Resurrectionists (24 page)

“I am certain,” I said pulling my hand away. “And if you are not, then perhaps I have made a terrible mistake in marrying you.”

I ran off towards our bedroom to hide from the awful pain of his temptation. He did not join me for a quarter hour, and I was frantic with worry the whole time. I vowed I would not ask, for I was afraid I would not like the answer. How she could offer herself in that way, only days after flushing life from her womb, I cannot fathom.

The next morning, I woke Virgil early. I had hardly slept, pondering upon the problem of Charlotte. I had run away from my family, left a life of luxury behind for Virgil’s sake, and now my marriage was being ruined by her presence. It was not to be endured.

“Wake up, Virgil,” I said, shaking him softly. Outside, the sun was still on the other side of the horizon. The sky was dark blue, and I could see a single star through silhouetted tree branches.

“Gette?” he said groggily, eyes open a crack, peering at me.

“I must say something and it cannot wait. It is of the utmost importance.”

He reached out his long, pale hand and brushed a curl off my cheek. “What is the matter, my

sweetheart?”

And then, because he was so beautiful in the halflight, so warm and gentle, I began to cry. He enfolded me in his arms. His skin was hot beneath his white nightshirt, and I could feel his sparse, unshaved bristles as he pressed his face into my face to kiss my cheek.

“Virgil, you didn’t . . . you didn’t . . .”

“Didn’t what, my pet?”

“With Charlotte?”

My cheek was pressed against his collar bone, and his voice rumbled deep in his chest. “Of course not. Darling, I’m sorry. I was drunk and Charlotte is so forward. I merely stayed to tell them to be kinder to you, to remind them you are not like them. You are pure. Delicate.”

“And sad.” I breathed in the salty scent of his sleepy skin.

“This morning you are sad. I’m so sorry.”

“She will have to go.”

He paused, his hand at rest on my hair. Then,

“Charlotte?”

“Of course, Charlotte. Charlotte will have to go. Her presence makes my life a misery.”

“If Charlotte goes, then Edward will follow.”

“I don’t care. He’s almost as bad as her.” I pulled away from his embrace and considered him. “You can live without Edward, can’t you? I can be your friend as well as your wife.”

“And you will be desperately unhappy if they stay?”

I nodded firmly. “Yes. I don’t care if we have to move to another house or –”

“Edward will not make us leave.” He sighed

deeply, ran a hand through his hair. “Edward has been such a help to me in my work,” he said carefully.

“I can help you. You need only tell me what you do and –”

“No,” he said with conviction. “I can manage on my own. I can manage without Edward. But I cannot manage without my wife’s smiles and laughter. I will speak to them today, and they will be gone in a matter of days.”

In fact, they left this morning. Charlotte was wearing one of my bonnets as she stepped into the coach, a challenge to me. I said nothing. I wish never to speak to her again, and she may keep the bonnet, though it was my favourite. Edward promised that his first task upon returning to London would be to call upon the press which has their poetry collection, and to find out when they intend to publish it. He said his Goodbye to Virgil then moved on to me.

“Georgette. I’m sorry if we disrupted your

household while we were here.” His eyes were so sincere and apologetic that I forgave him instantly, and wished that he could stay. But he was determined to be with Charlotte.

“I should always be very glad to see you, Edward,”

I replied, taking his hand.

He kissed my fingers softly, then leaned in to embrace me. I stiffened – it hardly seemed appropriate

– but he whispered urgently in my ear. “Watch Virgil closely. Do not let him become too melancholy. I fear for him.”

Then he released me and left me bewildered as he walked purposefully towards the coach. Virgil took my hand and smiled at me, and he seemed so perfectly contented as to make a mockery of Edward’s words. And so now, Diary, we are back to our harmonious pace. From now on, I shall endeavour to talk with Virgil more and draw him out about his work. I care not what it is he does. I cannot bear to stay ignorant of such a large part of his life. We vowed to share everything when we married, and I shall hold him to that vow.

Wednesday, 6th November 1793

I can scarce believe it, I hope and hope that I am not imagining it, that the most wonderful Thing has happened. Still, it is only early and I shall not pin all my dreams upon it.

Diary, I think that I may soon become a Mother. Tuesday, 12th November 1793

There can now be no doubt. All the signs are upon me. I am filled with such a joy, impossible to express. I shall tell Virgil on Saturday, for we often walk down to the beach on Saturdays and sit to watch the sea for hours. I am certain his elation will be a match for mine, for there will be one more in this household to love. Saturday, 16th November 1793

And so, in the scarce space of a month, I have been transformed into the happiest woman alive. Let me tell you about today.

Virgil woke me with kisses (his usual mode to wake me) and it was a sunny day – perhaps the last fine day of Autumn, for winter will soon be upon us. We dressed and broke our fast, then headed outside for our customary walk along the cliffs. I have longed to tell him since I first suspected and nearly blurted out my delightful secret as we were walking, but I saved it for the Perfect Moment.

Soon we reached the old boat behind the rocks, upon which we always sit to watch the sea. Virgil helped me across the stony beach and then we settled together, side by side on the creaky plank which was our love seat. The water was very still, as it often is in the mornings, like a pale blue glass lying bare under the sky. Small waves curled onto the shore, the air was fresh and salty, and a sunbeam kept us warm. We snuggled close and I watched Virgil watching a space, far, far out to sea. He seemed very content. In fact, it was the first time he had appeared content since Edward’s departure three weeks ago. I think that Virgil dislikes his work greatly, and that perhaps Edward’s presence tempered that dislike. I notice him sipping from the crystal bottle of laudanum oftener and oftener, see him sitting dazed by the fire for the hour or so before he must leave the house to work. If I ask him what is wrong, he tells me not to worry, that he is merely musing on a poem or some such thing. I have done as he says and not troubled myself too much over it, for Virgil was always a Melancholy. I’m sure now he will have the child to look forward to, these moods will become lighter and less frequent.

So, content on the seashore, I put my hand in his, beamed up at him and said, “Virgil, you are to be a Father.”

Diary, the joy in his eyes! Those eyes, so dark and gentle, teardrops poised to brim over onto long lashes. And he smiled at me and said, “Gette? Are you certain?”

I nodded, overwhelmed, and he folded me in his arms and rocked me. “And how am I to keep my heart from bursting with happiness?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion. “How am I to keep my joy contained in this fragile, mortal body?”

I could not answer.

When he had calmed his passions, he began to dream out loud. “Imagine, Gette, a tiny you or a tiny me, a perfect life created by us. He will be so fair, so bright, with your kind nature I hope, and your golden hair and blue eyes.”

“No, your chestnut hair,” I said, laughing, “and your beautiful, beautiful dark eyes.”

“And we shall teach him to read from babyhood, so that he is always clever. And then perhaps he can follow me into my profession.” Here he frowned. “My writing profession, I mean, not the . . . not the other.”

I rushed in to patch up the breach in his joy. “Of course he shall be a poet. Or
she
.”

“Yes, yes. A little girl, how delightful. Either would be . . . delightful.”

Virgil never fully recovered his uncontrollable joy after reminding himself of his work. I wish I knew what he did, but I cannot ask without giving away that I listened in on his conversation with Edward that night. Besides, it cannot be so bad, not really. Virgil is all Sensibility, and so any task that is not writing his beloved poetry would perhaps affect him adversely. I shall not worry.

He took me home and disappeared for a few hours on some task which he would not reveal, then returned with a posy of wild violets and daisies for me, handpicked in the wood behind our home. This evening we sat comfortably, lovingly together. He cannot keep his hands off my body, and I would not resist him even if I could. We are so full of happiness and love. I must to bed. My husband awaits.

Monday, 18th November 1793

I have just read over Saturday’s entry. How much joy we shared upon that day, and indeed upon Sunday and even this morning. Even this morning. But now Virgil is all a-misery. As I write this he sits by the fire, as he has done since night fell, and gazes into it. He has avoided my every attempt to draw him into conversation for the past three hours, not responding at all. As though I weren’t here. I should cry for being so ill-treated, but I am trying to understand his terrible pain.

We heard word this morning, in a letter from Edward, that the publishing house in London does not want Virgil’s poems. With what shaking hands did Virgil pick off the seal on the letter, certain that this would be the fulfilment of his hopes. And then with what a sad droop about his shoulders did he hand me the letter where I could read for myself the obliteration of those hopes.

Cripplegate, 13th November

Dear Virgil,

Bad news I’m afraid, my friend. As you know, I
decided to pay a call upon the gentlemen at the
Hammondslowe Press, to ascertain when they
planned to publish our collection. They handed
me the manuscript and thanked me for saving
them posting a refusal. In fact, they admitted
the manuscript had been lost for six weeks and
had only been found again two days previously.
I tried to press it back into the editor’s hands,
but he assured me he knew for certain that
Marley and Snowe would not be printed with
their press at any time. But don’t despair, old
friend. Why don’t you and Georgette come
down to London and we’ll begin afresh?

Yours, EDWARD SNOWE

I handed the letter back to Virgil, comfort awaiting in my eyes. He seized the piece of paper from me, screwed it up with one hand and clenched it there, bilious words exploding from his lips. “Damn you, Edward Snowe! That untalented wretch has snatched away my glory!” he exclaimed, tears threatening then falling. “Why did I put my trust in him? He was so full of promises – he knew the editor, he said, and so I allowed his dreadful poetry to drag down my honour. That worthless hound, that wretched garreteer!”

I tried to take him in my arms, but he resisted violently, and stalked from the room. He wrote a poisonous letter to Edward and went out to post it. I did not see him for many hours, and I believe he may have been walking along the cliff-top here, hoping the sea could wash away his sorrow. But he returned with the evening dark and has sat, ever since, by the fire without saying a word. If I did not know better, I should think an Enchantment has struck him dumb. When I recall how joyous we were just a few bare hours ago, it is as though –

Oh, oh. How can I steady my shaking hand

sufficiently to write what has just transpired? I was so engrossed in recording today’s events in my Diary that I did not notice Virgil had arisen from his chair and stood over me, glaring down upon me. I only looked up when he said, “What are you doing, Georgette?”

“Writing in my Diary,” I replied. With his clothes in disarray, his hair dishevelled from running his hands through it in despair, and that strange glazed look he acquires when he has been taking laudanum, he resembled a Madman, lit from behind by the fire. My heart began to race.

“It’s a pity you can’t write for money, isn’t it?” he said, his voice dark with sarcasm. “It’s a pity you can’t succeed where I have failed.”

“You have not failed, Virgil. You have been refused by one publisher. There must be many more publishers who would be interested.”

“And what would you know?” he snapped, pulling at his cravat as though it were choking him. “What would you know about life, or about art?” He turned his face upwards, the tears springing once again to his eyes.

“Virgil, do not distress yourself so,” I said, putting aside my Diary and moving to stand up. But he pushed me back into my chair and leaned over me, a hand on either arm of the chair, trapping me in the path of his invective.

“Do not distress myself? You shallow, shallow bauble.” He spoke these words so vehemently that spittle escaped his mouth. I felt it hit my hair. And then, remorseful, he collapsed to his knees and put his head in my lap.

“I ache, Gette, I ache. I ache to live, and all I get is this.” Here he gestured around him with one limp arm.

“But this is living, Virgil. You are alive.”

He shook his head. “I am only half alive, and I am dying all the time. In my head, I have beauty and peace and wings to fly, but here, here in this cottage it is all hardship and cold and . . . and . . .” He began to sob.

“Hush. You must try to calm yourself. In a day or two you will feel better, and you will be ready to try again.”

“I never want to feel better. To feel happiness is to be deceived. To feel misery is to know the truth about the world.”

“Hush, Virgil. Perhaps you should sleep.”

“Sleep?” Again anger edged into his voice, and he sat back on his haunches to look at me. “How can either of us sleep? We have no money, no future, and a child on the way.”

“We have enough. We’ll get by.”

“Oh yes,
you
needn’t worry, for it is not
you
who must go out at night and –”

“And what?” I prompted him.

“Never mind,” he said, climbing to his feet. “You just keep your silly secrets in your silly Diary. ‘Dear Diary, today I ate well and was loved, and cared not that my husband grovels in the abyss –’”