Duchess did not like her new surroundings. Foreign
domestics? Who ever heard of such a thing. Did they bathe regularly?
Who employed them to be in her house. The boy of course. He had no
idea of what she required and no taste in the people they employed.
Servitude was required and these colonials had none of that.
The entrance hall was smelly. The smells of urine and
faeces reeked from some of the cleaning trolleys. In her household
the Privies were emptied in the late evening and by morning no odours
remained.
The fare, as she suspected: would be was best
forgotten. She was determined not to eat it. Two managerial types,
whom she could not remember employing, came and interviewed her and
she set her terms, maybe she reasoned the boy sent them to see after
her care and comfort.
Her sleeping quarters were now adequate if not as large
as she would like, but there was room for her small dining table. She
insisted on dining each evening by candlelight. The single stand and
a plain white candle was acceptable, if not giving generous light.
The other daily coalitions she took on a tray, adorned with a white
cloth – of course, while seated.
All in all, the living was primitive, but the boy on a
rare occasion when he did visit assured her that the alternative,
which would be imprisonment in a Garret was not an attractive
option.
As time progressed, however, she grew tired and not as
in control of her moods as heretofore. She wanted to consult one of
those nice young men, perhaps from the Apothecary, since he wore a
similar uniform, but the boy warned her not to dare, or there would
be severe consequences. He might imprison her again behind the
Confession Box.
She adjusted to a daily routine and time passed. Still
the boy only visited infrequently. Then one spring as the days
lengthened, he started to visit and converse more frequently.
The boy visited more often now, never with any
interesting gossip. He was only interested, it seems, in telling his
own stories, ones the Duchess presumed were from his past, his youth,
when he lived away from the family. Then she remembered he never
lived outside of Bowen Court, at least not for any time.
The stories, the tales he told were vile. No sane human
would be involved in such depravity. She hoped he was telling her
about his dreams as the scenes, he was able to replay in her head,
terrified her, although the telling seemed to excite the boy.
She began to close her mind to his wants, yes wants, he
wanted her to know what she had assisted in. He called it that
assisted, helped, because she did not stop him. As the time passed he
became more insistent that once again she would allow him to be free
to do more killing. He enjoyed doing that he said: got off on it. A
vulgar sentence it seemed: even though it was one she did not
understand.
Over time Duchess got weary, tired, confused again. The
world she knew was crumbling. Georgie was becoming aware again.
Duchess tried to resist on those occasions when the boy
dressed her as a man and sneaked her out in that guise, from her room
to the hospital wards: terrible confused places full of sadness.
Georgie was not being honest. He would not let her walk in a normal
fashion: her normal deportment. He made her slouch along walls, often
making her drool, and mutter obsenities. It was most distressing for
her to act in that way, but somehow in those occasions she did not
have the will to resist.
Always she wanted to go back to her rooms and take to
her bed. Then when they returned
she could wash the disguising smell of madness from her body, powder
herself, resume her wardrobe, lie on her bed and cry.
