The Chymical Wedding

by Lindsay Clarke

  The admission almost overwhelmed him. It revealed too much. He turned to find his chair, to compose himself. Whatever she said in reply was lost in the contemplation that, however else he might vainly have lived his life, here, in his daughter, was his finest work.

  He sniffed, essayed a smile. “There have been days when it felt as though you were in Botany Bay rather than the… the other side of the lake.”

  “I have half-believed it so myself.” She stepped towards him, hands concealed still. Already she sensed that things did not go well with him. Yet he had tried to be light with her and she must respond in kind, for truth could only be approached by stealth now, and some truths – if they might be obviated – not approached at all. “Dearly as I have come to love the Lodge, there have been moments when it felt like a penal colony.”

  It was that, and more, and worse, he thought, but murmured only, “Did I not warn you of the rigours of the work?”

  She heard the bitterness. Was it intended simply to discourage further mention of the Lodge, or was he speaking of other troubles? No matter now. Whatever the loss aching at her own heart, she had a great joy in store for his. “You did,” she answered, “but I do not return empty-handed.” She took a further step forward, planted a kiss on his freckled crown, then placed her ribboned binder on his desk. “The prolegomenon is written. It awaits only your approval.”

  For no more than a moment he stared down at the pages crowded there in that leather folder, then averted his eyes. “You have completed it?” He was unable to keep the quaver of dismay from his voice.

  She nodded, smiling, though the smile came hard. Had her father known the sacrifice this gift entailed, the shadow of bewilderment at his eyes would have been darker still. Yet he was ignorant of it; so where was the cry of acclamation, the quick surprise of joy?

  He turned his face from her. The binder with its neat green bow was easier on his sight than her gaze of eager expectation. His mottled hand strayed towards it, hovered above the knot, and then, as though he were afraid it might shatter at the touch, withdrew.

  The air of the library was as still as dust.

  They were both looking down on the book – she with a concealed yet enormous sense of bereavement; he as though on the mortal remains of an extinguished dream.

  He cleared his throat. “I had not expected it so soon.”

  He might have been speaking of some dreadful news.

  Uncertainly she said, “I was conscious of your urgency. Perhaps too conscious. It may be that in my haste I have made some foolish errors…” She knew that this was not the case, but only a failure of his confidence could account for this deficiency of pleasure. She must do what she could to restore it. “I am certain only that the work will not be truly complete until it bears the stamp of your correction and approval.”

  Unaware that an attempt had been made to humour him, Henry Agnew stared down at the leather binder. Then he saw that some response was required. “I am sure that it is… quite excellent.” There was an attempt at conviction in his voice, but no satisfaction.

  She had foreseen none of this. She had prepared herself for the collision between his excitement and her own secret grief. She had schooled herself in enthusiasm, borrowing from what belonged to another realm in order to conceal her loss in this. All the lines were learnt – and now none of them was apt.

  What had happened? The last time she had seen him he was so committed to his work, so sure.

  “That remains to be seen,” she said.

  He was elsewhere, pensive, unhappy.

  With a pang of alarm Louisa wondered whether he was apprised of her secret. Had someone seen Edwin come to the Lodge, returned to the Hall with gossip, scandal? Had it somehow reached her father’s ears? There were no secrets in Munding. But it had been so late, the night so dark…

  There was one other possibility. She clung to it. “Your own work,” she asked, “how does it progress?”

  He gathered himself in the chair, patted his fingers against the edge of the desk. “Well enough. Well enough. I have a draft of the first Canto almost complete.”

  “Progress indeed!” she said, disbelieving him.

  So that was it.

  A moment’s relief was followed instantly by bitterness. Why had she done this thing? Must she exchange the golden secrecy of the Lodge only for hourly attendance on his dour humour?

  Then she regretted the regret. Surely it could not be so? Surely her light must spread? Otherwise her sacrifice was meaningless. Perhaps in perusal of her own achievement this unhappy man might find fresh inspiration for his own? That must be the way, for it was the only way she could see open before her.

  “I would not impede your progress,” she hazarded, “but you will understand if I am eager to hear your response to my efforts. May I hope that you will read it soon?”

  His eyes returned from staring at the window glass to stare, equally estranged, at the folder on his desk. Had she no conception what an insult to his dignity this was? What order was there in the universe if she, a mere slip of a girl, could accomplish a task of this magnitude in a few short weeks while he had laboured in vain for years? No order. No justice. Only endless reproach for his own unworthiness – as these bleak thoughts reproached him now. He saw it and could not silence them.

  “What need for that?” he answered coldly. “I have said it already. I am sure it is quite excellent.”

  She stared at him, shocked, but his eyes were averted. She too turned away. They were no longer of the same world. Far more than the span of the lake had been the measure of their separation. She had left her home to return home and found herself homeless now.

  Her own voice too was cold. “You have greater confidence in my powers than I have,” it attempted. “Perhaps it is misplaced.”

  “What do you know that I did not teach you?” he snapped. “If you have been faithful to my teaching, there can be nothing to correct. I have more urgent uses for my time.”

  And then – he was amazed at himself as he did so – he stiffened the back of his hand at the spine of the folder and pushed it away.

  In disbelief she stared down at the object – for such it suddenly was. A thing, to be moved from place to place; apparently no more than an encumbrance here.

  And Henry Agnew loathed himself. Only with appalling difficulty could he prevent the utter ruin of his face. Yet he could not leave things so. For the life of him, for the love of her, he could not leave things so. “Forgive me, my dear… I have worked too long today… My mind…” Despair crowded at his throat.

  The old habituated response rose in her. She ought to comfort him, to encourage him to speak his wretchedness, to dispel it, but with so much that must remain unspoken inside herself she lacked the heart. She was unsure even of the will.

  Yet somehow this terrible silence must be filled.

  “It was wrong of me to interrupt you. I was… insensitive.” Her voice was almost as hoarse now as his own. She sighed, closed her eyes. “I think we have both been too much alone.”

  “It may be so,” he answered dully. A man ashamed, he was striving for greater openness of heart. “Rest assured, my dear; I have every confidence in your ability. I know you would not place before me a work that failed to meet your own exacting standards. My own are no higher than they.”

  “But it would put my mind at rest if—”

  “Have no doubts,” he interrupted sharply. “If anyone alive understands these matters it is you.” Inwardly he recoiled from the bitter truth of that. “Let your book go to the printers. Let it address the world entirely as your own.” And still he dare not look upon the pain he caused. How to admit that he could not endure the fact of her success while failure consumed him from within? It was impossible. He could not bear to read her book. He could not bid her destroy it. There was only one alternative. His bitter mind sought relief in practicalities. “I informed Howgego of our intentions some weeks past. He promises me that our manuscripts will rec
eive prompt attention, and it was always plain that yours would be the first to reach his desk. Let it go to him immediately. He’ll be glad enough to apply his press to something other than hymnals and evangelical tracts.” From the corner of his eye he glimpsed her incredulity, and winced. “The book will be back with us shortly, and it will be easier on my eyes to read your work in print. You shall have the entirety of my attention then. And – I am sure – my heartfelt commendations. Now, if you will forgive me.” He reached, blinking, for his spectacles, fearing she might argue longer, but she was already elsewhere.

  Out of nowhere, like a chill wind from empty space, had come a premonition of solitude. It was as if the whole world might evaporate around her, and she be left entirely alone, entirely afraid.

  She could not remain in the library. She nodded, involuntarily, like the tapped head of her Chinaman. Fighting the panic that closed from all sides now, she tried to smile, reached for her book, clasped it to her breast, and turned, leaving this old man who was her father quite alone.

  She withdrew to her room. The familiar hangings, pictures, furniture, the sampler on the wall, were strange about her; former friends re-met by chance for whom, amazed, one feels: I do not now belong to you; you have no claims; do not define me by the past.

  She crossed to the window, gazed through its leaded lozenges of glass, out across the parkland and the lake. The Lodge was invisible. It might no longer exist at all.

  At ten to nine a car drew up outside The Pightle. I rushed to the door, saw Laura coming up the path, the anxiety in her eyes made spectacular by the yellowish-blue bruise rainbowed around the socket of her right eye. As she saw me, she halted, hands clenched at her sides and, before I could speak, said, “Is Edward here?”

  Appalled by the bruise, remembering the blood I’d once brought to Jess’s nose, and thinking what bastards we are, I shook my head. I saw a fist lifted to her lips, said, “Laura… For God’s sake, what’s happening?”

  “I don’t know where he is. I fell asleep and when I woke up… I thought…” She turned again, but I was off the step, reaching for her. She didn’t want to be held. She looked haggard as her eyes pulled away from mine and she said, “I have to find him.”

  “He’ll be all right. I’m sure he’ll be all right.”

  “I’m really scared for him.”

  “I was scared for you. I know what it can be like…” But she was too distraught to hear. “Look,” I said, “you’re in no shape. Why don’t you come inside and…”

  “No, I can’t do that. He might…” Then she was shaking her head, on the edge of tears. “Will you help me? Will you help me find him?”

  For a moment I stood looking down at her, saw the urgency there, then said, “I’ll get my coat.”

  When I suggested that I should drive, she put up no resistance, sat in the passenger seat, smoking the cigarette I gave her, staring out through the windscreen as though Edward might be seen at any moment tramping up the lane towards us. I switched on the engine. “Where do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The Hall?”

  “I rang. There’s nobody there. I got the answering machine.”

  “If he’s walking, he could be anywhere.”

  “I have to find him.”

  “Then we’ll go back to the Lodge. He might be there by now. But listen… He’s going to be all right. He’ll come through, I promise you.” I looked for and found no sign that she was reassured. “I know what you’re thinking,” I said, “but don’t. When we’re hurt, we lash out and threaten all kinds of crazy things, but we don’t mean it. Not really. Laura, this isn’t the first time this has happened to him.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I think I do. I’ve been there, remember? He’s hurt. We’ve hurt him.” I tried to hold her eyes. “He can’t bear the thought that he might have lost you.”

  “You don’t understand him,” she said. “You don’t understand him at all.”

  Gradually, as we drove the lanes looking for Edward, I learnt.

  Village life has no secrets. By the time Edward had left the Hall that day, Friday – only the day before, though it felt like several lifetimes ago – he already knew about me and Laura. We had been seen. George Bales, the gamekeeper, had seen us. When he got back to the Hall, he told Ralph, and Edward had talked to Ralph before leaving.

  He’d wanted to find out whether Ralph knew of any connection between Louisa and Edwin Frere, but his ancestor’s past was not what pressed on Ralph’s mind at that moment. He was no actor and Edward no fool. Sensing that his friend was holding something back, Edward had pressed. Finally, perhaps deciding that the shock might come gentler this way, Ralph told him.

  When Edward arrived at the Lodge, he found Laura sitting beside her opened kiln surrounded by smashed pots. One of her hands was grazed and bleeding slightly. He can’t have been prepared for this and, whatever his feelings had been a moment before, he softened instantly at the sight of her evident distress. For a few moments he fretted over the broken shards, trying to piece one or two of the pots together, then crossed to Laura, took the grazed hand between his own, and said, “My dear, there was no need to hurt yourself like this.”

  “He’d known, you see,” Laura told me now. “He’d known all along that this might happen. Right from that night at the Hall when he fooled around with the Tarot cards. He saw that the card you chose was his as well – your past, his future.”

  “You mean he thought it was bound to happen?”

  “No. They don’t work like that. The future isn’t fixed, but the card showed which way things were going if he let them drift. That was why he asked me to take him away when he did. He was in as bad a state as you were, but he didn’t tell me. He didn’t talk to me about it. I wish to God he had.”

  Listening, I began to see how Edward had been talking as much to himself as to me that day by the weir, and how it was not only me with whom he should have shared those thoughts. I saw why he had been rattled when I turned up at the Lodge with my dream, why he’d tried to freeze me out, and – when Laura wouldn’t let that happen – how he’d tried to suborn me with his friendship. But the friendship had become real, and he must have thought himself secure – except that I too had been walking in a dream, and Laura also.

  She was still in a distracted condition, and if it was hard to piece together a picture of what had happened in the Lodge, then the confused account she gave of it was not the only reason. My own assumptions clouded things – I saw no need to look beyond the sexual betrayal for the cause of Edward’s rage. Yet his first feelings seem to have been of remorse and self-reproach. He blamed himself for having become so obsessed with the work that he’d lost touch with his feelings… Small wonder he’d been getting nowhere, but Laura shouldn’t punish herself this way. The fault had been his, but now she’d freed his feelings again. Things would change. They would start over, recover what had been lost between them…

  No, it wasn’t Laura’s actions he found unacceptable – it was her attempt to explain them. And, here, I too found myself in difficulties.

  Like the pots around the kiln, Laura’s experience was now in fragments, and I had to listen carefully for understanding as she described what had happened to her that day. Already before I arrived at the Lodge, she had been confused by what felt like an elision of her own thoughts with Louisa’s. They had taken her into some very dark places and for the first time she felt afraid to be alone at the Lodge. All morning she had been slipping in and out of a trance-like state which left her nervous and distraught, uncertain of her own sanity. Things only clicked into focus when she went into the house and saw me there – though even then nothing was constant. She felt herself shuttling back and forth through time, from one experience to the other, unable to hold them together. On all previous occasions when this faculty had been invoked she’d remained aware of her own distinct existence as observer, but not this time. As never before she was implicate
and, with voices and faces shifting round her, she’d felt a desperate need to know what was real. She could find, in both dimensions, only one certain criterion, and she’d acted on it. Only afterwards did she understand what it meant, and that I had not understood.

  Some of this I had already guessed, and was uneasy with it. Edward’s response had been, at first, more sympathetic. Again he found recourse in self-recrimination. He should have seen that Laura might become confused by her exposure to rare frequencies of experience. He was concerned that by exploiting her gifts he might have strained her contact with reality, and they must be very careful now. He tried patiently to talk her down, and met with absolute resistance, for whether he believed it or not, Laura now knew what she had only guessed earlier – that Louisa was deeply involved with a man; a man she thought of as her mystic brother, both because of the intensity of their communication, and because that was his name. Laura had seen and heard it. She knew.

  I don’t know how long Edward patiently disputed this before his temper snapped and he accused her of using events on one plane to justify those on another. Was Laura asking him to believe that Louisa and Frere had made love, like us, on the lawn of the Decoy Lodge? To her own further confusion, Laura had been uncertain there. She didn’t know – she doubted it even – but the physical facts of the case were beside the point. What mattered, she declared, was the love, the spiritual intensity of the commitment. Louisa had delivered herself over completely to Edwin Frere, and in some way this was bound up with the meaning and fate of her book. Didn’t Edward understand that?

  Edward did not. Alarmed by the implications of that impassioned declaration, the sympathy in his voice gave way to derision. He knew of only one woman who had thrown herself at a man in these parts, and that had happened very recently. This was all projection on her part; perhaps deception even; certainly self-deception. It was refusal to accept responsibility for her own actions.