Authors: Alison Rattle
The Beloved (23 page)
The sun is warm on my skin. I notice how, after a summer spent outside with the sleeves of my blouse rolled up, my arms have turned the pale brown of freshly baked biscuits. I put the basket of wet washing on the ground and pick out a garment to peg on the line. It is one of Eve's little smocks and I smile to see it hanging there, so tiny next to my own. I hear her giggles from across the yard. She is running circles around George again.
I finish pegging out the rest of the washing, and I stand for a moment with my hand shielding my eyes from the sun, looking out across the fields. I see a figure in the distance and my heart begins to dance in my chest. It is Tom. I can tell by the lazy sway of his hips and the assured swing of his arms. I quickly brush my fingers through my hair and check that my apron is clean.
I pick up the empty basket and turn back to the farmhouse. Ada is standing in the doorway watching me. âDon't fret,' she says, and then winks at me. âYou look a picture.'
Tom has been coming over from the neighbouring farm for months now to help George out. But this is the first time he has ever come to supper. I have never felt so nervous.
Then Eve runs around the corner, with George hobbling behind, pretending to chase her. âHelp me, Mama. Help me!' she squeals. âHe is going to eat me up!' She flings herself at my legs. I drop the basket to the ground and lift her into my arms. I nuzzle my face into her neck and breathe her in. I don't think I will ever tire of the hot, sweet, straw and dirt smell of her.
âI will save you!' I laugh into her neck. âI will always save you.' I swing her around in my arms and she squeals louder and louder. George has admitted defeat and is standing by Ada's side, both of them smiling at us broadly.
Then Eve catches sight of Tom and she wriggles out of my arms. âTom! Tom!' And she's off, her black ringlets bouncing off her back. And he already has his arms open to catch her.
I stand there for a moment and I look around at all of it: the farm, the fields, the sun, the sky. George and Ada who took me in without a question. George and Ada who love me like a daughter. George and Ada, who when Eve came along, instantly loved her too.
And Tom, of course. There are no promises and no wishes. It will be what it will be.
Once a month, George takes the cart and rides out to Bridgwater for candles and suchlike. He brings me snippets of news and gossip when he hears it. It was him that told me Mama had passed away last summer. A sickness of the brain, it was rumoured. There was a good turnout at her funeral, a dozen carriages at least. I was glad for her; she would have liked that. But I am not the least bit sorry that she is dead. Eli is married now too, with a child on the way. He still has the mill, although business is not as good as it once was. And it is said that he frequents the lowest parts of town more often than is decent. I hope that he has found some kind of happiness.
A few weeks back, George took us all for a ride out to Taunton to buy Ada a new bonnet. Taunton is not a small place, so I went with little expectation of coming across Beth. Nevertheless, as we climbed back into the cart to leave for home, with Ada balancing her new hatbox on her lap, a heavy disappointment lay across my shoulders. But then, as the cart trundled by a fancy goods shop, I happened to look behind as Eve pointed at something in the window. And there was Beth, tidying the display of ribbons, buckles and snuff boxes. She looked just the same, only softer and brighter. I put my hand up to wave, but of course she didn't see me. But it didn't matter. Just to see her was enough. Perhaps George will take me back to Taunton another day and I will walk into that shop and buy some ribbon for Eve, and Beth and I can talk to each of ordinary things, as if that is what we have always done.
George told me that the last time he was in Bridgwater he saw Henry Prince preaching in the town square. I was peeling onions at the time and when I heard his name, the knife slipped and sliced into my finger. I put the finger in my mouth and sucked on it. The sweetness of the blood mixed with the bitter sting of onion juice that had collected under my nails, tasted to me at that moment of life itself. Bitter and sweet all at once.
For out of the bitterness of it all, I now have the sweetest thing imaginable. I have my Eve.
And she is my Beloved.
I remember the last wish I ever made, on the day I left the Abode, the day I left my brother far behind. I remember tramping through the fields, the mud splashing my skirts and the rain stinging my face.
I only wish to be happy!
I'd shouted to the world.
I only wish to be happy!
And as I look around me now, at all the faces that I love, and who love me back, I realise that it came true.
I wished it, and it came true.
The Agapemonites (from Agapemone â meaning Abode of Love) was a religious sect founded in 1846 by a defrocked clergyman named Henry Prince.
Prince declared himself the âHoly Spirit' and managed to persuade a number of believers, mostly rich widows and spinsters, to sell everything they owned for the Lord. With the proceeds, Prince set about building the sect's headquarters in the tiny Somerset village of Spaxton. These headquarters consisted of a twenty-bedroom mansion, a chapel, cottages, stables and a gazebo. The whole site was surrounded by fifteen-foot walls and was guarded by ferocious bloodhounds.
Prince's followers were divided into hierarchies. Those who had given the most continued to live a life of luxury, spending their days reading, playing hockey and billiards and, of course, worshipping Prince during the daily sermons in the chapel. Those women who had no riches to give to the Lord, gave their labour instead and lived as servants. They were known as the Parlour.
The very existence of the Abode of Love caused moral outrage in the society of the day, with its strict Victorian values of propriety, modesty and virtue. The newspapers were full of the scandal of it, and readers lapped up stories of brainwashing, sexual outrages and attempts to kidnap various family members. It was said that Prince took advantage of his exalted position to take many âspirit brides' and to even rape a young kitchen maid on the chapel altar in front of his congregation.
In 1896, at the ripe old age of 85, Henry Prince initiated the building of a church in Clapton, North London. It was a vastly ornate building (still standing today) that included a stained glass window which depicted the submission of womankind to man.
Prince died in 1899, causing panic amongst his followers who had truly believed he was immortal. They buried him standing upright, in readiness for the Day of Reckoning.
Prince was succeeded by a man called John Smyth-Pigott who declared himself the second Messiah. Incredibly the Agapemonites grew from strength to strength, with the number of women at the Abode swelling to nearly one hundred. It was reported that Smyth-Pigott took at least seven âspirit brides' a week.
It wasn't until the death of Smyth-Pigott in 1927 that membership of the sect started to decline. By the early 1950s only a handful of âdisillusioned old women and frustrated young women' were left.
The last member of the sect, a sister Ruth, died in 1957. The following year, the Abode was sold and the chapel went on to be used as a backdrop for the children's television series
Trumpton
and
Camberwick Green
.
Alison grew up in Liverpool, and now lives in a medieval house in Somerset with her three teenage children, her husband â a carpenter â an extremely naughty Jack Russell and a ghost cat. She has co-authored a number of non-fiction titles on subjects as diverse as growing old, mad monarchs, how to boil a flamingo, the history of America and the biography of a nineteenth-century baby killer. She has worked as a fashion designer, a production controller, a painter and decorator, a barmaid, and now owns and runs a vintage tea room. Alison has also published two previous YA books about young Victorian women with Hot Key Books â
The Quietness
and
The Madness
. Follow Alison at
www.alisonrattle.com
or on Twitter:
@alisonrattle
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First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Hot Key Books
Northburgh House, 10 Northburgh Street, London EC1V 0AT
Text copyright © Alison Rattle 2015
The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-4714-0380-4
This eBook was produced using Atomik ePublisher
Hot Key Books is part of the Bonnier Publishing Group