‘Old ones. Am I naughty?’
‘No, child! Not at all,’ Verity says.
‘And how did you make these colours?’
‘Oh. Um, well, if you put a colour down on the paper and put the same one on top of it the next day it looks like this.’ He points to the man’s brilliant beard. ‘This beard is three days. Tiny drops of water with the beetroot make pinks. A spicy powder makes a smelly yellow. Bertie gave me cloves to make it smell better. Eggs are stinky.’
‘I did not know Bertie knew so much about painting.’
Rafe peals with laughter.
‘That is jolly, Auntie Very. Bertie knows a whole much about kitchen things. Not about painting.’
Verity and Constance exchange glances.
‘Rafe, would you enjoy having a paint set?’ Constance asks.
‘I would, Auntie Connie. What is it, please?’
Constance picks him up and swings him around.
‘You are delicious. It is a box of colours that you may use to paint more pictures and we will buy you a proper paintbrush.’
‘Now, it is time for our young artist’s bedtime story. Up the stairs with you.’
In the evening, when the men have laid their equipment to rest and leave a bridge that is yet to lead anywhere suspended until the morning, when the Regent’s Park Haymarket stalls are empty and covered, the soldiers are off to the taverns, and the gates to the zoological gardens are locked, the animals begin to stir. The monkeys cry and scream. The wild cats roar their discontent. The parrots screech in the unfamiliar cold. A chorus of squalls travels through the park and across the road until they reach the boy who sleeps in the Tower Room. While he dreams of being imprisoned, the sick monkeys wail in his ears until he forces himself to wake, screaming with the animals.
The sisters take turns of duty each night. In a bitter hour past midnight, it is Verity who tonight carries the lamp and a small cup of warm cocoa up the stairs. Rafe’s wet red eyes, his hair damp against the pillow, and the look of despair on the face of the boy tear her heart into strips.
With a soft, dry muslin she gently swabs his face and feels his forehead for fever. His head is cool and he buries it in her chest.
‘Auntie Very, I do not want to go to prison.’ He gulps and moistens his words with sobs.
‘Now, now my darling, you will never go to prison. We would never allow it. You are such a good boy … Hush.’ She kisses his face and rocks him.
When his eyes flutter into sleep, Verity picks up her old worry that the consensus is wrong. She rocks the boy thinking that perhaps Clovis Fowler will indeed survive the penitentiary. The possibility threatens her like the approach of a rabid dog. Prison has not weakened the Fowler woman as she had hoped it would, God forgive her. She crosses herself. Clovis Fowler does not wilt, nor does she grow ill. Her cold beauty is unscathed. Verity thinks that she must somehow prepare for it, yet she cannot, and it eats at her that she is not strong enough, not strong like Constance.
Down one flight, Constance throws on her crimson banyan and slippers. She cannot sleep and cannot read, so she uses the time to write.
Sir,
I must say again, with all due respect, that I do not fully comprehend why we cannot meet and speak to each other in person. Frankly, the only reason I do not insist upon it is because I know that you are guarding Rafe’s safety by acting in such an extreme and anonymous fashion. For that reason, my sister and I continue to follow your instructions. You have garnered my respect and my admiration by demonstrating that your devotion has not faltered these five years. You are a mysterious fellow and we have come to rely upon you for many things, for as many reasons.
Our privacy is no longer cosseted, if it ever really was, living on the edge of the canal as we do. I am hearing noises again, and the feeling that someone watches us returns with a sense of unease and dread. I assure you, and I think you are aware, that we do our best to contribute to our mutual peace of mind by taking every precaution. Even so, just yesterday while in Park Street at the cheesemonger’s, a man peered into the shop window and hovered outside until I departed, then proceeded to follow me. I changed my route several times, looking over my shoulder to find him close behind. There is no subtlety in that! Obviously, my sister and I nurse new worries.
Rafe continues to suffer from nightmares, but has had no fevers or illnesses of late. We have asked him several times if he would like to meet his mother, who requests his presence. I disagree with her vehemently, especially in light of his recurring dreams, and do not think he should meet her in prison. The matter is moot. We do not mention his father any more; Rafe has never questioned us about him and avoids the subject entirely. It is just as well, how do you tell a boy his father survived a hanging?
My sister and I will begin more rigorous lessons after the New Year. I hope that keeping him challenged will calm his fears and help to relieve him of his taunting dreams. He is a happy boy but for them, and, the dread of his mother appearing to take him away. We are the only mothers he has known.
One more item, before I close. I do not know if this is of interest to you, but I offer it just the same. He shows an early talent for art and is quite creative. We encourage him. It makes him happy and proud, in the best possible way.
Constance Fitzgerald
She makes seven folds in the writing sheet with more confidence than she feels, and firmly presses the creases when a
