The governor is everywhere.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
‘Your visitor has arrived. Follow me.’
Clovis moistens and bites her lips, the only act of vanity she allows the matron to witness. Her dress, her own blue dress is being brushed at present, which leaves her only the prison dress she first wore two years ago.
Millbank is a labyrinth of passages and corridors so complex that the warders and matrons loathe admitting they frequently take a wrong turn and are easily lost. The staircases are steep and unlit. When Clovis met Mockett in the small square visitors’ house in one of the pentagons a year ago, she memorized the turns and counted the steps in the dizzying circular shafts of cells.
It was a harsh moment, facing him behind two sets of bars and wire mesh netting. A matron and an officer sat with them, which made for stilted, but enlightening conversation. She discovered that Nora Mockett is unchanged, and that Benedikt supplies Mockett’s phials.
On that day, Clovis knew that whatever condition they have, curse or blessing, was born the night of the baby’s fever. This thought presses upon her mind today as she is led into the visiting house.
There are two doors, one on each side of the room. Clovis enters on one side and waits for her visitor to walk through the opposite door. A principal warder takes his seat between the two iron gratings.
The room is bare and so completely unadorned that she is at the end of her patience when the heavy door creaks open. The warder and prisoner 1089 rise when Constance Fitzgerald enters the visiting house.
She is taller than Clovis remembers. Or it may be the hat – the grace of a beautiful hat has long been absent from her cloistered view. Its pale, blue silk looks almost obscene in this place, like furs and diamonds in a rookery. Clovis notes the fashion has changed; the waist is lower. All the comforts she forfeits come rushing at her now in a single rustle of the woman’s exquisitely made dress. The sound of Mrs Fitzgerald’s skirts as they settle in the visitor’s chair drive her into a brief moment of madness. Clovis rises taller in her chair and raises her chin a touch higher.
Mrs Fowler, Constance surmises, appears amazingly well, considering. She had expected someone paler, more emaciated, to sit before her, but here she finds only a different version of Clovis Fowler, as if the woman were an actress now playing the role of a peasant. But now, she must focus on her task. She has been instructed to lie, to lie like a woman pleading for her life when she knows she is guilty and faces the gallows. Her lies must be cast in scents of truth to appease Mrs Fowler. She draws a deep breath from the less than fresh air.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Fowler.’
‘Good of you to come, Mrs Fitzgerald. I had hoped that you would have my son with you. I have longed to see him.’
‘I feel sure you will understand that this is no place for a young boy who has a touch of a cold.’
‘Oh? I am sorry to hear it. Does he have a fever, Mrs Fitzgerald?’
There it is.
‘No. No fever, just a slight cough.’
‘Has he ever had a fever?’
There it is again.
‘No, no, he has not. He enjoys very good health. We are near the fresh air of the Regent’s Park now, as you know.’
‘Yes, Mr Mockett informed me of your relocation. I was disappointed. I thought that I would have heard from you first.’
‘And I thought I would have heard news of your freedom. The last we spoke, two years ago, you were in the midst of a misunderstanding, as you put it, not a conviction.’
Clovis hesitates, then she leans forward in her chair the way she does when she whispers to Willa and commands her to sleep. Lowering her voice and softening her gaze, she speaks slowly through the wirework.
‘Tell me, Mrs Fitzgerald, does my son sleep well?’
‘Very well, indeed.’ Constance answers with an exact tone and in perfect tempo.
Clovis brings her chair a little closer with a glance at the warder.
‘And you and your sister?’ She lowers her voice a notch further. ‘Do you both sleep well?’
‘We sleep well, Mrs Fowler.’
‘No irregularities then?’
‘None.’
Her usual hypnotic voice having no effect, Clovis finds irritation rising in a flush on her neck. She tries a different approach, quietly forceful.
‘Mrs Fitzgerald, I expect to see my son next year when you visit again.’
‘Of course, Mrs Fowler, if he is willing.’
‘A three-year-old does not know his own will.’
‘Oh I disagree, Mrs Fowler. Rafe knows his own will even now.’
‘He is my son, Mrs Fitzgerald.’
‘Indeed. And my sister and I look after him very well. You’ve no need to worry. Is there anything else?’
Clovis glances at the warder. He nods. There are a few minutes remaining.
‘Would you be kind enough to write to me of any changes in his sleeping patterns? Or if he should suddenly be ill with a fever?’
‘As you wish. Would you like to be informed if he is ill with anything other than a fever?’
Clovis searches for the truth behind her visitor’s question. Is this woman playing some sort of a game with her? Their eyes lock as she considers her reply. It is hard to discern if Mrs Fitzgerald has aged these past two years. Being so well cosseted all her life she looks fresher than most women her age. Mrs Fitzgerald’s face is full and remarkably unlined, her hair shines and her eyes are clear and lively. It could be that her new home situated far from industry and the river brings her robust health. Today, Mrs Fitzgerald reveals nothing of miracles or strange occurrences. She’s a hard one, she is. This visit is wasted and I am quickly falling into a foul mood, thinks Clovis, but she replies with cool politeness.
‘Yes, of course. I
