Josephine Alleyn saw her first. She was by the canary’s cage again, speaking words of soft entreaty to the bird. The canary cocked its head at her, eyes sharp and unblinking, but it said nothing.
‘Ah, Mrs Weekes. It is good of you to come. My little bird here is silent and sad. Nothing I can feed him or say to him seems to cheer him,’ she said wistfully. She passed the bird another sunflower seed, but it only looked at it, and did not take it.
‘I understand that whistling to them sometimes encourages them to sing,’ said Rachel. She hovered by the door, unsure whether to go further into the room or not.
‘Oh? A pity. A lady should never whistle. Such a coarse habit, and it creases the mouth. Perhaps Falmouth might be persuaded to give it a try. But then, I never once heard a jolly sound come from that man, in more than twenty years of service. I fear his company might make my poor canary even sadder.’ Josephine looked over at Rachel with a wan smile.
‘Some other music, perhaps? Do you play, Mrs Alleyn?’ Anything but the shroud of silence in this house.
‘I used to. My father loved music, and I often played the piano for him before I married, and then after my husband had died, when I returned to live with him. My husband died when Jonathan was only five. Did you know that? Poor boy, he really never knew him. Lord Faukes was more like a father to Jonathan than a grandfather.’
‘He was lucky, then, to have such a grandfather.’
‘Lucky? Yes…’ Josephine sighed, and fell into thought, and Rachel waited uncomfortably.
‘Will I be sitting with your son in this room, Mrs Alleyn, or in some other?’ she asked at last.
‘What? Oh, no. He will not come down. I will take you up to him.’ The older lady turned and walked slowly towards the door, her face immobile, betraying nothing of her thoughts. Rachel’s heart sank. Back to his rooms then, to the darkness and the vile smell and the feeling of being confined, just like that poor canary.
She tried to remain calm, as they climbed the stone stairs in silence. Josephine Alleyn walked with her all the way to her son’s door, and by the time they reached it she was wearing an equal measure of hope and doubt on her lovely face. Rachel tried desperately to think of Jonathan Alleyn as he had seemed the last time she called – apologetic, uncomfortable, and even nervous – rather than as she had first met him: violent and inebriated. They almost seemed like two distinct people. Oh, let him be sober at least. She would not stay if he was drunk, she decided there and then. There would be little point in reading to him if his mind was addled. Josephine Alleyn knocked on her son’s door and then opened it, then stepped aside and ushered Rachel in, alone. ‘Perhaps the Bible, if all else fails,’ Mrs Alleyn whispered, before she closed the door. ‘Perhaps the Bible would help him back into the light.’
The room was in near darkness again, and at once Rachel was on edge. The stink of death and decay had gone, however, so she was able to breathe more easily. She turned, and saw Jonathan Alleyn sitting in an armchair in the bay window. His long legs were thrust out in front of him, his elbow rested on the arm of the chair, fingers pressing lightly into the side of his face.
‘Mr Alleyn-’ said Rachel, nerves making her voice blare out abruptly. Jonathan quickly raised his fingers in protest.
‘Please, not so loud. Do come and sit, Mrs Weekes.’ He gestured at a wooden chair that had been placed opposite him, near enough for her hem to brush the tips of his boots as she sat down in it. It was cool by the window; a draught crept around the shutters, and Rachel shivered.
‘It will be very hard for me to read with so little light,’ she said, more quietly.
‘To read?’ he said. A strip of light lit one of his watchful brown eyes, and sculpted itself into the contours of his face – the hollows in his cheeks and beneath his brows. His scrutiny again gave her that conspicuous feeling, that sense that all her words and expressions were false. It is her he sees. As if reading her thoughts, Jonathan Alleyn frowned. ‘In truth, you are not so very like her. Like Alice. It is only a… an initial resemblance. You are taller, and narrower, your eyes are more grey than blue. Your hair is… your hair is just as pale as hers; your face… remarkably alike. But much of the similarity goes once speech and expression animate your features,’ he said. Rachel felt absurdly disappointed, almost insulted. But much time has passed; the years will work changes. ‘When I first saw you my vision was blurred… the headaches do that sometimes.’
‘Well, I never claimed any connection to Alice Beckwith…’
‘No more you did. You came in ignorance. I… I must apologise again for my reaction. For laying hands on you. It was inexcusable.’ He spoke in a flat voice, with no marked emotion or expression, and only a slight frown to give his words credence. Rachel began to form an acceptance of his apology, but it wouldn’t come. She laced her fingers in her lap and studied them.
‘Laying hands on me? You half strangled me.’ The words burst out, unbidden. Shocked at her own frankness, she saw a look of surprise and then despair fill Jonathan’s face.
‘I barely remember,’ he muttered. ‘It has vanished into the dark spaces.’
‘Well,’ said Rachel, not quite understanding him. She rearranged her hands. ‘How are you today? You’re not suffering a headache now?’
‘No, madam. Though the term “ache” scarcely gives a true idea of the sensation. It is more like a knife, twisting slowly in my skull. Like a thunderstorm, caught between my temples.’
‘Have you consulted a doctor over it?’
‘My mother has sent every doctor, quack and hedge witch in England to me at some time or another,’ he snapped. ‘All they do is bleed me, which makes me weak, then tell me to rest. None of it does any good. Only wine… only wine eases it. For a time.’ He shut his eyes for a moment then leant forwards suddenly, moving so quickly that Rachel jumped. ‘It’s the things I have seen, you understand? It’s the things I have seen and the things I have done, clawing away at my mind like rats!’
‘Things… things you saw in the war with the French?’ Rachel ventured, cautiously.
‘Oh, how much you know, about the war and what happened there, and about Alice… How much everybody knows and how all the voices chatter on and how well informed everybody is about my infirmity! About my very thoughts!’ he snapped, leaning back again, disgusted.
‘In truth, sir, I know very little. I was only trying to-’
‘You know nothing,’ he stated flatly.
Stung, Rachel sat silent for a moment. There was a slight sound from the far end of the room, where a doorway led through to his bedchamber. She thought at once of the redhaired servant. Starling. Was she watching them again? Keeping guard?
‘It was nothing. Only the house shifting in this wind,’ said Jonathan.
‘Last time… last time I was here there was a girl,’ said Rachel. Jonathan grunted.
‘Yes, that one. She gets everywhere. Sneaks around this house like a cat, far too bold for her own good.’ He shut his eyes and pressed his fingertips into his temple again.
‘A curious name. Has she no other?’
‘No. She is a curious girl, given her curious name by another girl, the sweetest that ever lived.’
‘You mean… Miss Beckwith? Did Starling belong to her, then?’ said Rachel, puzzled.