‘Well, perhaps that is also true for me. But it has been many years since I had any money to spend whatsoever. Do not discourage me from enjoying a small bonus such as this,’ said Rachel, with a smile.
‘Oh don’t, Mama! Don’t discourage her,’ said Cassandra imploringly. She turned from examining the many-coloured swatches of fabric and leather on the counter, her black hair swinging like a sombre pennant.
‘Listen to how she pleads! I never knew a girl more enamoured of cake as this one,’ said Harriet. ‘Or one so spoilt by her parents to have become so.’ Cassandra widened her eyes, quite artfully, her demeanour gravely slighted. ‘See how she tricks me!’ Harriet laughed.
‘Cassandra, my dear girl, I can think of no better reason to trick your mother than for cake,’ said Rachel mischievously. ‘But in this instance you are quite safe – no such tactics are needed. Cake will be had.’ The little girl went back to the swatches, and Rachel smiled at her mother. ‘Let me, dear Mrs Sutton, to thank you for all of your many small kindnesses since we met,’ she said.
But Rachel could not stay away from Lansdown Crescent for good. Jonathan Alleyn took a deep breath when he saw her.
‘I didn’t think you would come again,’ he said stiffly.
‘Well,’ said Rachel, as she stepped into his study. She wrinkled her nose. ‘The stink of that… liquid still lingers.’
‘The ethanol… I know. Starling has scrubbed and scrubbed, much to her distaste. But to no avail.’
‘I daresay it will fade, in time.’
‘As will the memory of what caused it, I hope. Mrs Weekes,’ he said, looking down at the offending patch of floor. ‘Mrs Weekes, forgive me. To behave in such a manner was…’
‘Unforgivable?’ she supplied. Jonathan glanced up in dismay, and relaxed a little when he caught the humour in Rachel’s eyes.
‘Yes. Unforgivable. But here you are. I am… glad.’
‘Your temper is your enemy, sir. You must not let it command you.’
‘Yes. It was not always so, but…’ He rubbed at his face, then yawned uncontrollably.
‘Have you still not slept since I saw you last?’ said Rachel, incredulously.
‘Perhaps I have… a little. I don’t remember.’ He looked up again with a bitter smile. ‘Sleep is the soul’s ease, remember, and I have none.’
‘Let’s not have this again. I do not believe we can lose our souls, or even that they can change. Like life, they are God-given, and immutable, and if I risk another of your rages to say so, then so be it. But perhaps the soul may be wounded; perhaps it may sicken, and retreat deep inside us,’ said Rachel. Jonathan slumped, as if her words exhausted him.
‘Some things are easy to say, more difficult to prove.’ He turned away and sat in the chair behind his desk, staring listlessly at the clutter that covered it.
Rachel thought for a moment, and then went to the shelves. ‘Do you mean to cast another of my specimens at me, in revenge?’ said Jonathan.
‘No. I mean to show you some proof.’ She held out her hand to him, and in her palm sat the clockwork copper mouse. ‘You were meditating on what made people, and animals, different from automata, you told me. Was it really necessary to craft such an exquisite toy in the process? Or did you do it for the pleasure of it?’
‘I… I don’t know.’ He frowned.
‘This is a beautiful thing, Mr Alleyn. Truly, a beautiful thing, and it came from within you. From your heart and soul to your hand.’ Rachel wound the key and watched the little mouse run. Jonathan watched it too.
‘I was thinking of Alice, when I made it,’ he said. ‘She loved… all creatures. Small, furry things; helpless things. She had a pet harvest mouse for a while, when she was a child. It had lost a leg to the farmer’s scythe, and she nursed it. She kept it in a tinder box, and named it Harold.’ He paused, watching the mouse run as if he’d never seen it before. ‘Did you ever hear such a ridiculous name for a mouse?’ He smiled at the memory. Rachel swallowed, ever uneasy in the face of his shifting emotions. They seemed to race through him like clouds in a blustery sky.
‘There, then,’ she said softly. ‘It is as I said. Your soul is intact, sir. It’s only your heart that’s broken.’ Jonathan Alleyn gave her a long look, and when the copper mouse stopped running he took it from her, and held it in his cupped hands. ‘You… you slept once before, as I read to you, Mr Alleyn. I wonder if you might again?’ she said.
‘I’m in no mood for poetry, Mrs Weekes,’ said Jonathan. ‘And sleeping in this chair makes my body ache.’
‘I brought something other than poetry to read today. Something to take your thoughts away from your own troubles, and fix them on far-off times and places. Why not recline, while I read it?’
‘You mean to tuck me into bed like a child?’
‘I mean to do no such thing. But if it’s sleep we’re aiming for, then you may take yourself to bed without fear of embarrassing me.’
Jonathan watched her steadily for a while, and then rubbed at his eyes so fiercely that he turned them red. He rose unsteadily and crossed to the far end of the room, to the doorway that led through to his shadowy sleeping quarters. There he paused.
‘When I thought you would not come again, I… I liked it not. Will you… will you come again soon, Mrs Weekes?’ he said. Rachel faltered to hear him sound so vulnerable. Does he need me, now?
‘As soon as you wish it, Mr Alleyn,’ she said. Jonathan nodded, and turned away from her. Rachel heard the bed creak as he lay down upon it.
‘Whatever it is you plan to read, I’ll hear precious little of it if you remain right over there,’ he called out to her. Rachel approached the darkened threshold, and knew that she must not cross it. She fetched the chair from his desk and positioned it near the doorway, then took out the book she’d brought with her, brand new, the spine pristine.
‘I haven’t read this yet myself, so we will begin it together. It’s a novel by Sir Walter Scott, and the title is Ivanhoe.’
‘A novel? I don’t care for novels.’
‘How many have you read?’ she countered, and was met with silence. ‘As I thought. A good many gentlemen claim to have no interest and find no merit in a fictional story, when they haven’t given themselves the proper chance to sample one,’ she said.
‘Men’s minds have greater cares and responsibilities than women’s. What is there to be gained from wasting time reading the fancies of others? Such things are for the entertainment of young boys.’
‘Listen, and perhaps you will find out what’s to be gained,’ Rachel replied, tartly. There was a loaded silence from the unlit room, and so she began to read.
She read for an hour or more, until her mouth was dry and she had reached that state of deep tranquillity that came when she was carried away by a piece of writing. Finding herself at a natural pause in the text, she listened. From the darkness the only sound was of heavy, regular breathing. He sleeps. Rachel closed her eyes for a moment, filled with a powerful sense of satisfaction. Before leaving she sat a while in silence, and found herself wishing she might look in on him in his sleep, and see his face in repose for once, free from anger and fear and misery.
Starling had been waiting for Mrs Weekes to quit the house for a good long while. Her visits to Jonathan seemed to grow longer every time, and Starling struggled to find good reasons to remain within earshot of the front door closing. When at last she heard it, she darted quickly up the servants’ stair and caught the woman’s attention with a stifled hiss. Mrs Weekes turned quickly, with a startled expression that was almost like guilt. Starling was suspicious at once, and realised how flimsy a thing her trust yet was. It bothered her that she knew not what passed between Jonathan and Mrs Weekes in his rooms. Does she keep things from me? Mrs Weekes was so pale; walked with her back so straight and her shoulders so still. She walks like a statue might. Like an effigy of Alice. Next to her, Starling felt short and scruffy. She felt again like the guttersnipe she’d once been, and it made her prickly, defensive.