The same soot is clinging to the windows of de Havilland’s bindery. Somewhere out there Emmett Farmer is breathing the same smell of fumes and wet stone.
How many people out there have been bound? How many memories are sitting in vaults, or locked in secret bookcases, or being read by other people at this very moment? How many people are walking around with half their lives missing, oblivious?
I undo the top button of my collar and tug at it until the stud bites into the nape of my neck. But the tightness in my throat isn’t because of my shirt.
I turn away from the window. I should go to bed, but I don’t.
I’ve come up three flights of stairs. Now I’m standing on the bare icy landing outside the bedrooms under the eaves. The rain drums on the roof, and I can smell mould. I don’t know what I’m doing here; my hand holding the lamp is trembling so much the shadows jump like fleas. ‘Nell?’
No one replies. I knock on one door and then the other.
‘Nell. Nell!’
The metal crunch of bedsprings. She opens the door. She is so white she’s almost green. ‘Yes, sir? I’m sorry, sir.’
‘May I come in?’
She blinks. Her eyes are steady and liquid and pale blue, the same shade of blue that my sisters overuse in their watercolours. She’s in her nightgown. The edge that touches her neck is frayed with age.
‘Let me come in. I won’t be long.’ She steps back and scurries to the far end of the room. The window doesn’t have curtains and my reflection stares back at me, as solid as I am. I look around for somewhere to put the lamp, but the chair has her uniform hung over the back and there’s nowhere else except the floor. It’s a cramped, ugly little room. It reminds me of the room I stayed in at my uncle’s, only smaller, without the view.
She sits on the edge of her bed and pleats the hem of her threadbare blanket. I clear my throat. ‘Nell.’
‘I’m all right, sir, truly. I’m sorry I was took bad.’ She looks up at me. She doesn’t say that it’s late, or that I woke her up.
My throat tightens. I hear myself say, ‘Can you trust me, Nell? I want to tell you something. It’s going to be very hard to believe.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘You have to trust me. I want you to pack, tonight. Pack your things ready to go. I’ll give you some money. Tomorrow you can sneak out, early.’
‘With you, sir?’
‘No!’ I look away. The wind rattles the window. There’s rainwater trickling in along the top of the sill. A thread like glass runs down the wall and spreads into a dark stain on the floorboards. ‘No, not with me. I’ll find somewhere for you to stay for a few days. Then you can go home. Do you understand?’
‘But, sir …’ Her fingers burrow into the quilt. ‘I promise I won’t be ill again.’
‘It’s not a punishment. It’s for your own safety. I want to protect you.’ I mean every word. But in the empty little room it sounds so pompous it makes my skin crawl. I keep my eyes on that spreading blot of water on the floorboards. Somewhere behind me another leak has started to drip. The wind ruffles the slates above our heads with a dull clatter. ‘Please, trust me, Nell. You’re in danger here. Sooner or later bad things will happen to you, and I don’t want that.’
‘Bad things?’ She picks at the mattress, pulling strands of straw through the ticking.
I breathe in. I should have thought what to say when I was standing outside her door. Now I can’t think of the right words. Any words.
The door opens.
For a moment I don’t hear it. It’s only when Nell leaps to her feet that I realise what it means. She dips into a curtsy and catches her foot on the bed.
I don’t look round. The pause stretches for an eternity, from one heartbeat to the next. It’s like the split second after a blow from a leather belt: the silence before the burn.
‘Go on, then,’ my father says. ‘Tell her.’
XXI
A gust of wind hums in the chimney. Water pours on the floor in a sudden spate; then the wind falls silent and the drip slows to a stop. The room seems even darker than it was, mean and narrow and fragile against the winter night.
My father steps past me and I catch his smell of soap and silk. For a moment I think he’s going to touch Nell, or even sit beside her on the crumpled bed. But he doesn’t. He stands in front of me, where he can see both of us at once.
Nell looks from me to my father. Whatever happens, she knows she’s in the wrong. I shut my eyes but I can still see her face.
‘Tell her,’ my father says again. His voice is soft. When I was a boy he’d be so kind to me after a whipping that it was almost worth it. ‘It’s all right, Lucian. Don’t let me stop you. Tell her what I did.’
‘I—’ My voice betrays me. I swallow hard. I can taste soot and alcohol on the back of my tongue.
‘Please, Mr Darnay, I didn’t … Mr Lucian asked to come in, he’s only been here a moment, I promise, sir!’
‘That’s all right, Nell. Lucian, the sooner you speak the sooner this will be over.’
I don’t know what game he’s playing. All I know is that – somehow – I’ll lose.
‘Nell.’ I make myself look at her. But she chews her bottom lip and doesn’t meet my eyes. She knows better than to believe that she matters, any more. This is about my father and me. ‘Listen. This afternoon a binder made a book out of … You were bound. Do you understand what that means?’
‘No, sir, that’s not right. I washed the floor and then I came over all quivery—’
‘You don’t remember. Obviously. Because you had your memories taken away.’
‘But—’ She stops. I want to think it’s because she believes me. She gnaws at the chapped patch at the corner of her mouth and then starts to pick at it. She stares resolutely at the floor while her fingers pull at the flakes of skin. On the wall behind her the plaster is peeling too, as rough and scabbed as her lips.
‘What you don’t remember is that my father …’ I’m very aware of how close he is to me.
‘Go on, Lucian.’
I clear my throat. ‘My father …’ Nothing else comes. It’s like wanting to vomit and only being able to gag.
Now he sits down next to Nell. She looks up at him as if he can rescue her from me. He smiles and brushes a lock of hair off her face. Her mouth is bleeding now. A drop of blood clings like a dark red petal to her lower lip. ‘I took you, Nell,’ he says, with infinite gentleness. ‘I came up here, night after night, and had my way with you. But not just here. The summer house, my study, Lisette’s room … And in all sorts of ways. You used to cry and beg me to stop.’ He doesn’t move his head but his eyes meet mine. ‘Nelly, my poor darling … What didn’t I do to you?’
Silence.
She doesn’t move. Her eyes are still on his face.
‘Ah, Nell … Are you angry with me? Do you remember, now?’
She frowns. ‘Remember what?’
Someone makes a noise. It’s me. My father doesn’t look at me but the corner of his mouth twitches. ‘Nelly, my little love,’ he says, ‘all those times I hurt you. All those times I made you bleed. How about the first time, surely you remember the first time? Shall I tell you how it was, how you lay there so still, as if you thought you deserved it, how I told you you’d asked for it and you nodded and wept and—’
‘Stop – please!’ My voice almost chokes me.
‘You remember that, don’t you? Now I’ve told you. Nell? Are you listening?’
She blinks. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘What did I just say to you?’
Her mouth opens. The bead of blood trickles down and she wipes it away. It leaves a wide stripe of red on her chin. Her eyes slide from side to side. ‘I’m so very sorry, sir, I don’t feel very well and things went all sort of blurry, if you know what I mean, I was trying to attend, honestly, I—’
‘Repeat after me, Nell: “Mr Darnay took—”’
‘Stop!’ Finally I have enough breath to sh
out. But it isn’t the words, it’s her face: set and afraid, desperate to understand. I drop to my knees in front of her. ‘It’s all right, Nell. He’s only teasing you. Don’t worry. Please.’ She blinks rapidly. Tears slide down her cheeks. The sore patch on her lip starts to ooze blood again. Between us we’re tearing her apart.
‘Of course.’ My father stands up. ‘Only teasing. Now we’ll leave you in peace. Get a good night’s sleep and you’ll be back to your old self tomorrow. Oh, that reminds me, try to get the stains out of the rug in my study, won’t you? Otherwise I shall have to ask Cook to take it out of your wages.’
She sniffs so hard it squelches. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
‘That’s all, then. Lucian, come with me.’
I reel as I get to my feet. A headache sucks and spins like a whirlpool inside my skull. Stay upright. Don’t be sick. My father ushers me out. He follows me down the stairs so closely that I feel the warmth of his breath on the back of my neck. When I reach the door to my bedroom he gives my shoulder a gentle tap. ‘My study, Lucian.’
I pause with one hand on the doorknob. My palm prickles with sweat. The house is very quiet. The carpets and curtains muffle the sound of rain. My father and I might be the only people in the world.
I don’t look behind me as I walk down the passage and down the stairs. My father’s footsteps are like an echo of mine as we cross the hall. I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror behind the ferns. In the pale gaslight you can see how like my father I’ll be, when I’m his age.
His study door is ajar. The fire has died completely. He never meant to come back down here tonight; he was going to see Nell.
My father closes the door behind us and eases himself into the armchair. He looks at me through half-closed eyes. I walk to the other chair but he draws a line in the air with his finger, as if he’s wiping dirt off a pane of glass. ‘I didn’t say sit down.’
I’m glad he said that. Being able to despise him is a gift. I stand there with my hands in my pockets and make myself smile. I cling to feigned insolence as if it can save me.
‘My dear boy,’ he says, ‘perhaps you can tell me what you were trying to achieve up there.’ He points through the ceiling as if he’s talking about the sky.
I can’t keep the smile on my face. I don’t know how he does it. Isn’t it obvious what I was trying to do? ‘I wanted to warn her. Nell. I didn’t want to let it all happen again.’
He gives me a faint smirk. It’s the expression he has when Cecily shows him one of her drawings: mildly indulgent, gently bored. ‘Ah, your finer feelings. Such compassion. Such delicacy. Such a masculine need to protect the feebler sex …’
‘More compassion than you, at least.’
‘Oh, Lucian.’ He sighs. ‘When will you learn to see yourself as you are? Who would have thought my son would be so squeamish about the truth? Your little display of chivalry had nothing to do with Nell at all.’
‘I was trying to—’
‘No.’ Again, the tiny flick of a finger to cut me off. ‘You were trying to make me angry. That’s all. You are quite as bad as I am; worse, in fact, because at least I am honest. You didn’t care how much pain you inflicted on the poor girl, as long as it made me notice you.’ He picks up the glass on the table beside him and tilts it to see the shine dance on the stem. A fragment of bee’s-wing has stuck in the dark stain left by the dregs. ‘But you would rather not look at yourself clearly.’
I try to summon the grey fog but nothing happens. I’m here in my father’s study. The paintings and furniture and objets d’art have such bright edges they sting my eyes. I stare at the continents of vomit on the rug. A map of nowhere.
My father cracks his knuckles and gets up. ‘Let us say no more about it. You saw the utter uselessness of trying to undo a binding, so you won’t try that again. And I’m sure you have no wish to humiliate yourself further.’
He comes very close to me. I am slightly taller than him. I look down and nod.
He slaps me in the face. Hard.
I lose my balance. My mind is perfectly sharp, but my knees buckle and I stagger sideways. I should have expected it. I should have been ready. There is a long slow moment while the rug tilts like the deck of a ship. The side of the table smacks the side of my jaw. The crash seems to come later, like thunder after lightning, when I’m already on all fours. A glittering black snow falls round me. I can’t breathe. I can’t see properly. Stupid.
‘Lucian? Dear boy, get up. No use grovelling on the floor like that. Foolish child.’ Something wet wipes my neck and ear. A red-stained handkerchief comes away. I look into my father’s face. He drags me up until I’m sitting against the table-leg. ‘All this drinking, Lucian, you must try to master yourself. A tiny tap on the cheek and you collapse. Sit still. Let me see. Good boy.’
‘I’m sorry.’ In spite of everything I want him to love me.
‘It’s not as bad as it looks. Better? Good.’ He crumples his handkerchief and drops it on the floor. It lies on the rug, blotched dark and white, with his monogram crusted with blood. Then he gets up, grunting a little as his knees crack, and stretches a hand to me. I’m too tired not to take it. For an instant I can believe that my father is nothing more than a warm, firm grip, helping me to my feet. ‘Go to bed, boy.’
I walk to the door. My head pounds. It takes concentration to open the door.
The armchair sighs as he sits down again. ‘When are you next seeing Miss Ormonde?’
‘For tea, a week on Tuesday.’
‘Perhaps you’d better go to the kitchen before you go to bed. Get some steak on that bruise.’ He chuckles. ‘If she sees you looking like a ruffian she might call off the wedding.’
Five days later I’m working in the Blue Room. Or meant to be working. In front of me there’s an account ledger and piles of bills and letters. The whole desk is covered. But I can’t concentrate on it. For once my father has asked me to look at something important, not just the lists of prices and importers. One of the under-clerks is accusing his superior of taking bribes. His superior says the clerk’s been embezzling. I read the same accusations over and over again, as if the words might change the third time around. Then I raise my eyes and stare at the fern-patterned wallpaper. The shadows turn the blue-on-blue fronds to silver and mauve. Outside the sky is grey. The whole room is in shades of half-mourning. The clock whirs and tips into its elaborate tinkling chime. My head aches. At least the swelling on my eye has gone down.
A carriage draws up outside and footsteps crunch across the gravel. A moment later the bell rings. I hear Betty scamper down the stairs and past the Blue Room door. Someone squeaks and there’s a clank and a splash. ‘Stupid sow, why are you kneeling there – well, mop it up,’ she hisses. I remember catching sight of Nell scrubbing the tiles in the hall earlier. I frown and knead my scalp. The paper in front of me crawls with ink, illegible.
I stand up and look out of the window. It’s de Havilland’s carriage. It has an elaborate coat of arms on the side panel: a gaudy purple and gold book with a lion brandishing its claws on either side. A stray brown leaf clings to the paint. The carriage wheels are gilded but apparently the suspension is so bad de Havilland uses the stagecoach – or the post cart – to go anywhere outside Castleford. I’ve heard my father compliment de Havilland on it; he called it ‘your fine appendage’.
De Havilland. He must have come to present his bill. I tap the glass with my fingernail, staring out into the threadbare trees without seeing them. The sky is dark over the town, smoke-stained and threatening rain. There’s the sound of the front door being opened, and Betty’s voice. Then footsteps crossing the hall to my father’s study. I hold my breath. But no one calls for Nell, and I hear the clank of the bucket and the sound of renewed scrubbing as she starts on a new patch of floor.
I lean against the wall. I force myself not to listen. There’s a painting of water nymphs over the fireplace, decked with lotuses and lilies. They beckon me, all translucent skin
and green eyes. I used to be fascinated by them, until I discovered that no real flesh lives up to that ivory perfection. It’s the same with the chiaroscuro Bacchus on the landing: I used to shut my eyes at night and picture him – his mouth, his dark-shadowed torso, the sweaty gleam of grapes. Now I resent having been taken in. After my engagement was agreed my father offered to move the Bacchus into our bedroom, as a wedding gift. He had a glint in his eye. Somehow he knew – of course he did, my father is nothing if not efficient – about the other boys at school, as well as the whores in town. I refused. When my wedding night comes, there’ll be no surprise or mystery: only the quick heat of desire and a few minutes of panting and friction. I think I can manage that, even for Honour Ormonde. But the last thing I want is those painted eyes looking at me, the lovely planes of chest and shoulder and stomach, the deceitful promise of something more than lust. The nymphs regard me placidly, as smooth-skinned as children. I turn away from them and go back to my desk.
I sit down. I manage to read a sentence of the clerk’s letter. Outside, de Havilland’s coachman climbs down from his seat and lights a cigarette. Smoke blows through the trees, unwinding like a bandage. I get up, go out into the hall, and cross to my father’s study. Nell has retreated to the far door, leaving a vivid shine on the black-and-white floor. She glances up and hesitates, not knowing whether she should get to her feet to curtsy. I nod to her. She bends her head and goes on with the scrubbing.
A year ago I would have despised anyone who eavesdropped. Now I lean close to the door and hold my breath. My heart crashes in my ears like a tocsin. But the door is too thick and the voices are muffled. The only noise I hear clearly is the dip and splash of Nell’s brush in the bucket.
‘Excuse me, sir.’ I swing round. Betty is there with the pink-lustre tea set on a tray. She reaches past me and opens the door. I try to move away but it’s too late. My father is standing next to the table, looking at something. As Betty comes in he looks up and sees me.
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