by Sophia Tobin
Jonathan glanced at Livy. ‘Have you read them?’
‘Yes. Christian just showed them to me.’
‘Letters?’
‘Drafts of letters.’
He took the first one and began to unfold it. As he did so, he saw Livy open the front of the notebook. For a moment, her finger traced over the writing there. The familiar inscription.
Henry Dale-Collingwood. Architect and surveyor. 1841.
He turned his eyes to the handwriting. So often, Livy had read the letters out to him, so that it seemed strange to engage, man to man, with this person – this ghost.
My love, your last letter filled my mind and my senses, so that it was not possible, not possible, for me to continue talking of glass and marble and gilded bronze, but I could only think of you, of the light gilding your pale shoulder, of your perfection, of that look in your eye. Half-amusement, half-challenge.
I need your presence here, I need it. I need to hear your voice, I need your hand to pour the wine into our glasses, I need you, all of you.
Within the draft was a bill for a book: a volume of poetry by Tennyson.
Livy watched Jonathan steadily as he read the letter.
‘I meant to say before,’ she said. ‘Is there any suggestion that Charlotte had a child by Henry?’
‘What?’ Jonathan looked irritated; more than irritated. He looked as though she were insulting him. ‘No. Don’t be ridiculous. This is not a sensation novel, Miss Baker.’
Livy looked at him, steely-eyed. And opened the last piece of paper.
Again, it was a draft of a letter, not stamped or sealed, so it had never been sent. It was written with a perfect hand, neat and controlled, from Henry Dale-Collingwood, dated September 1841, a full year after the others.
My dear Mr Kinsburg,
Please accept my sincerest condolences on the death of your wife.
Mrs Kinsburg was an example of the perfection of womanhood.
I pray that she has found her place in heaven, for she gave us all a glimpse of heaven on earth.
It recalls to mind Proverbs:
‘Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies. Strength and honour are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come.’
Your obedient servant,
Henry Dale-Collingwood.
‘It’s so strange,’ said Jonathan. ‘I wonder – he mentions rubies – not a diamond.’
‘Is that all you can say?’ said Livy. He looked up, and saw light in her eyes, and he realized that it came from unshed tears.
‘I suppose you want me to become sentimental,’ he said. ‘Like you. But I am not a fantasist. These people have been dead a long time. What matters is now.’
‘How did Charlotte die?’ It was Christian now. He had removed his arm from the chair, and was sitting forwards. Livy paced up and down, but turned to look at Jonathan when Christian asked the question.
‘I don’t know how.’ Jonathan’s voice was tight. ‘An illness. That’s what I’ve always been told. Ashton was grief-stricken, I believe, which explains why he did not keep her letters or papers.’
Just an absence, thought Livy: just a space in the record. ‘You should have told me when she died, at the beginning. That she died in 1841.’
‘What difference would it have made?’ he said. ‘You knew she was dead. Why does it matter when?’
Livy tried to keep her voice steady. ‘Because she means something to me. I’ve returned to that picture, again and again.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a painting.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Livy said.
‘Where was she buried?’ Christian again. That calm, curious voice. Jonathan felt as though he itched all over: the irritation flooded over him.
‘It’s nothing to do with you,’ he said. Christian shrugged.
‘Where was she buried?’ Livy spoke now. She had stopped pacing and was standing, shoulders back, staring at him. She had not changed from the day dress of the night before: she had washed her face, brushed her hair. The fuchsia dress was so vivid against her pale skin and dark hair. And in that moment she was the same vivid presence he had reached out for in the darkness. It won honesty from him.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘There’s no record of it. Ashton said she was buried in the church near to Redlands, but there is no record, no stone, and nothing in our private chapel, either.’
‘So you think she’s in the foundations?’ Christian again.
Livy turned, and stared at Christian. Jonathan had not thought she could get any paler, but she did.
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘You think it’s her, don’t you?’ Christian said. ‘I can see it on your face.’
‘Possibly. There’s enough evidence. We should think about excavating the body.’
‘We’re leaving that coffin where it is. I’ve asked a clergyman to bless it. The scaffolding’s going up as we speak. There are more urgent things to work on. And you won’t be able to tell if it’s her – she’s just bones now.’ Christian looked back at the table; at the papers and boxes.
‘You don’t understand.’ Livy’s voice was calm and clear. ‘He wants to see if the diamond is there. Don’t you?’
Silence fell. Jonathan patted his pocket again. No cigarettes. ‘If you must know, yes,’ he said. ‘I want to see if the diamond is there.’
She had picked up the last letter written by Henry. She stared at it. ‘You shouldn’t be trusted with these,’ she said. ‘You’re nothing but a grave-robber.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ He snatched the letter from her.
‘And what about Charlotte?’ She reached for the letter; he held it away from her, at arm’s length.
‘What about her?’ He stared at her. His perfect face, bleached white with anger. ‘I don’t care about just another faithless woman and her sordid affairs.’
‘That’s enough.’ Christian stood up, the chair legs scraping against the floor.
Jonathan turned to him with a sneer. ‘I’m sorry? What?’
‘You know what. Don’t stand over her with that look on your face. I’ve had enough of your superiority. Take that look off your face and treat her with respect.’
‘I’ve always treated her with respect.’
‘No, you haven’t.’
Jonathan glanced at Livy. His coolness disintegrated just a little. With astonishment, he saw Livy reach out, and place her hand briefly on Christian’s chest.
‘Please,’ she said softly.
‘Just stay out of it,’ snapped Jonathan.
‘No, old chap. Not possible, I’m afraid. Give that letter back to Livy. Or don’t. I’m itching for an excuse to knock you down.’
Jonathan laughed. ‘A knight in shining armour, are you?’
‘I mean it.’
‘For God’s sake, Livy, why did you let him in here? Tell him to go.’ But Livy’s face was set, her eyes fixed on the floor.
Christian met his gaze, level and unwavering. ‘She won’t. And I’ve a perfect right to stay.’
It took effort for Jonathan to rouse his best commanding-officer sneer. ‘And why is that, Taylor?’
Christian answered him with a smile that was almost seraphic in its quality.
‘I’ll tell you why, Whitewood. Because she’s my wife.’
Jonathan stared at him. Even as he felt himself crumbling, he drew on every part of his coldness, that ice in the blood which he had inherited. Felt the strength of it in him: the Kinsburg backbone.
‘You’re welcome to her,’ he said. ‘She’s keen enough, but no breeding.’
Livy turned and looked at him. He looked for the sense of betrayal in her eyes; he looked for some sense that he wounded her, in the way that she had wounded him, for he felt as though he had been hit with a cannon ball. As though he were bleeding inwardly, and that he would never be quite right again, his life force draining away. But he saw only, in her eyes, an anger to answer his own. She st
ood up, and walked towards him. It felt as though it took her minutes to get to him, but it was only moments.
She hit him so hard across the face that he felt the force in his neck, and, a moment later, the warmth of blood trickling from his nose.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
1941
BASEMENT VAULTS, THE MIRRORMAKERS’ CLUB
Peggy found Livy sitting with the painting of Charlotte, its wrappings pushed back. She stood over her silently, and reached out to touch her hair. ‘There’s still some glass there,’ she said. She handed her a glass of brandy. ‘There was a drop left from Christmas,’ she said. ‘Medicinal.’
Livy knocked it back. ‘Has Christian gone?’ she said.
‘Yes. For today. He said to tell you he’d be back.’
‘I should help with dinner,’ said Livy.
Peggy put her hand on her shoulder. ‘I suppose you should,’ she said. ‘But there’s no need. It’s just sandwiches tonight, and yesterday’s soup, and Bill can say what he likes.’ Carefully, Peggy eased herself down onto the floor beside Livy, complaining about her bones as she did so.
Livy rested her chin in her hands, and stared at Charlotte’s face. ‘Her skin is perfect,’ she said. ‘White, like moonlight. Does anyone really have skin that colour?’
‘It’s funny,’ said Peggy. ‘I never liked the painting much. She’s a little too perfect, the lady. Miss Hardaker liked it for a long time. Years ago, she said the face reminded her of Mr Whitewood. Then she used to criticize it. Say the diamond was vulgar. There was a disappointment in her.’
Livy glanced sharply at her.
‘Yes,’ said Peggy. ‘Mr Whitewood always did leave a trail of broken hearts behind him.’
Livy closed her eyes. ‘Is he going to dig the coffin up?’
‘He’s talking about it. Bill’s not convinced and neither is your Mr Taylor. I don’t think they’ll let him – they don’t want things disturbed. The building is getting enough of a battering as it is. He can do it with his bare hands if he wants, but none of us will help him.’
Livy shook her head.
‘He said a lot of wild things,’ Peggy said cautiously. ‘Is it true? Are you really married to Mr Taylor?’
Livy nodded.
‘Why didn’t he say anything?’
‘He said he was trying to protect me.’ She glanced at Peggy. ‘We weren’t even happy. We were separated. All that I remembered originally was that I worked with him in the architect’s office of the LCC. I was in the typing pool. I remember I was happy then. Last night, I remembered the rest of it. It came back, Peggy. It came back in the darkness. All of it, piece by piece. We were friends at first.’ When she thought of the times she spent with Christian, she thought of them out in the open air, walking in the squares of London, pointing out architectural features to each other. He had taught her the names, and tested her.
Egg and dart. Vermiculation. Greek key pattern.
Did he remember that? she thought. Those same streets, onto which he now mapped the damage of war. Did he pause and say: there, we were happy? When he looked at them, did each street raise a memory in him, leaving its scratches and scars, as the façade of this great building was pitted and scarred?
‘The thing between us grew – until it wasn’t just friendship anymore. We were so happy, and it was so simple. He asked me to marry him. I wanted to carry on working, so we kept it a secret.’ They lived in a little flat, one gas ring, one small speckled mirror, their sheets mended but clean. She hardly ever wore the slim nine-carat gold wedding ring.
‘But you weren’t with him when you worked here?’ said Peggy.
Livy swallowed hard. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I came here after we separated. I lost a baby. It was an early miscarriage. Five months, at most. But I blamed myself. For staying at work, for tiring myself too much. I was angry, you see. Angry that I had fallen pregnant. I wasn’t ready. Everyone tells you it is what you’re meant to do, but I wasn’t ready. And then – when I lost the baby. It was early on – but. Suddenly, it was as though the world fell away from me. Christian was kind to me, but I could sense that I had wounded him, by not wanting the child. Loving me, it was an effort for him, after that. It ruined things between us. I should have stayed. Waited. But I couldn’t bear to be with him – to be with anyone. So I left, one day. I just left. I found a place in a lodging with other girls, on Woodville Street. And I applied for the job at the Club.
‘I began again. And tried to be another person, instead. But the fight had gone out of me, somehow. I told myself: give yourself a year and a day. And I did. The day my lodgings were bombed, you remember, I said I had something to do?’
Peggy nodded.
‘I was going to go to the LCC. I was going to see if I could find Christian. Speak to him again.’ She wiped a tear away roughly. ‘I just wanted to see his face.’
*
Leaving Christian.
When she had decided, it was all Livy could do to pack a bag with some clothes. She left the breakfast things on the table: a crust, and crumbs on a plate, and the tea cooling grey. A note, scrawled on the back of a bill. I don’t know when I will come back. I’m sorry. She did it quickly, knowing that if she paused, and thought of her husband, she would never go. How unfair she had been, she thought later.
The day had that autumn light which poets and painters wait for, which seems divine in some way. It dipped the blue-grey streets of London in gold. She brought a paper, and telephoned a place at random. Her shadow was long on the pavement, as she walked. Woodville Street was the first place she saw, and she took it. A bedroom with a sink, and a shared bathroom, the upper floors dense with the scent of young women: perfume, and cigarette smoke.
She had put aside the sense she had of the past. She put aside the silence of the flat when Christian opened the door, and found her gone. These things were too unbearable to be thought of. She sat at the window of her new room, and smoked a cigarette, and one of her housemates – a literary girl – laughingly quoted poetry to her.
But most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping towards his western bower.
Peggy put her hand over Livy’s and squeezed. They sat there for a few minutes in the silence, looking at Charlotte Kinsburg’s portrait. It seemed so far removed from the dust and damage of their lives. In the half-light, the face almost seemed to have agency; but it was an agency in her own world, a world of country houses and balls, which had been lost long ago.
‘What about Mr Whitewood?’ said Peggy.
Livy glanced at her. ‘I did want him, Peggy. He made me feel. It was a basic thing.’ She wanted to say: it was his beauty. It was the scent of him. But it had been something else, too. ‘He was strong, and certain, but he was also weak. I thought I might help him, and he might help me. But I don’t love him. And I don’t want him now.’
She remembered the look on his face when he had spoken of excavating the body, and marvelled at how cleanly it had severed any feeling she had for him.
Peggy got to her feet. ‘Come out when you’re ready,’ she said. ‘Mr Whitewood said he would dine out this evening. Things will be all right, lovey.’ She tried, but she could not keep the uncertainty from her voice, and Livy heard it.
‘Go on without me,’ she said. ‘I’ll be there soon.’
As Peggy walked away Livy sat, hugging her knees, lost in the past. But not Charlotte’s past now: her own. When, eventually, she got to her feet, she went and found Bill and Peggy in the makeshift sitting room in the vault. As Peggy dished up the soup, Bill came to her, put his arms around her, and gave her a paternal squeeze.
‘I’ve always wanted to clobber him,’ he said.
*
That night, beneath burning skies, the Mirrormakers’ Club sighed, and buried the hopes of Jonathan Whitewood. The floor of the News Room gave way, falling through the empty south-west corner of the building, and
the reverberations concertinaed downwards. In the morning, peering at it, the workmen called it a slight collapse, though Livy wondered how a collapse could ever have been thought of as slight. In the bomb shelter, they had thought the building was coming down on top of them. But it was just some masonry, and then some earth, flooding the cavity.
It buried the skeleton all over again, but without the blessing that Christian had promised it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
1841
Henry stood in the darkness of the Surveyor’s Room at the Mirrormakers’ Club. It was a warm summer night, and the London heat felt like grime on his skin. One light illuminated his room: a small lamp, turned down low. Beyond, he could hear the sound of voices building in the Stair Hall. Many voices echoing off the marble, for the first time. Outside, the sound of carriages arriving, of people stepping onto the pavement, and looking up at what he had created. The great and good of London society: dukes, even a prince. Men, of course; no women. It was not a ball. It was a banquet. And he would be the toast of it. Thank God, he thought: no dancing.
He had already given a feast for the labourers, though it had been far less expensive than this, of course, and held in the new and pristine Servants’ Hall. Those who had painted, plastered and gilded had been given bonuses, but the feast was a small gesture to the lowest paid, who had clawed the building’s foundations out of the earth, and built it up again. And he was sure that none of them liked him, now; they thought him sharp of voice, high-handed, changeable, unreasonable. He had been guilty of all of these things over the past three years. Not from grief, but because such qualities were necessary in order to bring a building such as the Mirrormakers’ Club to its completion. With each hitch in each task, though, he had found real anger to access. He did not regret showing it; he did not regret cursing, and shouting, and writing down in his large, heavy hand the icy rage that he felt. Had he been a superstitious man, he would have thought it likely that he left some of his anguish in the place, engrained in the stones of the building.