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February, 1818
It was a mournful day; grey and windy, a thin, sleety rain falling like needles on the parks and streets of London. Despite this inclemency, the temperature within the small, brick church of St-Mary-le-Bone was becoming quite stifling, owing to the crowd of people now packed into it. Childermass had been aware that the supposedly-late Stephen Black had been popular among the households of Belgravia, but the outpouring of sentiment for the missing butler was both surprizing and touching. Across the aisle from where he sat (squeezed uncomfortably between Miss Wintertowne and Mrs Strange), a handsome, well to-do looking woman wept like a widow upon the shoulder of a solemn-faced Sir Walter Pole. Behind them sat a whole company of male servants, their liveries all different, but wearing matching, sunburst button-holes that marked them out as a secret brotherhood he had never been part of. There were ladies and gentlemen, tradesmen and politicians, servants, shop boys, news boys. A dark thought stole across Childermass's mind: an ugly, prickly question of whether he would be as mourned if he were to vanish, or whether he would be forgotten as easily as... He dismissed the question as soon as he was aware of it, it served no use.
It was a curious service, Childermass thought, a sort of funeral without a funeral, a committing to God's care a soul that may, for all they knew, yet be quite comfortable on earth. Vinculus certainly thought so; he had laughed at the notion of a memorial service as ridiculous and refused to come. But a year had passed since the disappearance of Stephen Black without word of his condition, and so a memorial service would have to do. The whole affair fatigued him, in truth; Mr Black's disappearance was not the only anniversary of absence of note, but while he was celebrated, certain others were being pointedly ignored. He realised he was barely listening to the sermon, and that his attention had drifted to the reactions of his neighbours; he let himself surreptitiously scrutinise them, to distract himself from the melancholy feelings that welled up inside him. Miss Wintertowne seemed unusually calm, a faintly amused, or perhaps knowing smile played on her lips, that she would then catch and straighten into blank passivity. It seemed and odd and inappropriate reaction, given her former closeness to Mr Black, but his friend's moods were often odd and mercurial, and so he chose to read no more into it. Mrs Strange seemed as discomfited by the service as he was, her face a solemn mask, eyes fixed upon a point just behind the vicar, and blinking back emotions he doubted were for a butler. From the other side of Miss Wintertowne, he heard Mr Segundus sniffle - poor, emotional creature that he was - but the density of people in the church prevented him from gauging the feelings of anyone else in their party. Mrs Strange fidgeted uncomfortably on the hard pew; he tried to rearrange himself to give her more space, but there was nowhere for him to go either. The church was unbearably hot. He wanted to leave. He'd barely know the man anyway.
On the steps of the church, after the service, as they waited for a cab, Sir Walter hailed him and enquired after the lecture he'd presented to the Royal Society the night before. Sir Walter had heard it had been a roaring success, with over two-hundred attendees. Childermass confirmed this, but found himself disinclined to say more. He privately doubted Sir Walter really cared - he wore that bright, brittle smile that gentlemen do when they're just being polite - and suspected that he was mostly trying to get away from an awkward conversation with Mrs Strange as to why she had not arranged a memorial service for Mr Strange. Sir Walter apologised for not attending, but gave no reason; Childermass shrugged, and said there would be a transcript in the next edition of The Famulus. There had been a number of requests for transcripts, apparently people found his accent hard to discern. Sir Walter gave a forced, fake sort of laugh at this, and Childermass returned a fake, forced sort of smile, and at that moment the cab arrived and Childermass was called away.
As he went to leave, Sir Walter caught his arm, and asked, softly, "Is Lady Po... Miss Wint... Is Emma well, Mr Childermass?"
Childermass only nodded.
For a moment, Sir Walter seemed to steady himself on his arm, as though even this simple intelligence was overwhelming. This passed a quickly as it had come on, and as Sir Walter straightened himself, he said "Look after her for me, won't you, Childermass?" For all his politician's composure, even he could not hide the look of sorrow and longing from his eyes. His loneliness was palpable, it made Childermass's chest ache. It was exhausting.
"Of course, Sir Walter, of course."
Childermass heard his name called again, and he took his leave.
They took the journey to Starecross at a comfortable pace; despite the whole party's keenness to escape London, there was no particular urgency to their return to Yorkshire. The weather remained cold and sullen, the sky low with heavy snow clouds that threatened to loosen their load at any moment. Wide puddles in the muddy fields reflected back the sky, making the whole landscape oppressive, grey, monotone. It all brought to Childermass's mind another journey, a wild race against the inevitable, that seemed both a lifetime ago and still rawly recent. He tried to put it from his mind, but it persisted, an after-image superimposing itself onto the here-and-now; a niggling feeling he'd failed to do something important. In spite of the damp and the chill, and repeat solicitations from his friends that there was room for him, Childermass insisted on riding, preferring the mute company of Brewer to the cosy cheer of the carriage. He wasn't much in the mood for cosy or cheery, it seemed inappropriate, cruel even, right now. At their stops at Peterborough, Grantham, and Doncaster, business separated him from his companions, and he welcomed the distraction; at the coaching inns, he would retire early, or busy himself seeing to the horses. At first, this raised no concern, for Childermass had always been given to keeping himself to himself; but as the journey wore on, he could not help notice the concerned glances between Mr Segundus and Mrs Strange when he excused himself from their company, nor the frustration, then worry, that crossed Miss Wintertowne's face when her bantering failed to raise a smile from him. He tried, in vain, to put on some veneer of normality, but even Mr Honeyfoot's infectious jollity could not draw Childermass from his self-imposed nest of solitude, and he resigned himself to it.
On their final night of travel, in an inn near Selby, Mr Segundus tried to talk to him, fretting that something he'd said had caused Childermass offence. Childermass tried to reassure him that no, this was not the case, and he was quite well, just a little fatigued still from presenting the lecture. Mr Segundus was quite unconvinced by this explanation, and implored Childermass to be open with him, for were they not friends? For a moment, it was tempting, but really Childermass felt there was nothing to say. Nothing Segundus would understand, in any case. He barely understood it himself. The more Segundus implored, the less Childermass felt inclined to discuss the matter, and the more Childermass tried to reassure his dear friend that he was fine, the more Segundus fretted. It was no use.
Returning home to Starecross was a relief, and Childermass resented that feeling almost immediately. He had been resident there for no more than six months, on and off, when on earth had it become home? He chastised himself for the sentiment, it was a dangerous one and he knew it. No good came of settling down, he'd made that mistake before.
Vinculus had greeted them with enthusiasm on their arrival, declaring that it was his rebirth-day and that he was in a celebratory mood. This celebratory mood had spread through the party, and in the parlour, after lunch, Mr Honeyfoot proposed a toast.
"We have talked a great deal of loss these last few days, but I believe that it is of equal importance that we celebrate the good that has come about in the last year. It is indeed Vinculus's rebirth day," with this, he touched glasses with the venerable Book, "but it is also a year since our dear Emma, and Arabella were relieved of their enchantment and restored to us. So a toast, then, to our good ladies, and their happiness!"
There was a clinking of glassware, and a cheer of "Emma and Arabella!" Childermass allowed himself to play along, not wanting to raise concern, but he felt little of the good humour. It was, he though, as if he were under water, watching the scene unfold upon the surface.
"I should like to propose a toast to Stephen" said Miss Wintertowne, "for I am quite of a mind with Vinculus that our sorrow for him is premature, and that he is still abroad and having the time of his life. To Stephen, wherever he may be!"
"If we're doing toasts to the absent," said Mrs Strange, once the company had fallen quiet again, "then I propose a toast of bon voyage to Jonathan, on his travels, that he may return to us safe and well in his own time, and isn't driven absolutely spare by his travelling companion." There was laughter at this, and cheers of To Jonathan, and Bon Voyage, but Mrs Strange's final sentiment made Childermass wince inside. What little bonhomie he had been able to scrape together drained away, replaced only with a cold, emptiness.
Then it was Mr Segundus's turn to speak: "Now, I know we are trying to keep things positive, and I hope this is not in poor taste, but I should very much like to celebrate the fact that we have had a year - a whole year! - of being able to practice magic freely, openly, and without being told off for it. And we got to keep Mr Childermass in the deal."
That came like a slap to the face. Mr Norrell's absence be ignored was one thing, for him to be actively spoken ill of stung.
Miss Wintertowne laughed out loud at this, "Oh quite," she grinned, "I never thought I'd say this, but I've quite warmed to English magic now it's no longer being ruled over by that dusty little bore." She hunched up her shoulders, and blinked her eyes rapidly and owlishly, "Now Mr Segundus," she said in a soft, querulous, and slightly nasal Yorkshire accent, "you must stop trying to do useful things with magic, because if you make magic useful then people might thing it is a trade, and that wouldn't be respectable you see, because I said so and I'm the Greatest Magician of the Age." Her impression was met by peals of laughter from most of the company; Childermass remained silent. He felt utterly numb, and at the same time far too much: anger, bitterness, loss, shame, fear. God knew, if anyone had good reason to hate Mr Norrell it was Miss Wintertowne and Mr Segundus, but still, this crass display of contempt felt like such a betrayal, not to Mr Norrell's memory, but to his own feelings. Then again, perhaps if they knew of his feelings, they would regard them as just as treacherous and contemptuous.
"Now come," said Mr Honeyfoot, wiping away a tear, "we must not be cruel. Mr Segundus is correct, we must celebrate the return of English magic, and we must remember that none of it would have been achieved without Mr Norrell condescending to join the world in the first place. He made some questionable choices, certainly, and I don't think anyone would disagree that magical research has been much enhanced by his departure, but yet he is still the spark that set the flame, and one of the greatest magicians of the age..."
"Greatest pain in the arse of the age!" interrupted Miss Wintertowne.
"Also that," condescended Mr Honeyfoot, "but never the less, a toast, to Gilbert Norrell, for leaving!", and there was more laughter and cheering, and Mr Segundus chimed in "And to Mr Childermass for staying!"
But Mr Childermass had gone.
Mrs Strange found him in the drawing room, staring out the window at nothing in particular. Neither the candles nor the fire were lit, so the room was gloomy in the failing afternoon light, and chilly. She called his name, but got no response. She tried again, and this time he started as if from a trance.
"I beg your pardon, Mrs Strange," he said, "I was miles away. Can I help you?"
She came to stand next to him at the window, "No, I only came to see if you were all right. Are you all right, Mr Childermass?"
Childermass shrugged, and looked away from her, "I'm quite well, Mrs Strange, I just came in here to..." he gestured vaguely with his unlit pipe, "Do you mind if I smoke?"
"Be my guest," she said, sitting herself down in the window seat. It should have felt like an intrusion, it occurred to him distantly, but he barely cared right now. He didn't even care to light his pipe.
The snow that had been threatening for some time had finally come, falling in thick, white flakes, obscuring the view, and wrapping the house in a thick, white pall. They watched it for some time, lost in private memories. The world had become very silent, and very still. Childermass thought about the silence and the stillness of the darkness, and suddenly he couldn't bear it any longer.
"Do you ever worry about them, Mrs Strange, out there in the darkness?", he asked, softly.
The question, and the sadness with which it was delivered, seemed to take Arabella aback somewhat. "I try not to," she replied, toying with her wedding band, "when I last spoke to Jonathan, in Padua, he seemed so confident, so sure of what he was doing that I feel I must take him at his word. He seemed so excited to be travelling the worlds beyond our own, I think to myself, if anyone could make a success of such a venture it would be Jonathan." Childermass couldn't bring himself to look at her, wishing he had never spoken, ashamed for even broaching the subject. "Do you worry about Mr Norrell?" she asked.
Childermass shoved his pipe in his pocket, nodded, and closed his eyes. He felt tired all of a sudden, as though he had been slowly bleeding all this time without knowing he was wounded. "How could I not?" he replied, "He relied on me for so much, not just in business but in... well... everything. He may be a great magician, but the practicalities of life were always such a struggle for him, and now I'm not there to..." his voice caught in his throat, "I don't know how he will cope, without me there to make sure he's eating, and sleeping, to calm him when he gets overwhelmed..." He shrugged, resigned, and met her gaze at last. Concern sat upon her brow, and dear god that was the last thing he wanted right now.
"He does have Jonathan, you know." she said, brightly, "I believe those two will look after each other perfectly well, and perhaps new horizons will shake Mr Norrell out from his fussiness."
Childermass sighed and shook his head, "I mean no disrespect to your husband, Mrs Strange, and I am quite sure he loves my master dearly, but I'm afraid that for all his affinity with Mr Norrell the Magician, Mr Norrell the Man may be a very steep learning curve for him. I don't know how best to explain it, it's not fussiness exactly that he suffers from so much as..." he wrinkled his nose, groping for the words, "He finds things that you or I may find uncomfortable or annoying deeply, genuinely distressing. Too much noise, strong scents - when we moved to London, I had to send for his old bed-linen from Hurtfew, because he could not sleep in the new sheets. They were too stiff, they smelled wrong. He finds many textures of food nauseatingly unappetising, and will not eat for days after if he's exposed to them. I do not know if Mr Strange will understand quite how fragile Mr Norrell can be."
He could not interpret the look she was giving him now, something gentle, something wondering, as if his speech had been the final piece to the puzzle of her understanding of him, of Norrell, and she was seeing them in a whole new light.
She stood, and lay a hand on his arm, "You really do care about him, don't you?"
Childermass swallowed hard, "I don't think I realised how much until he was gone," he said, quietly, "We were together for a very long time, he and I, and for the better half of it I believe I knew him better than anyone, until he met your husband. I was his only friend for at least a decade," he gave a bitter laugh, "I don't know if he realised that, mind. But before we came to London, he would pass weeks without speaking to anyone but me. Frustrating as he was sometimes, he was very much a constant in my life, you know, and I've not had a lot of constants. I find myself at a bit of a loss without him to look after. Vinculus is far to independent."
"I suppose you were jealous of Jonathan for disrupting that closeness?"
"Oh heavens, no. I was pleased for him, to find someone else he could talk to. Being someone's only friend is exceptionally hard work, and I do not envy Mr Strange in that position now at all. And, well, I think Mr Strange is a good influence on him, all in all, brings him out of his shell." His face darkened, "Lascelles, on the other hand... but I suppose that was broadly my own fault."
"How so?"
"I brought him into the household. Well, I brought Drawlight in, I thought he'd be useful, and I suppose he was, but... Had I realised he came as a matched pair with that... with Lascelles I would have acted differently. He wasn't that useful. I do wonder, if Lascelles hadn't engineered the quarrel between them, if Mr Norrell and Mr Strange would still be here." He frowned, and stared out the window again, guilt like a millstone around his neck.
Mrs Strange patted his arm, "Now, you cannot blame yourself for Mr Lascelles' behaviour. That is his own burden. And, if Vinculus's prophecy is to be believed, I doubt the quarrel and its aftermath could have been avoided. I fear what happened had to happen, and no amount of planning or cunning on your account could have prevented it."
Childermass nodded, "Perhaps," he sighed, "but I cannot help but think that if I had had more foresight, the whole business could have been less... destructive." He looked Mrs Strange in the eye, hoping beyond hope he could convince of his sincerity. He needed, more than anything, for her to believe him. "He wasn't a bad person, Mrs Strange, for all the harm he did. He was just easily influenced, and naive about how people work. All he wanted was for magic to return to England, he acted out of love for that, never out of malice or cruelty. I promise. But he didn't always understand the consequences of his actions, you know? I tried to help him, but..." he slumped back against the wall, in despair, rubbing his eyes with balls of his palms, "Oh I don't know. We all made an absolute pigs-ear of things, and now I seem to be the only person left who remembers him fondly."
Mrs Strange did not respond to this. He had gone to far. He could feel her anger and hate for Mr Norrell even without looking at her, so he though, and why shouldn't she feel that way? Mr Norrell had cost her her husband. He had nearly cost her her life. Childermass was truly alone.
"You know," she said at last, "when I spoke to Jonathan, he said that Hurtfew travels with them, and Mr Norrell need never leave the house if he did not want to." Her tone was kindly, albeit in a very measured, deliberate way. It was not what Childermass had expected, and he forced himself to look at her once more. Her smile was bright and brittle, but her eyes shone with genuine sympathy.
"Really?" he said, with a sad little laugh, "That is a comforting thought, I suppose." He looked down, picking at the frayed cuff of his coat, "I must confess, Mrs Strange, that I do rather envy you for being able to speak to your husband one last time, having the chance to say good-bye. Mr Norrell and I parted company on such bad terms," he absently ran his fingers along the scar on his cheek, "I would dearly love to be able to put that right. Even if we never spoke again after that. It haunts me to think that perhaps he believes I hate him now. I do still care about the weird little bugger, for all his faults, and I suppose now he'll never know how much he was cared for."
"Come, now," she said, and there was that bloody concern again, "I'm quite sure we shall see them again, Mr Strange and Mr Norrell. They are, after all, the greatest magicians of the age, and as Jonathan did keep reminding me, he was in the Peninsula..." her final word came out as a sob, tears coming suddenly and as much a surprise to her as to him. Almost instinctively, protectively, Childermass put his arms around her, and she let him hold her, weeping into his waistcoat "I just miss him so much."
Childermass's chest heaved, once, twice, before he could master his breathing once more. His eyes stung. "I know, Bell, I know," he murmured, his voice cracking despite his will. And perhaps, perhaps he could allow that some small part of him, some small, lonely part that had lost so much already, wished he could weep too, but he wrestled the feeling down. Not now, not now, not in front of Mrs Strange. She had enough grief of her own, without him adding to her burden.
The last of the thin February sun faded away as they stood there, holding each other in silence. At last Mrs Strange's tears subsided, and Childermass gently rubbed her shoulder as they separated, saying "Now then, Mrs Strange, I think perhaps we should compose ourselves and rejoin the others. It's getting bloody dark in here."
Mrs Strange dried her eyes, and attempted a brave smile, "Yes, I imagine they'll be wondering where we've got to. I said I was stepping out to powder my nose." She looked down, wringing her handkerchief in her fists, "I'm sorry for that little display, Childermass. Thank you for looking after me."
Childermass shrugged, "Think nothing of it, Mrs Strange. Looking after people is, by all accounts, what I do."
She nodded, and then took his hand, "Just, do remember to apply that to yourself, Mr Childermass," she said, earnestly, "You are allowed to remember Mr Norrell fondly, if that's what you need to do, no matter what the the rest of us think. I'm sure he would appreciate it if he knew."
Childermass laughed, as he led her to the door, "I sure if he knew, Mrs Strange, it would scare the shit out of him."
(As they quitted the drawing room, Mrs Strange though she saw, only for an instant, a second pair of reflections in the window, one tall, one short. In a blink, the impression was gone, no more than a trick of the light and the falling snow.)
Spring returned to England. It was a subtle thing, a quiet, unobtrusive shift that whether one was aware of it or not lightened the mind and lifted the spirits. The light took on a more golden hue, the winds became sweet with the scent of growing things. And it was on such a sweet, golden morning that Childermass rode out to where Hurtfew Abbey had once stood. He had not returned to the site of his former home since it's disappearance, and so it was with not a small degree of trepidation that he approached the fine, classical bridge that now lead, rather incongruously, into an empty field. Leaving Brewer to crop at the new grass on the road side of the Hurt, he crossed the bridge on foot. He knew not what to expect on the other side, and that, he supposed, was why he had put off this journey so long. Sometimes knowing was as bad as not knowing; once he knew what to expect, he would have to accept that Hurtfew, and it's occupants, really were gone.
The empty field, disappointingly, remained an empty field. There was no sign the house or gardens had ever been there, not even a vague trace of bumps and hollows in the earth to follow their outlines. Nothing, just a perfectly ordinary, boring field, perhaps only notable for the absence of sheep or rabbits or birds. Childermass put his hands on his hips, and huffed, perplexed; he wasn't even sure what he'd hoped to find here. Putting his hand in his coat pocket, to feel for the small bundle in there, he turned back to the bridge. As the nearest permanent structure, it would have to do. From this side of the river, he saw a curious thing: a second bridge a few yards from the one he had crossed, ancient, arching, stone-built, dotted with green moss and small white flowers. In the fresh, Spring light, it should have been a picturesque thing, but yet to Childermass it had an evil air to it, a presentiment that nothing good would come of crossing it, and he gave it a wide berth.
Standing on the bridge, he fished the small bundle out of his pocket. He had no idea if it would work, but shambles were a very old magic, and it couldn't hurt to try. The difficulty had been finding enough things connected to Mr Norrell to make it: he had found a monogrammed handkerchief, and a cork from a claret-bottle from his departure in one of his coat pockets, and a scrap of a note bearing Mr Norrell's handwriting serving as a bookmark in Ormskirk. To this, Childermass had added a lock of his own hair, a button from his coat, and a few coins. He leant over the rail of the bridge, and tied the shamble to the the branch of an alder tree that grew along side it on the Hurtfew-side bank. It would not bring anyone back on it's own, he knew that much, but it might at least act as a homing beacon. It would have to do.
"Come home, sir," he said to the empty field, "or at least let us know you are well. I miss you."
Tears stung his eyes again, and this time he let them come, silently letting them slide down his cheeks into the river. And then he took a deep breath, shook himself, and crossed back towards the road, whistling for Brewer as he did.
What he did not see, as he walked away, was that where his reflection had once stood on the reflection of bridge, an new reflection stood. A small, round, grey reflection. The small, round, grey reflection stood there for some time, watching in the direction Childermass's reflection had gone. With some effort, it reached up to the reflection of the shamble, and untied it from the reflection of the tree, put it in its pocket, and walked back towards Hurtfew.