‘And what of you? It’s for you that the change will seem harsh, after the life to which you’re accustomed.’
She shook her head as if surprised. ‘It’s as nothing to me. You must know that.’
At the time, though I did not say so, I was by no means certain she would adapt to a more meagre way of life with the ease she foresaw. But she was to surprise me. Not once, after we were married, did I hear her complain of the small size of the rented house, of Miss Symes, or the dull nature of our meals. Such matters were never the issue between us.
Capture the scene, seize it, petrify it, as in a daguerreotype, figures immortalized in a living moment; title: ‘Afternoon of Triumph’. Joshua Jeavons opening the door to his carriage and helping inside his bride Isobella, picture of innocence in her flowing white dress, a swan of a creature. Joshua Jeavons, young beard pointing forward sharply from his chin, jutting ahead in dynamic expectation. Joshua Jeavons, one foot inside the carriage, turning, with a gesture almost aristocratic, to offer a calm wave that is received with loud cheers by the watching guests. His father seems to stretch up on his very toes to wave back, grinning like a madman at this seen conclusion of his son’s good fortune. Beside him Albert Farre, a little drunk, brays wishes of good luck.
Joshua Jeavons inside the carriage, propelled rudely back into his seat as the vehicle jolts forwards, to carry him to Waterloo Railway station, and an uncharted future.
The wind was up at the seaside town we reached that night, stirring the waves into an angry foam. During the train journey I had sensed Isobella’s nervousness – wholly natural on such an evening – and, accordingly, I loitered for some time by the harbour, watching the fishing boats rise and fall with the swell – a faint echo of the wild movement beyond the quay – so that she would have a little time to herself, to rest her thoughts and prepare.
The house had been recommended to me by a friend of Farre’s, and had proved pleasing; a small, attractive place in the newer part of the town, run by a widow who, sensible to our situation, had been admirably discreet and invisible. All was quiet when I returned.
I knocked lightly at the bedroom door, my wife answering with a phrase I did not discern but which, from the unhurried tone of voice, told of her readiness. The bedroom could hardly have been a finer picture; fire burning contentedly in the grate, Isobella lying in the grand wooden bed, facing modestly away from me, golden curls decorating the sheet, a hint of neck bared.
‘Isobella.’
The abruptness with which she sat up surprised me. Pulling the sheet with her, so she was covered almost to her chin, she did not speak, nor look towards me. The action stole the momentum from me, and having wanted to embrace her, I found myself slowed, wondering how I might calm the moment.
‘What a day it’s been.’
‘Indeed.’ Her voice sounded brittle.
I turned the lamp down to a glow, that she would not be in some way shocked by my undressing, then began removing my tie. The air about the bed smelt of brandy, and I wondered, surprised, if she had been drinking.
‘Is the room to your pleasing?’
‘Oh yes.’ She spoke the words quickly, fending off the enquiry, innocent though it was, as a batsman might a difficult ball.
Still clothed in my shirt and trousers, I sat upon the bed beside her. ‘Mr and Mrs Joshua Jeavons.’
‘Truly.’
I reached out to embrace her, but she flinched. I could see and hear her breathing, so fast. ‘You’re troubled?’
‘Really, I…’ She closed her eyes for a moment, as if in concentration, then stared at the bedclothes. I felt there was something she was trying to say, but could not utter. ‘What’s wrong?’
Her eyes seemed to go blank. ‘Nothing.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Really, there’s nothing.’ All at once it vanished.
Just wedding night nerves. I felt them too. I glanced at her, at once so familiar, so prized, and at times so unknown as to seem a stranger. ‘This is all so new to you.’
Oddly my remark seemed to increase rather than calm her unease, the tautness about her mouth. ‘Don’t be frightened,’ I urged. ‘I’m nothing to be frightened of.’ I reached out for her hand. ‘Besides…’
There was no warning; that was the shock of it. One moment she was lying quietly beside me, the next she was lurching, tumbling from the bedclothes. A glimpse of a giant nightdress, billowing as the sail of some storm-tossed ship, covering all but her shapely ankles – ankles that would remain long after, painfully alluring, in my memory – and she was gone.
She fled of all places to the luggage room. By the time I reached it she was inside, had closed the door, and even blockaded it with some bulky article.
‘Isobella, what on earth’s wrong?’
She was crying and, it appeared, also piling more heavy objects against the entrance. ‘I’m sorry. I just…’
‘You can’t stay there. You’ll catch your death.’
‘It’s all right.’ The banging finally ceased. ‘There are our coats and things. I’ll be warm enough.’
‘But this is absurd.’ I leaned against the door. It did not give at all. ‘Come out. Please.’ I tried to think of words that might move her. ‘There’s no need to be frightened. If you like I shall even sleep on the couch. But come out, so we may at least talk.’
She gave no answer.
‘This is our wedding night. We must be together.’
‘I’m sorry.’ The sobbing stopped. ‘It’s just all too soon.’ Her voice took on a certainty, even a hint of threat. ‘Don’t try and…’ There was a rustling from within, as if she had sat down. ‘We must wait a while, that’s all. Just wait.’
THE CHOLERA: AN AMERICAN CURSE
Dear sir,
I have recently been in correspondence with an eminent physician from the great city of New York, who has recommended an American cure for the Asiatic Cholera which proved of great effect during the late outbreak on the far side of the Atlantic. The sufferer should, as promptly as possible, be administered quantities of ice and salt, while simultaneously being given, and with the greatest energy, an external application of friction and heat. The combination of contrary temperatures is most invigorating and stimulating to the bodily functions, and this method…
It was Miss Symes opening the front door that woke me. Her voice sounded grumpy. ‘Bit early, isn’t it, to go knocking people up and pestering them with letters?’ A shrill child’s voice uttered a reply I did not catch and the door was slammed shut.
The strong light glimmering through the curtains gave promise of another warm day. I discovered myself to be wearing my shirt and trousers of the night before, with a dressing gown draped about them and, sitting up, I could feel the stiffness in my arms from having remained slumped over the dining-table, using the Great Drainage Map of London as a kind of pillow.
I had been asleep for as many as several hours; the pen lay close by my hand, and I must have nodded off in the very act of inking in the likely placement of sewers that would feed the transformational depositories.
‘... pestering people with letters…’ Miss Symes’s words came back to me as I stretched, but changed in significance, prompting an uneasy curiosity. Tying the belt of the dressing gown, I opened the door to the hall. The servant was gone but, on the small table close by the front door, I saw an envelope. Even from that distance of several yards I seemed to know it – the size and pattern of the words, perhaps – and, sure enough, as I drew closer I recognized the hard, print-like handwriting.
I hardly troubled to comprehend the message but strode straight on to the kitchen, where I found Miss Symes wrestling with a giant fish – jaws gaping as if in angry surprise at such indignity – that was one of the courses of the imminent dinner party. The preparations were well under way and fruits, vegetables, meats and other ingredients were spread all about her; over tables and chairs, lolling on plates and bread boards, filling tureens and baking tins.
I brandished the letter before her.
‘Who delivered this?’
‘Mister Jeavons.’ She regarded me with disgruntled surprise. ‘That little girl it was, as just knocked on the door. Something fresh from the gutter, looked as if she’d not have said no to a bit of stealing.’
‘You’ve seen her before?’
She shook her head indignantly. ‘I’d have told, wouldn’t I.’
‘Didn’t you ask who sent her?’
She glanced at the still-sealed envelope. ‘Say in there, I dare say.’ By now her curiosity was awoken. ‘Something up, is there?’
I did not answer, but strode back to the hall. Pulling open the front door, I went outside, over-visible in my dressing gown and slippers, but undeterred for that. Around me were a tramp, a lad carrying a bucket of eels, and two more respectable types on their way to work, but no little girl. I hurried on to the corner, glancing up and down the street that adjoined our own; here a cab, a brewer’s dray unloading barrels into the basement of a beer house, and a handful of people tramping past, springless of step at this early hour. But no little girl.
I sped on, to the street beyond, and the one further still, now broadening my quarry from small girls to any adult I might recognize – Prowse, perhaps, or Mr Willow – but all I saw were strangers. At another corner – another useless vista – I reluctantly concluded she must have taken an altogether different direction and, more conscious now of the stares of passers-by, I began retracing my steps.
In the hallway once more, I picked up the letter.
DO YOU NOT CARE WHAT YOUR WIFE DOES
WITH HERSELF? ISN’T IT TIME YOU STOPPED HER
DISGRACING YOU BOTH? KEEP HER LOCKED UP
AT HOME, BEFORE EVERYONE KNOWS.
A FRIEND
I stared hard at the letters, but gained no revelation. Should I go straight to the office, and confront Willow with the document? Perhaps catch him off guard? But what if the whole matter was nothing to do with him? After all, the malice might be from a foe not of mine, but my wife’s. Strange though it may seem, it was a thought I had little considered. A member of the church congregation, for instance, angry at being snubbed. My wife might even recognize the handwriting, and thus solve the whole mystery at once.
Still I hesitated, reluctant to subject one so innocent to such poison. And… was there not also that half heard fear within me, of what might be discovered?
Tentatively I climbed the stairs, and knocked at the bedroom door. ‘Isobella, I need to speak to you.’
‘I’m not ready.’
Waiting, I thought with pleasure of her uncomplaintive nature, dressing herself without fuss when, until our marriage, she had always had a maidservant to help. She soon opened the door, allowing me inside to take in the delicate, feminine fragrance that habitually filled the room.
‘Well?’
I stood before her, awkward. ‘Nothing really. A piece of evil and ludicrous slander. I’d not even trouble you with the thing, but I thought you should see.’ I handed her the letter, and she examined it, eyes widening. ‘There was another like it, some weeks ago. I thought you might know the writing and so we might discover the scoundrel responsible.’
She sat for a moment in silence. ‘It’s so absurd.’
‘Worse than absurd. It is wickedness.’ Glancing at her, I found her less puzzled than I would have expected. ‘You don’t recognize the writing, do you?’ She shook her head in slow thought. ‘But of course I do. It’s Felicia’s.’
Now it was my eyes that were widened.
Felicia Lewis? That prudish, garment-encased trap of a thing? I had no more thought of her than of the Emperor of China. Indeed, it had never even occurred to me that it might be a woman. Felicia Lewis? What sense was there in…? But it would explain the incident at their house, when she had behaved so strangely, taking me aside with the pretence of showing me her brother’s rendering of the Crucifixion. And I had thought she was flirting.
‘But why would she do such a thing?’
‘Why not? You’ve seen what she’s like, forever seeking out other people’s sins.’ Isobella crashed the paper into a tight ball and threw it to the ground. ‘How dare she? When I had thought her my friend.’
‘Wicked indeed,’ I agreed.
She seemed hardly to hear. ‘It’s just because she’s so strange about Gideon. She can’t stand him paying attention to anyone else, almost as if she were his wife, not sister. Probably she’s scared of him running off and leaving her to herself, an ugly old spinster.’ She grew flushed with anger. ‘All those Bible meetings I went to. The shame of it. Never will I venture near her house again.’
One among her phrases had snagged my attention. ‘Gideon?’ He had seemed nothing more than a bobbing-headed fool, but then… I felt a faint tightening about the throat. ‘What attention was he paying?’
She glanced at me, for the first time, a shade uneasily. ‘It’s so absurd. A mere nothing that his sister has maliciously lit upon.’ She looked away towards the window. ‘The poor fool believes he’s in love with me.’
‘I see.’ The discoveries seemed to creep through me slowly, gripping me more painfully with the passing moments. A world of secrets, unknown, unsuspected. I was surprised by the calmness of my own voice. ‘And you?’
‘Nothing.’ She glanced at me, insistent, beginning to realize my own feeling. ‘What on earth d’you think? I just felt sorry for him.’
I was numbed by curiosity to know the extent of the disaster. ‘You’ve been meeting together?’
‘Of course not.’ For a moment she looked absurdly young. ‘Only by chance, when I went to the house. I had to tell him how impossible it was – it would’ve been cruel not to – but he just wouldn’t listen.’
I watched her face, trying to believe. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this?’
Her voice rose. ‘It would only have troubled you.’
Silence seemed to me between us.
‘You should’ve, rather than keeping it secret.’
‘There was nothing to tell.’
Quite what happened within me at that moment I still cannot quite say. It was almost as if something had slid from my grasp and fallen far away. I no longer trusted her. Suspicions half-formed, barely kept at bay all those past weeks, buzzed in my head with a growing din, drowning calmer thoughts.
‘Why should I believe you?’
She looked suddenly scared. ‘Because it’s true.’
‘So say you?’ I took a step forward, pushing her back. ‘What else have you been keeping from me?’
‘Nothing.’
Her hands, secretly touching… ‘All those times you said it was all too soon. Too soon for me, but not for Gideon Lewis.’
‘That’s not…’
I toppled her on to the bed. I am not by nature a harsh man, but that instant it was as if something foreign had found its way inside – though little compared to what was to possess me later – and I wanted only to hurt her, to use her. I forced my lips upon her own, hard, until she twisted her face away.
‘Get off.’ She struggled to free herself, but I held her down with the weight of my own body, her arms flattened beneath my elbows. Pericles was yapping furiously outside the door, and scrabbling at the wood, but I paid him no heed.
‘Let me go.’
I hardly heard her voice. but tore at her bodice with my hands. The material was strong, however, and gave not at all.
‘Leave me be,’ she yelled, piercingly, into my very ear. I wedged my legs between her own, through the layers of petticoats and dress, driving them apart, only to feel a stinging pain in my hand. She had bitten it.
I might have struck her, but something stopped me, recalled me. Turning my head about, that she would not be able to sink her teeth into my face itself, my eyes lit, by the purest chance, upon her embroidering, lying upon the bedside table, and – jabbed into it – the knife with painted battleships. Sight of the thing froze me.
I drew back. at o
nce winning a sharp poke in the eye. I staggered from the bed.
Isobella was crying. ‘How dare you? How could you?’
My original anger was fading, leaving me high and dry, weary of spirit. All at once I felt sorry for her, reaching out a hand to help her from the bed.
‘Don’t touch me.’ She spat the words. ‘Get out of my room.’
Joshua Jeavons walking through thick smoky fog that has his eyes watering, through London streets half vanished away. Dusk at midday, consuming perspective, swallowing more distant pedestrians, calling a desertedness as if the metropolis had lost the greater part of population; inhabitants stolen up from its gutters without the faintest sound. Joshua Jeavons stepping forward, knowing his way even in the soot-filled grey.
But is there not a change here, as he approaches the entrance to the graveyard? A new expression on his face from the usual hungry impatience; a thoughtfulness, even doubt.
Joshua Jeavons staring for a time into the fog, seemingly searching, questioning. Answers there are, too, beyond that gauze; solutions to mysteries known, to problems still unthought of. But not yet. Joshua Jeavons has a long road yet before the summer will have yielded him the last of its revelations.
The sight of my father’s grave always inspired in me resentment of Moynihan, anger at his refusal to have given a dowry. Indeed it was the only matter over which my lack of wealth truly hurt. I had so wanted to honour the man with the grandest of occasions; carriage with four horses desporting the finest black ostrich feathers, twenty mutes all decked in black crêpe, and a place in one of the fine new cemeteries outside the centre of the town – Kensal Green, perhaps – where he would have a giant of a headstone, inscribed with lines of fondest remembrance.
I had done everything I could. Thither went all my few savings, as well as the small sum he left behind, but it did not procure much. Funerals are so costly. A handful of mutes – in that state of wretched drunkenness that pervades their profession – clutching black ostrich feathers, a carriage with only two horses, and for a destination a cramped churchyard not far from Clerkenwell. It was this last that distressed me most; a churned-up mire of a place, with headstones wedged so close together it was hard to see how there could be room enough below. I myself had seen the vilest of goings-on at the paupers’ end of the yard, and once, close by my father’s plot, had caught a sexton breaking up one of the older headstones and hurling the pieces away. Indeed, I dearly hoped one day to be able to move my father to a finer and more peaceful home.
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