Northwest Passages Page 25

  “Yes, Miss Kent? And what is it that you want to do?”

  “I want to hurt them. I want to kill her. I have thought of it; thought of putting poison in her tea.”

  She was staring straight at her companion, awaiting his reaction to her words; but if she expected shock, disapproval, censure she did not see it. His look was thoughtful, if anything, and he tilted his head to one side, as if to observe her better.

  “I see. Certainly a very forthright declaration, but no less than I would have expected from you. Still, I confess myself surprised at your words.”

  Constance closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head, as if to clear it. A strange desire to laugh aloud came over her, but she fought it down, realising in some dim fashion that madness lay that way. Instead she said—and she was startled by how calm, how ordinary her voice sounded—“Only surprised, Mr. Hobbes? You are a very strange man indeed.”

  “Oh no, Miss Kent, not strange; simply one who has a great deal of experience in the ways of the world and its inhabitants. When I say that I am surprised at your words, I mean that I am surprised because they indicate that you do not appear fully to have thought the matter through in logical fashion.”

  “In what way?” When he did not answer, she stamped her foot. “In what way have I not fully thought this matter through? For the past three days I have thought of little else.”

  “Then your thinking has not taken you far enough, Miss Kent. Do not consider your words, so much as the idea of which they are but an expression.”

  “I said that I want to hurt them; that I want to kill her, poison her. That will hurt them, surely?”

  “Oh yes, it will; but your thinking seems to stop at the deed itself. Let your mind take you beyond that event.”

  Constance furrowed her brow, trying to think, consider. She could see herself placing the poison in her stepmother’s teacup, but what poison to use, and how she would get it, were matters she had not reckoned with. Still, that was not what Mr. Hobbes meant. He had told her to look beyond the actual deed, into the hours and days and weeks to come, and for several moments she tried to think of what he could mean. She saw the doctor being summoned, her father bewildered, shocked; she saw her older sisters and William trying to display the requisite grief; she saw the younger children, confused and frightened—no, there was nothing there. She went further forward and saw the family, dressed in black, filing into the church, her father bowed and old, her sisters quiet and still, William wide-eyed, the young ones squirming in the arms of servants. Still nothing.

  And then, like the swirling shapes in a kaleidoscope suddenly resolving themselves into a pattern, she saw what she did not see: her stepmother. She was gone, dead and gone, past caring, past hurt, past everything. The one person in the world she most wanted to hurt would be beyond her reach forever.

  She drew in a deep breath and looked steadily at Mr. Hobbes. “She will not be there.” Her words were flat, like those of a schoolchild reciting a lesson learned by rote. “My stepmother. I will hurt her the once, and then no more. It will be too short a pang.”

  Mr. Hobbes clasped his hands together; for a moment she thought he was going to applaud. “Miss Kent, Miss Kent, I see I was not mistaken in you. You have, in those few words, penetrated to the very heart of the matter.”

  “Have I?”

  “Indeed you have. And here I must mention an entirely different matter. I think it possible that you have had some difficulty, recently, in saying your prayers. Am I correct?”

  Constance appeared confused more by the sudden change in topic than Mr. Hobbes’s knowledge of this fact. “Yes, sir. It has been more than a year since I have said my prayers. The words—I found they did not come readily, and when they did they were empty words, so I ceased.”

  “I see. And is it for this reason that you are considering making an excuse so that you do not have to attend church service the day after tomorrow?”

  “Yes. I find it difficult to play the hypocrite, merely for the sake of appearance.”

  “You are to be applauded for your resolution, Miss Kent. Would that more people were like you! The result, I suspect, would be empty churches, and not a few empty pulpits, if truth were known. However, I urge you to reconsider, and at least attend Matins this Sunday.”

  “Why? Shall you be there?”

  Mr. Hobbes laughed, as at some rich private joke. “No, Miss Kent, I shall not be in attendance. It is some time since I took an interest in such things, but I believe that 24 June is the Holy Day of St. John the Baptist, and that you will find some edification during the service. But I am afraid that I must now leave you once more. When I am with you I quite forget the many other matters which require my attention! We shall meet again soon, however. That I promise. In the meantime you will, I think, have much on which to ponder.” Another tip of the hat, and Mr. Hobbes had turned on his heel and left her.

  She was barely able, later, to recall any details of what she said or did in Beckington. The village and its inhabitants seemed as unsubstantial as ghosts; or perhaps she herself was the ghost, drifting amongst the living. Their mundane talk of the poor weather and the lateness of the harvest set her teeth on edge, and polite enquiries as to her stepmother’s health made her want to scream and lash out at the speaker. She completed her business as quickly as possible, glad to escape, to be alone with the thoughts which chased themselves round and round her head, clamouring for attention, thoughts which had been given form and shape by Mr. Hobbes’s honeypoison words.

  She entered the grounds of the house through the side gate, hoping to escape the notice of her family. The good-natured Newfoundland dog which her father kept as a guard raised its head to look at her, but seeing who it was put its head back down on its paws without making a noise, and went back to dozing. She could hear subdued sounds from the knife-house to her left, and the voice of Holcombe the gardener, his words inaudible, but there was no one in sight.

  She paused and looked to her left, where a cluster of bushes hid the disused servants’ privy in which she had hidden the clothing she wore when she and William ran away three years earlier. She closed her eyes and thought of that night: she and William creeping through the silent house, alert to every possibility of detection; her fear that her younger brother’s clothing would not fit, and bring a premature end to their plan; William’s faltering attempts to cut her hair, his sudden burst of tears at his inability to complete the task, her own hand snatching the scissors from his and cutting feverishly at her long hair, sending the tresses down the privy after her dress and underclothes; their flight through the dark night; their unmasking at Bath, and the ignominious return to the house; her stepmother’s face as, cradling the infant Saville to her breast as if to keep the child from being tainted by contact with his half-siblings, she had watched from the hallway, stern and silent, disgust and anger written on her face.

  Constance opened her eyes once more. All was still and silent; she was unobserved. What had Mr. Hobbes said of the privy? “A useful place for secreting something.” She stepped through the yard towards it, the grass wet under her feet, the bushes crowding round it heavy with rain. It was seldom used, even by the outdoor servants; it could once more serve as a place of concealment.

  Deep in thought, Constance walked through the yard and entered the house by the kitchen. She hoped to slip to her room unnoticed, but as she started up the main stairs the door of the drawing-room burst open, and Saville emerged at a run.

  “Constance, Constance, mama says you are to play with me now you are home. Oh”—the boy had made to hug her, but drew back when he felt the dampness of her skirts—“you are all wet! And dirty!”

  “I hope you have not soaked your dress through again, Constance,” called her stepmother from the drawing-room, her voice angry. “You make more work than the younger children put together. Really, at your age you should know better. But I am not surprised.”

  Constance drew in a sharp breath, almost a hiss,
and glared at Saville. “Sneak,” she whispered through clenched teeth. “Horrid little monster.”

  The boy’s face crumpled. “Am not!” he cried. “I am not a monster! Mama, mama, Constance says I am a horrid monster, and I am not!” He burst into tears and ran to the door of the drawing-room, where his mother had appeared, looking pale and tired. He hugged himself to her dress, and his muffled sobs filled the hall as she stroked his head with one hand, the other pressed to the small of her back.

  “Constance, I am ashamed of you; but that is hardly new. Your every action seems intent on bringing shame upon yourself, if not this entire household. You are indeed your mother’s daughter; she was entirely the same. And now to say such things about Saville, who is a mere child!” At the sound of his name the child, whose sobs had been diminishing, redoubled his crying. His mother placed an arm protectively around him. “He is not a monster at all; he is mother’s darling angel, are you not, Saville? He brings your father and me far more happiness than you ever shall, Miss Constance; and yet you call him a monster! If you wish to see a monster, then I suggest you look in the glass, where you shall see a monster of spite and selfishness. Come, Saville, come and sit with Mama; we shall leave Miss Constance to her sulks.” And with Saville still clinging to her skirt, her stepmother turned and entered the drawing-room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

  Constance stood stock-still in the hallway, her breath coming in hard little gasps, two spots of colour high on her otherwise pale cheeks. Then, with the suddenness of a curtain coming down on a stage, she took a deep breath and her features relaxed into something which hinted at a smile.

  “Thank you,” she whispered to the closed door. “Thank you, dear mother, for your kind words. They were helpful indeed.” And she turned and walked slowly up the two flights of stairs to her narrow room on the second floor, where she lay on the bed and closed her eyes. She did not, however, sleep.

  On Sunday the family went to church; her father, stepmother, and Miss Gough the nursemaid, with little Eveline, in the phaeton, the rest of the family and the servants on foot. Mindful of Mr. Hobbes’s words, Constance went with the others, only her dragging feet betraying her reluctance. The opening responses were as sawdust in her mouth, the Venite a cacophony of meaningless words, and it was all she could do to keep herself still as the first lesson, from Judges 13, was read out. It was not long, however, before her restlessness was entirely stilled, and she sat as a statue, her face a pale mask, the words she had just heard echoing in her ears like a peal of thunder:

  For, lo, thou shalt conceive, and bear a son; and no razor shall come on his head.

  She was surprised that she did not cry out. As it was, she expected all eyes to turn on her, accusatory fingers pointing her out, marking her, driving her from the church. But no one took any heed of her, and throughout the remainder of the service she moved and spoke by rote only, those few words continuously running through her mind to the exclusion of all else. During the walk home she tried to separate herself from the rest of the family, lagging behind the others, but to her disgust Saville came running back to her, and it was all she could to not slap away the small, soft white hand which groped for hers. Instead she gritted her teeth and steeled herself against his chatter, glad when they arrived home and she could disengage herself from him and hurry to the privacy of her room, where she could be alone, but not lonely. No; she had too many thoughts in her head, too much to plan, to be lonely.

  She saw Mr. Hobbes once more, the following day. In the space of a week he had assumed the position of confidant once held by William, and she poured out to her companion the thoughts and plans which she could not divulge to her brother. Mr. Hobbes listened in silence, his mouth set in the easy smile which she had come to know so well, for all the world as if she were talking of a village social event, contributing a well chosen word here and there but otherwise letting the girl talk on uninterrupted. In truth, there was little he felt he could say, other than to guide her gently, on one or two occasions where she faltered, in the correct direction.

  When they parted he said in his pleasant voice, “I must say how very gratified I am to have made your acquaintance, Miss Kent. I have quite enjoyed these past days. In some ways it is a shame that my time here is nearly at an end.”

  “You are not going?” asked Constance in some dismay. “So soon!”

  “I am afraid so, Miss Kent. My work here is almost complete, and as I have intimated upon other occasions, I have many matters which require my attention. But do not fear; you shall see me again. I will come to you when it is time, of that you may rest assured. Indeed, I would not be absent at such a moment for all the world.”

  She knows now that it is time. Mr. Hobbes does not need to tell her. Indeed, he says nothing as she rises from her bed, her nightdress of pure white clinging to her, and reaches under the mattress for the razor. She holds it for a moment in hands which do not tremble, noting how small it is. No matter; its destination is small enough. It will do.

  She slips from her room, Mr. Hobbes behind her, and she does not need to look at him to know that he is smiling, always smiling. The rich, thick carpets on the first floor absorb her footsteps, and she moves silent as a cat, but she has confidence that she will not be discovered or betrayed. She continues to the ground floor and enters the drawing-room, where she opens the shutters covering the centre window. Only then does she return to the first floor, where she softly opens the door of the nursery, being careful to do it just so in order that it will not creak. For all her silence, though, Miss Gough must sense something. Perhaps the nursemaid realises dimly, in some region of her dream-haunted sleep, that a course is being set in motion which will change forever the lives of many people. If she does sense this, however, it is not strong enough a feeling to wake her. She merely stirs restlessly in her painted French bed—nicer, larger than Constance’s, for all that Miss Gough is a servant—in the corner of their nursery, while in their cane cots, little Eveline and Saville sleep peacefully.

  Constance passes by Eveline and gazes down at Saville’s sleeping form for a moment, the razor a weight in the pocket of her nightgown. Her breathing is steady, her pale face set, as she watches him. It is not too late, she knows; she can still turn back, return to her room, replace the razor in her father’s cupboard, blame the open shutters on the carelessness of a servant. If she leaves the room now, no one will ever know.

  She hears a hiss of indrawn breath behind her; Mr. Hobbes. She has almost forgotten his presence. He leans forward, his face almost in hers, and she smells for a moment something foul, rotten as he whispers “You must do it now, Miss Kent. You wish to hurt them—to hurt her—and this is the only way adequately to punish them, for what they did to your mother, what they will continue to do to you. Or are you going to prove yourself, at the last, to be a mere weak girl, content to let them triumph?”

  She draws herself upright as if stung. Her hand reaches out, as if to touch the boy’s golden curls; then she reaches down the bed and moves the sleeping child, oh so gently, removing the blanket from beneath him. She wraps the blanket round him and raises him from the cot, and even though he is a heavy lad she manages it easily. She has brought a thick pad of cloth with her, thinking to use it to muffle the child’s noise should he cry out, and now she places this over his mouth, holding it firmly in place. She does not recall smoothing down the sheet and counterpane after—although later she knows she must have done—and moves to the door, closing it silently behind her.

  She is at the drawing-room once more, moving assuredly through the dimness towards the open shutters. At some point she puts on the galoshes which she has left tucked inside the door, but she does not remember this later, either. Perhaps Mr. Hobbes helped her; she does not know. He is still there, in the dark with her, as she raises the centre window and climbs out, the sleeping child seeming no weight at all. She rounds the house, feeling the wetness of the grass dragging against her thin nightgown, but it does not stop h
er nor even slow her down as she approaches the stable yard from the back and passes through it like a ghost.

  The Newfoundland dog raises its head but, recognising her, does not bark. She pushes her way into the patch of yard where the closet nestles amidst rank grass and bushes, and enters it. There is that smell once more, as in the nursery, of something foul, but she pays it no heed as she fumbles for the candle and matches which she has previously hidden. There is a brief burst of light, harsh on her eyes after the darkness, and she blinks before touching the match to the candle’s wick. Once the flame has taken hold she places the candle on the seat of the closet.

  And now all is ready, and it is time, and she hears once more a hiss, as of anticipation, as she withdraws the razor from the pocket of her gown. She places the child so that he is lying on the seat beside the candle, and the cloth falls from his face, but the eyes are not open, and he makes no movement. She gazes steadily at him for a moment. The candle seems to flare up, and the inside of the closet is suffused with a red glow; or perhaps the light is coming from inside her. She cannot tell. She takes a deep breath, and then her arm moves, quick, strong, true, and at last the boy moves, his head falling back in a hideous parody of a grin.

  She thinks the blood will never come, and a panicked thought occurs to her, that the boy is not dead, so she stabs him in the chest, once, twice, the razor gleaming in the light of the candle. But now the blood is there, rich and red, falling like small flowers which burst open when they touch the floor. The body is still wrapped in the blanket, and Constance pushes it through the hole in the seat, the blanket settling round Saville’s form like a shroud. The candle, which has burned low, winks once, and then burns out. Finis.