekes.’

Tentatively, Rachel sat back down. She found she had little trouble believing him; her every instinct told her that he was not a violent man.

‘Can you… can you tell me what harm befell her?’ she said. The old man shook his head. A single tear was flung from his cheek, splashing onto the hearth with a tiny sizzle.

‘If you must hear it, then I must tell it. But I beseech you – do not make me. It is my constant shame; it is like a wound that runs right through me, and to speak of it turns the blade in that wound. It is unbearable, my dear girl. It is unbearable.’

‘Then speak it not, sir,’ said Rachel, decisively. ‘It matters only that her death was… accidental. And that you are sorry for it.’

‘A sorrier creature would be hard to find,’ said Duncan, so quietly. Rachel thought for a moment.

‘And… afterwards, you raised Richard yourself? From when he was eight years of age? And… this rift lay between you all that long while?’

‘No, not all that while. I… I compounded my sin, you see – I lied to him. Lies of omission, perhaps, but lies all the same. He was a young man by the time he found out what fate befell her, from what source I cannot say. And his grievance was made all the worse for knowing that I had kept the truth from him.’

‘You were an ostler then, I think?’

‘That’s right, Mrs Weekes. And a coachman, too. I was all my life in some such employ – I’ve a gift with horses, you see… I can gentle them, and coax them on. They only want soft handling, you see; they only want a little reassurance, and a little tenderness. But after I lost Susanne, I… I drank all the more, to forget my sorrow. I am the architect of my own decline, and I deserve none of your pity.’

‘Does our faith not teach us to forgive, sir, upon the repentance of wrongdoing? I believe that includes… forgiving oneself.’

‘How may a person forgive themselves such a thing? How do I forgive myself, when I have blighted my boy’s life so terribly? I have much time to think, now, in these twilight years, and my thoughts are bitter ones, of regret for all the wrong choices I made and all the ways in which I have fallen short.’

‘You are hard on yourself, Mr Weekes. You seem to me to be a… kind man. I’m sure you have tried to do right – and any one of us may fall short. God can expect nothing more of any man than that he perceives his own faults, laments them and strives to improve upon them…’

Rachel thought of her own father, of the shame that had eaten away at him; wasted him, like a canker. She reached out and took Duncan’s gnarled hand. It was dark with grime, some unknown dirt worn into the creases and the bed of each nail. ‘Such thoughts will prey upon you, sir,’ she said gently. ‘There must be some joy in life, must there not? You must allow some happiness, or ’tis all for naught. I was sad for many years after I lost my own family. But now I have Richard, and a new life with him, and I feel that the time has come to be joyful again.’

‘There ought to be happiness for those that deserve it, aye. For those good of heart and deed such as you,’ said Mr Weekes. ‘For an old fool like me, the chance has come and gone.’ He cleared his throat, and his treacherous gaze wandered to the bottle again before he could wrest it back. ‘But that you came to visit me – and stayed to hear me… that gives me much happiness.’

‘I fear I have brought you no joy this day,’ said Rachel. ‘I had better leave now – the evenings draw in, and I should be home before my husband.’ She stood, smoothing her skirt with both hands.

‘But you will come again, my dear?’ Duncan Weekes’s expression was so full of hope that it pained her.

‘I… I am not sure, sir. I would have to conceal any such visit from my husband, and it… troubles me a good deal to do so. To lie is a terrible thing.’

‘But you have it in your power to do what I have longed to these many years, my dear.’ He stood up and clasped her hand in both of his, finding a tremulous smile. ‘You have it in you to make my boy think kindly of me once more. Or at least to bring me word of him, and how he fares.’

‘I…’ Rachel hesitated, shaking her head.

‘Please! Please, dear girl. Do call again. You cannot know the good you would do.’

For a moment Rachel stared into his eyes, all couched as they were in lines of age and desperation. Will you make an old man beg you?

‘Perhaps the greater sin would be to let a family member languish, all unnoticed…’ She stopped herself short of saying in poverty. ‘To let bad blood and misunderstanding continue, when perhaps I could make it right…’

‘Bless you, Mrs Weekes. And thank you.’ Duncan let go of her hand, walking unsteadily to the door to see her out.

‘Can I bring you aught, next time? A little food perhaps?’ she asked. Duncan shook his head.

‘Only your good self, and word of my boy. But… you must be careful, dear girl. You must be careful not to… not to make any difficulty for yourself on my account,’ he said, anxious again. Rachel tried to brush off the warning, but it came too soon after the shock of Richard’s anger, and as she left the building it was with a trapped feeling like the beginnings of fear. No. I do not fear my husband, who loves me.

The sun was setting earlier every day, and as dusk fell countless lamps and torches were lit in windows and over doors, flooding the streets with an uneven yellow light that glanced from the filthy water in the gutters and almost made it pretty. Rachel took a deep breath of the chilly air to rid her lungs of the dankness of Duncan Weekes’s room. She walked briskly until she was on better streets, and stopped off to buy a pie for supper, and once she was home she stoked up the stove to warm the kitchen-cum-parlour, and looked around with new appreciation of her home. She thumped the pillows on the bed to raise them, shook the spiders out of the drapes, scoured the pot and brewed tea, suddenly needing to be busy, and to have no time to stop and think about Duncan Weekes. Because if she thought too much about his sad eyes and the filth he lived in she might speak again, unbidden; and try as she might to be calm and courageous, the thought of another confrontation filled her with dread. She was so conscious of guarding her words that she said precious little when Richard did arrive home, only smiling and fetching him the things he wanted. But he was tired, and smelled of the inn, and did not seem to mind her silence.

The next day a card was delivered to the house, and Rachel found that while she should have been surprised, she was not surprised at all. It was an invitation to number one, Lansdown Crescent, that afternoon; an invitation addressed to her alone. Rachel ran her fingers along the crisp edge of the card, and wondered what it could mean. The parlour suddenly seemed every bit as still and watchful as the house on Lansdown Crescent, and her skin prickled. She waited for her husband to return, and practised what she would say when he did. She was almost sure that Richard would be happy to hear about it, but then, his own exclusion from the invitation might temper that. In the end, she was asleep before he came home. He woke her as he came to bed, clumsy and befuddled in the darkness, and she feigned sleep, until his hands, which had roved her body, went still, and he started to snore. Carefully, Rachel pushed his hands away from her and shifted to one side, so that no part of them touched.

‘You asked for me, madam?’ said Starling. Mrs Alleyn looked up from the silk divan she was seated on, and raised her eyebrows. Her eyes glittered.

‘You are well aware of the reason.’

‘Madam?’ said Starling.

‘Enough!’ Mrs Alleyn burst out, rising abruptly to pace the carpet. Starling’s stomach lurched, but she cleared her face of expression, and waited. ‘You yourself said she was a singular woman – the new Mrs Weekes. You herded me into meeting her with no warning of how greatly she resembled that wretched girl! You must have known what my shock would be.’ Mrs Alleyn glared at her kitchen maid. Though Starling bridled at the words that wretched girl, and the tone of bitter disgust with which they were spoken, she knew better than to argue. ‘Well? What say you?’

‘I only thought that you would be interested in meeting her, madam.’

‘Indeed. Have a care, Starling – you were her servant, before you were mine, I know, but you have been mine these twelve years since. I should have no cause to question where your loyalties lie.’

‘My loyalty is to you, madam. Always,’ Starling lied.

‘I should hope so. She abandoned you as callously as she abandoned my son, let us not forget. Your place in this household is a boon that can be withdrawn, let us also not forget. Few others would have taken you on, given the circumstances.’

‘I am grateful to you, madam.’

‘Well.’ Josephine Alleyn grew calmer. She sat back down on the divan. ‘The resemblance is truly uncanny. Upon first glance,’ she said.

That was true enough, Starling thought. She had watched from the stairs as Mrs Weekes was leaving, and this time she’d been able to pick out a few subtle ways in which the woman did not resemble Alice. It had not been quite the same as that first startling moment, when it had seemed as though the dead walked. ‘It is a strange world, when two people can be born so alike and yet be wholly unconnected to one another,’ said Mrs Alleyn.

‘Not wholly unconnected, madam. For now they have you in common,’ said Starling, carefully. This was the crucial time, the crucial moment, for if she could not convince her mistress that Mrs Weekes was of use to them, then any chance of using the woman to goad Jonathan, and make him betray himself, would vanish. Behind her shoulder, Starling could feel the painted eyes of Lord Faukes, Josephine Alleyn’s father, staring down at her from a large canvas above the fireplace. She felt her skin crawl. Starling didn’t like to look at his portrait; didn’t like to see the heavy paunch of a stomach, or the big blunt hands, or the way his smile crinkled his eyes in that kindly, treacherous way. Mrs Alleyn was looking at Starling strangely, and a flutter of nerves made her speak again, ill-advisedly. ‘It was my thinking that it could benefit your son, madam, to meet this woman who looks so like Alice-’

‘I will not hear that name!’ The words lashed out, sharp as a whip crack, and Starling cursed herself inwardly for forgetting.

‘I beg pardon, madam,’ she said hurriedly.

She waited in silence. Mrs Alleyn turned her head to gaze out of the window and did not speak again for some moments. In the wan light of the afternoon she was pale and lovely; eyes haunted by sadness, face haunted by beauty.

‘How do you think it could benefit my son to set eyes upon this creature who, though it be no fault of her own, is the very image of the one person at the root of his distress? The one person I should most like him to forget?’ She spoke without looking at Starling.

He’ll never forget her. I won’t let him. Starling fought to keep her tone neutral.

‘Well, madam… it seems to me that Mr Alleyn would benefit from company. You have said so yourself, time and again, that it would do him good to be out in society more, and to allow visitors to call on him…’

‘He will not hear of it, as you know. I have tried every argument.’ Mrs Alleyn bowed her head, and suddenly wore her despair quite openly. She drew in a long breath, and when she raised her face again it was marked by pain. ‘Upon occasion, he will not even see me. His own mother.’

‘Yes, madam. I had thought that… perhaps her familiar face might convince him to tolerate her,’ said Starling. Mrs Alleyn frowned, so she hurried on. ‘Al- the girl he once knew was most dear to him. At one time. And I know he thinks of her still…’

‘How do you know?’

‘He…’ Starling hesitated. If Mrs Alleyn knew of Alice’s letters, she would turn Jonathan’s rooms upside down to find and destroy them. ‘He mentions her sometimes, when I am in hearing.’

‘Go on.’

‘She was dear to him, and there is a chance, is there not, that he might permit Mrs Weekes to visit him, for that reason? She seems a gentle and godly sort. Might she not somehow draw him back to himself? It… it cannot have escaped your notice that Mr Alleyn has been declining of late. In his spirits, I mean.’ I must tread carefully. ‘Declining as he did at the time of the… accident.’ It was no accident that had opened Jonathan Alleyn’s veins with the broken neck of a glass bottle, five years earlier. They both knew what he had intended. Josephine paled.

‘You think he is that unwell again? You think he would… he might… do some harm to himself again?’ The fear was loud behind her words.

‘His descent has been rapid of late, madam, and it continues.’

‘But… I want him to forget her! That is the only way… She poisoned him! I have banished every trace of her from this house, and yet, and yet… still he mentions her? After the way she betrayed him? And all the years that have passed?’ There were tears in the older woman’s eyes; they sparkled, unshed, full of desperate disbelief.

‘He does, madam.’

‘Well, I cannot tolerate it – I cannot tolerate her. I have no wish to see that woman’s face again – it is not her fault, but the fact remains: she is a walking reminder of that blight on our lives, and I will not see her.’ The older woman’s voice shook just slightly. Starling felt desperation getting hold of her tongue again.

‘But only think what he might do, if he should decline any further, madam… Surely if it might raise his spirits, just a little, to see her…’

‘Do not press me, girl! You forget yourself! You may have known my son since you were a child, but you remain a servant in this house and I have no need of your counsel! Do you think yourself irreplaceable, because you do not fear to serve him?’

‘No, madam.’ Staring knew when to be meek.

The two women faced each in silence. Starling kept her eyes on her feet, where her scuffed leather shoes looked so out of place against the glorious patterns of the carpet, all purple and green and gold.

‘Is this some mischief of yours?’ Mrs Alleyn asked eventually. Her anger had gone; she sounded small, and afraid. Tears still glimmered in her eyes.

‘No, madam. I only want what’s best.’

‘And… you truly think it could help him to see her? To be reminded?’

‘Since time and… obliteration have not worked, madam, then perhaps Mrs Weekes… that is, perhaps a small taste of what was lost might give him ease instead.’ Mrs Alleyn’s tears never fell. She blinked them away, and gathered herself.

‘If you are wrong… if he is made worse by her…’

‘I am sure he will not be, madam,’ Starling lied again without a second’s hesitation. She gazed at her mistress, her face a perfect facsimile of sincerity. Mrs Alleyn thought for a second longer.

‘Very well, then. Perhaps it cannot hurt to try. I will invite her,’ she said, and Starling’s heart soared. Oh, but it can. It can hurt to try.

Starling shut the drawing room door quietly, her fingers fumbling with the handle. They were shaking. Her whole body was shaking; her pulse thumped loudly in her temples. She swallowed, and felt the dry skin of her throat pull tight. She poisoned him! The words rang in her ears. As if anybody who had ever known Alice could truly believe that. It baffled her that a lady like Mrs Alleyn could be so deceived. In the silence of the hallway she watched her hands as they juddered, fingertips and broken nails all blurred with movement. Then Alice’s hand took hers, and held it tightly. Starling shut her eyes and saw the palest golden hair lit up with sunlight, and smiling blue eyes with lashes like tiny feathers. Find me some poppies, my chuck, and I’ll make you a scarlet crown.

Alice could not see the red petals against the green grasses that grew along the river’s wide shoulders. Hand in hand, the two girls ran along, walked to catch their breath, then ran again. The ground was waterlogged, and seemed to bounce beneath their feet. There were cowpats here and there, bejewelled with amber dung flies. They shrieked and leapt and dodged them. Here! Here are some poppies! Starling heard her own voice, heard Alice laughing as they sat down abruptly, breathing in the warm smells of damp earth and trampled grass. The poppy stems were tough and hairy; she picked them and passed them to Alice, who plaited them into a garland. I shall have a crown of flowers like this when Jonathan marries me, said Alice. And so shall you. Whichever flowers you wish for, you shall have; and you shall carry my train for me all the way to the church.

‘Starling!’ An angry whisper startled her. Starling opened her eyes to the dim light of the hallway; golden hair and sunlit eyes faded away like spectres. Dorcas was glaring at her from the servants’ door. ‘Don’t tarry there! What’s in your head?’ she hissed. Starling didn’t stay to answer. Mrs Alleyn would surely invite Mrs Weekes again soon. She didn’t have much time to make ready; to make Jonathan Alleyn ready. She meant for him to be at his darkest when he first set eyes on the woman who was not Alice. She meant for him to be ready to break, and she meant to be there when he did.

Rachel felt the weightiness of things unsaid, hovering between herself and Mrs Alleyn. She wasn’t sure how long she could go on ignoring it. It was stormy outside, and her shoulders were damp with rain from her walk to Lansdown Crescent. When the wind blew it made the flames in the grate flutter; a draught curled in under the door, cold around their ankles. She tried not to shiver, sipping her tea. The pauses between their stilted exchanges were growing longer and longer every time. Mrs Alleyn cleared her throat delicately.

‘Tell me, what social engagements have you planned, Mrs Weekes?’ she said.

‘There is… nothing of note upcoming, I confess,’ said Rachel.

‘But you will be going to the assembly rooms, surely?’

‘I… do not know, Mrs Alleyn. Mr Weekes has made no mention of any such plans…’

‘Well, of course he hasn’t, my dear Mrs Weekes. He is a man, and men who are married have little need for dancing. But a woman must have such things to look forward to, and to dress for. Must she not? He must take you, tell him I said so,’ she declared. Rachel smiled politely.

‘I shall indeed tell him, Mrs Alleyn. Do you care for dancing, yourself?’

‘Yes, I… well. I used to, many years ago.’ Mrs Alleyn’s lovely face fell. ‘It has been a very long time since I danced. My husband loved to, even after we were married. He was such a happy soul, so full of merriment.’ She looked away across the room, and sighed slowly. ‘The last time I danced was with Jonathan, shortly before he went away to the war.’

‘And never since?’ said Rachel, guessing it to be well over ten years since that dance. Mrs Alleyn swallowed, and looked back at Rachel.

‘And never since,’ she said flatly.

There was another uneasy silence. Mrs Alleyn arranged and rearranged her hands in her lap, and moved to pour tea from the pot when their cups were already full.

‘And this fine gentleman here,’ Rachel gestured at the large portrait in oils that hung above the hearth. ‘Pray tell me, who is he?’

‘That is my father, Sir Benjamin Faukes. He was a great man… a very great man. He had a most distinguished career in the navy. I returned to live with him when my husband died, when Jonathan was still very young. He… he was a kind and very loving man.’ Mrs Alleyn paused. ‘I think he’d hoped I would marry again one day, and be happy, but it was not to be.’ Rachel studied the painting, which showed a corpulent but dignified man, jovial eyes couched deep above crimson cheeks.

‘He cuts a most handsome figure,’ she murmured. ‘I was also blessed with a kind and gentle father. He was a gentleman… master of a small estate to the north of the city. I grew up there, and my little brother too. For a time.’

‘You have lost him?’ Mrs Alleyn leant forwards slightly, her eyes keen.

‘When he was but a child, still. Such a dear boy. It was… very difficult for my mother and father.’

‘And for you, I dare say?’

‘Yes. And for me,’ said Rachel, quietly. Mrs Alleyn nodded in sympathy.

‘The world can seem cruel to inflict such losses, can it not?’

‘I am sure God has a plan for us all, Mrs Alleyn.’

‘Are you, indeed? Well spoken, Mrs Weekes,’ Mrs Alleyn murmured, in a tone that was hard to decipher.

Silence fell again; outside, the wind played a mournful note. ‘You must be wondering why I asked you to call again,’ Mrs Alleyn said at last. ‘So soon after our first meeting, I mean,’ she added, hurriedly. Rachel smiled at the unintentional slight.

‘I’m sure I was simply pleased to be invited,’ she demurred, and Mrs Alleyn gave her a knowing glance, tinged with apology.

‘Forgive me. In truth…’ She hesitated, turning her porcelain cup in its saucer. ‘In truth, I wish to introduce you to my son.’

‘I see,’ said Rachel, uneasily. She sensed that Mrs Alleyn was trying to find a way to broach the subject of her son’s condition. ‘My husband has told me that your son suffers from… an illness, brought on by the war,’ she said, to ease the way. The older lady drew in a long breath.

‘Mrs Weekes, I must be honest with you. My son is considered by many people to be… unfit for polite society. The headaches, and the nightmares he endures… they can cause him black moods. He has… some strange obsessions, since he returned from the fighting. He speaks the contents of his mind too freely. And the things he says can be… he is not always…’ She broke off, and her eyes gleamed.

‘Mrs Alleyn,’ Rachel said softly. ‘Forgive me, but I am left to wonder why you wish to introduce me, in particular, to your son?’

‘Well might you wonder.’ Mrs Alleyn sighed, and turned to gaze out at the sky for a moment. ‘He has few friends left. He has no visitors. I know he is… partly to blame for that. But oughtn’t a true friend… make allowances?’ She shook her head. ‘But one by one they have all stopped calling, and writing. I can see that you have married beneath yourself. Forgive my candour, and I mean no slight to your husband. I have known Richard Weekes for a good many years, and I know he will try his best for you. But you have finer manners than his, and a more godly heart. It is plain.’

Rachel blushed. What she knew to be true she was not yet prepared to hear from another’s lips. She said nothing, feeling heat bloom over her skin.

‘Well,’ she said stiffly, and could not think what to add. ‘Well,’ she said again.

‘I have offended you. I am sorry for it. Perhaps I, too, am becoming unfit for polite society. I have no stomach left for the cant and hypocrisy of English manners.’ Mrs Alleyn pressed her lips together and waited, and Rachel felt as though she was being tested. She found that she wanted to please this strange and beautiful woman, and not only because Richard esteemed her so highly.

‘You merely surprised me, Mrs Alleyn,’ she said.

‘Good. There is strength in you, Mrs Weekes. I cannot quite put my finger on it, but… it is the kind of strength my son needs.’ Or that I will need, in meeting him? Rachel wondered.

‘Will he be joining us today?’

‘Yes. That is… I had hoped-’ She broke off, as at that moment a soft knock announced a servant at the door. Rachel looked up quickly, but it was not the red-haired girl. This one had small eyes and a thin, ferrety face.

‘Beg pardon, madam. The master says he won’t come down today. He is… indisposed,’ said the girl, bobbing at them.

‘Thank you, Dorcas.’ Mrs Alleyn sounded weary, and disappointed. Silence fell again, and Rachel wondered what nature of thing was covered by the handy term indisposed. The atmosphere in the room was becoming unbearable. Rachel shifted in her chair.

‘Well, another time, perhaps…’ she murmured.

‘Will you go up to him?’ Mrs Alleyn said suddenly. Rachel sat shocked for a moment, but the urgent appeal on the older lady’s face prompted her.

‘If you wish it,’ she said.

Jonathan Alleyn’s rooms were on the second floor of the house. The two women went up the sweeping staircase in silence; Mrs Alleyn wore a tense, pinched expression. At his door they paused, and the older lady smoothed her hands down the length of her bodice. Rachel was suddenly afraid of what might lie within – what could cause the man’s own mother such distress.

‘Please…’ said Mrs Alleyn. ‘Please try not to…’ But she didn’t go on. She closed her mouth sadly, knocked at the door and opened it without waiting for a response. ‘Jonathan,’ she said, somewhat stridently, as she swept into the room. Rachel followed close on her heels, like an anxious child. ‘There is somebody I’d like to-’

‘Mother,’ a man’s voice cut her off. ‘I told you I did not wish to meet any more of your pointless quacks.’ Mrs Alleyn stopped so abruptly that Rachel almost ran into her. ‘I told you I didn’t want to see you. Not today,’ he added.

‘This is Mrs Weekes. I thought you-’

‘You thought of yourself, I don’t doubt. As you generally do. Leave me be. I’m warning you.’ Mrs Alleyn tensed visibly. Rachel struggled to see where the man’s voice was coming from. The shutters were closed, and no lamps were lit. In the dull glow of the coals, she caught the outline of a figure, slumped in a chair behind a vast and cluttered desk. She suddenly felt an odd foreboding, a feeling of entrapment. Her breath was caught behind her ribs like a bubble.

‘Perhaps another time,’ she said again, weakly, and turned to go. Mrs Alleyn caught her arm.

‘I said get out!’ Jonathan Alleyn suddenly bellowed, and only his mother’s hand gripping her arm prevented Rachel from obeying. The man sounded deranged. Mrs Alleyn turned, and leaned close to Rachel’s ear.

‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Please try.’ And then she was gone, closing the door behind her.

For a moment, Rachel didn’t dare to move. She didn’t dare to make a sound, in case the man realised she was still there. What is this? Why am I here? She cast her eyes around, and could see a little more as her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and her unease increased the more she saw. The room was set up as a study, with a great many shelves and cupboards, each laden with books and strange objects she couldn’t identify. Some appeared to be scientific instruments, with glass lenses and adjustable wheels, notched cogs and ebony boxes to hold who knew what. Others looked like toys. Like children’s toys. There were star charts pinned to the walls, and a painted globe showing a map of the world. On the shelf nearest her shoulder, she recoiled from the dead eyes and snarling mouth of a fox, stuffed and mounted in a pose of extreme aggression. On the desk were scattered papers and pens, more strange instruments and three large glass jars, each filled with liquid and greyish, bulbous things that Rachel decided not to look too closely at. There was a strange smell like rotting meat, faint but revolting. It made sweat break out along her brow. On the wall above the fire hung a painting of a scene from hell – human figures being torn limb from limb and consumed by gleeful demons, their faces stretched in unimaginable horror.

‘Do you like the painting?’ the man asked. His voice was hoarse now, and quiet. Startled, Rachel glanced back at him.

‘No,’ she said, truthfully, and he gave a hollow chuckle.

‘It’s by a man called Bosch. A man who dreamed similar dreams to me. Did you think you were invisible, standing there, quiet as a mouse? My eyes see a good deal better than yours in this light. I am used to it.’

‘We would both see a good deal better if the shutters were opened,’ said Rachel, in the same brisk tone she would have used with Eliza. She turned slightly as if to cross to the window, but stopped when he spoke again.

‘Do not touch the shutters.’ His voice was cold, and hard. He was no child in a temper. ‘Who are you? Why is my mother so keen for me to meet you?’

‘I… in truth, I am not certain,’ said Rachel. Faced with all the strangeness of the man, of his room, of her situation, her mind abandoned decorum and produced only truth. ‘Your mother suggested I might do you some good, by my company.’

‘Why? Are you a healer?’

‘No.’

‘Are you a… nun? A saint, perhaps? Or a whore?’ he asked. Rachel’s tongue froze in shock, so she could not reply. ‘One of those three, then. I wonder which?’ His tone was mocking. ‘Nun, saint, or whore.’

‘None of those,’ she managed at last.

‘A pity. I could have used a whore’s company. She will not have them in the house, though. My mother. A great irony, given that all women are whores; be it for coin, status or safety that they sell themselves. Come closer, into the light. I can’t see your face properly.’

Rachel moved woodenly, feeling as though she’d stumbled into a strange and unsettling dream. She had never been in so alien a situation, not even when she’d stood over her father as all their possessions were taken out into the street. She went around to the far side of the desk and stood in front of Jonathan Alleyn’s chair. She felt the meagre warmth of the coals on her face, and when she looked at him she almost recoiled. He was gaunt and deathly pale, with hollows beneath his cheekbones. She made out lines across his brow and at the corners of his eyes, and streaks of grey in his unkempt hair. He was tall but too thin, his shoulders jutting out beneath his shirt, legs long and lean. A hand, curled into a fist and held against his mouth, was ridged with tendons, and his eyes were unsettlingly bright. He drew breath to speak again, but when Rachel met his gaze his voice trailed away, even as his lips still moved. His hand dropped down, and his mouth hung slightly open. This was it, Rachel realised. This was why she had been sent. ‘Alice?’ he whispered, and in his voice was a broken heart, an ocean of hope and pain and loss. Rachel swallowed, and didn’t dare to speak. So it is Alice that they see, when they look at me. This man and his mother. The girl who left him, it must surely be? Tears ran from the corners of Jonathan’s eyes, shining with the firelight. His face flooded with such hurt, such misery that for a second Rachel wanted to reach out and wipe his tears away. Her hands rose and strayed towards him, and he snatched at them roughly, pulling her down to kneel in front of him. She tried to pull away but he held her fast, his grip unbreakable. ‘Why?’ he whispered. His breath stank sharply of spirits. ‘Oh, why did you do it? Why did you leave me?’

Rachel stared into his ravaged eyes, transfixed. She could hardly think straight; her heart was jumping in her throat.

‘Mr Alleyn,’ she gasped, at last. ‘I…’ At the sound of her voice he blinked, and his face hardened. The look of pain and hope in his eyes faded away, and anger replaced it. One hand clasped her chin, and turned her face towards the fire’s orange light.

‘What trick is this? You are not her. Answer me!’ he rasped.

‘I am Rachel Weekes, and-’

‘Who? Who?’ He shook her, and she tried again to twist out of his grip. In an instant he released her chin, and his hand locked around her neck instead. ‘Answer me, or by God I will choke the life from you! I swear it!’ He brought his other hand to reinforce the first, and Rachel scrabbled at them, trying to prise her fingers beneath his, to no avail. Panic surged through her, making her clumsy.

‘I am Rachel Weekes! I know no Alice! I… I was invited by your mother!’ she cried. ‘Let go of me!’

‘My mother? So this is some game of hers, is it? I should have suspected as much. But how dare you, madam? How dare you come to me and pretend to be what you are not?’

‘I did no such thing-’ She tried to argue, but could not get enough air. His hands around her neck were like iron, and bright spots began to swirl in the corners of her eyes. He was all she could see; his face grim and terrible, rearing over her, teeth clenched in murderous fury. Behind him, the room swirled in darkness. She batted at his hands, his arms and face, as though such feeble blows might make him loosen his grip; where her windpipe was crushed there was a deep, stabbing pain. She felt insubstantial, weak; her every effort futile. He will kill me, came the realisation in the back of her mind, oddly calm, even as her heart pounded in terror and her lungs burned for air.

‘Let her go!’ a woman shouted. Rachel felt other hands tugging at Jonathan’s fingers. ‘Leave off, I say!’ There was a flurry of movement, a struggle, and Rachel looked up in time to see the hearth brush strike her assailant’s head with a ringing percussion. Soot showered him and he reeled backwards, coughing. Released from his grip, Rachel fell to the floor, gasping for breath. She tried to see who had saved her, but the woman had darted out of reach of Jonathan Alleyn’s rage, into the shadows. He stood, rubbing at his eyes, snarling in fury.

‘Starling, you treacherous bitch!’ he shouted. Rachel struggled to her feet, and fled. She bolted down the stairs, past Mrs Alleyn who waited for her at the bottom.

‘Mrs Weekes? Are you well?’ she called out in consternation, as Rachel raced by. Rachel didn’t stop to speak, or collect her cloak. She rushed out into the rarefied air of the crescent, heedless of anything but the need to escape.

Starling dissected their meeting, over and over – Jonathan Alleyn and Rachel Weekes. She ran it by her mind’s eye as she boiled a ham, as she scraped the scales from a sole, as she scalded the distilling jars and peeled apples for a pie. As the bustle of dinner being prepared and sent up went on around her; the steady exchange of hot plates for cold ones, returning from Mrs Alleyn’s table all but untouched. The lady of the house dined alone most nights, with a place set for her son, ever empty, by her side. Starling felt as though she’d stepped aside from it all, like there was a wall around her, muffling everything. She thought about what had happened, and wondered why she felt no satisfaction. Not quite no satisfaction, perhaps. Hadn’t she wanted him to reveal himself? To show that he was a murderer? And hadn’t he obliged her, by near strangling Dick’s new wife? But she’d known there was violence in him, that was nothing new. Was that how he did it, then? With his bare hands around her neck?

Alice’s narrow neck, fragile as a bird’s; soft skin and downy hair, catching the light. Jonathan’s strong hands with their long, elegant fingers. Once he had sat Starling on his knee in front of the old piano at the farmhouse in Bathampton, and though it was tuneless from the damp, he’d tried to teach her a song to play. She’d watched his hands closely. His nails were so clean, and perfectly shaped; the knuckles and joints stood proud along his fingers. As he’d played she been mesmerised by the movement of tendons beneath his skin, so she hadn’t paid any attention to the notes he was playing. When he’d said your turn, and she hadn’t known where to start, the look of disappointment on his face had stung her somewhat. To distract him she’d grabbed his hand in both of hers and nipped one of the fingers, laughing when he gasped, and then darted away to find Alice. Your little termagant bit me, he said, when they found her in the yard, but he was smiling as he said it.

And yet. And yet. Why did you leave me? That was what he’d asked her. Starling paused near the top of the servants’ stair and leaned against the wall, turning her face to the small window to look up at the night sky. The moon was bright, the stars clear and stark. She could feel the chill coming through the glass, drifting down to settle on her face. It had been a cold autumn so far, and promised a cold winter. The air smelled gritty and old. Starling shut her eyes, furious with herself. What did you expect? For him to cry: It cannot be! I murdered thee! Idiot. She had prepared him as well as she could in the short time available to her. She’d taken him more of the strengthened wine, and made as many sharp noises as she could as she straightened his rooms. She’d tipped the food meant for him into a sack to dispose of later, so that his stomach had nothing in it but the spirits. The dead rat she’d left under his desk three days earlier was really beginning to stink, filling the air with the smell of its decay. She hoped it made him feel as though death itself was stalking him.

Why did you leave me? It was that phrase that bothered her. That was not what a murderer would ask of his victim, surely? That made it sound as though he really did believe the lies that were told about Alice having another lover, about her absconding with him, and leaving them all behind. Unless… unless that was the reason Jonathan had killed her? His motive had long puzzled Starling. She knew more of men now than she had known then, a good deal more, but still she was sure that he’d loved Alice. He’d loved her for years. He and Alice had grown up side by side, though they’d spent more time apart than they had together. But if Jonathan had thought, for some reason, that Alice planned to leave him… that could well have been enough to make him harm her. Not the Jonathan from before the war, but the Jonathan from afterwards. The Jonathan who came back from Spain, so very different from the boy who’d set off to fight all full of ideas about honour and glory. But Alice would never have left him. Alice loved him more than air. Starling let her head fall back against the stone wall with a thump.

There was no way she could rest. She finished up her work, threw her shawl around her shoulders and let herself quietly out of the house. Her boot heels rang against the swept stones of the pavement. Beyond the light of the guttering streetlamps was the black swathe of steep pasture in front of the crescent, and beyond that, to the south and east, the rest of the city – a shadowed labyrinth in the darkness. The pinprick sparkle of lanterns looked like a feeble echo of the stars above. Alice would have sighed at the beauty of it, but knowing that only gave Starling a sour taste in her mouth, and she turned her eyes away, refusing to be beguiled. She walked so briskly to the Moor’s Head that she was breathless when she arrived, and damp beneath her clothes. It was stifling as ever inside the inn, ripe with the stink of people, of sweat and dissolution. Dick Weekes was there with some of the old crowd, and Starling was happier to see him than she would ever admit. She got a drink from Sadie and sauntered over to his table.

He was laughing at some joke, but fell serious when he looked up and saw her. He was all russet brown and handsome; lips curved into a subtle pout. Starling hated the feeling that seeing him gave her – a pang of some deep longing or other. The touch of his hands, perhaps, or his desire for her. The way he would let her talk, on and on, propped on one elbow above him after their love play.

‘It didn’t take you long to find your way back in here,’ she said loudly, above the din. ‘I’m surprised the missus let you out, tonight of all nights.’

‘What’s special about tonight?’ said Dick, frowning.

‘Oh, nothing. Only I imagined she’d be somewhat rattled, after her visit to the Alleyns today.’

‘Bring your arse to anchor, wench,’ said old Peter Hawkes, who as ever could not tear his eyes from her red hair and tight bodice. Starling shrugged and pushed herself a space on the bench beside Dick. The other men at the table turned away, uninterested, and Dick only looked blank.

‘You mean, you didn’t know?’ said Starling. ‘She never told you she was going? Or had been?’ She shook her head slowly, arching her brows. ‘Such secrets, so early in a marriage.’ Dick’s nostrils flared. How he hated to be teased.

‘I’ve not seen my wife yet this evening. But I’m sure she will tell me herself, when I do,’ he said curtly.

‘Perhaps. Perhaps I shouldn’t have let her secret out. But then, I’m more allied to you than to her, I suppose.’ Starling let her hand rest on his thigh, and leaned closer to speak into his ear. ‘I’ll need some more strong wine. As strong as you can make it.’

‘You’ll not have it. Not from me.’ Dick took a long drink, then stared down into his cup as if to close himself off from her. ‘Let it rest, Starling. Let the poor bugger rest, won’t you? What’s he ever done to you, anyway? What has all your scheming brought about? Nothing at all, that’s what.’

‘He’s a murderer. He killed his betrothed, my sister…’

‘Who says so, apart from you? Who in the whole country of England says so, apart from you?’ His words were hard, and they stung her. ‘Who even thinks Alice Beckwith is dead, apart from you? She’s probably living in some northern county, happy as a lark with husband and bairns, and all the while you stew away like some witch at her cauldron, plotting to avenge a murder that never took place!’ He pointed an angry finger at her. A tiny worm of doubt twisted in Starling’s gut, just for a second.

‘Alice would never have left just like that… I know the truth of the matter,’ she said.

‘So you say. But it wouldn’t be the first time a woman was wrong, now would it? You think you were a sister to her, but you weren’t. You’re some vagabond’s brat, taken in as a hobby. Of course she’d leave you, if she saw fit. Do you know how ridiculous you sound, going on and on about her? Do yourself a favour, and give it up. It’s not just him you hurt, you know. I was there myself the other day. Mrs Alleyn… she sickens alongside her son. Because of you.’

‘It’s his own guilt that sickens him – I’ve heard him confess, so I have! I only want the truth to be known.’

‘No, you don’t. You don’t want to hear the truth, that’s your problem. Alice Beckwith got hot for another man, and ran off rather than face up to her benefactor. Will you spend your whole life trying to pretend it was otherwise?’

Starling was shocked into angry silence for a moment.

‘You’re wrong,’ she said at last, but Richard ignored her. ‘I’d have known if she had another lover.’ She took a long swallow of her beer, though her stomach was clenched tight and she found it hard to swallow. Still Richard kept his eyes in front of him, and Starling could only look at the side of his face. She suddenly felt frightened, and couldn’t say why. A curl of brown hair hung in front of his ear, and before she knew it she had reached out and tucked it back for him. Dick twisted about, and knocked her hand away.

‘I meant what I said, Starling,’ he said coldly. ‘There’ll be no more of that, between you and me.’ She stared at him, her mouth falling open. ‘Take Mr Hawkes here out the back, if you must rut. He’s always wanted to dance the blanket hornpipe with you, haven’t you, Hawkes?’ Peter Hawkes leered at her, and dipped his grizzled chin in assent.

‘You’re a devilish good piece. I’d like to see if you’ve the ginger hackles down below, as well as up top,’ he said.

‘My thanks for the offer, sir.’ Starling rose from the bench. ‘But I’d rather couple the old horse in the stable than have you touch me.’ She walked away with her head up high, so that Dick wouldn’t see the knife he’d stuck into her, wedged between her ribs. She felt the wound of it go deep; it made her breathless.

‘Aye, wench, but only take a look and you’ll find I’m hung just like that horse that’s caught your eye!’ Peter Hawkes called after her, and the men dissolved into laughter.

She chose a soldier, little more than a boy, already drunk and half slumped in a bench with his comrades. The brass buttons on his jacket were brightly polished, but his breeches were stained here and there with spilt wine. He had soft blond hair, like a baby’s, and gentle brown eyes all befuddled from drink. His voice wavered between a boyish squeak and a man’s tenor. She drank with him and his friends, and draped herself over him, ever closer, until in the end she was sitting in his lap. She let his tentative, uncertain hands quest upwards from her hips to the narrow span of her waist, and then even further. When she judged him quite far gone enough she whispered in his ear, and helped him to stand. As she led him towards the back door she looked over at Dick and saw him watching her, scowling, his eyes dark and angry. Just as she’d hoped. She shot him a spiteful smile as she lifted the lad’s arm and placed it around her shoulders.

In the yard Starling kissed the boy quickly, all over his face, turning him this way and that until he pulled away suddenly, his eyes sliding out of focus. She stepped neatly to one side as he threw up into the gutter; a watery stream of curdled wine. As he was doubled over, coughing and spitting, she dipped her fingers into each of his pockets and relieved him of the last of his coins. The stink of his vomit made her recoil, and she swayed, suddenly weak right through her body.

‘Let this be a lesson to you, sweet boy,’ she told him, not unkindly. ‘Come tomorrow you will have lost your money, your dignity and your good health, and yet will have kept the maidenhead you’re so keen to lose. You will not awake a successful man. Never drink more than you can hold.’ He groaned piteously, and she patted him on the shoulder, quite sure he had no idea who she was, or where he was, or why. ‘There, there. Your friends will soon come out to find you.’ With that she left him and slipped out of the yard into the dark streets of Bath, with tears she hadn’t been aware of shedding cold on her cheeks.

For a long time after she ran from Lansdown Crescent, Rachel couldn’t keep still. Her hands shook, and her legs trembled, and she felt the ridiculous urge to burst into tears even though the threat of danger was long gone. She warmed herself some spiced wine but could not drink it, and made a cold supper that she could not eat. She wanted Richard to come home so that she could be comforted, but darkness gathered in the narrow street outside until she could no longer see to watch for him. When it was late and he was still not home, she took a candle up the narrow stairs and fetched the twist of her mother’s hair from her trinket box. She pressed the cold, slippery lock to her lips and breathed in, trying to find some scent of Anne Crofton still on it. There was none, but it comforted her nonetheless, and the shuddering inside her that threatened to become sobs eased off. Soft hair, soft hands. Everything soft and gentle about her, even when she scolded, the voice whispered, in memory. Rachel lay down on the bed to wait. Her neck was sore, the muscles stiffening from the strain of trying to break away from Jonathan Alleyn. When she shut her eyes she saw his face, the flood of misery and hope that had filled it, followed by that gleam of fury, so terrible, like nothing she had seen in a person’s eyes before today.

She was drifting, her eyes still wide and stinging dry, when the door finally banged below, and she heard Richard’s footsteps on the stairs. She sat up, her head aching, and attempted to pat her hair into better shape. The candle had burned down to a nub. Richard was scowling when he came in, and his steps were heavy, clumsy; boots scuffing on the floor, catching on the corners of the furniture.

‘Richard! I’m so glad you’re come home. The most… unsettling thing happened to me today-’

‘You went to see Mrs Alleyn again.’ Richard cut her off, standing over the bed with his face half lit, half hidden in darkness.

‘Yes… how did you know?’

‘Not from you, that’s clear enough. Not from my wife, who ought not to keep things from me!’ His voice rose, and Rachel blinked. Sweat shone on his top lip and brow, and she could smell the stink of the inn on him.

‘I… I was going to. But it was so late when you got home last night, and you seemed so distracted, I didn’t want to… bother you with it.’

‘And this morning, before I went out?’ he said. Rachel hesitated.

‘I thought it of little consequence,’ she said quietly. In truth she couldn’t say for sure why she’d kept the invitation from him, only that there had remained a nagging doubt over his reaction to the news.

‘You thought it of little consequence,’ Richard echoed, sarcastically.

‘I meant to tell you, of course I did. And I am trying to tell you now. Oh, Richard – it was terrible! Mrs Alleyn did insist upon me meeting her son, even to the extent that I had to go up to his rooms, for he would not come down to us. And then… and then… he flew at me! I don’t know the reason why, for certain – only that he seemed to mistake me for somebody else… He flew at me and half killed me, Richard! I was so afraid… I think he’s quite mad!’

She stopped to catch her breath, and steady herself. She waited for him to reach out for her, and soothe her, but instead he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, and kept his back turned.

‘Richard? Didn’t you hear me?’ said Rachel, putting a hand on his shoulder. He jumped as if he’d forgotten she was there.

‘What nonsense is this?’ he muttered. ‘Of course he’s not mad, only… troubled. Of course he didn’t attack you.’

‘But… he did! I swear it!’ Rachel cried. ‘Look! Look here at my neck, if you doubt me. See the marks his fingers left!’ She pulled her shawl aside and turned her neck to the light, where deep red fingerprints still marked the skin. ‘Look!’ Reluctantly, Richard glanced briefly at her neck, and his frown grew even deeper. He stayed silent. ‘But… have you no words of comfort for me? Doesn’t it move you, that I was attacked?’ she said, bewildered.

‘Of course it does. Of course… I am sure he did not intend to harm you. He is a gentleman. His mother is-’

‘His mother left me alone in his rooms! She left me alone for him to do as he pleased! And what kind of gentleman would deal out violence to a… a blameless person who had come to call? I tell you, they are gentlefolk neither one of them!’ Rachel began to sob, as much from exhaustion and disappointment as from her former fear.

‘I will not hear you speak ill of the Alleyns. Were it not for Mrs Alleyn’s kindness, and her patronage, I would be nowhere. I would be a lowlife, serving others for a living, instead of a business man of good repute, rising all the while…’

‘I don’t understand you, Richard. Are… are we to be so grateful to her for your advancement that her son may strangle me and go unreproached?’

‘I say only that… allowances must be made. Jonathan Alleyn is not a well man… it is unfortunate that he… reacted badly to you. But you should not have been in his rooms!’

‘Unfortunate? And if that serving girl hadn’t been there to make him stop, and he had killed me, would that be unfortunate too? Or would that be merely regrettable?’

‘What serving girl?’

‘The red-headed one. The one I told you about before, that I thought I saw-’

‘Enough about this now. You’re home, safe and well. No harm has been done…’ Richard turned to her now, and put out a hand to take one of hers. Rachel stared at him in astonishment. ‘It was a fine thing that Mrs Alleyn asked you to see her again. Perhaps next time it will be a card party, or tea? Let us hope so, for she truly must be taking a shine to you, hmm?’ He squeezed her hand and smiled, but his eyes stayed troubled, almost afraid.

‘Next time? Richard… I can’t go back there. I won’t! You don’t understand what it was like…’

‘Enough, now. You’ve had a fright, and you’re not talking sense. Of course you will go back, if you are invited. We must hope that you are.’ His grip on her hand had grown tighter, and almost hurt.

‘Richard, I-’

‘You will go back.’ He said each word slowly, clearly, and in his hand hers was a small, weak thing that could not free itself.

Rachel said nothing. She did not understand Richard’s loyalty to the Alleyns, so profound that her own well-being could be brushed so easily aside. She did not understand his insistence that she go back, even if she didn’t want to. She did not understand why he offered her no gentle embrace, but only began to unbutton his breeches as he laid her back on the bed. She did not understand why, when she told him she was too tired and upset to make love, he carried on and did it anyway.