Did she know who my lover was? Did she know his name? I could not help wondering if there were other photographs which showed Bram’s face, because he would have been a prime target for blackmail. That thought made me quake, made me want to rush out of the house at once and straight to the Lyceum. I was so badly shocked, I needed the support of someone who knew and understood, someone who could give advice without making moral judgements.
The temptation was almost overwhelming. I might even have done it, except that some quirk of fate sent Henry back to the house that morning. An accident on the main line just outside King’s Cross meant that trains were indefinitely delayed, so he had telegraphed the Addisons to postpone his trip to Hull. If he was surprised to see me still at home, he was concerned, wanting to know what was wrong.
I made some excuse about a badly-upset stomach, whereupon he urged me to return to bed. And there, thankfully, I took time to reflect. Henry loved me, trusted me – more than that, he’d risked his own professional reputation in order to satisfy my desire to work in his field. I could not betray that trust in any way, least of all by contacting Bram. I would have to face this problem alone.
~~~
That first letter with the photograph did not mention a specific sum; only that Isa would appreciate a reply with some indication that I understood and was willing to make a contribution towards Mr Louvain’s memorial stone. She made it sound like a shrine, which to her it probably was, something to be cleaned and polished and genuflected to. Something to give her empty life a focus. I even had an image of her in my mind, kneeling at a little prie-dieu with Jack’s picture nailed above it.
It was a sickening thought.
Every time the photograph sprang to mind – I didn’t need to look at it – I found myself hating with a passion I would not have believed possible. I wished something violent for Isa, such as the braining smack of a winch hook, the terrible splintering crash of a load of timber giving way, or a bolting dray-horse to knock her down and pulverise her underfoot.
Despite those ill-wishes, I wrote a civil enough reply saying I understood the situation very well, and how much did she expect? Her reply mentioned £50, which was outrageous, so I sent a curt demand for the plate as well as every print in her possession. In the letter which followed, Isa dropped the charade, threatening to post a copy of the photograph to my husband if I did not forward the money before the end of the month.
I knew Isa too well to doubt her word. She wasn’t doing this just for the money, but out of envy and wickedness. No doubt Bella had told her about my marriage to a wealthy man, and that would have rankled, especially in the light of her unrequited passion for Jack. I found myself wondering whether he’d left a will, and if so, who had inherited his photographs. They were part of his business, after all. But if his accident and subsequent death had been the darkest of thunderclouds to Isa, then those photographs must have been the crock of gold at the foot of the rainbow. I wondered how many the crock contained, and whether all had been taken on the same occasion.
At one time I would have sworn Jack Louvain was incapable of such behaviour, but Isa’s letters knocked all such certainty out of me. Were we chanced-upon – or had he followed us? Not knowing, I was ready to believe anything – and trusted no one. Instead of sending money through the post, I would have liked to go to Whitby to throttle the truth out of Isa, but the work I’d fought so hard to do made it impossible.
Henry was away for several days in Hull, which at least gave me time to compose myself, but he had started to count on me, to use me, and as a result the business was picking up again after our extended leave in the summer. The challenge was what I’d prayed for; I could not abandon everything on a whim. So, although it grieved me sorely, I took money from my own account in five-pound notes and posted it to Isa’s new address.
Next day I wrote to Bella, an apparently general, chatty letter, asking for all the news since it was so long since I’d heard anything from anyone in Whitby; at the same time I sent a note to Mr Richardson, asking him to take out a year’s subscription to the Whitby Gazette for me. It was something I should have thought of before, since it would give me an official version of local events, with more to be read between the lines. After some years in which the past had begun to lose its hold on me, suddenly it was on my heels again with a vengeance. I needed to know what was going on in Whitby, and from as many sources as possible.
~~~
After that, Bella wrote from time to time, largely because I kept up the correspondence and refused to let it lapse. I learned that Lizzie and the youngest sister – no more than seven or eight years old when I lived with them – were both in service, the two eldest boys were doing all right at sea, and only Davey and young Magnus were still at home. Davey was the bright one, Bella said, he wanted to join the railway company, so they were hoping to keep him at school until he was fourteen. Magnus was a willing bairn, but a bit slow, so there wasn’t much point in sending him to school. Their mother still liked her tot of gin, but with most of the bairns off her hands and lodgers bringing in money, she was a lot happier. Especially now that Isa had a place of her own. In the end she’d done quite well out of what Mr Louvain left her...
Bella rarely mentioned herself, and for a long time I assumed that she was doing what she’d always done, helping her mother in the house. Except that she was twenty-seven years old and most women of her age were married with children, while those of the fishing community in Whitby were generally baiting lines and selling fish as well as raising a family. Remembering how hard we’d worked that winter, and for so little reward, I did ask myself how Bella was managing to survive; it wasn’t until the following spring, however, that I discovered the truth – from the Gazette.
Amongst the usual court reports on cases of common assault, brawling and drunkenness, I read that Bella had been charged with soliciting in Pier Road, drunk and disorderly conduct, and abusive behaviour towards the arresting officer.
I was appalled. It wasn’t headline news; such incidents were common and usually reported with brevity. The case was proved, however, and even though it was her first time before the court, Bella was fined and sentenced to seven days in jail. Her claim that she was unable to pay the fine was met with an alternative – another seven days inside.
Horrified, I tried to work out how long had elapsed since the case had appeared before the magistrates, and whether the sentence was still being served. I wrote at once to Mr Richardson, asking him to check up, and to pay the fine for Bella if she had more than a day left to serve. What he must have thought, I don’t know; by way of explanation I said only that she had been good to me once, and I could not bear to think of her being in prison and in need. It was a brief understatement but it was true.
As things turned out it was too late to pay the fine: Bella was being released even as Mr Richardson made his enquiries. Nevertheless, it marked the beginning of another stage in our relationship, one where I started watching Bella from a distance, watching like a mother with a backward child. Watching with arms outstretched, all the time praying for good sense, but worrying just the same. It seemed to me there was no logic to Bella’s behaviour. I could understand why a girl who had been so badly used by her father would find it hard to trust men, or to have much faith in the estate of marriage; I could even see that she might prefer the company and love of women. But I was too naive still to understand how someone who hated sex could do it for money. Not when the money could have been earned in other ways.
I would have liked to put the past behind me, cut myself free, live totally in the present with Henry and our brokerage business in London, but Whitby kept intruding on different levels. I found myself involved in more and more business that was Whitby based, and in a sense that was gratifying, but it kept my thoughts focused where I would have preferred them not to be. I came to expect the letters, twice or three times a year, from Isa, but although I expected them they still produced the same sense of revulsion and fur
y.
And yet I must confess to feeling a certain perverse satisfaction. I don’t know why. Perhaps Isa became my hair shirt, part of my penance for that affair with Bram. I suppose that sense of guilt might have lessened over the years, except for my inability to have children; and there again, my guilt and regret were further complicated by the knowledge that I was less stricken by that failure than Henry. He was the one to whom children were important; my only regret was in not being able to provide them.
In some strange way, although I hated it, paying Isa made me feel better. Just as keeping an eye on Bella relieved a different sense of guilt. I saw them as two sides of a coin, facing in opposite directions, hardly aware of each other as separate entities. If they’d become friendlier for a time after Magnus’s death, it was clear that all pretence had evaporated with Bella’s first conviction for soliciting. Isa was sly and secretive, and so disapproving she could have put a Puritan to shame – which made me wonder whether Bella’s behavior was deliberate.
~~~
Aside from my concerns in Whitby, life with Henry was both challenging and fulfilling. Whatever regrets we harboured were mostly buried in the business, which, as the ‘90s wore on, continued to do well. After the first few years we didn’t talk about having children, and he seemed to accept that my chief interests were always going to be outside the home, in the movement of shipping and trade. Living in Hampstead, working in the City, I longed for fresh sea breezes and even the hustle and bustle of the docks. Since Henry refused to move house, I took every opportunity to travel, whether by train to Hull, or by ship across the North Sea. Sometimes he came with me, but more often I travelled alone.
From time to time I thought of Bram, and envied that house he’d talked about, overlooking the river. But to have lived in Chelsea would have put us too close for comfort. And with regard to entertainment it was fortunate that my husband’s taste ran more to operetta and light comedy than the type of high drama presented by Irving at the Lyceum. Whenever we ventured into theatre-land I was very much aware that this was Bram’s world, a world of fame and first nights, of champagne suppers and titled friends. It made Whitby, and all we’d shared ten years ago, seem very small beer indeed.
Thirty-nine
In the summer of ’95 Bram and his friends were rarely out of the news. Oscar Wilde, who had once been in love with Florence, was convicted on charges of gross indecency and sent to jail, while in the same week Irving’s brand of high drama – not to mention his largess – paid off in the form of a knighthood. He was the first actor ever to be honoured in that way, but I could not be pleased. Indeed I felt contemptuous of Irving and sorry for Wilde, which was perhaps contrary of me, so I kept my opinions to myself. Nevertheless, I did wonder how Bram felt about the situation. It seemed to me that one had been elevated by reverence and an over-emphasis on dignity and drama, while the other had been trampled underfoot for daring to mock current morals and manners.
And what about Florence, and Wilde’s poor wife? How did they feel about it?
Their world was a long way from the one I inhabited with Henry, and their concerns were not mine. Bram faded from my mind for a while, until just after my thirtieth birthday, when he made himself felt once more.
Ironically, it was a time when I was feeling pleasantly mature and in control. Business was improving noticeably, and I knew it was more than just a trend; much of it was to do with my efforts, and the pursuit of instincts which rarely seemed to let me down. I was pleased with myself, perhaps even a little smug; if I’d had detractors, I knew I had admirers too, and not all were based on business. There were plenty of lingering glances to tell me I was still a desirable woman, despite the severely tailored outfits I wore to the office.
Henry often smiled at my weekday clothes, saying I looked like a redoubtable schoolmarm in my greys and browns, but in fact I liked them: not only did they suit my face and figure, I felt they were a good foil for the flamboyance of my hair. But for Henry’s sake, when we were at home, I wore my hair loose and the softly coloured silks he preferred. I wore them mainly to please him, and if they didn’t always have the desired effect, I told myself it was because he was working too hard. In fact we both were; we needed a holiday.
That Saturday morning, in the early summer of ‘97, was the sort to put holidays in mind: bright and sunny, with the promise of more to come. I walked into my favourite bookshop on Heath Street, and noticed the assistant unwrapping a parcel. The yellow-bound books attracted my attention. I was about to ask what they were, when I saw the author’s name in red on the spine: Bram Stoker.
It was a shock. Invariably, whenever I saw his name in a journal or newspaper, it was like being thrust straight into his presence. That day, with trembling fingers I reached out for his book and turning it over, read the title: Dracula.
Even before I knew what it was about, the title chilled me.
~~~
I had the book wrapped and sealed and stowed away at home until I knew Henry would be away for a few days. When I settled down to read that book, I wanted to be alone.
At last my opportunity arose. It was the beginning of June, just eleven years since that summer in Whitby, and the weather in London was just as hot. When I got home from the office that evening, I peeled off my clothes and took a bath, and then, wearing a light robe, I ordered my dinner on a tray upstairs. It was something I did when Henry was away. I liked my time alone, and the large well-proportioned room at the rear of the house was a place where I’d been able to express my own taste. There were long windows and a balcony overlooking a walled garden with trees and an orchard, and muslin curtains which drifted slightly on the evening breeze.
On opening the book I was bewitched from the very beginning, travelling across Europe with the young solicitor, Jonathan Harker. Imagination supplied Jonathan Markway’s face, and soon I was eating strange food with him, hearing strange voices, seeing the fortified medieval towns and the vast, oppressive landscape.
When he took the carriage from Bistritz I was there too, lurching over mountain passes, hearing the wind and the wolves and the music of the night. My heart leapt in my breast: I knew what it was like. But the author took me further than that, I could hear his voice as he whispered in my ear – my ear, no one else’s – drawing word-pictures against the darkness, making me fear the advent of Jonathan’s host and what strangeness he might find when he arrived at his destination. He put ice in my veins and a chill down my spine as he brought me to the threshold of the castle, and face to face with the mysterious Count Dracula.
Despite the chill there was a strange attraction. The Count was proud of an aristocratic past, yet so attentive and solicitous, so childishly innocent in his eagerness to learn how things were done in England, that one felt drawn to him even while wondering at his purpose. But then, as Jonathan’s lonely imprisonment in the castle became clearer and the Count’s nocturnal existence ever more sinister, unease deepened to flesh-crawling fear. There was a nightmarish quality about him, a more-than-real horror in the way he cloaked himself to crawl like a lizard, face down, down the massive castle wall, leaving his young guest in a terror of speculation as to what manner of creature detained him.
In an attempt to discover more, the young man went exploring, and against the Count’s advice was foolish enough to fall asleep on a couch in the moonlight, to be woken a little while later by three voluptuous women, two dark and one fair, who seemed to have designs on him as a lover. They viewed and flirted and laughed coquettishly; one crept up on him while he pretended to be asleep, bent over his recumbent form to look and sigh and lick her glistening red lips in anticipation of the kiss she would bestow...
There was something so disturbingly erotic about the description, I found myself inadvertently warming in response. I was breathless, tantalised, horrified – yet as they crept closer, red mouths agape, I almost wanted the women to succeed. And then, on the brink of fulfilment, the Count’s sudden appearance, his banishment of the wom
en, that cry of his – This man belongs to me! – was at once a relief and a disappointment. It was as though the ultimate in forbidden pleasure had just been denied.
Dreadful enough, but behind that was something else, something that amounted almost to recognition. In that moment of languorous ecstasy, the young man – Jonathan in the book, Bram in my interpretation – was waiting to be pleasured by a beautiful woman. Ready and willing to give himself up to her, his pleasure stopped on the point of fulfilment, forbidden by the mysterious Count who banished all three women, and claimed the man for his own. Snatching him back to a place of safety, the Count even spoke of love...
I found that disturbing. Nevertheless, I read on through the evening, lost to all else bar a need to light the lamps. As darkness fell I was startled by a shivering of the curtains and the erratic fluttering of a great moth around the room. Terrified for a moment, I thought it was the count himself, come to steal my blood, my life...
Later, my maid’s light tapping at the door made me jump again with fright, but I couldn’t give up the book. Unlike poor, foolish Lucy – our Lucy of the clifftop grave! – I made sure the doors and windows were securely locked before I climbed into bed, with heavy winter curtains shut close against the moonlight.
The graveyard scenes in Hampstead were extraordinarily vivid, reminiscent of the nights Bram and I had spent together in Whitby, but far more chilling in their depiction of death and decay. I no longer frequented burial grounds, and had never been in the local cemetery, but his setting for Lucy’s tomb might have been chosen deliberately, as though he knew I lived close by. I was frightened, as much by the memories his novel evoked as by the subject matter; he brought everything up close, stirred me yet made me shiver at the words he used, the pictures he created.
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