A Battle of Wills

The stench seeped through the lace hanky, coating Henry’s breaths and tugging at his stomach. The eye-stinging scent of stale urine, putrid sourness of rotting vegetables and damp earthiness of rotten wood all rolled into one. The Eau de Toilette of the poor, if you like. Still, he balled as much of the fine needlework into his palm as he could, pressing it against his mouth so firmly that his teeth nearly pierced his lips. It may have been no match for the stench, but it was his last line of defence against the two helpings of breakfast that threatened to spill all over the perished floorboards. Somehow, exposing his revulsion had seemed the politer option.

The woman escorting him—Mrs Denton, was it?—did a poor job of hiding her reproach. Then again, perhaps she wasn’t trying to. The seam of her mouth tightened with each open door they passed, her lingering glare telling Henry it was him, rather than the emaciated figures that littered the rooms, which she found the vulgar sight. 

He’d learned several corridors ago not to look—seeing the source of the odour only intensified it. As did each corner, the poorly ventilated filth thickening as they moved deeper into the labyrinth. But when Mrs Denton—or was it Lawson?—stopped abruptly outside what he assumed was their destination, he betrayed his rule for just a second.

It was a second too long. A string of open wounds wept into tattered bedding, staining it in hideous shades of green and yellow. The figure they belonged to was too withered to tell apart from the sheets they were tangled in, their joints like knotted cotton.

 Henry’s stomach wrung.

“How is the little poppet?” Mrs Denton-Lawson had dropped the glare in favour of a look so sympathetic it was sickly.

“Soldiering through,” replied a woman’s voice. “We’ve managed to griddle some clean wraps from the church, so we can finally get this scamp strapped up and resting. Who knows, my ears might even get a rest!”

Her tone was jovial, but the figure made no reply. Henry waited for the dreaded introduction to the woman tending to it, but neither one paid him any mind as they back-and-forthed with high and overly-intonated voices, presumably for the benefit of the child. He’d never really understood such things—at what point does one stop wrapping their every word in bright and smiley packages?

As was often the case when he spent any substantial amount of time amongst women, Henry’s relief that he was raised by his father was renewed. Mr Prankoush had no time for such foolishness. He hadn’t realised his foot was tapping until two daggers pointed at him in the form of Mrs Denton-Lawson’s eyes. 

He schooled his body. Not that he should have to—he was here on serious business after all, not for chin music. After some markedly drawn-out final words, the conversation tapered, and Henry found himself struggling to keep up with his escort's newly hurried strides.

They reached the lobby in record time. It might have been charming a long time ago. The paneling, although peeling and bloated with water-damage now, reached all the way to the ceiling, and the ghosts of long-dead rugs still haunted the parquet flooring. Mrs what’s-her-name threw a final, scathing look at him before knocking on a door tucked into a particularly dingy corner. Its glass panel was webbed with cracks that threatened to shatter as it split reluctantly from its swollen frame.

He couldn’t decipher the room at first. A rickety cot had been hemmed into the far wall by a surge of boxes, and an assortment of clothes the colour of weak tea hung from a chain strung across the room. They dripped equally beige water onto the cardboard, the resultant thuds grating at Henry immediately. Above the bed, a makeshift mobile consisting of crudely wound cotton dolls and old teaspoons bent into the suggestion of butterflies spun in the draft.

Another child’s room–was he expected to interact with one? He hadn’t the aptitude nor patience for such things; he’d scarcely spoken to a child since his sister had moved to her husband’s country estate nearly a decade before, taking her two rather disagreeable brats with her. Before panic could turn to indignation, he caught sight of the desk—if one could call a sewing table piled with papers a desk. 

Sat behind the teetering stacks was the woman whose name, so carefully printed by his father’s pen just days before his death, had become the greatest bane of Henry’s life. Nancy Turner, the owner of Ashwell Children’s Home and Hospital. After his tour, Henry wasn’t confident the place met the definition of either. 

She was completely at odds with the room. The dark ink of her hair was perfectly pinned, the pleats of her skirt immaculate as they pooled over the stool—no, box—she was perched on. She summoned them without looking up. Henry, too taken aback to feel offended, simply wandered into the room like one of the children. 

“Thank you, Mrs Wilson. I’ll show our guest out in due time.” Even her voice was out of place, its glassy tone at odds with the wear and tear around her.

The door slammed behind him with such force it made his teeth clack. He could add forgetting to thank his escort to his growing list of transgressions. 

Miss Turner waited long enough for her greeting to land like an insult.

“Mr Prankoush.” Her eyes swept over him; searching for signs of his father, he assumed. She would find none. Aside from the ashy tone of his skin and the thick eyebrows that swarmed the upper part of his vision, he had nothing in common with the man that raised him. The last few months had proven as much.

Henry tried to respond, realising too late that the bundled handkerchief was still clamped to his face. He stuffed it back into his breast pocket. The musty scent of mildew and cheap perfume met him—a marked improvement.

“Miss Turner.” He returned the appraisal, and she held his gaze with eyes of steel. Even the draft stilled. 

“As you are aware, Miss Turner—”

“Please, Mr Prankoush, do sit down. I’m afraid my office isn’t accustomed to hosting guests, but you’re welcome to use the cot.” She slid a tower of box files along with her foot gesturing to the new gap. 

“Your… ah, yes. Your office. Thank you.” Unsure whether he could even squeeze through to the flea-ridden cot without knocking anything over—or whether he wanted to—he remained standing. 

Her stare was expectant. 

Deciding the game of manners was already lost, Henry cleared his throat and began again. “Forgive me for asking after your time, Miss Turner. You are, it seems, a difficult woman to get a hold of.” If she felt the need to defend herself, she didn’t show it.

“My solicitor has made a great deal of effort to contact you, but I believe he is, as yet, unsuccessful. As I’m sure you realise, Miss Turner, this issue is somewhat time-sensitive. I did make this clear in my previous letters, though I accept that the complexity of legal jargon may be beyond a woman of limited–”

“I have read your letters, Mr Prankoush, and I can assure you that they were comfortably within my, admittedly very limited, range of understanding.”

Henry waited for her to elaborate. She didn’t.

“Right. Well then. Excellent! We can go ahead and dive straight into negotiations for the alternate settlement. I assume you have received the deed of variation?” 

“I have.”

The woman didn’t waste words.

“Perhaps you have a more suitable room? I wouldn’t wish to sully your sleeping quarters with such sombre discussions.”

She followed Henry’s eyes to the cot, a hint of pity shining in her own. “We are short of staff. Many of the newer children find it difficult to settle.”

Henry felt relieved to know it wasn’t Miss Turner, and her pristine clothing, who crawled onto the pitiful excuse for a bed. The image had been rather unsettling.

“In any case, I will need some space to draft the adjustments,” he said, nodding towards the pyramid of paperwork before her.

“That won’t be necessary, Mr Prankoush. There will be no adjustments.”

“Really? Well, this really is wonderful news! I’d assumed your lack of correspondence meant you were preparing to drive a hard bargain. I must say, Miss Turner, given the generosity of the offer, I’m pleased to hear that isn’t the case! If you can just sign the deed—I have a copy with me, as it happens—then I can be on my way and out of your hair.”

Henry held his smile until it felt strange. Even in person, the woman withheld correspondence. 

Unsure what else to say, he fished out the deed tucked into his braces and held it out. His arm began to ache. 

“Miss Turner, if you’re unhappy with the figure, it would be wise to be honest. I’m a reasonable man, I’m willing to negotiate the donation, but I do, unfortunately, require your cooperation to do that.” The last sentence came out more clipped than he had intended, but who could blame him?

“The figure is very generous, Mr Prankoush.” Still, she made no move.

“I don’t know if anyone has told you before, Miss Turner, but you are rather un-elaborative.”

“I have indeed been told that before.”

Henry's fingers ground circles into his temples. 

“Miss Turner, I—”

“I reject the deed.” If it weren’t for the exceptional clarity with which she spoke, Henry might’ve convinced himself he had misheard. Before he could respond, she had risen from her box-stool, swished her way through the jumble of boxes with practised ease, and prised the door from its case once more.

“Thank you for visiting, Mr Prankoush. I’m afraid I have more pressing matters to attend to.”

Henry felt his chin detach from his face, bobbing wordlessly. He couldn’t recall a time when he’d been spoken to like this by a man, never mind–

“Should I call for Mrs Wilson to accompany you out, sir? Or will you simply continue walking until the air becomes breathable?”

He had to ball his hands into fists to stop them from shaking.

“you do realise I’m trying to help you?”

She scoffed, and Henry’s disbelief darkened at the edges. 

“Care to share the joke, Miss Turner? Because from where I’m standing, there’s nothing funny about the sum I’m offering. This has gone on long enough, and frankly, I’m shocked that a woman in your position would have the audacity—”

“How dare you,” she hissed. “How dare you barge into my establishment, with your blatant revulsion and your poor manners, and have the bare-faced nerve to speak to me of audacity. And what’s more, the arrogance to suggest your actions are in any way motivated by charity.”

“My offer exceeds the current terms by twenty percent, Miss Turner. Twenty percent. I simply cannot understand where your anger is coming from, and I must say I’m finding it rather unbefitting.” Henry found himself rather proud of the finality in his words. Surely even a woman as irksome as she could find no argument for such points.

“Do accept my apologies for not fitting into your narrow-minded perception of womanhood, Mr Prankoush. I suppose you expected carpets to be rolled out upon your arrival? For us to line the children up so they could kiss your feet?”

Henry’s cheeks grow hot. Obviously he hadn’t expected that, though it would have been more appropriate reception than this.

“I suppose you expected me to kiss your feet especially thoroughly, to be ever-so-grateful for your generosity.” The word felt like a slur from her mouth. 

“If my generosity doesn’t meet your expectations, then please, Miss Turner, name your price.”

“Were you suffering from an absence of mind earlier, Mr Prankoush?” Her tone was so genuine he actually second-guessed the sarcasm in it. “I will not sign. Not on any terms, existing or negotiated. Your proposition is of no interest to me, or this establishment.”

Every inch of Henry strained to walk away, to tell the ungrateful skirt that she could stick his offer up her backside and get out of the rat-infested hole she called a home. But his father had listed the rotten woman as a beneficiary in his will, his final act of spite Henry was sure. She was to receive a far-too-charitable portion of the monthly income for as long as the executor was alive. Which meant that, for the duration of Henry’s life, his ability to borrow money against his own estate would be impeded by a woman stubborn enough to ignore twenty-three of his solicitor’s letters.

“I simply do not understand.” 

“Undoubtedly not, or you would no longer be cluttering my office further.” 

“Unless I happen to live to be one hundred-and-thirty, you can’t possibly recover as much money from the current—”

“Have you ever known hunger, Mr Prankoush?” Her tone was didactic, and Henry’s taste for preaching non-existent. 

“Before you subject me to moral drivel, I’d like to remind you I’m well within my rights to contest your position in the will altogether.” He wasn’t—his solicitor had confirmed as much. “My father’s mental state was impaired in the weeks leading up to his death, and I have clear grounds to invalidate—”

“You’re right, that was unfair of me. I don’t expect your experience with delayed dinner courses prepared you to imagine such a thing. Horticulture, then. I assume you are familiar?”

Henry was working on a biting retort, but the absurdity of her words blew the wind from him.

“Your father taught you the basics, yes?”

“How on earth is this relevant?”

“Tell me, Mr Prankoush. Are you familiar with Sansevieria?”

He wasn't, though he certainly wasn’t about to admit that.

“Apologies, that might be beyond your limited understanding. You may know it as the snake plant. Hardy things, ideal for first timers. You could leave those plants unattended for weeks—months, even, if the humidity is sufficient. Their leaves act like little jugs you see, holding onto the water and rationing it slowly. A forgetful servant's dream!” She seemed to be closing the gap between them as she spoke, her tone disarmingly bright, her eyes alarmingly wild. 

“Now, Mr Prankoush. Do you have any experience with ferns? The Maidenhair, perhaps? Oh, they make a lovely addition to a parlour. I’d be surprised if you don’t own several yourself on such a large, impressive estate as yours. Your servants would know about them, I’m sure—they need watering daily, you see. Misting too; very time-consuming.”

Her point started to take shape, and Henry didn’t bother to suppress his contempt for it. His lips curled.

“It would be far easier, wouldn’t it, to water them monthly, perhaps give them more than they would usually get.”

Henry’s patience, threadbare it the best of times, frayed and tore. 

“What a preposterous analogy. This is an orphanage, not a garden. If you are unable to manage a large sum of money, perhaps you ought to look into hiring–”

“Do not speak of what you do not know. Mr Prankoush.” The brightness had fled her voice, the gap between them closed entirely now.

“My children are ferns, Mr Prankoush. Their thirst knows no bounds. I am accustomed to disappointing children, my days consist of little else. But what I do not do—will not do—is deny them. To do that would require a sharp mind and a quiet heart, and I can assure you there isn’t a soul here in possession of either. I cannot deny what I do not have. Your father understood this. He lived this.”

Henry’s skin shifted; his father’s childhood was not something anyone made a habit of mentioning. The man had made it his life’s mission to rise as far above his roots as he could, and as far as Henry was concerned, speaking of his background was to sully his success. Shame pricked beneath his collar—whether for what Miss Turner had said or how it had made him feel, he couldn’t be sure.

“I apologise if your father’s wishes and the needs of these children don’t align with the financial plans you’ve set your heart to. But I ask that you forgive me when I say that I could not care less about the self-serving schemes of an entitled egotist, whose empathy extends about as far as his capacity to understand the word no.”

Henry couldn’t move. He didn’t have to, as it happened. Miss Turner grabbed both of his lapels and steered him towards the doorway with unprecedented strength. His feet practically dragged behind him, as useless as his mouth. One final shove saw him tumble out into the lobby.

“I expect the first payment before the end of the year, in line with your father’s instructions. Unless you plan to disgrace him further, that is. Either way, as you said, this has gone on long enough. Good day, Mr Prankoush.” The door slammed, spitting fragments of the now fully shattered glass into his face. 

Henry kept the lace hanky over his face long after he left Ashwell Children’s Home and Hospital. He was sure his shame seeped through the damn thing.