But, he said, I had the power to give us all a chance of happiness. He would have his title, and my daughter would have a life of safety, riches. Acceptance.
I liked the idea of that. I was never strong like you, Ma. The things the villagers said, the looks they gave us – I never could stand it. I yearned for a life free from stares and whispers.
And so I did the terrible thing he asked.
I lay in wait, hidden by gorse and heather, as dusk spread over the fells. Morg dug her claws into my shoulder. I heard them before I saw them – the whinnying of the horses, the clatter of hooves. I waited until they were close enough to the edge of the hill, where the ground cut away sharply into a ravine. When Morg took flight, I shut my eyes, opening them only when the screams had stopped, when all that remained was the twisted shape of the carriage on the rocks below, the spokes of one wheel still spinning. Something sparkled on the ground near my feet – a pocket watch, a family heirloom that Rupert had spoken of with great envy. Its face was cracked and sharp, so that when I picked it up, drops of blood welled along my finger.
I stood for a while, looking. Ignoring the horror in my heart.
I thought I was like Altha, our fearless ancestor, that our deeds linked us across time. I thought I was good and brave, made strong by her blood.
But I was wrong.
We took three lives that day, Morg and I. I told myself that they deserved it – Rupert’s parents, his older brother too. That they had been cruel to the man I loved; that they would hurt you, hurt my child, without remorse. But truthfully, Ma, I didn’t know them – or what they might have done – at all. Rupert has lied about so many things. I suspect now that his parents never knew of our child, never planned to drive us from our home.
I wish I had seen it before – that his words held as much truth as a fairy story. That he never loved me at all.
Sometimes I wonder if he planned this from the first. He’d been watching me, he said, even before we danced at the May Day Festival. He saw how I was special, and wanted me for his wife. I believed him, from the way he looked at me. A blaze in his eyes that I took for love.
But I am familiar with that look, now. It is the same way he looks at a gun dog or a rifle, a mere instrument to deliver his wants.
I do not ask, nor expect, forgiveness. I write this because I want you to know the truth. And I am running out of time to do so. The doctor is coming: Rupert says I am to have a new treatment. I do not know if I will survive it. Shut in this tiny room, and without even Morg’s presence to sustain me, I grow weaker each day.
I take a strange comfort from this – have almost willed it. For I am become like a rifle without bullets, and useless in his schemes. I will never harm another for his sake.
Ma, I beg of you, please be there for the babe – and for Violet. Keep our legacy safe for her.
I hope she has your strength.
All my love
Lizzie
Heart pounding, Violet rifled through the rest of the pack, searching for more of her mother’s handwriting. But the remaining letters were from Father, to a woman whose name she did not recognise.
1 September 1927
Dear Elinor,
Thank you for your letter to Lizzie, which I am afraid she was not well enough to receive, her health having declined significantly in recent weeks.
I have discussed your request to visit with Doctor Radcliffe. Given the marked decline in Lizzie’s physical and mental state, Doctor Radcliffe does not feel a visit would be appropriate at the present time.
Elinor, your daughter has become – there is no other word for it – hysterical. She has conspired to bring that ghastly crow into the house – Morg, she calls it, ridiculous name – and speaks to it as if it is human. This is, I suppose, exactly the kind of behaviour you encouraged in her. Violet may be a lost cause. She has already begun to mimic her mother; befriending flies and spiders, for heaven’s sake. But I will not have this madness infect my son. My heir.
And it is not good for Lizzie, Elinor. It is not good for Lizzie to tear around the house in such a state, engaging in such fantasies. Last week she told me she could predict the weather – or rather, that Morg, that foul bird, could. I live in, I am ashamed to say, constant dread of her.
I do fear – and Doctor Radcliffe shares my concerns – that, should she lose her remaining grip on reality, she will pose an even greater danger to herself. And to the children.
In fact – and I shudder to even relate this incident to you – the housekeeper came upon her attempting to climb out of her window, which a feckless maid had neglected to lock. Most horrifyingly, she was carrying the baby. She put the life of my son – my heir, Elinor – in danger.
Fortunately, Doctor Radcliffe was able to come at once. Given the recent developments, he has suggested a treatment that may help: hysterectomy, removal of the womb. It may seem an extreme course of action, but the doctor is of the view that it is warranted in such rare circumstances, when the state of the sexual organs begins to pollute the mind.
It is my fervent hope that Doctor Radcliffe’s treatment will be effective in returning Lizzie’s sanity. I shall keep you abreast of developments.
Yours sincerely,
Rupert Ayres, Ninth Viscount Kendall
10 September 1927
Elinor,
Your unannounced visit yesterday was most irregular.
I regret that Rainham was unable to admit you to the Hall, but I was tied up dealing with some urgent correspondence relating to the estate.
As I think Rainham explained to you, Lizzie is currently preparing for treatment. You need have no concerns for her wellbeing: Doctor Radcliffe and his small team of highly trained attendants have installed themselves at the Hall in readiness for the surgery.
Doctor Radcliffe has the utmost confidence that the treatment will work. We must allow the good doctor to do his work in peace.
In the meantime I ask that you refrain from engaging in further correspondence. I will let you know when there is news.
Yours
Rupert Ayres, Ninth Viscount Kendall
25 September 1927
Dear Elinor,
It is with sincere regret that I write to inform you of Elizabeth’s death.
She departed this earthly realm in the early hours of this morning. Doctor Radcliffe believes that a weakened heart was the culprit, no doubt exacerbated by the strain of her recent delusions.
While I am sure that Doctor Radcliffe used his best endeavours to save her, I gather that by the time it became clear that something was amiss, it was too late.
I have made arrangements for her to be interred in the Ayres family mausoleum at St Mary’s church next Tuesday.
I trust that will be satisfactory.
Yours,
Rupert Ayres, Ninth Viscount Kendall
30 September 1927
Elinor,
Given your display on Tuesday, I think it best that you have no further relationship with the children. It is my priority that they recover as quickly as possible from this regrettable episode. As such I think it best that they are not subjected to discussion of Elizabeth; Doctor Radcliffe’s view is that this would do more harm than good.
And as for your absurd request to take Elizabeth’s remains to your slum of a cottage for burial – I can’t imagine that you ever thought I could agree to such a thing. Elizabeth was my wife and it is thus appropriate that she be interred in the Ayres family plot.
However, I will do as you ask and give Violet the necklace you are so concerned with – I can make arrangements for Rainham to collect it next week. I may need to revisit this decision, should you attempt to contact me again.