The Passage (18 page)

“I enjoy hunting,” he replied, “or were you inquiring about more civilized pursuits?  I like to read, and I always visit the theater when I’m in London.”

“Comedy or tragedy?”

“Tragedy.  I prefer plays that make me think and feel rather than just laugh, although sometimes that’s just what’s needed.  I like music as well.  Jane used to play the harpsichord, but she’s in mourning now.  I enjoyed hearing you sing,” he added wistfully.  “Will you sing for me?” he suddenly asked.

“What? Now?”

“Why not?  We have some hours yet; it will make the journey more pleasant.”

“I don’t know many songs,” I replied.

“Just sing the one you sang before.  I like it.”  I was about to refuse him, but the expression on his face made me change my mind.  He seemed so forlorn that I took a deep breath and began to sing softly.  I’m not sure why, but I felt a need to make him feel better, if only for a few minutes.

By the time we reached our destination the sun was sinking below the horizon, the sky a deep lavender slashed with blood-red streaks, a truly spectacular sight, particularly when seen from the open road with nothing but open space all around.  The Finch house appeared almost black against the darkening sky, only a few lights reminding us that it was occupied.  In truth, it was more of a fortress than a house.  It must have been a castle at one point, but it had been built upon, and the new parts of the building were on either side of what must have been the keep.  The tower stood stark and sullen against the evening sky; its crenellated top like jagged teeth taking a bite out of the heavens. 

The newer parts had somewhat larger windows and pleasing proportions, but the whole place gave the impression of being watchful and ready for a siege.  I dismounted and allowed the men to take my horse, while I followed Hugo to the massive front door which was studded with iron nails and held in place by hinges that were probably as wide as my arm.  The whole atmosphere gave me an uneasy feeling.  I looked up at the arrow slits in the keep, almost expecting a few archers to be positioned there; ready to fire on us should we prove to be unwelcome guests. 

The door was opened by a middle-aged woman, who bid us to wait in the chilly side room probably once used as an antechamber by the lord of the castle.  It was made entirely of stone; cold and silent as a tomb, and almost entirely bare except for a hard wooden bench pushed up against the wall.  At last, our host appeared, and my feeling of dread dissipated.  I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the man who came toward us was smiling in welcome, his eyes twinkling with mirth.  He was bald as an egg, but had bushy whiskers which hugged his generous jowls like the flaps of a hat. 

“Lord Everly!” he exclaimed.  “We’ve been expecting you.  I trust all is well?  And who is this enchanting young lady?”  Mr. Finch took my hand and kissed it lightly as he smiled into my eyes.  “You are most welcome, my dear.  I’m glad to see Hugo has finally found some female company.  He’s in danger of becoming a monk.”  He gave Hugo a sly look, and I couldn’t help wondering if he were in some way referring to Hugo’s Catholicism, but Hugo didn’t seem put out in any way, and I decided that his secret was probably safe. 

“Your room is ready, as is supper.  We’ll wait if you prefer to freshen up, but I must admit that I don’t like my meat cold.”

“I take your meaning,” Hugo said, taking my arm and leading me down a narrow, dim hallway to what must be the dining room.  I would have liked to change and wash my hands at least, but I followed obediently, eager to sit down on something that wasn’t moving.  The room was lit by a brace of candles, which did little to dispel the overall gloom.  Much as the foyer, it was all stone, hung with several paintings and tapestries of hunting scenes. 
We must be in the old part of the house
, I thought as I took in the small windows tightly covered with shutters against the spring evening. 

“May I present my son, Lionel Finch and his charming wife, Frances,” Mr. Finch the elder announced for my benefit.  Hugo obviously knew Lionel Finch already.  The two men gave each other a stiff bow, something unspoken hanging between them as they both sat down.  I smiled in greeting and made a small curtsy as I sat down on the hard chair.  The candlelight was at eye level, so I was better able to make out the faces of Lionel and his wife.  Lionel Finch looked nothing like his father.  He wore an elaborate wig of blond hair and was dressed as if he were dining at Court.  His face was narrow and lean, dominated by large eyes that appeared almost colorless against his pale face and blond wig.  He gave me a smile of welcome, but the smile never reached his eyes, which seemed to be studying me as if I were a particularly interesting specimen.  I felt uncomfortable under that basilisk stare and turned my attention to his wife. 

Frances Finch appeared to be no more than fourteen.  She was slight and pale, but beautiful in a way that a doll would be beautiful; her features perfect, but somehow lifeless.  Blonde ringlets framed her heart-shaped face, and her wide blue eyes were huge in her face, the dancing reflection of candlelight reflected in her dilated pupils.  Her lips slightly quivered as she shyly met my gaze across a platter of fowl.  I wasn’t sure if it was the work of the shifting shadows, but I thought I noticed a bruise on her cheek, unsuccessfully covered up with a layer of powder.  Frances hastily averted her eyes and stared down at her hands, like a child who was expecting a talking-to.  I tried to engage her in conversation, but her answers were hesitant and limited to monosyllables and practiced smiles.

I attempted to follow the conversation of the men, but I was too tired to really care about what was being said.  Hugo was on the far side of the table, his gravelly voice washing over me as he answered Mr. Finch’s numerous questions about Court and commented on some of the more prevalent political issues of the day.  The younger Finch didn’t say much, but I sensed an anger in him that seemed to be directed at his father.  He appeared resentful of the old man, and his few comments were meant to undermine and disrespect.  Mr. Finch seemed not to notice, but Frances stiffened every time her husband spoke, shrinking deeper into the huge chair.  She reminded me of Alice in Wonderland after she drank the shrinking potion; everything appeared too large as she sat at the table, trying to become invisible. 

After the last course was finished, Mr. Finch gave Frances a meaningful look and she hastily rose to her feet.  “Mistress Ashley, if you would be so kind as to join me in the parlor,” she said.  I thought her voice shook, but I wasn’t sure.  I followed her out, happy to leave the men to their talk and just sit quietly for a while.  I didn’t expect any meaningful conversation from the lady of the house, which was just as well since I was too tired to keep up the facade.  I longed for a hot bath to drain the tension from between my shoulder blades and my lower back and a soft bed, but I’d have to wait. 

Frances led me to a small parlor which was furnished with several chairs, a round table which might be used for dicing or card games, and a harp.  The back wall was decorated with a large tapestry depicting some hero on a battlefield, surrounded by fallen soldiers who were either already dead or dying.  The knight had his helmet off, a look of naked desperation on his face as his surveyed the carnage and evidently resigned himself to die fighting.  Blotches of red thread depicted his wounds, which were bleeding profusely, the blood running down his shiny armor as he raised his sword, possibly for the last time.  The scene was awfully depressing, especially for a room intended for relaxation and pursuit of pleasure. 

Despite the fire, the parlor was chilly, so I settled in a chair in front of the fireplace, enjoying the warmth of the flames and the smell of burning wood.  Frances took a seat in the chair opposite and tried to smile.  Now that she was lit up by the firelight, I could see a dark shadow on her breast, which was also dusted with powder.  She flinched as she saw where my gaze fell and opened her mouth to say something, but closed it again, suddenly shy.  Her pupils were still dilated, but slightly less, and she appeared to be a little more animated.

“Have you been married long?” I asked, in an effort to draw her out. 

“Just over a year,” she whispered, her eyes not meeting mine. 

“It must be daunting being the mistress of such a large house.”  I had no idea what to say to the girl, but we couldn’t just sit there in silence, and she didn’t seem inclined to pick a topic.

“Not really,” she replied.  “My husband doesn’t want me involved in the running of the house.  There are servants who see to everything, which is just as well since I wouldn’t know where to begin.  Lionel wants everything done as it would be at Whitehall Palace and gets very angry if something doesn’t meet with his approval.  He’s not titled, you know, but he likes to pretend that he is, especially at home where he can lord it over everyone.”  That was the longest speech I’d heard from Frances so far.  Encouraged by her desire to talk, I tried to continue the conversation.

“Do you visit the tenants?” I asked, mindful of the conversation I had with Hugo earlier.

“No.  I’m not permitted to leave the grounds.”  Frances finally raised her eyes to mine, and I thought I saw the shimmer of tears.  “You are the first woman I’ve encountered in months, besides the servants.”

“What of your family?”

“My mother died just after I was born, and my father was only too happy to see me married.  I was a burden to him, you see.  He has my brother to keep him company.  I haven’t seen either of them since my marriage.”

“It must be lonely for you,” I remarked, hoping I wasn’t upsetting her. 

Frances just nodded, her eyes fixed on her folded hands.  I knew I shouldn’t have asked, but I couldn’t help myself. 

“How old are you, Frances?”

“Fourteen,” she whispered.  So, they married this poor girl off at thirteen, or possibly even twelve, to a man who had to be in his mid-thirties.  What was her life like in this tomb?  She seemed so fragile.

“Frances, are you unwell?” I asked, still conscious of the strange appearance of her eyes.

“The drops make me feel somewhat muddled,” she replied apologetically.

“What drops?”

“Lionel brought me drops from London.  He said all the fashionable ladies use them at Court.  I’m to put them in my eyes before I come down to dine.  He says it makes my eyes more beautiful, but I start to feel confused and light-headed, and I can’t see clearly.  They are starting to wear off now, so I see you better.  Does Lord Everly ask you to use them as well?”

It took me a moment to comprehend what Frances was referring to.  I’d read something about ladies using belladonna drops in their eyes to make their pupils appear dilated and, in their estimation, more seductive, but I could have sworn that practice originated in Renaissance Italy and wasn’t actively practiced in seventeen-century England.  However, belladonna was a known poison, also referred to as deadly nightshade.  If used improperly it could kill, or at the very least, cause disorientation, hallucinations, and nightmares. 

“Frances, are they drops of belladonna?” I asked carefully.

“Oh, yes.  Lionel says that belladonna means beautiful lady in Italian.”

“Have you told him that these drops make you feel unwell?  Surely he wouldn’t want you to become ill.”  I wanted to scream at her that she should stop using them, but Frances was clearly under the spell of her husband and wouldn’t listen to me anyway.  At least her face wasn’t coated with thick lead-based face paint which over time could kill her, but then, she was still very young.  That was probably still to come.

“Lionel likes me this way.  He says that the drops make me behave more appropriately in polite company.  He says that children should be seen and not heard.”

I nearly gagged at this statement, but I had to proceed carefully.  I was a mere visitor in this male-dominated society, and riling up poor Frances to rebel against her husband would only cause her harm.  Most women of the age used their wiles and backhanded tactics to achieve their goals while playing the docile and obedient female in public.  Perhaps Frances knew how to manipulate her husband to get her way, but it didn’t seem like it.

“I wish I was dead,” Frances suddenly said, raising her blue eyes to mine.  “I’d take my own life if it weren’t a mortal sin.  I’d even considered drinking all the drops at once, but the thought of going to Hell scares me far more than the thought of living.  So I wish that I would die naturally.  It would be a very welcome relief.”  She no longer sounded shy or afraid.  Her voice was strong, and I got the distinct impression that she’d given this a lot of thought.  To hear such sentiments from a fourteen-year-old child was disturbing, to say the least.  What would make her wish for death?  Her life didn’t seem very fulfilling or fun, but by the standards of the day, she was a very lucky girl, one who had every comfort and security.

“Why, Frances?”  I’d only met this girl a few hours ago, but I wanted to help her.  She seemed so lost, so tragic.  Perhaps it was just need for attention that made her say those things, but I couldn’t just ignore what I’d heard.

“I begged my father not to agree to the marriage, but my husband paid handsomely for me.  My father didn’t have a dowry to give me, but I have a title, which was more desirable.  My husband hoped to improve his prospects and thought that I would help him do that.  He’s been disappointed on that score.” 

“Is he unkind to you?” I asked, thinking of the bruises I’d glimpsed.

“I make him angry,” she whispered.  “He says that it’s my fault that I haven’t gotten with child.  How can I when he can’t do his part?  He tries, but then says that I’m not woman enough to arouse him.  He flies into a rage and hits me until I beg him to stop.  He likes it when I beg.  Sometimes that makes him…”  Frances suddenly stopped, realizing that she’d said too much.  She reached out and took my hand, her own cold as marble on mine.

“Makes him what?” I asked, terrified of what her answer might be.

Frances shook her head, unable to answer my question.  She’d clearly spoken to no one about this, and ladies didn’t discuss intimate subjects in polite company, especially with someone they’d just met.  I could see that she’d been desperate to confide in someone, but now she was afraid that she crossed a line. 

“I wish I was dead,” she repeated softly, gazing into my eyes.  “There’s nothing for me in this world.  One day he won’t be appeased by my crying and he’ll kill me in a rage.  And no one will care or even notice.  They’ll just bury me and forget I was ever even here.”