Day Four
I awake wheezing, crushed beneath the tremendous monument of my new host’s stomach. The last thing I remember is collapsing exhausted on the road after walking for hours, howling in desperation at a village I couldn’t reach. The Plague Doctor was telling the truth. There’s no escape from Blackheath.
A carriage clock by the bed tells me it’s 10:30 a.m., and I’m about to rise when a tall man enters through a connecting room carrying a silver tray, which he lays on the sideboard. He’s in his mid-thirties, I’d guess, dark-haired and clean-shaven, blandly attractive without being memorable in any way. A pair of glasses have slipped down his small nose, his eyes fixed on the curtains he’s walking towards. Without saying a word, he draws them and pushes open the windows, revealing views of the garden and forest.
I watch him in fascination.
There’s something oddly precise about this man. His actions are small and quick, without any wasted effort. It’s as though he’s saving his energy for some great labour ahead.
For a minute or so, he stands at the window with his back to me, letting the room breathe cold air. I feel as though something is expected of me; that this pause has been manufactured for my benefit, but for the life of me I can’t guess what I should be doing. No doubt sensing my indecision, he abandons his vigil, slipping his hands under my armpits and tugging me into a sitting position.
I pay for his assistance in shame.
My silk pyjamas are soaked through with sweat and the odour rising from my body is so pungent it brings tears to my eyes. Oblivious to my embarrassment, my companion retrieves the silver tray from the sideboard and places it on my lap, lifting the dome cover. The platter beneath is piled high with eggs and bacon, a side helping of pork chops, a pot of tea and a jug of milk. Such a meal should be daunting, but I’m ravenous and tear into it like an animal, while the tall man – who I can only assume is my valet – disappears behind an Oriental screen, the sound of pouring water issuing forth.
Pausing for breath, I take this opportunity to examine my surroundings. In contrast to the frugal comforts of Bell’s bedroom, this place is awash in wealth. Red velvet drapes flow down the windows, piling up on a thick blue carpet. Art spots the walls, the lacquered mahogany furniture polished to a shine. Whoever I am, he’s held in high esteem by the Hardcastle family.
The valet returns to find me mopping grease from my lips with a napkin, panting with the effort of eating. He must be disgusted. I am disgusted. I feel like a pig in a trough. Even so, no flicker of emotion shows on his face as he removes the tray and slides my arm across his shoulders to better help me out of bed. God only knows how many times he’s been through this ritual, or what he’s paid to do it, but once is enough for me. Like a wounded soldier, he half-walks, half-drags me behind the screen where a steaming hot bath has been prepared.
That’s when he begins to undress me.
I have no doubt this is all part of the routine, but the shame’s too much to bear. Though this isn’t my body, I’m humiliated by it, appalled by the waves of flesh lapping against my hips, the way my legs rub together as I walk.
I shoo my companion away, but it’s pointless.
‘My lord, you can’t...’ He pauses, collecting his words together carefully, ‘you’re not going to be able to get in and out of the bath alone.’
I want to tell him to go hang, to leave me in peace, but he is, of course, correct.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I nod my submission.
In practised motions he unbuttons my pyjama top and pulls down the bottoms, lifting my feet one at a time so I don’t become tangled in them. In a few seconds I’m naked, my companion standing at a respectful distance.
Opening my eyes, I find myself reflected in a full-length mirror on the wall. I resemble some grotesque caricature of the human body, my skin jaundiced and swollen, a flaccid penis peeking out of an unkempt crop of pubic hair.
Overcome by disgust and humiliation, I let out a sob.
Surprise lights up the valet’s face and then, just for a moment, delight. It’s a patch of raw emotion, gone as quickly as it appeared.
Hurrying over, he helps me into the bathtub.
I remember the euphoria I felt climbing into the hot water as Bell, but there’s none of that now. My immense weight means the joy of getting into a warm bath is eclipsed by the certain humiliation of getting out of it again.
‘Will you require the reports this morning, Lord Ravencourt?’ asks my companion.
Sitting stiff in the bath, I shake my head, hoping he’ll leave the room.
‘The house has prepared a few activities for the day: hunting, a forest walk, they asked –’
I shake my head again, staring at the water. How much more must I endure?
‘Very well, then it’s just the appointments.’
‘Cancel them,’ I say quietly. ‘Cancel them all.’
‘Even with Lady Hardcastle, my lord?’
I find his green eyes for the first time. The Plague Doctor claimed I must solve a murder to depart this house, and who better than the lady of the house to help me sift through its secrets.
‘No, not that one,’ I say. ‘Remind me where we’re meeting again?’
‘In your parlour, my lord. Unless you wanted me to change it?’
‘No, that will suffice.’
‘Very well, my lord.’
The last of our business concluded, he departs with a nod, leaving me to wallow in peace, alone with my misery.