A Map of the Damage

by Sophia Tobin

  His men would remember it, but he knew some would remember other things too. He wagered Harry remembered lifting the Roman goddess out of the earth, and the joy they had all shared in seeing it, their eyes meeting beneath a blue sky with clouds racing above them. It did not soften the affectedly blank look Harry had worn at the feast. As the men looked around at the clean white spaces of the Servants’ Hall, Henry knew they were thinking of the Dining Hall, where the glassmakers were still putting the chandeliers in place, and how they had built it, but could not eat there.

  Henry went to that feast only for a few minutes. He had raised a glass with them, and seen them reflect back at him all that had happened. They spoke of leaving the building, the old girl as they called her, in her violent colours, glittering with glass and gilt, like a woman too made-up for the dance she had turned up for. ‘After today,’ Dylan said, as Harry was draining the dregs of his cup, ‘we will never be let in here again. We will only be able to pass outside, on the street, and say “I did that”.’

  ‘My wife will never see my work,’ said another. ‘It’s not likely she’ll ever set foot in here. And for all that I’ve described it to her, it hardly does it justice.’

  ‘Bring her here today, or tomorrow,’ said Henry. ‘She may see it.’

  The men looked at him, and said nothing.

  As everyone turned back to their meal, their voices growing louder in the afternoon light, tiredness overcame Henry, tiredness as potent as strong drink. ‘I’ll wish you good day,’ he said, rising to his feet. No one turned to bid him farewell. He said it again, more loudly this time, and when no one turned again he realized that it was deliberate. Their work was done, they had been paid, and he was master no longer. In this small way, in this silence, they showed their contempt for him, and he felt his own anger rise towards them. We have done this thing together, he thought, and he felt it was a cold thing that they did. He had done his duty; he could not question himself further, or examine their lives further. I have given you this feast, he thought, when really it was the least he could have done. But he could not admit that to himself, not yet.

  After he had gone, they drank a toast to him. They did not hate him, not really.

  *

  As he stood in the Surveyor’s Room on opening night, he thought of the times he had heard his men shout across the rooms. Conveying information, their voices hard, sometimes urgent. Sometimes followed by a crash, sending him darting across the building. I was this building’s midwife, he thought; I was its nurse. He remembered standing at the committee table in the lodge. He remembered unrolling his plans: first the ground plan, so functional, so handsome, so balanced. Then, the decorative plans, proof of his study of classical architecture, proof of his education and his worth. The other things, the things that meant something, were added towards the end: he had encrusted the building with them. But he would not think of that now. Beauty out of nothing, made by other men’s hands, but drawn by him.

  He only thought how young he had felt when the building had first been proposed, unrolling those plans on that old committee table, which now lay in splinters in some layer of London, or stood in some man’s dining room. How he had placed small sandbag weights on each corner, and was proud to let the committee lean over the drawings and examine them. Content to stand back, and let them say their piece, knowing he could answer every question. He had felt so young then, so proud, so relaxed, his hands folded neatly before him – he fancied, yes he fancied, he had dressed better then, too, paid more heed to fashion, in a gentlemanly way. Had Ashton Kinsburg stood there, then? Henry closed his eyes, and frowned, and tried to remember, but he could not see Ashton; he did not know where the man had stood in that moment, and it pained him. He should be able to remember someone who had become so important to him.

  Four years had passed from that moment to this. Nearly three years since a carriage accident had sent him blundering down from his cab onto uncertain ground. His house in Russell Square was finished, as finished as a house could be without a mistress: a showpiece for clients. It was no longer his childhood home, aired of all its ghosts.

  Professionally, his practice had expanded, and he stood now in this grand building, that would, he hoped, outlast him. A building that he had imagined and calculated into existence and bought with many hours and the hours of his fellow creatures: hours that he had bullied, and bargained for, and cajoled, and asked, and paid for, and sometimes even stolen. And the gathering noise from the crush of people below was the peak of that journey. Below him, encased in marble, the gathering noise of approval – of self-congratulation and approval – oh, he could hear the notes of it, like a symphony. He had had trials and obstacles: clocks unmade, glass that had blown, arguments over silks, arguments over colour – colour, he hoped never to see red and blue and gold again – but he had triumphed, and what he had put on the page with his watercolours he had made into reality. His will alone. He had willed this building into being.

  He waited for it: the sense of accomplishment. It would come, he had assured himself, Peregrine had assured him, it would come tonight. With the great and good waiting to see him, and the committee gathered and what passed for smiles on their reddened faces, and the best silver on the table, and the best port ready to be passed: it would come. The pain would fall away, and he would feel honest and unfettered pride.

  He heard the first chime of six from the clock on the landing: the great mahogany clock, its case designed by him, made by the best clockmaker in London, hauled here on a cart from Bond Street and placed, and petted, and wound and adjusted as though it were some mythical creature that wanted teasing into life. He had seen the first sweep of the pendulum, the awakening of it, the measuring of time in this place: his time, his place. He stood, erect as he had as a young man, and he heard the chimes ease their way into life, definite, insistent, and he admitted that the pride had withered in him. He didn’t know when it had died; if it had been sudden, or if it had been eroded. If it had crept away in the night like a club maid he had paid to fuck him, or if it had slammed the door when his workmen turned their backs on him. But it was gone, and the only time he could remember having it completely was on the day that he had unrolled his plans on the table at a committee meeting of the Mirrormakers’ Club, and Ashton Kinsburg was nowhere in sight. The journey had been all; and this, his arrival, was nothing.

  They would be waiting for him. He heard a whimper, and saw the shine of Polly’s eyes where she lay beneath the table. He crouched down, and stroked her sleek head, then rose and adjusted his cravat. ‘Stay there,’ he said. And he went out of the Surveyor’s Room, down the short corridor onto the north landing, softly and quickly down the first flight of stairs. And Polly, her head raised, heard the masculine voices rise and bubble, and then the great thunder of applause, of stamping feet, and the shout, ‘The architect! The architect!’

  *

  To the porter’s amusement, Henry slept at his desk, his head thick with port fumes, not trusting himself to even climb into a cab, or to accept another’s carriage without belching or saying something untoward. He had gone further into the land of drunkenness than he ever had before, so far that he knew he was no longer in control of himself. The toasts had lasted so long – toasts to the queen, to the prince consort, to the royal family, to the committee – they had streamed long into the evening as the meat grew cold and the sauces congealed. His own toast was lost among the others, even as they were saluting him with the words inscribed on Sir Christopher Wren’s tomb in St Paul’s. If you seek his monument look around you he heard them pronounce, but they said it in their prep school Latin, all of those voices as bluff as his, rowdy as his, slurred as his: and he had stood upright, even if he had swayed as he took the toast and proposed the next. Who gave a damn, anyway? This was not a holy ceremony, the only god present was Bacchus, and he believed he had said the same to the fellow sitting next to him. All evening he had received compliments from the worthies with the same expression
on his face: a smile he had constructed in the looking glass, earlier that day. He had even received Ashton’s embrace, smelt the scent of his hair pomade, felt the man’s hands on his wrists, and thought thank God you do not smell of her – I could not have stomached that. It was that which had made him empty every glass that was put in front of him, thinking even as he did so: I have drunk much for a long time now. I am not the man I was.

  It was in the midst of sweet fumes that he left, as others were staggering to their carriages – and he slipped back through the low-lit passage to the Surveyor’s Room, where he greeted Polly, sat down on his chair, and fell asleep with his head lying on his letters.

  *

  He woke suddenly in the depths of the night when Polly whimpered at him, and he opened the door so that the little dog could hurtle down the stairs to the porter below, with his lantern. Henry stood at the top of the stairs, in the marble Stair Hall, and watched her race, her large eyes using the little light there was from the demi-lunes and the moon.

  ‘All right there, sir?’ called the man. ‘You were spark out when I came on my round: I was scared the light would wake you.’

  ‘Let her out, will you?’ called Henry. He felt the vastness of the space now, in the night, with it empty and the revellers all gone. The place already seemed to have its ghosts. He was glad when he saw Polly bounding up the steps again; he had felt curiously alone, waiting for her at the top of the stairs. They went back into his room, and he drank a jug of water which had sat on his desk all afternoon. He even put a splash of it into a discarded saucer, which had held his empty teacup. Polly lapped it up, then leapt onto his lap. He put her back down. The porter had closed the shutters during the evening, and he was sad for it. He wanted to look out at the London night, to see if there was any life on the streets at this time.

  There was nothing to do but sleep again, to try and escape the dull pitch-and-roll of his port-filled head, and his parched tongue.

  He did not dream of Charlotte: he never had. But he did, even tonight, dream his customary dream. It was of small strong hands, gripping his shoulders from behind. The hands were childlike but vastly strong, and they gripped him so suddenly that always he would panic in that first moment, until he said to himself: it is a dream. Be calm, it is a dream: it will end. He did not remember when first he had dreamt it, but it had not been long – a year or two. So childish, he thought, for a man to dream with such intensity.

  *

  Henry went to the porter’s apartments the next day to wash and dress – he had learned to keep clothes in his office, and a small press had been provided for that purpose. The Club’s director’s room, and the members’ rooms on the upper floors, had not yet been finished: that was for the coming weeks. But the housekeeper had her apartments and she cooked Henry scrambled eggs, before the porter brought him the day’s newspapers. He turned to the art pages and the social pages and noticed, dully, that the reception had been reported respectfully. The building in the ‘classical taste’ was declared a triumph.

  His assistant arrived at nine, bearing duplicate newspapers, his face falling when he saw that Henry already had them. ‘Tomorrow’s wrappings and rubbish,’ Henry said, ‘but if you could cut out each article, and paste them onto card, I will show them to the committee, and then they will be archived.’

  ‘Did you stay the night here, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I was perfectly happy here in my Hide.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Oh, and you have an appointment, sir, at three.’

  Henry frowned at him. Even that small movement made him feel nauseous. ‘With whom?’

  ‘A lady, connected to the committee. Mrs Kinsburg.’

  Henry spun around. ‘Not possible,’ he said. His assistant looked at him, open-mouthed.

  ‘You can take her around the public rooms,’ said Henry. ‘It doesn’t need me, surely? I have the director’s furnishings to attend to.’

  ‘I think, sir, you will want to. I did not think—’

  ‘You did not think it worth checking with me whether I have the time to take some fine lady around this place, talking of pretty things and furniture, and whether I can get her a scrap of fabric for her own chaise longue?’

  ‘The director said you would not mind, he gave this, to give you, I—’

  Henry snatched the envelope from his hand, and opened it. The letter was dated that morning.

  My dear Dale-Collingwood, forgive these few hurried lines, I had intended to speak to you yesternight, but events rather took precedence. Mr Kinsburg’s wife is in London and she wishes very much to attend the Club and see it, having visited during its infancy. Kinsburg fancied it would not be possible, and did not trouble himself to make the arrangements, and he is taken up with urgent business, and so she begged that I would arrange it, and so please I ask you to make yourself available at three this afternoon for a brief time to show her the place, I know you will grant me this small favour, yours etc.

  It was signed by the director of the Mirrormakers’ Club, and for good measure he had affixed the seal, the same seal which had been used in conducting legal affairs for the business of the build.

  Henry looked at his pale assistant. ‘Very well,’ he said. He patted the poor boy on the shoulder. ‘I am sorry if I troubled you, Charles. I drank a little too much port last night and I am in a foul mood as a result. Will you take Polly to the kitchen, and ask Sarah if she can find something for her to eat?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  1841

  Henry let her wait. The porter came up to tell him that Mrs Kinsburg waited for him below, and he left her there. He wondered whether she would ask again, or whether she would remain standing beneath the dome decorated with the chequerboard pattern, with her eyes upturned, looking for him.

  He had sent Charles off with Polly on some useless errand. He wanted neither of them seeing this. As he set off down the stairs, having waited long minutes, there was a moment when, on the wide staircase of white marble, carpeted in scarlet, he thought he might fall, he felt unsteady. He turned the corner, and paused on one of the flights, and there she was. The porter had left her alone. Just there, where he thought she would be: dead centre, looking up, her hands gloved, her gown of amethyst-coloured shot silk, which changed to pink when she moved, like a gemstone in the light. She looked different; of course she would, even his fervent memory could not be faithful to her. She looked smaller, paler, and thinner. Her skin was no longer the sheer white of girlish purity, but the dead white of inferior marble. He thought this with a sneer; he fancied it even affected the line of his mouth, and he stood a little straighter.

  ‘Mrs Kinsburg,’ he said, and bowed, two steps above her.

  ‘Mr Dale-Collingwood.’ Her voice was that low alto and it pierced him in a way that seeing her there had not. His sneer fell from him like broken armour. He did not want to hear that voice. It was a voice which turned back time. And it was her true voice; not that girlish concoction which she had used on that ball night long ago.

  ‘It is an honour to welcome you here. But where is your maid? She should not feel intimidated, you know. She is welcome to view the Club too.’

  She coloured. ‘She is in my carriage. She feels unwell today.’

  ‘But Katie was always such a strong girl.’

  ‘It is not Katie. Not any longer.’

  He paused, on the brink of further enquiry. Curiosity ravaged him, and he suddenly realized how thirsty he was for information of her. This past year repressed questions about her had run like lines of scripture behind his thoughts. ‘Very well. Please, do follow me.’ He did not offer her his arm. He did not dare to.

  ‘I will not look up as we walk. The dome made me dizzy.’ There was a hint of a smile on her face.

  ‘It is an optical illusion. Very small, really; it looks much larger than it is.’ He never told anyone this. Not a single person present on the opening night knew it. Apart from Ashton of course, who had consulted every detail of the plans.

>   ‘Oh.’ She looked disappointed. She kept a yard between them, as they walked up the stairs.

  ‘I am astonished you have found the time to visit the Club. I did not think you visited London anymore.’

  ‘I had an appointment with a goldsmith. Do you remember the diamond?’

  ‘I do not,’ he lied. ‘Forgive me. But look at this.’ He made an expansive gesture as they reached the top of the stairs, towards the balustrade. ‘These columns and pilasters are made of the finest scagliola, painted in imitation of marble, but the Stair Hall itself is clad in slabs of marble from european mines.’ They stood alongside each other. She gripped the balustrade with her small kid-gloved hands, and looked over it. He kept his hands folded before him.

  ‘I could climb over and jump,’ she said. A faint smile played over her face. ‘A height of this kind tempts one, in a strange way.’

  ‘Don’t do that.’

  She looked at him. ‘Would you care?’

  He could not help the sneer again. ‘I’d care about the distress you’d cause the porter. I’d care about the mess they would have to clean up. And what would we tell your husband?’

  ‘Would it cause you distress?’

  ‘I am beyond distress.’

  Her smile broadened, but he saw its frozen quality, as deliberate as his own expression the night before. ‘The Club has hardened you; you are battle-scarred, like an old soldier.’ She moved away. ‘Is this the Dining Hall?’

  He could have taken her by the shoulders and shaken her. ‘Yes.’

  ‘My husband has told me to look carefully at the stained glass.’

  He let her look; he took her compliments. He pointed out the chandeliers and their glass lustres: seventy-two candles in the central ones, forty-eight in each of the corner chandeliers. He had watched them flare the night before, the light transforming the room, and bringing it to life. And it had tortured him, seeing his creation live, while he felt so dead inside. He did not say that to her, of course. They moved through the public rooms, talking with the same forced, affected air. He sauntered, hands behind his back, but his eyes caught every detail of her hair, her face, her eyes. She removed her gloves, and he saw a new ring on her finger, the large red-domed stone, framed with diamonds, a gift from her husband he presumed. He did not point out the mirrors, the infinity he had designed.