Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Two
I awake with a belly full of ants. At least, that’s what it feels like, a nest of ants wriggling about in all directions. I lie in bed not wanting to get up. It’s five a.m., and the dawn leaks through the openings in the curtains to tell me that it’ll be a fine day. The light is white and radiant and full of its usual enthusiasm. Yet it fails to uplift me. I’m terrified. Tonight Felix vanishes, never to be found, and I’ll witness it. I wish to God that I didn’t have to.
I turn my thoughts to Cordelia’s spirit, earthbound with grief, and know that I must endure whatever takes place, for her , so that she might move on into the next world and find peace, with her son.
Reluctantly, I climb down from the big bed and dress. This is the last time I’ll wash myself in this bowl. The last time I’ll put on these clothes. The last time I’ll look upon this face reflected in the mirror, because tomorrow I will have vanished too. They won’t miss me, for Hermione will still be here. I wonder what they’ll make of her, though, and how different she’ll be to me . I hope that I haven’t made her life too difficult, leaving her with Cavill, who is in love with her.
Even though Saturday is my day off, I know that I must help out because Gwen is off sick. So, I wake up Robert. He dresses and diligently goes downstairs to practise the piano. To him it’s just another day. I take the sketchbook Cavill gave me and return it to the library. There’s no point leaving it in my room, and I can’t take it with me. I can’t take anything with me except the memories, and the love. Before I hide it in the bookshelf, slipping it behind a set of encyclopaedias, I take up a pen from the desk and write in small letters in the corner of the first page, beneath his sweet inscription: PT . I look at it for a moment and then slide it back among the other books. Perhaps the real Hermione will find it and cherish it as I would like to do, and I feel a stab of jealousy for the woman who will carry Cavill’s heart in her hands and not even know the treasure that she holds.
While Robert plays, I take a walk around the garden. It’s resplendent in the morning sunshine. Everything gleams from yesterday’s rain. The dew on the grass shines like diamonds and the flowers glow, their colours vivid in the dazzling light. I can’t help but think of the terrible thing that’s about to strike at the heart of this family. For all its beauty St Sidwell Manor will be plunged into foulness. Those tentacles of darkness have now reached the child’s bedroom and are creeping slowly across the walls, poised to steal the innocence and the light.
When I go up to the nursery for breakfast, I find Rose with Felix. Gwen is still in bed. Rose informs me that Cordelia has sent for the doctor. My first thought is to try to put her off, but then I remind myself that I’m just an observer. That I must not try to influence events. If this is the way the story unfolds, I must stand back and allow it to take its natural course.
Felix is desperate to see Gwen. Rose tells me that Mr Pengower has forbidden anyone to go into her bedroom in case she’s infectious, but I can see that Felix’s tears are softening her resolve. I make no comment. It’s not my job to tell her what to do. ‘She’s not infectious,’ she says, taking the child by the hand. ‘She’s just run down, poor lamb. Come on, Felix, you can talk to her through the crack in the door. There’s no harm in that, is there?’ The two of them leave and I hear her voice as they make their way down the corridor. ‘You promise you won’t whine about it anymore, Master Felix? And you won’t tell your papa? He’ll have my guts for garters, he will.’
The artist arrives at the front door to paint Cordelia. The postman and usual vendors flock to the tradesmen’s entrance. The servants are busy in the house and the gardeners toil away in the gardens. There’s nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to raise suspicion or to suggest that anything untoward is about to happen. Mr Pengower sets off in his carriage. Robert and I ride out after lunch. When we return, the artist has left and the doctor’s gig is on the gravel.
As I’m climbing the stairs with Robert, I meet Cordelia and the doctor on their way down. They’re both looking grave, talking together in voices so low that I can’t hear what they’re saying. I nod respectfully as they pass. Then I send Robert to the nursery and quicken my step up to Gwen’s bedroom. To my surprise, I find her all smiles. ‘Gwen, what happened?’ I ask.
She’s sitting up against the pillows. ‘I’m not pregnant,’ she informs me happily.
‘You’re not?’ I exclaim, thinking of the letter. If Gwen doesn’t write it, who does? If Gwen isn’t pregnant, then who is? I only have a few hours now to find out. But my detective work is unravelling. Is the letter even relevant to my mission? Something in my gut tells me that it is. I have never been wrong when I’ve followed my instinct.
Gwen shakes her head. ‘I’m overtired and need to rest. That’s all,’ she says.
I sit on the bed and take her hands in mine. ‘This is good news, Gwen.’ It is good news, but I feel deflated. I simply can’t work it out.
Gwen nods. ‘I will get back to work tomorrow. I imagine Master Felix is missing me.’
‘He is, Gwen,’ I say.
But tomorrow I won’t be here. Neither will Felix.
‘You rest now, and God bless you.’ I don’t imagine I’ll see her again.
It’s early evening when Mr and Mrs Tonkin appear at the front door. They’ve left the boy behind. Mr Tonkin has dark brown hair flecked with grey and a thick beard to match. His eyes are deep-set and surprisingly light, like marbles. Beneath them are purple shadows. But there are crows feet fanning out at his temples and lines around his mouth that suggest laughter. Maybe he laughed a lot before Billy was killed. Perhaps he wasn’t born cross as Mr Pengower suggested. He’s dressed in his Sunday best, with a waistcoat and jacket and a cap on his head. I notice that his black lace-up boots are scuffed and wearing away at the toe. Mrs Tonkin is in a drab brown dress and a mob cap. They both look impoverished and old, and I question whether they’re as dangerous as Symons suggests they are. Perhaps they’re just desperate. After all, why have they come back if they are not desperate?
Mr Pengower is home and prepared to deal with them. Symons shows them into the library. He lifts his nose as if there’s a foul smell beneath it and tells them to wait. I hover on the stair, eager to hear what they say. Mr Pengower makes them wait a good fifteen minutes. I shuffle on the landing, as impatient as they are. Finally, I hear the tapping sound of Mr Pengower’s shoes on the wooden floorboards. I shrink back against the wall. He enters the library but doesn’t close the door behind him. I imagine he’s done that on purpose, for everything Mr Pengower does is carefully thought out and measured. Perhaps he feels that by closing the door he’s giving their visit an importance it doesn’t deserve. Whatever his motive, I hear almost everything he says.
‘I have already told you that there is no work for your boy here,’ he begins.
‘He’s a good lad,’ says Mr Tonkin in his thick Cornish drawl. ‘He’ll work hard and not let you down. I only ask you to give him a chance. Just one.’
‘I have no intention of employing him, Mr Tonkin. I do not require another servant.’
‘Times are hard, sir …’
Mr Pengower cuts him off brusquely. He only ever wants to hear his own voice. ‘And you think they are not hard for everybody? Am I to hire everyone’s sons, Mr Tonkin? Is that what you suggest I do?’
‘Our boy died in your mine,’ says Mrs Tonkin, and I admire her courage. Perhaps despair has made her brave. ‘You owe us.’
Mr Pengower snaps back, angrily. ‘I owe you nothing, madam. It was an unfortunate accident. I am sorry you lost your son. I wish to God that it had not happened, but God saw fit that it did. He took your son, Mrs Tonkin, not I. If you have words to say, then say them to God.’
There’s an awkward pause. I don’t imagine the Tonkins expected Mr Pengower would dismiss them so cruelly. ‘We need the wages to pay for food. We are hungry, sir,’ Mr Tonkin says. His voice isn’t angry at all. It’s soft and pleading.
‘Everyone is hungry,’ Mr Pengower replies. ‘Am I to feed the entire population of St Sidwell?’
‘You don’t know what it’s like to lose a child,’ says Mrs Tonkin, her voice low. ‘Our Billy was a good lad, he was. A good boy. A hard-working boy. He toiled away in that mine and what did he get in return for his labour? A five-foot coffin and a hole in the ground. He didn’t deserve to die.’ Her voice cracks. She rallies before Mr Pengower can interrupt her. ‘Our William is strong and willing. He can work in the garden. He’ll do anything for a few bob. It’ll mean the difference between going hungry and having a morsel to eat. Have pity, sir.’
Mr Pengower has gone quiet. I wonder what he’s thinking. ‘I cannot imagine anything worse than losing a child,’ he says at last, and his tone has changed. Perhaps he’s thinking about his own children and, for the first time, putting himself in their shoes.
I feel someone beside me. I turn to see Cordelia. She’s come down the stairs without me noticing. I’m horrified that she’s caught me eavesdropping. I’m about to move away when she puts a hand on my arm to detain me and places a finger across her lips. She then turns her eyes in the direction of the library. Neither of us can see what’s going on within, but we can both hear the silence as Mr Pengower reflects. I hope that he’s going to give in.
But he doesn’t.
‘That is all,’ he says at last. ‘I will not be manipulated. If I employ your son, I will have to employ everyone else’s son. I simply cannot do that.’
‘May God see fit to give you what you deserve,’ says Mrs Tonkin. ‘You have no heart, Mr Pengower.’
Cordelia and I watch the couple leave through the hall. They seem smaller than they did when they arrived, as if defeat has shrunken them. Symons is waiting at the door to let them out. A moment later Mr Pengower steps into the hall. He raises his eyes to the landing. He looks steadily at his wife and his face is as hard as granite. His cold eyes glint. He is the master of the house and he wants her to remember that. He returns to the library and closes the door behind him. A moment later the smell of cigar smoke wafts out from beneath it.
Cordelia summons me to the blue drawing room with a brisk toss of her head. I follow her through the house. Her whole body is stiff as if she’s drawing on every muscle to contain her fury.
The blue drawing room is sumptuous with tall windows framed by long, pale blue curtains. The walls are covered in blue damask paper and paintings of ancestors in gold frames that hang on chains. The ceilings are high and adorned with white mouldings. This room must have been added on later, for it’s not Elizabethan in style. A screen is set up at one end, depicting a landscape. A chair stands in front of it. This is where Cordelia has been sitting for her portrait. I go to the easel, which displays the beginning of a painting. There’s not much to see, only the bare outline of a figure and something of the background. I suspect it will never be finished.
She strides into the middle of the room, puts her hands on her hips and swings round. ‘I hate him,’ she seethes and bursts into tears. ‘I hate him.’ She begins to pace the floor.
I want to put my arms around her, but I don’t know whether that would be appropriate.
‘I’m so sorry,’ is all I can say. ‘I truly thought he would give the boy work.’
‘He is a cruel and selfish man,’ she hisses, stopping suddenly and then resuming her pacing. ‘But I will give them what I can. Tomorrow I will go into town and pay a visit to Mrs Tonkin. Yes, I will take matters into my own hands.’
I know that she’ll have other things on her mind tomorrow. ‘I think Mrs Tonkin will be grateful for anything you can give her,’ I say, but, really, I have no idea how Mrs Tonkin will feel.
Cordelia stops and sighs loudly. Tendrils of hair have come away from the pins and are hanging loose about her cheeks and neck. ‘Life is so unfair, Miss Swift. Why is it that for some it is hardship and poverty and for others it is comfort and joy? I simply cannot understand it.’ She swipes aside her skirts and sits down on a pretty blue chaise longue. Then she waves her tapering fingers at the sofa, and I go and sit opposite her.
‘I wish I knew,’ I reply, smoothing down my skirt. ‘We each have our own path to tread,’ I add. ‘And every path is different. Life appears unfair to us, but I do believe every one of us has a purpose. Maybe, on a soul level, we have chosen this life for the opportunities in it to learn and grow. Perhaps we have more lives than one.’
She’s listening to me with intent, thirsty for enlightenment. I don’t feel qualified to instruct her, for what do I know of the meaning of life? I have no doubt that there is no death, for I’ve seen the continuation of life with my own eyes and my own being, but to talk to her about reincarnation seems somehow a step too far. I don’t think she’ll accept it. She might even think I’m mad. But life is short; how are we to learn all that we need to learn in just one lifetime? A prince in one, a pauper in the next, like actors in a play. Endless productions, many actors, a wealth of different parts to perform. It’s all theatre.
She wrings her hands. ‘There is so much misery in St Sidwell. So much poverty and hopelessness. And here we are, bathing in our abundance and good fortune. I cannot rest knowing that just outside our property there are those that have scarcely enough to eat.’ Her beautiful eyes flash with disgust. ‘And my husband, who has it within his power to alleviate their suffering, does nothing.’
‘Life is a long time,’ I say, not wanting to be drawn into criticising her husband for that is not my place. More specifically, it’s not Hermione’s place, and I’m acutely aware that tomorrow I will be gone and Hermione will be left to carry on from where I departed. I don’t want to leave her in a difficult position. ‘Perhaps Mr Pengower will change his mind one day. It happens sometimes, doesn’t it? That people see the error of their ways and make amends.’
Cordelia nods. ‘You are right. I must hope for that.’ She turns her face to the window and looks sad, suddenly. ‘But I am also thinking of myself. Of my own good fortune.’ I watch her put a hand on her stomach and leave it there, resting on the curve of her belly. I feel a prickling sensation crawling over my skin. I stare at her hand in amazement. Is it possible that the woman who is pregnant, is her ? ‘I feel guilty,’ she adds in a quiet voice, unaware that I’m adding two and two and getting four. ‘Guilty for having so much, and guilty for wanting more.’
‘Don’t feel guilty, Mrs Pengower,’ I say, trying to keep my voice even as my mind weighs up the possibilities. Now I consider it, the letter was intelligently written, the language that of an educated person. She speaks of hoping that they can find a way to be together and asks how it is possible that a love such as theirs is a sin. These sentiments are very much Cordelia’s. She claims that her suffering is total and that the child she is carrying is the only thing that gives her a reason to live. Bearing in mind that she writes it after Felix has vanished, her sentiments are understandable. Yes, the letter has to be written by her. I’m now sure of it. But to whom is she writing? ‘Enjoy your good fortune while you have it,’ I continue. ‘For life is peppered with ups and downs, and you cannot avoid the downs any more than you can avoid the ups. You will face your own set of challenges. Then you will have to find the strength in you to weather them. But know that when you rise and face those challenges, you are growing and expanding, as you are meant to do.’
Perhaps when she has lost Felix, she’ll be able to look Mrs Tonkin in the eye and feel true empathy and compassion. I silently ask God to give them both strength. This is her karmic path, and she can’t avoid it. I would give anything to help her avoid it, but I can’t. It’s destiny, and she must live it. It’s what she came here to do.
‘You are wise, Miss Swift,’ she says, and smiles softly with gratitude. ‘Young though you may be, you seem to have the wisdom of an old person. Yes, you are an old woman in the body of a young one.’
I glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. It’s six o’clock. I need to go upstairs and start my vigil in Felix’s bedroom. I stand up. ‘I will bid you goodnight, Mrs Pengower,’ I say.
‘Wait,’ she commands. She goes to a walnut table set against the wall and picks up what looks like a tobacco box. Not unlike the one the children found in the cottage. ‘I want you to have this,’ she says and gives it to me.
I smile, bewildered. ‘But I do not smoke,’ I tell her.
She smiles knowingly. ‘Open it.’
I do as she asks and lift the lid. Inside, is a locket and a note. ‘I want you to have this locket. You have been a true friend to me, Miss Swift. Someone I can confide in. Someone I can trust.’ I open the locket to find the miniature portrait of her. The very same one I used to slide to this time. So, this is how the locket brought me to Hermione instead of to Cordelia, because Cordelia gave it to her as a gift. If the locket belonged to Hermione, that means that the two women must have grown close. It begs the question, then, how much of what I, Pixie, am doing through Hermione, is what Hermione herself did? I believe I have taken her over completely and am living a life independent of her wishes and desires, but perhaps I am living some of those wishes and desires. How much of Hermione is me? How much of me is Hermione?
‘It’s beautiful,’ I say, because it is. I unfold the note. I’m struck immediately by the handwriting. It’s exactly the same as the handwriting on the letter I’d attributed to Gwen.
To thank you for your friendship, dear Hermione. Your loving friend.
So I am right. The letter is from Cordelia. Cordelia is pregnant, and not by her husband. Cordelia notices the astonishment on my face and smiles affectionately, believing my reaction to be on account of her kindness. ‘I mean every word, Hermione,’ she says. It’s the first time she’s called me by my first name. ‘You came when I needed you most.’
I hide my confusion and thank her. She bids me goodnight. They have guests for dinner, and I’m not invited. She doesn’t know it, but this is not simply goodnight, but goodbye, until we meet again in the future.
As I climb the stairs, I stare down at the tobacco tin and silently process the shocking information I’ve just learnt: Cordelia Pengower is the writer of the letter that Tabitha found. That letter was dated after Felix’s disappearance. So, who is the letter to? Who is the father of her child? Who could it be? Have I missed something? While I was sketching birds and riding out with Cavill, did I allow clues to pass me by? And why is it significant? For surely it is, otherwise it would not have been found. Nothing happens by coincidence. Nothing.
I read a fairy tale to Felix even though my throat is tight with anguish. I tuck him up in bed, fussing about the covers, wanting him to feel cherished and safe even though nothing is going to keep him safe tonight. I sweep his blond hair off his forehead and press my lips against the soft, warm skin. He smells of soap. His mother has already kissed him goodnight. I am the last person to see him before he is taken away. My heart breaks at the thought of what is to come. He asks why Gwen isn’t here to kiss him goodnight. I tell him that she’ll be well tomorrow, even though I know that he won’t be here to see her. I feel sick in my heart and my soul, and yet I can do nothing. I have to be strong, to witness what unfolds, and not try to stop it. It’s then that I notice he’s wearing the bracelet the traveller woman gave him. It’s tied loosely around his wrist. He must have put it back on by himself. Why would he do that, I wonder, when his father got so cross about him wearing it? Not that it matters now. He won’t be seeing his father again.
But his mother must have seen it when she came to say goodnight. Did she deliberately leave it on in a small act of defiance towards her husband? I wish that it did have the power to keep him safe.
Felix asks for Gwen one last time. I remind him that he’ll see her tomorrow. Tomorrow she’ll be well. He snuggles up with his toy rabbit and closes his eyes. How innocent he looks with his eyes closed, sinking into dreams. I stifle a sob and leave the room. I go to mine and change into my nightdress and dressing gown. I give Felix time to fall asleep and then return, quietly opening the door to his bedroom and slipping inside. I tiptoe across the carpet and climb into the wardrobe to hide. I’m shrouded in darkness in there, alert to every sound and sense. I wait. Like a spider, I wait. I know that it won’t be long before a fly drops into my sight. I wait for the fly. I feel nauseous with anticipation. Who will come? Will it be a traveller, jealous of the Pengowers’ wealth and good fortune? Will it be a miner, angry and vindictive? Will it be Frank Tonkin? Or someone in the house who wishes Mr Pengower ill? Or will it be someone I haven’t yet anticipated, who wishes to destroy the Pengowers’ happiness? I don’t know. I sit in wait like a predator expecting the arrival of its prey and then I will follow them and see where they take him. As far as I can go, I will follow.
I’m not sleepy. I’m not faint-hearted, but I am afraid. I’m very afraid.
I’m afraid that I might try to intervene and thus alter what should not be altered.