Birdman's Wife

by Melissa Ashley

  Lear’s illustrations compelled me to engage with their meticulous detail. As I studied the scalloped wing feathers of the ringneck parrot, a sequence of images passed through my mind. My mother dressed in mourning lace. John giving me his dinner plate with a trembling hand, the meal only partly eaten. Back I floated, until I was a girl, setting out on the walkway near our house in Shoreham. My brother Charles carried his wooden collecting box. I saw my beautiful son, hovering at the fringes of my vision, an uneasy comfort.

  Until our baby’s birth I’d sketched for John with great passion and enthusiasm. But over the past few months, in my heart I had made a connection between my artistic preoccupations and my son’s lack of fitness for this world. I knew in my head that it was a false and unreasonable thought. I was not blighted as a mother, yet I spent many moments each day believing it true. In certain moods, I could not so much as glance at a pencil without wincing. And yet here I was, face to face with Lear’s prints, a distillation of the parrot’s essence. The exuberance and precision ignited a force in me that I had pushed into a corner, a flame I had tried to snuff out. It was as if part of a window had been cleaned, a section as large as a thumbprint wiped of its grime.

  Chapter 5

  Mrs Gould’s Sunbird

  Aethopyga gouldiae

  BROAD STREET, London 1830

  I have learned that events can present with an order that seems pre-arranged. An opportunity as rare as the moon sliding over the face of the sun, transforming one’s perspective, a chance so fair and fleeting one cannot tarry in forming a response.

  Several weeks after I met Mr Lear, a tin shipping trunk was delivered to the Zoological Society and John rushed home to fetch me from our apartment, insisting that I accompany him for the unveiling of its contents. The arrival of the trunk had caused a mad flurry of excitement among the gentlemen ornithologists. Rarely had I seen my husband so energised.

  In the stuffing laboratory, John immediately set to opening the trunk with the aid of his assistant, Gilbert. It was clear from their expressions and the charged atmosphere in the room that this was to be no ordinary collection of specimens. Together they unwrapped its cargo of stuffed exotic birds, carefully arranging them on the leaves of a newspaper spread across the large worktable.

  ‘Wait here,’ said John. ‘I will be back shortly.’ He motioned for Gilbert to follow.

  I took the chance to study the colourful specimens, recognising pigeons, though the species was unfamiliar. There was a mottled grey creature that reminded me of the bustard John had prepared for the King, a pint-sized ostrich with a black crest, jays with brilliant blue wing detail. There were woodpeckers with red bellies and white cheeks; a pheasant with a sweeping, spotted tail, and several varieties of ducks and geese. I drew closer to better inspect a row of passerines, laid out like a grasshopper collection, some no larger than a brooch, sunbirds, warblers and a pretty pair of finches.

  I was often required to exercise artistic licence when illustrating specimens, painting out patches where feathers were missing, embellishing a split mandible, fixing a broken wing bone or damaged tail. To my eye, these specimens had been expertly prepared. They had been preserved as study skins, their wings and feet tucked away to save space during storage. The cache of foreign birds occupied the table like the bounty from a spectacular hunt. As if, just that morning, a group of shooters had gone out with their dogs and guns and brought back enough game for a feast. And now came the process of gutting and skinning and plucking; the task of readying a splendid meal for science to gorge itself upon.

  Excited voices sounded near the doorway. John burst into the laboratory, several calf-bound reference books under his arm. Gilbert walked behind him, bearing a ledger and pencils, and bringing up the rear was Mr Nate Vigors, John’s superior at the Zoological Society and one of London’s foremost ornithological experts.

  ‘It appears that your husband has been granted a great fortune!’ said Mr Vigors, grasping my hand in greeting. He cracked all of the knuckles in his hands as he surveyed the display of birdskins laid out on the table, his sharp blue eyes seeming to bulge from their sockets.

  ‘How extraordinary! You must tell me all about it,’ I said.

  But Mr Vigors, whose social interactions could be described as distracted at best, appeared not to hear me. He had turned his attentions to John, who was busy examining the collection. The men began to speak in their scientific code, reciting Latin names and debating distinguishing characteristics. They picked up several specimens and turned them around in their hands, stretching out their wings, opening their beaks, inspecting their legs and feet. John would venture an observation – an insectivorous species, for instance – and Mr Vigors would affirm the diagnosis with a nod of his head, a twitch of his arched brows. He would then elaborate upon the species’ habits, John no doubt storing the senior taxonomist’s expertise in a fold of his savant’s memory. In went the information, like a drop of water soaked into a sponge. Gilbert, the party’s third wheel, took notes.

  All of a sudden Mr Vigors and my husband locked their arms together, moving their feet to mimic some aberrant form of Irish jig.

  ‘Really, fellows,’ I said, laughing.

  ‘These birds, Mrs Gould,’ said Mr Vigors, his voice low and intense, ‘these birds, most of them, forty or fifty of them – see how many lie on the worktable?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The cache was advertised in Sotheran’s auction catalogue,’ interrupted John, unable to hold back his excitement. ‘The specimens were procured in northern India, and a few species the Zoological Society was looking out for were listed. It was going cheap and I wasn’t expecting anything. Well, anything more than a pile of dusty feathers.’

  ‘The significance being,’ broke in Mr Vigors, ‘that they are mostly unknown to science.’

  ‘You can tell, just from looking at them?’ I said. ‘I mean, don’t you need to check in books, to reference?’

  ‘Well, to be sure, I’ll have to do that,’ said Mr Vigors.

  ‘Mr Vigors is an expert on Asian species,’ said John.

  ‘My apologies,’ I said.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Mr Vigors. ‘I appreciate your observation. But I’ve been studying birds for most of my life. I can recognise immediately the appearance of the new. It’ll be a lot of work, classifying the creatures – oh, but what a project.’

  Mr Vigors winked at John. ‘You wouldn’t be partial to an Irish whiskey rather than an English tea, now would you?’

  Following the delivery of the tin trunk of undescribed specimens, John’s passion for his new project was palpable and his enthusiasm infected all those around him. John and Mr Vigors agreed to undertake the task of classifying the India collection and presenting their findings to the Zoological Society. It was not possible to gain a comprehensive picture of Asian species without considering the international context. Thus, John taught himself the Quinarian classification system developed by Mr Vigors. He needed to know as much as possible about the bird tribes that filled his stuffing laboratory: orders, families and genera, allies and correspondents, and where they perched on the taxonomic tree. He borrowed catalogues from the British Museum, the Zoological Society and trusted colleagues to familiarise himself with the orders of sub-continental birds, a tribe Mr Vigors was more comfortable describing.

  John traversed obscure lanes seeking out specialist dealers to follow up on any promising leads, such as rumours that an illustration of Otis himalayanus or the skin of Phasianus pucrasia lurked on the darkened shelf of some out of the way taxidermist’s store. He corresponded with ornithologists from India, Europe and South Africa, directing me to sketch outstretched wings or splayed feet to accompany his textual descriptions. He relentlessly pursued Mr Vigors’s every request for answers to outstanding queries about anatomy, wingspan and plumage.

  After the arrival of the India collection, John had requested that I draw any species undescribed by science. It was a daunting prospect but utterly
thrilling. What John asked of me was beyond anything I had dreamed of achieving as an artist: creating my own original impression of a new species.

  One afternoon I picked up a specimen that resembled an American hummingbird, with a bright yellow breast and an iridescent purple crown and throat. The tiny feathers of its wing coverts were red as blood. Its bill curved like a pared fingernail, and its feet seemed fragile as twigs. Cradled in my palm, the creature was weightless, its wings folded like a closed fan, its eyes replaced by nubs of cotton. The beauty of the specimen inspired me to pass several hours testing and mixing colours to capture the sheen on its violet crown. Holding the bird in the light of the window, I noticed its plumage lift in colour and was instantly inspired to find a way of capturing the effect with my brushes. I experimented at my easel, discovering that adding a sprinkling of copper powder mimicked the feathers’ iridescent gleam.

  Exhilarated but exhausted from my efforts, that evening I retired early with a novel while John worked late in his Zoological Society office. Although I passed into slumber without trouble, my sleep was fitful. When I was awakened by John retiring around midnight, I found it difficult to return to sleep. At dawn I was disturbed again by John’s moving about the bedroom. I lit a candle and stepped out of bed. John stood before the ewer and washing bowl, a razor aimed at his throat.

  ‘You don’t have to work at such a furious pace,’ I said.

  He turned from the mirror. ‘I enjoy classifying. It keeps my mind off other—’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Well, that little specimen you drew today, the creature with the brilliant yellow plumage and curved beak, Mr Vigors is so taken with your sketch he’s decided to name it for you. ‘Mrs Gould’s sunbird’. How does that sound?’

  I was momentarily speechless. To have my drawings recognised as professional illustrations was one thing, but to have a species named after me, why that was extraordinary. This was indeed a surprise, and a canny one at that, given that the tiny sunbird was by far my favourite from the India collection.

  ‘That’s wonderful! I’m much pleased. You must pass on my thanks for such an honour.’

  ‘You do know how important your contribution is to our enterprise, don’t you?’ said John, rinsing the razor.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, wrapping my arms around his waist. I was deeply touched by my husband’s recognition of my talents. He turned and leaned down to kiss my cheek, his movements distracted. His mind had already moved on. Preoccupied by his work, be it an account, a commission, a presentation or difficult client, he needed to prepare for the long day ahead.

  Following John’s departure, I returned to the comfort of my bed, happier than I had been for some time.

  Once a month the Zoological Society drew together for formal meetings, in which its London-based members presented, for the first time, results from their research. Letters from Corresponding Fellows detailing important findings from far-flung parts of the world were read out. Discussion and questions were encouraged following each presentation, which was then tabled and published in the Journal of Zoology. John and Mr Vigors were to give a paper on two Himalayan species of jay: the spectacled jay, which was the size of a raven, with tiny blue and black scale-like markings on the upper wings; and the garrulous jay, which bore a striking resemblance to a species commonly found in the Americas and Europe. I had made detailed paintings of each jay, labouring over the jewel-like feathers of the wings, their crests and eye markings. John and Mr Vigors would present the skins of the jays to the society along with the paintings I had made, hoping to impress their zoological colleagues and make an indisputable case for the immense importance of their cache of little-known Indian species.

  My husband stood before the wardrobe mirror, pulling at his hair. He’d been practising the delivery of his lecture.

  ‘Are you ready?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m rather desperate that it should go well.’

  I smoothed John’s side whiskers. ‘You look the part. You sound the part. You have put so much into it. There is no way you can fail. I have never seen you so engaged.’

  He turned to me. ‘Thank you for your faith, Eliza. I know it’s not been easy.’

  ‘Maybe, after this, we can slow down a little?’ I said gently.

  ‘Yes, perhaps.’ He smiled and kissed my cheek.

  I walked him to the landing, watching his shoulders recede as he descended the stairs to the meet the carriage outside. If I had not been in such an advanced state of pregnancy, I would have dearly loved to accompany him to lend my support. But I felt bone weary and uncomfortable, and had no choice but to retire early with a collection of Coleridge’s verse.

  Later that evening I awoke to John shaking my shoulder. ‘Eliza, Eliza!’

  I was tucked up under the blankets, my book of verse abandoned on John’s pillow. I squinted at my husband. He held a candle to my face. In the flame his cheeks appeared orange, the shadows beneath his eyes deepened. I asked how his presentation was received.

  He put the candle on the bedside table and held my hands, crouched on his knees. ‘Oh, my dear, it was an incredible success,’ he said, smiling broadly.

  ‘Congratulations! I’m so delighted for you. After all this work, to finally have people know the importance of what you have discovered.’

  ‘I could not have done any of this without you.’ John looked at me with great intensity. ‘I wish to propose something, Eliza. I’m thinking of entering into a new business. I’ve pushed taxidermy as far as I can. What more is there for me to do than open another shop, in Edinburgh or Amsterdam, with my name upon its glass windows, employing a staff and instructing them in the running of the firm?’

  Without waiting for a response, John went on, ‘This is not what drives me. It’s not about expanding a business that I know the ins and outs of. I’m not interested in wealth for its own sake. What if I were to become an author? What if I was to learn Vigors’s classification system like the palm of my own hand? I have an excellent memory. He’s so slow, Eliza, so excruciating, like a snail climbing a leaf. I see where he’s headed well before he gets there, but as his acolyte I have to keep it to myself.’ He sent me a pleading glance. ‘Remember Mr Lear and his monograph on London’s parrots?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ve never felt more fulfilled than when learning about a specimen new to science. The work of naming it, of narrowing down how we might classify it, finding its nearest relatives, discovering its habits and behaviours – why, through this process it becomes a living being again.’

  ‘You’re telling me something about the India birds?’

  He squeezed my hands and leaned forward, his face emerging from the shadows. ‘I’m going to write a monograph on the Himalaya birds. There will be a folio-sized drawing of each specimen, hand coloured, using the print-making method of lithography. The illustrations will be accompanied by a page of letterpress of ornithological detail. In this alone, it will be superior to Mr Lear’s production, which includes no scientific information. By the quality of our illustrations, we will make the monograph appeal to the lady and gentleman bird enthusiast, but also the scientific connoisseur.’

  ‘And you’ve spoken to Mr Lear?’

  ‘What? No, it has nothing to do with Mr Lear.’ He looked into my eyes. ‘I have a bird-sketcher of my very own. Trained, talented. And she costs nothing at all.’

  ‘I’m hardly on a par with Mr Lear.’

  ‘Elizabeth, I have faith in you.’

  He stroked a strand of hair from across my forehead. My husband could be persuasive.

  ‘You want me to prepare the drawings? For a publication?’

  ‘Do you have an opinion?’

  I struggled with my response. ‘Only that you love to make grand plans,’ I offered. It was hard not to become entangled in John’s projects. ‘And who will draw on the stones?’

  ‘Why – you of course,’ he said. ‘You heard Mr Lear’s views on the topic. Any competent artist ca
n learn the trade.’

  ‘But I have a child coming.’

  ‘We’ll manage,’ he said, pulling me closer.

  John’s eyes searched mine. I acquiesced with a small nod, even though something inside me baulked at the prospect of embarking on such an ambitious project with a little one coming. But I firmed my resolve. I could not help but be infected by his excitement at the challenges ahead and to be offered such a unique opportunity to test my own creative talents. I would take a feather from my husband’s cap and make a leap of faith in my own abilities. There was no place to go but forward.

  Chapter 6

  Red-footed Falcon

  Falco vespertinus

  BROAD STREET, London 1831

  Henry entered the world with a bellow. A robust infant, he was quick to indicate any discomfort. Waking before dawn one morning ready to nurse him, I was momentarily panicked by his empty cot. I sat bolt upright, my mouth dry, my head clouded with flittering insects, the benefits of a full night’s rest long forgotten. My neck and lower back were damp with perspiration. I reached a hand through the cot railings, tracing the wrinkles on the sheet left by his sleeping body. The mattress was still warm.

  All will be well, I told myself. I sat on the edge of the bed, hands at my sides, my neck bent, eyes on the designs in the rug. I had been dreaming of being locked in our printer’s stamping room where iron plates clanked like rail wheels and presses ground and rolled, the acrid stink of ink clogging my nostrils. My ears rang with the punch and whirr of crankshafts and cogs. I pressed my temples, wondering if anyone had put a name to this state of half-sleep and half-wakefulness that is the mind of the nursing mother.

  I wrapped a shawl around my nightdress and went downstairs to the kitchen. John’s nightcap rested on the dining table, next to a bowl of warm water and a bottle. His bed socks were unmatched. He moved in small dance-like steps near the fire, Henry awkwardly cradled in his arms. John made cooing sounds, like a dove, though Henry would have none of it, baring his gums and gulping in breath and howling it back out.