In this strange trance I allowed myself to be transported. I dreamed of making not only a home with John, but a house of drawings, too. I would line the nest for our future collaborations. I was made for foraging. I would gather reeds and sticks, bits of straw and cobweb, mosses and grasses, insect wings and shell particles, torn petals and seed husks, all of which I would weave and press into place. My role for now was to assemble a dwelling in which we might raise our complementary talents. What did it matter if I were the nest-bound hen, while John flared his pretty peacock’s tail strutting about Regent’s Park? I was rather pleased with my lot, busy bent over the kitchen table, feeling something almost elemental in my rapid sketching. I drew until my wrists cramped and my neck burned in pain.
After a long session of fine and concentrated line making, I liked to settle for a while at the sitting-room window and watch the outside world go by. I would cast my tired eyes over the chimney smoke of London’s hearth fires, the lanes transformed from the daily bustle of trade into a seductive and sleepy city. I felt as though I was at last becoming a part of this ancient metropolis, with its churches and inns and alehouses; its marketplaces, where I might feel silken shirts and sniff imported coffee and sample hand-crafted sweets. Its surfeit of exotic treasures offered me dreams of distant countries, while its passing parade of sweeps, newsboys and washerwomen, its milk vendors and grocers, reminded me of the dark heart of its unceasing industry.
As my long nights of drawing often left me stiff and sore, at first I did not notice a growing list of other bodily ailments: a weak stomach following breakfast, a desire for a nap after luncheon, itching welts on my chest and neck. As my condition became clear, I began to note the symptoms in my diary, from cravings for cocoa to the scent of French beeswax candles, studying each one as if it were a strange new specimen. Letting my dresses out by the fire, I would nod absently at John’s animated tales of the curious specimens he was classifying. To my shame, after congratulating him for securing a contract to stuff a bustard for King George, I had to excuse myself to rush from the room and heave into the chamber pot until my legs shook.
Once he discovered the source of my pains, John insisted that I rest as much as possible. He no longer left out specimens in the kitchen for me to sketch. He made Daisy indulge me, putting my health at the forefront of her thoughts. And yet, despite my uneasy state, my husband continued to work ceaselessly.
‘I’ve an announcement,’ said John one evening as we warmed our knees before the fire.
‘I don’t dare imagine what you are about to say,’ I said. ‘You might propose anything: a move to the Maldives; a trip in a hot air balloon. Piracy.’
He laughed. ‘Nothing quite so dramatic,’ he said, rising from his seat to stand closer to the flames. ‘Do you recall the tapaculo sketch you made for my friend Sir William Jardine?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, casting my mind back to the drawing I had produced for the highly regarded ornithologist. The tapaculo was a rare Chilean songbird and I had laboured over the composition. I remembered taking great care to work up its chocolate-brown feather groups, its delicate feet and insect-catching bill, its glossy black eyes and turned-up tail.
‘You’ll never guess, but Jardine wishes to have your drawing engraved, to be included in his Illustrations of Ornithology. Your work is to be preserved for posterity. Your name may even be recorded on the plate as the draughtswoman.’
‘My work?’ I was deeply surprised. My headache vanished. I looked at the stockings I had been darning. ‘How extraordinary!’ I eased myself slowly out of my chair and moved to John’s side. ‘By all means, yes! He has my permission.’
John cupped my face in his hands and winked at me. ‘I must confess, Eliza. I’ve led you astray. I’ve told a little fib.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘I have already given permission on your behalf. The plates are due back from the printer’s any day now.’
‘Oh,’ I said, surprised. ‘I do not mind at all. To be honest, I had quite forgotten about the drawing.’ Fancy that, I was to be published, just like a professional illustrator. ‘Is it true that Sir William’s daughter and wife draw and colour his specimens?’
‘Yes, why do you ask?’ said John.
‘No reason,’ I said, smiling to myself and taking up my darning needle. For the first time in several months, I forgot to dwell on my itching neck and the pain in the base of my ribs.
The plate for Sir William’s collection arrived, but after all the happy anticipation the results were discouraging. Although I was aware of the limitations of my drawing skills, the flattery the illustrious scientist who thought them suitable for publication had turned my head. It was as if I had seen my work through a warped glass, the specimen’s awkward poses and tight lines erased and forgotten. The shortcomings of the etched plates were revealed in the stark light that fell across our kitchen table. Rather than smooth and correct my inaccuracies, the process of transferring my pencilled lines onto copperplate only emphasised how stiffly I had rendered the tapaculo’s peculiar tail feathers, how glazed and flat was the expression in its eyes.
‘You should be proud,’ said John, trying to assuage my disappointment. He put down his tea cup and ran his hands through his hair. ‘It’s those deuced engravers, they haven’t a clue about interpreting a zoological drawing.’
He spoke a partial truth. My originals had been superior to the engraver’s results. Any suggestion of movement and animation in the bird had been lost in the act of copying. The print reminded me of illustrations in medieval bestiaries, of which John owned a modest collection. The species represented were made from poorly preserved specimens and then reproduced many times, indeed so much so that it became impossible to decide from the plate alone to which genus a creature belonged. To determine species, the reader had to refer to the columns of script. Nevertheless, Sir William Jardine accepted my plate for his collection.
I was protected from the vanity of indulging too long in artistic despair by the impending arrival of our child. Mother journeyed from Shoreham for my confinement, hoping to ease me into the routines of childcare with her experienced advice. It had been sleeting for several days when she stepped out of the coach, avoiding the slushy street and doing her heroic best to ignore London’s perpetual stink of smoke and sewage. Snow speckled the shoulders of her coat as she gestured to the porter to take care with her case and trunk. Over a pot of tea and a plate of Daisy’s ginger-nut biscuits, I told Mother of my concerns about my pregnancy: ‘What if I don’t know how to hold a baby?’ I asked. ‘What if it cries all night? What if it won’t take milk? What of me? How long will I need to recover?’ I buried my face in my hands.
Mother rubbed my shoulder, comfortingly. ‘Eliza, you are nearly there.’
‘You are no longer wearing black, mother … I said, my surprise momentarily overtaking my fears.
‘Of course not, my dear, this is not the time to be thinking of death.’
‘You are right,’ I said, meeting her gaze. ‘There is much to look forward to. I am so glad you are here.’
Mother, Daisy and I passed the long days of waiting for the birth reading women’s journals and catching up on mending and knitting. John folded a sovereign into Mother’s hand one morning, insisting we treat ourselves to scones from my favourite teahouse. Daisy prepared a pot of tea and we gathered at the kitchen table to devour the sweet-smelling treats with jam and cream. I had taken to sitting on the sofa with my feet propped up on a stool, so while I struggled to make myself comfortable on my chair, Mother and Daisy vied with each other over sharing tips for swaddling, nursing, dressing, bathing, holding and changing an infant. Before long, they began to swap their stories of lying-in, Mother’s six births trumping Daisy’s two.
‘You needn’t worry, Eliza,’ said Mother, biting into a cream-topped scone after a somewhat disturbing diatribe on the joys and otherwise of giving birth.
‘You have jam on your nose,’ I said, my face express
ionless. Sharing their experiences had imbued the women with a pride that I could not understand. It was as if they had forgotten I was listening.
‘When Henry was born,’ said Mother, dabbing a napkin to her face, ‘an old midwife came to attend. She was ancient, her skin like oak bark, hair white as blocks of ice. As soon as my first pain arrived, she called out for my mother to untie all the knots in the house.’
‘Why?’ asked Daisy.
‘Superstition,’ said Mother, waving her hand, ‘so the birthing canal wouldn’t be blocked.’
‘John would never stand for that,’ I said, with a wry grin, ‘being a true man of science.’
Our son’s birth was delayed by more than a fortnight but, following a painful labour, my exhausted gaze met his hooded blue eyes and I was besotted. John left for the Zoological Society all that week with a spring in his step. Mother shadowed me about the house, waiting for any sign of fear on my face before offering this and that piece of advice on deciphering the baby’s moans and cries. From the beginning, John junior was a child of contradictions. He had John’s long lush eyelashes, but large hands and feet, as if he was designed to work in a tar pit or lead mine. He would mewl for milk, feed like a thirsty kitten and then fall into a grizzling slumber. He studied me with such an open regard I worried that I was somehow frightening him. I held him to my breast, nuzzling my nose against his button-shaped one. I rubbed my cheek into his chin and sang to him in a childish voice.
Satisfied that I had mastered the correct nursing position, and the arts of swaddling and cradle-rocking, and that Daisy knew how to soak a baby’s sleeping jacket properly, six weeks after my son’s birth Mother announced that she had best return to Shoreham. We waved her onto the coach, the baby asleep in his new carriage and John beside me, holding his hat against the wind. Mother left for home so happy and content that she had attached a sprig of pink flowers to her buttonhole, lifted from my kitchen table vase. Although a part of me rejoiced at the prospect of reclaiming the house for myself, I could not help but feel a small stab of terror at how I would manage without her.
During the following weeks, I lived in a heightened state. Without Mother’s guidance, I found myself fretting over the baby’s health. I would check on him constantly and, if he was awake, lift him into my arms and blow raspberries on his cheeks. I adored him, and yet I felt terribly uncertain. I resisted the temptation of asking Daisy to assist too much, aware of the young children she had to return to each evening. One moment, I felt overwhelmed by John junior’s fragility, his dependence, and the next, I was mesmerised by his rose mouth and bud nose, his deep blue eyes that tracked me across the room. For whole afternoons I would sit by the window with him in my lap, twisting my fingers through the sparse curls at the base of his head as I looked out over the russet chimney tops of London, considering myself blessed.
Nevertheless, as the days passed I found I could not quell a constant thread of worry. I put it down to a mother’s protective instinct but perhaps I had sensed an ill turn. For, just a fortnight after my mother’s departure, my son suddenly refused my milk. He began to run fevers. I called our physician, Dr Russell, asking that he make an examination. We were to keep pressing for John junior to take milk, to give him salt baths three times a day, to put camomile compresses on his burning forehead. I worried that his delay in arriving had caused some kind of invisible injury.
With each snuffle of breath and flutter of John junior’s tired eyelids, I was at his side, a hand on his shallow-breathing chest, my fingers feeling for his pulse. I sang to him. I begged him, tears streaming down my face, to take nourishment. I warmed him with my own body, held his hands in mine and stroked his fine blond hair. I fell into an all-encompassing pit of fear. I could not rest and roamed the floor of our house in search of tasks to keep myself busy. I would nap in fits during the day, passing the night in a state of vigilance. When my eyes burned dry with tiredness, I would stagger to bed, holding tight to the solid form of my husband until the grey light of the morning called me to another day.
There was every chance that our strong, fighting son would recover from his ailment. But he was losing weight. He had not grown as quickly as had been hoped, our physician declared.
‘What can I do?’ I begged.
Dr Russell stood to his full height and began to pack his instruments into his bag. ‘Watch him. Hold him. Bathe him. Tend him.’
‘A fine help,’ I mumbled beneath my breath. I had been performing each of those tasks daily, to no avail. I felt increasingly frustrated by our physician’s inability to cure my son.
For three successive nights the elderly gentleman arrived in his heavy coat and hat, his bulging medical case at his side, stethoscope around his neck, to attend John junior’s moaning cries until, on the last evening, he advised us to prepare our goodbyes. The vicar was summoned and recited a prayer I remembered from my childhood. He must have known it well, clutching his bible to his chest, his unseen heart beating beneath the skin of his vestments as he intoned. But the verse drew unpleasant thoughts, multiplying my grief. I tried to hold the vicar’s voice at bay, repeating in my mind the prayer Mother used to recite to us each evening before sleep:
As surely as you live, my lord, I am the woman who stood here beside you praying to the Lord. I prayed for this child, and the Lord has granted me what I asked of him. So now I give him to the Lord. For his whole life he will be given over to the Lord.
I whispered the verse over and over. I could not look at the vicar, nor at John.
Afterwards John did his utmost to comfort me. He hovered protectively at my side, directing Daisy to make bone broth or kindle a fire, to fetch me woollen blankets or a cup of tea. But I did not wish to be diverted. I did not wish to be enveloped in my husband’s embrace. None of it mattered. For my son was too feeble to mount a victory. A week before the three-month anniversary of his birth, our dearest boy was reclaimed by his maker.
Chapter 4
Lear’s Macaw
Anodorhynchus leari
BROAD STREET, London 1830
We buried our son after a quiet ceremony at St James’s Church. John wrote of the news to his family but even after a week I was unable to compose a letter to my parents. Overwhelmed, I dismissed Daisy for the week so that I might have the house to myself during the day, and took to my bed. I slept long hours, dreaming of the birth, of my baby’s cry, of him beside me in his cot, within arm’s reach.
‘My dear sister,’ said Charles, sitting with me one afternoon, ‘I am so sorry. I wish you had been spared.’ He read me verse and tried to coax me to swallow my medicines.
His gentle presence was the only company I could bear apart from John’s. Charles did not urge me to speak, nor did he offer hollow words of comfort.
I tried to assuage my darkest thoughts with the consolation that Mother had not been with me when John junior passed. Something inside me wished to protect Mother from what I was going through, just as I had been shielded from the death of my younger sister. I recalled how quiet the house became in the summer following Mary’s passing at nine months. Charles and I would hover in the doorway to Mother’s bedroom, watching her sit by the fire in her nightgown, her hair unbound. This went on for weeks until one morning we went to cuddle her in bed and she was gone. We found her in the kitchen, fully dressed. Against the door was a tin trunk, filled with our clothes. We were sent to stay with Mother’s parents in Surrey. I kept my little brother close to me in the coach, clutching his small hand in mine. Taken in by our grandmother, I recalled the severe look in her eyes, the strange smell of her house, how cold I felt under the thin blankets in her guest room.
Sometimes in the night I would wake, unable to return to sleep. I longed for Mother to be well. There had been no explanation for our sudden expulsion from home. We were confused and wary. When we were finally told we could return to Shoreham, it was nearing winter time. Father had bought us new coats and Mother presented us with mittens. Though Mother appeared unchanged,
sometimes she took a long while to reply to our queries and when she talked it was as if she did not see us. When she thought nobody was looking she bowed her head and pressed her fingers to her temples. In our absence, the crib she had brightened with a new blanket had been carried back to the attic.
Though I would dearly have loved Mother at my side to provide comfort, I felt she had suffered her own losses and did not need to take part in the most painful moments of mine.
John became increasingly distressed by the sorry sight I presented – I did not change into clean clothes or brush my hair. I had no appetite. To try to break my melancholy, he began to suggest activities: outings to the markets, the park, a travelling circus, even the theatre that he had avoided for so long. I had not the slightest interest, however. Never one to give up, John racked his brains for ways to interrupt my overwhelming sadness. He brought home books of verse and novels that he thought I would like, along with bunches of flowers and sweetmeats. But all these daily kindnesses only prompted new streams of tears. John even talked of renting a seaside property where we could take long walks and go fishing together. That a man of John’s restless energy would consider stopping still, let alone fishing, demonstrated how desperate he had become to lure me back from my grief.
In time my suffering grew less pronounced. Able at last to rise from bed, I gathered some flowers and walked to the cemetery where our son had been laid to rest. My dear, sweet cousin Sarah Mitchell, who had suffered her own private pain for being unable to bear children, accompanied me. At my son’s tiny grave I told him of my love and promised to see him again one day.
Birdman's Wife Page 5