Stephen Read online

  I glanced at her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sometimes you retire to your room for short periods during the day,” she continued, “and you stay there for a while. Earlier, I heard... something happening in there. It sounded as if you were in distress. I almost knocked.”

  “I was absolutely fine,” I replied, although I had frozen now as I feared more questions. “I was merely praying.”

  “You sounded breathless.”

  “Prayers can leave me rather shaken.”

  “I see.” She continued to stare at me, as if she was still trying to undo some form of puzzle. “You're not like the previous governess, you know,” she added finally. “Not that she could really have been called a governess, of course, but she certainly helped out around the house from time to time. Let me ask you something, Ms. Seaton... Has my husband at any point spoken to you of Hannah?”

  “I can't say that I recall.”

  “Of course you recall. Either he has, or he has not.”

  “I believe he has not.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  I swallowed hard, and at that point I noticed that my throat felt very dry.

  “Only briefly,” I said finally. “In passing.”

  “And what exactly did he say to you about her?” she asked. “In passing, I mean.”

  “It's difficult to remember,” I explained, setting the sponge aside. I hesitated, still very much aware that my every move was being watched. “This, that and the other, really,” I continued. “I know precious little about her, other than that she was here before me and that she is gone now.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Brooks replied, “she is gone now, isn't she?”

  I glanced at her, and I am certain I saw a flicker of cool, calm irritation in her expression as she kept her eyes fixed on me.

  “Hannah and I used to go riding together, you know,” she continued suddenly. “Did Elliot ever mention that to you? Hannah and I were friends as young girls, and we used to go riding every weekend. Hannah had a magnificent black stallion named Hearty, and I had a slightly smaller, brown horse named Joseph. We would go riding for hours and hours, galloping far away from the town. She was a local girl, you see, like the rest of us. We were such good friends.”

  I waited for her to continue, but now she fell silent for a moment. Not for the first time, I felt as if she'd begun to study my reactions.

  “That must have been nice,” I said finally. “To go out on horses, I mean.”

  “You can still see my riding crop downstairs,” she added. “It's in Elliot's study.”

  “Yes,” I replied, “I think I did see that.”

  “And did you wonder why it was in his study?”

  Again, I swallowed hard. “Not really.”

  “He took it,” she explained. “He just took it, and he said I was not to use it. I took it back, of course, then he took it and we ended up having the most frightful argument. As you will have noted, however, the crop did end up in his study, so I suppose I lost that little disagreement. My word, though, I fumed for so long. I was bitter and angry, and I considered stealing the cursed thing from his room every single night. I don't even know what held me back, truth be told. Then again, Elliot would have been angry if I had made a move. He saw that crop as a symbol of...”

  Her voice trailed off.

  “I used to feel so free when I rode,” she added finally. “If I'm honest, it was the only time I felt free. Elliot doesn't like people to feel free, though. He likes them to button everything up and sink their deepest feelings as far down as possible. He likes them to control their emotions, to deny their passions. You will have noticed that about him, I am sure.”

  “It's difficult to say,” I murmured. “Should I put Stephen in his crib now?”

  “So I was no longer allowed to ride,” she continued, as if she had not even heard the question, “despite the fact that riding was my only true freedom. I understood from that point on that he wanted me to be more like him, and so I did my best. I pushed my feelings down as far and as hard as I could. But I'm telling you, Ms. Seaton, that not a day goes by when I do not look into that study and see my riding crop on the wall. Why do you think he keeps it there?”

  “I'm sure I don't know.”

  “He could throw it away!”

  I nodded politely.

  “But he doesn't!” she hissed, starting to show a sense of simmering anger. “He keeps it there as a symbol of his control over me! He wants me to be more like him, you see? He thinks I should control my passions so that I'll have a happier life. Sometimes I wonder whether he might be right, but then...”

  Her voice trailed off.

  “You and Hannah must have been close,” I suggested finally, hoping to get a little more out of her. All thoughts of holding back were gone now, and I wanted to know more. “Is that why you employed her as governess once Stephen was born?”

  I waited for a reply, but she was simply staring at me with a determined expression. Indeed, as her stare continued, I felt more and more uncomfortable until finally I turned and began to settle Stephen into his crib. I worried that I had overstepped some invisible boundary, and I was very much aware that Mrs. Brooks was now watching my every move. I wanted to ask if anything was the matter, but I did not dare speak and instead I spent several minutes tucking Stephen into his crib. Then, when I was finally done, I stepped back and realized that I could no longer busy myself, so I turned to find that I was still being observed.

  “What would you like me to do next?” I asked.

  She hesitated, before getting to her feet.

  “I feel my husband shall be indisposed for dinner tonight,” she explained, adjusting her dress. “It would seem rather unnecessary to make a great fuss, so perhaps you could simply bring me something to eat in the drawing room. And then you can retire for the evening, if you wish.” She hesitated, and I still felt as if there was something she was holding back. “You can go to your room,” she added finally, “and do... well, you can do whatever you wish in there.”

  “I shall read,” I replied. “And pray.”

  “I'm sure you will,” she said with a smile, before heading toward the door. At the last moment, however, she stopped and turned back to look at me. “Remind me, Ms. Seaton, to ask you some time about your time at the convent. I have never set foot in such a place, and I would be very interested to learn how your experiences shaped you. After all, there must be more to you than there seems.”

  “I'm sure there isn't,” I replied demurely. “I have always been simple natured.”

  “I find that difficult to believe,” she continued. “Nobody is simple, especially not those who go to such lengths to appear so.”

  With that, she left the room, and I let out a sigh of relief. I felt that I had seen a fresh side to Mrs. Brooks, one that had made me feel more than a little uncomfortable. And as I stood there next to the crib containing poor dead Stephen, I could not help thinking back to what she had said about my predecessor. It was evident that I would not be able to get answers from Mrs. Brooks or her husband, and Stephen certainly could not help me. In that case, I realized, I would have to travel a little further.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I am quite proud of myself for what happened next, because I believe it represented a welcome shift in my character. Whereas before I had always been rather shy and retiring, I finally decided on the following morning that I had to get some answers. I reasoned that learning the truth about my predecessor was, in itself, a way of helping Mrs. Brooks. Thus, I told my employers a half-truth, claiming that some supplies were running low, and I volunteered to go alone into Bumpsford and visit the store. They seemed to think nothing of the idea, and gave me permission, and I wasted no time in fetching my coat and setting out on the long walk.

  In truth, I meant to find somebody – anybody – I might be able to speak to, and ask what they knew about Grangehurst and in particular about a woman named Hannah Treadwell. Not that I knew
her surname at that point, of course. As I set off from Grangehurst, I knew only the name Hannah, and that she had been a governess at Grangehurst.

  The walk took a little over two hours, under a foreboding sky that kept spitting rain upon me but which never quite developed a full-blown storm. Still, the wind was high and chilling, and I had to fasten my shawl all the way before I was even out of sight of the house. For a while I walked along that desolate road, but eventually I began to fear that – despite being on a straight road with no turn-offs or junctions – I was somehow lost. I was convinced that I should have reached Bumpsford already, and I was starting to wonder just how I might have erred. In addition, my shoes had let in water, causing my feet to become damp. Finally, however, I spotted the town up ahead, and I must confess that I felt a slight gladdening in my heart.

  I had assumed, of course, that I would be received with a great deal more civility, now that I had neither Mrs. Brooks nor Stephen with me. I was, for the most part, quite wrong.

  Bumpsford on a Wednesday afternoon was revealed to be a very quiet place, quieter even than it had seemed previously. Indeed, I began to wonder as I entered the outskirts whether the local stores would all be shut. The rain was beginning to pick up now, and I was dreading the prospect of having to simply turn around and head back to the house, but finally I reached the end of the first street and saw that the door to the Horse and Hounds had been left ajar. There was no sign of the men who had spat at me the other day, and in my determination to get answers I somehow managed to convince myself that all would be well. Even today, I cannot decide whether I was simply naive, or whether I was in fact deluding myself so that I might get answers. Certainly if another lone young woman had asked my advice, I would have told her not to go in that den of iniquity. Yet in I did go.

  The human mind can be a strange thing sometimes. We are so easily led by curiosity.

  Pushing the door open all the way, I stepped into the public house. Indeed, I stepped into the exact same saloon where now, forty years later, I sit writing this account. Today the Horse and Hounds is a rather quiet and well-maintained establishment, but back in 1899 it was a less salubrious environment and even in the late mid-morning there were already several drunk-looking men propped against the bar. They all turned and looked as I stopped in the doorway, and I remember feeling distinctly unwelcome. Indeed, it is never wise for a woman to go into such a place alone, but I have already mentioned the fact that I was desperate and that in this desperation I was not thinking straight.

  I forced a smile as I made my way over toward the bar area. I expected somebody to offer me a seat, but this did not happen.

  “Good morning,” I said, trying to disguise my trepidation, “I was wondering whether one of you fine people could tell me where I might find a man who hunts ducks?”

  I waited for answer, but the men – and the barman, too – merely stared at me. At the time, of course, I didn't know Jim's name.

  “Ducks,” I said again, a little forlornly. “Um...”

  My voice trailed off.

  “Any man named who hunts ducks,” one of them asked finally, “or a particular man who hunts ducks?”

  At this, the assembled company laughed. Myself excluded, of course.

  “I'm afraid I don't know his name,” I explained. “I only know that he hunts sometimes, on Doctor Brooks' land. I met him the other day when he brought some ducks to the house, and he said that I might come down here some time and speak to someone about certain matters. I'm afraid it's a matter of great importance.”

  “You're that girl from Grangehurst, aren't you?” one of the other men said, before turning and spitting on the wooden floor.

  “We don't like saying that name around here,” another man muttered darkly. “Leaves a nasty taste in the mouth, if you know what I mean.”

  “I really didn't mean to disturb you,” I continued. “If you could point me toward the man who hunts ducks, I would be eternally grateful.”

  Yet as I waited for one of them to help me, I was already beginning to realize that I was out of my depth. As I sit here now, next to the window, I cannot help but glance across the saloon toward the bar area where the men sat, and then toward the spot where I stood waiting pathetically. It is almost as if the ghosts of those old times are struggling to appear before me, and for a few seconds I actually anticipate seeing my younger self shimmering before me like some kind of phantom. No such thing happens, of course, so I turn my attention back to the notebook.

  I must keep writing.

  “There's no-one here who hunts ducks who's gonna help you,” one of the men said with a hint of satisfaction. “There's no-one here who hunts anything who can do that. The only person who can help you is you, by packing your things and getting away from Grangehurst.”

  “And why is that?” I asked, displaying more stubbornness than usual. I had, perhaps, begun to learn. “If you're talking about Stephen, his mother is simply going through the grieving process.” I paused for a moment, feeling rather superior. “It's a perfectly natural thing.”

  “Natural?!?”

  The first man burst out laughing, and moments later the others did the same.

  “You shouldn't mock a woman who is simply mourning her dead son,” I continued, feeling as if it was my Christian duty to defend the Brooks family. How ridiculous I must have seemed. “Don't think your behavior the other day went unnoticed, either. It was horrid of you to expel saliva at us like that.”

  “Expel saliva?” The closest man raised his eyebrows in mock horror. “Ah, wait, I know what you mean.” He turned and spat on the floor. “You mean spitting.”

  “That's quite horrid,” I muttered. “Do you have no manners?”

  “Do you want to know what's horrid?” the first man asked, getting to his feet and stepping toward me, revealing himself to be at least a clear foot taller than I imagined. “What's horrid is the way that crazy bitch brings her disgusting little lump into town. She did it last week, and she did it this week, but mind you tell her not to do it again next week. 'Cause if she does, she might just find that the good people of this town take it upon themselves to fix matters.”

  “There's nothing wrong with what she's doing!” I protested. “She's grieving!”

  “Oh, get out with you,” he muttered, waving me away as he turned to head back toward the bar. “You're as bad as the rest of 'em.”

  “Are you saying that you would hurt her?” I asked.

  He glanced back at me. “I'm saying it's not natural,” he muttered, “and it's ungodly, and we won't allow that sort of thing round here. Those Brooks bastards have been casting a shadow over this town for long enough, and now they're trying to bring their perversions right here into our midst. Tell 'em to keep away. They're an insult to God's order, the lot of them!”

  “You're the only insult to the Lord's order!” I replied. Looking back, I cannot believe that I stood up to those men, but I was gripped by the belief that it was my Christian duty to put matters straight. How naive I was, although I suppose I should have a little respect for my temerity. I was certainly not willing to be a pushover. “Where is your Christian charity?” I continued. “Where is your respect for your fellow man?”

  “What did you say?” the larger man asked, stomping back over to me. “Say it again, and you might end up regretting your choice of words.”

  Towering over me, he stared down into my eyes with an expression of pure, glowering anger.

  “Well,” I replied, swallowing hard, “it is clear that nobody here is going to help me. I shall bid you good day. Note that I did not refer to you as gentlemen.”

  With that, I turned and walked away. As I write this account, I do not know whether to hang my head in shock or allow myself a faint smile, since I most certainly stood up for myself. Indeed, I recall feeling rather pleased with myself as I left the public house, although then I hesitated as I looked around at the bare, empty town square and realized that I did not know where to go next.
Finally I made my way along the nearest street, before spotting a alley behind the pub that led toward the local church. Again, with no real thought to my own safety, I began to pick my way along that alley.

  I think I made it about halfway before I realized that there were simply too many old boxes and crates stacked everywhere, at which point I turned to go back.

  It pains me to write about what happened next, but I must: I was just stepping over a broken crate when I heard a grunt behind me. As I began to turn, a pair of hands grabbed me by the waist and shoved me against the wall, and then one of the hands moved up and clamped tight over my mouth.

  “Be quiet,” a voice hissed into my ear, “and don't make a fuss!”

  I struggled to get free, but I was powerless to fight back as I felt the back of my dress being hitched up. Next my undergarments were cruelly pulled down to expose my rear, and I realized what was about to happen. I had heard plenty of stories about women being accosted in London, but it had never occurred to me that such might happen to me in the provinces. I tried to bite the hand of the man who was holding me, but tears were starting to stream from my eyes as I was shoved around and bent forcibly over one of the other crates.

  With a hand still covering my mouth, I began to shiver as I heard the sound of a belt buckle being undone.

  Please Lord save me, I remember thinking. Anything but this. Please Lord, have mercy!

  And then my prayers were answered. I saw another figure at the far end of the alley, and he immediately hurried toward me.

  “Leave her alone!” he shouted, lunging past me and pushing my assailant away. I saw in a flash that it was Jim himself who had come to my aid, and I immediately began to pull my undergarments back up and rearrange my skirt.

  Stumbling a few paces away, I turned just in time to see Jim punch my grubby attacker smack-bang in the face, sending him thudding back unconscious into a pile of crates. I had never seen such an expression of physical force before, not in the flesh, and now I watched as Jim – breathless and wincing as he held up his hand – turned to me.