‘Yes,’ she said eventually, because it was the truth and she was at heart an honest girl. ‘When he was first home, I saw him outside my mother’s house. He was waiting for me.’
‘Was he ill then?’
‘No – he said he had been, but that he had recovered.’
‘He did.’ Mrs Harrington’s eyes drifted to some unknown point. ‘But of late he has suffered a relapse. His chest is weak again, and his colour is wrong.’
‘Is it the consumption?’ The question came out even though Elizabeth knew she should be sitting quietly and waiting to be asked questions herself.
Mrs Harrington appeared not to notice, or perhaps she did not care. ‘The doctors are not yet sure; he certainly has some of the symptoms they would expect to see from the condition.’
There was a moment’s silence as she continued her sad stare into a place Elizabeth couldn’t see. She gathered her own thoughts: he was ill again? The old love she’d had for him surged to the fore as she considered that perhaps it was the sickness that had made him different. How ill was he – did he need her?
‘Tell me,’ Mrs Harrington said, coming back to the present and watching Elizabeth thoughtfully, ‘did you find him strange?’
Elizabeth’s heart quickened. It wasn’t just she who had noticed the changes, then. She had wondered if it was simply that his feelings had changed, or that his experiences abroad had roughened him, but perhaps not.
‘A little,’ she answered, cautiously. ‘He was not as …’ She searched for the right word. ‘He was not as
kind
as I remembered him. His smile was different.’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Harrington said. ‘I am finding the same. His good humour, his gentleness: they are harder to see. Sometimes I feel almost as if my son is a stranger to me. How long ago did he visit you?’
‘There were two occasions,’ Elizabeth answered. ‘The last perhaps a month ago.’ She didn’t tell her of the times she’d seen him watching both her mother’s house and this one. She didn’t want to think about how he’d looked at those times, so unlike himself – so
hungry
, almost fevered. Maybe he had been, if this illness had returned.
‘Do you still love him?’
The question was so direct that it startled her. Throughout the whole discovery of their closeness, neither of James’ parents had mentioned that word; ‘infatuation’, yes, and ‘fleeting attraction’, ‘folly of youth’. But not love. As they sat opposite each other, no doubt examining the reflections of their own tiredness, Elizabeth wondered whether for Mrs Harrington they were now simply two women, their places in society temporary suspended. Elizabeth wished she could feel that way, but the chair felt wrong underneath her and she wasn’t used to seeing the room from this level or angle. She kneeled in front of the fire to clean and set it; that was it.
The blush crept further up her pale face. Her instinct was to say yes, but for some reason the word wouldn’t come.
‘I don’t know.’ It was the closest to the truth she could get, but it seemed to satisfy Mrs Harrington, who let out a soft sigh.
‘Neither do I, my dear.’ Her lips trembled and her eyes watered.
‘Are you all right, ma’am?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘I don’t believe I will be.’ She leaned forward and touched Elizabeth’s knee. ‘Something is wrong with him, and it’s not sickness – unless the sickness is in his soul. Don’t let him near you, my dear.
Run
from him.’ Where her touch had been gentle, she now gripped Elizabeth’s knee so tightly it was almost painful. ‘
Run from him
.’ The words came out in a terrified hiss.
‘Ma’am—’
‘Promise me.’ Her eyes burned into Elizabeth’s. ‘Do not let him near you!’
‘I promise,’ Elizabeth whispered. She was starting to cry, as much from confusion and Mrs Harrington’s upset as from her own. She didn’t understand what had made her so afraid, but her terror was now obvious.
‘Good.’ She released Elizabeth’s knee and sat up straighter. ‘I truly could not bear that on my conscience.’
She rose, and Elizabeth did the same, relieved to be standing again. The water upstairs needed changing and the buckets she’d taken up would be cold now. Mrs Hastings would not be best pleased if she didn’t get it done by lunchtime, regardless of this unheard-of visit. She looked forward to getting back to her work,
even if her back ached constantly and her knees were raw: it was simple, honest, not this madness that was plaguing Mrs Harrington. It wasn’t all the things she’d seen in James’ fevered eyes that she didn’t want to think about.
‘Perhaps I should have just let him marry you,’ Mrs Harrington said, softly. ‘We should never have sent him away. A stranger has returned in his place, and I don’t believe he likes us very much.’
Elizabeth said nothing but stood there, her head bowed, until the lady had left.
*
The rest of the day passed quietly, although Elizabeth could feel the tension coming from Mrs Hastings, whose suspicion had metamorphosed into curiosity, but who was too proud to come out and ask why on earth the lady from next door would want to talk to the housemaid. It wasn’t as if the two households were particular friends; the Harringtons were new money, from trade – quite different.
Elizabeth had ignored the questioning looks and gone about her endless labours, for once happy to be so exhausted that she had no energy for thought. She’d been happy in service here for the last six years; she fervently hoped that within a week this visit would be forgotten by both the housekeeper and their mistress and she could get back to being diligent and relatively invisible, just as someone in her position should be.
She finally left at half-past ten. The air was mild as the city moved from Spring towards Summer. Though she was tired, she looked forward to the walk home. One of her sisters would invariably be awake, and they would talk about the mundanities of their day before at least trying to sleep.
She had been determined that she wouldn’t even look up at James’ house as she passed – it had been smiles through the window that had started all this trouble, after all – but as it was, the shouting caught her attention. She stopped on the pavement and looked up at the large white house beyond the railings. Lights still blazed from the front room and the curtains and one window were open. The raised voice came again, though the words were indiscernible, and shadows danced against the wall as someone gestured angrily inside. Even though it was muted, she knew it wasn’t James’ voice; it had to be his father’s. But what could have infuriated him so? James had always told her his father was a gentle man; kind and liberal, who approached every situation with understanding – he certainly had with theirs, even though he had insisted on their relationship ending.
Someone moved in front of the glass, too suddenly for Elizabeth to move away or even duck her head: she recognised the stout figure of Mr Harrington, and as their eyes met briefly, she saw that he was as terrified as his wife. But why? A taller figure appeared behind him and stared out: James. Even if she couldn’t have
seen his face, she would always know the shape of him. Over his father’s shoulder he smiled at her, an unpleasant expression, and her breath caught in her chest. She froze like a rabbit caught by lamplight in the middle of the hunt. For a moment she thought there was something else – something
behind
him, a dark shape that clung to his shoulder as if it had crawled up his back and was peering around his neck to look at her. And it was filled with awfulness.
Her hand clutched at her mouth to stifle a scream, even though the shadowy
thing
had disappeared as quickly as she’d seen it, and it was just James and his terrible smile and Mr Harrington and his fear. An icy chill gripped her stomach and spread outwards, threatening to freeze her heart and lungs where she stood until, finally, Mr Harrington pulled the curtains closed, leaving her in the blessed darkness of the ordinary night.
Her breath came out in a gasp. What had that been? What was going on in that house? She felt as if she had peered into someone else’s nightmare, but it was not so much what she had seen, but what she had felt: this awful dread.
Mrs Harrington would have no need to convince her to stay away from James any more. She ran all the way home, but still she could feel her ex-lover smiling at her, all that unnatural hunger in his eyes.
By the time the early morning came round, Elizabeth had almost convinced herself that she had simply been
spooked by Mrs Harrington’s conversation; that all she had witnessed through the window was the interaction between an angry father and an unrepentant son. Yes, James had changed; she had known that the moment she had seen him again, but he had been travelling for two years, and such experiences were bound to change a person. In his case, perhaps, it had not for the better, but she
knew
James; she had no doubt he would return to being the diligent, reserved young man he had been when he left.
As she passed by the Harrington house, just before half-past five, she saw it was still closed up. She chided herself for her flight of fancy the previous night; she was a sensible girl – a practical girl; such imaginings were not part of her personality.
She had laid the fires and lit them and the family was breakfasting by the time anyone noticed the strange activity going on outside: a doctor arrived and was hurried in the front door. A little later, another carriage pulled up, a bigger one, and several men rushed in. By this time, the other inhabitants of the polite Chelsea street could no longer contain their curiosity, and masters dispatched servants to quietly enquire about what had occurred, and was there anything anyone could do to help?
Slowly the story rippled outwards. Elizabeth was in the kitchen when Tom, the boot-boy from halfway down the road, told them, wide-eyed, that the whole Harrington family had been taken sick in the night.
‘It came on ’em sudden-like,’ he explained, obviously enjoying his moment of glory. ‘Mister ’arrington, ’e was found by the maid on the bedroom floor with foam all round ’is mouth and ’is body twisted up, most unnatural-like in its position, with ’is nightclothes almost up to ’is waist. The doctor reckoned as ’ow ’e’d been dead most of the night – bin trying to crawl out of the room to get ’elp, that’s what the doctor reckons.’
As Elizabeth listened, the chill in her stomach returned and she shivered, despite the heat of the oven beside her.
‘As for the missus’ – Tom was a natural showman, playing to the crowd – ‘she’s a goner too, but she was in ’er bed, and still with that awful foam round ’er mouth – and still looking like she went in agony.’
‘And what about the son?’ Elizabeth asked the question, and Mrs Hastings fired her an irritated look. Even down here in the kitchen, there were strict rules of precedence: these might be exceptional circumstances, but it was not Elizabeth’s place to ask the questions.
‘What about the son?’ Mrs Hastings repeated.
‘’e’s the lucky one: sick as a pig, ’e is, but still breathing. The doctor’s seeing what ’e c’n do for him now; I says best pray, that’s what everyone’s reckoning.’
‘But what
was
it?’ Mrs Hasting said. ‘Sounds pretty rum to me.’
‘They don’t know, not as yet, but the doctors, they fink it was somefink wot they ate at supper. Master ’arrington, ’e brung some chutneys back from ’is trip and they ’ad ’em with their supper. And there was somefink with mushrooms in too, some kind of potted paste.’
‘Never trust a foreign cook,’ Mrs Hastings muttered, shaking her head. ‘You never know what they use. And
mushrooms
too.’
Elizabeth swallowed hard, fighting the urge to vomit. She felt dizzy, cold and sweating at the same time. She leaned on the kitchen table, hoping no one had noticed, as she let the rest of the conversation turn into a hum around her. Her brain felt as if it was on fire. By some miracle James had survived – but she knew that wasn’t true, though her heart would not accept it: somehow, James had killed his parents.
Her
James. Her quiet, studious James. There was a pit of dread at the core of her that knew the truth – but why? And how?
She thought of the way he had looked at her through the glass, the awfulness of his smile, and her fear turned inwards. He had seen her watching them – what if he came for her?
Finally, Tom the boot-boy left and the day continued in some semblance of normality, even though those upstairs and downstairs alike were gossiping about the events next door. Elizabeth felt their eyes burning into her: after all, Mrs Harrington had spoken to her just the previous day, so surely she must know something.
She kept her head down and continued with her work, but inside her mind raced. What was she to do – what
could
she do? She didn’t have any evidence against James, only her own suspicions – and if she said anything, then who would ever believe a jilted maid over a gentleman? All she would do would bring suspicion on herself.
Her days passed in a cloud of anxiety. As news reached them that James Harrington was mending she lost weight and her shining hair grew dull. He was very lucky, they said; the doctors had given him little chance of surviving, but after knocking at death’s door a few times, he finally turned the corner.
She watched from the window the day that the funeral cortège arrived, and she saw him leave the house in his mourning clothes. He was thinner, pale, and his face was ridden with grief. His shoulders were hunched and every movement seemed like an effort. Rain streaked the glass, smearing the departing carriage into a smudge of black. Elizabeth was a whirl of mixed emotions. Seeing him as he was, she could believed he was devastated, but always in the back of her mind was the memory of him at the window, standing behind his father and surrounded by wickedness, the only way she could describe it.
She lay awake at nights wondering how long she could live like this, until two weeks after the funeral, and there he was, five o’clock in the morning, waiting for her at the corner of her mother’s street.
She stopped in her tracks when she saw him and let out a small cry she couldn’t contain – shock, fear, surprise – and she turned to rush in the other direction.