Eliza Doolittle: The Life and Times of a Good Girl

Chapter Twenty-Four: Missing Letters

By the second week of bed-rest, Eliza began to refer to every resident in 27A as her 'jailers', and Doctor Burke as "That Fussy Old Woman'. She did not feel as though she was suffering from a dangerous pregnancy, but merely dangerous boredom. For a while, even her reading materials had come under scrutiny. Colonel Pickering had suggested that certain works may excite her mind, and raise her blood pressure to dangerous levels. Gustave Flaubert was strictly forbidden; 'Madame Bovary' was pried from Eliza's unwilling grasp. Pickering suggested she read some nursery rhymes and fables, in order to prepare for motherhood. In a show of spirit, Eliza suggested he go to the devil.

When the ban on outside visitors was lifted, Eliza found herself besieged by somber relatives. Jane seemed to want to look everywhere but Eliza's face when she came calling. Eliza's questions about Jane and Edward's welfare were met with baffling evasiveness. Edward was traveling, Jane had told Eliza, the particulars of this journey were not elaborated on. Eliza did not like Jane's fidgety mannerisms; they gave off a distinctive air of guilt.

Even worse, in Eliza's mind, was the utterly careful way Alfred Doolittle behaved around her. He visited once in the afternoon, waiting patiently in the sitting room while Eliza was carried downstairs, placed in a wheelchair and brought to his presence. The reverent way Alfred kissed her forehead, with unshed tears in his eyes, left Eliza bewildered and slightly ill-at-ease.

"What ever is the matter, Dad? Is Glenna ill?"

Alfred shook his head, while staring down at his hands. "Every time I looks at you, all sick wiv child, I think of your muver."

Eliza's attention was piqued at the mention of her mother. "I remember so little of her. Sometimes, little snippets of memory come to me, but it is always fleeting images."

"Too good for the like of me, she was. I fink I killed 'er."

Eliza observed her father's stricken face, and felt an inkling of sympathy for the man. "Why would you say that?" She asked, even though the image of her father striking her mother loomed about in her mind.

"I was a brutal man, Eliza. I admit it freely, I do." Eliza gave a start when Alfred grabbed her hand. "I wanna do right by you, late in the game as it is. I wanna apologize for everythin'."

Eliza gaped. Here was her amoral father, who could spin his way out of any situation without breaking a sweat, never issued an apology in his life that Eliza could recall, throwing himself at her mercy.

"Dad-"

"I 'it 'er when she was pregnant wiv my son. I killed 'em both."

"Please, Dad, stop!" Eliza pleaded. A stirring from behind the door told her that someone was listening in, and that someone was on their guard. "If I forgive you right now, will you promise not to go on about it anymore?"

Alfred nodded, and wiped at his eyes with a handkerchief. "'Scuse me, Eliza. I know yer poorly, and I oughtn't trouble you wiv things that already passed." He smiled. "Now you got that photograph, an' you can remember fonder times wiv' Catherine, you can."

Eliza frowned. "What photograph, Dad?"

Alfred sighed. "I didn't want you to know my part in it, but I gave your bruver-in-law a picture of you an' your mum, and a letter what once belonged to 'er. 'E gave it to you, didn't 'e?"

Eliza's suspicions were aroused. Why would Edward withhold something like that? "Oh, that photograph! Of course he gave it to me, Dad. I keep it on my nightstand, and the letter is in my escritoire."

"What?"

"My writing desk."

Alfred nodded. "Never did 'ave much patience for writin' and the like." He patted her hand. "I'm right proud of you, improvin' your mind like you are." He cleared his throat. "I know I didn't like it before, when you was little, but-"

"Bygones, Dad."

"Right."

When Alfred left, Mrs. Pearce entered the room with Eliza's tea. "That man, I don't know why we even receive him!" she grumbled, unfolding a napkin over Eliza's lap.

"He is family, that's why," replied Eliza, sharply. Mrs. Pearce quickly apologized, terrified of raising Eliza's ire. Eliza understood that it wasn't out of fear of her temper that the servants walked on eggshells around her, it was the consequences of her temper.

Eliza felt slight guilt over the way she somehow behaved out of boredom towards the household staff. If she were feeling particularly overcome with tedium, a game of "I Can't Eat That, It's Too Hot/Cold/Salty/Bland, Please Take It Back And Fix It" would ensue. It wasn't as if there were anything else to amuse her. She spent most of her days in bed, lying on her side, only allowed to leave for bathing and other bathroom matters. Only recently was she allowed to be pushed about the house in a wheelchair, with occasional trips outside to sit in her garden. Eliza hated the restrictions placed on her, even though she understood the need for them from a medical standpoint; and Henry still did not return.

It wasn't that Eliza expected her husband to walk through the door any sooner than promised, it was more that she ardently wished it, despite the manner in which they parted. She dearly missed their lively conversations, and even his boyish bullying. Mostly, she missed him. Undoubtedly, Henry would make the unbearable months ahead far more interesting. Certainly he would not cosset and fuss over her condition; Henry never treated her like she was made of glass.

Eliza sighed, and then turned her mind to the matter of the photograph. That Edward would willfully withhold something so innocuous as a simple photo and letter was truly baffling. She wondered briefly, if it had anything to do with him traveling. She brushed off the thought with a shrug. Surely the two things were not connected.

Anson Webster was reading a letter from his wife over breakfast. A particular passage made him chuckle, the thing being such a ridiculous statement.

"What is it, Anson? Did she set the household on fire trying to bake one of her awful cakes?" Henry inquired, his tone indifferent. Their tour had now taken them to Salamanca. Spain, Henry thought bitterly. All they needed was a little bit of rain to top off this heavy reminder of Eliza.

"Oh no! Nothing like that. She mentions your little wife, however." Anson cleared his throat, and read. "'My, how Eliza Higgins has grown!'" He laughed again. "I thought your wife was well in her twenties, how on earth can she grow?"

Henry's indifference changed to genuine curiosity. How indeed? He had a feeling this statement had a deeper meaning. Jillian would not remark on a visit to Eliza unless she was sure Henry would hear about it. What the devil could she mean, grown? "Odd. I suppose she doesn't elaborate?"

"Hmmm? Oh, apparently she means 'fat', because she goes on to say if she had not been sure she was standing in 27A, she 'would not have known Mrs. Higgins for all her roundness.'"

"Tosh! Your wife is being catty, I am sure of it. Eliza gluts herself regularly and never gains an ounce."

"Jillian? Catty? It would be against her character if she was, I daresay."

Henry said nothing. Let the old fool wallow in his delusion, if it makes him happy. Henry continued to listen to Anson wax poetic about his sublime spouse for a while, resisting the urge to either roll his eyes or cheer at the news that Jillian had taken a tumble down some icy stairs and blackened her eye.

"Perhaps your Eliza is with child," Anson suggested out of the blue, causing Henry to choke on his orange juice.

"How on earth did you come to that conclusion?"

"It wasn't hard, I assure you. The cryptic comments about Eliza growing and being so round. Jillian has never given me children, but I am told that women tend to 'grow' during the process, so to speak."

Henry shook his head. "I've never heard anything so ridiculous in my life." His voice came out weak and full of doubt.

Anson chuckled. "Maybe so. You, a father? Terrifying prospect, old boy."

"Just so."

Henry felt cold. Something in Anson's theory had a ring of truth. If it were so, Henry was doubly damned for leaving her.

"And surely Mrs. Higgins would write or call you over a matter such as that."

"Indeed." Had she a way to reach me.

Henry retired hours later with a snifter of brandy, intending on getting good a soused, as was his custom of late. Visions of Eliza, round with child, skipped around his mind. Was it possible?

An hour into his nightly ritual, he felt a cold hand on his shoulder. With a start, he turned his head and looked up.

"Oh, it's you."

Edward lay in the sleeper compartment of the train, staring out into the night with wide, sleepless eyes. He felt a cold breath against his ear, and turned.

"Hello, Edward," came the long-forgotten honeyed tones of the intruder.