Стефани Баррон - A Flaw in the Blood

“Alice!”

The black figure halted. “You wished to speak to me, Mama?”

“Indeed.”

I longed to take the dear child in my arms, to mourn with her over the loss of her Sainted Papa—but Alice looked as approachable as marble. Impossible to caress. Her fortitude was all that was admirable during the last days of Albert’s illness. She haunted his rooms, followed in his steps as he moved sleepless through the Castle at night—played beloved German airs upon the piano to ease his fevered brain. But for all her goodness, I sense in Alice an unfortunate tendency to obstinacy . When she might have served as prop and comfort to her Mama, she prefers to ally herself with the younger children—Leopold, for example, upon whom she foolishly dotes. And Louise. And Helena. They refer to me as “Eliza” behind my back; Alice is the prime mover in all my children’s conspiracies.

“Pity your poor Mama, my child,” I began, “and do your utmost to console her—though none can, considering the All-in-All I have lost.”

“You have my pity, Mama,” she returned dutifully. “Of that you may be certain.”

“Pray sit down, dear child.”

Near at hand was a settee, placed in an alcove of the wall; after an instant’s hesitation, Alice bowed her head. She sat.

“I am so very tired,” she murmured.

“Naturally.” The word had more asperity than I intended. “You have sacrificed yourself perhaps too much for poor Papa—waiting upon him tirelessly, as though there were not a household of servants and doctors at Windsor, possessed of far greater experience and wisdom! But your vigilance could not keep Death from the door, my unfortunate Alice.”

“No,” she agreed. “Quite useless. All my love and anxiety for him—”

“I notice that your brother is now resident in the Castle. Who summoned him from Cambridge, pray?”

She raised her head. “I did, Mama. I could not allow Bertie to remain ignorant of Papa’s crisis.”

“ You could not allow!” Overwhelmed by a sick feeling of despair and helplessness—uncertain what could, or ought, to be revealed to such an innocent of her brother’s moral lapse—I was, for an instant, deprived of speech. “Are you unaware, Alice, that it is because of Bertie —his transgressions, the severe anxiety his weak character has caused—that your Papa lost all will to live? You did very wrong in summoning him. But for Bertie’s presence in the Blue Room—”

“—Papa might have rallied?” Her lip trembled. “Good God, Mama, when will you see the truth? Papa has been ill for weeks—months, perhaps!”

“Your father was well enough before the Prince of Wales broke his heart,” I cried. “And then you must dig his grave for him!”

Alice’s hands twisted convulsively in her lap, but her eyes remained fixed; she did not break down.

“I hope you will behave with greater modesty, in future,” I said lamely. “There is a degree of self-consequence in all your actions, Alice, that cannot be considered either proper or becoming. I shudder to think how your future husband may remark upon it.”

“Yes, Mama.”

I hesitated; there was much I yearned to know. And yet Alice is such a difficult creature—so aloof, so acute in her understanding...

“You were almost the last to attend him,” I observed. “You were by his side from morning until night. Never, from this day until the hour of your death, my dear, shall you have the slightest call to reproach yourself. You may be happy in the knowledge that you did your Duty.”

“Yes. I have that comfort.”

“He was so cold at the end,” I murmured. “His hands, his face, almost blue. As though the midnight of Heaven had wrapped itself already around him.”

Alice looked at me finally. I sank down beside her, clasped her hands in mine.

“And he whispered in your ear. German, of course. A few words, I think?”

Abruptly, she rose.

“Dear child, what did he tell you? Did he say anything of... the family? Anything, perhaps, of... me ?”

Alice’s eyelids flickered. “There are other people in the world, Mama, besides yourself. Though you can never be brought to see it.”

Such cruelty, at an hour when too much has already been torn from me! I rose and faced her.

“Pray consider, Alice. Do you think it is quite what Beloved Papa would wish—that you should refuse to confide in your suffering parent?”

She sighed, and closed her eyes. “Papa’s words were utterly unintelligible. The merest ravings. Question me as you choose, Mama, you shall never divine his meaning.”

She stepped deliberately around me and moved off without haste, unrepentant and unassailable, in the direction of her private apartments.

The tenement stairs led up to the garrets, and Fitzgerald took them two at a time, Georgie’s medical bag in his right hand. She followed, her skirts bunched in her fists, her breathing audible and rapid. She would, of course, be fighting the iron grip of stays around her rib cage; it was a small mercy, Fitzgerald reflected, that she hadn’t worn a crinoline that morning. She kept a kind of work uniform—of which the French twilled silk was one—of neat walking dresses designed to be worn over petticoats rather than the swaying bell of whalebone and stiffening; but all those layers were a treacherous impediment to haste. How would she navigate the roof ? And was she in slippers or boots?

The staircase ended abruptly in a landing.

Three doors gave off the hallway beyond—and the farthest one was ajar.

Somewhere below them, a shout went up—a curse of pure rage. The man with the cosh had found Button Nance—and from the squeal that followed, he hadn’t liked how the whore answered his questions.

“Patrick—”

“You’re not to go back.” He gripped Georgie’s hand, ignored her frown of protest, and pulled her through the doorway.

There were at least a dozen people in the shadowy room. A few women, a clutch of children, an elderly couple huddled by a smoking fire. Barely a stick of furniture, and the single dormer window had rags stuffed where glass should be. These were sodden with sleet and the air was cold enough to see your breath.

“Oi!” a woman shrieked. “Whaddya think yer about, then? This ain’t a flophouse; you can’t bring yer fancy-piece ’ere!”

The idea of Georgiana Armistead as prostitute would normally have fired Fitzgerald’s tongue, but he merely brushed his way past the woman’s upraised fist, and made for the dormer window. He threw wide the casement.

“Can we get out?” Georgie asked.

“It’s good and steep, but we’ve no choice. We’ll have to slide.” He scanned the tiles; they were slick with slush and treacherously cracked. Where the downslope of the garret met the upslope of the neighbouring hovel, a guttered roof joint ran between. Georgie would find safer footing there; he just hoped it did not lead to a sheer drop—he had no way of knowing, and no time to reconnoiter.

“Didn’ you hear me? Get out! ” the woman shrieked in his ear.

“Aye, and we’re just going.” He reached for his purse and found her a shilling—enough to cover her share of the rent for a month. “Take this for your trouble. Now, up you get, Georgie!”

He put his hands together and she stepped into them, hoisting herself onto the sill. Then she swung her heavy skirt through the window, while all the children in the place ran up to Fitzgerald to tug on his arm and beg for coppers. He scattered coins at his feet and told the largest boy, “Close the door and bolt it, there’s a good lad.” Then he followed Georgie out onto the tiles, sliding toward the roof joint.