The Death of Mrs. Westaway(65)
“We aren’t going to let you disinherit yourself,” Mitzi said sternly, as she released Hal. “There is no question of that. And regardless of what happens, you have a family now, so don’t you forget it.”
Hal nodded, forcing a smile, in spite of the tears that still threatened to fall. And then she picked up the tin full of cards, made her excuses, and escaped up the stairs to bed.
11th December, 1994
My aunt knows. I don’t know how—but she knows. Did Maud tell her? It seems impossible—I’m as certain as I can be that she wouldn’t say anything, not after her promise. Lizzie, perhaps? From the way she looks at me I have a horrible feeling she may be putting two and two together. But I can’t believe . . .
In the end, it doesn’t really matter. She has found out.
She came to my room as I was getting ready for bed, bursting in without knocking.
“Is it true?”
I was half-undressed, and I clasped my shirt to my chest, trying to cover my swollen breasts and stomach, under pretense of shyness. I shook my head, pretending I didn’t know what she meant, and she drew back her hand and slapped me, making my head jerk backwards, leaving my ears ringing and my cheek flaming with the shock of the smack. The shirt fell to the floor, and I saw her looking at me, at my changed body, and her lip curled, as she realised she didn’t need to ask the question.
“You disgusting little slut. I took you in, and this is how you pay me back?”
“Who told you?” I said bitterly. I picked up the shirt and put it back on, wincing against the stinging pain in my cheek.
“That’s none of your business. Who is he?” she demanded, and when I didn’t answer straightaway, she grabbed my shoulders and shook me like a rat, making my teeth rattle. “Who’s the boy who did this?” she shouted.
I shook my head again, trying not to cringe away from her fury, trying not to show my fear. My aunt has always intimidated me—but I had never seen her like this, and suddenly I understood how Maud hated her so much.
“I w-won’t t-tell you,” I managed, though it was hard to speak. I can’t let her know. Her anger would be unspeakable and I would never see him again.
She stared down at me for a long moment, and then she turned on her heel.
“I can’t trust you. You’ve shown that. You’ll stay in your room and I will have supper brought up to you. You can stay here and think about what you have done and the shame you’ve brought on this family.”
She slammed the door shut, and I heard a kind of scraping sound, as if someone were scratching something across the top and bottom of the door. It took me a minute to understand, and even when the truth dawned on me, it was with a kind of cold disbelief. Was she—was she locking me in?
“Aunt Hester?” I said, and then as I heard her heels click away down the corridor, I ran to the door, rattling the handle, banging on it with my fists. It didn’t open. “Aunt Hester? You can’t do this!”
But there was no answer. If she heard me, she said nothing.
Still in disbelief, I tried to force the door, leaning against it with all my strength, but the bolts held.
“Maud!” I screamed. “Lizzie?”
I waited. There was no answering call, only the slam of a door. I wasn’t sure which one, but I thought it could be the door at the foot of the attic stairs. A sense of complete hopelessness stole over me as I realised. It was almost eight. Lizzie would have gone home, long since. And Maud—I don’t know where she was. In bed? Downstairs? Either way, it wasn’t likely my voice would carry all the way through two sets of doors, and down the maze of corridors of this rambling house.
I didn’t call for Mrs Warren. There would be no point in that. Even if she heard, she wouldn’t come.
I went to the window, looking out between the bars into the quiet, moonlit night—its tranquillity a terrible contrast to my raw throat and my fingers, bruised from hammering.
And a realisation came over me.
I am trapped. I am completely trapped. She could send Maud away to school, sack Lizzie, and keep me here for . . . for how long? For as long as she wants—that’s the truth. She could keep me until the baby comes. Or she could starve me until I lose it.
The truth of this makes something inside me turn weak and soft with fear. I should be strong—strong for myself and strong for my child. But I am not. This house hides secrets, I know that now. I’ve been here long enough to hear the stories, of the unhappy maid who hung herself in the scullery, and the little boy who drowned in the lake.
My aunt is someone. And I am no one. I have no friends here. How easy it would be to say that I simply . . . left. Ran away in the night. No one would raise a fuss. Maud might ask questions, but Mrs Warren would swear to have seen me leave, I’m sure of it.
If she chooses to, she can simply lock the door and throw away the key. And there would be nothing I could do.
I sank to my knees by the window, the moonlight flooding the room, and I put my hands to my face, feeling the wetness of tears, and the cool hardness of the ring I still wear, my mother’s engagement ring. It’s a diamond—just a very small one. And as I knelt there in the moonlight, something came to me, a desire to leave a mark, however small, something she cannot erase, no matter what she does to me.
I took off the ring, and very slowly I scratched upon the glass, watching the moonlight illuminate the letters like white fire. HELP . . . ME . . .