She smiled, as if soothing a child. ‘Yes, Ned.’
‘I tell the truth, Mary! It’s called The Nightingale – it’s of Liddy. I don’t need studies, it’s from memory – she’s holding a mechanical bird that sings all day, they’re both trapped in a room, she and he, in a cage, but she is free, really, her mind is blissfully free . . . We talked of mechanical objects, the last time I saw her, it gave me the idea – “The Emperor and the Nightingale”, do you know the story?’ He started coughing again and this time it seemed to almost consume him, as though he would not be able to stop, as though he were mechanical himself now, able only to repeat the racking motion.
Wretched, Mary made for the gate, not caring now if she were caught. She opened it, but he backed away. ‘No!’ he gasped, edging into the lane.
Mary held up her hand. ‘Dear Ned,’ she said, helplessly, again. ‘I wish to assist you – but I cannot, I fear! You need a doctor, and warm bedding and soup and – and . . .’ She wrung her hands together. ‘Are there not friends to aid you? Where is Dalbeattie?’
He was quiet, and squeezed his eyes shut. Like a small boy, utterly alone in the world. ‘Dalbeattie is still in Germany. I cannot disturb the poor fellow, he has too many demands on his time.’
‘Dalbeattie is a kind man,’ said Mary, warmly. ‘He would help you. Do you not have a pact to assist one another?’
There was something of the old, kind, eager Ned who smiled and answered, ‘Perhaps – yes, perhaps I’ll write to him. “Chestnuts and chicken”, that’s our signal for help, you know. He’d be glad to know I’ve seen you, Mary, he – he asks after you every time he writes to me.’
Flushing slightly, Mary said, ‘And where is your father?’
‘Alas, my poor father is most dreadfully ill and not long for this world.’ He drew himself up, painfully. ‘You must understand this – I will come for her. Will you tell her? Will you ensure she lives? Tell her about The Nightingale . . . and one day I will come. When – when I am recovered.’
She reached towards him again, but Ned shook his head. ‘Goodbye, dear sister,’ he muttered and he scuttled behind the Flask Inn and then out of her sight.
Knowing she must not linger, Mary turned and went inside. But on the doorstep she paused, looking back at the flowers. I did not collect any for Liddy. Instead I shall tell her of his visit.
Then she thought of the yellow eyeballs, Ned’s sunken face, the blood on the handkerchief, his feverish state, and slowly bit the tip of her finger. With an aching heart she knew she could not mention a word of it. But she would pray for Ned, for his soul shortly no doubt to be received in heaven. And so she did, every night, and another six months passed and no word came from him.
Chapter Eleven
September 1892
Father was back – but Liddy did not see him, not for ten days. The event which caused her most distress was Mary’s departure to stay with a cousin in Lyme. Liddy had begged her not to leave her, but Mary was strangely obdurate. I need a change of air, Liddy. Dearest, please try to understand, it is a most difficult situation for me, as well as for you.
Liddy saw that the moment had come when everyone else peeled away from her, grew distant, went towards the sun and away from the shade of the unhappy house. And there had been not a word, not one, from Ned. Mary had told her Pertwee had gone to Paris to paint, encouraged by Dalbeattie. Now, for the first time, Mary was to leave her, to breathe in the sea air, to be with dear Aunt Charlotte, to go to dances. She had even been allowed to purchase a new bonnet and gloves; Miss Bryant had accompanied her to Marshall and Snelgrove to procure them.
Miss Bryant was in favour of the trip, which meant Liddy would partly be left alone in the house with her. Gumball and Lydgate had both been dismissed while her father had been away, by Miss Bryant, for reasons of household economy, she said. Hannah was visiting her sister.
When Mary came to say goodbye to her sister on the morning of her departure, she said:
‘I will not be gone long, dearest. Now Father is expected back . . .’
Liddy lay on her cot-bed, wrapping and rewrapping the worn blanket tightly around her narrow frame. Both girls were too thin these days. Miss Bryant kept saying so, as she held open Liddy’s mouth, force-feeding her the gruel and rancid tapioca she insisted she eat.
Liddy said furiously, trying to keep herself from weeping, ‘Go then. You should have liberty, and enjoy yourself, even if I cannot. I know Aunt Charlotte will want to see you—’
‘I wish I were not going,’ said Mary, blinking back tears in her eyes. For they dared not cry, for fear of Miss Bryant catching them and scouring their cheeks for she said children as fortunate as they should have no cause to weep. Quietly she added, ‘I have to go, Liddy. I wish I could make—’ She stopped.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing.’ Mary shook her head, almost frantic. ‘Nothing, only be patient, my dearest—’
‘Will you try to speak to Aunt Charlotte about our situation, Mary?’
‘I will try, but I scarce know how to go about it, and I fear for you, so very much, and that if I do, something worse will happen, when we are so close . . .’ She cleared her throat.
Liddy’s dull grey eyes glanced at her again. ‘So close to what?’
‘I wish I were not to be parted from you.’ Mary kissed her sister, her warm lips on Liddy’s cold cheeks. ‘Dearest sister, keep well, keep your mind engaged, and clear of doubt . . .’ She unwrapped her mother’s Paisley shawl, which had been hers since she was wrapped in it the day she fell ill, and handed it to her sister. ‘Take this. It is warm.’
Liddy fingered the soft, fine wool. ‘No, thank you. I am warm enough. No, I tell you’ – for Mary was pushing it towards her. ‘Leave me be!’
Mary stood back, bundling the shawl up in her arms. ‘Then . . . Pretend you are in the Rookery, with a warm fire, and Pertwee toasting crumpets for us, and everything cosy. Think of the three of us, and the love we have. F-for I will see you again, I will—’ and she pressed a palm to her mouth, gave a small sob, and dashed from the room. Liddy turned on her side, gazing at the blank wall again.
Two days after Mary’s departure, their father came up to visit her. When he went up to see his one remaining child in the house he found her rocking in a tightly furled ball, singing her special song.
I am bad, I am bad, I am truly very bad,
I’m the worst little girl that you’ll see,
I think vile thoughts and I do evil things,
I bring shame on my fam’ly –
Mr Dysart stood in the doorway, watching. He did not refer to this, nor her emaciated frame, her lank hair, the smell in the room, the nightgown that was almost indecent by now. He stayed for two minutes, then excused himself hurriedly. ‘I will return tomorrow, dear child. I am tired now.’ It seemed Liddy was not even aware of his departure for the singing continued as he retreated down the stairs in search of Miss Bryant.
The following evening, he came back up again. He had Mary’s dressing gown with him, which he handed to Liddy, and a plate of cheese and biscuits, from his own supply, he said, as though the rest of the food in the house were nothing to do with him. ‘Now, Lydia,’ he said, seating himself carefully on the fragile cane chair at the centre of the empty room. ‘Miss Bryant tells me that you have begun to mend your ways and I must own that I am glad. For you—’
THUD!
Mr Dysart jumped half out of his skin as something landed heavily against the window. Liddy froze, a piece of cheese halfway to her mouth; father and daughter looked at each other in alarm.
‘What was that?’
‘I do not know, Father.’
‘Open the window then,’ he said, peevishly, drawing the little chair back from the window himself. ‘See what may be there.’
Liddy hesitated. She never opened the window any more. She could not tell him the outside terrified her now, so complete was Miss Bryant’s control of her.
‘Lydia. Did you
hear me?’ Her father’s voice rose. ‘Open the casement, for heaven’s sake.’
Clutching her little hands tightly into fists Liddy ran to the dormer window, flinging it open and letting the sweet evening air flood the stuffy room, then stood back. It was September, and still light. She glanced up and around her, and then down, blinking in confusion at what she saw, then she opened her mouth to speak, and shut it again. Eventually she said:
‘I see a dead bird, Father, on the roof below – dead or dying, I’m not sure.’ Her fingers tightened on the windowsill, the sensation of the sounds and smells of outside almost overwhelming her. ‘Do you think that is the cause?’
‘Undoubtedly. Stupid creatures, flying at the window. Come, Lydia, sit down. The bird will die, there’s an end of it,’ said her father, gruffly. He looked down at his foot. ‘The boot has let me down here; see that mark? Hm? Now, I require you to listen. Do you understand, my dear, that your punishment has been necessary?’
‘Oh,’ said Liddy, trying to concentrate. ‘I understand Nurse Bryant finds me to be a sore trial, and for that I am sorry. I have promised to mend my ways.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I have suffered greatly at her hands and she will tell you I have accepted it all.’
‘That you have, and it’s as well, for you should mind what she says, and your father too, for every girl should. After all, the burden of your food and watering and clothing and the marriage-portion –’
‘Yes, Father,’ she said, meekly, pulling Mary’s dressing gown around her and staring at his gouty foot, the thick mulberry silk lining of his tail-coat, his florid cheeks. But, inside, her heart was beating even faster, as though it were starting up again, pumping blood to all parts of her after months of inactivity.
And suddenly she heard Mary’s voice, remembered what she had told her with that curious expression which had then made Liddy so angry. Keep well. Keep your mind engaged, clear of doubt . . .
‘I will leave you now, but I am glad to have brought you these little rewards, and to have seen you in a state of such repentance.’ Her father stood up very slowly. ‘Hand me my stick, my dear.’
She gave him his silver-topped malacca cane and he twirled it in his hand, in the same way the family legend had it that he had done when he caught sight of their mother in Hyde Park all those years ago. Watching him preening, and twirling his cane, Liddy thought of her beloved mother and, for the first time, wondered that she should have fallen for his shallow tricks, like the magician in Covent Garden who only knew one illusion, how to hide a tiny bird behind your ear. She felt a bolt of rage judder through her, that her clever, wise mother should have chosen him.
As she was thinking, her father took her chin in his cold smooth hand and, pushing aside Mary’s dressing gown, he fingered the worn and dirty nightgown. Liddy shivered, and he said quietly:
‘I’ll have Bryant bring up one of your dresses for you to wear, no more rags now. Something simple, though. I admit it’s a shame – you’d be a fine catch for any man, my dear, a plump little bird ripe for plucking. They’d plough you happily, any one of them, but they shan’t have you. No one shall. Not that any of ’em would want you now.’
He gave a little shiver, and she saw saliva pooling in the corners of his mouth.
‘Father . . .’ She slid free from his grip, ostensibly to be able to grasp his hands. ‘Dear Father, thank you.’
He gave a grunt. ‘Ah. Well.’
‘Dare I hope to have the pleasure of your company again soon? Mary – Mary says you are awful lonely lately, since Rupert’s disgrace.’ She cocked her head and looked at him, smiling.
He frowned. ‘You know then that Rupert has returned? Is that why you mention him? Is that why?’
She shook her head, instantly afraid. ‘No, Father, upon my life I did not know.’
‘The scoundrel is back from Paris and says he wants to see me. I shall meet him, for I am a forgiving father, but why, when his name is garn from the Bible and I have said he’ll never darken our door again –’ He looked up at her, scanning her, mistrustfully. ‘You really don’t know about it, do ye?’
Liddy shook her head. ‘I do not, Father, I’m sorry.’
Mary had said nothing to her about Pertwee’s return – did she know nothing, too? Then Liddy remembered the thud at the window, and her eyes darted to the window in terror.
‘Now,’ said Mr Dysart, ‘Miss Bryant and I have discussed your being allowed out of the room in the next few months. This is not a prison, after all, Lydia dearest! It is your home!’ He spread his arms wide, in the small hallway, and Liddy felt her heart fill with hate for him, actual hatred; it was a strong, black, poisonous thing, like oil.
And then suddenly she felt her heart, beating in her chest. A soft, fluttering thing, still weak. She smiled.
‘Thank you, Father,’ she said. ‘I should like that very much.’
‘I shall tell her so. And that I am pleased with you. After all, it’s I who – she cannot – I am your father.’ With that he left, tapping his cane and grunting as he made his way down the stairs. Knowing how much he hated others to see how the gout slowed him down, Liddy went back into her room, closing the door gently behind her.
She heard her father calling for something on the stairs – it was muffled, just the light upper tones, querulous, pleased, and then she froze, as the voice of Miss Bryant answered him. Her clear, clear voice, which slid like a shard of glass through any crack.
‘No, sir. I agree. She seems better. To me, at least, sir, she seems less hysterical.’
Liddy knew Miss Bryant knew Liddy would be listening, and that Liddy would know she knew this, too. She waited until the thud of the cane and the low voices grew faint. Then she turned towards the window and opened it again, carefully. Slowly, she stared down at the small brown paper parcel resting on the windowsill below her.
She knew then this was luck playing on her side for once: luck that she had not given herself away and told her father, luck that she had found it so easy to lie, luck that whoever had thrown the parcel up there had done so with such skill, though she knew no one but Pertwee who could throw that well and with such precision . . .
Pertwee!
Liddy snatched it up and, utterly silent and still, strained to hear the voices of her father and Miss Bryant, now at the bottom of the stairs. She tore at the brown paper, making a spiral that unravelled, and a small wooden figure fell into her hand: a man holding a paintbrush, cap askew, hand on hip, smiling. The wood felt warm to her touch.
She began to tear the rest of the wrapping away – but then stared at it. Someone had written on the inside of the brown paper. She unfolded the rest of the bundle, smoothing it out on the floor.
My dearest bird
Here is your second figure, a willow husband for you. He comes from me with all the love I can carve into him. He is a token, he says I will never leave you again.
Dearest bird, we have one chance and thus I write in great haste. It is most likely that this plan will fail, but we have tried. ‘Say not to the struggle naught availeth.’ If they chain you up for life afterwards, you know you are loved by me, your brother and sister. Know you are greatly loved, Liddy.
I was very ill for several months – a ridiculous nonsense but I cannot live without you – my father died, Liddy, he left me 80 pounds, and grieving for him though I did so greatly, his dying delivered me for they came to my rooms and found me and took me to hospital . . . Dalbeattie’s had the care of me since: he’s come back from Europe and has been the best friend a fellow could want.
I have made the picture of you that I always said I would, Liddy my darling, it was in the Summer Exhibition, and it was a great success. Now Mr Galveston says he wants to buy it for his gallery, he means to pay me 70 guineas for it. It is called The Nightingale. It is you, my Liddy.
Please forgive my mentioning these financial matters in a letter swearing my love for you but our situation is unusual as we have always known: this is by way of saying I have
now in total 150 pounds and a heart full of love for you as the first time I saw you.
I have a plan for your escape and it involves our marriage, my dearest, there is but one chance and it is tomorrow. Tomorrow, Liddy – everything is tomorrow.
For tomorrow morning (Thursday, 10th September 1892) Miss Bryant will be called from the house – you will see – all our plans are well laid and they are good plans. Please wait at the window until you are sure she is gone. Your father is meeting your brother tomorrow also; Pertwee has come back to England at my request, first to deliver this message to your room, then to bait the trap. Wait until his carriage has departed.
With your father and Miss Bryant both absent you will be free to leave the house at 10.30 a.m. dearest. I will be at St Marylebone Church at 12 p.m. Dalbeattie, Pertwee, and Mary too, if she can be back in time, for her trip away has been engineered so that no blame attaches to her in the event of failure. I will wait inside the church. I have a special licence. Our names are writ upon it in black ink; I see them now as I write to you, hands shaking. Please say that you will come, that we will be married then!
I feel your fear as you hold the figure, I know you must be most terribly scared. Be brave, dearest Liddy, please be brave and come. I cannot fetch you myself, the risk is too great we have all agreed. Come to St Marylebone and we will be married.
Come tomorrow – will you come? For now I doubt it all – Dash this pen for it makes my writing so weak, I am strong, Liddy, I promise you. I will be strong as A TREE and I will shelter you, that is the promise I make to you now, our own promise now and in the years to come. The future is yet unwritten; the past is burnt and gone. It must be so.
Yours always more than my own –
Liddy threw the letter aside. She shook, at first with what she thought was excitement, then recognised as pure, seething rage. Rage that they should pluck her from her room, where she finally felt comfortable, where Father was arranging for her to have a dress again, where she was confined but cared for.
She tore the letter into tiny pieces, scattering them like snow on to the flames, then crawled around on the floor in the flickering light of the fire to ensure none of it was left behind. She would not upset Miss Bryant, unlike foolish Pertwee, or deceitful Mary sighing over her, her lies about missing her.
The Garden of Lost and Found Page 15