Life Mask

by Emma Donoghue

  The young woman seemed inured to all this; through the discussion of her parentage she was measuring out her mother's drops. She never met the eye of either of the visitors. Oh, poor Derby, thought Eliza, why did you convince yourself that this wasn't your ¿laughter? As soon as the girl had administered the medicine she excused herself.

  They'd stayed too long already, but Eliza didn't want to leave this weird, stuffy room with its whiff of dissolution. On an impulse she moved her chair a little closer to the bed. 'Lady Derby,' she began in the lowest, most winning voice she could manage, 'you must wonder why I asked Mrs Damer to bring me here.'

  'Not at all.' Relaxed by her laudanum, the invalid wore a ghastly little smile. 'The wife may turn a blind eye to the mistress, but the mistress is invariably curious to meet the wife.'

  Eliza flinched and almost as quickly Anne was on her feet. 'I didn't bring Miss Farren here to insult you—nor to be insulted.'

  'Sit down, Mrs Damer, and don't make me squint up at you,' drawled Lady Derby.

  'My friend's reputation is impeccable. She has never spent a moment unchaperoned with Lord Derby in her life,' Anne insisted.

  Eliza blinked. This scene was turning stranger and she herself seemed to have no lines in it.

  'Oh, you take me up too literally,' said the invalid in a bored voice. 'There's a lot more to being a mistress than rutting.'

  Eliza flinched at the word.

  'I hear from every newspaper and pamphlet that my husband's relations with Miss Farren are platonic. So much so that I wonder if he's still capable of anything more.' The Countess grinned. 'All I meant by the word mistress was the beloved companion of a married man. Granted that Miss Farren's as pure as the most prudish of nuns, yet still the fact remains that for the last dozen years she's allowed my husband that daily conversation, charm and domestic comfort for which, as much as for anything else, men go to mistresses.'

  Eliza considered which bit of that was worth denying. The dying woman made her flesh creep, but what she said was true. 'Lady Derby,' she said on impulse, 'have you any advice for me?'

  There was a heavy silence. Then the Countess's sallow mask broke into a smile. 'As it happens, I do.'

  Anne broke in. 'I really don't think—' i

  Eliza threw up one hand to hush her.

  'You probably think Lord Derby very gallant, don't you?' began his wife.

  Eliza blinked, disconcerted.

  'Not in the sense of being a devoted wooer—though he can be; we've both experienced that—but honourable, decent, fine. After all, though he's a friend to rakes, he's courted you in the most high-minded spirit.'

  That was true, Eliza supposed, as far as his actions went. But she'd never thought of the pent-up hunger in the Earl's eyes as high-minded.

  'And on the occasion of my fall,' Lady Derby drawled on, 'didn't he veil my shame by continuing to extend to me the protection of his noble name—by only separating privately and making me a generous settlement, when most of his friends were advising him to divorce me in the harsh glare of the House of Lords? Isn't that the behaviour of a perfect English gentleman?'

  'I suppose,' said Eliza haltingly. To her, his refusal to obtain a divorce had always seemed more obstinate than anything else.

  Lady Derby giggled; that was the only word for it. It was a wet, indecent sound, like something from the mouth of a baby. 'Don't be fooled. Edward's the epitome of the dog in the manger.'

  What shocked Eliza was the informality of the name. If she married Derby, she realised, she'd have to call him that: Edward.

  'He's got a rare stamina; he'll breed his precious horses for twenty years in order to win a single race. And he has an infinite greed to hold on to the thing he once set his heart on—even if he doesn't desire it any more. That's why he didn't divorce me. I begged him for a divorce; you never heard that, did you?'

  Now this was something new. Eliza glanced at Anne, who looked at a loss.

  'Yes, I didn't mind the shame of it,' the bitter voice continued. 'I wanted the Duke of Dorset and he'd have married me like a shot. It was sheer pride and grudge on my husband's part. He left me in limbo; he waited, while most of my friends dropped me; he hung on till Dorset got tired of waiting and moved on to the next conquest.' The Countess was beginning to wheeze.

  Could that be true, Eliza wondered? How simple, how cruel. Could Derby really have kept himself and this woman horribly yoked together all these years out of sheer perversity?

  'You know what he said to me?' Lady Derby's claw-hand jumped closer to Eliza's skirts. 'He said, Til be damned if I let you ruin another man's life." But what he really feared was that I might be happy.' She slumped back on her pillows.

  'Should we call in her daughter?' Anne whispered. But Eliza couldn't take her eyes off the Countess. In her head, she was trying to hear that brutal line in Derby's voice. I'll be damned if I let you ruin another maris life. Yes, Eliza could picture his damp forehead, his narrow eyes, his cramped little features trembling as he said the words. Although Lady Derby had every reason to lie, somehow this rang true.

  'So the actress wants coaching on her next role, does she?' came a feeble mutter.

  'We should go,' said Anne, standing up.

  'Wait. I'll be dead in a week,' said Lady Derby. 'You want my advice, you say, Miss Farren?'

  Eliza had to nod.

  'Here it is. I don't say refuse him.' A laugh like a gasp of pain. 'I only say know what you're doing if you agree to be his next Countess.'

  At that moment Eliza was revolted by the prospect.

  'Go in open-eyed.' She sucked in a breath between each phrase. 'And expect no mercy!'

  JULY 1794

  At two in the morning Derby lay in a chair at Brooks's, dazed with port. The Hastings trial was drawing to its dreary close at last, after sucking up Whig energies for six long years, and no one expected anything but an acquittal; the Empire's crimes in India would go unpunished after all. It was only a matter of time before Portland and his followers entered the government of their old enemy, Pitt; for the nations good, they said, the hypocrites!

  But, to Derby's shame, he could barely think about politics, or anything but the prospect of his wife's death. He'd got so accustomed to living in this Umbo—a married man without a wife—that he was almost shaken at the thought of emerging from it. (He'd already put in a discreet order for a dozen suits of mourning, though; good tailoring couldn't be done overnight.) He'd written to Eliza, only hinting at the situation, but he longed to speak to her. She'd been rather elusive recently, it occurred to him now; he wondered if he'd offended her somehow, or perhaps it was just the tension of waiting. He knew he mustn't make a move until Lady Derby was in her coffin, for the sake of Eliza's reputation; the papers would be sure to have posted spies on Green Street to watch for a visiting earl. Even afterwards, how long would he have to wait before she'd find it acceptable to hear his proposal? And—the real question—what would her answer be?

  He'd been foolishly complacent over the years. He should have been preparing for this moment; he ought to have courted the actress more intensely. What if Eliza decided that she was very well content with her life as it was: her success on the stage, her many friends, her perfectly adequate income? She knew the art of living well on little and had no debts to escape from; she wasn't a young girl whose head could be turned by a coronet, if she'd ever been. Did she long to be married to one of the richest men in England—or did she perhaps not much care? How little he knew her, it struck him now. Her aims were as dark and changeable as any politician's.

  All Derby could do was sip his port and wait. Wait for his old comrades to go over to the devil; wait for his wife to go over the Styx; wait for the moment to ask Eliza the question; wait for an answer. Derby was a small, still, helpless dot and the world spun round him.

  'It's over,' said Fox grimly, clapping him on the shoulder.

  Derby leapt up in his seat. He had a vision of Lady Derby stretched out on her deathbed, her beautiful
mouth stiffening. 'When did it happen?'

  'I suspect the deal was struck a week ago, but Portland's only just had the decency to write to me.'

  Derby, recovering from his mistake, tried to concentrate. 'How many Cabinet places?'

  'Five out of the thirteen, with pensions and Garters aplenty. Spencer will be Lord Privy Seal—Georgiana's own brother in this coalition, she'll be sickened—Windham is Secretary of War, the bloodhound!—and of course Fitzwilliam for Lord President. That's what kills me the most: my old friend Fitzwilliam. I happen to know that he held out the longest, for love of me.' Fox wiped his inky sleeve across his eyes.

  Derby reached for the port decanter and poured Fox a glass. He could think of nothing to say, now this day had come at last.

  'The entire Opposition could fit into a hackney coach now.'

  'I deny that,' said Derby sternly. 'Two coaches would be called for at least.'

  That won a tiny chuckle. After a minute Fox said, 'I can't remember why I ever wanted to enter Parliament.'

  Derby nodded, his head as heavy as a cannon ball.

  'Did you see the Morning Post today? There was a mention of Lady Derby,' said Fox with an odd gentleness. Derby's heart leapt. 'Is she worse?'

  His friend shook his head. 'Her doctors are astonished. She's on the mend.'

  THE FACE was small-featured, pure, serious, dark. The eyes looked down and into space. The curling hair was held back by a fillet and a diadem; the effect was of some early Roman Diana. The drapery round the neck was in the antique style, but also had a contemporary air. How different this bust of Mary was from the one of Eliza, Anne thought. Firmer, unsmiling, with strength behind the prettiness. It stood on a blunt squared herm; it was more truly classical. Anne looked hard at her completed work and felt at rest. She had an odd impulse to keep this piece for herself instead of giving it to Walpole, as she'd intended.

  Your bust is come home from the oven, she wrote to Mary, who was staying with her grandmother in Yorkshire,

  but the fire was too violent & there are some small cracks—also a blemish on the right cheek which, in the case of a face without a blemish, detracts from the likeness! But I'll make these small repairs as soon as I have a spare moment.

  Do thank Agnes from me for her charming Bookplate. I like the conceit of my soul pointing at my tombstone, with hammers, chisels & two dogs among my coat of arms—a perfect summary of my affiliations.

  Tonight I go to the summer theatre at the Haymarket to see La Farren play in The Mountaineers Csf All in Good Humour.

  Alone in the Richmonds' box at the Haymarket, Anne settled in comfortably to watch the performance. She noticed a few people nudging their fellows and pointing up at her, in the pit as well as in the galleries, and she felt a small glow of satisfaction; since her King had gone on show her reputation as a sculptor had grown rapidly. Clearly her face was beginning to be recognised, even by the middling and lower sort of Londoners.

  The curtain rose for The Mountaineers and here came Eliza, looking very lovely in yellow satin. One would never know that she had worries; that ever since that unfortunate visit to Lady Derby's, Eliza had been caught in a quicksand. Loathing of Derby for refusing his wife a divorce and rage at Lady Derby for refusing to die; unease as to the years gone by and confusion as to those to come. Since old Mrs Farren had a closed mind on these matters, having staked her all on becoming an earl's mother-in-law, Anne was Eliza's only confidante; in the last few weeks she'd been in such demand at Green Street that she'd quite neglected Mary. She settled back in her chair now, smiling down at the actress. How delicious it was to know someone privately, but to watch them repeatedly transformed into someone else...

  Eliza was in sparkling voice tonight. But five lines into her opening speech things started to go wrong. There was a shout from the pit: 'Tommy!'

  Anne didn't quite catch the word at first. The actress faltered visibly, then went on with her speech.

  But now there were two men standing on a bench, roaring it: 'Tommies! Tommies!'

  Something flew past Eliza's head; a fruit, or a stone? She backed gracefully towards the wings. There was confused laughter and hissing. Anne was gripping the edge of the box. She registered that some of the troublemakers were facing into the auditorium, looking in the direction of the Richmonds' box. One of them was pointing. Could he possibly be pointing at Anne? His arm jerked like a gun.

  Below her, above her, the hissing of snakes. 'Filthy Sapphists!' Now the crowd was laughing as if at some particularly clever couplet. Anne looked into a boiling cauldron of faces. The stage was empty; Eliza must have run off. Anne lurched from her seat like a wounded hare; but her bad leg kept shaking, refusing to bear her weight. Such laughter, such yowls, such terrible hissing. She wrenched the door open and fell into the corridor.

  In the carriage she stared up at the black silk roof. This can't be happening.

  At home in her library, Anne kept a tight grip on her feelings. She wouldn't give way, not yet. She busied herself writing notes. The first was to Derby House, just round the corner.

  I don't know where to turn. I didn't see you at the Haymarket tonight, but you may have heard by now from Miss F. herself of what happened there. My spirits are entirely bewildered. As my old Friend, and one so interested in all that concerns Miss E, I wonder might I ask you to investigate this outbreak of libellous Malice?

  The second was to Mary, in Yorkshire.

  I need you. Some disaster has come upon me, connected to my dreadful subject. Do, I pray you, ask leave of your family to come down to me at Park Place where I'll go tomorrow or the day after.

  She thought of writing to Eliza, but didn't know what to say, not yet. She took some drops, but they didn't help her sleep, not peacefully at least; bad dreams kept her tossing all night.

  The dawn came pale and yellow over the rooftops of Mayfair. Anne woke up with the sensation of having her head encased in lead. She took no breakfast. She waited for an answer from Derby, but it didn't come. She asked Sam if the Earl had been away when he'd delivered her note last night; was he up in Knowsley, perhaps?

  'No, madam, he was at home, but you said not to stay for a reply as it was late.'

  That's right, she'd forgotten that. 'Well, go over there now and ask.'

  Five minutes later the footman was back. 'They say there's no reply.'

  'No reply?' She stared at Sam stupidly. How could Derby have said No reply? Then she looked away. It suddenly occurred to her to wonder what Sam knew. If things were being shouted aloud about his employer in a public theatre, if she was being called Filthy Sapphism how could he not hear of it? Her cheeks were burning. It had never really troubled her what her staff might think of her before. 'That'll do,' she said and didn't look back till the footman had gone.

  Anne cried a little, then. But self-pity would get her nowhere; she needed information. She rang for Sam again and told him to drive to Twickenham with a note for Walpole.

  His reply came back before noon.

  My dear child, my poor darling!

  Sinee you ask for it (for on no other account would I show you such a vile thing) I enclose a broadside entitled The Whig Club published I believe on Monday last, in which among others you & Miss Farren are calumniated. My sources tell me it was written by one Pigott, a radical. Do you know the name?

  Anne fumbled for a chair and let herself down on to it. Her heart was a hard knot. So I did it, she thought. I brought this on myself. I picked up my reckless pen and I wrote to Pigott. A desperate man, in gaol; she'd threatened him with all the haughtiness of her rank. And he'd hit back. Was there any weapon in England more powerful than a pen?

  She made herself flick through the limp, inky pages of the pamphlet Walpole had sent, till she found the relevant section. It began with speculation about how soon Lady Derby would die, freeing her husband to propose to a well-known fashionable Actress.

  But though the Actress's Vanity must be interested in the event, her amorous Passions are fa
r from being awakened by the idea. Superior to the influence of Men, she is supposed to feel more exquisite Delight from the touch of the cheek of Mrs D—r, than from the fancy of any Novelties which the wedding night can promise with such a partner as His Lordship.

  Reading the words, Anne thought she might faint. She forced herself to go on. The actress was also entangled, claimed Pigott, with a certain Lady M—r, the cold wife of a drunken husband and a formidable rival to Mrs D—rfor the affections of Miss F—n. Anne blinked rapidly. Lady Milner, that was the only name she knew that fitted. But the Milners weren't real intimates of Elizas at all, were they? Only friends with whom she occasionally stayed when in Yorkshire. Where in all the hells had Pigott got this story? Did these evil-minded scribblers pluck names at random out of the ether?

  There was a loud knock on the door. Mary, she thought with dizzying gratitude, before she remembered that it couldn't be, not so soon.

  WHAT FILLED Eliza with dread was that her mother hadn't said anything yet. She'd packed up Eliza's things in the dressing room without a murmur and, when they'd reached Green Street—three hours earlier than usual, with the sun still shining—all she'd done was lay out some cold beef and greens. Eliza had thought of broaching the topic—Mother, I don't know why, I've no idea what could possibly have brought on this storm—but her nerve failed her; she'd never been so tired in her life. After two bites of beef she'd gone to bed, though evening light pricked through the shutters.

  This morning silence had filled up the narrow house on Green Street like dirty water. Something occurred to Eliza: our contract is broken. She'd nothing to confess, God knew, but that she'd kept her mother at a distance, failed to confide. She'd let another friendship supplant the oldest one and look what disaster had come of it.