Scarlett Wager Leigh

The Sitter 

October 21st, 1867

Albert Harrison was a very well man.

His entrance into the bedchambers of the sick had been known to send nursemaids into swoons: just one glance from his dashingly well eyes, a crease of a smile, and down they would fall. Crumpling to the floorboards in a mess of cotton and corset, palms passed dramatically over their foreheads. His charms were well documented.

Longacre House was dozing in the dusk. Against her Jacobean windows the late sun glinted, sending spears of gold as it moved around. Ivy clung to the brickwork, climbing like a cat, reaching higher to eventually surpass the ancient criss-cross of the panes. Only the breeze made any sound at all.

Albert stood, watching the house sleeping, at the end of the avenue. He dropped his bag at his feet. The walk had been long and twisting: a gently winding road peppered with small stones. There were scuffs on the soles of his shoes, and flakes of dried mud on the legs of his trousers. Ordinarily, he would have been at the door already; rapping on it with his beautiful, smooth fist.

The telegram he’d received felt hot in his jacket pocket. Frustratingly sparse on detail, he’d been given only a name, address, and a need for urgency.

How could such a house exist up here, so far removed from polite society?

The house was half obscured by trees and surrounded by hillside. On a clear day, Albert supposed one could see the entire valley: see the stream that rushed down, the houses, the inns. A heavy blanket of cloud was settling in, darkening the pink sky.

He had passed no one on his journey to this summit, switching his bag from one hand to the other, stopping occasionally to wipe the sweat from his brow. The leather was heavy, and an awkward shape. It had clanked against his knee as he walked. Albert lifted his bag again and moved away from the shelter of the beech tree.

The avenue was wide and provided a clear view of the house: it was square and grey, with a blank expression. His shoes crunched leaves underfoot. Albert Harrison was a tall man, and proud of it. Being able to duck his head, like an angel of fortune coming down from the clouds, soothed the most nervous of his patients. It was not often he came across a doorway that he did not have to lean down to enter, and for this he was grateful: large doorways often equalled a tricky diagnosis.

The house seemed to be watching him now. It had woken up. From a distance the doorway yawned, a large doorway that yawned emptily. The darkness that hovered along the skyline was creeping forward, bringing a night-chill that slipped beneath his clothes to brush against the bare skin of his chest. Albert lifted his chin as he walked, stepping deeper with each stride into the marvellous physician ordered by the household. Dr Albert Harrison: acclaimed physician, and notorious cad.

He pictured himself tending to the household’s girl, feeling for her pulse with a cool hand, as her eyes rolled back at the sight. His necktie felt suddenly tight around his throat. Heat throbbed through him.

Oh, Doctor...

There wasn’t a soul to be seen. Albert raked a hand over his hair and rapped against the enormous wooden door. His knock seemed to bounce around the hills. He imagined it awaking some long dormant menace, who might come roaring out of the ground to swallow his perfect body whole. Albert adjusted his coat and placed his bag carefully on the stone step, wincing as his instruments clanked against each other.

The door opened immediately. Far from the pretty, French-looking maid he’d been hoping for, Longacre’s housekeeper was an older woman with flushed cheeks and straggly grey hair that escaped from under her cap with ease. She squinted up at him.

‘Well, you didn’t rush yourself.’

Generally, the sight of Dr Harrison was such a relief to women that any lateness on his part was emphatically forgiven. He’d grown accustomed to such treatment.

Albert’s mouth dropped open.

The maid looked down at his scuffed shoe. ‘In!’

‘Mrs Ermine?’ Harrison said, pulling the crumpled telegram from his pocket. The maid coughed impatiently.

‘No, you imbecile. Mrs Ermine is upstairs.’

The floor-tiles were arranged in a chequerboard pattern, with clogs of mud showing clearly on the white surfaces. He stood opposite a staircase, almost invisible in the gloom. There were no candles lit. He handed his coat to the maid. She took it, her breath misting in the air.

‘This is Longacre House,’ the maid said, crisply, ‘and you shall be required to stay a night. Mrs Ermine is upstairs, labouring. I have done all I can, but I have neither the tools or the expertise to see it through to its—’ she gave another small cough – ‘conclusion.’

Albert nodded. He felt suddenly lumbering against this woman’s small body, a hulk of flesh that he would normally feel empowered by. She lifted her chin. ‘Are you quite ready?’

His coat had been hung on a stand in a darkened corner, the only one. Albert wondered if he wouldn’t be needing it later.

‘Yes,’ he said, rubbing his hands together, ‘take me to Mrs Ermine’s bedside.’

The maid turned on her heel and stepped towards the staircase. The wood was smooth and polished.

‘How long has Ms Ermine been in this condition?’ he asked.

She did not reply but led him down a narrow hallway to the right of the staircase. He passed vases of dead flowers: blackened bouquets, and crisping leaves. The corridor was lit by a candle at each end, to show the way. There were no windows that Albert could see.

The door was large and dark, made of the same heavy wood as the front. A thin seam of candlelight escaped underneath, bringing with it the putrid smell of sweat. Albert felt uneasy, not for the first time.

‘She’s likely to deliver tonight,’ the maid told him, ‘I have said my prayers.’ 

Albert snorted before he could stop himself. ‘Oh, come now,’ he said, condescendingly, ‘the Lord is no match for a man of medicine.’

The woman looked at him, wide-eyed. ‘May He have mercy,’ she said, folding her hands in a prayer motion, ‘for you are the worst of them.’

With that, she turned away, leaving Albert alone at the door with nothing but his leather bag.

‘I will need a bowl of warm water,’ he called down the hall, ‘and clean linen.’

She gave no indication that she’d heard.

The room was boiling. Albert stepped inside and closed the door, seeing the candles that were dotted on every available surface. The entire household’s supply must have been placed inside this one room, leaving the God-fearing scullery maid to freeze.

Maybe the chill got to her brain, Albert pondered, placing his bag in the corner of the room, and turning to assess the situation. His patient was a woman of middling age, lying on her back in the middle of the bed. One hand was passed over her clammy forehead, and the other rested on her swollen stomach.

She made a snuffling noise and turned her head to face him. There were lines, freshly made, from the screwing up of her noise as a wave of pain showed itself clearly in her eyes. ‘Susan!‘ she tried to shout, but her voice was weak inside her throat, and did not carry very far.

‘Susan isn’t here,’ Albert said, sternly, ‘I’m the doctor.’

Even now, those words gave him pleasure. The authority they carried, the rooms they got him into. The mixture of fear and relief on the faces of the sick. Mrs Ermine began to writhe.

‘Lie still.’

Blood flared in her cheeks as she fought his hand, cool and calm on her rounded stomach. The child was not ready to be born. It was pushing, clearly, but not with any remarkable force. Albert got to work, pulling the heavy bed coverings off her body, and sent them flailing to the floorboards. He pulled his sleeves up further. Her hands grasped at her underclothes, clenching and unclenching. Albert watched as her knuckles flared white.

In the corner of the bedchamber stood a tall dressing mirror. Albert caught himself in the glass and felt a brief flicker of satisfaction at the tall, elegant man who looked back at him. The meticulous curl of his hair had not lasted the journey, and he smelt. Mrs Ermine’s eyelids had fluttered closed: her brow glistened with sweat.

The surfaces were coated in a delicate layer of dust. Mrs Ermine’s bed-chamber had a trapped quality to it, as if the windows were never opened. It was stiflingly hot. Albert paced the room, taking in the wine-red walls and bookshelves with titles of Shakespeare and Marlow. The spines were uncreased. He picked up a candlestick that sat on top of the bookshelf. It was cold, unlit, and wax dribbled like a tear stain down its side.

Mrs Ermine snuffled in her sleep. He walked over to her bed and peered closer: her features were strong, almost masculine, with dark eyebrows and a square jaw. Rain spat at the windows, jeered on by sudden gusts of wind. They didn’t need him here, he realised. All he’d be doing was watching. The maid, for it was presumably her telegram, had been wrong.

Heat was building beneath his shirt. It stuck under his armpits, making them squelch as he moved his arms. The woman crossed her arms over her chest, and Albert pulled the blanket back over her body. He’d seen all he needed to.

No one he knew had ever been to Longacre House. Albert had recently moved to Longacre Village, having been recommended by his mentor in London as a trusted, talented practitioner of science, and the house loomed over the valley like a silent, ever-present guard. Grey and square.

Longacre Village was a refreshing change from London, and all that he’d left behind there. Albert wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and walked from the room, suddenly craving the chill air of the hallway.

The blood kept him up at night. It had soaked the sheets, dyeing the bedclothes brick red. The baby: flushed and blue, screeching at the top of its lungs as Albert stood at the end of the bed, his shirt ruined, sleeves rolled to his elbows and an expression of horror on his face.

‘Sir?’

The maid had appeared from the darkness, carrying a long thin candle. She still wore her uniform, and her hair was neater than before. Albert blinked.

‘Yes, the imbecile.’ He replied, drily.

‘Sir?’

She came closer and lifted her candle up to her face. To Albert’s surprise, he saw that it was not the woman who had so caustically insulted him earlier but a younger, prettier version, with a sing-song voice and beautifully curved hips.

‘Good evening,’ he said, smiling, ‘Doctor Harrison. I don’t believe we’ve met.’

‘Marie,’ the girl answered, shyly, with the traces of (to Albert’s delight) a French accent.

‘Marie…’ he breathed, stepping closer, ‘would you do something for me, Marie?’

‘Of course, sir, I will do anything for you.’

‘Tea, Marie. Can Marie make tea?’ Albert stepped closer still, and flashed her one of his famous smiles. She quivered under his gaze.

‘Of course,’ she replied, quietly, ‘anything more?’

Mrs Ermine had begun to moan in discomfort. Albert cocked his ear to the door, trying not to let his annoyance show. ‘Come back,’ he whispered, ‘just come back.’

Albert straightened his neck chief, touched the lapel of his jacket. Mrs Ermine was suddenly very ill indeed.

Later

The patient had kicked off her bed coverings and was lying, utterly naked, in the centre of the bed. She’d managed to remove her underclothes and was grunting like a sow, her cheeks flushed and drenched in sweat. A pillow had made its way to the floor. Albert picked it up and placed it, gently, behind her head.

‘Now, Mrs Ermine,’ he scolded, gently, ‘you just lie still. Your baby isn’t going to come out yet.’ He glanced at his bag. The sharp tip of the perforator was just visible, glinting in the light. Albert moved to the lady’s stomach and felt around again. It had moved, but not enough.

I am a great physician, Albert reminded himself, even in times of turmoil.

 It was a quarter past midnight. He pulled the cover back over his patient, wrinkling his nose at the smell. Glamour, he was promised, glamour and reputation.

Where was that Marie? With the tea? It wouldn’t do to get distracted, but she was such a pretty thing. Albert stood up and brushed his hands on his trousers. Mrs Ermine’s condition had worsened, he decided, and she’d need round-the-clock supervision. Preferably for the next three days.

Marie tapped gently on the door and came in, carrying a tray of clinking teacups. ‘I brought one for Ma’am,’ she said, inclining her head to the body on the bed, ‘to ease her through.’

Albert blinked twice. Women.

Albert turned from where he’d been gazing out at the black night. ‘Sit with me,’ he commanded, ‘I’ll need a nurse.’

The servant lifted her mistress’s head and tipped the hot liquid down her throat, pulling her upwards so that she didn’t choke. Unease flashed across her face. ‘I know nothing, sir – I’ll be no use.’ She placed the tray down on a small table at the foot of the bed, ‘I shouldn’t—’

‘Sit.’

‘Yes, sir.’

And she sat.

‘Don’t worry, Marie,’ Albert said, beginning to thoroughly enjoy himself, ‘I know it all. So, tell me, are you a woman of faith?’

‘He guides me,’ Marie answered, quickly, ‘sir.’

‘And do you understand that the Lord has made your mistress very ill?’

In the candlelight, Albert took in her delicate features and large brown eyes. Nothing seemed safe from her bright, inquisitive stare: it surveyed the room with caution, arms folded protectively over her stomach. Mrs Ermine grunted, and Marie stood up instinctively.

‘Be still,’ Albert soothed, ‘she’s not in pain.’

Of this, he couldn’t actually be sure. For all he knew, his patient could be in agony, but not voicing it. Marie sat.

‘Is she – can I, touch her?’

Albert lifted an eyebrow. He often relished in the privileges his position gave him: the power of influence, the trust, how he could tell her anything and she’d simply believe it without question. He’d forgotten, in his celibacy, how emotional women could be.

‘Not at this moment.’

Marie looked at her hands.

‘Tell me, Miss Marie,’ he took a sip from his cup and swallowed, ‘how many live at Longacre House?’

Marie stared down at her lap, avoiding his eye. She’d been trained in discretion, Albert knew, but he was an authority.

‘Just Madame and I, sir.’

Albert shifted a little so he turned to face her. He placed his teacup carefully on the floor. ‘Just yourself? And Mrs Ermine?’

Marie did not look at him. ‘Yes.’

‘I did not see you this afternoon. Yet, we sit here now?’

Marie picked at a loose thread on her dress. ‘Yes.’

‘The Lord sees all falsehoods.’ There was an edge to Albert’s voice, a sudden sharpness. Marie flinched.

‘Do not speak His name.’ She replied, under her breath. 

‘Susan, then?’ 

‘Is there anything you need, sir?’ Marie interrupted, standing up. Her voice was firmer, more defiant. Dimly, Albert realised her French accent had gone.

‘Water,’ he said, getting to his feet, ‘towels, and your good self. I’ll need assistance.’

Marie cast a glance at the bed and hurried out, gliding as if she had not feet but wheels. Longacre had secrets. Of that, he could be sure.

Back in London, Frank slept. Safe in the company of five other children, with a future in trade. Not in this draughty house, that loomed over the valley: a great grey blot on the horizon, accessible only on foot. Albert thought of his son, in a room with those other children, and wondered what he’d think of this echoing house.

Mrs Ermine opened her eyes and howled.

October 21st, 1883

The candles were lit. They shivered in the draught coming through the window and threw strips of light onto the walls. On the furthermost wall, a mirror, clad in an ornate iron frame. It reflected a portrait of a woman. She wasn’t in the traditional ancestral pose. She had no horse, or sword, no sash or badge.

In the background of the portrait, a table was set for dinner. Polished forks glinted on white cloth.

A string of creamy pearls hung around the lady’s neck, the kind that one should only wear on very important occasions, and her dress was a plain green. She had cold eyes: her painter used to say that they could peer into your soul and wouldn’t like what they saw. Her nose, too. Long and sharp. A chin that you’d remember because it shouldn’t be on a girl. No painting of her would ever sell.

The walls bordering both sides of the portrait were painted and dark grey. The room had high ceilings, so every noise would fill the room with echoes.

The subject’s hands were crossed over her heart. There was always some debate as to her expression: it often verged on unreadable, blank, although those who knew the portrait intimately saw it as ever changing, pensive, often brimming with some indescribable emotion. She rarely frowned, rarely smiled. She simply looked.

Behind her head, another figure entered the frame, easing quietly into the portrait as if she’d always been there. The woman blinked.

‘Marie.’

Marie bowed her head. There were lines around her eyes now, and the uniform didn’t quite fit. ‘Miss Bette. Master Harrison wishes to speak to you, ma’am.’

Bette stepped out of the frame, fixing Marie with one of her stares. ‘Pardon?’ 

‘Frank, ma’am. He’s arrived home.’

‘Very well.’ Sweeping from the room, Bette considered her words. The staircase was slippery, and she gripped at the handrail as unease swelled inside of her. The portrait of Doctor Harrison, watched over the landing and she looked up at him as she passed. Felt the familiar prickle of fear at the sight of his face.

Frank’s bedroom was at the end of the corridor, with the view over Longacre’s back-lawn. Marie had told her, once, that she’d been born in that room, but Bette had never shared it with Frank.

The door was ajar. He often worked in near darkness, but this evening there had been candles lit. She tapped gently on the door.

Frank was sitting on a wooden chair, facing out at the window. His hair had grown. He turned to acknowledge Bette as she stepped cautiously into the room, clinging to the wall like a shrew afraid of a cat. He stood, slowly.

‘Happy birthday,’ Frank said, hiding his hands behind his back.

Bette clenched her fists. Willed herself to stay calm. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I live here.’

‘You do not. Not since you—’ she stopped as her cheeks grew hot, ‘you left me.’

‘Well, now I’ve returned.’

Bette stepped backwards, towards the doorway. ‘You didn’t write,’ she said, breathlessly, ‘you didn’t visit. I heard nothing from you—’

Frank moved forward. There was a present in his hand, wrapped in plain brown paper. ‘I came to give you this.’

‘You can’t give me anything I don’t already have,’ she spat at him.

‘I have already given you so much that you don’t have.’

Bette stared at the parcel in his hand. ‘Your father would hate you,’ she said, ‘if this is not an encyclopaedia of medical terminology.’

The paper came away easily, revealing a pad of plain white paper. Tucked in the spine, a sharp pencil. She looked at it, as Frank looked at her.

‘Happy birthday, Vita.’

It was a dark October night. Marie said it to her every year: the storm that brought you into this world, will one day take you out of it.

The story went that another maid had received that fate, thirty years earlier, and still she haunted the house. Bette didn’t know how much of that she believed.

The wind was picking up over the lawns. Frank’s face seemed flushed in the candlelight – it struck Bette as odd to see his possessions back on the bed, the bed that she’d been born on.

‘Your father wanted you to be a doctor, you know.’ Bette said, looking at the drawing book in her hands. The wind rattled the glass. Her corset felt tight around her waist, tied extra tightly because of her birthday.

‘How is drawing school?’ Bette asked.

Frank rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Immersive,’ he said, awkwardly, which Bette took as an apology, ‘I’ve met a man who has become a… friend.’

The room felt suddenly hot. She avoided his gaze, glancing around at the floor, seeing the tomes of Shakespeare that were piled in little towers near the bed. Sheets of paper with half-hearted drawings that spilled out onto the bed. Ink-spots on surfaces. It hadn’t been touched since he left.

‘Oh?’ She said, finally.

Frank opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a loud knock on the door.

‘Frank!’ Albert Harrison boomed from the corridor, and kicked his foot against the wooden panelling. Frank closed his eyes, opened them, and opened the door.

Albert hobbled in, leaning heavily on an ornate wooden walking stick. Bette shrank instinctively backwards, wishing to vanish into the dark corner of the wall.

‘What are you doing, coming back here?’ Harrison said, hitting his stick against the wooden floorboard, ‘I thought I made myself clear.’

Frank folded his hands in front of his chest, wincing as Albert stepped on one of the drawing books he’d left lying on the floor. ‘I came for V- Bette.’

Albert looked up, seeing Bette cowering for the first time. ‘Your guests are downstairs,’ he said, flatly, and she nodded. Fled.

The door was closed immediately behind her. Bette had not even reached the staircase before she heard Frank scream.