Tale of Raw Head and Bloody Bones (9781101614631) (6 page)

“I must change my Cloathes,” I said between Mouthfuls, becoming painfully conscious all on a Sudden of the chalky Soil that dusted my Frock and the Ruffles of my Sleeves. “I cannot be seen like this by Aunt Barnaby.”

“Peace, young Sir; do not agitate yourself.”

I finished my Platter and demanded a second. “I do not want to see my Father or mine Aunt tonight,” I said. “I want to take a Bath and retire to my Bed.”

Mrs H. stood up and crosst to the far Wall to ring the Bell. “’Tis your Father’s express Wish, Master Tristan.”

What can she do? I thought. She cannot drag me where I will not go. And my Father—what will he do? He’s neither Tutor nor Rector. He may possess more Right than either, but I know for certain he will never try to whip me.

“I am going to Bed,” I said to Mrs H., finishing my Meal. “I am exhausted and my Feet are sore. Have a Bath filled for me. Send my Regards to my Father and to mine Aunt Barnaby.”

“Your Father will be disappointed, Sir!”

“Remind him of how ill I have been,” I said, upon a sudden Inspiration.

Mrs H. sighed heavily; I sensed her Willpower falter, and finally fail. I narrowed mine Eyes, and surveyed her closely. Mention of mine Illness, it appeared, had won the Trick. I pondered this. Whatever Appellation it was given, whether Exhaustion or Melancholy or even—I hesitated—sheer Insanity, Mrs H. had been terrified by my Illness. She had been the one to sit by my Bedside for one whole Daye and Night, after a Bleeding had brought on a low Fever. She had gone with me when I had roamed thro’ every Room of the House, seeking the Source of the dreadful, incessant Drumming that I, alone, could hear. She had brought me back to My Self. Looking into her Countenance, I saw writ upon it how much she feared losing me again. And suddenly, I understood this one, plain, uncontrovertible Fact: that Mrs H. would let me get away with anything, anything at all, if she believed that it would make
me sane; all I would have to do to influence her would be to threaten that I felt unwell again, or, if mere Threat should fail, to counterfeit Sickness.

I pushed back my Chair and rose to my Feet. The red marble Mantelpiece stood at mine Eye level. I was a young Man; I was strong, I was something over six Feet tall and, seemingly, I was quite mad. I smiled.

*   *   *

Thus was I that Evening relieved of the Unpleasantness of meeting with mine Aunt Barnaby. Mrs H. left me alone to bathe after Midnight and I retired to Bed around the Stroake of one. I slept until the next Middaye.

I woke to find a Letter on my Dressing Table.

My Peace of Mind did not last. My Father was displeased by my Refusal to attend him—not a thing that troubled me much in itself itself—but it transpired that he had had a particular Reason for requesting my Presence. Mine Aunt Barnaby and my Father had decided that it would be desirable for James, her Son, to marry my Sister as soon as practicable after she reached the Age of
one-and-twenty. Neither James nor Jane had any Objection to the Marriage; or if either did, they did not voice it.

Mine Aunt, whose Christian Name was Ann, was my Father’s half Sister. A few Yeares older than he, she was a Widdowe and kept a grand House in Faringdon, with her own Carriage, and a Manservant in addition to an Housekeeper and several Maids. Mine Aunt liked to appear more magnificent than she really was. We were many Miles from London, yet she wore her Wigg tall and fashionably dresst, exceptionally high heeled Shoes, and the Skirt of her Dress extended by an Hoop so wide that she was forced to pass thro’ every Doorway crabwise. Her Visage was thick with white Lead and usually decorated with a Number of Patches to obscure the worst Ravages of childhood small Pox. I could never contemplate her without some Stirrings of Disgust.

When I was a Child I used to flee from her Visitations to the Ha-ha and the High Field. If she caught me running, I would have to suffer a lengthy Chastisement for all my Sins, which she plainly considered it her Duty to discharge. One Afternoon, when I was seven and still in Mourning for my Mother, she made me stand still with my Back against the chill drawing Room Wall for three Houres, while she played Cards with my Sister and her own Son before the flaming Fire.

Somedaye, I thought, my Mother will come back, and you shall never come here; no, not even for one Houre.

James Barnaby, my Cousin, was seven Yeares older than I, and when I was a small Boy I had considered him, as I was encouraged by mine Elders to do, a serious, high minded young Man. As I grew older, I revised mine Opinion. I now judged Barnaby a canting Hypocrite of the worst Kind, dresst like a Clergyman from his Hat to his Shoes, with an open Prayer Book in one Hand and a
shut Purse in the other. He spoke loftily of his Longing to take Orders and enter the Church, but I believed that he had no real Intent of ever turning pious Semblance to useful Truth. The Fact was that his Father had left him more than tolerably wealthy, and a small country Living would have provided little Increase to his Income whilst adding hugely to his Work – which at present consisted of nothing more taxing than censuring others as and when he wished.

I was annoyed that Barnaby was to marry Jane, but as I pondered, I finally had to admit that there seemed some Sense in the Match. My Sister had been a placid Child, generally kind, and hard to dislike—although I had tried. She had grown into a fashionable young Lady who took her Reputation very seriously. The general Cast of her Physiognomy resembled that of our Father; tho’ her Skin would never achieve a fashionable Pallour, and she was become very fond of white Lead. Once her Judgement was fixt, it rarely changed, and her Opinion of Barnaby retained the favourable Impression it had taken in her Girlhood. On Barnaby’s Part, although it piqued me much to recognise it, there appeared a genuine Esteem for Jane, which, I hoped, might in Time make him shed some of his unappealing Habits. They have Potential to make each other happy, I thought, if they but choose to fulfil it. I was surprized by how much this mattered to me.

*   *   *

So James Barnaby and mine Aunt became Frequent Visitors, but altho’ I swallowed the Reason, I found the Reality of their near daily Presence impossible to stomach.

I recalled my Dream of constructing mine own Laboratory. I knew, naturally, that I could not yet devote any great Amount of
Space or Expense to this Adventure, for my Father was as fit as a Flea and I was many Yeares away from mine Inheritance. Nevertheless, I thought, with no Tutors to waste my Time, I might spend as many Houres as I wished about the noble Art of Scientific Inquiry into the Processes of Life. I had no intention of beginning my Study upon living Animals, for I felt certain that such Attempt would only end badly. I had, however, easy Access to dead ones, and I knew that a few Months devoted to the Tissues of Rats, Coneys, Foxes, and Crows would teach me more about the animal Form than a whole Lifetime of Reading.

I realised very quick that I could not fit even a small Laboratory within my Bedchamber, large as it was, and so, after much Consideration, I demanded the Key to my Mother’s old sitting Room from Mrs H. This Chamber, in which I had spent many happy Houres in mine Infancy, was a peaceful Spot, directly above my Father’s Library and well away from the Traffick of the House, and but one Staircase from my Bedchamber; and for a few Months after my Mother’s Death, after my Father had the Room shuttered and the Door locked, I had sometimes crept out of my Bed and curled up in the Hallway against the old Wood.

To my Amazement, in View of the Insight I had experienced into her Character regarding me, Mrs H. refused even to consider it. Seeing that I had to let my sick Cat yowl, I threw My Self into a methodic Fit of Melancholy that lasted for a Sennight. This proved efficacious; Mrs H. agreed at least to ask my Father’s Permission to give the Key into mine Hand. He refused.

I was very annoyed by this second, more significant, Denial. I began to ponder whether I aught to make direct Application to my Father for the Key, but the Infrequency and Coldness of our Dealings made me reluctant to speak to him upon anything at all.
I therefore decided to cultivate my Sister’s Approval and Assistance. Jane had always been our Father’s Favourite.

I dedicated August to Jane’s Society and Comfort, and to my Delight, this Method too met with general Success. At the end of the Month I applied to her, as subtily as I could, to ask our Father for the Key to our Mother’s Room for me.

“Dearest Sister,” I said, “you know how our Father’s Intractability in this Matter of his Grief causes unpleasant Comment among our Acquaintances. I think ’tis Time for him to shew some proper Sensitivity to your Position. It will not do, dear Jane, to have him appear at your Wedding like an antient Crow, casting a Shaddowe over all our Merriment.”

Jane seemed convinced—and a little upset, though she tried not to shew it. “I believe,” she said, “’twill be best if I ask our Aunt to speak on your Behalf—then it shall seem the Idea comes from her. He hath always been better inclined to listen to her than to me.”

So Jane prevailed upon our Aunt, and that redoubtable Woman went to my Father with the Suggestion that he should at last give over his interminable Mourning and surrender my Mother’s sitting Room to me. Jane and I followed in secret, and waited, Ears presst to our Father’s library Door, for his Reaction.

“Young Master Hart,” said mine Aunt, forcefully, “is grown into as respectful and as excellent a Son as anyone could wish; and that you don’t see it, John, is your Folly. He hath put all his wicked Ways behind him—” (I blinked) “—and I am sure he is intirely deserving of his own Chambers.”

My Father muttered something that I could not catch.

“Eugenia is dead!” Aunt Barnaby retorted. “Dead and gone to Heaven, God rest her Soule, these ten Yeares; and I can tell you,
Brother, she would never want to think that you would deny her Son and spoil her Daughter’s Wedding for her Memory’s Sake.”

A second indistinguishable Response from my Father.

“How now?” shouted mine Aunt. “Not spoiled? I am surprized your Children can stand to be seen in Church with you at all, still in your Black whilst they are all in blue and grey. Enough is enough! Master Hart is out of Mourning, and so should you be! Let him have the Key. Call your Taylor and have him sew you something chearful in brown or burgundy!”

A muttered Answer, followed by a very long Pause.

“Well!” said mine Aunt at last. She sounded, to mine Ears at least, still surprized. “I am grateful to think that you are shewing a little Sense at last, John. The Room will need clearing out, and re-furnishing to a Gentleman’s Taste. The Lady’s Furniture that is there will do very well for Jane.”

I smiled at Jane, delighted. She smiled back, and unexpectedly caught Hold of my right Hand in her own and lightly squeezed it. A long Second passed; then Noises within my Father’s Study alerted both of us to Aunt Barnaby’s Re-appearance. We scattered like affrighted Hares.

*   *   *

Mrs H. organised the Removal of my Mother’s old Furniture and set a Team of Housemaids to Work cleaning the Residue of ten Yeares from the Woodwork and the Mantelpiece. I watched these Removals with an odd Detachment. My Mother was neither in the Chairs, nor in the Draperies.

Mine Aunt arranged the Purchase, from Oxford and London, of certain scientific Instruments, of which I had given her a List, and one or two Items of Furniture that could not be requisitioned from
other Rooms in the House; and my Father, I believe, signed the Bills without Comment. The Servants moved these Furnishings into Place as they arrived, under my strict Supervision, and I personally then set about moving my Books, which I had been keeping upon several Shelves hard by my Bed, into their new Home.

On the twelfth Daye of September, seventeen forty-six, after what had felt to me six very long Weeks, I stood, my Key in Hand, finally alone at the Centre of mine own miniature Universe, and I laughed loud at the Irony; the very Woman I was desperate to avoid had brought about my Deliverance. Seeming, it seemed, was everything to mine Aunt Barnaby. Then I ran mine Hands across the fine polished Walnut of my writing Desk. I counted up the Books within its glass-fronted Case; my Treasures, locked behind Dozens of tiny diamond Panes.
Homer
and
Virgil, Caesar
and
Suetonius; Catullus, Ovid; Aristotle, Euclid, Pythagoras;
a
Bible; Spenser, Shakespeare, Marlowe, Donne; Aristotle
(What? out of Place!);
Copernicus, Galileo, Newton; Paracelsus, Hobbes, Hooke, Locke, Boyle, Harvey, Descartes, Vesalius, Cheselden.

On the long dark oaken Table, before the south-facing Window, stood my Chymistry Instruments. Two short, round bellied Alembics, four fat Bottles and eight Flasks, three Thermometers, a white marble Pestle and Mortar, a small leather Bellows. A Microscope, brought all the way from London. A Board for Dissections, a Sett of Bowls. And my precious Medical Etui, containing Scalpels, Needles, a Curette and a Retractor, Scizzors, a Thumb Lancet, and a Bone Saw. Mine only Lack was Subjects for Experimentation.

I turned about, and ran as quick as I could to the Basement.

The Kitchen was busy, and the sweet Scent of baking Bread rose on the warm Aire like a Benediction. The Clamour quietened somewhat as I came a-bursting in, and the Cook, who was up to
her Elbows in Dough, shot me an inquisitive Glare, and bid me tell her sharp what I was about.

“Vermin!” I answered. “I require a large dead Rat, or some other Animal of that Ilk, for Dissection. Have you any?”

“A Rat!” cried the Cook. “As I live and breathe! A Rat! In my Kitchen! No, Master Hart, there are no Rats! I would sooner lose my Place than work in any Kitchen that had Rats! Heaven forbid!”