‘I want what I cannot have. I want to unsee things I have seen, and undo things I have done…’
‘And surely you know that can never be done? So another way must be found.’
‘Another way?’
‘A way to be at peace with what is past, and to… turn your back on it.’
‘Really? Another way?’ Jonathan laughed then, but it was a bitter sound. ‘And if those things took the very heart and soul of you, and left only the brutish parts? What other way is there then?’
‘No one but God can take your soul,’ said Rachel.
‘Aye, madam – God, or the devil.’
‘You should not say such things. I’m certain-’
‘No, you are not certain. You are naive, and inexperienced. Go now, and leave me in peace. I made no promise to hear a sermon.’ He shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. With anger making her hot in spite of the chill, Rachel stood and walked smartly over to the door, where she paused.
‘I’m no child or servant, sir, to be commanded stay and go,’ she said, her voice tight with emotion. ‘Perhaps I know nothing of you, and what you have seen, but do not forget that the reverse is also true.’ She shut the door behind her with greater force than was needed.
Josephine Alleyn was in the garden. The sun had burned through the low cloud and mist and was slanting down, touching the dying plants with a lemon-coloured light, the ghost of summer’s warmth. The garden was as wide as the house, and twice as long; surrounded by high walls and laid out in the Italianate style, with pathways curving this way and that between dwarf box hedges and naked rose bowers. An ornamental pond was at the centre of it all, its fountain still and silent, a thin sheet of ice over the black water. Mrs Alleyn was sitting in the far corner, where the sunshine was strongest, and she cut such a lonely figure that Rachel felt a stab of pity for her. She was well wrapped in furs and woollen shawls, but she was not reading, or writing, or drawing; she was simply sitting, with her face turned to the sun and her eyes closed. Rachel cleared her throat quietly, so as not to alarm her.
‘Forgive me, Mrs Alleyn,’ she said. ‘I have finished with Mr Alleyn for today.’ Josephine Alleyn opened her eyes and blinked at the light. The sunshine was so bright that it smoothed the years from her face, and Rachel was struck again by her beauty, which in her youth must have been truly exceptional. For a long moment Mrs Alleyn did not speak, and Rachel waited uncomfortably, her toes going numb in her shoes.
‘Mrs Weekes. Thank you,’ she said at last, and her voice was thin and frail.
‘Are you quite well, Mrs Alleyn? Shall I call for somebody?’ said Rachel. The older lady waved her hand, and seemed to come back to herself.
‘No, no. I was only… lost in thought, for a moment. The older one gets, the more power memory has to enthral, I find. To enthral, and sometimes to overpower. Do sit with me a while, Mrs Weekes.’ She twitched her cloak to make room for Rachel to sit down beside her. The stone bench was bone-achingly cold. ‘How did you find him today?’
‘He was… calm. He seems to have a touch of fever, however. It would be prudent, perhaps, to watch him these next few days, in case it turns any worse.’
‘Yes.’ Mrs Alleyn blinked. ‘Yes, I will do so. I will be sure he is checked,’ she said.
‘Forgive me, Mrs Alleyn…’ Rachel began. ‘I can’t help but notice that your son seems to be… resentful of you, for some reason? When it seems to me that you have only ever supported him in his infirmity…’
‘Resentful?’ The older woman smiled sadly. ‘That’s a gentle euphemism, my dear.’ She turned her face to the sun again, and took a steady breath. ‘In truth, he barely tolerates me.’
‘But why should it be so? He can’t blame you for the war, or for his abandonment by Alice Beckwith.’ Mrs Alleyn winced at the mention of Alice’s name.
‘Of course he blames me, Mrs Weekes. Children always blame their mothers, sooner or later. Even if he can’t put into words what it is that angers him so… We raise them in love, you see. We raise them in love, and teach them to find the world a wonderful place. And when it is not, they feel betrayed. They feel as though we have betrayed them. So no matter how much we love them, how much we try to make all well for them, sooner or later they blame us, and are wroth with us.’
‘That is a sorrowful thought, Mrs Alleyn,’ Rachel murmured.
‘Indeed. We are a sorrowful little family these days, Jonathan and I.’ Mrs Alleyn turned to Rachel with a touch of urgency, as if needing to mitigate. ‘I tried to warn him, you see. When I found out about his… liaison with that girl, I tried to warn him that she was beneath him. That she was unworthy of his heart and not to be trusted with it. He wouldn’t listen of course. Young men never do.’
‘You had objections to the match?’
‘Objections? Alice was little better than a farmer’s child! She was my father’s ward – an act of kindness on his part, performed for an old acquaintance when the girl was born in… unfortunate circumstances. She was merry-begotten, you see – nobody’s daughter. She was of no name, of no connection, of no fortune. Jonathan was betrothed to another, from birth… Foolish boy; he threw the match over for a wench only kept from ruin by my father’s good heart.’ Mrs Alleyn shook her head angrily. ‘Oh, he wept over it, he was sorry to grieve us, but he would not give her up. Thank heavens the war took him off before he could do anything as foolish as marry her.’
Rachel absorbed these words, and was puzzled. Thank heavens the war took him off? The war that near destroyed him? There was a touch of steel about Josephine Alleyn, she saw then; a touch of the indomitable.
‘So, when Miss Beckwith abandoned him in his absence…’ she ventured.
‘He blamed me, of course; though I had no contact with the wretched girl. Still he blamed me, as the one who always told him that she was not worthy of him.’ But he loved her. He loved her enough not to care. Rachel said nothing for a while, feeling a strange sense of outrage on Alice Beckwith’s behalf. She was nobody’s daughter. Those words gave Rachel a faint prickle of joy. They spoke of mysterious origins, of a foundling child. Yes, whispered the echo in her mind. A child that was lost.
‘May I speak frankly, Mrs Alleyn?’ she said.
‘You may, Mrs Weekes. Manners and propriety have little place in this house any more, as you have must already have gathered.’
‘Whether it is the war that has done it, or his treatment by Alice Beckwith… or whether it be those two things combined, it seems to me that your son has lost faith in the world, and in mankind. As you yourself have said, he seems to feel betrayed, and wishes to have no part in his own life any more.’
‘You think… you think he wishes to die?’ Mrs Alleyn breathed, stricken.
‘No, madam! No indeed. I think he wishes… to have nothing more to fear. To never expose himself to the risk of further pain. But in hiding away as he does, he traps himself with his memories and his nightmares. In truth, I believe the biggest, perhaps even the only, barrier to his return to health, and to a normal life, is that… he does not wish for any such return.’
Silence fell in the garden, and Rachel waited fearfully, worried that she had said too much. A robin flew to the top of a nearby pergola, feathers puffed for warmth, and treated them to a cascade of liquid song. The air was so still that Rachel saw the tiny wisp of its breath as it sang.
‘You see things very clearly, Mrs Weekes,’ said Mrs Alleyn at last. There was a note of despair, a note of defeat in her voice. ‘I suppose my next question must be, can you think of any way to change his mind?’
‘In truth, I cannot.’ Never had Rachel felt less qualified for any task. ‘But you told me that it was unusual, and progressive, for him to even consent to see me, and be read to. So I will continue to, if you wish it. I will challenge his despair however I can, though I can make no promise of success.’