Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER sixty-three





ESS MASON RETURNED to her humble cottage tired and spent. Far more tired than usual, though it had been a short day. The last, it seemed, of long hours at the loom, her arms aching, the fluff of the wool fibres floating in the air and choking her lungs. But it was more than this now, she knew, for she tasted the blood and saw it in specks on her handkerchief. Nor could she work as fast as she was used to doing. Too often she had to stop altogether to cough, to recover her breath, or to take another dose of laudanum. She had fallen behind. No excuse was forgivable. And should she contaminate the work room… Such risks could not be afforded, and so Bess was dismissed of her employment. At least she had her washing. If only she had not given the money back to Miles. But no. She could not do without Charlie now. He would not be paid by Sir Edmund again, that was a fact. Nor was she likely to send Charlie back, not as he wanted the boy gone so badly. But he might find other odd jobs to do. Pity he would miss out on the opportunity to be properly educated. But what could she do? She must eat and clothe herself the same as anyone else. And without Charlie’s help... No, she’d made the right decision. She was certain of it.

She entered the cottage, laid down her basket and sat. Resting, catching her breath from the short and not usually difficult walk. All exercise was difficult now. It was as though someone had tried to make a pudding of her lungs. So heavy and full were they. She coughed. It was then she realised she was not alone.

“Who’s there?” she called out.

A moment or two of silence, and then… “It’s me Bess.”

“What are you doing here, Miles? You know I’m at work now. Or should be.”

“What is this?” he said, very nearly demanded, as he approached and set an empty bottle down on the table before her. “And this.” He placed another, and he made a round of the room, collecting similar bottles from shelves and cabinets, from tables, from the floor, the mantle, beneath the settee. Then entering her room, returned with a few more from beneath her bed.

She looked at him, half ashamed, half challenging. What right had he to judge her? It was his fault she was in this position.

“I asked you a question, Bess!”

Still she did not answer. He could see as well as anyone, could smell and taste, and read the one or two that had labels still.

“Are you ill?”

And he could hear. She coughed again.

“How long have you been like this?”

How long? It had been coming on so slowly, for so many months. A combination of poor conditions, of long hours in lint infested air, of late nights and hard work, of cold weather that seeped in through the doors and the chimney, through the windows and cracks in the walls. It had soaked into her from the steaming water, almost too hot to bear, and the soap that left a foul taste in her mouth as it seeped into her skin. It was from hopes dashed and a heart unsatisfied and a soul consigned to hell. She had thought she had fallen indeed the day Miles had first taken her. He had promised her so much. And for a time she believed it. But only now did she know how far she had truly fallen.

“Why are you here?” she asked him.

He didn’t answer at first. Was this a game? All questions, no answers?

“I’ve come to get Charlie,” he said eventually.

Her eyes narrowed. “What?” She turned to the boy’s bed to see a trunk upon it, and this half filled with his belongings. “You came to take him? While I was gone?”

“Sir Edmund demands he go. There is nothing for us, Bess, if we don’t comply.”

“I’m next, I suppose? First the boy and then me? He wants us disposed of, is that it?”

“I’ll not abandon you, Bess.” He knelt down beside her. “For all my broken promises. You have my word.”

“Your word!” she scoffed.

“Bess. I am sorry for everything, that I could not do more for you than I have done.”

“What does that mean to me now? Now I find you in my house, while I’m supposed to be at work. I’ve little enough you can steal, I know. But my boy, Miles. My boy?”

Wyndham stood straight. “This is for the best. It may be the making of him. You cannot deny him what may be his only chance.”

“And what am I to do?” she asked, following him to the little bed, where he continued packing up Charlie’s belongings.

“I asked you a question, Miles!” When he still refused to answer, refused even to look at her, she took his arm.

He threw her off, and she collapsed onto the bed, crying silent, hopeless tears. She fought down the temptation to sob. Such would only leave her weak and coughing once more. No. She must be strong. And so she bided her time, watching and waiting. Until he at last turned to fetch some out of the way item. It was then Bess raised herself to close the trunk’s lid, and then to lay herself upon it.

“Out of my way, Bess.”

She did not listen.

“The boy must go. We haven’t a choice in this.”

“What choice have I ever had?”

He was losing his temper, but she would not give in. Not this time.

“I’m warning you, Bess. I’m taking the boy, and that’s an end of it. Now move out of my way or you’ll be sorry!”

Sorry? Wasn’t she sorry now? She laughed, and the jostling of her lungs, the ragged thickness of her breath, sent her into another fit of coughing, more violent than the last. Wyndham pushed her aside. She grabbed onto his arm. He had nearly finished. A few more things and the trunk would be full. She clung to him and held on. For half a moment it seemed as though he might relent. His gaze met hers, then rose to examine the ceiling in silent and mounting frustration. At last he attempted to shake her free but she would not budge. He tried once more, but her tenacity was far greater than usual, though her strength was weaker, or should have been—would have been under any other circumstance. He took her by the shoulder and tried to push her from him. Still, she would not let go. She looked at him, pleading.

“Do not take my son. Your son, Miles. Our son.”

His gaze shifted, hardened. He looked straight ahead. His jaw set. His hand fisted. And the blow came. She was struck down, dazed, though not quite unconscious. With his fist he had struck one side of her head, but the other had hit the ground with equal force. Waiting for the room to steady, she closed her eyes.

When the ringing quieted, when the tilting of the room ceased, Bess raised herself to sit on the floor. She touched her aching temple to find blood. It trickled down her cheek before dropping onto her dirt-soiled apron. She turned to Wyndham. He was no longer there. He had gone. And with him, Charlie’s things.

But where was the boy? She had sent him to Parson Ashcombe. The Parson had been more than usually sympathetic to her cause. She had confided her entire history to him, hoping, perhaps, that he might find a way to relieve her from her misery. So long as her heart held onto Wyndham though, and the hope he would one day do right by her, there was little the parson could do—for her. For the boy though, he did more, scouting out odd jobs, even supplying him with a few of his own when the villagers were not in want of any assistance, or were not inclined to show mercy toward a hell-bound bastard child.

It was impossible she should go look for him. She had not the strength. She could do nothing but wait and hope for the best.

She was so tired. Her head hurt terribly. Her chest too. What she wouldn’t give for sleep and pleasant dreams. Slowly she raised herself to her knees, and then, at last and with great trouble, to her feet. She must reach her bed. But first…

The table, bestrewn with bottles, proved nearly an insurmountable obstacle. She sat, and thought, and tried to focus. One of these was still half full. One of these she must have. If she could find it. Another fit of coughing rattled her frame and left her weaker than before. Not this one. No, nor that one. What colour had it been? Clear? No. Brown. Light brown. Amber. In the centre, near the back, yes. Yes, there it was. She took it up and raised herself again. On unsteady feet she made her way to her own bed, where she sat. She took a sip from the bottle. Then another. Perhaps a stronger dose this time? Yes. Yes, much stronger. Her head hurt so. And she was so very tired. She rested her head on her pillow and pulled her blanket up close.

Where was Charlie? She had tried to hide her illness from him, and, too, her cure. No, not a cure. A comfort was all. It hid the pain, distracted her from it. But little could be concealed from such a precocious child. He had so much potential. His father’s polish. His uncle’s gentleness. Sir Edmund’s cunning. If he would only learn to use these for good. Slowly, she took in a breath, as much air as her congested lungs could hold. She was beginning to relax now. Her heart felt not so heavy. Perhaps she had been wrong to hold Charlie back. Wronger still in holding onto hope where it ought to have died years ago. She had been mistaken in thinking she could persuade Miles Wyndham to love her, to think highly of her enough to wish to raise her, or to make the necessary sacrifices to do it. Very foolish indeed. She laughed at herself. And coughed. She was a selfish woman and stubborn. She had always been.

She felt good now. Almost happy. Is this what heaven was like? Would she be allowed into that paradise? She thought not. But then… Any place was better than this. She had suffered so much. Was it possible to be more repentant? But this peace… This warm and comforting, all-consuming peace, available to her not through prayer or religion, certainly by no man, but through a bottle... If death felt like this, released from all care, her spirit light, her body lighter, not frail and cumbersome and riddled with disease… She looked at the bottle still held in her hand. How much would it take to set her free? She removed the cork and dropped it on the floor. Then tipped the remaining contents between her parted lips. And closed her eyes.





She was standing at the mirror when she heard the knock.