Ellen Datlow: Black Heart, Ivory Bones

Of course the Upperstone ladies chose to find fault with me instead of their own malformed beast, and I do not know what was more mortifying, the surprized looks of Miss Gathercole and Miss Marianne, or the undisguised merriment of Kitty.

I have considered the matter carefully and am forced to conclude that it will be a great advantage to me in such a retired spot to be able to ride whatever horses come to hand. Perhaps I can prevail upon Joseph, Mrs. Gathercole’s groom, to teach me.

Today I went for a long walk in company with the five Miss Gathercoles. Sky as blue as paint, russet woods, fat white clouds like cushions — and that is the sum of all that I discovered of the landscape, for my attention was constantly being called away to the ladies themselves. “Oh! Mr. Simonelli! Would you be so kind as to do this ?” or “Mr. Simonelli, might I trouble you do do that ?” or “Mr. Simonelli! What is your opinion of such and such?” I was required to carry picnic-baskets, discipline unruly sketching easels, advise upon perspective, give an opinion on Mr. Coleridge’s poetry, eat sweet-cake and dispense wine.

I have been reading over what I have written since my arrival here, and one thing I find quite astonishing — that I ever could have supposed that there was a strong likeness between the Miss Gathercoles. There never were five sisters so different in tastes, characters, persons, and countenances. Isabella, the eldest, is also the prettiest, the tallest, and the most elegant. Henrietta is the most romantic, Kitty the most light-hearted, and Jane is the quietest; she will sit hour after hour, dreaming over a book. Sisters come and go, battles are fought, she that is victorious sweeps from the room with a smile, she that is defeated sighs and takes up her embroidery. But Jane knows nothing of any of this — and then, quite suddenly, she will look up at me with a slow mysterious smile and I will smile back at her until I quite believe that I have joined with her in unfathomable secrets.

Marianne, the second eldest, has copper-coloured hair, the exact shade of dry beech leaves, and is certainly the most exasperating of the sisters. She and I can never be in the same room for more than a quarter of an hour without beginning to quarrel about something or other.

John Windle has written me a letter to say that at High Table at Corpus Christi College on Thursday last Dr. Prothero told Dr. Considine that he pictured me in ten years’ time with a worn-out slip of a wife and a long train of broken-shoed, dribble-nosed children, and that Dr. Considine had laughed so much at this that he had swallowed a great mouthful of scalding-hot giblet soup, and returned it through his nose.

No paths or roads go down to John Hollyshoes’s house. His servants do not go out to farm his lands; there is no farm that I know of. How they all live I do not know. Today I saw a small creature — I think it was a rat — roasting over the fire in one of the rooms. Several of the servants bent over it eagerly, with pewter plates and ancient knives in their hands. Their faces were all in shadow. (It is an odd thing but, apart from Dando and the porcupine-faced nurse, I have yet to observe any of John Hollyshoes’s servants at close quarters: they all scuttle away whenever I approach.)

John Hollyshoes is excellent company, his conversation instructive, his learning quite remarkable. He told me today that Judas Iscariot was a most skilful beekeeper and his honey superior to any that had been produced in all the last two thousand years. I was much interested by this information, having never read or heard of it before, and I questioned him closely about it. He said that he believed he had a jar of Judas Iscariot’s honey somewhere and if he could lay his hand upon it he would give it to me.

Then he began to speak of how my father’s affairs had been left in great confusion at his death and how, since that time, the various rival claimants to his estate had been constantly fighting and quarrelling among themselves.

“Two duels have been fought to my certain knowledge,” he said, “and as a natural consequence of this, two claimants are dead. Another — whose passion to possess your father’s estate was exceeded only by his passion for string quartets — was found three years ago hanging from a tree by his long silver hair, his body pierced through and through with the bows of violins, violoncellos, and violas like a musical Saint Sebastian. And only last winter an entire houseful of people was poisoned. The claimant had already run out of the house into the blizzard in her nightgown, and it was only her servants that died. Since I have made no claim upon the estate, I have escaped most of their malice — though, to own the truth, I have a better right to the property than any of them. But naturally the person with the best claim of all would be Thomas Fairwood’s son. All dissension would be at an end, should a son arise to claim the estate.” And he looked at me.

“Oh!” said I, much surprized. “But might not the fact of my illegitimacy …?”

“We pay no attention to such things. Indeed with us it is more common than not. Your father’s lands, both in England and elsewhere, are scarcely less extensive than my own, and it would cost you very little trouble to procure them. Once it was known that you had my support, then I dare say we would have you settled at Rattle-heart House by next Quarter-day.”

Such a stroke of good fortune, as I never dreamt of! Yet I dare not depend upon it. But I cannot help thinking of it constantly ! No one would enjoy vast wealth more than I; and my feelings are not entirely selfish, for I honestly believe that I am exactly the sort of person who ought to have the direction of large estates. If I inherit, then I shall improve my land scientifically and increase its yields three or fourfold (as I have read of other gentlemen doing). I shall observe closely the lives of my tenants and servants and teach them to be happy. Or perhaps I shall sell my father’s estates and purchase land in Derbyshire and marry Marianne or Isabella so that I may ride over every week to Allhope for the purpose of inquiring most minutely into Mrs. Gathercole’s affairs, and advising her and Mrs. Edmond upon every point.

We have had no news of Dido Puddifer. I begin to think that Mrs. Edmond and I were mistaken in fancying that she had run off with a tinker or Gypsy. We have closely questioned farm-labourers, shepherds, and innkeepers, but no Gypsies have been seen in the neighborhood since midsummer. I intend this morning to pay a visit to Mrs. Glossop, Dido’s mother.

What a revolution in all my hopes! From perfect happiness to perfect misery in scarcely twelve hours. What a fool I was to dream of inheriting my father’s estate! — I might as well have contemplated taking a leasehold of a property in Hell! And I wish that I might go to Hell now, for it would be no more than I deserve. I have failed in my duty! I have imperilled the lives and souls of my parishioners. My parishioners! — the very people whose preservation from all harm ought to have been my first concern.

I paid my visit to Mrs. Glossop. I found her, poor woman, with her head in her apron, weeping for Dido. I told her of the plan Mrs. Edmond and I had devised to advertise in the Derby and Sheffield papers to see if we could discover any one who had seen or spoken to Dido.

“Oh!” said she, with a sigh, “‘twill do no good, sir, for I know very well where she is.”