Fair and Foul are Near of Kin: Part 2
"The cellars," the master said. "Or the attics. Which?"
"The attics are too occupied, I think. A full staff of servants for a country house. But the cellars- the cellars seem too remote."
"Dare I hope for a hidden room? A priest hole, perhaps?" His eyes glinted sardonically.
"Not in the attic, sir. I looked this afternoon."
"And surely not on the main floors. Or would it be?"
"If you had thrust something from your sight for over five years- would you keep it close at hand once you were forced to take it back?"
"Would I keep it in my house at all? Maybe we should be searching the neighbouring farmhouses."
"You have considered, sir, the possibility that it no longer exists?"
"If that had ever been a possibility, none of this would have happened in the first place."
I nodded my head, but thought privately that disaster had a way of changing one's character. What would have been impossible in one's innocence becomes more than feasible after the fall. The scars on my wrist are there to prove it.
"I feel that it must be the house, for safety's sake at least," he continued. "The burned dog fears the fire. We can begin here, at any rate."
It was the middle of the night. The household retired early, in the fashion of the country. We two had stayed up by candlelight, playing picquet. I lit a new candle and lighted the master down the stairs through the silent house. His slender frame made no noise on the ancient creaking staircase, and I had noted earlier which steps to avoid resting my greater weight on.
The kitchen was dark, its fire banked. We crept past the rooms where the scullery maid and the gardener's boy slept, worn from their labours, and into the passage beyond. The doors opened easily, unlocked: box rooms and lumber rooms. There was a skittering as our light invaded the shadows, and the kitchen cat came padding swiftly down the hallway, smelling mice. The master scooped her up lest she become lost in one of the storage rooms. She settled into his arms, her yellow eyes regarding his calmly. I measured each room with my eye, intent on discrepancies that might betray a hidden closet or vault, but there were none. A second corridor opened from the first. We went on opening doors, finding nothing. No sound at all but the low purr of the cat in the master's arms and the odd crack and groan of the wooden beams of this old house. We began to find locked doors. My skeleton key opened them to reveal emptiness- rooms locked so long ago no-one remembered they were there, tenanted only by spiderwebs and dust. Halfway along the passage was a door that didn't open to my key.
"This is the one," the master said.
I add more hot water from the copper can by the bath and leave him to soak away the weariness of travel. I go to fetch his nightshirt from its frame before the fire. He rises up when I return, shedding milky water like foam-born Aphrodite, and I drape him in a large white towel as he steps from the bath. My hands, so large next to his slender limbs, easily span his upper arms as I rub him dry- the frail shoulders, the ribcage whose bones I can count, the narrow flanks and slender legs. I rub him to warm him, so that the blood rises and his skin takes on a healthy pink flush. The nightshirt slips over his head, the smell of clean warmed cotton suddenly clear above the soapy scent of the bath, and the dressing gown goes over it to keep the warmth enclosed. He rests a hand on my shoulder and stands on one foot so I can dry the other carefully, especially between the toes whose thin skin easily becomes infected unless I take care.
To humour me he puts on his carpet slippers for the return journey to the bedroom, but once seated in his armchair he kicks them off and stretches his feet to the fire with a little sigh. At his gesture I cut him some of the Stilton, and he munches it with the biscuits and wine while I call the footman to come dispose of the bath water. I return to stand by his chair while he sits watching the fire with his strange odd-coloured eyes. The silence stretches between us, heavy in the room as the close heat from the flames, a nameless animal I must ignore until he decides to speak of it. Not the comfortable silence of our usual life, domestic as a cat's purr, but an unknown beast that prowls the darkest parts of the room, swishing an uneasy tail as it watches us.
Mrs. Morrell had exerted herself to provide entertainment for her guest. Such society as the country affords had been invited to luncheon that Sunday: the family's lawyer, the local doctor, the Major of the regiment currently on training manoeuvres on the Downs. Mrs. Morrell had even commanded the presence of a maternal cousin, a man in his fifties named Ridley, uncle to the present Earl of Pevensey. It was a solid and settled enough party, not the kind to sparkle in conversation, but there was no need for the guests to try. Mrs. Morrell provided sparkle enough for all, flattering, teasing, even flirting a little with the gallant older gentleman. The presence of little Roger, allowed to the dining room table as a special treat, did nothing to off-set her role as ingenue. No, not ingenue, I thought, watching from my place behind the master's chair. Merry widow: a woman who has known life and whose husband is, one way or the other, simply not a factor any more. And that led to thoughts of poor dead ambitious Agnes who had meant to marry a shopkeeper at least.
The master was like a dark jewel in that setting. He made the country worthies nervous. Anyone could see there was something wrong about him- his quirky little smile, the febrile light in his eyes, those eyes themselves and their unmatching unnatural colours. Not a normal healthy huntin' fishin' shootin' fellow, the Major was clearly thinking. The doctor had evidently come to a conclusion of 'hereditary weakness of the nervous system', and the lawyer was simply flummoxed by him, as by a two-headed baby. Only Ridley, who came from the same world as the master, could place him in the setting he belonged in. To him the earl was a familiar if shadowed figure- society's memento mori, the corpse at their feast, a reminder of those things no-one wishes to speak of but which a wise man knows better than to ignore. Alas, there are few wise men in the world. The respectable fear what the master represents, and with reason. He is the chaos that threatens always, the fault in the stable earth beneath their feet that may at any moment open up and bring their impeccable, proper houses crashing down about their ears. It takes time and much suffering, as I can attest, before one realizes that to lose all the familiar lies of one's life is to be freed from a gaol-cell: taken from the prison of class and possessions and gentility into the wasteland where we meet our true selves. Perhaps it's no wonder that most prefer the prison, with its deep carpets and heavy antimacassared armchairs and potted indoor plants. Comfort, at whatever cost.
Mrs. Morrell was flirting with the master, and he was answering in smooth ambiguous phrases. The light danced about her golden hair, making her seem young and alive, and the master in contrast darker and more sinister. The Maiden flirting with the demon lover, who is Death. The main course was finished and the savoury brought in, and as I bent to remove his plate he whispered to me, 'Now.'
I quit the room with the footmen who carried the dinnerware out, but while they went down I went up- up to my room in the attic, and fetched what was there. Returning with it to the main floor, I intercepted odd glances from the footmen, but my luck held in that Mr. Tompkins remained still at his post in the dining room. I hesitated by the door, listening for the master's voice.
"You are such a cynic, Cain," Mrs.Morrell was laughing. "How many hearts have you broken, I wonder, with never a second thought?"
"It's the fashion of the times, dear Eva," he said. "You've read Meredith's Modern Love, I trust?"
"That old thing? It's dated."
"But it has many lines that are still apropos. For instance, 'It is indeed a most contagious game: HIDING THE SKELETON shall be its name.'"
That was my cue. I opened the door and walked into the room, hand in hand with the dark little boy we'd found in the cellar.
Mrs. Morrell's face went livid and her mouth opened to scream, but no sound came from it. The gentlemen turned to stare and the ragged child pressed back against my legs in fear.
"What's the meaning of this, Hargreaves?" Ridley demanded, but my eyes were not on him but on little Roger. After one glance the boy had slipped off his chair and come quickly round the table to stand before the new arrival.
"Hallo," he said, smiling. The other looked back at him.
"'Ullo," he said at last. His deep brown eyes stopped darting about the room and fixed themselves on the other little boy.
"Blood will tell," the master said. "I see Roger recognizes his brother."
"What?" the lawyer said. "You mean- this is Phillip's love child?"
"Not at all." The master gazed sombrely at Mrs. Morrell. "They were together for nine months, Eva. You shouldn't have parted them after."
"How dare you?!" she cried. "How dare you make these insinuations-"
"Are you saying these two are twins?" Ridley cried in astonishment.
"They were born together, certainly. And since the story of Amphitryon is a myth, I think you may take it they are twins."
"This is ridiculous," Mrs. Morrell said with recovered energy.
"This is the illegitimate child of a former maidservant here. She died recently in a tragic accident and I merely took the child in from charity-"
"And locked him in your cellar," the master said. "Not a charitable way to deal with a foundling. Why didn't you want the servants to know he existed? Why did you swear your butler to secrecy? And why-"
"Be silent, you demon!" she screeched, but he ignored her.
"-why did you trust a servant again after the last one betrayed you? Didn't you fear that Tompkins too might demand money for silence, as Agnes did?"
Mrs. Morrell gave a shriek and came at the master. I caught her by the arm- the one that had scooped up the pearl-handled fruit knife with its vicious pointed blade. It wouldn't have penetrated the master's broadcloth suit, but it was his eyes she was aiming for. She struggled hysterically in my grasp until the doctor came to my rescue and administered a sedative. At his instructions I carried her to her room and left her to her maid's attentions.
Downstairs a strained peace prevailed. I passed Ellen shepherding the two little boys out of the room, presumably in the direction of the nursery. Roger was prattling away at his brother, telling him something about Nurse and Teddy and the white bathroom, while the other said only "Ahh" in response, nodding his head like a cockney.
The others had removed to the salon where the master was telling the other half of the story.
"-- but Agnes had a confidant of sorts in the young girl who lived in the next flat. Liza used to run errands for her and mind the child when Agnes wanted to go out. Even after Liza took service in my household, they still met on occasion. Agnes never told her the whole story, but dropped hints about the child's birth and how he was rightful heir to a fortune that she, Agnes, was going to secure for him. Liza got some romantic idea that a wicked stepmother was involved, and alas for Eva, Agnes once told her the wicked stepmother's name. And so I came here."
"But you say Eva is his mother. What earthly reason would she have for hiding the child's existence?"
The master looked at him gravely. "There's an idea common amongst unscientific people, and my cousin is as unscientific as one could wish, that two blond blue-eyed parents cannot have a dark-haired dark-eyed child. It is in fact possible, even if rare."
"I see," Ridley said, nodding. "When Eva gave birth to a dark-haired child, she thought people would say the child wasn't Phillip's--"
"The child isn't Phillip's."
The Major gave a cry of indignation. Ridley said fiercely, "What reason do you have for such a monstrous accusation?"
"A simple enough reason. It was because Eva already knew. She knew one of her children might be dark-haired before it was ever born, and so she arranged to be away from home- away from the family doctor and alone with Agnes- when her time came." The others stared in silence, and the master continued, "Agnes she thought she could trust. The woman would do anything for money, and Eva was ready to pay her. And so, when Eva felt the first pains, she called for her carriage and set out towards London and was safely away when the children were born. And as she had feared, one was dark."
"You're saying she had a lover?" Ridley chewed his moustache.
"A lover, even in the early days of her marriage?"
"Why yes," the master said, smiling sardonically. "It was inevitable, perhaps, with two such temperaments in the same house." His eyes went to the wall on his left and the picture of old Mr. Morrell with his brown hair and his imperious brown eyes.
There was a silence in the room, only broken at last by the maid's entrance. She spoke briefly to the doctor, and left.
"She's sleeping soundly," he reported. "I told the maid she could leave her alone for now."
"Good," Ridley said and was about to continue when the master cut in.
"It might be wise to remove anything sharp or even remotely poisonous from the room, and to keep someone with her at all times."
Ridley gave a snort of disgust. "Eva's not that kind of woman. And besides-" he looked around the room. "Young Cain's story is as perverse as one might expect of him, but no-one here is likely to believe it, I think." The others nodded. The doctor looked at the master with cold eyes that belied his fatherly tone of voice.
"Young Mrs. Morrell had a fancy to go to London in spite of her condition. Women in that state are often given to freaks. She was brought to bed prematurely, and in her weakened state, augmented by grief for her husband's absence and her own extreme youth, she gave way to hysteric fears that her son's odd colouring would be misinterpreted by the world. That's all."
The lawyer took up the story. "She gave him in charge to a respectable servant of the house and paid for his maintenance for many years. But on his governess' premature death, she felt compelled to bring him home. For the same reasons as before she had no wish for the child's existence to be known to the world and so she concealed his presence. She has been a very foolish but also a very unfortunate woman."
"Most certainly," the Major said.
"Oh, most certainly," the master said.
"I'm glad you're willing to see sense," the lawyer said, relief in his voice. "There's no need to create a scandal and cast doubts on the inheritance of the estate."
"Why no, of course not. Not at all. And the little matter of the surgeon's report- the one who examined Agnes Miller's dead body and found that she'd been struck unconscious before she died- well, no-one will ever look at that either, no doubt. Nor ask why the child had been taken from the house before that tragic gas leak occurred. But still, you know-" he smiled at them all gently- "she doesn't know that. I really do think you shouldn't leave her alone."
From upstairs came a sudden high-pitched scream. There was a frenzied exodus from the room, with the doctor in the lead. Only the Major stopped for a moment by the master's chair.
"Sir," he said ferociously, "you are a bounder. You shouldn't be allowed inside a Christian house. You are-" Words failed him. He turned and went the way of the others.
The master picked up the glass he'd brought with him from the dining room and drained the last of the blood-coloured wine.
"Lif," he said. "How long will it take to prepare our bags?"
"I packed them this morning, sir."
"Then let's go."
The maid appears with the bed warmer, but it is I who turn down the sheets and pass the copper pan across the linen. The master is frail, and the evils that come from an improperly warmed bed are many. When I have satisfied myself that all damp and chill has been banished, the maid takes herself and the pan away. The master comes over and lets me remove his robe. He slides into bed, and I cover him quickly with the sheets and blankets and eiderdowns. He sinks back on the pillows, again with that little sigh.
I make up the fire so that it will burn well into the night and turn off the two gas lamps in the outer part of the room. I come back to the bedside to turn off the third lamp by the bed.
"Will that be all, sir?"
"No."
Our eyes meet briefly. His are without expression, which tells me all I need to know.
I go to the most shadowy part of the room. A servant undressing is an ignoble sight. My boots and stockings go, my jacket and trousers and drawers, even the studs from my collar and cuffs, lest the sharp edges hurt him. I keep my shirt on for decency's sake and come back to the bed. The salve is kept in the back drawer of the bedside commode. I get it out, turn off the gas light, and slip into the warm sheets beside him.
He turns on his side, his back towards me. Under the heavy bedclothes I gather the hem of his nightshirt and pull it up to his waist. His skin is still warm from the bath, still faintly moist. My hands move over and between the thin thighs, feeling the damp heat of his groin, preparing him and preparing myself. He grows hard in my hand, and he pushes back against me, his slender buttocks pressed flush against my own groin. That's all that I require, as I know he can feel, but I cheat a little, hoping that he will permit it. My lips seek the thin nape of his neck under the shaggy hair and I kiss that one private spot, the little dip between the tendons, so vulnerable and childlike. He is smaller than me, more gentlemanly in frame. Lying beside him at these times I feel large and awkward, like a monster next to his elegant proportions. I fear as always that my barbaric size will overwhelm him and break him. I should know better. He doesn't break, even under weights that would crush an ordinary man. This I know and have seen demonstrated often enough, but when I kiss the back of his neck it's hard to remember. What if I hurt him, what if I hurt him like those others, what will I do then?
But it's not my decision to make. He presses at me insistently, the command as clear as words. We use no words. All this is done in silence and darkness, or near-silence and near-darkness: soon there will be gasps and deeply drawn breaths to be heard in the flickering shadows from the fire across the room.
But now beneath the covers where my hands reach all is silent and black and hot. My fingers slippery with unguent find the soft bulk between his legs and move back from it, along the narrow ridge of flesh to where they disappear inside, into molten heat a hundred times hotter than the heat of his skin. Slowly they work within him, gently gently widening the passage. His spine arches, his head curves back to rest against my chest. His eyes are closed, his mouth open a little, lips downdrawn into the mask of tragedy. His breathing becomes deeper as my fingers slide in and out of him, and a small moaning begins in his throat. His buttocks clench hard about my hand. The time is now. If I delay longer I force him to speak- to give me orders- and I cannot expose my master to shame like that.
In darkness I rise above him. The eiderdown is about my shoulders, cloaking us, cloaking the act in the darkness to which it belongs. I turn him from his side onto his face. I take him by the hips and raise him so that his knees bend and he crouches in the dark beneath me, face to the sheet, thin buttocks upthrust, hot, so hot his skin against mine. By feel alone I find the ring of flesh and in the silent blackness I enter within him. I thrust my shameful parts into his unclean ones, I insert my virile member into his anus. What words should I use to name the unnameable? I know this is an act of damnation: one that defies all decency and religion, all strictures of man and God. The two of us have long since turned our backs on all that. What meaning can those words have for lost souls like ourselves?
In darkness we perform the act of darkness, we who are the outcast children of incest and violence. Surely we are accursed who would do such a thing: cursed by the ghosts of his mad mother and his murdered father, driven insane by the charred black corpses of my brothers. I enter deep within him and withdraw, I enter again and pull back, and his nether parts arch and buck against me in response. Together we parody the motions of a man with a woman. We are of chaos and we bring chaos to all about us.
We reverse the order of nature. The servant mounts his master; one man copulates with another; the humans mate in the attitude of beasts and consummate a sterile union.
So it is, and so I know it is when seen from the world's view. But as we move together, as the unnatural act continues, as always it all becomes different. This house is not of the world, and this room in the house is not the same as other rooms, and this stifling enclosed space in the bed has nothing to do with the natural order. For here is the paradox: out there is the nature and society whose precepts we defy, and out there is the evil and monstrousness whose darkness we both know too well, and in here is something that is the opposite of all those things.
What we do is unnatural and indecent to the unnatural and indecent world, and so by the logic of simple mathematics, where two minuses make a plus, it becomes seemly and fitting. We are as one- I am part of him- how should I not be joined to him? He is my master and I am his servant: how should I disobey him? His will is my will: if he wishes it to be this way, how shall I not be happy? And how could I ever, ever refuse him anything, he who is my reason for living?
And so I plunge into him again and again, feeling myself waver and disappear as I turn into him. My forearms embrace his hips and my right hand finds the erect organ which is both his and mine. For when my hand fastens tight about him I feel the pleasure in my own body, just as he feels, as do I, the rhythmic squeezing of flesh about his member. Is it I who moves into him or he who engulfs me? If we are two, how is it our rhythm is so perfectly adjusted that neither of us knows which one is moving?
When fire mounts from my loins to my brain and whiplashes my spine upright, he rears upright too, arching his back against my chest and crying out, crying out in the light of the fire as our two bodies fuse into one before we collapse together into the hot sweaty tangle of the sheets...
My face is in his hair. I hear the sobbing breaths, his or mine or ours I know not which. I want to weep, from happiness or sorrow- happiness that hurts me or sorrow like the lancing of a wound, or some emotion that is both of those together and that has no name. If only... if only... I kiss the sweaty hair, soft and tangled beneath my lips, feel his body loose and relaxed beside my own. They are mistaken who would name this joining sterile. It brings relief and release, it banishes the demons of the day, and soon enough it will draw him into peaceful sleep.
Already his breathing is calming, is growing deeper. When he is deep enough I will slip away to my own room beside his. Tomorrow none of this will have happened, but the strain will be gone from his face and his eyes will have returned from those far visions he sees in the fire. I pull the blankets over his shoulders again lest he take cold in the night. Unexpectedly his hand comes up and takes my arm and draws it across his chest. I lie still in surprise, surrounding him. He wears me like a coat, my chest covers his back and my arms enclose his body, and his feet, small and cold, press against my ankles, warming themselves.
"Lif," he says.
"Sir?"
"Go to sleep."
And so I close my eyes. He is my master. Always he will have me at his back to cover his scars from others, always he will have my arms about him to keep him warm against the coldness of the world. My body is his, as my heart is his, and my life and all there is of me, is his.
'A woman may be proud and stiff
When on love intent
But Love has pitched his mansion in
The place of excrement.
For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not been rent.'
-WB Yeats, Crazy Jane Talks with the Bishop
MJJ Dec.97-Feb 98