Rachel held her breath and made no reply. She had no reply to give him, after all; only that she had wed in hope of coming to know and love him, but that the more she knew him, the less she loved. Soon he was asleep, still lying heavily across her, making it impossible for her to either escape or rest.
After meeting Starling in the abbey, and hearing what she’d had to say, Rachel felt Alice’s absence even more. As though the gap she’d left was a tangible thing, a space with edges and depth and echoes; as unfathomable as the way she’d vanished, so completely – like a murmured word in a crowded room. Rachel felt it everywhere she went, but nowhere stronger than in the house on Lansdown Crescent, where the residents wove their lives, one way or another, around this gaping hole. Treading carefully on such dangerous ground. But Rachel felt it in her own home, too, where Alice had never been. Strangely, she felt the girl missing from her own side; she felt Alice missing from her memories, and from her dreams of the future.
Rachel visited Jonathan Alleyn twice each week, reporting to his mother afterwards, when she could be found. The lady of the house was often secreted away in some part of the house that Rachel didn’t know. She sensed that Mrs Alleyn was lonely and might perhaps welcome somebody to talk to; but at the same time, she had not been made welcome enough to feel comfortable knocking on doors in search of the lady. The weather grew ever colder, and stormier. Rachel came to dread the wind, rolling down the hill as she climbed to Lansdown Crescent, making the strenuous walk even harder; blinding her eyes and tugging at her clothes. She wore the weather like a garment by the time she arrived – stained and dripping for rain; pink-cheeked and sniffling for frost; dishevelled and breathless for wind.
Rachel saw Starling more often than she saw Mrs Alleyn. The red-haired servant seemed to have free run of the house, though she was a kitchen maid. She was a near constant presence; appearing in the corner of Rachel’s eye, flitting up a stair, or beckoning her from the servants’ door to come and exchange a word. And since there was far more to be said and done at the Alleyns’ house than there was in her own, Rachel came to anticipate her visits with a kind of eager anxiety. She thought about them whenever she wasn’t there; about what had recently passed, and what she would do on her next visit. Richard was away from Abbeygate Street more and more, and when he was home didn’t seem to notice her increasing preoccupation. He rarely asked what she did at Lansdown Crescent; only took the money and pocketed it with a distracted smile, and bade her always to send his warm greetings to Mrs Alleyn.
Rachel’s visits were sometimes very short; far shorter than the time it took her to walk there. On one occasion, Jonathan was asleep when she knocked softly and entered; slumped over his desk with a quill in his hand, ink stains all over his fingers. His crossed arms hid what he’d been writing; an empty wine bottle sat next to him, and a stained cup. Rachel had the idea of looking for Alice’s box of letters then, but the thought of being caught doing so made her skin crawl. Besides, Starling said she’d already searched. I must find some way to ask him. Often he sat dumbly while she read, gazing out of the window or directly at her with a startling intensity, saying nothing. When he did that, Rachel found her heart racing in such frenzy that it made her voice shake, and spoiled her reading. Sometimes, she found herself stealing glances at him when his attention was elsewhere; at his face, his hands, his body inside his clothes. That he was a murderer, and that she could sit so close to him, seemed unreal. Each time she thought it a jolt of fear and amazement went through her.
One mild Wednesday afternoon, Rachel walked in on Jonathan in the grip of one of his headaches. He was sitting in the dark with the shutters latched, and when she opened the door the light from the hallway made him recoil. He was at his desk with his head gripped in his hands, trembling; his skin pale and shining with sweat. When Rachel asked, shocked, if she should leave him, he could only give a curt nod, keeping his mouth and eyes tightly shut. Another time she walked into one of his nightmares. He was in his sleeping quarters, and Rachel hesitated to go near him, for decency’s sake; but the noise he was making was terrible to hear, and she worried that he might be feverish again. She lit a lamp and, steeling herself, went to his bedside. He was lying on it fully clothed, and there was no evidence of him having been drinking. He was panting and his body made panicky movements – arms and legs jerking as though he was trying to run from something. His head twisted to and fro on his neck, and he was muttering, spitting out odd words that made no sense.
‘Mr Alleyn,’ said Rachel; quiet and fearful. She cleared her throat and said his name again, more strongly. ‘Mr Alleyn, wake up. You’re having a bad dream…’ At the sound of her voice his body went still, but he continued to breathe rapidly and gave a low moan, as if he was in pain. Tentatively, Rachel put her hand on his forearm and squeezed gently. ‘You must wake, sir,’ she said. And in a heartbeat, he did just that.
His eyes flew open, and he lunged towards her, catching her hand as she tried to retract it.
‘Is she dead? Is she dead?’ he said, in a voice that rasped. Fear washed coldly over Rachel. She remembered his hands around her throat on their first meeting, and the way she’d felt her own death come crowding in like a swarm of flies.
‘Mr Alleyn, please let go. It’s only me. Mrs Weekes… you were having a nightmare.’
‘I tried to make it right,’ he whispered, still clasping her arm. His eyes looked through her, tortured and afraid. His body was wracked by a sudden sob, and Rachel knelt down, trying to prise his fingers from her arm.
‘Tried to make what right, Mr Alleyn?’ He caught her other hand too, squeezing her fingers. Tears streaked down his face.
In spite of her fear, Rachel’s heart softened at the sight of such anguish, and she stopped struggling against him.
‘It was only a nightmare, Mr Alleyn. Rest now. You’re safe here.’ But am I? This man is a killer. But in that moment he didn’t look like a killer; he looked like a frightened boy. Gradually, Jonathan let himself be soothed, and was asleep again within moments. The next time Rachel called, he seemed to have no memory of the incident.
Starling seemed impatient, as if she had expected some instant revelation. Often, the girl appeared by Rachel’s side as she left the Alleyns’ house, and walked partway down the hill with her, always taking her on some hidden route through a tiny alley rather than being seen out on the main street. She walked briskly to keep up with Rachel’s longer strides, and tucked her hands into her armpits for warmth. Rachel always asked to hear something else about Alice; always wanted to know her better. Starling seemed happy to talk about her, as though she’d long wanted the opportunity to do so. Her face lit up when she did; a warmth and animation that sloughed off her habitual expression of suspicion and displeasure. So Rachel learnt of Alice’s penchant for marzipan, and hatred of oysters; her skill at the piano and her flat, tuneless singing voice; her grace, and intelligence. How she had educated Starling, as her own governess had educated her.