The Unseen(24)

‘My Albert … I love you so much,’ she breathes. His kiss is firm, lips clamped together. Hesitantly, Hester opens her mouth; just a little, but Albert pulls back. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says quickly.

‘No, no. I …’ Albert whispers, but doesn’t finish the sentence. His hands are at either side of her face, lightly holding her head and stroking her hair. Hester wriggles a little, desperate to feel his hands move lower, to feel his touch on her breasts and stomach and hips. On instinct she moves her knees apart, a fraction at a time, so it seems as if it is his weight that pushes them open. He comes to rest against her pelvis and Hester moves her hands to his hips, to hold him tighter to her. The feeling is irresistible, compulsive. There is a delicious ache in the pit of her stomach, butterflies of anticipation making her shudder. She lets her hands stray to his buttocks, and pulls him closer. Albert freezes. His face pulls back from hers and she can hear his breathing, fast and almost panicky.

‘Albert, what’s wrong?’ she asks, craning her head up to be kissed again. But Albert pulls further away. He swallows audibly, and carefully climbs off her, to lie on his side of the bed, not even touching her. ‘Albert, please! Tell me what’s the matter!’ Hester whispers, the sting of this rejection all too sharp.

‘I’m so sorry, Hetty,’ he says, meek and desolate. Hester’s heart aches for him, and she bites her lip to keep from crying. But try as she might, she can find no words to comfort him, no way to say that it doesn’t matter. Because at that moment it matters more than anything else in the world. She lies silent for a long time, too upset to sleep; she can tell from his breathing and his stillness that Albert is also awake. They lie there inches from each other, but it seems to Hester that a wide gulf stretches between them.


In her attic room, Cat begins a letter to Tess. The hardest thing for me, in that rotten cell, was knowing that you were somewhere nearby, in just such a cell, but still I could not see you or speak to you, she writes, the candle’s flicker making the shadow of her pen leap and stagger. This is not true, though. The hardest thing had been waiting in the morning’s pale, cold light, which woke her early, as she heard the trolley and the footsteps come down the corridor towards her. She heard it stop, heard doors open and close, heard the screams and scuffles behind them, the choking sounds, the retching and coughing, the swearing of the wardens. All the while it came nearer and nearer, all the while she knew she would be next. Her turn was coming. The waiting for it was the worst, the fear of it debilitating. In a haze of hunger and dread, she had lain for an hour, some mornings, listening to that trolley squeal and rattle its way towards her. The sound of it pushed a bow wave of horror into every cell along the row, so strong it was almost palpable. The few simple items aboard that small vehicle were enough to cause strong hearts to falter, and tears of sheer terror to well in Cat’s eyes.

I’m going to send this to Broughton Street in case you have been in touch there, in case you’ve left word of your whereabouts, she continues. She pauses, grips the end of her pen between her teeth. How can she not think what to write, to her best friend? To the person she thinks of most often? I do miss you, Tess. Here is not such a bad place, I can see that with my waking eyes, but all the while I feel trapped. I feel like I am still in prison. Do you feel it too? Ever since you and I made our escape from the house to that first meeting – that was when we were free, Tess! For the very first time. I didn’t think it would end up this way. Cat stares at her own scant shadow on the wall, falling into the memory of it. They weren’t even supposed to be friends, a parlourmaid and a kitchen-maid. Cat ranked higher, and was not supposed to talk to the lower servants, not even at mealtimes at the long table in the servants’ quarters where they all met, three times a day. Tess shared a cellar room with the scullery-maid, Ellen, at first. But then the room, which was below ground level, was flooded out one night, and took weeks to dry. Mildew furred the walls, damp put a stiff chill in the air. So Ellen was given a truckle bed in with the first kitchen-maid, and Tess joined Cat in the attic.

Tess was only sixteen, little more than a child. Cat taught her to read a little, told her of faraway places, read to her from Byron and Milton and Keats. Tess’s eyes would light up at each twist and turn in the story, at each horror and wonder. When the Mariner killed the albatross, when Isabella planted her lover’s head in a flower-pot.

It was Tess’s idea to sneak out, the first time. Until then, Cat had not considered the idea. She had been raised in obedience, and deference; she had been raised to love and fear The Gentleman. But Tess read the leaflet that was brought to the servants’ quarters, and showed it to Cat. Waving it under her nose in a quiet corner of the corridor, tucked into the recess by the scullery doorway where they could not be seen from the butler’s pantry or the housekeeper’s room. ‘Let’s go along to it, Cat! I dare you! Oh, do let’s go!’ On Sunday afternoon, their only free time, they put on their best clothes and went. And it lit a fire in Cat. For there to be life, outside the house. For there to be a roomful of people, all gathered together of their own free will, and for her to be one of them. Tess’s cheeks were pink at the thrill of it, and Cat was all but struck dumb. It was like the world had started over, and would never go back to its old, drab turning.