Angel of Ruin (7 page)

“No, it is English. It will be the greatest poem in the English language.”

Deborah found her writing tray on top of the desk, next to the inkwell and the bronze-inlay human skull in which Father stored his pens. She selected one and checked its point. “Poetry, Father?” Deborah had so far only taken letters, or worked on her father’s prose tracts about politics and religion.

“A poem in the style of Virgil, or Homer. I have been composing it for some time, but I am now ready to arrange it into a clear form. Retrieve the pages in the second drawer.”

Deborah did as he asked. In the drawer she found a tied collection of papers covered with the writing of his previous assistant. Across the first page,
Adam Unparadised
was written.

“May I read it, Father?” she asked.

“I insist that you do,” he said. “Read it aloud to me, from the start.”

She returned to the short stool before him and made herself comfortable. As the sun rose and weak sunlight made its way into the room, as Liza woke and brought them bread and tea to break their fast, as Father sat listening with an expression wavering between smug self-satisfaction and artistic distress, Deborah read. The poem told a story of angels and paradise, God’s love and man’s temptation. In places it was beautifully written, in others awkward enough to make Father cringe. The narrative was disjointed, jumping from one scene to another with little attention to continuity. But Deborah knew they were the bare bones of something which would eventually be magnificent. She had worked with Father since childhood; when he was ready, he would make her read the same lines, the same passages, over and over, effecting tiny changes until they were perfect.

When she had finished, the sun was full in the sky and her throat was hoarse from reading.

“What do you think?” Father said quietly.

“My opinion, Father? Why, I am only your daughter.”

“What do you think?” he repeated, more urgently.

“It is extreme splendid,” she said, immediately knowing she could impress him with more than praise. He valued a considered reply, even an intelligent criticism. Although his vanity was appeased by those who toadied to him, his intellect always cried out for dialogue.

“But is it worthy of an epic? Will it eclipse Virgil?” he asked.

“It am certain it will, when you have finished it. Only …”

“Only? Only what? Have you a criticism?” His head was cocked to one side, almost in a defiant gesture.

“Father, the title speaks of Adam being unparadised. But was not paradise lost to us all?”

He nodded. “Yes, yes. I have been unhappy with the title. I shall think upon it. Good work, Deborah.”

“Thank you, Father,” she said, positive that she must be glowing with pride.

“We will start work on it tomorrow morning. No, the following morning, for tomorrow is Lord’s Day. I have plans to add more drama: the war in Heaven, the casting out of the rebel angels. Magnificent and thrilling. Now,” he said, as though suddenly embarrassed that he had revealed too much of himself, “we shall continue with your Greek lessons.”

“Father,” she ventured, “I am hoarse from reading. Could we not take a walk instead? It is a beautiful day.”

“A walk? Yes, I suppose we could. I suppose it matters not that Betty is away.”

“Certainly not, for I can guide you just as well.” His embarrassment, Deborah knew, stemmed from the
fact that he had to hold her hand to walk with her. He was not given to any physical demonstrations of affection. Deborah could count in single figures the number of times they had touched more than accidentally. Ignoring his discomfort, she helped him into his coat and hat and led him out onto the Walk.

“Which way, Father?” she said.

“There is a churchyard, a mile or so to the west. It is very peaceful.”

“Come then.” She took his hand in her own, momentarily surprised by how aged it was. Her Father always seemed to her ageless, some marble-skinned god of wisdom. They walked down the hill towards the main road. He strode along with characteristic self-possession, his affinity with the city lending his blind footsteps an almost arrogant confidence.

“Be my eyes, Deborah,” he said. “Tell me what you see.”

She veered left and they walked under dark, overhanging jetties. “I see a tobacconist, and a butcher, an inn with the sign of a bull upon it.” She scanned for the details that would satisfy his imagination. “I see a warm haze over the city, and here we are about to pass a gentleman with …” She broke off as the gentleman moved into earshot.

When he was past, Father said impatiently, “What about him?”

“With a silver nose, Father,” she said quietly. “He must have suffered syphilis.”

“Was it a fancy nose? Or plain? What kind of man was he?”

“Plain-shaped, but embossed. He was dressed in wealthy clothes, but they were dirty.”

“A syphilite on a downturn,” murmured Father. “What else do you see?”

“The nightsoil cart approaching. Let us cross the road away from the smell.”

“The churchyard should be nearby on the left.”

“Yes, Father. Come with me.” She led him across the street and down another dark hill to a walled churchyard. She let go of his hand for a few moments to open the gate, then they entered.

“Go to the newest graves, Deborah. Oh, I can feel the sun on my face.”

“Yes, the sun is shining, and there are many trees around. Here, we stand at a gravestone.”

“Whose is it?”

She read from the inscription. “John Edward Cross. Born 1589, died 1663.”

“Who else?”

Deborah remembered this game from childhood. Father wanted her to find an unfortunate who had been born the same year as him. She scanned the graves nearby. “Yes, I think I see … Let us approach a little closer.”

“Yes, yes.”

She led him further into the churchyard. “Here we are. Philip Pettigrew. Born 1608, died 1659.”

“1659!” he exclaimed. “Ha, he did not make it far.”

“Not in comparison to you, Father.”

“Indeed not, but I have always been of a strong constitution.”

“You must be, Father, for here is another. Andrew Benjamin Olson Parkes. Born 1609, died 1661.”

“And here am I only a year younger and still as healthy as a horse!”

“Would you like me to find you some more, Father?”

“No, for I know there will be too many. I am glad that you are with me, Deborah. Your sisters are not worth much, but you are a good child.”

“Thank you, Father,” Deborah said, aware that she
should perhaps defend Mary and Anne, but too pleased with his praise to ruin the moment.

“I think you are right about my poem,” he said, his red-gold hair glistening in the summer sun. “It needs a new title.”

“Father?”

“I think I shall call it,
Paradise Lost.”

It wasn’t until after supper on the third day that Mary spied her chance to be alone with Uncle William. The owners of the house, Sir James and Lady Aileen, had decided on an evening walk. The sun was still in the sky, the long shadows drew out along the street, and the heat of the day had eased. She had sent Anne with them and purposed to stay behind with William, feigning a sick stomach.

“Sister, can you go and take little Max with you,” Mary had said. “He would love the exercise, and I am too ill to walk.”

“If you wish,” Anne said, surprised, wondering at Mary being alone with detestable Uncle William. “Only I shall have to tie him.”

Tie Max! The thought almost brought tears to her eyes as she remembered it now: finding a soft rope, making a loop for his little head, ensuring it wasn’t too tight. All the time Max whimpering as if to say, “Mary, why are you tying me?”. Still, he seemed happy and eager enough as he trotted off with Anne, who limped after James and Aileen. They were kind people, and Mary was certain they would walk slowly to accommodate her.

Almost as soon as the sound of their feet on the cobblestones had faded into the distance, Uncle William had sidled up to her on the wooden bench under the window.

“Mary, Mary, you’re so pretty.” His hands were already reaching for her. Up close, she could see his hair was dirty and tiny white flecks clung to the strands. Two of his teeth near the front were rotten and the hair in his nose abundant.

“Uncle William, please. Come not so close. I’ll call the servants.”

“And I shall send them away,” he said. But he leaned back a little, chastened, eyeing her cleavage. “You have such nice duckies. May I touch them?”

“I need some information about my mother,” she said.

“What information? And what’s in it for me?”

“Was my mother superstitious?”

“Aye.”

“Did she consult a wise woman here in the city?”

Uncle William cocked his head to one side. “What’s in it for me?”

Mary picked up one of his hands and pressed it to her left breast, on the outside of her dress. “Did my mother consult a wise woman here in the city?”

William squeezed hard enough to bruise her. “Aye, she did. I think she was a friend.”

Despite her discomfort, Mary was excited by the information. Perhaps she would be commanding her own guardian angel soon. “Do you know anything else about her? Her name? Where she lived?”

William’s eyes grew cunning. “I should like to suckle you, Mary. I should like very much to see your duckies and suckle them.”

Mary sighed in exasperation. “Take your hand away, Uncle William.” And when he didn’t comply she said more forcefully, “Take your hand away, or you shall get no further with me.”

He withdrew his hand. She unhooked the front of her bodice and opened it to her sheer undershirt. Uncle
William’s bottom lip hung loose and wet as he ogled her. “Now, what do you know?”

“More,” he said.

She wriggled down her undergarments and let her breasts free. He reached for her.

“No,” she said, her arm fending him off. She sprang up from the chair and stood in front of him, breasts bare. “Now, what do you remember about the wise woman?”

“She lived on Leadenhall Street.”

“Anything else?”

He shook his head and made to lunge at her. She sidestepped him and quickly refastened her clothes. “If you remember no more, then you get no more from me.”

“It was so long ago,” he wailed. “How am I supposed to remember which wise woman your mother knew?”

“If it is important enough you’ll remember.” She stood primly in front of him as he watched her, his mind turning over the problem.

“And if I do remember? What do I get?”

“Everything,” Mary said without hesitation, for she knew she would never honour the bargain. “You get me. But only if I verify the information as accurate, so don’t go making anything up.”

“Very well. Very well, I shall find out, you’ll see. Within a month you’ll be lying beneath me.”

Mary sniffed. “Find me the information first.” She turned towards the stairs. “Until then, nothing.”

Betty was back by the end of the week, and Deborah felt an unexpected jealous tug when she saw her father and new stepmother go walking on the first evening of her return. She watched from the window in her room as Betty led Father to the bottom of the street and then around the corner. She turned her back to the window.
Father seemed to love Betty in his own gruff way, and Deborah supposed she should be glad that he had found happiness.

She descended to her father’s study. Liza was out at the markets, so she had the house to herself until Father and Betty, or her sisters, returned. She relished the solitude — nobody to disturb her thoughts. Father kept a collection of old books in trunks in the corner of his room. Deborah flipped open the lid of the top trunk and pulled a stack into her lap. The sheer weight of them — pages upon pages of people’s thoughts — swelled like a promise in her hands. She wanted so badly to be like Father, to know many things and understand where they belonged in the scheme of the cosmos. She wanted especially to understand the workings of the human body, to know the secrets which made it move and breathe and think, so that she could use them to heal. Imagine finding a remedy for plague, for gout, for Father’s blindness. The magic of healing was to her far more thrilling than Betty’s superstitions or Anne’s delusions of angels.

She chose one of the books — astrology and the humours — and sat back on the floor to read. Liza’s return didn’t disturb her, nor did the noise up and down the street of carts and vendors. When she finally did look up, it was because there was a commotion just outside the front door. She could hear a woman shrieking, a dog whimpering, and above it all, her sister Mary losing her temper vigorously. Deborah put the book aside and hurried to see what was happening.

“He bit me!” This was Betty, shouting, red-faced, her hand pressed to her bosom.

“’Twas only a nip.”

“A dog’s bite is extreme bad luck!”

“You ought not have strook him, you cruel, cruel witch.” Mary clutched Max hard enough to break
bones, tears welling in her eyes. Anne tried to spit out words, but her tongue was tied.

And Father, caught amongst it all, was looking very rattled. “Quiet, quiet,” he said, and his head darted this way and that as though he wished he could see if a crowd had gathered to watch the disturbance. His detractors knew where he lived, and would waste no time in passing on the news of the domestic furore they had witnessed, making him a subject for jokes.

“That dog is not coming into my house,” Betty cried, and reached out to seize Max.

“No, you shan’t touch him!”

For a few brief seconds they wrestled over Max, until Mary aimed a kick at Betty’s shins and she overbalanced, started to fall, knocked Father …

Deborah was with him in an instant, steadying him. Betty fell directly on her buttocks in the mud and Mary began to laugh hysterically. Deborah couldn’t endure the bafflement on Father’s face, the embarrassed rage over his near-fall, and quickly hurried him inside. “Stop it,” she said harshly to Mary and Betty as she passed.

In a moment she had him sitting in his chair. “Is all well with you, Father?”

“Yes, yes, I’m well enough. What kind of nonsense is that?”

“I’ll stop them. Wait here calmly.” She went to the door. Anne was helping Betty up and Mary was still laughing.