‘We live in an unjust society indeed, to be so wilfully blind,’ she murmured. ‘I think you are speaking of Mr Jonathan Alleyn, when you speak of base actions.’
‘The family are a great deal on my mind, in truth. I am to return there to act as reader and companion to Mr Alleyn,’ said Rachel, and smiled slightly at the expression of disbelief that flooded her friend’s face.
‘But… I am all astonishment, my dear! I had never thought…’
‘Nor I, after my first encounter with the man! Here’s the secret, though – it seems that I bear a strong resemblance to Alice Beckwith.’
There was a pause, and Harriet sipped her drink delicately.
‘I do not understand,’ she confessed at last.
‘Nor I, Mrs Sutton. But both Mr Alleyn and his mother reacted strongly in… recognition, when they first saw me. And their servant too, who must have known Miss Beckwith. And so, for some reason, he can tolerate my presence. His mother thinks it would do him good to be read to. She thinks it would soothe him, and… aid his recovery.’
‘But… this is most strange, Mrs Weekes! I am delighted, of course… at this sign of improvement in Mr Alleyn. But I cannot think how a reminder of – forgive me – a person who betrayed and wronged him so terribly would be of help.’
‘Nor I, Mrs Sutton, nor I. But there it is – I am to return there on the morrow and read for him,’ said Rachel, feeling herself tense up at the idea. And if he flies into a rage again, and kills me this time, at least I will be paid for my trouble, she thought. But he knows. He knows all about Alice, the echo whispered, keenly.
‘My dear, I hope… I do hope you can help him. Few men find themselves in such a dark place as he. How it would gladden all our hearts to hear that he can be woken from his nightmare.’ Harriet Sutton’s tiny face was serious and sombre, but her voice betrayed little hope, and Rachel felt the knot of tension in her gut tighten ever more.
‘Come, now, on to the main reason for my visit – other than to see you again, of course, Mrs Sutton. But you did promise to introduce me to your daughter,’ said Rachel. Harriet Sutton beamed, and went to the door to call. Cassandra Sutton was a thin, delicate little girl, tall for her age of eight years. She had a soft, olive-toned skin and greenish eyes, and hair as black as crow feathers.
‘How do you do, Mrs Weekes?’ she said shyly, and Rachel was enchanted.
‘Well now, this must be the prettiest little girl I have ever seen,’ she said warmly, and Cassandra fidgeted, pleased and embarrassed. ‘How do you do, Miss Sutton?’
‘Very well, thank you, madam,’ the child replied with immaculate manners.
‘Come, Cassandra. Come and sit with us a while.’ Harriet Sutton held out her hand to her daughter and the girl hopped onto the couch beside her. Her small, even face was dominated by a pointed nose and thin, dark eyebrows; there was something elfin and endearing in her appearance, and not one jot of Eliza Trevelyan’s pride or sullen temper.
‘I should very much like to have a daughter like you. But my husband would rather have a big strapping son, to work alongside him,’ said Rachel.
‘Perhaps you could have both?’ Cassandra suggested. ‘I should very much like to have a brother.’
‘Well,’ said Harriet, her smile turning a little sad. ‘You might have one, one day. We will have to wait and see what God has in store for us, won’t we?’ The look she gave Rachel was full of quiet resignation, and Rachel understood that there would be no more children for Captain and Mrs Sutton. From the age her new friend and the captain appeared to be, she guessed that their marriage had weathered a good few barren years before Cassandra was born.
‘I had a brother,’ said Rachel, and wished at once that she had not. She swallowed the sadness that choked her whenever she thought of Christopher. ‘His name was Christopher,’ she added, because there was a silence after she’d spoken, and both mother and child seemed to know instinctively not to ask where her brother was now.
‘Christopher is a good name. We have a bear called Christopher, don’t we?’ Harriet put her arm around her daughter and squeezed. ‘Now, why don’t we go into the music room, and you can show Mrs Weekes how well you’ve been learning to play your guitar?’
After her visit, Rachel went to Duncan Weekes’s lodgings, rapping her cold knuckles on the flaked and splitting door, and calling down at his small window. She had promised to visit again, even though she had little news to give, and she was deeply curious too – she wanted to ask her father-in-law about his time in service with the Alleyns, and about Richard’s upbringing with them. After a while it seemed clear that the old man was not at home, and nobody else came to open the outer door to her. She walked on, towards Abbeygate Street, thinking hard, trying to guess why her husband would have kept the nature of his long acquaintance with the Alleyns from her. Could it be as simple as not wanting to admit, out of pride, that he had been their servant? Or their servant’s son? But then, he had told her about his father’s lowly profession, and even boasted at how far above it he had risen. Perhaps he would rather have Rachel think he’d built his own success, and not been hoisted into it by a charitable former employer. He had told her that Mrs Alleyn had been a patron, and loyal customer… now it was a good deal clearer why such a grand lady should concern herself with the business of a young wine merchant.
Rachel walked quickly, agitated. Her breath streamed behind her, a wake in the cold air. She intended to confront Richard, and insist that he tell her everything about his relationship with the Alleyns. But he was not in the cellar, or upstairs either, so she had little choice but to wait. He got back after dark, and reeking of wine, though she could not tell for sure if that was due to the amount he had drunk, or the splashes his work left on his clothing. He smiled and kissed her cheek, but his face darkened when she asked him about the Alleyns, and about his father’s job as coachman.
‘I told you as much, already,’ he muttered, sitting in a chair to pull off his boots and warm his damp feet by the fire. The rank smell of his stockings drifted over to Rachel.
‘No you didn’t, Mr Weekes. You told me only that your father had been an ostler, and Mrs Alleyn an important patron of your business.’
‘Just so. If you had asked me more, I would have disclosed it. But you have had the whole story already, it would seem. Some might consider it disloyal, to ask others for gossip about your own husband.’ He leaned his head back and gazed at her, eyes heavy with fatigue, but watchful.
‘I did not ask about you, I asked about the Alleyns. Since I am soon to work for them, too. Mrs Sutton understandably assumed that I knew of your association with the family.’
‘Well, what matter if you had not had the full story? It changes nothing.’
‘Mr Weekes, I-’
‘You what?’ Richard cut across her, two short, hard words. Rachel flushed.
‘I don’t understand why you felt you had to keep this from me. That’s all.’ And why you are so loyal to the Alleyns, and yet so touchy at any mention of them. Richard shrugged, and shut his eyes.
‘It has been a long and wearying day, my dear. Let us have no more of this. Is there no food in this house, for its master?’ Rachel waited, in case he would say something more or she would find the nerve to speak on. When neither one happened she rose, frustrated, and went to prepare him a supper plate.
The following day was stormy. A strong wind blew out of a slate-grey sky, clearing away the smog of coal smoke and mist, and carrying flecks of biting sleet that felt like splinters on Rachel’s face as she walked to Lansdown Crescent. She walked as slowly as she could, to postpone her arrival at the Alleyns’ fine house, with its dead air and watchfulness, its strange, sad occupants. She took several deep breaths, and reminded herself of her duty to her husband; her sense of charity towards Josephine Alleyn; her desire to learn about Alice. She had no idea how long she was expected to read to Jonathan Alleyn, or to sit with him, but she hoped not more than an hour or two at most. There was no binding agreement; she could leave at any time. She was employed there, but she was not a servant. All these things she reminded herself, as she climbed to the front door.