Girl Reading (20 page)

How would you afford it?

You will have made provision for Muriel and, though it does not match the wealth of the ton, I have my own income. Also, I did not squander all of your gifts. I worried that one day I might have to take care of you. Did you not know that already? I left the papers in your desk.

Maria pictures a mess of documents she has not yet faced.

Muriel’s foster parents should be consulted. Although she is not actually theirs, they love her just the same. It occurs to me, you
would be a better tutor in the ways of society; how much more gratifying and extraordinary the world would seem to Muriel when viewed in your reflected light. Still, I would do my best. I would keep Mrs. Plett with us. She has spent her life in service to you, saving you from yourself. What else is she to do? I would let her take charge of Muriel, and me, as a consolation. And I would visit your sons, if they would receive me, and your grandchildren.

Why would you visit my grandchildren?

Because they are yours. Because I would want to be an aunt or a friend to them. Whatever help I could give, they would have it—and who knows when they will need a listening ear or a sanctuary? A real grandparent would be better, but I would do my best.

I see what you are doing, Frances, and it is wasted.

Is it? And if he will hear me out, I would try to persuade Georgie to make provision for Dorothy in the event that His Lordship dies first.

She has no right—

That is why I would raise it sooner rather than later. His Lordship’s estate is enormous. It would not harm the legitimate heirs, it could prevent an embarrassing scandal, and she will not need a pension for long, anyway. It is the clever and the moral course of action. That your son fears offending you is probably part of his motive for procrastinating. I would at least try to resolve it. And then I would never think of it again.

Why did you not say any of this before?

Because I was alive and—distracted.

Frances . . . I did not make any provision for you.

Then it is a mercy I died first.

Maria’s tears swell childishly.

Oh, Maria, it is only a joke! I would have survived, I would have made do. It would not have inhibited me, nor would I have been angry with you. Put it out of your mind.

Frances puts her arm around Maria’s neck; Maria rests her head on her shoulder. A kiss.

Maria whispers, What else would you do?

I would honor your memory by living my life. I would explore whatever we would have explored together. I would regret deeply that you were not with me to share it, but I would let the pain go because I would be grateful each day that I had loved you and been loved by you. I would laugh at your wit whenever I recalled it. I would be steered by your precious influence. I would not even reject love if it crossed my path again.

Frances’s voice becomes as indistinct as the breeze, her shoulder becomes Maria’s own palm, the caress on her arm is only Coward’s rough tongue, his black body warm at her side. A ladybird is on her knee, opens its shiny case to reveal transparent wings, flies away.

Featherstone of Piccadilly

Carte de Visite,
1864

F
lorence and Rosemary, the Gault twins—Flossie and Rosie to each other and their mother—dark-haired and green-eyed, are playing among the graves.

The little girls skip between the headstones, pausing to inspect the worn inscriptions, to pick at the lichen, to place twigs and leaves in mysterious shapes on the dirt of the dead. They commune with the sleepers, listen for the shriek of the magpie, the damp air making their frocks cling, the soles of their feet black. Their nails are clogged with filth.

Florence is the elder by a few minutes, considers herself to be wiser in the ways of the world for this reason, to have forever an advantage over Rosemary. Rosie is fortunate to have an example to follow. They are bony and pale, but not miserable children. This churchyard is one of their “best places.” They natter, they crouch, they chase and hide, they are identical guardians of the crypts.

One says to her twin, Let’s do Our Secret. She likes to do that
because the physical world warps into patterns, and the flow of sisterly understanding between them is powerful but
not at all
terrifying. Her sister does not want to, is content to be, runs along the row of mounds instead. They play and explore until their mother comes to fetch them.

Mrs. Harry Gault—Isabella—the wan woman, sickly bearer of seven surviving children, five of them strapping boys destined for the Lancashire textile factories and coal pits. Her youngest are the twin girls who she had hoped would take up her mantle, for in her youth Isabella was both a great beauty and a brilliant dramatic soprano. Letters and gifts from enamored princes, the whole of Europe her wardrobe and dining table and boudoir. The nectar of immortality was within her grasp, until a jealous rival (in love or in opera?) attacked her with a straight razor, leaving her face and career in tatters.

Isabella has known destitution, and in the end she could do no better than Harry Gault. The scarring is permanent and deep.

It was disappointing to find that her girls, though they can learn a song and some harmonies if they are repeated, have no special aptitude or inclination for music. And there is a houseful of boys and men to attend to anyway, chores to do, the permanent threat of pregnancy—

Mrs. Isabella Gault, wrapped against the weather in gray wool, makes her way toward the cemetery. She calls to her girls in her melodious voice.

One waves. She can see it is Florence (only Isabella could tell them apart at this distance). Rosemary is out of sight. The church spire points to a pale sky where starlings flock, swarming cloud shapes, pulsing presentiment, their mass contracting and expanding in collective consciousness. Isabella stops to watch the evening delight. Florence looks, then disappears from view farther behind the graves.

Isabella climbs the hill, makes her way to her daughters, Flossie elevated on a grassy mound, Rosie huddled by a wall.

What have you been doing?

Flossie replies, We were talking to the beggar; he said the night was death.

Where is he now?

Flossie shrugs. Gone to heaven, I expect. You saw him too, didn’t you? She addresses her twin.

Rosie turns, disconcerted.

Flossie scowls. Well . . . ?

Yes, I saw him. He had white hair and a staff. He had traveled far.

At first Isabella fears a criminal in their midst, then: Tell me, where was this man?

Standing there—Flossie points to the vacant threshold of the church where the thick oak door is shut fast. He was in pain. For a while. Then he left.

When was he here?

A moment before you.

Which way did he go?

Flossie looks to her sister to supply more details, but Rosie frowns. Flossie shrugs: Gone whence he came.

Isabella looks about her in case the stranger is nearby. He is not. She walks the perimeter of the building, determined to see in each direction so she can swear on the Bible she searched with her own eyes and found nobody. She has already begun to create the legend. She knows that twelve years ago an elderly man who had wandered for many miles seeking shelter in the depths of winter, finding the church locked and bolted, died of exposure on that very spot, his body frozen solid, his face locked in the grimace of pleas unanswered.

Florence goes to her twin. She and Rosemary whisper together.

* * *

Isabella Gault knows about the nurture of talent. She knows that finesse comes with rehearsal, that effortlessness requires effort.

The lamps are extinguished because the medium, Mrs. Mortimer Solomon-Black, is giving a demonstration. She is an American, though her transatlantic tones merge with the furrows of another dialect. The participants at the séance hold hands around the table to ensure the authenticity of the experiment, the room so dark they cannot see their neighbors or the person opposite, or the lady herself. Listening to their own breath. They wait. Two of their number are avid spiritualists, thrilled to be in the presence of one of the most famous and proven mediums of the day. One man is an ardent skeptic, has come to figure out the trickery, deride the folly, denounce it as charlatanism. One attendee is bereaved, and three more are here for diversion, as though this were the music hall or a game of whist.

Mrs. Solomon-Black is going into her trance: We are here as friends. Is there a spirit who desires to make contact with the living this evening?

The silence is painful. The members of the party attempt to repress the rustle of clothing, the whistling from one gentleman’s hairy nose, the creak of the chairs they occupy. They grip one another’s fingers tighter.

A clear, loud rap.

They react, shared relief and achievement. It came from above or beneath them somehow, from no discernible source in the room (which was examined in advance).

Two more raps.

Mrs. Solomon-Black translates: Three for yes, we have broken
through. May I remind you at this critical juncture not to break the circle. If the person sitting next to you lets go, you must draw attention to him immediately so that there can be no tampering or interference, and what happens here remains spontaneous and honest.

A man of city finance (and also the bereft son) asks whether it is his mother.

Mrs. Solomon-Black puts the question to the spirit: Are you Hilda Merryweather? For there is someone here who wishes to contact Hilda Merryweather.

One rap. One rap for no. Then one more, then a third—it is she, after all.

Hilda, your son, Phillip, is here. He longs to speak with you.

Phillip Merryweather can hardly contain himself and exclaims into the darkness, Mama! I am so happy. I have been lonely without you. But Mrs. Solomon-Black, how do I know for certain it is she?

The medium agrees: We must make sure. Hilda, appear to me. Let me hear you. Let me bear witness. Show your love for your son by showing yourself.

The piquancy of the anticipation is heightened. Assuredly if the spirit is genuine, it will not deny her son solace? Assuredly if the medium is a fraud, she will expose herself now?

Aha. I see a most elegant lady, adorned in pearls, with white hair that used to be red. She holds a posy of thistles and has been reunited with a white cat she is very fond of.

Phillip squeaks with emotion because this is an accurate description of his beloved mother.

She is giving me some names. She is saying Victoria and Albert. But that does not make any sense, Mr. Merryweather; why should she be naming the Queen and her consort?

Because Victoria was her middle name, and Bert was the cat she loved and lost. It is Mama’s way of letting me know it is indeed
she. (Some of the group murmur in amazement.) What is she saying now?

She is anxious about her pepper pot.

Oh, dear. I gave it to Mrs. Middleton after Mama died. Was I not supposed to? Does she want me to get it back?

It has some special significance.

I cannot think what.

And she is worried, fretful, about an unpaid bill to the butcher.

He raises his voice as though addressing someone across the road.

We have settled your accounts, Mama, including the butcher’s. He was saddened to hear the news and gave us a ham for the wake.

The medium listens intently.

I see. Was your mother one to accept charity in life?

Phillip Merryweather does not reply, senses disapproving eyes on him in the blackness.

I think your mother wants you to settle the outstanding payment.

Of course. How foolish of me. Mama, I am sorry, I was distraught. It never occurred to me—

She is saying that is no excuse. However, she is saying you were a good son to her, and she is proud of you. And she is saying a wonderful opportunity has recently come your way that you should take advantage of, with a Scottish connection.

Phillip Merryweather thinks instantly of his planned investment in a shipbuilding contract in Clydebank. The engineer’s drawings were magnificent, the business model as tight as a drum, the potential returns fabulous. Uncanny!

She means Edward McClancy’s proposal, of course. I am glad of her approval, for I intend to sign the papers tomorrow.

A single resolute knock.

Not
McClancy’s ship, Mama . . . ?

He considers.

Hmm. She cannot mean the loan Nicholas Nash asked me for, for his geological survey? (The cost of the project was enormous. Merryweather had laughed the man out of his office—it was a fool’s errand, a lot of old rocks and marine fossils and glacial drifts and no money to be made whatsoever.)

Three distinct knocks. Yes.

Mama? Are you positive that Nash is the man I should be financing, not McClancy?

Hilda . . . ? The medium strains in her chair. She is being called away. She is leaving us.

Phillip Merryweather is peeved, but the two experienced spiritualists, Miss Langdon and Miss Mellor, can be heard twittering with excitement, for Mrs. Solomon-Black is thoroughly convincing and there is still more to come.