The Painted Bridge (14 page)

“The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her. She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life.”
He smiled at her, tight-lipped. “Proverbs. Chapter thirty-one, verses eleven. And twelve.”

She felt a desire to hurl the teacup at him.

“What are you talking about? You deceived me, Vincent.”

His eyes slid away like fishes.

“You must try to curb your passions. For your own sake.”

Abse got to his feet. “Leave your wife in our hands, Reverend. A full cure may take longer than all of us here had hoped but I am optimistic. I am always optimistic. Further treatments can be employed.”

Vincent rose too. He picked up his hat and adjusted the cords between crown and brim.

“The Bishop asked very kindly after you, Anna. I hope to find you more composed next time. God bless and keep all of you.”

“Vincent, tell me why you’re doing this to me. You have no right—”

He was gone.

Abse made a noise of satisfaction as the door closed behind him.

“Fine man, your husband, Mrs. Palmer. Knows his scripture too. Aaaah …”

He gasped as the cup hit him in the middle of the chest and bounced back onto the desk. Tea flooded over the open ledger, the dissolving ink creating a gray tide over the page. It dripped from the edges of the desk onto the rug, where it steadily darkened the pattern of chrysanthemums.

Abse stood looking down at the desk. He leaned over it and began to blot the ledger with his sleeve in small, fussy movements.

“Take her back up, Fanny,” he said. “We’ll commence further treatments straightaway.”

A Proverb of her own came to Anna as Makepeace ushered her out of the room. She repeated it silently to herself all the way up the stairs.
“Therefore shall his calamity come suddenly; suddenly shall he be broken without remedy.”

She hardly knew on whose head she wished greater calamity—Vincent’s or Querios Abse’s.

*   *   *

Anna couldn’t sleep. She didn’t want to be in Dover. But often since she arrived at Lake House she found herself there—in the garden, on the clifftop. In her bed. In her self, as she had been as a young child.

There were things that she knew as a child without knowing how
she knew them, that were never presented by a governess. All the important things were like that. What she knew was that her place was on the edge of things. On the edge of England, where the earth broke its solid promise and surrendered to the sea. On the edge of her family, not snugly bracketed between sisters.

She knew that girls were lesser beings. Her mother’s voice whispered that she had been a chance of what they longed for—a son and heir. She heard the word as
air,
felt the light, expansive promise of the male line. The earthy disappointment of girl children. Her parents even had a name ready for him; Antony without an
h.
They’d substituted Anastasia, in their disappointment. Shortened it to Anna by the time she was old enough to hear it. A fifth daughter did not merit five syllables.

She decided early that she liked to be on the edge of things. Slid into a bench seat in the kitchen, pressing her spine against the wall, with the only route out under the table. She would sit on her ankles behind the wing chair in Captain Newlove’s study, eyes smarting from tobacco smoke, looking at a book about shells.
Conchology
. It was a long time before she connected the drawings of shells in the book with the shells on the shore. When she did, it was with a secret passionate thrill that ran all the way through her.

More often, the air was innocent of smoke. Their father was missing. He was a word, an empty chair, an anticipation. He was one of the pelagic birds he told them about, that lived at sea, drifted on the currents for months at a time, swimming in the skies, held there by the eye of the water.

She knew him best through his study. He had charts pinned up of the waters off the coasts of England, Spain, the Cape of Good Hope. Maps in which the dry lands were sketchy, rudimentary spaces, almost blank, but the waters teemed with detail—with the reefs and wrecks that could cause vessels to founder, the buoys and lighthouses that could save them. He had a globe of the stars that he said must be looked at as if from inside it, looking at the sphere all around, from the center.

A spiked pink shell was marooned on a shelf, a red shell from the Red Sea whose inside curled in on itself, to a secret place. After he died, Anna took it out of the study. Ran down the path with it and hurled
it with both hands into the sea. Her sea, that was gray and bronze and black like its shells. At ebb tide, she looked for the exiled casing. Walked over the muddy sand, her toes resisting its hungry suck. The worms left piled casts on the surface, traces of where they were not.

She knew the bay as she knew her own body, knew its soft and tough places, its sweet and rank smells. She arrived in it fast, magically, sliding down the path from the clifftop, sending flying showers of small stones, grabbing at roots of thrift and mallow. It was a path too undignified for adult use, too direct and dangerous, necessitating at some points sliding and at others a headlong rush that could be undertaken only in a spirit of faith, that the rusher would remain upright, regain her balance farther down and meanwhile half run, half plunge to the bottom of the cliff.

The adult route to the shore was through a passageway hacked down through the cliff. The descent was sinister to her, the cliff in relief unsettling. It was alarming to know that the earth was so thin, endured only inches below the turf, that it gave way to a pebbly compromise of shale before the strata of chalk began, jagged, piled on top of one another as if they fought for position, trapping the great helpless flints that jutted from them.

The passage indicated that she might keep walking, down into the earth. She could walk under the bottom of the sea, under the underneath of things, and what would she find there? Would it be the sky, again, would she fall through into nowhere, unsupported, floating or swimming? Or vanish, like a jellyfish carried home in a pail?

Walking down through the passageway alarmed her more than swimming as far as she could toward the horizon, while any of the succession of disoriented governesses who passed through the Newlove household watched from the shore, eyes shaded by their hands, calling in voices of which no trace, no echo, could be heard. The sound of the sea canceled out the sounds of the earth, rendered them futile and plaintive. Anna floated on her back with her ears under the water, the noise of the pulsing depths like shattering glass, high-pitched evidence of things exploding.

*   *   *

Sometimes she felt like the survivor of a wreck herself. They lived in a flint house on the clifftop; the smell of earth and salt and wind defined the meaning of home. She shared a room with Louisa. At night, Anna lay in her bed next to the wall, looking at the rose-patterned paper, considering whether the paper at night was different from the paper in the day, whether it was possible that the roses were all the same. She’d never found any two things exactly the same. Moonlight fell through the uncurtained window, threw a pillar of light over the blooms. She raised her hand, made a dog’s head or a starfish, marveled at the shadow she cast.

The window of the parlor on the first floor looked straight out to sea. In winter, they kept a vigil for blue lights, slept with the sound of the lonely raging waters in their ears, a sense that the ground of their lives was being dragged out from underneath them.

Captain Amos Newlove died within sight of home, his ship wrecked in the English Channel on the Goodwin Sands. The maps hadn’t saved him, nor the globe or the brass telescope. Her mother covered up every window in the house that looked directly out to sea. She blocked the one in the parlor with a bookcase so the room was always dark. In the garden, surrounded by glossy-leaved bushes, she burned the pea jackets and calfskin shoes, the logbooks, the foreign banknotes. The flames were orange, transparent in the sunlight; the smoke blew sideways into their faces. Anna and Louisa, girls of ten and fourteen, left behind by their older, married sisters, retrieved a few blackened treasures from the ashes, contemplated their warmth in silence. Later, they forgot where they’d hidden them.

Amelia Newlove grew old overnight. She announced that she loathed the water, hated the sight of it, the smell of it and worst of all the sound of it. She wore cork stoppers in her ears at night and never referred to the sea, to ships or to sailors. She marooned herself in the flint house, looking inland toward Canterbury and the spires of the cathedral, which even on the clearest day could not be seen, although the coast of France looked sometimes as if you could reach out an arm and stroke it. One by one, neighbors stopped visiting. The ship’s bell by the front door, Captain Newlove’s jest, fell silent.

The sea was to be feared. Anna knew that before she knew anything. The sea took its due. Swallowed whole what it would have. Must have.

*   *   *

The morning after Vincent’s visit was drizzly, the day as dull outside as it was inside. The fire was out when Anna woke and the stockings Lovely brought each had a different name written in the top. Neither of the names was hers. Anna flung them aside and they landed in the chamber pot. Lovely gasped.

“I do my level best, miss. To make sure yer get what yer need.”

“I need my own stockings.”

“These are the only ones that came up from the laundry.”

“I’m not putting on other people’s.”

“Go without, then.” Lovely’s face was pink.

“I will,” Anna shouted, as Lovely left the room, banging the door behind her. “I will go without.”

She sat on the edge of the bed and stretched her legs out in front of her. It had shocked her when she arrived to see the women’s naked ankles in the slippers, their cracked, spreading heels. Now she was the same as them. She was being undone, pulled apart like a piece of knitting. Personhood came down to small things. One’s own clothes. A letter in a familiar hand. The opportunity to step out of the door, rain or shine. The parts of life Anna had believed were details were turning out to be its most important elements.

Sitting at the washstand, she brushed her hair one hundred times, piled it up at the back of her head in a loose knot secured by the two tortoiseshell combs. She must keep hold of herself. She must not allow them to break her.

After breakfast, as Anna got up to move toward the dayroom, Makepeace stepped in front of her. She wore a pinafore over her costume in a drab fabric, thick and coarse. Anna shook off the hand on her arm and stepped back. She had a lingering fear of Makepeace’s touch, almost a horror of it.

“Come with me, Mrs. Palmer.”

“Why? Where to?”

“Dr. Higgins believes a shower may be beneficial.”

Talitha Batt knocked a metal dish cover off the sideboard; it landed on the floor and rolled from side to side making a mournful, dying echo.

“Not a prolonged shower, I trust, Mrs. Makepeace,” Batt said, her voice sharp. “Not in this weather.”

Makepeace, summoning Lovely with a peremptory shout, didn’t hear her.

*   *   *

The shower room was beyond Makepeace’s room, in a part of the house Anna hadn’t seen before. Thin wooden lathes like ribs showed through patches of fallen plaster and the floor was carpeted in old flour sacks. There was a narrow wooden box in one corner with a tin tank over the top of it, its door secured by an iron bar. It looked like an upended coffin. Anna supposed it was the shower. She wouldn’t be defeated by a shower. She’d walked into the sea in November—she wasn’t afraid of cold water.

Lovely shivered and cast her eyes to the floor. Anna looked at Makepeace as coolly as she could.

“Yes? What now?”

“Take off your things, Mrs. Palmer.”

Anna turned her back to them as she undid the bodice of her old velvet dress. She draped its skirt on the chair Lovely put by her, wordlessly. She slipped her feet out of the slippers, felt the rough texture of sacking under her feet and stood there in her petticoats.

“All of them, please,” Makepeace said.

Anna took off her petticoats, pulled her chemise over her head, then stepped out of her drawers and folded them on the chair. She had never fully undressed in front of another person before. She felt as if she was someone else, watching this Anna from a distance. As if it was she, not Makepeace, who observed the white curve of her belly, the protruding hip bones, the dark triangle below. Her hair was warm over her breasts, and her feet, even more than the rest of her, looked naked, on the dusty floor.

“Step inside, Mrs. Palmer. We should find two minutes sufficient.”

Anna glanced at Lovely for reassurance as she stepped inside, saw the stricken look on her face. The cupboard was smaller inside than it appeared and lined with tin. With the door shut, she couldn’t raise her arms. She looked up, saw a perforated roof and gasped as the
first streams of water hit her face. Her mouth jerked open, icy water flooded into it, down her throat. She struggled for breath, her chest made a strange hoarse noise. The cold was violent; the sound of the crashing water confused her. The sea had been warm, by comparison. Benevolent. She craned her head, trying to remove it from the rush of the water but she couldn’t get away from it.

She closed her eyes and tried to remember which side the door had been on. She must knock on it and make them let her out. This couldn’t be how it was intended. This was torture. The water kept coming in a relentless flow, hard as metal. Anna couldn’t think clearly. Water was rising above her knees and her feet felt as if they were being beaten, as if the bones were breaking from the inside out. She lifted up one foot, trying to remove it from the pain and overbalanced against the tin wall. Clawed her way upright again.

The water rose to her thighs, reached the tops of her legs, then in between them. It seemed not to be liquid but some punishing solid thing. It continued, past her waist, her breasts. Fear overtook the physical pain. She was going to drown. It was she who would die this way. Her hair that would float on the water; her eyes that would remain open as she went under the surface.