Birdman's Wife

by Melissa Ashley

  It was not long before the soap bubble of my daydreaming about our union was pierced by the prospect of introducing John to my parents. Without telling me, John had taken the initiative and written to my father asking to visit. He had confided his plans to Charles, and an invitation to dinner with the family at our home in Shoreham followed soon after. My blissful state quickly shifted to apprehension as I allowed myself to be bundled into the mail coach bound for Kent. Charles thoughtfully sat towards the front, John and me in the rear. At my feet was a wicker basket of pickled vegetables, bottled fruit and pound cake from the market for Mother. John had brought a small leather travelling case, which he refused to tie up on the roof with our other luggage, stowing it awkwardly under his seat instead.

  I allowed myself to press close to John, eager for a physical connection and reassurance. But my stomach fluttered as though full of uneasy moths. I jiggled my feet and pulled at my gloves. I kept going over and over the various ways of introducing John to my parents.

  John squeezed my hand. ‘Whatever is the matter, Elizabeth? You are almost grinding your teeth.’

  ‘Oh,’ I responded, glancing at him. ‘I am filled with nerves.’

  ‘About me?’ asked John.

  ‘I’m not sure. About you, about Mother and Father. I wish you all to get on.’ I gave a heavy sigh.

  ‘And we will. I have every confidence. I want you to enjoy this journey. There is much to see. Let go your concerns.’

  ‘I will try.’

  John touched a finger tenderly to my lips and looked deep into my eyes. ‘Please, Eliza, you must rest assured all will be well.’

  I nodded, transfixed, wondering at his uncanny ability to put me at ease.

  ‘I have something for you,’ he said. ‘I was going to wait, but I think it will help if I give it to you now. Something to take your mind off things.’

  My breath caught. I watched him open his carefully guarded travel bag. He held my hand in his. I made myself take in several gulps of air, my palms growing moist. Were my instincts correct? I hardly dared to wonder. My heart swelled with warmth, gratitude, affection.

  I tore at the rose-coloured paper, emitting a small gasp. I ran my fingers along the tin of watercolours, opening the lid and taking in the names of the pigments with delight: French ultramarine, lead white, India yellow, cobalt green. There was a package of gum Arabic and a set of brushes in every size imaginable.

  It was such a thoughtful gift – only John could understand how precious it was to me. Though I could not help thinking about another gift I had been hoping the package might have contained, the absence of which produced a surprising disappointment.

  Inside the parlour of my parents’ modest, two-storey home the roses on the wallpaper seemed unusually bright, the scrolling designs on the carpets too ordered, the sheen of the oiled furniture too cool and smooth to the touch. But I need not have fretted about introductions. Though mother was still in her dark mourning clothes, she greeted John with all the warmth and joy that, since my brother’s death, I had almost forgotten she possessed. To my surprise, I found that I was glad to be home. Father, having taken his afternoon constitution, appeared cheerful and animated. He had heard much of Mr Gould from my brother’s correspondence and my own and was eager to make his acquaintance. Cook outdid herself with supper, a delicious roast, the beef tender and the gravy rich with cooking juices. There were potatoes basted in goose fat, and plums and custard for pudding. Our conversation was made jovial by several bottles of wine. Father, who could be overly formal on account of his military training, responded with great pleasure to John’s tales, such as his childhood memories of picking dandelions for Queen Charlotte that he later discovered were for her to steep in water to make her favourite concoction of tea.

  Observing John entertain my parents, I wondered why I had doubted his abilities to make a favourable impression. Following pudding, we withdrew to the drawing room. John brought in a brown sack. He performed a little flourish with his fingers, like a stage conjurer, and dug into the burlap, unveiling a white-eyed, glossy black taxidermied toucan. He invited us to feel the extraordinary horn of its fiery orange, black-tipped beak.

  Later in the evening the men retired to Father’s library to smoke cigars and sip brandy. I stayed at Mother’s side, watching her golden thimble glint in the lamplight as she worked at a piece of needlework.

  ‘Do you truly like him?’ I asked.

  She put down her hoop and threads and held open her arms to embrace me. ‘I like him very much,’ she said, kissing my forehead.

  Much relieved to be given Mother’s blessing, I said goodnight and made my way up the stairs to my bedroom on the top floor.

  The following morning, eager to acquaint John with the places I had liked to explore as a girl, I invited him for a meander. Cook supplied us with a picnic basket and blanket.

  ‘Come,’ I said, picking up my skirts and trotting down the narrow lane that ran alongside our property. At the end of the path was a long-abandoned farmhouse. I bade John slip between the fence posts with me and, taking his hand in mine, ran through the long grasses, speckled with crocuses and daffodils, to the property’s outhouse buildings.

  ‘I used to come here to think,’ I told John, ‘when Mother was ill, and Father away with the Admiralty.’

  John’s eyes roamed the horse stables, the dilapidated barn.

  ‘I used to pack my pens and sketchbook and fossick for objects I might like to draw: tin pails, rotted bridles, iron pots, fallen shingles, rusted horseshoes, carpentry tools. Charles was always nearby, usually disappeared into the overgrown gardens to catch grasshoppers and caterpillars.’ I turned to John, smiling. ‘Though we did not have the luxuries of the palace gardens to amuse ourselves, we made the most of things and found plenty of fun.’

  John did not reply. His eyes lingered on mine, suddenly serious. It seemed his attention had moved beyond stories of my childhood.

  He coughed. ‘Miss Coxen.’

  ‘Mr Gould,’ I replied, raising an eyebrow in jest.

  He wiped his hands on his trousers. ‘It’s warm this morning.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s just the sun?’ I smiled mischievously, unsure why I was taunting him. Perhaps to mask my nerves. My hopes.

  He coughed again, dragging his fingers through his hair. He fumbled inside the picnic basket, drew out a package, the size of a child’s hatbox, and handed it to me.

  I tried to keep my tone light. ‘You spoil me so,’ I said. Really, he did not have to overwhelm me with more treasures. Familiar with such a happy ritual, I undid the wrapping and opened the box it contained.

  There, surrounded on all sides by makeshift cardboard walls, sat a dusty bird’s nest.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, trying hard not to cry.

  ‘It’s Charlotte and Albert’s nest, from the day we met.’

  ‘It’s, um, lovely,’ I said, wiping my sleeve beneath my eyes.

  ‘Here, wait,’ said John. He took the box from me and peered down at the nest. ‘I’ll be deuced,’ he muttered, poking around. ‘Ah,’ he said, passing the box back into my hands.

  I glanced down. And there, sitting where the rook’s egg I had watched crack to life had been, gleamed a gold ring.

  Chapter 3

  Dusky Tapaculo

  Scytalopus fuscus

  BROAD STREET, London 1829

  John and I were married in the middle of winter in a small ceremony at St James’s Church, Piccadilly. My hands shook clasping the bouquet Mother had arranged, my nerves so stretched I feared I would forget my vows. Then I stood before John, who was looking so proud and handsome in his beaver hat and tailcoat, though a little teary, and I knew all would be well.

  A honeymoon was out of the question given John’s exalted new position as Curator and Preserver of Birds for the Zoological Society. So we began married life in John’s rented rooms on Broad Street. Although our top-floor rooms were cramped and draughty, although our chimney had a tendency to smoke, I
revelled in the intimacy of finally having John to myself – or at least as much as his work would allow. Even when he worked late, I stayed up to greet him, candles burning on either side of our double bed, a fresh flower propped in a vase. I had not known what to expect of our intimate relations, but it seemed our passion for each other was as strong as the bonds we had already forged, and we were compatible in every aspect. Our hunger for each other’s flesh was replenished afresh each evening, and on more than one occasion John left for the Zoological Society with no more than a few hours of sleep. Although he worked long hours, we were happy. We always shared supper together, often sipping a glass of port by the fire or in bed later.

  One of the unexpected pleasures of setting up my new home was having the authority to hire my first maid. Daisy was red-haired and freckled, the same age as I, with a quick wit and a fondness for talking. She was a good listener, too. We bonded immediately over our first box of groceries, which I had stocked with perfumed soap, baked fruitcake and fancy tea.

  Inspired by John’s passion for his work, and by the drawings I was doing, I strove to learn more about the lives and habits of birds. I had a great thirst to understand John’s specialised field of ornithology and had him borrow compendiums from the Zoological Society’s library to study. I read note takings from the scientific proceedings of the Society’s monthly meetings, at which members presented their descriptions of formerly unknown species of insects, mammals, crustaceans, reptiles and birds. I practised drawing different orders of birds late into the night, determined to develop my skills. I did my best to follow John’s discussions about continuities and discrepancies between familiar Old World species and those flowing into London’s ports from all corners of the New World, fascinated by the zoologists’ seemingly unquenchable thirst for discovering new species.

  An explorer or collector would return from their expedition rich with observations about a wren from Rio de Janeiro that performed a song or exhibited similar nest-building habits to our jenny bird. I soon discovered that the reach of John’s memory and interests was nothing short of astounding. All details connected with the realm of birdlife found special perches in his imagination and lodged there, joined by invisible wires to the greater framework, to be retrieved in perfect condition when required.

  Lying close together in bed one evening we shared our latest successes. John’s recommendation that the society purchase two rare species of toucan for its collection had been approved and my confidence in drawing the forms of several genera of birds was growing daily. We had brought the bottle of port into the bedroom. The lamp flickered patterns across the cut crystal glasses on the bedside table.

  ‘Love is like collecting,’ I observed. ‘The care, the attention, the stopping at nothing to attain one’s desire. They have rather more than less in common.’

  ‘I like that notion very much,’ said John, kissing the top of my head.

  ‘I think it was observing Charles when I was a young girl that taught me the lesson. I used to envy his passion and curiosity. How it protected him, you might say. How it gave him purpose. As I grew older I began to understand what my own love of drawing offered, how an afternoon of losing myself in sketching could make me feel. When he moved to London, he gave me his microscope to look after. Whenever I missed him, I would slide one of the glass plates between the metal clips and treat myself to an enlarged version of some small, everyday wonder: the detail in a blade of grass, the fine lace in the wing of a grasshopper, the intricate stamen of a crocus, some stray yellow balls of pollen. Charles even investigated the workings of his own body: neat labels revealed a drop of blood, a sliver of skin, a string of his saliva.’

  ‘Ever the natural historian.’ John smiled. ‘Did you have a favourite slide?’

  ‘It’s a curious thing, but the slide that intrigued me most was the one of a blackbird’s ovary. How Charles separated it from the mess of organs and viscera, I cannot guess, but it was exquisite, with its tiny eggs gathered like the seeds inside a fig. You must think me rather silly, making metaphors.’

  ‘I won’t hold it against you. As for your brother, on the scientific front he knew what he was doing. You cannot learn the sex of many species of bird without examining their reproductive glands under a microscope.’

  ‘And here I was imagining him a mere eccentric,’ I said, stroking John’s arm.

  John thought a moment. ‘I wonder if our hearts are like microscopes? Though infinitely more powerful. With them we can study, magnify, illuminate and inspect all the sensitivities we slip into the slides of our memories. We cannot toss out our discoveries, can we now? And it’s helpful to examine the problem or, in our case, the subject of one’s love, from every angle possible.’

  ‘What a lovely thought. I do not understand your claim that you lack an ear and heart for verse.’ I kissed John on the lips. ‘Maybe there’s a grain of art tucked away in that brain. I’ll dig it out!’

  I was encouraged by his words. I adored the Romantic poets and needed the sustenance of novels like food. I yearned to experience the entertainment of the theatre, if only I could coax my husband from his piles of papers to share these passions with me. It seemed there was a glimmer of hope here after all.

  Whatever John’s opinions about his immunity to the flourish of a good sentence, I could not countenance his claims. I rather think he went out of his way to tease me, as he most certainly had an eye for harmony, balance, precision, order and beauty, when confronted with an exquisite visual wonder.

  One Saturday morning while making tea, I heard footsteps behind me. Before I could turn, a silky material slid over my eyes. ‘Hold still,’ said John, tying the kerchief at the base of my skull.

  ‘Where are you leading me?’ I blindly placed the tea-strainer on the dripping board.

  ‘Remember how we never took a holiday after our wedding?’

  ‘How could I forget?’

  While we had both agreed that we could not spare the time to go away because of John’s position, I do not think either of us realised the full extent of his new responsibilities. The Zoological Society had dedicated its resources to fitting out a new collection room, hoping to charge the public a fee to access its treasures on one day a week and thereby increase its funds. In order to compete with the more famous, albeit dusty and often deplorable, collections held at the British Museum, the society needed to acquire many more curious specimens and present them in a way that would appeal to the public. Display cabinets had to be built, boxes and drawers of species from across the globe dusted, cleaned and catalogued. Along with these commitments, John still had his wealthy clients’ stuffing demands to satisfy. His staff lost precious working hours combing London’s fancy shops to meet his clients’ added requests for luxuries that only the city could provide: rare books, tinctures from the apothecary, paper of a particular grade, American cigars and Scotch whisky.

  ‘I’m to make it up to you.’ John gently held my shoulders and propelled me across the kitchen boards into the drawing room. Shuffling across the rug in my house-slippers, I slid my fingers over the timber cornices and sharp edges of the lamp table. I came to a stop, knowing exactly where I stood. If I pulled the blindfold off, I would be facing our reading chairs and mahogany bookshelf, and the drawing easel I had been given for my sixteenth birthday.

  ‘Ready?’ asked John.

  Before I had the chance to reply, he untied the blindfold and I found myself standing before a squat piece of cabinetry.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ I said, rubbing my eyes.

  ‘Open it!’ John beamed.

  I moved towards the cabinet, tracing my hands over the fine bone and brass inlaid work decorating the fragrant cedar wood. The craftsmanship reminded me of Spanish marquetry. The base of the cabinet had four drawers with brass handles, the top of the contraption opening on hinges like a large sewing basket. I lifted the lid to see a cluster of seashells: cockles, oysters, scallops and cowries arranged on green velvet like the rims an
d spokes of a carriage wheel. The first drawer held a spiral of pinned beetles and bugs, their carapaces iridescent gold and green, spinning in whorls from the centrepiece – a black creature with horns and antlers and an armoured back. I opened the compartment below, peering under its glass protection to discover an arrangement of butterflies. The next section cushioned a tiny reef of corals and sea-mosses.

  ‘Thank you!’ I said, delighted, linking my elbow with his and drawing him close. My fingers twitched with the urge to pick up my pencil. I could not wait to experiment with these new treasures.

  The cabinet, fashioned nearly a century ago, had been bartered from John’s collector friend Lord Stanley. While John chatted about their negotiations, I opened the bottom compartment, a smile on my lips, confirming what I had suspected all along. The drawer was filled with British perching birds, laid out in the manner that the Zoological Society preferred for storage, the wings and feet neatly tucked away so they could be filed, as many as possible together, and kept out of damaging light. There were warblers and robins, thrushes and titmice.

  Later that evening I ventured into the drawing room in my nightgown, eager to reinspect the cabinet’s contents. I pulled open the felt-lined bottom drawer and feasted my eyes on the rows of beaks, facing to the right, the arrangement of legs and claws, all tied to their tails. The order in which the birds had been laid out was so pleasing to my eyes that I began to accept what a quieter part of me had known for some time: I must develop my own sketching in earnest.

  I drew out the sliding drawer with the beetles inside and placed it on the kitchen table. I shifted away the articles we used for tea and sandwiches, the sugar bowl and the butter dish. Opening my brush set and paint tin, I began a study of the insects. On the next evening I tackled the butterflies. Then I moved on to the moths, the coral and sponges. Absorbed, I burned down all of our candles. When I retired to sleep, I found myself plagued by some unfinished detail. My fingers ached to fold back the bedcovers and I longed to return to the table and undo any mistakes. I drew my favourites, pursuing whatever detail my imagination suggested, following no logic or scientific precision – as my work for John required – only the interpretation of my own vision. I employed chalk and crayon, pencil and pen, using various means of making colours. I cross-hatched, stippled and shaded, excited to be experimenting with textures other than feathers. It had been so long since I had sketched for my own pleasure, and my new obsession produced a deep satisfaction.