He was actually going to do it. They were tangible commitments to the plan, these accessories, and I watched his preparations with increasing elation. There was only one detail we were both overlooking. It was the most crucial detail, the only one that really mattered. The powder. Jekyll would need to resupply the powder. He would have to bring along all the chemical apparatus and ingredients. Yet it did not even occur to me. I was agitated and overeager, and the powder was never my province—nonetheless, it was at the core of my ability to exist, in London, California, anywhere. How could I have forgotten this? It seems impossible to believe that Jekyll could have forgotten this too. Did he never intend for us to leave? In spite of all his expenditure, did he never expect us to truly escape? Did he know that it was no use resupplying the powder, that any effort to avert our fate was useless?
If he did know, deep beneath his surface thoughts, I could not detect it. I did not want to detect it. I was blissfully lost in my fantasy, my yearning for time to pass. Which it did. One night it began to snow outside the latticework windows of the Grampian lounge. Then it was Christmas. Like the year before, Jekyll dressed in his whites and sat down in the dining room with the whole staff at the long table. Silver, candlelight, wine, the works. The mood felt constrained at first. No one seemed to be drinking the wine. When Poole wheeled out the roast, Jekyll stood at the head of the table, took charge of the two-pronged fork and carving knife, and began to dissect the dripping joint, serving the slices onto the plates that were solemnly passed around. When the carving was done, Jekyll remained on his feet and lifted his wineglass.
This has been an unusual year. Both for me and for you, for my life affects each of yours. I hope you do not think I am unaware of that. I have been absent. I have been unwell. And I have made poor choices in the company I keep. Let us say his name. It was my mistake inviting Edward Hyde into this house. I was trying to help him, to introduce him into a warm, stable household such as you all maintain. I misjudged his character, however. We are all perhaps capable of this, but my misjudgement had terrible consequences. Consequences that you have all been asked to overlook, to dismiss from your thoughts. Well, I can tell none of you what to think. All I can do is observe that every one of you has remained in my house, making it a warm and stable home, and for that I am sincerely, humbly grateful. Thank you. And happy Christmas.
Looking across the table, Jekyll met Poole’s eyes, shimmering like oil in the candlelight. There was a silence, and the little flames down the line all staggered to one side, as if a door had whooshed shut. For half an instant I thought they would all be snuffed out, a foul omen, as a shadow swooped over the table. Then the flames jerked upright, and Poole lifted his wineglass and said, Happy Christmas, sir, and everyone called the cheery echo: Happy Christmas!
I knew that Jekyll had decided on his birthday party as the occasion to announce his departure. He didn’t want his farewell to arouse any suspicion, but neither did he want to explain his plans individually to every person in his life. His birthday presented the perfect opportunity for him to make a gracious speech and then sail away with a unified bon voyage behind him.
On January 8 he was up at dawn, watching the pink light catch in the frosted windowpanes. Fifty-one years old. An exciting number. The start of a second half. Bradshaw was the first to wish him happy birthday. The footman was sitting on the mahogany bench in the main hall buffing Jekyll’s black evening slippers with a brush strapped to his hand. He looked up as Jekyll descended the stairs, tipped his copper head, and flashed his roguish, younger-brother smile, shrewd and faintly complicit. Happy birthday, sir, he said, buffing the shoe back and forth.
A load of deliveries for the party arrived at noon. Poole directed them in through the alley from Castle Street and across the courtyard to the servants’ door. Jekyll stood in the conservatory watching the men carry crates of wine and butcher-paper-wrapped packages. In the late afternoon he shaved again, combed his silvery hair, then dressed slowly and meticulously, as if for a duel, in the double-breasted paisley waistcoat of emerald and claret, which he paired with a claret bow tie. He drew on his midnight-black tailcoat and posed before the long mirror, one hand idle at his hip, as if a revolver were slung there, a pearl-handled silver Colt. Every American carried a revolver, after all. Perhaps he would grow a curling moustache too. There was a light knock on the bedroom door.
Jekyll stepped from the dressing room and called out, Come in. The door inched open, and Lizzie inserted her head with a hesitant Sir? I’m perfectly decent, Lizzie, Jekyll said. He touched his lapels and parted his patent-leather slippers. What do you think, my dear? She stood half inside the door holding the edge in one hand, wearing an intent, studious expression. She nodded approvingly. Very spruce, sir. Jekyll chuckled. Spruce. I like that. Was there something else, Lizzie, or did you drop by merely to admire my waistcoat? She smiled and ducked her head. No, sir, Mr. Poole sent me, sir. Dr. Lanyon’s just come.
Lanyon. He was in the parlour by the fire, small and trim and elfin-haired. I hope I’m not too early, he said, I thought I’d have a few minutes of you for myself. Happy birthday, Harry. His faded blue eyes were clear and sober, twinkling as Jekyll shook his firm little hand. His gaze drifted down and he gave a delighted laugh. Look at that waistcoat! he cried. Look at the pair of us! He opened his lapels to reveal his own double-breasted waistcoat of Scotch plaid. That’s a shame, Hastie, Jekyll said, because as the man of the hour, I’m going to have to insist you take it off. My waistcoat won’t stand for any detraction. Go on, off with it now. Lanyon sighed resignedly and reached for the top button, then laughed again, and Jekyll clapped his shoulder. Can I get you something? he said, moving off toward the sideboard. No, thank you, Lanyon replied. When Jekyll glanced back, he shrugged with shy pride. A new leaf, he said.
They sat together by the fire in silence. Now was the time to tell Lanyon, to say it aloud to someone and make it real: we were going to America. Jekyll’s throat was dry. He cleared it, and the doorbell chimed from the entrance hall.
Jekyll and Lanyon stood as Utterson strolled into the parlour, one hand behind his back. Beaten me to the punch, I see, he said to Lanyon. Well, I’ll be the second, then. Happy birthday, old friend. An awkward quiet fell amongst the three men, before Jekyll said, So is that a birthday present behind your back, or are you going to stand around like the crown prince all evening? Utterson and Lanyon exchanged a glance. A moth fluttered suddenly in our stomach. Utterson cautiously drew from behind his back a long, thin object wrapped in white paper.
Jekyll accepted it with two fingers of each hand, held it balanced like a sword. His heart was thumping in his temples. He peeled off the wrapping and beheld a walking stick: slim and yellowish white, like ivory or bone, with a curve to its tapering length. The handle was hooked and carved into a whale with a wide mouth of teeth and curling waves along its flank. Below the grip was a golden ring, engraved:
For Harry, for strength and grace
With love, H and J
It’s baleen, Utterson said. Whalebone. Quite strong, but fragile as well. Jekyll nodded. It’s beautiful. He forced himself to meet Utterson’s grave, hangdog gaze, with its wrinkled lift of hope. Thank you. He looked at red-faced Lanyon, boyishly pleased and eager. Thank you both. This is—very considerate. Another spell of silence. The wrapping on the floor crackled uncertainly.
Poole came around the parlour with a silver tray of whiskies when everyone had arrived. Ten men milling about in their tailcoats, Lanyon’s plaid chest flashing like a robin amongst the penguins. Jekyll accepted a whisky. He let the liquor run to his lips and then opened his throat and took the fire down. His eyes watered up, and Father said in our ear, Good boy, down the hatch. Soon the sharp, dark edge of it started to bite in, like a superfine film of graphite dust filtering into the room. Everyone else trooped through the archway passage into the dining room, but Jekyll lagged behind to splash a hasty refill into his glass from the decanter. He tipped it back, baring his teeth as F
ather whispered again into our ear, Good lad. Jekyll wiped his eyes and jerked his lapels and strode grandly through the passageway onto the stage.
The silver and crystal rang overbright in the air, every edge aglint. Yet the dining room otherwise seemed too dim, the faces in shadow. Jekyll sat at the centre of the table, Lanyon to his left and Utterson directly across. He couldn’t eat the food. The quiver of lobster claw in crème, the pastry topped with a glistening pile of black caviar, like minuscule beetles. But the wine he drank. His head swam. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, at a very loud volume. Jekyll and I sat inside this shell of noise, in the midst of these people we might never see again. Now was the time to speak the words and make it a reality. In two weeks he was sailing away and he could not say if or when he would be back.
Jekyll stood up. The floor teetered alarmingly and wine sloshed in his glass before the room settled right again. Everyone was looking at him, all the faces paused in midconversation. The flood of noise drizzled out to a hanging bead of silence.
Jekyll opened his mouth. He had rehearsed his speech before his dressing room mirror. But now the words seemed distant, submerged. His mouth remained open; the silence gained weight. Gentlemen, he said at last. Good evening. This has been an unusual year. He stopped, swayed on his feet. But today I’m fifty-one. A long time to be alive. The human animal lives a long time, compared to most of its lesser cousins. Decades and decades to be filled with activity, now that we’ve mastered the problem of basic survival. Now we must do things to make it all seem meaningful. But I will tell you something. Something they don’t want you to know. There is no meaning. None of this means anything. Jekyll gestured at the room with his wine, which splashed over the rim. Do you understand what I’m telling you? Knuckles dripping, he stared at his guests. A dull blood anger had begun to beat in his face. He let out a bitter laugh. Of course you don’t understand. How could you? What have you people done with your lives, anyhow? What’ve any of you actually done? He stopped again. The floor was starting to roll. He shut his eyes and gripped his wineglass as if it would steady him. His other hand found the back of Lanyon’s chair. This isn’t what I wanted to say, he muttered, I’m getting this all wrong. Forgive me. Jekyll raised his eyes to Utterson, a doming shadow across the table beyond the leaping candle flames. Forgive me, Jekyll said, and sank into his chair.
A long, awful silence. I could hear the candles sucking at the oxygen. Then Utterson said, Hip-hip for Harry, in a toneless voice, and everyone responded in unison: Hurrah.
For dessert, Poole wheeled out a gigantic chocolate cake and served Jekyll a thick black slice. Beneath the table Jekyll was pressing his thumb to the tines of a fork just hard enough not to break the skin. Everyone watched him lift a morsel to his mouth, where it turned to paste. He nodded and tried to smile with it stuck to his teeth. After the meal the company retired to the parlour. But a pall of restless discomfort had fallen over the group. They all accepted snifters of brandy from Poole but none pulled out cigars, and soon they all began to shuffle about, eying each other. Jekyll stood with his elbow resting on the mantel and his back to the mirror in which we had seen a glimpse of our face: redly congested, with that squiggly vessel bulging at the temple. A sneer was moulded to the lips as he glared around the room, blood pounding in his eyeballs. What did it matter if he told them or not, if he never saw these people again? Why should he have to explain himself to them?
Percy started the exodus, setting down his snifter and approaching with a tight smile. Happy birthday, then, old boy, he said, not quite meeting Jekyll’s eyes. Then everyone was shaking hands and herding into the main hall. Jekyll leant in the parlour doorway watching them go. At last it was just Utterson and Lanyon left standing uncomfortably in the main hall. The slim whalebone walking stick leant against the mahogany bench, and Jekyll nodded his chin at the thing. Thank you for that, gents, I’ll put it to good use. He pushed off the door frame and crossed the canted floor, offered his hand to Lanyon, who took it with an upward glance of concern. Jekyll clapped Lanyon’s shoulder and moved him toward the entrance hall, and Utterson followed. My old friends, Jekyll said, what would I do without my old friends, eh? He opened the front door and clapped Lanyon’s shoulder again, making him almost stumble. Lanyon looked back at Utterson, and gave a compressed, pained little smile before stepping out. Utterson eyed Jekyll from under his shaggy brows, holding his topper by the brim. Perhaps, he said, we overdid it on the Scottish, a trifle. Jekyll shrugged impatiently, still holding the door open. Utterson reached a hand into his overcoat. Harry, he said reluctantly, I have something for you.
From an inner pocket he withdrew a white envelope. This isn’t from me, he said, I’m just an intermediary. Between two fingers, the envelope was extended toward us.
I watched it come like a rush of sickness, watched Jekyll’s hand rise and accept the envelope. This was not possible. I stared at the spiky scratching of ink across the white face. Hyde. A crescendo was rising in the air. I was certain the entrance hall was going to explode. Jekyll looked up at Utterson. He was buttoning his overcoat, glancing down discreetly. I received it yesterday, he said. She asked if I would convey it to you in person.
Jekyll’s eyes dropped to the envelope again, and he blinked. It had changed; the line of ink had reconfigured itself. Henry, it read now, in elegant feminine script. Jekyll flipped it over, looked at the red drop of sealing wax, then flipped it back to squint at the name: Henry. How could—? Utterson was saying something. He caught sight of Jekyll’s face and paused, his expression widening in alarm. Harry, goodness, I’m—are you all right? He reached and grasped Jekyll’s forearm. I’m sorry; this was foolish of me, I shouldn’t have involved myself. Jekyll pulled his arm from Utterson’s grip and looked out the open door at Lanyon standing as if miles away on the front stoop, gazing up at the sky, the swarming immensity.
Well, Utterson said. I guess I’ll leave you to it, then. Good night, Harry.
Jekyll shut the door and sleepwalked into the parlour, holding the envelope rigidly at his side. Burn it, I was thinking. At the fire he lifted it again, ran his thumb across the line of flowing script. Henry. He turned it around and popped the seal and drew out the folded letter.
Dear Henry,
Happy birthday. I’m sorry to use Mr. Utterson as a messenger like this, but I wanted someone you know to hand this to you, if I could not. I’m a mother now. Her name is Hermione. She has grey eyes and no hair and ten fingers and toes—ten of each, of course. I count them sometimes in disbelief. As I’m writing, this very moment, she is lying on her back staring up at me, quite solemn, grabbing with her chubby fingers at the air. You said that you have never been able to help me, and here is proof that you are wrong. I have a profound certainty of this. You were the deciding difference this time. Seeing you in that restaurant. I’m sure you don’t believe in fate, but I do, and that, as you said yourself, is the whole trick. I love you, Henry. That does not require you to do anything or make any response. I just want you to know that I love you.
The letter swooned in flame and curled on the coals. Jekyll’s vision was fractured like cut glass as he turned to stare half blindly at the parlour. Poole stood holding something silver stocked with crystals that winked and stabbed. Sir? he said, stepping forward, and Jekyll cried, Get away from me, Poole. Get out of here, get away from me! Poole turned and left the room. Jekyll grabbed for a glass on the low table and slugged the brandy down, then ground the heel of his hand into his eye socket. He careened from the room and across the main hall. He wrenched open the front door and staggered down the steps and into the square.
The fresh icy air sharpened his senses. Jekyll dragged a sleeve across his eyes and smacked himself hard in the face. At the top of the square, he flagged a cab and called up to the driver, Berkeley Square! The cab clipped west through the traffic, and we huddled sweating and freezing on the creaking seat. There was a rip in the leather, which his fingers found, and he probed the hole, tearing it wider,
twisting the straw stuffing. The cab swung off Piccadilly onto Berkeley, the houses fused together on one side of the park and the barren trees standing on the other. Jekyll hunched at the small window watching the houses roll by, then he punched the canvas ceiling, and the cab crunched to a halt. The white-brick house was tall and narrow, with a green door and pairs of arch-shaped windows on each floor, up to the tiled mansard roof, where chimney stacks released twin spindles of smoke. The windows were filled with gauzy, lemony light. On the second floor, a figure was passing from one frame to the other, pacing back and forth, slowly, dreamily, like a dance. Georgiana. She was pacing with her baby, it seemed, soothing it to sleep. Through the cab window Jekyll mooned up at her, throat thickening with a voluptuous grief. I love you. How could that not require any response? From one painted archway to other she strolled, head down, singing that high sweet humming song—God, I could hear it—drifting out of that night, a lifetime ago, when Jeannie had walked beside me back to Ghyll in her raggedy coat and insufficient shoes. The windows blurred into one melting glow, and against it I saw Jeannie place a hand upon her belly and look down and murmur, I have to tell you something. That doll, that naked orphaned thing with a single button for an eye—why did it come back to me now? Jekyll crushed his eyes shut, clutching the cold metal rim of the window. He whipped his head and then punched the canvas roof and called out, Greek Street! Go!
He had flayed the whole seat apart by the time we turned off Shaftesbury into the tight bounds of Soho. He hopped down, thrust a banknote at the driver, and set off down the icy crowded lane in his evening shoes. The lamps swam like lights underwater. Everyone seemed to be moving against us, as if we were on the wrong side of the human tide. Jekyll blundered and pushed through the shoulders. At the corner of Old Compton he hooked left and then right at the next crossing and came to the wooden sign on its crooked chains jutting from the brick: a bloated, peeling toad painted half a century ago. He pitched down the rackety stairs into the deafening subterranean lounge. The Toad. Jekyll edged through the crowd in his tails and paisley waistcoat, just another gentleman slummer. Whisky, he shouted at the barman. He tipped back the brimming shot, then slammed the glass on the wood plank. Right down there. That was where I had first seen her, my little Jeannie, throwing her head back and laughing as some lucky bloke cupped his mouth and spoke into her ear. Where had she gone? Was I really never going to see her again? The gaping painted mouths around the room all roared out noise, and as we scanned without hope, an obese dolly beside us hacked out a coarse guffaw, baring her throat and wobbling bosom. We stared at the monstrous parody, then reeled from the bar, stumbling through the smoky haze for the stairs.
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