Poor Jacky, page 11
The boy, his face like a mask, looked into Edmond’s eyes. The eyebrows rose quizzically. Edmond gaped in astonishment. It was as though the boy was looking directly into him, reading his mind - no, that wasn’t accurate. He wasn’t reading Edmond’s mind, he was writing on it!
But do we not kill the birds, father? The question formed in Edmond’s mind. He tried to recoil from it but he found he could not even release the boy’s arm. Do we not kill them and eat them? Is that not the way?
It was a struggle but Edmond got himself free. He toppled backwards and onto the blood of the duck, that was forming a puddle around their feet.
A gurgle of childish laughter echoed in Edmond’s head. The child’s expression hadn’t changed in the slightest.
Edmond scuttled backwards like a crab.
What is this child? What is this thing?
You’re a fool - The thought was, he believed, his own. Of course; the child’s first trip outdoors, his first encounter with a duck other than on a dinner plate... He had reacted instinctively. Killing the duck had been a primal act. Understandable - up to a point.
Edmond got to his feet.
“Come on, Johnny.” He held out his hand, his finger, for the boy to take. The boy ignored it. “We’ll go and see the pigs. You’ll like the pigs.”
He headed off, away from the lake. He stopped. The boy turned stiffly and began to follow, in measured strides across the grass.
Yes, thought Edmond; you won’t be able to get your hands on a pig so easily.
***
They hadn’t got far before Edmond realised the boy was no longer following. He turned to see the child standing stock still, staring at nothing. Edmond went back.
“You wish to be carried, is that it?” He knew it was pointless to wait for an answer or indeed a response of any kind. He scooped the boy in his arms and continued on their way to the livestock.
The estate boasted quite a sizable farmyard, far from the house where the smells presented no inconvenience no matter which way the wind blew. There were chickens roaming freely across the straw-strewn dirt - Edmond decided against setting the boy on his feet until these creatures had moved on. A goat with a long, straggly coat was tethered to a post. The boy pointed at this beast with interest. Edmond took him a little closer - but not too close. The goat cocked its head and looked at the boy with its strange yellow eyes, their rectangular pupils like black marks across the sun.
Edmond shivered.
“The pigs are over here,” he announced. He moved away from the goat. The boy squirmed in his arms, unwilling to look away from the animal until they had turned a corner.
Edmond was pleased the boy was responding to the stimulating atmosphere of the farmyard. He was taking in his surroundings, pointing at things that caught his attention: a piece of machinery here, a bird’s nest in the eaves there, and a steaming pile of manure there.
“You like the farm then, Jacky?” Edmond tried to catch the boy’s eye. “You like the animals?”
The boy wriggled, keen to be released. Instead, Edmond held him at the fence that stood around the sty. He held the boy so that he could stand on a cross bar in the fence and lean his little arms on the top. Edmond stood behind the child, lest he fall backwards. He pointed at the pigs in turn, over the boy’s shoulder, naming them in turn.
“That’s the sow. She’s called Old Spot. That’s her litter. Pinky, Winky and Stinky and um - perhaps you’d like to name the rest of them, Jacky? Would you like that?”
The boy’s mouth was open as his eyes darted all around, taking in every detail of the sty. His nose was running. Edmond fished out a handkerchief and wiped the boy’s face.
“There! That’s better! Do you like the pigs, Jacky?”
To Edmond’s amazement, the boy clapped his hands. He made that gurgling sound at the back of his throat.
“They’re handsome pigs, aren’t they, Jacky? They’ll fetch us a pretty price when they’re older.”
They watched the pigs rooting around in the straw and the mud, amused by the antics of the little ones.
I should have brought him here first, Edmond reflected.
And when did I start calling him Jacky?
***
Paul was heading south to Edinburgh. The wait for the train and most of the journey passed him by as he lost himself in Miss Beamish’s notes, piecing together the narrative as she had done from fragments of letters, parish records and, it had to be admitted, a large amount of conjecture. Perhaps the old biddy had in mind a historical novel, he reflected. She certainly had a flair for the sensational. Perhaps her intention was for him, as the Novelist, to add finesse to the story. Was she after a ghost writer or a credit?
A call from Judy brought him back from the nineteenth century and to the crowded, cheaply upholstered and gaudily painted railway carriage.
“I’m hearing good things about Aberdeen, boychick,” she croaked. “Good numbers.”
Paul grunted something noncommittal.
Judy continued with what amounted to a pep talk. It was little more than a prolonged monologue of nagging and certainly nothing Henry V need worry about. Paul feigned listening. He became irritated by this seemingly endless stream of “and don’t forget”s; he was keen to get back to the notebook.
Finally, Judy rang off. Paul was glad he hadn’t had to claim he was going into a tunnel. Judy was the kind of person who would check the map and the train timetable.
Paul settled back into the melodramatic world of Dedley Hall two hundred years before he had known it.
Let’s see what that weird little bugger is up to now...
***
The routine soon became established. Every morning, the Earl would collect the boy from the nursery and take him out for a stroll around the grounds, as far as the farmyard and back. Below stairs, this was considered a positive innovation. The child would benefit and the greater hope was that the Earl would continue to soften his stern and irascible temperament. Such a development would be beneficial to all.
While the pair was at large, Lady Alice was at first at a loss to do with her liberty. She would stay in the nursery, fretting over the child’s absence, anxious for his return. But after a few heavy hints had been dropped like silver salvers by the maidservants, she emerged and began to make more use of the time. She would read or embroider or catch up with society gossip in the newssheets. She would take the air herself, in a buggy ride to the village. People remarked that the rarely seen lady of the manor appeared to be in good health and complexion, and so sweet was her nature, the shopkeepers, their customers, and the general public who lingered in the thoroughfares, looked out for the conveyance in the hope of gleaning a cheery good morning from Her Ladyship as they tipped their hats and tugged their forelocks as she passed.
This re-emergence and resurgence was attributed to the foundling boy. His adoption into the family was clearly the best thing that could have happened to the childless couple, after their tragedy and estrangement.
Word of “Hall business”, as it was called rather than the low gossip it really was, spread around the village and through the nearby town of Dedley faster than a March wind or an outbreak of cholera. Indiscreet servants would prattle to delivery men or regale the company in a smoky public house with updates and bulletins. Everyone knew everything about the Earl and his family, it seemed. As Shakespeare observed, what great ones do, the less will prattle of.
(Ah, Miss Beamish! Paul smirked, Literary pretension, no less!)
But the prattlers did not know the full story. They were not privy to what transpired on these daily visits to the farmyard. They did not know what was said between the Earl and the boy. It was a safe bet that the boy said nothing whatsoever but as time passed and he grew stronger (but not taller) the little lad lost some of his sickliness and would sometimes surprise those within earshot with an exclaimed word or, on the rarest occasions, a complete sentence.
Whatever was going on, it was clear the Earl was bringing the boy out of himself and every utterance of the child was greeted as a marvel.
“Bird!” he might cry out, a raised finger crooked towards the sky. “No rain!” he might protest against wet weather. “The mother pig is called Old Spot,” he might remind all those who had forgotten this unassailable fact.
Years passed and the boy, now eight years old as far as anyone could judge, was still the same size he had been since the age of three. His hair was long, hanging lankly to his shoulders, blond as butter and his skin like cream. His eyes were large and of the palest grey. They lent his face a lugubrious expression - when he was not scowling or frowning over something that vexed or perplexed him. When he smiled - an event rarer than his speaking - he revealed neat teeth of inordinate and surprising sharpness. Those who glimpsed them were startled. It was hoped these milk teeth would cede their places to a more normal set. The boy, despite appearances to the contrary, was still growing after all.
One day in October of 1821, the Earl came running back to the Hall, bright leaves of russet and gold flying up like disturbed pigeons. He was bearing the boy in his arms, wrapped in his coat. The boy was unconscious but appeared dead - Old Sally so reported to the doctor when he arrived.
The Earl, at the boy’s bedside, was overwhelmed with grief and self-recrimination. “If only I hadn’t looked away,” he wailed, tearing at his hair, “he wouldn’t have gone near that damnable beast.”
“What beast is that, my lord?” The doctor paused in his examination of the child.
“That bloody goat!” the Earl wailed. “I only glanced away. A few seconds. A minute and no more!”
At that moment, Lady Alice dashed in, having returned from her buggy ride and been apprised of the accident.
“What have you done?” she turned on her husband. Before Edmond could utter a syllable, she smacked his face with the flat of her hand.
“Alice, please!”
She smacked him again.
The little doctor, timid to a fault, found the courage to speak up. He suggested His Lordship and Her Ladyship take their, um, discussion elsewhere, so that the child could rest.
“Yes, doctor,” Edmond nodded and strode out. His cheek was red and smarting but he would not give Lady Alice the satisfaction of knowing she had hurt him. He waited in the corridor for her to emerge. She swept past him and into her apartments. She slammed the door emphatically.
She needs time to calm down, he told himself. I will get the opportunity to explain what happened and she will see I did not purposefully cause harm to the boy. I would never -
He moved towards Lady Alice’s door. He lifted his hand to knock but then decided against it. He retreated instead to his den and his port.
The Earl’s drinking had decreased in recent times - rather the time of day at which he began had been pushed back due to his morning walks with Jacky. He had also taken to retiring to his bed at a more reasonable hour in order to rise without too much of a headache to take the boy out.
“Don’t know why I bothered,” he grumbled into his tumbler. “No matter what I do, she remains cold towards me.”
The more port he swilled, the greater his conviction that his wife was a cold-hearted bitch - no, a heartless bitch - no, a cruel and a callous - and -
He slumped into a stupor. His last thought before oblivion: At least I don’t have to get up for Jacky’s walk in the morning.
While the Earl was steeping himself in alcohol, Lady Alice was hearing the alarming report of the doctor. The mealy-mouthed man had an infuriating way of expressing himself but a few sharp admonitions got the truth out of him.
Jacky’s injuries were consistent with His Lordship’s account of an encounter with a goat, Her Ladyship need have no concern on that score, and, the doctor was certain, had His Lordship not intervened, the beast would have undoubtedly have done its worst.
“But,” the doctor lowered his quiet voice to a whisper, “I feel duty bound to inform you, Your Ladyship, my examination brought to light numerous other injuries - some of them older than others, given the evidence on the child’s limbs and torso.”
“Injuries, man? What mean you? Out with it!”
The doctor steeled himself and reeled off a catalogue of bruises and contusions. The boy’s ribcage seemed to have taken the brunt of it but there were also marks on the boy’s arms and legs, his back and his neck - Had Her Ladyship not noticed any of these herself?
Lady Alice shrank from the doctor’s implied accusation. Her mind was reeling. She blustered something about the bathing of the child being Old Sally’s province. Indeed, the boy had recently taken to bathing himself, now of an age to -
“What, doctor?”
“The child obviously feels the need for privacy. It is invariably the case. The victim feels ashamed of his injuries and seeks to conceal them.”
“Victim? Doctor, what are you saying? It is in the nature of boys to suffer knocks and bumps as they throw themselves into life. “
“My lady, this is not a matter of a grazed shin or a skinned knee.”
“Doctor, what are you saying?” But the answer was already presenting itself to Lady Alice’s mind. She shook her head as tears sprang from her eyes. “I refuse to believe it. I will not countenance - I...”
The doctor hung his head.
“Now the matter has come to light, it can be addressed. If you feel His Lordship should spare the rod -”
Lady Alice’s astonished expression cut him short.
“Thank you, doctor. I trust we can depend on the strictest confidence.”
The doctor nodded. He backed out of the room. As he descended the stairs, he considered calling in on His Lordship in his den. This idea was quashed as soon as it arose. The doctor was a coward, after all, and he preferred to keep his doughy skin unblemished.
***
Lady Alice hurried to the nursery. The child was asleep. Bandages encircled his head and chest. Old Sally was dozing in a chair at the bedside. She snorted and roused herself at the sound of Her Ladyship’s voice.
“My poor Jacky.” Lady Alice reached for the boy’s hand but stopped herself before her fingers could close around it. She didn’t want to disturb the boy or cause him further pain. “Sally, had you any inkling?”
The old servant shook her head. Her world-weary eyes were wet.
“This must never happen again, you understand?” Lady Alice began to pace the floor. “Jacky must be protected. His Lordship - His Lordship must not be alone with him again.”
“But, forgive me, Milady, His Lordship won’t stand for no interference from the likes of me. If he comes here, barking orders and throwing his weight around, I can’t do nothing to stop him.”
Lady Alice gave her oldest retainer a quick appraisal.
“You’re right. Then we must make sure poor Jacky is not here when His Lordship comes to call.”
“Milady?”
“Pack some things, Sally. I’m forming a plan.”
***
The Earl kept his distance from his wife and the child for a couple of weeks. Indeed, he did not leave his den. He would ring when he required food and drink (mainly drink) supplies replenished, or the chamber pot emptied. Morton, the butler, maintained a blank exterior, operating like a clockwork automaton, never betraying the slightest hint of the disgust and indeed the concern he felt over His Lordship’s conduct.
When a fortnight was out, Edmond roused himself from a drunken slumber and deemed the whole situation ridiculous. He would see his wife and remind her who wore the breeches, stained though they may be, in this household. He would see the boy and, after the appropriate period of rest and recuperation, the morning walks would resume.
He rang the bell for Morton and demanded that arrangements be made for bathing. He would give his wife no occasion to divert the discussion with disapproving commentary about his appearance.
“Very good, sir,” Morton intoned, the first words Edmond had heard another human utter for two weeks.
Following his ablutions and a hearty, restorative breakfast, the Earl of Dedley felt fit to face the world, or rather its representative in the form of his wife.
He fairly bounded up the stairs and thrust himself into the nursery with a hearty ‘good morning.’ His salutation met with no response. Neither did his sudden intrusion meet with admonishment or reaction of any kind. The room was unoccupied. The room had been stripped bare.
“What in blazes!” the Earl swore, adding a string of stronger expletives. He stomped around the room but there was no contradicting his initial assessment. The room was as empty as could be.
He dashed out onto the landing to check he had stormed into the correct room. He had. He bellowed for Morton to come and explain this outrageous removal. The butler blinked from the foot of the stairs, muttering apologies for his ignorance of the whole affair.
The Earl cast around for something to throw at the man. With an explosion of frustration he strode to his wife’s apartments and burst through the door with neither preamble nor ceremony.
Lady Alice was at her dresser, brushing her long hair. For a second the Earl was distracted by the memory of the first time he saw her with her tresses unfettered, and the breathless happy intimacy that ensued. But then he remembered what he had come for. He snatched the hairbrush from her hand and dashed it at the wall.
“Where is Jacky?”
Lady Alice recoiled. He seized her by the wrists.
“Where’s the boy? Damn it, Alice! What have you done with my son?”
Lady Alice snorted in retort.
“I could very well ask you the same question! Your son, indeed! A fine time for you to wax paternal.”
The cold contempt in her eyes was like being pierced by icicles. Edmond relaxed his grip.
“Jacky is safe,” she turned her back but watched his reflection in the dresser’s oval mirror. “Safe where none such as you might find him. The boy must be protected.”
“And it is a father’s job to provide that protection.”
“That is rich! “
“What mean you, Alice? One incident alone! And you deny me access! I’ll shoot the bloody goat if that will appease you.”
