Feral Park (56 page)

“Indubitably,” mumbled Anna archly.

A moment passed and then it was Anna’s turn to offer comment: “There are letters in
my
pile from parents who wished to know why their child had not improved.” Anna’s face became somber. “Oh, here is one that questions the sores and bruises that were nowhere to be found on the child when first she was put there. I am not sure, Mrs. Epping, that I can read another word of this.”

“But you must,” said Mrs. Dray to her daughter. “Our work here is too important.”

“Yes, yes, I know that I must persevere,” answered Anna, squinting her eyes now at a catalogue of the vermin that could not be successfully eradicated from the asylum chambers.

Suddenly, Mrs. Epping cried out,“Oh, my good, sweet, dearest Lord! I
have
it! I have a letter which gives the proof, but my God, it also partially exonerates Mrs. Quarrels!”

“It does? Let me see.” Anna reached for the letter at the same time as her mother, the both well-nigh tearing it in two. “I will read it, Mamma.” Anna began the letter: “Dear Dr. Goulding: Please find inclosed additional funds to provide for the care of my boy Michael. I will continue to send such funds to you at the end of each month from my allowance, but you must not let my husband know. Mr. Quarrels and I have agreed that the boy
must
be kept at Stornaway until he be dead, for we cannot keep him at our house in Berryknell, nor can we each day look at him without feeling revulsion and shame for bringing such a defective human being into this world. Mr. Quarrels said that it would have been best to drown the child when he was born, but I won the day and he agreed to the compromise I proposed which has sent him to you. But Mr. Quarrels does not wish to spend the money necessary to maintain our freak child even at a distance, so this is why the boy was brought to you with a single purse only, and with instructions to starve him when the money was exhausted. I am not that heartless. I will continue to send you money until the child has expired. Your last report tells me that he is growing weaker by the day, and so it will not be long before he is a nuisance no more. As a Christian woman, I cannot break the sixth commandment; therefore I will pray for his expeditious demise and perhaps you should, too. In the meantime money will come and you should expect it every month.”

“Horrible! Monstrous!” cried Mrs. Dray.

“She did not wish to kill the boy,” added Mrs. Epping, “but prayed for his death, all the same.”

“Here is another letter,” said Anna. “It was written three years thereafter and is also from Aunt Quarrels to Dr. Goulding. It is very short. It says only, ‘Dear Dr. Goulding. By my calendar the boy has just turned three. Why is he not yet dead?’”

“And I have in my hand a third dated two years beyond that,” said Mrs. Epping, holding another rugose piece of stationery in her hand. “‘In answer to yours of January 15, I have no interest in either visiting with the boy or in removing him from your custodianship. His father does not even know that he is still alive and that is as it should be. There is no place for the child in our crowded lodgings in Berryknell, nor can I continue to send you money in support of his room and board and whatever else must be done to assist a five-year-old boy in his revolting situation. He is therefore yours to do with as you wish from this day forward. Please understand that this is to be my last communication with you, with the exception of the following: I intend to send a servant to see you in a fortnight with a final payment, representing the severance and termination of our agreement. The servant will give you the money in exchange for your destroying every trace of evidence that there was ever communication between us or that it was my husband and myself who brought the freak child to you. My servant will stand by as you burn every paper in the fire, or watch you put it all into the rubbish in an irretrievable state. Yours &c, &c., Lydia Quarrels.’”

“And that is that,” said Mrs. Dray. “There is your proof, but what can be done with it I do not know. My brother, who sanctioned my poor nephew’s murder by starvation, is dead, and my conscience-deprived sister-in-law cannot be brought up on charges even with the evidence before us, because she did nothing but facilitate through financial maintenance the boy’s survival. There is no crime in that, and a judge may even think it commendable in some odd way.”

“Yes, but then she stopt!” said Mrs. Epping. “And not another farthing was given. It was then, I have no doubt, that the child finally expired.”

Mrs. Dray sighed. “Still, there is very little that one may do with any of it. We are done in. The papers are worthless.”

“Except that they
do
assign paternity to the boy,” said Anna.

“A child who never officially existed!” countered Lucy Epping, shaking her head disconsolately. “Dr. Goulding will never say what really happened to the boy, for, no doubt, if he ever did, he would have to bear some of the responsibility for the death.”

The three women could say nothing else. Mrs. Epping gathered the papers together and returned them to the box.

“Would that he
had
survived,” said Mrs. Dray, thinking of one last thing to be said, “for a number of reasons but this one most curiously: did you not know that he was Charles Quarrels’ twin and actually the older of the two?”

“No, I did not,” said Anna, surprized.

“Oh, I have heard of such a thing with twins,” said Mrs. Epping. “One is hale and the other sickly or deformed. They say it is because the healthy one—born plump and rosy-cheeked like a little Valentine cherub—steals nourishment from his brother in the womb. Yet Michael, having been born first, would have got the last laugh! For had he lived he would be the legal heir!”

Mrs. Dray nodded. “If he had survived, the entail on Moseley Manor would have directed that the estate go to
him
and not to his odious younger brother. The difference in age would have been a matter of minutes—but in the eye of the law, Michael would still have been oldest without qualification or exception. There should also be no fear that Charles would some day find a way to get his hands on Thistlethorn, for it would not be his to have either. How perfectly it would all work had the boy lived. But his defects, as my brother told it to Mr. Peppercorn, were to have put him in the grave by the age of six months. It is a miracle that he appears to have lived to the age of five!”

Anna looked at her teacup and nearly took a sip, and then she looked at her mother and said, “Mamma—now that it is out—this horrible thing that my Aunt Quarrels did—are we certain that there is
no
way that the intelligence could somehow be used against her?”

Mrs. Dray shook her head. “No, my dear Anna. There is still the other thing that keeps us from broadcasting it about with impunity.”

“Something to do with Mrs. Taptoe’s son Maurice, no doubt. The mere mention of his name brings my father to anger. What is it? You must tell me what Maurice has done that puts Papa into such an ill humour, for Gemma has been very good about keeping it to herself, such as to make her mother very proud. But you see, it is one of the last pieces to this rather large puzzle, and I am vexed beyond all words that I cannot have it.”

“Yet your father is the only one who should say it.”

“If Gemma will not speak of it, perhaps, Mrs. Taptoe…?”

“I doubt that she would, child.” Mrs. Dray glanced at the door. Taking her thoughts elsewhere, she shook her head in disconsolation and sighed. “I can only assume by now that May will not see me. I suppose, Anna, that we should go now and take up no more of Mrs. Epping’s time. She still has the linens to wash.” Mrs. Dray rose to do that very thing. “Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Epping, and for shewing us the papers. Keep them safe, for if there is ever need to prove what was done, we could use them to counter Mrs. Quarrels’ denial with the hard facts of the truth. Some day we may have use for them, but at present I know not how. Come, Anna. If you would be so kind as to have James take me home, I will leave you and Gemma to all the work that you have left to do for your ball.” Calling: “Gemma! Your mother is going! Are you coming along?”

“But you have forgotten, Mamma, that there is one other important matter that must be broached with Mrs. Epping.” Anna turned to Lucy Epping at that instant and said, “You speak to the gipsies now and then at the abbey, do you not?”

“Yes, I tell them not to make water upon the sacred stones.”

“Would it represent an imposition for me to ask if you might go thither at your earliest convenience and enquire into whether or no the missing Eliza Henshawe has been taken into their fold?”

“I should not mind it at all. I was wondering the same thing myself.”

Mrs. Dray seemed set to call for Gemma again, when Gemma and her sister May appeared at the door to the sitting room. May had been crying and her eyes were red and the thin flesh round them swollen. “Mamma,” said Gemma, “May has something which she wishes to say to you.”

May said nothing. Instead, she went wordlessly to her mother and put her arms round her neck. Here the sobbing began anew and it was a long moment before Mrs. Dray could get a syllable out of her daughter.

“Do not cry, my darling girl. Only tell your mother that we shall never fight so again. That is a compact upon which we can easily agree, is it not?”

“He is not coming,” said May in a dry and sober voice. “He wrote to me. I burnt the letter. He is not coming. He has met another in London. She is a Jewess. He has married her. They will raise Jewish children and they will attend church on the other Sabbath and eat strange foods with names I cannot pronounce and he will
not
be taking me all over Europe so that I should play the pianoforte for the crowned heads. Moreover, he and his bride are leaving for America on the morrow.
America
! Is it not to be believed?”

“Why are they going to America?” asked Anna. “And so quickly.”

“It is Lord Godby’s doing. Had it not been because of him, perhaps Shyman would have taken me to Europe instead. Now he is going to give up teaching the pianoforte and go into business with his brother on some island called Rhode, and they are going to sell hosiery. They are going to be American hosiers.”

“But I do not understand what Lord Godby has to do with any of this,” said Mrs. Dray.

“Have you not heard, Mamma?” replied Gemma. “Godby intends to push for passage of a bill in the Parliament requiring all Jews either to join the Church of England or emigrate.”

“But why?”

“Because a Jew stepped on his foot. In Mayfair. It was, without doubt, an accident, but Lord Godby contends that it is become a common occurrence— Jews stepping upon the feet of Christians. Lord Godby believes them to be purposeful acts.”

Said Anna, “Then he should advocate a law which says that Jews must not step on the feet of Christians. Or perhaps the law should read, ‘Jews should not step upon the toes of peers. Or peers named Godby.’ It is all equally ridiculous.”

Gemma did not smile. There was one thing more to tell—something that would never entice the happy, upturned lip: “All Jews who do not either convert or emigrate will stand in violation of the newest offence in the…”

“Oh, do not say it!” cried Anna. “You cannot mean it.”

“The Bloody Code,” said Mrs. Epping in a soft and frightened tone whilst nodding her head ever so slightly as if it were physically attached to the weight of the consequence.

May’s misery did not abate. “I have lost the man who was to be both my husband and my concert-manager and now I shall never play the pianoforte in the great European halls. I have loved a man whom I will never have. We could have been very happy together.”

“It is so terribly sudden,” observed Mrs. Dray,“yet the proposal of marriage itself was sudden and your acceptance pushed for with great urgency. Jews must be very quick people, indeed. No, no, my dear, I cannot say that I am sorry to see him depart from your life and detach you from his heart, but I do not advise you to file a breach of promise suit—not that it should do any good anyway, as he will be living outside the arm of English law across the sea. It is best that you simply forget any of it has happened, and start anew.”

“He was a good man, Mamma. And yet I still think that if it had not been for Lord Godby, you would have persisted in driving us apart. And Gemma, too, who I know schemed a little herself against the match. But at least
you
supported it, did you not, Anna?”

“I had not decided for myself if it should be good or bad, for there was still too much about the two of you and your affiliation that I did not know. For example, does he make a habit of stepping on people’s toes? This, of course, could be a bother, and perhaps even a stumbling block to your future happiness.”

“Only now and then when his eyeglasses slip.” May sighed. “I will miss the way he complimented my playing—he who knew good playing, he who taught
me
to play so very well. Mamma, I am wretched and miserable and I think that I shall kill myself.”

(May Dray did not kill herself. In less than a fortnight she had found another teacher, and though he was an Italian and a Papist and had dark and sullen eyes, and placed a squeezing, improper hand upon her shoulder when he gave the lesson, Mrs. Dray raised not a single objection. She had learnt not to interfere with such things.)

The very next afternoon Mrs. Epping knocked upon the door to the Feral Park mansion-house to report to Anna what she had been told by the gipsies who frequently visited the abbey. When there was no answer she rang the house-bell, and then was required to ring it yet a second time before Mr. Maxwell came to answer. He apologised for the delay; he could not hear it. There was too much noise inside with Gemma practising her voice to be mistress of ceremonies at the Feral Park Fête Galante; and Mr. Colin Alford’s shouted instructions to several of his students, who were using the saloon for their dance lessons whilst his school was receiving fresh coats of paint. There was May Dray at the pianoforte accompanying the dance practise; and Mr. Dalrymple and his three sons, Dalwin, Darwin and Dowd, who had come early to learn the music for the strange dances which Mr. Alford was devising for the ball; and there was a loud pother in the kitchen involving Mrs. Dorchester, who thought that the time had come for rabbit stew and large pots of it, and Mr. Peppercorn, who could not harm a single hare upon the Feral Park head, for it would surely dispirit Miss Younge, who loved animals nearly as much as she loved the deprived of East End. The mansion-house was congested, as well, by the presence of all the permanent residents of the Super House, who were on afternoon holiday from their dwelling so that it could be fumigated and made rid of its insect pests and then scrubbed clean to lose itself of the perpetual odors of senescent infirmity and infrequent bathing and old men’s flatulence which permeated it. The Feral Park pensioners had been gathered into the mansion-house drawingroom and given playing cards, and under Miss Younge’s supervision there was a rubber or two of loo and of Bumblepuppy (which is whist without respect for the rules), and then the cards were put away and an attempt at “Minister’s Cat” was made, with each sitting together in a circle and clapping and saying alphabetically what the “minister’s cat” is. The game proceeded thusly: