A Map of the Damage

by Sophia Tobin

  The light dissolved, a cloud across the sun, and in a moment, it was as it had been – only she saw a figure, the edge of a figure, just leaving, behind her; she saw a figure in the reflection of the mirror. And she thought she knew who it was.

  ‘Mr Taylor?’ she called as she turned, thinking he must have stayed to look around more, and that he was wrong to linger so. Christian, she sensed, would have come back at her call, but nobody came.

  She started to walk towards that door, thinking it could be one of the firewatchers, the ‘Index’ folder flapping in her hand. She came out onto the landing, but nobody was there. Then she saw Whitewood, striding up the stairs to her left; and she gasped.

  ‘Were you just in the Dining Hall, behind me?’ she said.

  ‘What? No.’

  ‘Has anyone passed you?’

  ‘No.’

  Livy walked swiftly on into the north anteroom, then the Committee Room. ‘Mr Taylor?’ she called, though she knew he would not be hiding anywhere. She didn’t see the way Jonathan’s face changed as she said the name.

  Livy stood, looking between the Committee Room and the ruined Red Parlour. ‘There was someone here,’ she said. ‘I know there was.’ And she did not say the other name which came into her mind; the hurried, agitated handwriting.

  Henry.

  She jumped when Jonathan put his hands on her shoulders. He turned her around and looked into her shining eyes, as he brushed one hand against her pale face. One sheaf of her dark hair had fallen free from its pins.

  ‘He’s gone for now,’ he said. ‘This – Christian.’

  ‘It’s not that.’ She looked around her. The feeling of presence, that sense of another person, thickened the air.

  ‘I am worried about you. Over coffee, Peggy mentioned – your home. The shock may not be over yet. These things can overtake you. I know something about that. From the first war.’

  She frowned. Sensed the pressure building behind her eyes: the swell of her blood, loud as the sea. Her sight seemed to pulsate with it, the rhythm of uncontainable agitation. And she walked past him and towards the staircase.

  ‘I should have told you,’ he called after her. ‘Miss Baker. Our mystery. I am looking for a diamond.’

  She turned sharply and stared at him, on the top stair.

  He came to her and pulled her back from the top. ‘You’re too close to the edge,’ he said. ‘You might fall.’

  She shook his hands from her shoulders. ‘I don’t care. What does the Mirrormakers’ Club have to do with a diamond?’

  He looked flushed and a little ashamed; only now did his steady gaze falter. They had talked of family, of a beauty in a portrait, but not of money. She remembered the turn of the cigarette lighter in his hand; that barely contained agitation. ‘Charlotte is wearing it in her portrait,’ he said.

  ‘I remember,’ she said. ‘It’s that specific diamond?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s an heirloom. I was left it – or thought I was. But I’ve been told the stone I have is a fake, and is worth nothing at all. The real diamond is somewhere else. The real diamond is, I think, somewhere in this building.’

  She stared at him for a long moment. ‘And you want me to find it for you?’ she said.

  She remembered how he had reached out for her, in the Stair Hall. His apparent coolness; his attempts to smile and be jovial. He had needed her for something. He had needed her to be on his side.

  ‘Miss Baker?’

  For a moment, she turned, and teetered on the edge of the top stair. Stared down the length of those steps to the half landing. They were steep, and marble, and it was not as if she hadn’t thought about it before: their seductive height.

  She moved forwards.

  ‘Livy!’

  But she did not look back at him. And she did not jump. There were things she wanted to know; a mystery she wanted to solve. She ran down the marble staircase as fast as she could.

  Jonathan paused for a moment, cursing under his breath, and then he followed her.

  At the top of the stairs, the doors to the Dining Hall remained open, a perfect rectangle. And had Livy and Jonathan been there, they would have seen it: a bright glow, as though all at once three hundred and thirty-six candles, set in their glass sconces and surrounded by glass lustres, flared into life in the chandeliers, briefly, before the half-darkness fell again.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  1838

  It was the violence of it. The slow-moving emptiness of the moment of the accident, and the scream of the horse. The jolt threw Charlotte Kinsburg from her seat, cracking her head against the side of the carriage before she fell back again. They were in the busy heart of the City, close to the Bank of England and the fire-ravaged site of the Royal Exchange, but in this instant they were in their own private moment of catastrophe, of noise-framed slow-moving silence.

  After the accident, a stunned moment of shock.

  Charlotte reached out, hardly seeing. A hand met hers: her husband’s. She stared at him, saw and heard him saying her name, but for a moment she was beyond reach.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ she heard at last, insistence in his tone.

  ‘No,’ she said. He squeezed her hand, and released it.

  Then she heard the horse whinny: but it was high, heart-piercing, a cry of pain and bewilderment. Their brougham was being pulled by one of her favourites, Gilbey. She put her hand on the door. Ashton put his hand out to bar her from it. He reached down and picked up his hat. ‘It’s a wonder we didn’t go over completely,’ he said, his face white. Charlotte touched his arm.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Stay here.’

  She sank back, obedient. But a moment after he had gone, she realized that she could not stay there for another moment, so she scrambled after him down onto the street. As her feet touched the ground she became aware of the hum of her nerves. It had been raining a quarter of an hour before, and the road and buildings were damp, grey beneath a suddenly blue sky, the road with patches of slickness. Already, people were gathering.

  Their coachman was with the horse, and Gilbey was on his knees, cut free from the harness and traces, his neck turning at an unnatural angle, a pinkish foam at his mouth. Charlotte knew he would rise if he could, and wondered if he had broken his leg. She went towards him, and the horse’s eye rolled at her.

  ‘Madam,’ said the coachman warningly.

  Charlotte knew the horse meant her no harm; he lifted his head, as though to smell her palm, as he did on the occasions she had visited the stables to feed him a carrot. She sank down beside him and put her hand on his neck, heedless of the damp and dung-slicked cobbles.

  ‘You were going too fast,’ shouted a man who had climbed down from a cart.

  Their coachman was not about to back down. ‘You spooked him! You caused this!’

  Already crowds were gathering and cabs and buggies and carriages were queuing up; already there were people leaning out of carriage windows, annoyed that the traffic on Cornhill was not moving. There was one sin in the City of London, and one sin only: to neglect commerce. The people on the busy, transient streets were unused to pausing for anything. As Charlotte sat in the road beside Gilbey, she saw Ashton speaking to a short, stocky gentleman who had climbed down from a nearby hackney. Their coachman continued to argue with the other driver; violent words were being spoken, and now Ashton was joining them, strong-voiced and imperious. And still Gilbey writhed on the ground. She murmured his name. He thrashed, and the foam from his mouth flicked onto her white dress.

  ‘Help him, please?’ she cried, and the stocky man who Ashton had greeted the moment before came towards her, taking off his overcoat as he did so in the sharp air. His face was darkened with stubble, and she saw his face as shapes of light and shadow as he leaned over her. ‘Do I have the honour of addressing Mrs Kinsburg?’ he said, encircling her with the coat. ‘Please, it is cold.’

  He put his hand out to help her stand, watched her accept the coat and wrap it more firmly a
round her shoulders. He assessed her face with concern. ‘You will have a fine bruise on your forehead,’ he said.

  Charlotte stared at the seeping pink stain on her dress, where her horse’s blood-flecked foam had landed on her, and the dark patches of ordure-coloured dampness from the road. ‘I have Gilbey’s blood on my dress,’ she said.

  ‘Please, come away. He will be taken care of, I promise you,’ he said.

  He steered her away from the accident, close to the buildings. ‘There is only one thing to be done,’ she said dully. She was rigid with the sheer effort of self-possession. She felt something trickle down her forehead, warm as a teardrop.

  The man took out a white handkerchief, and dabbed at her head. ‘A little blood,’ he said, and she saw that he was poised to catch her if she should faint.

  ‘Who are you?’ she said.

  He folded the blood-stained portion of the handkerchief closed. ‘Henry Dale-Collingwood at your service, if you will forgive me for making my own introduction,’ he said. ‘I know your husband. I was on my way to the same meeting.’

  The machinery of the City was churning. Somehow, the crowd had conjured a man with a gun out of the alleys of the nearby streets. Of course, Charlotte thought, there were always slaughterhouses near. As the man loaded, Ashton approached, satisfied by concluding the disagreement soundly; blame had been apportioned, and damages would be paid; but he had to stay to see things were done properly. As the gun was pointed at Gilbey’s head, he stood close to Charlotte, took her face in his hands, and turned her head so that she was not able to see the prone horse. She submitted to his touch; a decision, a habit, the easiest course, aware of the stillness and silence of the other man as he stood behind her. A gunshot rang out, but the city gave not a moment’s pause. Charlotte compressed her lips tightly, and kept her unshed sobs inside, pushing her emotion down.

  ‘My dear,’ said Ashton.

  She said nothing.

  ‘Charlotte.’ He released her face. ‘Will you go with Mr Dale-Collingwood? He is to be at the same meeting as I, at the Club site.’

  ‘But I was to visit Mrs Anderson.’

  Her husband glanced at the other man. ‘You are not well. Not at all. This evening I will arrange for your usual doctor to call.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said dully.

  He glanced down, compressed his lips. ‘Your dress is ruined. You should not have gone to the horse.’

  ‘But you know me,’ Charlotte said suddenly, and she felt Dale-Collingwood flinch at the sarcasm in her voice. ‘What a dramatic moment. Do you not think, Mr Kinsburg? A carriage accident in the heart of the City!’

  Her husband looked at her steadily, and she could see the annoyance beneath his cool gaze. Their old battle; the exposed nerve she could not help but touch. After a moment, he took her gloved hand, and gave it to Dale-Collingwood, a faint apology in the gesture. ‘I would be most obliged.’

  ‘It would be my honour,’ the man said.

  Ashton bowed and went back to the melee.

  *

  Charlotte and Dale-Collingwood walked silently down Cheapside, carving their way through the pedestrians, some of whom were heading cheerfully towards the scene of the accident.

  ‘Londoners rather enjoy this kind of thing,’ said Dale-Collingwood grimly. ‘They see it as part of the spectacle.’

  ‘I suppose the more blood there is on the road, the better it is.’

  ‘I am sorry. Let us not talk of this.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Do you come to London often?’ said Dale-Collingwood.

  ‘No. I am used to being quiet at our house in the country. I loved London when I was a girl, but now,’ he saw her turn, and look after a man who had pushed through the crowds, and was running with urgency, ‘every time I come here, it is – so—’

  ‘Busy?’

  ‘In a way. One only has to enter the city to feel the weight of people’s lives – the unrelenting noise of it all. Sadness and happiness in such close quarter – lives clashing – coming together and then parting again – like lines of soldiers in a battle.’

  Her hand was on his arm. He put his own gloved hand over it for a brief moment. She felt it as a kindness.

  ‘Why are you going to the meeting?’ she said eventually, trying to return to conventions. ‘Are you a member of the committee?’

  ‘No,’ he said, with a slight bow of his head, as though making obeisance, even though they were in motion, and the effect was slightly comical. ‘I am the architect. So, in effect, your husband is one of my employers.’ His mouth twitched a little, in a half-smile. It was then she noticed something.

  ‘Where is your hat?’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t notice, Mrs Kinsburg. And I fear the committee will notice now too. I left my hat in the cab when I got out to assist. And while I was assisting, the cabman left with it.’

  She looked at his bare head, his dark curls, then realized she was wearing his coat. ‘You must take your coat back,’ she said, ‘it is cold.’

  ‘No, no, not at all, and you will do me the kindness of keeping that on. We are nearly at the site, and there is a tolerable lodge set up there for us to hold our meetings, and the housekeeper will make you some strong tea.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You have had a shock, you must rest, and I am charged with ensuring that.’

  They turned the corner, and though they must have seemed conventional, a lady resting her hand on a man’s arm, it felt to Charlotte as though they were clinging to each other. Unlike Ashton, he did not seek to put distance between them. Warmth seemed to radiate from him, and it seemed, strangely, as though he were porous to her, and everything was fluid, thoughts and feelings moving between them without border.

  The gap in the road startled her. ‘What happened to the old building?’ she said.

  ‘We took it down brick by brick,’ he said. ‘And sold the contents, not three weeks ago, on the site. Almost every chair.’

  ‘How strange to think of it. It seemed so permanent.’

  ‘In fact it was quite an unsteady building,’ he said. ‘Too many gaps, and the wind whistling through.’

  As he looked at the building site she saw the strange combination of tenderness and ambition in his eyes.

  ‘It will be all-consuming, building this? How will you leave it when it is finished?’

  A bright, handsome smile broke his intensity. ‘Perhaps I won’t. I will lurk in the vaults, below ground, and come out at night to look at my creation.’

  She gave a delighted laugh, and then there was silence.

  ‘I have strong nerves, as a rule,’ she said eventually. ‘It was just the horse. I love my horses.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said sadly. ‘So I gather.’

  ‘And he will be angry that my dress is ruined. He says I invite drama.’

  He looked at her, puzzled, and his kind, steady stare unlocked her grief.

  He said nothing as her eyes filled with tears. But he did not turn away from her, or show any kind of embarrassment. They stopped for a moment. He turned to shelter her from curious passers-by as she wiped her tears away. Then they began to walk again.

  ‘None of us look for troubles,’ he said quietly, as the lodge came into view. ‘They come readily enough. And out of nowhere.’

  He led her into the lodge; settled her on a chair near the fire, still draped in his coat, and asked for tea to be brought. Already, other gentlemen were arriving for the meeting, clad in heavy coats, gloves and hats, talking about the rain. He went and greeted one or two, and then he returned to her, ostensibly to check that the tea was to her satisfaction. She tried to apologize, but he silenced her with one direct look. They looked at each other, and it seemed to her that they were in perfect accord.

  ‘Thank you for being kind,’ she said.

  ‘Why would I be anything else?’

  She bit her lip, to stifle the bitter smile that came to her. He took her silence for something softer.

&nb
sp; ‘It is strange,’ he said. ‘May I tell you a secret?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I was nervous, coming here today. The committee do not give me an easy ride of it, Mrs Kinsburg. But you have banished all my nerves. You have made me my – usual – self. Vehement, stubborn, overconfident.’

  ‘I cannot believe it.’

  ‘Do. I am all of those things. I forgot myself – I felt self-doubt – but you – you have trusted me, and you have been honest. Just your presence has jolted me awake.’

  She did not know what to say. She looked at the cup and saucer in her hands.

  ‘Do not,’ he said, ‘do not, blame yourself for anything that has happened today.’

  She looked up, and into his eyes. It was inexplicable, perfect, wondrous: his expression, his kindness, the roughness of the stubble on his face, his dark untidy curls, the scent of him caught in the coat around her shoulders. All at once he seemed strange and yet intimately familiar. She felt an overwhelming wave of happiness: intoxicating, dangerous and – yes, how Ashton would dislike that – dramatic. This moment must be enough to sustain her.

  ‘If you would do me the favour of forgetting everything I have said to you,’ she said.

  His face changed; she saw it then, his stubbornness.

  ‘I will do you any favour I can, Mrs Kinsburg,’ he said. ‘But I am afraid that is quite impossible.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  1940