e: Jack, at last, the truth
Nell Peters
Copyright by Nell Peters 2011
NOVEMBER 13TH 1888
It was impossible for her to take a proper breath as she lay sprawled amongst mud and filth in the gutter. Honed butchers’ knives of agony tore through her flesh and plunged deep between ribs to puncture her lungs and deny her the oxygen of life.
The irony pleased her.
Her stout, aged body was crushed and broken and her flesh flayed to the bone; though the pain was excruciating she embraced it with stoic resolve and wondered if this was as it had been for the others. She tasted the blood that bubbled up from inside her to fill her mouth and spill from her lips, along with strings of mucus, into the gutter.
When the black wings of death’s angel closed in to claim her she bade them welcome; let that be an end to it, she thought, the trace of a smile barely to be seen on her bruised white lips.
It was to be over, at last…
JUNE 26TH 1830
“My Lord…”
In the plush vestibule, Chambers bowed low with due deference as he took the master’s silk top hat and draped the scarlet-lined cape over his forearm. He closed the heavy oak door quietly and stepped back.
Swaying slightly, Lord Dixon waved his hand and slurred, “The King ish dead, by Jove, Chambersh – long live the King! Hah! William IVth, eh? Oldesht chap ever to ashcend the throne – and a damned Hanoverian without heir, to boot…” He belched and staggered a few steps into a wall, where shadows from the gas lighting flickered across his flushed cheeks.
Chambers raised a white-gloved hand to his lips, “Ahem…” awaiting permission to speak.
“What the devil ish it, man?” Dixon looked down at the manservant, trying to focus, “Why the long fashe?”
“Sir, Dr Rutherford is with my Lady.”
Instantly sobered, he asked, “The child - is it to be born so soon?”
“Yes, sir. It has been many long hours coming.”
He tweaked his moustache, “Should I go to her?”
“I think not, sir – husbands tend to be an inconvenience at these times. Will I bring you The Times and a large Napoleon brandy in the library?”
He smiled with relief, “Good man, Chambers, glad you know the form.” He tossed the butler a silver-topped cane with engraved coat of arms, newly acquired from a rare win at poker. “And tell Cook I dined early - at my club.”
Chambers nodded, “Very good, sir.”
At five and twenty to midnight, Lord Dixon was summoned to his wife’s bedside. Though she looked deathly pale and exhausted, she found the strength to extend a frail hand toward him.
“Dearest, we have been blessed with the most beautiful daughter.” She gestured to the lace and satin cradle, handed down through generations. “See her perfect little hands with such long, tapering fingers – she will surely be an accomplished pianist one day.”
Charles Dixon stared with wonder at his tiny child, barely daring to breathe lest he disturb her slumber. “My dear, she is indeed exquisite…” he glanced adoringly at his wife, “…just like her mother. What should we call her?”
“I wondered perhaps Ernestine, dearest, in memory of your poor departed sister.”
Dixon smiled, “How kind and thoughtful you are, my dear.”
To the side of the room, Dr Rutherford rinsed blood from his hands and dried them over a porcelain basin, “Might I have a word, sir?”
“Of course…”
Rutherford inclined his head in the direction of the door, “Err…perhaps outside…”
On the dimly lit landing, the doctor spoke in hushed tones, “This has been a dangerous confinement, Lord Dixon, for both mother and child – there must be no further issue.”
Dixon blustered, “But I need a son! What use is a daughter to me, no matter how beautiful she is? Primogeniture, man – you know very well how it is.”
The medic’s voice took an edge, “Have you such scant regard for your wife’s health and wellbeing, sir? She was lucky indeed to survive this birth and must never risk another. It will be many months before she can comfortably lie with you again - take a mistress, if you will, or a string of back street whores - but no more babies for Lady Dixon. Do you understand?”
Dixon filled his chest with air and stood taller, “I do…I do.”
“Now, your wife needs you – but I beg you do not linger, she must rest.”
NOVEMBER 13TH 1888
A deeply lined, leathery face with a weeping nose sore looked down on her, “I didn’t see her none ‘til it be too late – she weren’t looking where she were a going, just stepped in front of me ruddy Hansom, she did.”
His dark, ferrety eyes darted around the gathering ghouls searching for signs of support, fearing his licence and livelihood could be at stake.
Hoping to earn himself the price of a crust, a barefoot boy in rags moved forward to take the horse’s bridle and calm the whinnying animal – only to receive a clip round the ear from the ungrateful driver, jealous of his chattels.
Absolution for the hapless cabbie came as a deep voice from the rear, identity unknown. It boomed, “He’s right there and no mistake – I seen it all, I did.”
Encouraged, the cabbie straightened, wrung a rough cloth cap in his hands, “What’s the missus gonna say? That’s what I wants to know. Who’s gonna pay for them buckled wheels? I got eight hungry mouths to feed.”
JUNE 26TH 1834
Lord Dixon fell through the nursery door, “Ernestine, my sweetesht girl, I have come to wish you the happiesht of birthdays!”
“Father! Father!” The pretty child jumped up and down, clasping her hands in delight, “How did you know it is my birthday, Father?”
“A good fairy told me – indeed, I do believe she wash the Fairy Queen.” He reached to fondle the nursery nurse’s buttocks and grunted deep with animal desire.
Primly, she removed his hand, “Oh no, sir!” being sensible to his lordship’s woeful reputation with young female servants.
Undeterred by rejection, he stumbled toward his daughter, “Do you have an embrashe for your papa, Ernestine?” He tripped on the rug, pitching forward onto a chaise longue. Lying where he’d landed he twisted his body around and held out his arms for his daughter, who skipped daintily to his side, her golden curls bouncing.
The child wrinkled her nose, “What’s that funny smell, Father?”
“The saviour alcohol, my shweet – alcohol will always be a man’sh most loyal besht friend, whatever other illsh might befall him.”
He fell to the floor in a fitful slumber.
NOVEMBER 13TH 1888
The crowd had swelled; young and old alike jostled for position to stare at her, the free freak show. Heads shook slowly from side to side, being no strangers to imminent death when they saw it lain bare them.
If only you knew who I am, what I’ve done, she thought; if only you knew you’d finish me off, put me out of my misery and display my severed head outside the Tower.
They’d know soon enough…She coughed, panicking at the increased, almost unbearable intensity of abdominal pain. She tried to reach out a hand to anyone who would respond with a moment’s kindness, a fleeting humane gesture of mercy – but not one of her limbs would move…. she was paralysed.
Was this what it felt like to have every bone in one’s body broken, she wondered – she’d always thought that such a fanciful turn of phrase, when bandied around by the gung-ho young surgeons in the Crimea all those years ago…
CHRISTMAS EVE 1837
“Where is Father, Mama?”
Lady Dixon sat at her desk beside the open coal fire, dressed from head to toe in black silk and taffeta, “Your father is at God’s right hand, Ernestine – he has gone to a better place and we shall b
e alone henceforth. Now go with Nurse, child, I have many important letters to write.” She offered her powdered cheek and her daughter obediently brushed it with her lips.
In the attic nursery, she arranged her dolls in a line along her lace pillow, puzzled as to what her mother could have meant. She longed to be allowed to venture outside in the snow, as so many other children were.
Nurse gossiped quietly in the corner, with the under parlour maid.
“’Twas the Syphilis what did for him, I heard – mad as a hatter he was in the end, baying to the moon. Had to be restrained by four strong men, I heard.”
“Lawks, how the mighty have fallen…what will become of the mistress?”
“Destitute her and the child will be, without a pot to piss in. I expect some kindly relative will have to take them in, or they’ll be out on the streets.”
The younger woman’s face fell, “You don’t mean we’ll be dismissed?”
“Of course, girl; he wasted his entire fortune over the years – and hers too - on drink, gambling, actresses and filthy whores. Even this house is mortgaged to the rafters and we should expect the bailiffs to come calling at any minute. Cook told me all about it – the bank got rid of him mighty quick, after he tried to steal money to pay off his debtors. ‘Twas only because his grandfather helped found the business in the first place that he escaped a gaol stretch or a trip to the colonies in leg irons.”
“Lawks.”
NOVEMBER 13TH 1888
“She’s a goner if ever I seen one, best fetch the hand cart I’ve a mind.” The old hag cackled, baring diseased gums full of black, rotted teeth, “See that there dark blood