Read Online The Dark by Claire Mulligan - Free Book Online
Authors: Claire Mulligan
Tags: Historical
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“
Sir Franklin Lost in the Arctic Wastelands
! Read now!”
“Where’s that?” Maggie asks.
“The Arctic? A place you shall never see. It is at the top of the world, apparently, or perhaps the bottom. Anywise, it is black as pitch and frozen over and has not a whit of life. Men like to to seek it out and tend, not surprisingly, to get lost forever there. This way, girls.”
Leah hurries them over the long reach of the aqueduct. A funeral coterie plods by. The hearse wagon is drawn by a horse with a soot-blackened hide. The mourners look lightning-struck, the pine coffin ordinary and small. Leah and her sisters bow their heads, but only briefly before Leah indicates they must keep on. It would take a dog’s age to get anywhere, Leah thinks, if one stopped stock for every funeral procession.
Beyond the aqueduct is the Third Ward, the finest neighbourhood in all of Rochester. This is where most of Leah’s young pupils dwell. Cats being boiled alive. Idiots banging on barrels. Such is what comes to Leah’s mind when her students play, although she is ever kind, ever encouraging.
They step off the aqueduct path. This ward of Rochester boasts a plethora of tanneries, factories, mills. Leah’s eyes tear up from the smoke and reeking fumes. Katie coughs, cries, “That’s awful, awful. The ole nasty!”
“Grievous,” Maggie adds.
Leah follows their gaze. Outside a livery, a boy is being whipped. He refuses to cry out, though the man wielding the belt shows no inclination to mercy.
“Uncle David would never ever do that to his boys,” Katie says.
Leah shakes her head. “My heavens, no. But then most adults are cruel, I suppose you two have noticed that.” She offers her sisters stories of suffering children. How they are banished to the countryside. Forced to toil. Left defenseless against the winter cold. Though sometimes, Leah reminds them, sometimes the resourceful ones, the clever ones, enact a small revenge.
“I’d really, really rather not be an adult,” Katie says, as if she could forestall it.
At last: Leah’s rented row-home on Mechanics Square Park. It is a narrow, cramped place, beset with draughts, the smell of the neighbours’ cabbage stews and the dissonant symphony of other people’s lives. There are only two upper rooms, a keeping room, and a kitchen in which Leah cannot swing a cat. Both the outside-scullery and the outhouse are shared with four other families. The park is large, at least, though it belongs to all of Rochester.
Lizzie clatters down the steep stairs, then hurls herself at the three of them. “Mama! You’re here,” she exclaims, and kisses Leah on both cheeks, as a foreigner might. “
Je suis si heureuse
.”
“I am here. Yes … Ah, Lizzie is taking French lessons,” Leah explains to her sisters’ puzzled faces. “I do so scrimp for them. And yet is it not astonishing what one can learn and so very quickly?”
“Well, yes,” Maggie says with her little smile.
Lizzie shows her nieces her latest fancy-work sampler. “It’s a milk, maid with a cow and a pail,” she explains. This habit of Lizzie’s—of explaining the obvious—does irk Leah, but she never chides her daughter for it, or at least, not often.
“You could stitch in a griffin, say, instead of a dull ole cow,” Katie suggests.
“You can’t milk a griffin,” Lizzie replies tartly.
Leah claps her hands. “Go on, you three, take yourselves out tothe park. Do not speak to any men. And Lizzie, I am sure your dear little aunts will tell you all that has happened.”
Leah’s sisters nod happily, then the three rush off, already whispering in each other’s ears, and in that age-old way of children telling secrets.
Upstairs, Leah busies herself with unpacking. Her hand falls on her father’s gift. She absently traces the lilies carved on the lid, then peers close. A wasp, hidden in the leaves. Clever Pa, she thinks, to tuck in a reminder that adversaries ever lurk.
The box is too large
Sir Franklin Lost in the Arctic Wastelands
! Read now!”
“Where’s that?” Maggie asks.
“The Arctic? A place you shall never see. It is at the top of the world, apparently, or perhaps the bottom. Anywise, it is black as pitch and frozen over and has not a whit of life. Men like to to seek it out and tend, not surprisingly, to get lost forever there. This way, girls.”
Leah hurries them over the long reach of the aqueduct. A funeral coterie plods by. The hearse wagon is drawn by a horse with a soot-blackened hide. The mourners look lightning-struck, the pine coffin ordinary and small. Leah and her sisters bow their heads, but only briefly before Leah indicates they must keep on. It would take a dog’s age to get anywhere, Leah thinks, if one stopped stock for every funeral procession.
Beyond the aqueduct is the Third Ward, the finest neighbourhood in all of Rochester. This is where most of Leah’s young pupils dwell. Cats being boiled alive. Idiots banging on barrels. Such is what comes to Leah’s mind when her students play, although she is ever kind, ever encouraging.
They step off the aqueduct path. This ward of Rochester boasts a plethora of tanneries, factories, mills. Leah’s eyes tear up from the smoke and reeking fumes. Katie coughs, cries, “That’s awful, awful. The ole nasty!”
“Grievous,” Maggie adds.
Leah follows their gaze. Outside a livery, a boy is being whipped. He refuses to cry out, though the man wielding the belt shows no inclination to mercy.
“Uncle David would never ever do that to his boys,” Katie says.
Leah shakes her head. “My heavens, no. But then most adults are cruel, I suppose you two have noticed that.” She offers her sisters stories of suffering children. How they are banished to the countryside. Forced to toil. Left defenseless against the winter cold. Though sometimes, Leah reminds them, sometimes the resourceful ones, the clever ones, enact a small revenge.
“I’d really, really rather not be an adult,” Katie says, as if she could forestall it.
At last: Leah’s rented row-home on Mechanics Square Park. It is a narrow, cramped place, beset with draughts, the smell of the neighbours’ cabbage stews and the dissonant symphony of other people’s lives. There are only two upper rooms, a keeping room, and a kitchen in which Leah cannot swing a cat. Both the outside-scullery and the outhouse are shared with four other families. The park is large, at least, though it belongs to all of Rochester.
Lizzie clatters down the steep stairs, then hurls herself at the three of them. “Mama! You’re here,” she exclaims, and kisses Leah on both cheeks, as a foreigner might. “
Je suis si heureuse
.”
“I am here. Yes … Ah, Lizzie is taking French lessons,” Leah explains to her sisters’ puzzled faces. “I do so scrimp for them. And yet is it not astonishing what one can learn and so very quickly?”
“Well, yes,” Maggie says with her little smile.
Lizzie shows her nieces her latest fancy-work sampler. “It’s a milk, maid with a cow and a pail,” she explains. This habit of Lizzie’s—of explaining the obvious—does irk Leah, but she never chides her daughter for it, or at least, not often.
“You could stitch in a griffin, say, instead of a dull ole cow,” Katie suggests.
“You can’t milk a griffin,” Lizzie replies tartly.
Leah claps her hands. “Go on, you three, take yourselves out tothe park. Do not speak to any men. And Lizzie, I am sure your dear little aunts will tell you all that has happened.”
Leah’s sisters nod happily, then the three rush off, already whispering in each other’s ears, and in that age-old way of children telling secrets.
Upstairs, Leah busies herself with unpacking. Her hand falls on her father’s gift. She absently traces the lilies carved on the lid, then peers close. A wasp, hidden in the leaves. Clever Pa, she thinks, to tuck in a reminder that adversaries ever lurk.
The box is too large
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