Birdman's Wife

by Melissa Ashley

  ‘Should it be a problem?’ asked Mr Gould, a half-smile on his lips.

  My hands wanted to pick up my drawing paper and tear it into shreds, but I forced them to stay still and composed in my lap. ‘Surely not,’ I said, glancing away. He could not be any older than me. He must be exceedingly clever, I thought, to head the city’s most successful taxidermy business. I sat a little taller, relieved I had worn the elegant green silk walking gown that Father had brought back for me from France. How it had pleased him that it complemented my dark hair and fair skin so well. Most days I dressed in my plain governess clothes.

  ‘Charles tells me you’ve spare time in the afternoons?’ said Mr Gould.

  I fiddled with my pencil, then put it down and folded my hands in my lap. ‘I am a governess, but it doesn’t keep me very busy,’ I said. ‘I only have one charge, the daughter of the King’s chief proctor, but she is often ill, poor child.’

  Mr Gould thought a moment, his lips bunched like a ripe plum. He moved to the fire where a metal trolley stood. ‘Here, I’ll show you something. You can tell your charge about it when you go home. Come, you too, Charles.’

  We slid from our stools and followed Mr Gould across the room. He took a box that had been set to warm between two flickering candles and transferred it to the worktable. Peeling back its cotton cover, he unveiled a bird’s nest the size of a dinner plate, a mess of twigs organised into a scruffy cone. Sitting in the base were four pale green, speckled eggs. ‘You’ve come here on the right day, Miss Coxen.’ Mr Gould’s face was suffused with pleasure.

  ‘Why might that be?’ I said delightedly, leaning in to the nest.

  Mr Gould pointed to a series of cracks in one of the eggs. ‘It’s alive! One of the Zoological Society’s boys climbed the elm tree at Regent’s Park and fetched down the nest.’

  ‘Mr Gould’s been coming in every morning to check,’ said Charles. ‘He simply won’t give up.’

  ‘Oh, but I almost had,’ said Mr Gould. ‘They’re rooks. The chicks are born with a tiny tooth on their bills. They use it like a chisel to break the shell, tapping and tapping away until the protective covering is shattered.’ His voice took on a note of admiration. ‘Can you imagine waking up one morning to have outgrown your home? That if you don’t escape, you’ll run short of air? They must hit at the inside of the shell in frustration until the wall yields.’

  I was somewhat relieved to see that my prospective employer’s passion for animals was not restricted to their corpses. ‘I cannot imagine they give it much thought,’ I said. ‘Aren’t they driven by instinct?’

  ‘Which imparts them with the desire to act. Outside the shell awaits a new world. After a crack or two, a few shards of light are let in. It must motivate the chick to keep hammering away.’

  ‘Surely they’re senseless as an infant?’ But as I spoke, I felt my confidence disappearing. The egg moved.

  ‘There’s the little beak!’ I said, pointing, infected by Mr Gould’s wonder. More cracks appeared, the tiny bill pecking incessantly at its walls. Soon its head emerged, a shoulder and naked wing. The egg began to collapse until there before us stood the chick, shell on its head, its pink body covered in mucus. Its feathers were thin and wet, its skin prickled. It was feeble of foot and claw. A string of membrane attached the bird’s feet to the calcified shell. As we watched, it stepped sideways, as if to test its lack of boundaries. It dipped its bill into the nest, and came up with a skein of spider web. It made weak chirping sounds, as bewildered and surprised as we were.

  ‘We need to find it food,’ said Mr Gould.

  ‘Would garden worms suffice?’ I ventured.

  ‘Are you volunteering to fetch or to administer them?’ Mr Gould laughed.

  I shook my head. ‘Neither! Much as I’d like to dig around in my employers’ flowerbeds, I don’t think their gardener would approve. And I don’t like worms. But Charles,’ I playfully tapped my brother’s arm, ‘is rather fond of rummaging in the dirt.’

  Mr Gould winked at me and smiled. ‘Then you’ve a job for later in the afternoon, Coxen.’ He reached into the breast of his shirt and removed a piece of paper. ‘What do you make of this?’

  I unfolded the paper, which revealed a crude sketch of an unfamiliar species of bird. ‘I’m afraid I cannot make out its tribe,’ I said.

  Mr Gould brushed at a feather stuck to his hand. ‘For the record, I was interested in your opinion regarding the sketch’s composition.’

  Was the bird foraging for food or merely sliding to the ground from illness? I kept my true impression hidden. ‘Forgive me,’ I said, touching Mr Gould’s sleeve cuff without thinking. ‘I thought you were testing my knowledge of local species. I’d hate to fall short in your estimations.’

  Mr Gould ignored my impropriety and turned to take the newly hatched chick from its nest, absently cradling it in his palm. ‘It’s supposed to be a wren.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I said, screwing up my eyes to feign closer examination. ‘It has rather a large bill for a wren.’ My nine-year-old charge, Harriett, could produce a superior likeness with one eye shut, I thought. She was a precocious little girl, much like me at that age, and would have struggled to keep her impressions private just as I had done.

  Mr Gould furrowed his brow. It was then I realised that the sketch was his. In all honesty, I had never seen such a poorly executed drawing.

  ‘Would you care to hold it?’ asked Mr Gould, offering me the tiny rook.

  ‘I daren’t hurt it,’ I said, feeling the warm wrinkly skin on its back with my thumb.

  ‘I’ll take care of it,’ said Charles. I watched as he mixed a gruel-like substance in a beaker. Using a glass pipette, he patiently dripped the food into the chick’s gaping yellow mouth. Satisfied that his charge was well fed, Charles returned the tiny rook to its nest in the lined box, leaving off the fabric cover and placing it back between the candles.

  Mr Gould turned and bowed. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you. I must apologise, but I’m to attend a presentation at the Zoological Society about a new species of parakeet from Brazil. I promise, Miss Coxen, I’ll speak with you again before the afternoon is out. I’m eager to view your sketches.’

  ‘I look forward to your opinion.’ To my considerable surprise, I meant every word. The door shut and I nudged my brother in the side. ‘You didn’t tell me he was our age.’

  ‘You’re disappointed?’ said Charles, his grin sly.

  ‘You know I’m not!’ I said, flushing. ‘But you had me all worked up over nothing.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call Mr Gould nothing. He’s made rather a name for himself in these parts.’

  ‘Do stop mocking me,’ I said, taking the chaffinch out of its cotton-lined tin and turning it about in my hand, my fear of the dead creature vanished. ‘You know how unsettled I have been lately. Harriett has been so unwell that the King’s physician was called in. She’s the sweetest, cleverest child and nothing can quell my nerves about her health. And Lady Rothery is inconsolable. Two days ago she was sobbing in her nightgown before the library window. Her maid and I had to carry her up the stairs to her chamber.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Charles. ‘You didn’t come to London expecting this.’

  ‘No, I did not,’ I agreed. ‘You would never guess but here, in this strange dungeon, surrounded by Mr Gould’s weird little birdskins, I’ve managed for the first time in a week to almost put Harriett out of my mind. I must be a morbid sort, but I’m actually rather inspired by your strange companions.’

  Charles stuck his finger through the eye socket of the dotterel he was examining, wiggling it like a worm. ‘Well then,’ he chuckled, ‘we must both be cast from the same odd mould.’

  I smiled, closing the lids of all the tiny tin coffins except for the chaffinch’s, for I had made my selection. The specimens revealed a new world to me. It reminded me of visiting a sweets store as a young girl with my father. Inside the delicious-smelling shop we lingered over trays of delicacies of every ima
ginable colour and shape: macaroons, spun sugar, sugar-carrot sweets, pastries, toffee and marzipan. The platters of exotic treasures enlivened all of my senses, and though I was invited to take my pick, I bade my time revelling in their textures and scents, their layered colours and fragrances, wishing I could spend the whole afternoon drinking in the sight, committing it to memory like a painting.

  With its plumage of bold browns, blacks, greys and whites, the adult chaffinch would not require special colours. I began with a simple outline, and the action of observing and replicating, of rubbing out and starting over – never satisfied but gradually bettered – proved remarkably absorbing. The markings on its wings, the grey crescent that stretched from its crown to its shoulder, the black smudge on its forehead, its russet face and belly, were not difficult to replicate with my pencils. I shaded well, noting as I struggled with line and perspective that I needed more experience in sketching the basic form of a bird. Despite having been tutored at fifteen by a professional artist, my usual drawing subjects of fruits and flowers, stems and stalks had not prepared me for this. It was daunting but strangely exhilarating to take on a fresh subject.

  Every once in a while I stole another glance at the tribe of mounted specimens drying before the fire.

  As their feet and wings set into position and my drawing took shape, I began to yearn for more than a life of simply teaching frail Harriett to dance the quadrille to my appalling renditions of Strauss, critiquing her hand until her invitations to picnics were elegantly composed, rehearsing the life cycle of bees and orchids, and endlessly conjugating her French and German verbs. I was immensely fond of my charge, but since moving to London I sometimes regretted following my brother from our home in Shoreham to take up this post instead of settling for the more secure position I had been offered close to home, serving as governess to the daughter of one of Mother’s closest friends. I was determined to make a new life for myself, but on some days the loneliness I felt was almost unbearable.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ said Charles.

  ‘I was just thinking about home,’ I said, putting my pencil down and gathering together the sheaf of sketches I had made.

  ‘You will settle in,’ said Charles. ‘You must be patient.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘Well, I had better be going. I need to return to Harriett. The last mail coach is at four.’

  Charles, his fingers caked in powder, walked me to the oak door. Making my way to the building’s entrance, I saw the crate that had intrigued me on my arrival. The lid had been levered off, and I could not resist peering inside. I glimpsed the creature’s orange fur and its strange flat nose, dominated by two triangular nostrils. Unpeeling one of my gloves, I reached my naked fingers into the crate and touched the soft pads of the animal’s hands, stroked its brown fingernails.

  ‘This impressive specimen is an orang-utan,’ boomed a familiar voice, ‘shipped all the way from the island of Borneo.’

  I stepped back, startled, my fingers at my throat. ‘I was just on my way out,’ I said. I had been so taken by the animal that I had not heard the door open. ‘You must check its hand,’ I added. ‘I think it’s a little spoiled.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to,’ said Mr Gould. ‘Not all our visitors are so observant.’

  He walked over to the crate. ‘Do you think others will be as intrigued by this creature as you?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. I find it fascinating,’ I said, ‘but confusing, too. It’s like a human child of some queer sort. I cannot explain.’

  ‘An awfully hairy child,’ Mr Gould said.

  Suddenly I felt awkward, unsure of what to say next. ‘I lost track of the time but I do have to go – my employer will be wondering where I’ve disappeared to.’ As I spoke, I became aware of Mr Gould’s attentive blue eyes, of how closely he stood beside me. I was thankful for the crate, not only as an anchor for our conversation but also a shield of sorts, and the layered protection of our thick coats, for my skin tingled, charged somehow.

  ‘I should like very much to see you again,’ said Mr Gould.

  ‘And I, too,’ I replied, unable to think of words to add to our exchange. Instead I felt unusually aware of the heat in my cheeks, of the hasty knot that held my dark hair, my scuffed overshoes. I had never been a vain woman – it wasn’t in my nature to preen – and yet I fervently hoped that Mr Gould’s intense gaze meant he found me pleasing to look upon.

  Seated above the jostling wheels of the carriage, I pressed my nose to the window glass. One day I will belong in this busy city, I reflected. One day I shall call it home. Paused at a crossroads, I examined the plain dresses of the flower sellers, the easy rapport they shared between shouting the prices of their bouquets. I glimpsed the bulging sacks of coal delivered to terrace porches, imagined the glossy slick lumps inside. I slid the glass open and smelled roasted peanuts, a whiff of beer, the clumps of hay-filled horse pats that stained the road. A chill stole through the open window. Beyond the noise and bustle of the streets hung the smoky fog caused by the fires that burned in every hearth, dulling the setting sun to a yellowish haze. Though I was soon to return to Harriett’s sickbed, a sense of twigs kindling to flame warmed me inside.

  Chapter 2

  Rook

  Corvus frugilegus

  Bruton Street, London 1828

  When I was fifteen, my father called Charles and me down to the library one afternoon with the promise of a special treat for us both. First, he presented Charles with a brand new microscope to aid the budding scientist with the bedroom studies he made of his gleanings from our garden.

  I could hardly contain myself as I waited for my turn.

  ‘Eliza,’ said Father, beckoning me with a smile from his chair by the fire. I rushed to claim my gift, a small booklet of cards to be redeemed for ten lessons in sketching and watercolour painting under the tutelage of a Miss Overland.

  ‘Oh, Father!’ I said, throwing my arms about his neck. ‘I did not think you had taken me seriously!’

  ‘How could I not, Eliza?’ Father chuckled. ‘You have rather a gift for persistence.’

  ‘I am glad you noticed,’ I said, raising my eyebrow.

  I felt immensely pleased with myself. For months I had been hinting to Father that I would like some guidance to improve my drawing. An entire afternoon could vanish as I sat engrossed trying to render a likeness of the neighbour’s horse or the brook that ran past the lane beside our house. Aware of how Father supported Charles’s natural history interests, I was determined that he should allow me the same opportunity to develop my passion for sketching.

  Such was my excitement that the night before my first lesson I was unable to sleep a wink. I rushed downstairs early that morning and settled by the parlour window to wait. My vantage point allowed me to observe in secret as Miss Overland arrived in her bright blue buggy. Tingling with anticipation, I let the curtain slip and gathered up my drawing bag, eager to begin my studies.

  Miss Overland wore a plain, unfashionable brown dress and a curious hat of the kind favoured by undergraduate gentlemen. I could not help but compare her almost masculine, no-nonsense attire with Mother’s elegant morning dress and the elaborate gowns and bonnets most ladies of our acquaintance favoured.

  My tutor had chosen the nearby botanical gardens as the setting for our first lesson. Although I was familiar with the layout of the grounds from many family picnics, the contents of the extensive glasshouses remained a mystery. I had seen the cactus tent and the eucalyptus and hibiscus rooms, but had never been near the orchid house, to which Miss Overland now directed me. Inside it was several degrees hotter than the gardens and smelled strongly of moss and dew and fungus. Orchids of all colours and sizes, from that of a large football to a tiny pea, were represented: creams and whites, yellows and glistening greens, reds and pinks, and even a deep, almost black purple; living samples from every continent. Miss Overland walked several times around the display, checking labels and host trees, before taking a seat in fron
t of a small, rather unimpressive specimen. The orchid was about as big as an orange, coloured purple and white with a deep mauve centre; its lower petals reminded me of the legs of a grasshopper.

  ‘This is the rarest of species,’ said Miss Overland. ‘I know all about it because my father tried on many occasions to cultivate the orchid but was unable to succeed.’ She went on to explain that her father had spent six years in Ceylon, stationed in Colombo with the civil service, and the island’s botany had become something of a passion. Drawing a wooden board from her bag for me to lean on, she instructed me to make a sketch of the flower with my pencil, adding that it would allow her to form an impression of my drawing skills.

  I began by outlining the petals, finding it difficult to shadow the orchid’s upper lobes. Unsatisfied, I attempted to draw the stem, but had barely developed its outline when Miss Overland laid down her pen and asked how I had fared.

  ‘I have just begun,’ I said, handing her my paper. The petal I had attempted was like a patch of leather – and not a shaped or tooled one at that, but a little piece of skin torn off and discarded. Apart from being unfinished, my drawing lacked something fundamental, though I could not decide what it was.

  Miss Overland let me view the progress she had made on her own sketch. She had drawn the whole flower as well as the stem and an outline of the host plant. Although the illustration was not shaded, its lines were sure, its proportions immaculate. Oh, how I wished to learn her tricks.

  Next, Miss Overland explained, we were to separate out the discrete parts of the orchid. With a few deft strokes she produced an example, dividing the plant into petals, sepal, flower, pouch and aerial roots.

  ‘It’s divine,’ I said, admiringly. The idea of representing a flower in such a manner was entirely new to me, and I suddenly saw the plant with fresh eyes.

  In earnest I followed my tutor’s lead, but when I passed my sketch over for her to examine, she pursed her lips and made a clucking sound. ‘Never mind,’ said Miss Overland, folding the paper and tucking it away in her bag.