Mary Reilly by Valerie Martin

under my hands, so I fell back on my knees while the wave rose up before me.
    “There,” Master said, drawing close and holding his hands out before him. “Good. I can never get used to the cold, I’m afraid.”
    I stood up and backed away, wiping my black hands on my apron, so that Master could go back to his fire-gazing, and I said, “That’s because you’re a gentleman sir, and have thinner blood than mine, no doubt.”
    Master gave a little laugh and spoke to me without looking at me. “As a doctor and a scientist Mary, I feel it is my obligation to tell you that your theory has no basis in fact.”
    “I beg your pardon, sir,” I said, meaning I was sorry to have spoken foolishness, but Master thought I had not understood him so he turned to me and said, “All human blood is the same, Mary. Under the microscope I could tell your blood from a monkey’s, perhaps, but not from my own.”
    “I see, sir,” I said. I felt a little annoyed to be lectured on my stupidity, so I looked right at Master and to my surprise he seemed to blush, though perhaps itwas only that the fire had made his blood rise, which I felt timid to observe in my own head as it might be another mistake on my part. Master took up the decanter from the tray Mr. Poole had brought in and poured himself out a glass of port while I stood watching, not able to think what to say next. Looking on me seemed to soften his thoughts for he asked pleasantly, “How does your gardening progress, Mary? I haven’t looked at it in weeks, it seems, I’ve been so preoccupied with projects.”
    “Hardly have I, sir,” I said. “But it do seem that as soon as some seed we planted comes up, two such as we don’t want are on each side vying for the sun.”
    “Weeds, Mary,” Master replied, setting his glass down hard on the tray as if to crush out the weeds growing there. “Where do they come from if you haven’t somehow put them there?”
    “Why, the air must be full of them, sir,” I said. “For they are so much about that we see whole forests as is grown up without cultivation. But what strikes me is why, once they find a bit of soil, are weeds so much stronger than the things we want to grow?”
    “And do you have an answer to that question, Mary?” he asked.
    “I have thought on it, sir,” I said. “And it seems, being wild, they have a greater will to life.”
    Master gave me a ghastly smile and repeated what I’d said as if it was some profound truth he’d just received from an opening in the sky.
    “I think it’s true of many things as is deprived, andchildren too,” I said, “that they grow strong when no one cares for them and seem to love whatever life they can eke out and will kill to keep it, while the pampered child sickens and dies.”
    Master poured out another glass of port and I saw his hand was shaking. His face was pale and drops of moisture had formed on his upper lip and forehead, so he looked like a man having a fright instead of talking with his housemaid on the subject of weeds. He brought the glass to his lips abruptly, seeming not to taste the little bit he swallowed and gazing at me over the glass with lowered eyelids as if he couldn’t believe what his eyes showed him and so sought another line of vision.
    “Sir,” I said, “are you well?”
    “Why do you strike me so, Mary?” he replied, sounding hoarse.
    “I beg your pardon, sir?” I said.
    “The things you say and that earnest, sober manner you have, as if you always mean more than you say.”
    I looked down as he spoke, feeling I couldn’t ever look up again, and so confused my mouth went dry. Master stood just so without moving, his glass in the air.
    “I’m sorry for it, sir,” I said. “If I seem forward. I only want to be honest and answer you always as best I can.”
    Still Master said nothing and while I stood waiting we heard the sound of raindrops against the window, very soft and seeming far off, so that the room, with theflickering fire