Alias Grace (23 page)

By the time he was better it was the middle of February, and he’d missed so much of the college term he said he would stay away until the next one; and Mrs. Alderman Parkinson agreed, and said he needed to build up his strength. And so there he was, being fussed over by all, and with time on his hands and not much he needed to do, which is a bad situation for a young man full of spirits. And there was no shortage of parties to go to, and girls to dance with, and their mothers to plan his wedding for him without his knowledge. I am afraid he was very much indulged, not least by himself. For if the world treats you well, Sir, you come to believe you are deserving of it.

Mary had told the truth about the winter. The snow at Christmastime had been heavy, but it was like a blanket of feathers, and the air appeared warmer after it had fallen; and the stablehands joked, and threw snowballs; but as they were soft, they broke when they hit.

But soon the real winter set in, and the snow began to come down in earnest. This time it was not soft but hard, like tiny stinging pellets of ice; and it was driven along by a keen and bitter wind, and piled up in thick drifts; and I feared we would all be buried alive. Icicles grew on the roof, and you had to be careful when passing underneath, as they could fall off, and were sharp and pointed; and Mary had heard of a woman who’d been killed by one, that went right through her body like a skewer. One day there was sleet, which
covered all the tree branches with a coating of ice, and the next day they sparkled in the sun like a thousand diamonds; but the trees were weighted down by it, and many branches broke. And the entire world was hard and white, and when the sun shone it was so blinding that you had to shield your eyes, and not look at it too long.

We kept indoors as much as possible, as there was a danger of frostbite, especially in the fingers and toes; and the men went about with scarves tied over their ears and noses, and their breath came out in clouds. The family had their fur rugs in the sleigh, and their wraps and cloaks, and went visiting; but we did not have such warm garments. At night Mary and I put our shawls on top of the bedcovers, and wore our stockings and an extra petticoat to bed; though even so we were not warm. By morning the fires had died down, and our hot bricks had cooled, and we were shivering like rabbits.

On the last day of February the weather improved somewhat; and we ventured out on errands, having wrapped our feet up well in flannel cloths, inside the boots which we begged from the stablehands; and we wound ourselves in as many shawls as we could find or borrow, and walked down as far as the harbour. It was frozen solid, with great blocks and slices of ice piled against the shore; and there was a place cleared of snow, where the ladies and gentlemen were skating. It was a graceful motion, as if the ladies were running on wheels underneath their dresses, and I said to Mary that it must be delightful. Mr. George was there, gliding over the ice hand in hand with a young lady in a fur scarf, and he saw us, and gave us a cheerful wave. I asked Mary if she had ever skated, and she said no.

About this time I began to notice a change in Mary. She was often late coming to bed; and when she did come, she no longer wanted to talk. She did not hear what I said to her, but appeared to be listening to something else; and she was constantly looking out through doorways, or windows, or over my shoulder. One night when she
thought I was asleep, I saw her hiding something away in a handkerchief, under the floorboard where she kept her candle-ends and matches; and when I looked the next day, she being out of the room, I found that it was a gold ring. My first thought was that she had stolen it, which would be more than she’d ever stolen before, and very bad for her if she was caught; though there was no talk in the house of a missing ring.

But she did not laugh and fun as before, nor did she attend to her work in her usual brisk manner; and I became worried. But when I questioned her, and asked if there was some trouble, she would laugh, and say she did not know where I was getting such ideas. But her smell had changed, from nutmegs to salt fish.

The snow and ice began to melt, and a few birds returned, and they began to sing and call; so I knew it would soon be spring. And one day in late March, as we were carrying the clean wash up the back stairs in baskets, to hang it in the drying room, Mary said she was ill; and she ran downstairs and out into the back yard, behind the outbuildings. I set down my basket and followed her, just as I was, without my shawl; and I found her on her knees in the wet snow near the privy, which she had not had time to reach, as she had been overcome by a violent sickness.

I helped her up, and her forehead was damp and clammy, and I said she should be put to bed; but at that she became angry, and said it was something she’d eaten, it must have been yesterday’s mutton stew, and now she was rid of it. But I’d eaten the very same thing myself, and felt perfectly well. She made me promise not to speak of it, and I said I would not. But when the same thing happened a few days later, and then again the next morning, I was truly alarmed; for I had seen my own mother in that condition very often, and I knew the milky smell of it; and I was well aware of what was wrong with Mary.

I thought it over, and turned it this way and that in my mind; and towards the end of April I taxed her with it, and swore very solemnly that if she would confide in me, I would not tell; for I believed she was in great need of confiding in someone, as she was restless at night, and had dark circles beneath her eyes, and was oppressed by the burden of her secret. Then she broke down and cried, and said my suspicions were all too true; and the man had promised to marry her, and had given her a ring, and for once in a way she’d believed him, as she’d thought he was not like other men; but he’d gone back on his promise, and now would not speak with her; and she was in despair and did not know what to do.

I asked her who the man was, but she would not tell me; and she said that as soon as it was known what sort of trouble she was in, she would be turned away, as Mrs. Alderman Parkinson held very strict views; and then what would happen to her? Some girls in her place would have gone back to their families, but she had none; and now no decent man would marry her, and she would have to go on the streets, and become a sailors’ drab, as she would have no other way of feeding herself and the baby. And such a life would soon be the end of her.

I was very distressed on her behalf, and also on mine, for she was the truest and indeed the only friend I had in the world. I comforted her the best way I could, but I did not know what to say.

Throughout the month of May, Mary and I frequently talked about what she should do. I said there must be a workhouse or something of the sort that would take her in, and she said she knew of none, but even so, if young girls went to any such place they always died, as they got fever as soon as they were delivered; and she believed the babies in such places were secretly smothered, so as not to be a charge on the public purse; and she would sooner take her chances of
dying elsewhere. We talked about some way of delivering the baby ourselves, and keeping it quiet, and giving it away as an orphan; but she said her condition would soon begin to show; and Mrs. Honey had very sharp eyes, and had already remarked that Mary was putting on flesh, and she could not hope to go long undetected.

I said she should try one last time to speak with the man in question, and appeal to his better nature. And she did so; but when she returned from the interview – which must have taken place nearby, as she was not gone long – she was angrier than she had ever been. She said he’d given her five dollars; and she’d said was that all his child was worth to him? And he said she would not catch him that way, and he doubted that it was even his own child, since she’d been so obliging with him, that he suspected she had been so for others; and if she threatened him with a scandal, or went to his family, he would deny it, and ruin whatever reputation she had left; and if she wanted a quick end to her troubles she could always drown herself.

She said she had once truly loved him, but did so no longer; and she threw the five dollars on the floor, and cried passionately for an hour; but I noticed her putting the money carefully away, under the loose board, afterwards.

The next Sunday she said she would not go to church, but for a walk by herself; and when she came back, she said she’d gone down to the harbour with the idea of throwing herself into the lake, and putting an end to her life. And I begged her with tears not to do such a wicked thing.

Two days later she said she’d been over to Lombard Street, and had heard there of a doctor who could help her; he was the doctor that the whores went to, when they needed it. I asked her in what way he might help, and she said I shouldn’t ask; and I did not know what she meant, having never heard of such doctors. And she asked if I would lend her my savings, which amounted at that time to three
dollars, which I’d been intending for a new summer dress. And I said I would lend it to her with all my heart.

She then brought out a piece of writing paper, which she’d obtained from the library downstairs, and a pen and ink, and she wrote:
If I die, my things are to go to Grace Marks
. And she signed it with her name. And then she said, Soon I may be dead. But you will still be alive. And she gave me a cold and resentful look, such as I’d seen her give to others behind their backs, but never to me.

I was much alarmed at this, and clutched her hand, and begged her not to go to this doctor, whoever he might be; but she said she must, and I was not to carry on, but I must put the pen and ink back secretly on the writing desk in the library, and go about my duties; and tomorrow she would steal away after the midday meal, and I was to say if asked that she’d just gone out to the privy, or that she was up in the drying room, or any excuse that came into my head; and then I was to slip away and join her, as she might be in difficulties coming home.

Neither one of us slept well that night; and the next day she did as she said she would, and managed to leave the house without detection, with the money knotted up in her handkerchief; and I followed soon after, and joined her. The doctor lived in a large-enough house, in a good neighbourhood. We went in by the servants’ entrance; and the doctor himself met us. The first thing he did was to count the money. He was a big man in a black coat, and looked at us very severely; and he told me to wait in the scullery, and then said that if I told anything about it, he would deny ever having seen me. Then he took off his frock coat and hung it on a hook, and began rolling up his shirtsleeves, as if for a fight.

He looked very similar, Sir, to the head-measuring doctor that frightened me into a fit, just before you came here.

Mary went with him out of the room, her face as white as a sheet; and then I heard screams, and crying, and after a time the doctor
pushed her in through the scullery door. Her dress was all damp, and clinging to her like a wet bandage, and she could scarcely walk; and I put my arms around her, and assisted her away from that place as best I could.

When we reached the house she was bent nearly double and holding her hands to her stomach; and said would I help her upstairs. Which I did, and she seemed very weak. I put her into her nightdress and into the bed, and she kept her petticoat on, crumpled up between her legs. And I asked her what had happened, and she said the doctor took a knife to her, and cut something inside; and he said there would be pain and bleeding, and it would last some hours, but that after this she would be all right again. And she’d given a false name.

It began to dawn on me that what the doctor had cut out of her was the baby, which I thought a most wicked thing; but I also thought it was either one corpse that way or two the other, because if not, she would certainly have drowned herself; so I could not find it within my heart to reproach her.

She was in great pain, and in the evening I warmed a brick and carried it upstairs; but she would not let me fetch anyone. And I said I would sleep on the floor, as she would be more comfortable that way; and she said I was the best friend she ever had, and that whatever happened she would never forget me. I rolled myself up in my shawl, with my apron for a pillow, and lay down on the floor, which was very hard; and what with that, and with Mary’s groans of agony, I could not sleep at first. But after a time it grew quieter, and I fell asleep, and did not wake up until daybreak. And when I did, there was Mary, dead in the bed, with her eyes wide open and staring.

I touched her, but she was cold. I stood stock-still with fear; but then I roused myself, and went along the hall, and woke Agnes the chambermaid, and fell into her arms weeping; and she said,
Whatever is the matter? I could not speak, but took her by the hand, and led her into our room, to where Mary was. Agnes laid hold of her, and shook her by the shoulder; and then she said, Good heavens, she is dead.

And I said, Oh Agnes, what shall I do? I did not know she was going to die, and now they will blame me, for not telling sooner that she was taken ill; but she made me promise not to. And I was sobbing, and wringing my hands.

Agnes lifted the bedcovers and looked beneath. The nightdress and petticoat were soaked through with blood, and the sheet was all red with it, and brown where it had dried. She said, This is a bad business, and she told me to stay there, and she went at once to fetch Mrs. Honey. I heard her footsteps going away, and it seemed to me she was gone a long time.

I sat on the chair in our room and looked at Mary’s face; her eyes were open, and I could feel her looking back at me out of the corners of her eyes. I thought I saw her move, and I said, Mary, are you pretending? For she sometimes pretended she was dead, behind the sheets in the drying room, to frighten me. But she was not pretending.

Then I heard two sets of footsteps hurrying along the passage, and I was filled with dread. But I stood up. And Mrs. Honey came into the room; she did not look sad, she looked angry, and also disgusted, as if she could smell a bad smell. And there was indeed a smell in the room; it was the smell of wet straw, from the mattress, and also the salty smell of blood; you can smell something very similar in a butcher’s shop.