‘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.’