by Sophia Tobin
‘Who taught you how to take pleasure like that?’ he said.
She said nothing.
He kissed her passionately, until she pulled away and told him that she was exhausted. He nodded. ‘Lie down then, and we’ll get some rest.’
They lay entwined, and covered by his jacket. It was strange to her, how he stroked her, as though he could not keep from touching her; this taciturn man.
‘Am I your first?’ he said.
She knew then what he expected: to be flattered. As the other women who had gained brooches had perhaps flattered him.
‘No.’
He stopped stroking her, took a breath. ‘I suppose I deserved that.’
‘I didn’t say it to wound you. It’s simply the truth.’
He nodded. He no longer stroked her, but nor did he remove his arm.
‘What do you want? After this?’
She turned her head, and looked up at him. ‘Peace, of course. And tea and buttered crumpets with lots of jam.’ Her voice wavered. ‘And a strong shoulder to lie my head upon.’
He thought of Redlands and its empty nursery. ‘What about children?’
She shook her head. ‘Go to sleep, while we have the chance.’
But he hardly slept, shifting in the darkness, stirring, and waking every so often. As Livy lay, one hand behind her head, staring at the ceiling, her eyes wide open.
CHAPTER THIRTY
1840
Letters, thought Henry. So many letters, every day. And he kept all of them. Evidence for the committee, of expenditure, of time spent, of his great labour.
I know you are very much annoyed with me, sir.
Please understand, sir, this kind of thing has never
happened on any other job before.
The glass has blown six times on some pieces.
We beg leave, sir, to say that . . .
We crave your indulgence . . .
If you could explain to the committee that . . .
Henry closed his eyes, and brushed away the thoughts of work. He checked the knot in his white muslin cravat in the looking glass, put on his tailcoat, then walked up and down his dressing room, the bare boards squeaking underfoot. In the distance he heard the retreating footsteps of his new valet, who walked at a slow and dignified pace. He had hired the man on the basis of his airs; he enjoyed them. He knew the man was, at this moment, taking the front stairs rather than the back, for there was no one to see him in this grand but half-empty house, for all its many branches of candles.
Ten months had passed since his visit to Redlands. He had moved in to the Russell Square house when it was in far from a finished state, for he wished it to look completely different from the family home he had left. The painters and paperers had been efficient. Many of the rooms were empty; lacking, Henry thought with a sardonic smile, ‘a woman’s touch’. But there were enough conveniences for him to move in, and to engage servants. At the moment, so involved in the Club was he that he had no spare energy to design the furnishings for his own home. Peregrine had appeared on his doorstep with a drawing for a ridiculously elaborate boudoir, which Henry had threatened to despatch to the flames.
In his own rooms he had a bed, chairs, bookcases and several candelabra, because he could not bear the darkness. He needed light for reading and work. He had brought back some of his parents’ furnishings, but not all, and he could not bear to have the rooms arranged in the way they were when his family was alive. So many things he left in store in a distant warehouse, and even with many candles lit, and a fire built to a rage in the huge drawing-room fireplace, there was an air of sparseness which he could not seem to vanquish. Thin, temporary drapes had been hung in the windows, for he hated the idea of others seeing in at night, but they already looked grubby with London smoke, and he had instructed for them to be washed every week, to his housekeeper’s irritation.
Perhaps he had lived too long in his club room, he thought. Perhaps he had grown comfortable with small spaces. Here, in the darkest hours of the night, he would lock the front door himself, and walk around the rooms, closing the shutters, as his father had once done. He had thought he would find comfort in resurrecting this paternal routine but in fact he found it unnerving and time-consuming, yet another tax on his resources after a day on site. Sometimes, as he walked, he would find himself musing on the Club and its decorative schemes, and pass a succession of windows without closing and fixing the catch on the shutters. Retracing his steps took time, and irritated him into a kind of anxiety. Having witnessed this, Peregrine arrived one day bearing a sleek terrier puppy in his arms, which he handed over to Henry. ‘For company,’ he had said, and resolutely refused to bear the thing away again, announcing halfway through dinner that she was to be known as Polly.
She was here now, curled up on the chaise longue – his mother’s old chaise longue – despite the fact that Henry had told her a hundred times to get down. She was there, watching him with her large eyes as he adjusted his cravat, and paced the creaking floorboards. When he looked at her and said ‘what?’ her tail wagged.
He picked her up – she still fitted in the crook of one arm – took a candle, and went out of his room and down the stairs to the front hall. His butler sat there, and rose when he saw his master.
‘Is the carriage here yet?’ asked Henry.
‘No, sir,’ said Marks.
Henry put Polly gently on the floor, and checked his watch. It would not do to be late for Ashton Kinsburg’s ball, especially not when it was ostensibly being thrown in his honour. Still, the committee member who had said he would send his carriage was not late yet, and who knew what obstructions were out on the London streets.
He replaced his watch and picked up Polly again. Gratifyingly, she nestled against him. ‘Would you like her for the evening?’ he said. The man shook his head fervently.
‘Not me, sir, can’t be doing with her. Give her to Mrs Smits. Loves the little—’ He paused, and thought twice about finishing the sentence. ‘Shall I take her to her, sir? Before she ruins your apparel?’
Henry smiled. ‘If you would.’ The man was right. Polly had a penchant for pissing on him, it seemed, as though she thought it was the sure-fire way of keeping her master only to herself. She gave a little whimper as he handed her over. The man took her carefully, with distaste, and set off with quick steps.
Henry looked out of the rippled pane of glass by his door. He saw draw up from the vehicles outside, a carriage, a fine and luxurious town coach, its lamps lit and glowing. His throat felt thick, as it had with the summer pollen over the months in this city. He swallowed once, twice, before the rap on the door. The obstruction would not clear. He must bear it.
*
The Kinsburgs’ London house was in Mayfair. Situated behind high walls, it glowed pale in the blue-black night, its windows sending out the glow of candlelight. To Henry, it seemed almost to pulsate with light, and noise. The house was crammed with people: he could see them at every window, bright and unruly, the women in gowns with pearls and diamonds at their throats and ears. He might not even need to converse with Charlotte. So many people would dilute everything. He climbed out of the carriage last, and felt the coolness of the night with relief; it cleared his head and brought him back to himself.
They were announced, and passed into the throng of people. He passed below an enormous Roman sculpture, three times his height. As he did so he took a glass of champagne from a silver-gilt tray, proffered by a stern-looking footman dressed in a silver coat, whose expression indicated that he was less than happy with his role. Henry drank the champagne rather quickly: cold and fizzy, it cleared his throat and added to his bonhomie. But as he looked about him, suddenly exhilarated, he saw all of the servants had the same look of the footman, who had by now long passed into the throng: the tightness of anxiety, of dulled annoyance. This, he thought – even a touch drunk already, for he had not eaten since the evening before – this was not a happy house.
‘Dale-Colli
ngwood!’ It was Ashton. Weaving his way through his guests where the servants had had to fight their way through. Only for him did space open up around him: his way was perfectly smooth. Henry could not see Charlotte anywhere.
‘My dear sir.’ Ashton had reached him too quickly, and had seized his hand and his elbow. Was close to him, smelling of a sweet musky scent. Carefully dressed, in black slim trousers, tailcoat, shirt and velvet waistcoat. Henry extracted his hand, and bowed, in a manner which showed his submission. He could not see whether Ashton liked this or not. ‘No such formality,’ the man murmured, ‘we are such friends – one might almost say brothers.’
One might not say that, thought Henry, the only comfort being the thought of Peregrine’s face when he reported this night’s work back to him. Not that Peregrine had much humour about the Kinsburgs. He had lectured Henry endlessly on their journey back to London from Redlands – the shock, the dishonour, another man’s wife, Henry . . . Thank God it was an age ago, thought Henry. Thank God I have been honourable since then.
‘But come with me,’ said Ashton. ‘Mrs Kinsburg most wished to see you.’
Swallowing back the words of protest which rose to his lips, Henry followed him dully through the joyful, chattering crowds, trailing in Ashton’s wake, through one gorgeous room after another. The London house was less lavish than Redlands – of course it was, a place could hardly be more lavish – and at first the dominant shades were white and gold, giving a kind of cold purity which could hardly be softened by the candles, the fires, and the men and women in their velvets and coloured silks. Like Redlands it, too, was not a home: it was more of a show house, a demonstration of something. Henry passed through one room of conversation, and one of dancing. ‘This is not the main ballroom,’ called Ashton as they moved through it, its marquetry floor depicting flowers in different coloured woods. Here were the reds and the blues. Of course not, he thought, of course this is not the main ballroom.
They found Charlotte taking refreshment, or poised to do so, holding a glass. She was surrounded by other women. Henry never saw her drink from it, as they approached from the far side of the room. She was dressed in a pale blue silk dress, which lay off her white shoulders and plunged to a deep V. Around her neck was a chain, from which was suspended a large, pear-shaped diamond set in a silver frame mounted with smaller diamonds. Henry recognized the jewel, and found his eyes drawn to it, resting on her white skin. She wore it self-consciously, like a badge of office; it reminded Henry of the new ceremonial chain worn by the director of the Club. Official jewels, he thought. Her brown hair was smooth and low, braids looping over her ears. A diamond necklace had been threaded through her hair as an ornament, and it twinkled in the candlelight, so he noticed every movement of her dark head as he crossed the room.
‘Mrs Kinsburg,’ said Ashton. ‘Our most honoured guest has arrived.’
Without hesitation, her gaze cool, Charlotte held out one hand. Her gown had short, tight sleeves, and her white kid gloves ended only a small way above her wrists. On her arm she wore several bracelets. Henry stared at her white arms, the expanse of them. He took her gloved hand and bowed over it.
‘Thank you for coming this evening,’ she said. Her voice was soft and childlike, and puzzled him. He remembered her voice being deeper. He supposed she played her role again.
‘I must thank you, Mrs Kinsburg,’ he said, ‘for inviting me to this splendid occasion. A triumph.’ And suddenly he could think of nothing else to say. He rose from the bow, and just for a moment, their eyes met cleanly. He felt the impact of the contact move through him. He saw no such tremor in her. She stared at him, unblinking. As he rose from his bow he tried to keep his face still and emotionless.
‘Let me take you to the ballroom, Dale-Collingwood,’ Ashton was saying, drawing him away. ‘A bachelor such as you will be tempted by the many beauties here tonight.’
They walked away, Ashton’s hand on Henry’s arm, and Henry allowed himself a glance back at Charlotte. There she was, sitting straight and upright, her dress spread in waves around her. She was not looking at him. He saw her, as though unaware, reach up and touch the diamonds in her hair, as though to be sure they were secure. Then a young man approached her, bowed low, and said something in her ear. He saw her laugh, and he felt as though a metal crank – brutal, like something one might find on his building site – had opened a chasm in his chest.
*
The sides of the ballroom were three-deep with the press of beautiful people. He saw some look at him, with recognition. ‘We have already toasted you, before the dancing began,’ said Ashton, as though it were an afterthought. Henry murmured his apologies, without blaming the person who had brought him: talked of the London traffic, and of skittish horses. Only the briefest nod showed that Ashton had heard.
A waltz was beginning, and as though by design a woman resolved out of the crowd. She was put into Henry’s arms. He danced well, correctly, though without spirit. She asked him questions, and laughed at his answers, but without being indelicate. When the dance was finished, Ashton led him to another lady, introduced them, and begged them to dance. It was, Henry thought, barely within the bounds of decency. But each time the music ceased, another lady was brought to his side; a well-connected lady, as dark as the other had been fair, as tall as the other had been short, as quiet as the other had been lively. Was Ashton trying to tempt him? He would have been offended, but the women were all well-bred and seemingly undisturbed by Ashton’s arrangements. He did not do all of it; his brother, Nicholas, took his turn too, making introductions.
Henry was dancing when he saw Charlotte. She was walking along the edge of the room, her eyes fixed on the dancers, moving gracefully through her guests. When she saw him, she stopped, and raised her fan to cool her face in the heat of the ballroom. The dance necessitated a bow, and a turn. With each rotation he saw her again, and saw that she saw him. The conversation between him and his partner had died. Even when she spoke, he did not answer, moving only mechanically to the music. Charlotte closed her fan, and he saw her put her hand out, and grasp a chair. The handsome young man he had seen earlier approached her; she put her hand on his arm, and smiled up into his face. Henry released his partner’s hands, and she murmured. One more turn; and he saw that Charlotte was walking away, nodding at something the youth said. He longed her to look at him one more time, but as the dance wound down, she did not.
He was breathless. At the close of the dance he bowed, apologized, and began to fight his way towards the entrance. Ashton moved to intercept him, but Henry brushed him off. ‘I must have a drink,’ he said. His host acquiesced.
Cold champagne was what he sought, and found, at the mountainous refreshment tables. Acres of glasses, the light falling and flickering through them, so that he took one glass, and then another, anything to dull his feelings, before his well-wrought professional discipline kicked in, and the Mirrormakers’ Club loomed in his mind. He could not let the building down. He took a plate, forked a slice of cold ham onto it, and was looking for something else to take when Ashton joined him.
‘You must try the terrine,’ Ashton said. ‘My cook keeps the recipe under lock and key.’
Henry said nothing. There was no way, it seemed, to bat this man away. All the time he sought to divert himself from searching the crowds for Charlotte. Kinsburg too seemed to be looking for something. ‘I had thought of a better time,’ he said. ‘But you are so hard to pin down. And it seems not right to trouble you when you are working at Mirrormakers’.’
‘Speak now, then,’ said Henry, trying to sound bluff and good-tempered rather than plain rude.
Ashton smiled, brightly and broadly. ‘I have a commission for you, my dear Dale-Collingwood, when the Club is finished. I should like you to design my mausoleum at Redlands.’ He paused, and looked at Henry’s untouched plate of food. ‘A place for Charlotte and I to rest together. When the hurly-burly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won.’ The smile did not leave
his face, but it had not quite penetrated his eyes.
Henry said nothing. The room seemed suddenly cold, and he would not have been surprised to see his breath misting in the air. He opened his mouth to speak, but Ashton made a gesture to stop him.
‘Do not answer now. Think on it. I would like it to be the greatest tomb in England.’
Your house is already that, thought Henry, but Ashton was saying he would leave him to enjoy some repast, and would go and socialize with other members of the committee. As he left, Henry’s attention was caught by a small knot of ladies. They were clearly gossiping with each other, and looking at Ashton with evident admiration. He supposed that in the end, Ashton was a handsome man, a rich man.
He put his plate down with a clatter. A passing footman enquired of him and for a moment he yearned for the freedom of his half-furnished empty house. ‘Coffee,’ he said. It was brought to him on a silver tray. He poured cream into the coffee until it was pale; gazing at the yellowish cells of fat on the surface, he drank it back, rich and luxurious.
It had no effect on his clarity, but it gave him space to breathe, and to be alone in the midst of the party. He spoke to a few members of the Club, but the effort was surprisingly tiring. He decided to stay in perpetual motion, moving through the rooms. As he walked towards the dancing, he saw Charlotte going up the stairs, purposefully and quickly. He turned away, as though to press on, but then changed his mind. He waited until she was out of sight, and then went to the foot of the stairs. There was no possibility of following her; the guests might be full of their own concerns, but the servants were watching. He looked at the place her feet had passed on the stairs; he wondered whether he might catch the scent of lily of the valley, but did not: there was only the faintly stale smell of alcohol, of pomades and perfumes, shot through with sweat; the roaring babble of voices, and cutlery on china; the faint struggle of the music to break through it all.