‘Surely it isn’t that horrid,’ I protested.
Miss Overland pressed her hands together. She closed her eyes, as if considering her words. ‘Come,’ she said, keeping her thoughts to herself.
I followed my tutor out of the glasshouse and into the parklands, passing alpine forests and cedar plantings, meandering along the maze of botanical species until we reached the brownstone library. She told me that she wished me to view the botanical volumes, most especially their bright coloured plates. I was signed in on Miss Overland’s visitor’s card and given a pair of white cotton gloves with which to handle the precious illustrations.
Miss Overland gestured towards the stacks. ‘Take your time, play. Make a copy of something that deeply appeals to your senses.’
I had no idea where to begin. Indeed, I felt overwhelmed by the shelves of green and brown calfskin volumes. And then I remembered a game I liked to play when I could not decide which collection of verse to borrow from my father’s library. Closing my eyes, I ran my fingers along the spines. Flicking my eyes open, I discovered that I had selected one of the more slender volumes. I drew it out and carried it to a study desk.
I examined the frontispiece. To my surprise and delight, I had chosen a woman botanist’s drawings to idle through: Mrs Maria Sibylla Merian, a German artist and scientist who had lived a century ago. In the foreword, I read that Mrs Merian sailed to the Dutch colony of Suriname to describe specimens of Lepidoptera, the order of moths and butterflies, intent upon understanding their mysterious life cycles. As I turned the fragile pages, I was unable to resist running my cotton-covered fingers over the hand-coloured engravings. Butterflies danced, caterpillars chewed, glossy metallic cocoons hung suspended from the undersides of leaves by the slenderest of threads. Even the flowers the larvae fed upon were composed with exquisite precision. The techniques Mrs Merian employed were a great mystery to me. However did she manage to create the impression that her butterflies were about to lift off the page? The plants represented in the plates were a vibrant green, their tendrils of new growth stirring voluptuously from thick stems; the seeds appeared rounder, their shades deeper, glossier and brighter than in life. There were rose petals stewed in rich pinks, pods that revealed hexagonal seed-casings and dustings of pollen that looked so real I fancied they would stain my gloves. I studied every plate, my breath hitched in my throat, my imagination running wild with the desire to learn every aspect of drawing, painting and colouring the natural world. It would require great practise to develop my talents. To my mind, Mrs Merian’s plates were works of art, rivalling the portraits of princes, dukes, society ladies and matrons peering down at the humble visitor to the Royal Academy.
After meeting Mr Gould, I exchanged my familiar drawing subjects of dissected flower heads, fat seeds and lush petals for shrieking peahens and contemplative flamingos, aware with each stroke of my pencil that entering Mr Gould’s shop had stirred a fascination in my mind. On Fridays, my employers granted me an afternoon free of my duties and I often spent it with Charles at the Zoological Society’s gardens. Charles would slip me in at the staff entrance so we could wander about the animal enclosures. I brought him treats from our cook: a wedge of plum cake, fresh grapes, slices of leftover roast beef and books borrowed from my employers’ library. Our meetings were like a salve, soothing my loneliness. One of my greatest pleasures in meeting with Charles was to confide my preoccupations and concerns with him. However, as if voicing my feelings had the effect of somehow making them true, I had not dared mention to him my interest in his employer. That did not stop me from keeping a discreet eye out in the hope of seeing the distinctive silhouette of Mr Gould stroll by.
Increasingly anxious to discover Mr Gould’s thoughts on my drawing of the chaffinch, I listened for the mail coach each day while I guided Harriett through her textbooks, hoping for news. Finally, two weeks after our meeting at Bruton Street, my patience was rewarded when the postboy delivered an envelope addressed to me. Excited, I broke open the seal to find a calling card bearing a scrawled invitation to join Mr Gould for luncheon. The elegant white card was embossed with a golden lark, its bill open in song. Pleased beyond words, I tucked it into my pocket, carrying it everywhere with me, a thrilling secret, as I counted down the days to our meeting.
Mr Gould had arranged for a table near the fire. I wore my finest Indian muslin with delicate whitework on the bodice, a gift Mother had copied from a French fashion plate. I had laced tight my favourite suede boots and fixed blue ribbons around my waist and in my hair. Determined to look my best, the previous night I had gone to the trouble of sleeping with rags in my hair. Taking a final look at myself in the mirror that morning, I noted with satisfaction that the dark shining curls that framed my face had been well worth the discomfort. My eyes were alight with anticipation and I smiled as I thought of my mother, always chiding me to make more of my best features. She would approve of my efforts. As I studied my reflection, I saw myself through another’s eyes and felt transformed, filled with a tentative new confidence.
‘You must congratulate me,’ said Mr Gould, without any introduction.
‘For what, precisely?’ I replied, my intrigue overpowering my surprise at this unorthodox greeting.
‘I’ve accepted a new position with the Zoological Society.’
I smiled, touched that he would share such important news with me. He seemed fired with excitement, eager for my response.
‘I’m pleased for you. Do tell me about it,’ I said happily, folding my hands in my lap; like birds they wanted to pull and pick at the lacy edge of the tablecloth.
‘I sat for a competitive exam for the role of Curator and Preserver of Birds. I had my secretary rehearse Latin prefixes with me in preparation and can you believe I obtained a perfect score? Mr Vigors, the outgoing curator, tells me I’m the youngest gentleman ever to be considered for the position.’
‘I’m impressed, if that’s what you wish to hear.’ I laughed, meeting Mr Gould’s gaze directly. My bold reply made my cheeks prickle. My eyelids felt too open, as if too much light was pouring into my pupils, or was it my spirit shining out? I am not sure what made me say it but he had seemed so proud to show off his accomplishments to me that I could not resist.
Smoothing the napkin across my lap, I looked over at my brother, Charles. My chaperone was enjoying a Turkish coffee in a glass, while hunched over The Times, no doubt reading court convictions and hanging notices, or some such morbid topic that took his fancy. Though I could not be certain, I decided that Mr Gould, rather than Charles, had selected the fashionable establishment. The chairs and tables were of white cane, Turkish curtains and rugs adorned the windows and floors, and mirrored Rajasthan lampshades provided the jewel-hued light. In each corner stood a wooden cabinet, palm fronds and tree ferns lushly flourishing behind the glass, lending the restaurant a whiff of the jungle. Finally, an extra touch I could almost believe was arranged by Mr Gould himself: near the swinging kitchen door stood an elaborately carved, three-tiered cage, home to a prancing and shrieking scarlet macaw from Brazil. Whenever a waiter exited the kitchen with his loaded silver tray, the parrot dipped low on its perch and stretched out its neck. It cocked its head at the server’s departing form and shrieked an accusatory ‘Get on with it!’ to the great delight of the diners.
‘I cannot wait to begin,’ said Mr Gould, drawing my attention back from the brilliant bird. ‘It’s a marvellous opportunity to increase my knowledge and I’ll be meeting the country’s best zoologists. My duties as curator, I’m told, are to arrange the bird and mammal displays,’ he held out his hand, counting off his fingers, ‘to stuff the society’s annual quota. I will also assist in the completion of the ornithology collection, reporting any deficiencies to the council. And lastly, and most diverting of all, I may suggest new purchases.’
‘You’re given great responsibility. It must be wonderful to feel so much excitement about a new position. I cannot imagine ever enjoying such an opportunity.’<
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‘You never know what might come your way,’ said Mr Gould.
‘I suppose you are right,’ I said, opening the menu. I needed a distraction from the vivid blue of my companion’s eyes, his curling blond fringe and the graceful movement of his clever fingers as he illustrated a point. For a moment I regretted sending my brother to a separate table. I had not been prepared for how Mr Gould’s presence shocked like an electric charge. Any possibility of clever conversation seemed to have flown, and I instead studied intensely the ceramic salt cellar, the trimmed carnation stiff in its white vase. Perhaps in the privacy of my bedroom I could dissect Mr Gould’s powerful effects on me, pinning them out for closer inspection, but while in his company I would have to pull myself together and try to speak to him with a semblance of wit.
To calm my thoughts, I imagined Mr Gould prone on the couch in his drawing room. He was dressed in an overcoat and hat. All of the birds in his studio surrounded him. The boxes opened, the lids slid off, the creatures come loose from their carefully arranged domes. There were glass eyes and thin piles of foliage spilled across the red and black carpet. And Mr Gould in the centre, splayed in glorious slumber. The frivolous scene relaxed me, for I had waded into dangerous waters. Though I suspected Mr Gould was interested in me, my investment in him was supposed to be mere theory at this stage. Yet a part of me, dormant, crafty and well disguised, had sparked to life, flying into the unwritten future.
‘What’s it like, living so close to Buckingham Palace?’ asked Mr Gould.
‘I get to be a sort of spy,’ I replied. ‘While I’ve never visited the palace grounds, my bedroom window overlooks one of the servants’ buildings.’
‘You must share the gossip with me,’ he enthused.
I told him about a chambermaid and young cook who often met outside the kitchen, tasting pie crust together and leaning close to hear each other’s secrets. I was about to suggest romance but thought the better of it and sipped my glass of wine.
‘Oh,’ I added, my tone changed. ‘The head footman every day hits his second in command over the side of the head with his cane. He’s no idea that I’m watching from above. I find him a perfect beast.’
‘I knew a horse trainer like that. I reported him to my father, who was always kind. He had the fellow sent packing.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘He must have some sense about him. What is his profession?’
‘He works for King George at Windsor Castle as a gardener. I had a wonderful childhood growing up there, free to roam the grounds and scamper up the oak trees to collect eggs and nests. I became such an expert hand at emptying the eggs of their yolks without ruining them that one year I threaded the shells on string, making blue and white chains to decorate the halls during festivities.’
‘How delightful!’
‘My father did not think so. He wished to train me in forcing plants under glass. He hoped that I would grow up to continue in the family tradition of keeping the royal grounds, as had his own father. My father maintains the King’s topiary. On his days off he visits the hothouses in Kew Gardens, cadging a cutting of some smelly succulent, a bulb from the world’s largest tulip. But I prefer animals. Even as a boy I nursed robins with broken wings, trying to make a pet of them. I kept newts and lizards in jars under my bed, stealing slivers of meat from the kitchen to feed them.’
‘You are just like Charles.’
‘And like Charles I fled to London as soon as I was able, hoping to make my own way.’
‘As did I,’ I said, ‘but for different reasons.’
I was saved from further explanation by the arrival of our luncheon – quail, green salad and a jellied trout turned out of a fish-shaped mould. I bit into my trout, trying to land my gaze on a less demanding sight than my new friend. Mr Gould had not picked up his fork. Rather, he regarded me intensely. I was exposed. I felt alive and terribly vulnerable in the same breath.
‘Whatever is the matter?’ asked Mr Gould. His fingers reached for mine and I stifled the proper response, which would have been to take my hand and hide it in my lap. Instead I kept it on the table between us, enjoying the brief sweep of his fingertips. Boldly, I argued with myself that the gesture could be defended by its naturalness, a comforting response to my confusion.
How could I confess to Mr Gould that he was the first person other than Charles whom I had felt in sympathy with since my move to London? I found myself craving Mr Gould’s attention and admiration. Seeing his lively eyes full of concern and tenderness, I felt something quicken in my blood.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘What upsets you?’
There must have been a slip in my voice that he noticed, a genuine chord. At first I was reluctant to discuss why my mood had suddenly changed. But Mr Gould worked at drawing me out. He wheedled and coaxed until I found myself talking about the family tragedy that had brought me to London. My eldest brother, Henry Coxen, a lieutenant in the British Army’s fourteenth infantry, had become ill and died shortly after being wounded in battle on the continent. Although it had been a year since my brother’s death, my mother remained in a state of acute devastation. She had buried two of her children already, I told Mr Gould.
‘I feel terribly guilty, but one of the reasons I left Shoreham was to escape the pall of misery hanging over the house. Please excuse me. I did not mean to bring up such serious matters.’
‘You have no need to apologise for speaking your heart. I can imagine how difficult it must be for your family. I’m truly sorry for your loss. Charles has never mentioned it to me.’
‘That’s my brother for you: a closed book. He refuses to talk of his grief. I also moved here to be close to him, thinking it would help us both.’ I sighed.
‘Come now,’ said Mr Gould softly. ‘It will become easier with time. How would you like to pay Charles and me another visit? You may divert yourself by working for me, drawing birds. Your little chaffinch study is exactly what I’m looking for.’
‘I thought you had forgotten,’ I said, smiling. ‘I’m so relieved you liked it. Meeting you has reawakened my interest in drawing. I’m sketching whenever I can.’
I glanced at Charles. He’d eaten his meal and was taking a glass of wine. Outside my awareness, the restaurant had filled with patrons. Plates were scraped, glasses clinked; serving staff bustled hither and thither balancing crowded trays. A waiter with bushy side whiskers wheeled the dessert trolley beside our table.
‘Shall we?’ asked Mr Gould.
‘Oh, yes. I adore cake. The richer, the better.’ My eye was caught by a plate of iced cakes. I looked at Mr Gould and discovered that his attention had been arrested by the very same dish.
I ate the first one greedily, tasting its sweetness upon my tongue and savouring the velvety sponge. I took another bite and then another and another, shamelessly devouring the cake’s rich flavour. Every once in a while I glanced at Mr Gould to check if he was enjoying himself to the same degree. He was. In fact, a crumb had settled on his lip.
‘You have a little there,’ I said, pointing to his mouth. He licked it away and my thoughts darted like swallows returned after winter, weaving and spinning their fanciful threads.
Soon after, a request came to visit Mr Gould’s place of business, along with the gift of an American turkey-feather quill, trimmed in the latest fashion with a sturdy nib. Riding to see Mr Gould, sketches of garden birds folded in my pelisse, I felt a coil of excitement tighten in my belly. The closer the carriage drew to his shop, the brighter it seemed to glow. Ushered inside, I rushed downstairs to the stuffing room, eager to begin my afternoon working with Charles and his employer.
First, I inspected the baby rooks, two of which had survived, christened Charlotte and Albert by Mr Gould. They perched together, Albert prodding Charlotte’s breast feathers with his beak. At my brother’s encouragement, I opened the door of their new cage, depositing a saucer of water and a plate of soaked breadcrumbs inside. Not long afterwards, my brother’s employer arrived, wishing to
speak with him. Greeting me almost shyly, Mr Gould asked if I would care to draw a parrot’s wing. He wished to enclose the sketch in a letter to an ornithological correspondent.
‘Of course,’ I responded, pleased to be offered such responsibility. The taxidermied wing, stretched as if in flight, lay before my drawing board. As I sketched, I surreptitiously inspected Mr Gould’s thighs inside his breeches. Detailing the feathers, I made an inventory of his profile, his handsome nose and lush plump lips, his long, almost feminine eyelashes.
Our courtship was soon in full flight. Just as my girlhood friends in Shoreham dwelled upon their suitors’ every attention, I lingered over the presents Mr John Gould had couriered to my address. Though my gifts were nothing like the ones they received – indeed, Charles and I giggled in delight at the eccentricity of Mr Gould’s tastes – I treasured them. The packages arrived wrapped in brown paper tied with postal string: the blown eggs of an alpine thrush threaded into a bracelet; the fingernail of a gibbous monkey nested in a matchbox lined with cotton. I did not tell Mother or my friends of these trinkets. In just over a season, it was clear that Mr Gould’s feeling for me had grown; I imagined it as a thick-shelled egg he held warm between his stockinged feet like an Emperor penguin.
As for me, Mr Gould eased himself under the carapace of my heart. How strange that after escaping the sadness that had descended upon my home for so long I had become interested in a man who preserved carcasses, bringing them back to a semblance of life. The more time I spent with him, the more my initial attraction to him deepened. His presence made my pulse quicken, and it was not just his penetrating blue eyes and the pleasing set of his features that engaged me but also his passion for his work. The warmth he conveyed to me with his attentions assuaged my fears of being swallowed up by the city, offering me a place, the glimpse of a future that might not follow the conventional course that I dreaded would be my fate.
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