One pale Sunday, Tom awoke to the tolling of a bell.
Thrice, it sang, echoing and insistent. He sat up, neck aching, in a chair by the window of his study, tucked against the sill. His ears rang, left cheek cold from the glass and right warm from the fire, gilding his face — in his reflection, the forest churned, flocks of black birds whirring and perching; a silver-gold sky: morning in bloom.
Hunger clipped at his senses, vision fogging and brightening intermittently. It was enough to render a hazy tension about things, but when he made for the stairs to the kitchen, empty footsteps clapping down hallways, Tom found himself unable to brave them, and so meandered without purpose outside, still in yesternight's clothes ...
Dinner, murmured a voice, last night a dinner ...
Now he remembered: the clink and gleam of engraved wineglasses, gritted-teeth quarrels over politics and the papers, eyes dark over stretched smiles ... someone's daughter was soon to be wed, a son would graduate from Cambridge, another a successful emissary to Athens. Thomas had glared and smiled in turn, sickly with nostalgia, a teary longing glazing his pouchy eyes. Tom had not spoken beyond customary congratulations and thank you's, idly sliding a glass of gin to his father and asking a servant to keep filling. The roast had been brought, golden-brown and steaming, by a mute, thin servant with downcast eyes.
Lost in thought, Tom remembered poking about his bowl of creamy onion soup until David Platt, heavily mustached and sparsely haired, burst out about "Louis Hargreaves, you know — friends with that Lex Flint," who had apparently visited one of "dear George's" hospitals, gleeful and red-faced with pride.
"George told me Hargreaves wanted to invest in a neurosurgery department!" Platt said with aggressive delight. "First one in the city!" Cheers followed and the proud father grinned, folding hands over a bulging belly. Champagne was poured, sloshing, glittery; there would be a toast, to George Platt's health, nobility, and generosity, and whatever else — Tom held his glass aloft and then it was dancing, swaying from his hand as he laughed, abrupt and spectacular, almost doubled over. The servant froze with a jolt, gazing in silent dread at the pale fizz seeping into the snow-white tablecloth, the glass rolling into a yoghurt dish. Platt scowled, mustache aquiver.
"Riddle! Riddle, why, what's so funny?"
As the last of the laugh tumbled from his lips, Tom reflected, dimly, how eloquence and good breeding could vanish upon the smallest slight.
"Oh, he's had a little much to drink!" Thomas cut in, barely coherent. His ruddy face was sheened with sweat, eyes nearly black with dilated pupils. "He's a merry drunk, see! Not like his old, glowering father!" At this, he hammered a meaty fist on the table, flinging a fork into his neighbour's salad. The man sniffed, wiping Italian dressing from his chin with a black look at Tom.
Stilted laughs chorused, nerves in a palpable tangle while Thomas scowled, a little grubby in the firelight — he had been forgetting to shave lately. Tom stood in silence, feeling glee drip off his face in little threads of irony, muscles tiring into slack fiber.
"Ah, he seems sober to me, doesn't he?" Platt went on, paying little mind to the wary glances flitting between the guests. "Don't you agree?" he said to reedy blond Jones Beaumont, unbecoming host of the party. Jones gave a grimace of a smile, pale brown eyes blinking once. Tom wondered for a moment why Beaumont, normally avoidant of society events, had organised the dinner — then realised he didn't particularly care.
"Quite right, and how unfortunately so!" clipped Beaumont, waving over the mute servant. The guests chuckled, for what he lacked in charisma Beaumont compensated with beauty and wealth, crooked grin like a dash of fresh snow. "Gavin, fetch young Mr. Riddle a malt, won't you? There —"
"I don't drink," Tom said. The words clunked. Beaumont's mouth thinned into an uneasy curve.
"— that's — very well, Mr. Riddle. Ah, how about some treacle tart, then? Yes, Gavin, fetch it for us now."
There was a clamour as bowls were brought and the tart in an engraved glass platter placed in the center, perfectly browned and sugared, steam wafting from it. Tom stared bleakly at his slice, wishing to pick his fork and have a bite but somehow his arm would not lift, lying limply over his legs, the buttons of his cuffs digging into his wrist. His stomach gave a dull, aching clench.
"I've written him about it before," Platt was saying, cream-laden fork clicking against tobacco-stained teeth. Beaumont nodded amicably, full lips red with wine. There was an odd scent about him, Tom thought, something animal, strange — fish oil, perhaps he was fond of caviar ... In the bustle, his wife crept through the door of the dining room, dressed in a floaty white evening gown ... "but he was hesitant, see ... always other investments to consider …"
Tom tuned Platt out for a minute, and in that muffled interval was struck by a fatal urge to leave; he studied Beaumont, those eyes with the roundness and depth of olives, fingers coursing over the rim of a wineglass, slow. Tom saw his gaze wander as he sipped, sweeping up the laced arm of Lady Adaline while she whispered in his ear. In the dark, he saw his hand grope her breast, her coy grin, the sudden beastliness of his smile. That coarse thirst in his stare as he downed the wine, fixed upon the powdered swell of her chest ...
Their eyes met as Lady Adaline retreated, Beaumont's stark with sin. Tom fought the impulse to fling a knife at him, stab till nothing remained of the handsome face but sliced skin and cartilage, blood seeping between the flooring ...
Outside, go outside.
"Excuse me ..."
And so he was gone, Beaumont's eyes burning on his back, past purple walls and beaded curtains, green glass lamps and stuffed hawks, an aquarium of serene orange blobs ... on the moonlit veranda, grappling with the thick pine moisture in the air, mosquitoes abuzz about him. When he could breath again, he lifted his gaze to a pearly moon far off in the black, like a blank face, hands ghostly alabaster in its shine.
Tom considered, for a second, returning inside for a spray of cologne, to mask the cold sweat — in the tiled enclosure of the bathroom, himself and his gaunt silver likeness — but the thought shriveled into disgust and off he was down the driveway, bushels of lotus glowing on either side. There was a burnished tint about everything, coppery gleam clinging to metal surfaces like oil, and were he to focus enough Tom could glimpse crows in the trees, beaks latched to bone, pennies, and breadcrumbs.
At the skeletal front gates stood a slight figure, in swaying cotton and strawberry blond curls, staring into the dark.
His approach was silent and so, when Tom stepped next to her, she shivered with alarm, wide eyes caught upon his face.
"M — might I help you, sir?" Of her front teeth one was chipped, milky skin painted with early spring freckles.
Now that he was closer, Tom could tell her garb was that of a servant's, drained of colour and softness from many washes, drab against her rosy countenance. The right thing to do would be shake his head and leave, perhaps leap off of a cliff ledge somewhere in the night ...
"Mustn't you be inside?" he said thinly.
"Madame Beaumont dismissed me for the night," she replied, a little out of breath. Tom watched listlessly as she wet her lips, eyes glistening like peeled limes. He could only stare back, cold, tired. Though tantalized by the prospect of sleep, he knew himself too restless and achy to do so tonight, as he had on countless nights in the past, forced to navigate the long hours anew each time ...
"Lady Adaline shan't miss you ..." the words trailed off, resigned even to his own ears.
"Miriam," the girl said softly, shaking her head. "No, Mr. Riddle." The girl reached for his wrist with a dry hand and he stepped away, past the black iron gate — go home. But had there ever been so awful a place as home?
"Come with me," he said instead, and realised she was younger than he'd thought, because her brows rose, thin arches on her dewy forehead. He trod off down the path without checking if she followed, hearing the faint click of her shoes over the nightly rustle. Acutely aware of how detestably he was behaving, treating the young maid in so callous a manner, the heavy swish of her breaths and skirts summoned in him no feeling regardless.
They ended up in a tavern not far from the Beaumonts' house, candlelit and dreary at this hour. Tom bought a room, casting the girl a glance over his shoulder. She seemed uneasy, eyes darting about, face veiled with a tatty kerchief as she rubbed the cotton shawl sheafed about her arms. Her cheeks had a hollowness to them — probably underfed.
The lights wavered, blue breeze brushing the oaken walls. It smelled thickly of paraffin, something Tom was glad of …
The girl's agitation disappeared as soon as he shut the door upstairs. Her soft mouth pressed to his, tongue grazing against his own, standing on tiptoes. Her hands were at his collar, buttons coming undone, one after another ... Tom knelt before she could finish, lying her on the tattered bed, prying apart her legs as he brushed aside her skirts. Her calloused fingers caressed his neck, his hair, back arching. Her thighs, he saw, were vibrantly bruised, littered with bloody marks he could not care to discern, burns and slashes half healed — five little crescent shapes on each leg, a set of teeth, purple and green, blisters like dull rubies. He licked them and she winced, nails dragging in his scalp.
He felt her skin on his tongue, warm, slick, ears filling with her sweet gasps and she was calling his name, high and full of desire, like a lover might have …
He saw her hands clawing the sheets and realised they too, were scarred, gloved in old, old burns, while her golden hair splayed about her head in stringy curls, cut roughly all over. His name from her lips was foreign; it might've been a dead man's, someone he'd known once and forgotten since. Pain throbbed in his temple, to the beat of her ragged breaths. She gave a cry of ecstasy as he broke the kiss, stealing a last taste of salt between her battered legs, flushed. He rose and his lips met her sternum, her collarbones, her sighing mouth.
She looked even younger to him now as she sat up, eyes fluttering and dazed. She kissed him again and Tom did not stop her, her chest heaving against his — ribs, three, four, five, six, under his fingertips. It occurred to him that he couldn't remember her name. Perhaps he had never known it at all ...
"You should return."
She stared at him a moment, on the verge of protest — but he was a nobleman and she a servant — so she kissed his jaw, down his neck, slumped like a trodden-on daisy. Her hand twined with his as they left, he did not free himself of it.
The walk back was silent. All the while, Tom had a thorn chafing the back of his mind and could not dislodge it, nameless as the girl by his side. He left her by the doorway of the Beaumonts' house, pretty portrait of dread. She kissed him again, still hungry, wet, and then he was turning around, hands crossed behind his back, cheeks cool from her tears. The night air whistled and the car, he saw, was gone — something of a relief.
Almost an hour later, as Tom reached the gate to Riddle House, dizzy and distorted from the walk and his mind, the thorn found a name — what jarred him most was that it was not Merope. Mary would be devastated, he knew, and glanced at her in the dark living room, draped in an armchair by the smoking fireplace, asleep, in waiting. He shivered.
*
In the morning, the garden fizzed with throngs of bumblebees, blots of black and gold amidst pink roses and irises blue-within-blue, daises yellow as butter, lilies pregnant with nectar. They paled in Tom's eyes, bloodshot brown skirting as if lost. He tried to remember how long he had been outside and for what purpose, but the morning haze had him in its clutch and was too dense to cut through; a dart of memory between ribbons of thought: the servant-girl, her burnt hands crumpling the sheets, honeyed hair unkempt and sweaty. Eyes — desperate and green as limes. Nausea curdled in his gut and he heaved in the grass, reminded pervasively of her taste, her tears salting his face — Adaline Beaumont, smiling with greed, her husband's gaze clandestine and lustful, beneath a darkened brow reminiscent of a Roman Emperor ... sweat trickled down his cheek, wet his palms — just out of the corner of his eye, Tom glimpsed a dark figure ...
The boy.
He was strolling, as it were at too leisurely a pace, down the hill from Riddle House, a sprightly breeze in his black hair, tall and lively under the sun.
Tom followed.
"Good morning. Father."
The greeting was given before Tom could fall into step with the giver, cold and formal. Father. Tom bristled. Yet, for all his bravado, it was evident that the boy was nervous, a knot clenching his temple, hands in pockets with feigned casualty.
"Why ever are you out and about so early?"
"I fancied a morning stroll," the boy said pleasantly. "London never saw days this beautiful, you must know."
Bitterness stung the words, and Tom could but stare, a sense of foreboding filling the empty husk of his heart at this child, wily and wrought with resentment, such a dangerous thing to be left roaming about so carelessly. Something must be done.
How I wish you had died.
Abruptly, Tom grabbed the boy's shoulder, tugging him so that they faced each other. His eyes, endless brown and chilled with reserve, were now wide and fearful, naked under the unfocused intensity of his father's gaze. How desperate, Tom thought with a pang, how lost will you become? A harsh smile twisted his mouth, dry as dust while his mind blanked but for the boy's hopeful, chagrined face.
"Tell me, boy, where you go."
The child gave his arm a weak tug, faltering. Tom's grip tightened, fingers white.
"Nowhere, as I said. I only —"
"You will not lie to me." Though the words were low and blank, the boy flinched as if hit.
"I wanted to visit the Brownstones' bakery ..."
But the lie died off, decaying before it could even reach the grave. Anger lit the boy's eyes but brighter was his fear, at the father who saw right through him, who knew his soul and despised every inch of it. All of a sudden, there was a sharp crack and a glare of light rent the air.
"Aghh!"
Tom hissed, for the hand that had gripped the boy's shoulder was now numb, tingling vaguely in its leaden fingertips. The boy glared up at him, yet did not bother to disguise pride at his trick, lips almost smiling. The smugness drained when he registered the animal loathing in Tom's eyes, the recoil as if from a venomous creature.
"You are nothing," Tom heard himself say, eyes boring into the boy's, the son so sorely unwanted. "Believe it while your pride still permits it. Your devilry means nothing."
He stepped back, watched the little face break into despair, melt into hatred; then the boy was running, every bit the scared orphan from callous and fickle London, off into the dark woods that hugged Little Hangleton. Thunder rumbled, lightning shocking the sky into pale pink; just as rain began to fall, Tom turned back to Riddle House, ghostly memory trickling like blood, down the walls of a mind black with grime ...
mercy upon me; for I am desolate and afflicted ...