Another Heartbeat in the House (34 page)

In the garden, a blackbird sounded a warning note. I turned to the window, picturing William sitting here last night, gazing at the same view St Leger and I had looked upon as we lay in each other's arms upstairs. How strange that such a serene view had produced such different thoughts!

The blackbird's call sounded more urgently, signalling to his mate that there was some danger from fox or feral cat or grey-backed crow. I hastened to retrieve Clara Venus from her carriage: grey-backs had been known to take lambs, and I had heard stories of cats leaping into bassinets to lick the milky faces of sleeping babies.

She was awake, clutching at shadows with her little fingers, squinting at the dentelled oak leaves overhead, and smiling at the faeries only she could see.

THAT AFTERNOON EDIE
climbed the captain's stair to the dim box room, and lugged the chest down. It was no easy feat, for it was extremely heavy and she had first to empty it of its contents. It smelt of the Vicks VapoRub that her mother had used to smear on her chest any time she had a cough as a little girl, and when she finally heaved it into the light-filled drawing room she saw that it was made of camphor wood. That would explain the excellent condition of the clothes that had been stored therein. Edie's grandmother had a camphor wood chest that she swore by for keeping silver from tarnishing, and for warding off moths.

At the very bottom of the chest, Edie found a small rectangular leather case embossed with acanthus leaves. Even as her thumbnail sought the catch that held the diptych together, she knew what it contained.

There were the knowing eyes, the sensual mouth, the patrician nose, the prominent cheekbones. It could be none other than Jameson St Leger. And there, opposite, was the portrait of a child whose face bore a structural resemblance to her father, but whose features – tinted in shades of rose and cornsilk – were a thousand times more delicate, a thousand times more captivating. This was Clara Venus, apple of her parents' eyes. And no wonder! She was quite the most delectable baby Edie had ever seen.

Setting the double miniature carefully on a shelf, she went to fetch Eliza's clothes. The taffeta, the moiré and the rose-pink sash with vine appliqué that had belonged to poor Mrs O'Dowd were present and correct; but when, Edie wondered, had Eliza acquired the dinner and evening gowns, the riding habit and walking costume, the day dresses and the luxurious Paisley-patterned shawls?

Edie took off her work clothes and slipped her arms into the sleeves of an Indian robe. It was of fine cashmere, intricately embroidered and lined with silk, and it made her feel as though she was wearing water. Standing amidst the precious things piled in the middle of the salon, she regarded herself in the silvered pier glass. How strange to think that Eliza had stood here once, clad perhaps in this very gown! How strange to think that William had once sat at that desk, writing outpourings of love; that St Leger had leaned against the chimneypiece with a glass in his hand; that little Clara Venus had crawled upon the faded carpet, whose old-rose garlands had, over time, almost merged into the silver-green background.

A sound from the lake made her turn. Rising from the surface with a mighty beating of wings were the two swans. Edie stepped towards the window and settled down to watch as the birds lifted themselves into the air and took off, streamlined and powerful, for the opposite shore.

They said that swans mated for life. She wondered had Eliza taken a mate for life, or if she had lived, as was her intention, solitary and proud? She looked again at the carving on the inside of the shutter, tracing the oak-leaf pattern with the tip of her forefinger, then running it along the elegant moulding of the panel to the very bottom. There, just above the hinges at hip height where dust had gathered were engraved the initials
They were conjoined with two others, scratched in a more childish hand –
C. V.
– and contained within a heart.

C. V.
– for Clara Venus, of course. Was Clara Venus still alive? It was conceivable, although she would be a very old lady: in her nineties by now. Mrs Healy had said that Mrs Callinan was a fair old age … Could Clara Venus and Mrs Callinan be one and the same? Mrs Healy had said that Mrs Callinan had been born in this house, she had said that the writing on Eliza's manuscript was the hand she had been taught as a child, the hand that had, presumably, been passed down from mother to daughter, from teacher to pupil? Edie suddenly remembered the daguerreotype that she had found on her first day in the house. Had she consigned it to the rubbish that Mr Healy had carted off that morning?

Heart hammering, she rummaged through the contents of the chest. There! There they were, safe behind glass, the four people who, Edie felt sure, had been the inhabitants of this house. Two women, a man, and a girl in a gingham pinafore. Was that Clara Venus? And which of the women was Eliza? It was evident to Edie that the more
distinguée
of the two was the lady of the house. Her stance was the more graceful, her clothes more elegant by far. She was wearing the walking costume that Edie had found in the trunk, the one lined with quilted coral-coloured satin, and she stood looking directly at the camera with inscrutable eyes. Edie remembered how, when she had first seen the house, she had fancied it wore a similar expression – the merest hint of a Giaconda smile.

As for the man … could he be St Leger? Impossible to tell: he had a slouch hat pulled over his face, obscuring his features.

Edie felt a thrill course through her. She peered more closely at the image of the girl in the gingham pinafore. If Clara Venus and Mrs Callinan were one and the same, she would be meeting her tomorrow.

Autumn progressed sedately. Since Lissaguirra was but an hour's journey on horseback from Doneraile, most of St Leger's time in Ireland was spent at the lodge rather than at Dromamore House. Sophia had questioned the wisdom of keeping up this last tie to Ireland, but he had argued that blood bound him to the country of his birth, and to the house built by his great-grandfather. Even though he had sold the greater portion of his land (to Sir Silas Sillery, whose estate adjoined his and who was driven more by cupidity than common sense), he was fiercely proud of his heritage, and in the complex world of Anglo-Irish politics his stance was resolutely nationalist.

I got letters from William every week during that uneventful autumn, full of entertaining news of his travels around the country: of stag-hunting and the races in Killarney, of the pleasure gardens at Westport and the theatre in Belfast, and each time a letter arrived telling me of goings-on in the world beyond Lissaguirra, I felt more and more like Rapunzel, cut off from the rest of civilization in her inaccessible tower.

In October I received a letter from St Leger saying that he had business in Dublin, and asking if I would join him there.

It is a risk
, he wrote,
for you know that Dublin is but a suburb of London, and gossip spreads like wildfire from capital to capital. But I long so to see your sweet face, and I will not be in the country again before next year. Can you leave our daughter with your servants and come to me for a week or so? I shall take lodgings instead of putting up at an hotel, and you will be quite comfortable. I am sure you need such necessaries as dresses and baby clothes – and clocked stockings to encase your comely legs, which I should dearly love to see again. Oh! The writing about your stockings and your dear, pretty legs makes me feel what a gentleman ought not to express.

Your most attached
,

J. St L.

PS: The nib with which I am writing you all this is so bad it will only write wrong-side up. My brain is a little that way too.

Dear Flea
,

My heart lifts at the prospect of a week in Dublin with you. I have heard say that Dublin society is racier and less formal than in London – with members of the gentry, the professions and academia all muddling together – so I think we may lark a little without too much fear of censure. Maria tells me the mall is one of the grandest and most beautiful in Europe, and that the pleasure gardens rival Vauxhall. I intend to visit the shops in Sackville Street, for I have my mind set on silk stockings clocked with butterflies, birds and bees. I look forward to knowing your thoughts on this important matter.

Of course the Biddies have said that they will be delighted to have Clara Venus to themselves to spoil.

Your Bastet

PS: What serendipity! I have heard just this morning from Mr Thackeray, and he is to be in Dublin between the dates you mention.

Of course the PS was a fib. In his letters William had expressed a frequent desire to see me again before he left Dublin for London, and the lure of that city had not been far from my mind since he had first suggested it back in August.

And that is how I found myself in a stagecoach drawn by a four-in-hand, with rain on the wind and two hundred miles between me and my beaux.

Our lodgings were on fashionable Rutland Square, which boasted numerous noble residences, as well as assembly rooms and pleasure gardens. St Leger had reserved a suite on the piano nobile of a town house let by the bankrupt heir of a tea merchant. It was handsomely appointed with white marble chimneypieces, rococo plasterwork and Venetian windows. There were blazing fires and nosegays of hothouse flowers in every room. I found the scent of the lilies overwhelming, but St Leger was so delighted with our
nid d'amour
that I could not bring myself to utter a syllable of complaint.

In nearby Sackville Street and across the river in Grafton Sreet, I went shopping. I had never before shopped for things I did not need, and St Leger encouraged me to spend without reserve. In the drapers' and the silk mercers' I swathed myself in mantillas and shawls of lace and chenille, I ran my hands over bolts of damask and satin, cashmere and brocade, and I calculated how many yards of stuff I should have delivered to the dressmaker in Doneraile.

In the plate-glass windows of the haberdashers, tailors and outfitters, pictures of the latest fashions from
Les Modes Parisiennes
and
Le Bon Ton
were displayed. St Leger told me to choose my favourites: I picked out a riding habit of Brunswick green, a honey-coloured morning dress, a walking dress of serge lined with quilted coral satin, a carriage costume trimmed with chinchilla, an evening dress flounced and edged with Venise lace, and a dinner gown of rich amber and cinnabar-red velvet. As he issued directives to the shopkeeper I protested that these last three were a scandalous waste of money, for when would I find an occasion to wear them? But St Leger insisted upon ratifying the order, observing in a murmured aside that I could wear them for him in private so that he could have the pleasure of taking them off.