A/N: I am SO sorry it's taken me ages to get this up! But I was back packing, and then moving, and then in-laws, and then without internet- I'm frankly shocked I was able to write this at all based on 7 minute subway commutes. This will also be the last chapter for awhile again, since I'm going back-packing for almost a month. But I promise this story WILL continue until it is finished! I've got too many plans for it :)
Thank you to all you fantastic reviewers and followers, you are amazing! Drop me a line to let me know what you think!
Part 2: London
XII. Hearth and Home
The road to London was endless. She watched the world from her window as it clattered slowly by, the deliberate turning of the leaves in the growing chill a reminder of the passage of time. Her pulse fluttered at the pale skin of her wrist, as she held her hand, palm up, against the lip of the window. She watched it carelessly, a deliberate, steady throb; the incessant thrum of her heart, pumping life through her body as inevitably as the changing of the seasons.
Mr. Brook was seated across from her in the eternally jolting carriage, quietly flipping the pages of his book. Molly's attention shifted gradually from the outer world to his person. Like a cat she watched him, eyeing his every movement; but he paid her no heed. Indeed, even if there had not been another soul with him in that cabin, he could have not have acted more as if he were entirely alone. He might have been a handsome man, she thought, if his temperament had not been so frighteningly unpredictable, his smiles so alarming. As he read, she watched his dark eyes flick across the page, absorbing the words as if they could be swallowed. And all the while he did not move, save for the careful turning of a page, and the measured movement of his eyes. No flash of white teeth appeared between his lips, no gesture of amazement or displeasure in what he read. Slowly, she tilted her head down, in a surreptitious attempt to glean from what book he was reading. Her boredom had reached such a peak, she mused, that she would allow herself to study this man, her husband, in as free a manner as she wished.
"It is not polite to stare, Molly." She flinched at the sound of her name, so strange on his lips, and looked quickly into his face. He did not return her gaze, but instead deliberately brought his index finger to his mouth, and licked it, languidly, before applying it to a page which had persisted in sticking. Her eyes narrowed in aversion at his display, and she looked away, into the unchanging scenery of greying forest; the trees who kept a staunch watch on those that travelled the road below.
She had been woken at daybreak by a strong rap at the door, the words of a maid informing her in no uncertain terms that she was to be dressed and underway in a quarter of an hour. The night had passed in a tangle of half-dreams and hoarse cries, wrenched from her throat in the space between sleep and waking. And so she dressed in a daze, and found herself stumbling inelegantly into the waiting carriage after Mr. Brook. There had been no time for a meal, let alone a thought as to what she might do in the interminable hours that lay ahead. Her books were packed away with the rest of her meager baggage, and though she had never taken great pleasure in the domestic arts, Molly would have given a great deal for a pair of knitting needles or, God help her, simple conversation with a friend. But it was not to be, and so she cradled her head on her arm, allowing sleep to overtake her.
When she woke, the sun had climbed and fell, hanging low and pointing its sharp rays at a slant across Molly's face. She straightened, and became aware of the pressure below her stomach, and the unbearable, dry weight of her tongue in her mouth. Water, she thought, and the word resonated through her body as a drop will in an empty well. Across from her, Mr. Brook sat rigidly straight, his dark eyes fixed unblinkingly upon her. He made no movement to acknowledge her wakefulness, but only stared. Her stomach clenched, and she would have blushed, if her body would have allowed it in her current state. She felt unclean, hungry and wretched, and with a shaking hand she brushed the tousled hairs from her face, wondering if she was as unkempt as she imagined.
Still he watched her, and under his gaze she grew steadily more restless, until she could bear it no longer. "Mr. Brook," she said at last, and her voice was small, and cracked. She loathed the very sound of it, and grimaced, clearing her throat. He did not move.
"Mr. Brook," she said again, and pulled herself straighter, as if she could make herself more present with this small motion. "You ought not to stare, Mr. Brook; you are making me anxious."
"You are Mrs. Brook, now," he replied then, and suddenly shifted, as if waking from a long slumber. "You may call me Husband. Or Richard, if you wish. Or Dick, I suppose; or Dicky Bird, if you are partial to nicknames." He grinned suddenly, his face lighting with a strange humor.
"I prefer to call you Mr. Brook!" she said indignantly, and drew herself up, resting a hand against the sill of the window. "I am in need…Mr. Brook, I am intolerably thirsty, among other… things. Would you be so kind as to arrange a stop, with the driver?" She hoped that any sign of desperation had not tinted her words; but her discomfort, she noted, was quickly becoming urgent. He merely grinned at her, and turned to retrieve his book from the seat beside him. Opening it slowly, he caught her eye, smirked, and pointedly found his page.
She watched for a moment, as he read methodically. His lips shaped each word resolutely, as if in so doing he could deliberately test her temper. Something gave way in her then; a sharp crack like a dam that has grown too weak to hold back its flood. An old fury that she had thought had been left behind in the tatters of her girlhood poured forth in a gratifying rush of rage, red and glowing in her mind's eye. Leaning forward, she snatched the book from his hands and snapped it shut, throwing it with such force against the side of the door that it bounced back, narrowly missing his nose. But he merely beamed at her, as if pleased at her display, and she felt suddenly ashamed, as if she he had played easily into his hands. He guffawed then, in a bemused, satisfied way, and spread his hands wide, as if in supplication. In a voice as smooth as silk, his words washed out and over her. "What can I do for you, my dear?" His teeth flashed white in the greying light, glinting like switchblades.
There was something so very daunting about his abrupt change in demeanor, and she shifted, suddenly unsure of herself, the anger diffusing as quickly as it had come. "I…" she began, then paused, collecting her thoughts. "I would stretch my legs, Mr. Brook… and I would very much like a drink of water, and something to eat. I had no time to break my fast this morning, and we have not stopped once in the time since."
"Well then," he replied merrily, "it is a very good thing that I have with me some victuals, and even something, I believe, that will temper your boredom." And with that he produced from beneath his frock coat a small, cloth bag, which he handed to her. With a quizzical brow she took it, and drew back the strings. A half loaf of dark bread and a lump of hard cheese resided there, keeping morose company in the smelly bag.
"That is hardly what I mean," she said, after taking a good whiff of what was clearly the remains of his own meal, and drawing the bag shut with a moue of distaste. "Mr. Brook, must I spell it plainly? At the earliest convenience, I must stop."
"Ah, but I am afraid it will not do. We do not stop until nightfall- and look, judging by the lack of sunlight-" here he passed a hand across his face, and changed his expression behind it, from that of a man delivering solemn news to a disposition of alarming good humor. The effect was startling, and Molly sat back, tucking her legs under her skirts in an effort to move as far away from him as possible. "- I am certain we will arrive at our next inn within the hour. Besides," he continued, fumbling again within his coat, "I have a gift for you. Please, accept it." From within the confines of the fabric he withdrew what appeared to be a book, crudely wrapped in brown paper. He held it out to her in a nonchalant gesture and, taken aback, she dropped the sack of fouling food- she was not yet so hungry as to eat it- and reached for the parcel with a trembling hand. Pulling at the twine that held it, the wrapping came apart in her lap, unfolding itself to reveal a book of catechism. She looked up at him with brows furrowed, and was met with his eager gaze as he leaned forward, intent on her expression. He gestured at her with one pale hand, and she let the book fall open in her hands.
Looking down, she read, Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church, his body, of which he is the Savior. Now as the church submits to Christ, so also wives should submit to their husbands in everything.
She flipped the page forward, and read on, from the verses upon verses stacked across the page.
A woman should learn in quietness and full submission. I do not permit a woman to teach or to assume authority over a man; she must be quiet. For Adam was formed first, then Eve. And Adam was not the one deceived; it was the woman who was deceived and became a sinner.
On, and on, and on the verses went, as the pages flowed past her fingers like an unwound skein of yarn. The words become increasingly excessive and fanatical; so thick that they seemed to putrefy in her very mind. She looked up, and her face was a mask. "This is unlike any catechism I have ever read," she said stonily, and did not hide the menace which had crept into her voice.
"It is a book fit for a wife," he replied with quiet precision, as if she could not understand him. "I thought it would suit you, Molly." His lip curled as he spoke, and a glimmer of dark humor flashed in his eyes.
"Margaret," she snarled back, and her disgust was plain. "Though I may be your wife, I will never, ever, be your Molly."
"Suit yourself," he shrugged in flippant reply. "Though I must insist you read it. Think of it as a continuing of your… education."
She stared at him a moment, struck dumb in confusion. Though she was devout as the next country girl might be, she was not so childish as to take every verse at face value. She knew, as any educated person must, that any idea pulled from its context was as good as a falsehood: it could be twisted, and manipulated into a barb, and tipped with the poison of its potential. Could he possibly expect her to so easily set aside her life, and embrace these ludicrous ideals? Was this truly the reason for her sham of a marriage, to become a helpless, willing plaything that could do nothing but throw herself at his feet? It was positively medieval! She shook her head, for she could not possibly fathom the extent of it, and so instead asked another question.
"Are you a religious man, Mr. Brook?" she spat, with as much acerbity as she could muster.
He laughed, high and merry, and the sound tinkled like a cracked bell through the night. "Ah, Margaret- when it serves my purpose, you may count me as both saint and martyr."
He said no more, but his words set the hairs on the nape of her neck on end. She shivered and bent her head, opening the book once again. She cast her eyes low, and dutifully flipped the pages. Let him think, she thought savagely, let him think I am so meek, and easily cowed. I will find my way out of this abomination of a marriage, as God is my witness.
And for the rest of the journey, she was silent, and dared not meet his smoldering gaze; never straying, ever watchful. His awareness lapped against her, like a hungry dog who eyes the crumbs on his master's lips.
~0~0~
"Here is the drawing room, and here a wash closet; here the dining room… and at the end of the hall, Mrs. Brook, is your personal parlor and library. Mr. Brook had it done special, see, just for you, Mistress,"
The girl chattered on as Molly followed after her slowly, trailing her hand against the elegant wallpaper. Mr. Brook had disappeared as soon as the carriage had stopped in front of their apartments, and a serving man had scuttled inside with the baggage, leaving her to clutch at her bonnet while she stared up at the looming brick building that would be her home. The windows were large, and though the house was dull in the most nondescript of ways, she supposed a flat was a flat, if one did not intend to stay for any longer than was absolutely necessary.
She peered into the small room the maid had stopped at, and found it to be cozily furnished in dark, creamy velvets and cushions; comfortable looking chairs, and a small bookshelf, stocked to the brim. Her lips parted in surprise, for the room was lovely. But something plucked at her, some wavering unease that quivered about the corners of her vision. Frowning, she took a step into the room, with an eye to the slim titles marking the books on the shelf.
"If you wouldn't mind, Mistress, but I'm to show you to your room," the maid interrupted her apologetically, and hurried from the room to wait by the doorframe. Molly bit her lip, and followed, but determined that a closer examination of the little parlor was necessary, when prying eyes were not at hand. She had a potent feeling that charity and kindness were not Mr. Brook's driving motives, in the creation of this homely little nest, or in any of his other pursuits.
"Of course," she replied briskly, and turned away. "Tell me, what is your name, and your position?"
The girl looked nervously sideways, as if afraid of her attention. "I am Julie Heron, Mistress, and I am to look after your every need. That is what I have been told, though I have yet to meet Mr. Brook in person; I was taken on only yesterday, you see,"
Molly furrowed her brows in consternation, taking the measure of the girl. She could scarcely be more than sixteen, and was a slight, pale thing, with a nervous aspect about her. "That is hardly necessary; I have looked after myself for my entire life, and see no point in training a chamber maid now."
"Begging your pardon, Mistress, but those are the Master's orders, and I must keep to them if I wish to hold my place at all," said Julie, bobbing a hasty curtsy.
Molly pursed her lips, sighing irritably. "Very well, very well… lead on, then."
"Right this way, Mistress,"
"You may call me Miss Margaret," Molly ground out, aggravated with the girl's increasingly nervous responses.
"Of course, Mistress," Julie replied and, without looking up, started for a narrow flight of stairs. Molly suppressed the urge to snap at the maid, and followed her without remark.
The bedroom was small, dark, and windowless. Whatever hesitant gratitude she had felt towards Mr. Brook for her tiny library quickly evaporated as she stepped forward to better examine her private room. It might be more apt to call it a cell, she thought in growing alarm.
"This cannot be my room- are there no others with a window- or perhaps something larger? This is barely fit for a servant's use!" She exclaimed in growing anger. Julie colored at her words, but had the grace to look abashed as she answered again, "Begging your pardon, Mistress, but these were the Master's express orders,"
"But you haven't even met him, you said so yourself! Do you take me for a fool, to be so treated in my own house?" Her voice had risen in impatience, and Molly found that she was shouting at the girl, who cringed away from her. Has it come to this, that I cannot even control my temper in front of a serving girl? She wondered, and took a long, steadying breath.
"I am sorry, Heron; I doubt you have much sway in the say of this household," she said in a voice that sounded tired and withdrawn even to her ears.
"I- I am to assist you in whatever you may require, Mistress, before the evening meal is served," Julie quavered, looking at the floor. "Oh," Molly sighed, and waved her away with a hand. "I require nothing; please- please, just leave me be." When the girl made no move to leave, she blew out her breath, crossing the threshold into her cloistered room. "Do you not think that as the Mistress of this house, that I can perhaps decide what I will do for myself!" she all but bellowed, and closed the door in Julie's miserable face.
Turning slowly, Molly rested her back against the door, her head bowed in resignation. Her heart pounded in her ears, and the slow burn of anger gradually ebbed to a steady flame. It would never truly leave her, she knew, until some sort of freedom could be wrung from this man. Why, oh why had duty seemed such an impenetrable burden? I should have run, she thought suddenly, and then laughed aloud. Run where? A wife, as Mr. Brook seemed so intent on reminding her, possessed nothing in this man's world. As a daughter, she belonged to her Father, and was obliged do his bidding. As a married woman, she was legally bound to her husband. She had no coin to her own name; not a scrap of cloth to cover her back, and no living soul whom she could call friend and ally. The inkling of a plan swept the edges of her mind, and she narrowed her eyes in acknowledgment, before firmly pushing it away. All important ideas, she knew, must never be dwelled upon, but only glimpsed. Like a simmering stew whose ingredients are the fruit of collected information, an idea becomes savory nourishment, complete and whole through the machinations of time alone.
She raised her head then, and it was with a fresh edge that she pushed herself up from the floor, shoulders squared and hands on hips. What was it that Mr. Holmes had said, all those months ago? I simply observe… and she shoved all thoughts of him away, deep into the farthest recesses of her mind, to be conjured up only in those circumstances of such pitiable despair that only his face would do for comfort. But no, now was not a time to for self-pity: now was a time for action, and observation.
It took her only a few moments to take the measure of the room: a small bed settled in the center, a modest bureau; an old wardrobe, dusty with disuse and age. She sniffed carefully at the air: musty. The scent of mildew permeated the room, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust. So, this room had not been occupied in a long while. She wondered if perhaps it had found use as a cupboard for storage in its past life, or something equally irrelevant, as she could barely open her arms without hitting one thing or another. It was plain that Mr. Brook harbored no intention of spending this night, or any within the foreseeable future, with her in this room; so what the devil was that damnable man playing at, assigning her to such a room as this?
On impulse, she crossed to the door in two swift strides, opened it, and found herself again on the landing. Three more doors led off the hallway, although all were shut. All were as plain as her own, and identical in every way. On the tips of her toes she made her steady way down the corridor, treading lightly with an outstretched hand. Her fingers pushed against the cool bronze of a doorknob: a lavatory, one obviously meant for her use, small and tidy. The next door was locked, and she withdrew from it hastily, lest Mr. Brook was inside, and had heard her quiet attempts to gain entry. The last led to a bedroom; light, and airy, and filled with the deepening rays of afternoon sun. Her eyes roamed through the room, taking in the absence of personal belongings, the cleanliness so pristine that if it were not for the solitary book gracing the bed stand, she would not have believed it was Mr. Brook's room at all. Indeed, it was positively threadbare, and yet she knew with utmost certainty that this was where he slept. Some queer aura filled this room; some bottled and stoppered apprehension traversed its walls, nestling its anxious energy in every nook and cranny.
But there was something about that book that gave her pause; and her eyes narrowed, lingering on its cover. She closed the door quietly behind her, and made her way towards it, not pausing to think what might happen if she were caught. On closer inspection, it proved to be an old, battered journal; the cover crumbling and sticky with age, and at odds with the cleanliness of the rest of his belongings. She opened it carefully, her breath catching in her throat for reasons she could not quite grasp. Slowly the two covers fell open in her hands, revealing… nothing. Mathematical equations littered the pages, like tiny ants dotted hither and thither, marching their determined way across the scrappy paper. They meant nothing to her, each formula so complex that they had become but the fevered scribblings of a maths professor. Forward and backward she turned the pages, somehow convinced that an answer to the riddle that her life had become of could be found within its depths. In a sudden fury, she scarcely held back the shriek of impatience that clawed at her throat; the will to shred the pages from the binding and throw the whole mess down to the floor. She instead upended the little book, shaking it wildly as if the action could stem her annoyance.
But out of the pages dropped… something. She froze, her fury evaporating in a sudden gust of premonition. She breathed heavily through her nose, her heart beating like a drum in her ears. The book fell from her suddenly tingling fingers as she dropped to the floor, heedless of any noise she might have made. The object had fallen underneath the bed, and she crouched, reaching and exploring with her fingertips, her cheek pressed up against the wood of the bed frame. Her hand swept back and forth, ghosting against the floorboards, until it met what felt distinctly like a page from a book. She frowned, and pulled the page to her. It had been crumpled and tossed, that much was plain; and as she smoothed it out against the hard wood, she found that it was covered in what appeared to be crude sketches. All of them were of the same hand and, she would imagine, from the same pencil, judging by the increasing dullness of the lines. Each of the sketches were cruder than the last; a circle divided into four, with an odd crown atop it. It was as if the artist had attempted to create something not quite lost from memory and, through the time spent at sketching, each drawing had diminished in coherency; be it from the influence of drink, or anger, or fear.
It struck her suddenly that this was important, although she knew not why. She folded the paper hurriedly, and tucked it into the pocket of her dress, turning her head quickly to confirm that no one had yet noticed her absence- for she was sure that it had not been the sketches that had fallen from the journal. As she groped again under the bed, her fingers met the soft down of… was it fur? On inching fingers she pulled it nearer, until it was cupped in her hand, and she drew it into the light. Dark and curling it lay against her white palm, a lock of hair, roughly cut, and tied tightly with a grimy and bedraggled ribbon that had once shone a bright blue. Delicately she brushed its rough length, and found it slightly greasy to the touch, as if it had been handled often. Pinching it between her fingers, she brought it to her nose, and inhaled quickly: musty, she noted, and possessing just the barest hint of a dark, rich smell, which she could not place. She furrowed her brows in concentration, and crouched again to find the journal where she had dropped it, heedless of the figure who had crept behind her, silent, and watchful.
"Curiousity killed the cat, Margaret," whispered the figure, in low, dulcet tones. She cried out, and the lock of hair tumbled from her suddenly slack grip. Strong fingers closed about her shoulder, whirling her about to face the icy countenance of Mr. Brook. With a deliberate shove, he pushed her down to the edge of the bed, and then stooped abruptly to collect the fallen lock of hair. He clutched it to his chest in a brief betrayal of emotion, before stowing it away in the pocket of his trousers without a second glance.
"Stand, Margaret," he commanded, and she stood hastily, obediently. There was no shame, she reasoned, not to obey him in such a moment, when the very quiver of his body spoke of a temper barely contained. Closer he stepped, until barely an inch lay between him. His breath was hot upon her forehead, and it took all of her strength to hold her body still. "You are not welcome here," he hissed, punctuating every word so that the spittle from his lips touched her cheek. And with a movement so swift and smooth that she could not have anticipated it, he seized her by the arm, and flung her bodily against the wall. She cried out as her shoulder made contact with a sharp crack, the pain a bright stab in her arm. He was on her again before she could recover herself, twisting her arm upwards behind her back, his body pressed close against hers. Molly felt her teeth sink into her lower lip, and the warm spurt of blood that followed. She sputtered, and swallowed; it tasted of metal, and fear. He lowered his head, and crooned in her ear; his voice so sweet, so lilting, so unquestionably poisonous. "Mrs. Brook," and it was soft as a lover's sigh. "You will not leave the house without supervision," he continued, holding up an index finger in front of her nose. Grunting, he held her fast as she struggled frantically against him. "You will not enter my chambers, nor my office. You will receive no guests without my express consent. In short, you will be the very model of a peerless English wife. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes!" She gasped, for his arm had been slowly tightening against her windpipe, and it was all she could do to gasp in one shrinking breath after another. Flecks of hazy light sparkled about her darkening vision, and her limbs began to flail uselessly, her control diminishing like grains of sand through spread fingers.
He released her suddenly, and she fell to the floor in a crumpled heap, gasping for breath. He crouched in front of her, and tipped her chin up to him with a single finger. Her vision wavered, and his obsidian eyes gleamed, capturing her entirely. She breathed deeply, uncontrollably, from her mouth and her nose, her eyes growing wide in front of him. "You will obey me, Molly," he said softly, and lifted his other hand to stroke her face gently, as if he could smooth away the bruises blossoming across her skin. "…Or you will pay the consequences." He rose abruptly, and her eyes followed him.
"Now," he extended his hand, palm face up; a clear invitation. And after a moment's hesitation, she offered him her own hand, and he drew her up, in the tense and uneasy alliance of a man and the prey who wishes to live to see the dawn. "Shall we dine?"
