The Painted Bridge A Novel

TWENTY-SEVEN





Anna picked herself off the floor and shook out her cloak. Nothing in the room had changed. The slippers were side by side, the bed neatly made and the photograph still propped on the mantelpiece. She picked it up and scanned her white face, the fern, the weave of the canvas backdrop. She wasn’t looking for herself. She was looking for Lucas St. Clair. A thumbprint had appeared in one corner, oblong and complicated, like a map of a maze. She fitted her own thumb over it.

Anna had been to his hospital, after she left Maud Sulten’s house. She’d had an idea that she could appeal to Dr. St. Clair more freely outside Lake House, that he was the one person who might be able to help her. She wanted to see him. She got as far as the gates of St. Mark’s, heard the cries floating over the walls, saw the high chimneys of the laundry, and turned around, feeling sick. She couldn’t voluntarily step inside such a place. It might have been better for her if she had.

She replaced the photograph and hugged her arms around herself. The room was colder than ever; the chill seemed to issue from the walls. She sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled out the pins, undoing Louisa’s work, returning her hair to its usual plain arrangement in a bun on the back of her head, held by her tortoiseshell combs. Collecting what remained of the money out of her boot, she lifted the leg of the bed, felt in the empty hollow with her fingers. She reached in farther with a hairpin and shook the frame. Only the handkerchief fell out. She wrapped the money in it and tucked it up as far as she could. She was distracted, wondering what could have happened to the knife and who could have found it.

Anna got into bed, fully dressed, lay still and looked at the watery light falling on the wooden panel on one side of the dormer, uncertain which seemed more unreal. The fact of having been outside Lake House. Or the horror of being back in it.

Lovely woke her, standing over her with a candle in one hand and a plate in the other.

“Bread and jam for dinner tonight, miss. Cripes. It’s colder in ’ere than what it is outdoors.” She put down the plate by the bed, brought in a scuttle from the passage and began laying the fire, crouched in front of the grate. “I didn’t expect to see you back.”

“I was bringing Catherine home and they caught me.” Anna hesitated. “I have a feeling my sister may have been in on it.”

Lovely’s hands grew still as she turned her head to Anna.

“Don’t tell me she let yer down?”

“She didn’t let me down, exactly. It’s just that she doesn’t always see what is the right thing to do. Did you get into trouble, Lovely?”

Lovely shook her head as she resumed the construction of a small pyramid of twigs.

“I slipped over, on the ice. Took a moment to get my breath. I looks around and you’ve gone. Vanished into thin air. I never saw Miss Abse.”

“Mrs. Makepeace believed you?”

“For now. They’re short of hands, remember.”

“I thought you’d help me if you could. But I didn’t know if you could risk your job. Thank you.”

The twigs caught, the kindling blazed. Lovely dropped single lumps of coal on the fragile heap of sticks and dusted her hands on her apron. She sat on the end of the bed and ran her feet in and out of her clogs.

“I’m about ready for a change, anyways.”

“What’s happened here?” Anna asked, seeing a black ribbon tied around the arm of Lovely’s dress. “Has someone died?”

Lovely made an odd, inconclusive movement of her head.

“Is it—was it—old Mrs. Valentine?”

“No, miss. Not Violet.”

Lovely led Anna into the corridor, opened the door of the adjacent room, and walked into it, holding the candle in the air. The curtains were closed and there was a cloth thrown over the mirror. As Anna’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw a pot of rouge on the washstand with a few spent matchsticks heaped next to it. She took the candle from Lovely and held it to a painting on the wall. It was a portrait of a man, dressed in a purple tunic patterned with gold. His eyes were piercing, his skin brown and he had a red dot between his eyes. He looked like a prince. Miss Batt’s lover.

“Oh, no,” she said. “No. Please. Say it isn’t true.”

Anna made herself look down at the iron bed pushed up against the wall. There was a form on it, covered in a sheet. The shape cast a shadow on the wall like a range of low hills, the outline trembling with the movement of the flame. The form itself did not move. Lovely stepped forward and lifted a corner of the sheet.

“She’s at peace now, miss.”

Anna brought the candle closer and saw a pair of dark eyebrows in a high white sky of forehead over Talitha Batt’s curved, closed eyes. Lovely brought the sheet down farther. There was red pigment gathered in the cracks of Batt’s purple lips. Anna pressed her hand against the cheek. It was waxy and unyielding, more solid than Batt had ever seemed in life. She touched her hair and took in the sight of the distinct, dignified profile, the pleated ruff high and tight under her chin. Anna felt empty. Too empty to scream or cry. Miss Batt was not there. Only a body remained.

“I done the best I could with her. Dr. St. Clair wanted to make a picture.” Lovely twitched the cloth back over the face. “Now you’ve seen it, miss. Whatever they say downstairs.”

Her voice was odd, almost angry. She pushed Anna back into her own room, dragged out the straw mattress and flung herself down on it, launched into the Lord’s Prayer. Anna sat on the edge of the bed and waited for the Amen.

“How did she die?” she asked, after it came.

Lovely was under the blanket with her head hidden and only her feet in their woollen bed socks still showing.

“Like anyone else. Her heart stopped beating.”

* * *

Anna couldn’t sleep. She lay in the hollow in the mattress, listening to Lovely’s breathing and to the silence beyond it. The wall between her room and Talitha’s seemed to dissolve in the darkness; Anna pictured the three of them, three women lying side by side in their different states, all entombed in Lake House. Lovely, forced to work in it for her living. Herself, captured. She closed her eyes and prayed that Talitha was free. Woken from the dream of life.

Seeing her had made Anna think of her mother. Dying, Amelia Newlove became pretty again. Her face grew younger as her mind ranged over the years. She had an airiness about her, an absence. She mistook Anna for her own mother, asked her to sing to her, reached for her breast. Then she bit her, accused her of lying. Shouted at her that she had stolen away her child. She shouted all the time, while she still had the strength. Couldn’t hear herself through the cork stoppers. Anna had stood at the door of her mother’s dark room, holding on to the frame and feeling unsteady on her feet, in her self. The flint house was a ship, foundering.

“Shall we go for a picnic?” Amelia Newlove said, in her social voice. “Is the pony ready?”

After the shouting came the screaming.

“Where is my Antony? My baby boy? What have you done with him?” Incomprehensible reproaches and laments that disturbed and distressed Anna.

“It’s the morphine,” the doctor said. “Takes folk different ways. You mustn’t blame yourself.”

In death, her body was soft. Silent. Anna washed her hair and sponged her, sprinkled her with rosewater. She was tiny. Harmless. Anna could love her again as she once had. She took the St. Christopher from her neck and fastened it around her own throat. Arranged her mother lying on her side, one cheek resting on her clasped hands.

The funeral was as slight as the coffin. A handful of mourners, friends of Captain Newlove’s, mainly. A spot in the overcrowded graveyard, the earth heaped high on each side of the path, the white void narrow, barely wide enough for the box. The wind colder than she ever felt it before. Afterward, without her mother in it, the flint house seemed becalmed—neither sinking nor floating. Anna didn’t know what to do with possessions. With minutes. She didn’t know how to live.

Hepzibah came, from Gloucester. Beatrice, from Portsmouth. Lavinia was confined and couldn’t travel from Northumberland; she dispatched her eldest daughter, with her governess. Louisa came from London. Vincent sent condolences. He wasn’t able to get away for the funeral.

Hunched around the drop-leaf table, quarreling, her sisters didn’t seem like married women. Anna talked with her niece, took her down to the beach to collect shells. Her elder sisters had always seemed more like aunts.

No sooner was she buried than her mother arrived in Anna’s dreams like an uninvited guest, refusing to leave. She was as big as the wind, filled every room she entered. She heaped her own coffin with soft black earth and planted it with bulbs; they grew tall and blue, turned into children. She came after Anna demanding to know what she had done with Antony.

That night, in her room at Lake House, Anna fell asleep and dreamed of her mother—alive again and asking her a question. In the morning, waking in the same position as she’d fallen asleep, she felt confused as she opened her eyes to the texture of the green wallpaper, the repeated pattern of thistles. Lovely had gone and she was alone.

“Who is Antony?” she said aloud.

* * *

Makepeace was at her table, twisting a length of black ribbon between her fingers.

“You wanted to see me, Mrs. Makepeace?”

“You owe us all an explanation. Mr. Abse is much disturbed. Mrs. Abse has come close to nervous collapse.”

“I couldn’t have brought Catherine back any quicker than I did.”

“It seems you feel no gratitude toward your friends here. You’ve evidently made no progress in your state of mind.”

As Makepeace’s eyes bored into her, Anna pinched her own wrists on her lap. She thought of London, and imagined Madame Lily—gazing into a ball of cloudy crystal, perceiving the outline of things to come. The man getting up from the barber’s chair, rubbing a hand over a newly shaven cheek and walking out into a shaft of winter sun. Of the woman in the baker’s, helping herself to a bun and eating it absentmindedly as she stood behind a counter. Life had a place for her. She would return to it.

Anna lifted her own eyes and stared back at Makepeace.

“Being an escaped lunatic is hardly better than being a confined one. I intend to free myself properly.”

“How’ll you do that, Mrs. Palmer?”

“Not by writing letters. My sister did not receive a single one, of all those I entrusted to you.”

Makepeace’s lips twitched as her eyes shifted to the fireplace.

“Relatives are embarrassed when their lunatics write begging letters or arrive on their doorsteps. Most often, like your sister, they’re able to persuade them to return. Mrs. Heron was anxious that you should believe that you came back of your own free will. That you shouldn’t know that Mr. Fludd was waiting downstairs in the kitchen in case you changed your mind. He followed behind the bus all the way with the pony, Mrs. Palmer. Her husband insisted on it.”

“You’re lying, Mrs. Makepeace,” Anna said, without conviction. She stood up and walked to the door. “I need to see Mr. Abse. I need to see him as soon as possible.”

The cup and saucer sat unchanged on the mantelpiece; the arrangement of everlasting flowers was layered with cobwebs. Her eye fell on a piece of embroidery pinned to the wall behind Makepeace, unframed. It was a vibrant tableau of tropical flowers and insects. It glowed and shone as if it were the only living thing in the room. Miss Batt’s work was complete—every last petal and stem finished.

Anna lingered on the threshold, overcome by weariness and rested her head on the doorframe.

“It is a tragic loss, the death of Miss Batt. We will all grieve her. But what about you, Mrs. Makepeace? You’re not certified or imprisoned by your family. Will you remain now she is gone?”

Makepeace tightened the ribbon round her finger; the tip of it was purple, suffused with blood.

“This is my home. I shall never leave Lake House.”

* * *

Alone in the room, Frances Makepeace sat motionless. The tears she had suppressed while Mrs. Palmer was there ran down her face. She wished she could feel something so simple as grief for her only friend. She felt more rage than sadness, rage at Talitha for leaving her without a good-bye. For taking her own life and abandoning her, Fanny, here in the barren world. Rage at Querios Abse, for being more concerned about what the newspapers would say if the story got out than he was about dear Talitha. And at Lucas St. Clair—for having made a photograph of the corpse. No living soul ought ever to see another person the way she had seen Talitha Batt, with her throat gaping open. To record it was nothing short of blasphemous.

Most of all—although she had an inkling that it was unjust—she felt enraged by Mrs. Palmer. All of this was her fault. Palmer had unsettled everything and everyone since she arrived and yet what was she? Nothing. Nothing but a naive young woman who’d never faced any trouble and who relied on a pair of striking eyes and a slender figure to get her through life. Frances hated her.

She opened the drawer under her table, extracted an envelope slit open along its top and pulled out a single sheet of paper. She read the letter again.



Dear Miss Sulten,

You do not know me. You may not even know my name. But I am writing to plead for your help.

I barely trust my own mind as I write this letter. I must know whether or not you are acquainted with Vincent Palmer, the man I married seven months ago. He swears on the Holy Bible there is no such person as Maud Sulten.

I don’t inquire about the nature of the relationship but I need urgently to know—do you exist?

Yours truly,

Anna Palmer



Makepeace laid the letter on the table in front of her. She was back again where she could not tolerate to be, in the past. When Jack Makepeace first left her, she simply hadn’t believed it. She stayed indoors, waiting for Jack to come home. Emptied a sherry bottle one morning, for the first time in her life, and another the following morning. She played the piano for hours on end. It would have been better for her if she had remained that way—sipping fortified wines and soothing herself with tunes. Julia’s a-weeping, On a summer’s afternoon …

How could Jack, a clerk, a man who gave his eyesight and his days to setting out the profits and losses of three spice traders, a man dedicated to the rendering of the world in precise quantities and values—behave as he did? He’d eaten the breakfast she’d risen to make him. Swallowed it down with the tea kept hot under the cosy she’d knitted. She saw him off, was still standing on the step when he reached the corner. He didn’t look around. Frances went indoors again, feeling cheated. He’d owed her a wave, a backward look. That made her laugh, later. Laugh and cry.

It had been a year before she could step outside the house. As if it was not Jack who’d disappeared, but herself. She was ashamed to show her face in her own street, where she’d lived all her born days, even though it was his empty suitcase on the top of the wardrobe, his spare pair of trousers on the hanger. He who had sauntered off without so much as a good-bye.

After a year, she had a letter from the girl. Her name was Lillah and she hadn’t known anything about Frances. “You don’t know me,” the letter began. “You may not even know my name.” Lillah wrote to say she was sorry. Maybe it was a blessing, she said, that Fanny’d had no children. If she wanted to come and see Jack’s child, she would welcome her. Perhaps, she said, they could be kin of sorts.

One July day, Frances opened her door and stepped out into the street as if nothing had happened, as if she’d never been married to Jack Makepeace but had remained Fanny Fitzgerald, as surely and blithely as when she was five years old. She made her way to the address on Lillah’s letter, her reticule stuffed full, bobbing against her hip with each step. She walked up the tiled path and past a greengage tree laden with unripe fruit as if she was delivering a visiting card, which, in a way, she was. She pushed the rags soaked in oil through the letterbox. Struck a lucifer and made sure the last shred caught properly before she dropped it through the slot, the tips of her fingers stinging and blistering.

She crossed the road to watch. She’d meant to stay just long enough to be sure it had worked but she couldn’t leave. An hour later, maybe more, she was still there, entranced by the leaping, scorching grandeur of the flames, their disregard for window frames, curtains, privet leaves. She couldn’t contain the shouts that rose in her, the jubilation. The ringing bell of the fire cart finally made itself heard, in the distance. A crowd had gathered, staring sometimes at the house and sometimes at Frances.

It began to rain, a heavy summer rain; the first drops splattered like pancakes on the ground. The fire quietened and began to smolder and as the rain grew heavier a veil of steam went up over what remained of the little house. Some of the people raised umbrellas over their heads at the same time as the roof beam caved in. The window glass had melted and the greengages shriveled where they hung.

Fire setting, they called it in court. Arson. It didn’t seem like that to her. It seemed to her she was returning to Jack the anger he’d ignited in her—that had scorched her from the inside, that was properly his. The sentence had been unjust. No one died. Only the dog. Jack hadn’t even been there. Jack always got away, from everything. After prison came Lake House. It was worse than prison, being jailed by her own family.

* * *

It was time Maud Sulten knew the truth. Probably poor Maud had been the Reverend Palmer’s common-law wife. Then Anna had come along and spirited him away, just as Lillah had stolen Jack away from her. Fanny had seen Lillah in the courtroom, two children clinging to her skirts. It hadn’t seemed possible, that such a young girl could be the mother of Jack’s children. A slender, pretty, foolish girl.

Frances Makepeace refolded the letter and copied the address onto a new envelope in her own backward-sloping copperplate that had never varied since she was a child. She folded Mrs. Palmer’s letter into it and sealed it then crumpled up the original envelope and tossed it on the fire. The acrid smell of burning wax filled the air as the envelope caught and flared; a pink trickle dripped through the grate, slowing and hardening as it rolled out across the hearth tiles.