Chapter Two

Chapter Two.

I do believe I have lost my mind.

The doctor attended to my mother daily for the next two weeks. Though regular, his visits were always short and my presence in the household was rarely acknowledged. My fondness for Mr Lay’s professional countenance and playfully bad-mannered ignorance to my existence drew me to him in exciting new ways. I’d mistakenly taken his arrogance for flirtation and I began to wait in great anticipation for his visits despite their morbid nature. I had been tempted by the desires of the flesh.

My dear readers, I ask you watch and pray that you may not enter into temptation. The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak. The lord warns us so. It is too late for me to follow these wise verses, but it is not for you. Be not tempted by those serpents around you. Trust no-one but yourself. Rather, trust no-one. I have learnt not to even trust my own judgement.

My mother’s health deteriorated quickly and in that tragedy I felt another, more heart-breaking loss take form. My father, weary from the hardship of caring for my mother, began to follow in suit. I began to notice in him a sadness so destroying that not just his body, but his soul seemed to darken. Prayer had ceased as though it was pointless activity. Conversation was limited to a series of monotonous topics and my father began to spend extended periods of time in his study yearning for answers. The solitude drove me to take refuge in books and private study and it was here that my interest in science and biology began, much to my father’s dislike. As a man of God I could see the possibility of my future taking a medical route over a religious path pained him terribly.

By the time my sixteenth birthday arrived, I was so distanced from my parents that I spent most of the day in solitude in my chamber.  I’d not asked for anything from my parents for the occasion. It felt selfish to demand material luxuries when my mother was plagued with depression. I had in my possession a single letter that had arrived during the early hours of the afternoon in a seemingly mysterious fashion. I had not seen the manner in which the note had arrived and its external appearance offered no clue to its creator. The name, Miss C Mooreson, was written in a strictly clinical hand and I struggled to find any explanation for the presence of the letter at all.  In great anticipation, I tore open the document and read aloud to the unoccupied drawing room:

Miss Catherine Mooreson,

It has been brought to my attention that you are now of age to be introduced to society yet you appear to have no means or intention to do so in the present future.

In discussion with my dear Mrs Landley during church the week previous, we have both been guided to a unanimous conclusion; that you must accompany us to Bath for the season to announce your position in society.

You will take rooms with Mr Greenwood and I for a period of four complete weeks while my husband regains his health at the direction of his doctor.

A young girl in your position and sadly downcast situation can surely find no reason to object to our offer.

A coach will collect you from the vicarage in two days unless otherwise directed.

Yours expectantly

Mrs Georgina Greenwood

Although my father voiced much objection to the adventure even he, in his archaic ways, could not deny the benefits of the opportunity. The possibility the journey held outweighed any doubt my father may have held about my safety on the venture or concern behind the motive of the mysterious ladies of the congregation. It had been apparent to my father that my recent solitude had become the talk of the village and he had not shied away from the responsibility of my abandonment. I did not blame him for his distance from me, as on many occasion he had stated that I was ‘too alike my mother’ and as she gradually lost herself to depression my presence around my father was almost too much for him to handle. I believe it was this animosity that had provided my gateway to Bath and harmoniously to my ruin.

Two days following my sixteenth birthday the carriage arrived as promised. I was greeted with an overwhelming warmth and geniality; it seemed there was nothing the Greenwood’s would not do to assure my comfort on the journey. A young, tall and smartly dressed fellow jumped down from the carriage under the direction of Mr Greenwood. He was a handsome boy, no older than 18 years of age with dark hair and olive skin; the prospect of his company excited me and seemed only to enhance my eagerness to leave the vicarage and begin the passage to Bath. The nameless boy collected my cases, loaded the carriage and reclaimed his seat next to the elderly driver before Mrs Greenwood gestured for me to join her inside.

‘Come dear, we have a long journey and not long to do it’.

I was eager to please and for the first time since their arrival spoke directly to my benefactor.

‘Of course Mrs Greenwood’ I replied, with my eyes still fixed to the youth.

‘Well quickly girl. Pay little attention to Robert dear, there are far more appropriate suitors in Bath. He is a mere coach boy. Oh, Mr Greenwood; please, we really must make haste’.

Mrs Greenwood removed a small mirror from her purse and began to modify the position of her hat with great precision. I’d never been one for fashion, but the extravagance of this particular hat had caught my attention. Laced with pink satin and complimented by a single feather of a peacock; I still believe now it is the finest crafted hat I have ever laid eyes upon.

I am sure, by now, you wonder why I ponder on such material things as an elderly ladies hat. It is, you see, the admiration of this singular hat that led to my own hunger for the finer and more material things in life and consequently grew into jealousy towards any woman more established and prosperous than myself; there was no better place to feed this jealously than amongst the reputable ladies of Bath. Another lesson for you readers, jealousy will destroy your soul. It is James, a servant of our lord that teaches us that where jealousy and selfish ambition exist, there will be disorder and every vile practice. The lord speaks true.

As I boarded the coach my father approached from the vicarage carrying with him a small antique oaken box. His frail and skeletal frame offered him no support on his crossing to the vehicle and I found myself embarrassed by the reaction his appearance caused. Without hesitation, I climbed from the carriage, took hold of my father’s arm and guided him back to the doorway. He showed no resistance to my control and simple slid the box into my hand before releasing my grip and returning to the vicarage of his own accord.

Relieved I returned to the carriage. A silence that was so sorely uncomfortable lingered over the coach and any previous desire to be inside of it began to convert to dread.

After what seemed an age, Mr Greenwood finally spoke up:

‘Shall we?’ he proposed and with that the coach was in motion and travelling hastily away from the vicarage.

‘We will never reach Bath before dark now. I did so long to see Mrs Gardner this evening’.

Mrs Greenwood delivered her reply with a coldness I was yet to experience from her. It was clear to all involved that her sharpness had risen from her impatience with my father, if not from the sudden development of the agitation, the piercing stare in my direction that had accompanied the utterance could not be ignored. Particularly not by Mr Greenwood and whether in my defence or his own desire for peace, he did not hesitate in his retort.

‘Oh, do stop blabbering Mrs Greenwood, you may very well see her in the morning. Besides, I am sure Miss Mooreson is in no fit state to attend to company tonight. I would not be so opposed the rest and quiet myself’.

The remainder of the journey was spent in complete silence. Mrs Greenwood plainly refused to acknowledge the presence of her husband and in return he appeared to enjoy the solitude. Having no other interest (for the light of day had disappeared and the coach window offered no image to admire) I had taken out my father’s parting gift and having unlocked the box, revealed a small, red-leather-bound copy of the Holy Book. The book was old and delicate with pages of verse tumbling out alongside every page I drearily turned. I had felt a fatigue begin to conquer my body and as I slipped into a thoughtless sleep, my eyes rested on one single verse that lingered in view.

The daughter of any priest, if she profane herself by playing the whore, she profaneth her father: she shall be burnt with fire.