Beautiful Lies

by Clare Clark

  Very softly Alice began to sing. She sang a song Maribel half remembered from her childhood, a lullaby with a simple swaying melody about a baby who would not sleep. Alice’s voice was low and sweet. She sang the song through three times as she brushed and Maribel, who had fought the fetters of family so bitterly, who had battled and bitten and torn with her nails to be free of it, leaned into her warm solid body and succumbed at last to childhood. She was nearly asleep when Alice put her arms about her and half led, half lifted her to bed, drawing the counterpane up and smoothing the sheet away from her face.

  ‘Goodnight, ma’am,’ Alice whispered and she turned out the lamp.

  Very quietly Maribel began to cry. Alice hesitated. Then she knelt by the side of the bed. Maribel could feel the warm heaviness of her through the bedclothes. She bowed her head, clasping her hands together so that her forehead rested on her knuckles as Alice recited the bedtime prayer familiar to all Christian children:

  Angel of God, my guardian dear,

  To whom God’s love commits us here;

  Watch over us throughout the night,

  Keep us safe within your sight.

  30

  IN THE MORNING THE breakfast table was laid for one. Alice brought tea and a boiled egg which Maribel pushed away. Alice said nothing. She moved around the room with an expression that was neither stern nor cheerful but something uncomplicated in between. When she took away the uneaten egg she nodded and, though she said nothing, there was comfort in it.

  After breakfast Maribel sent Alice out to buy the newspapers and went back to bed. When she rose again it was evening and the bed was strewn with newsprint. She did not bother to get dressed. She sat in her wrapper on the sofa, staring at the wall. Then she went back to bed. The next morning she did not get up at all. Alice brought the newspapers to her bedroom and set them in a stack by the bed. It was not until a little after two in the afternoon that Maribel called to Alice to help her dress. In the hall she bundled on her coat and hat, not troubling to check her reflection in the glass.

  ‘You can get rid of the newspapers,’ she told Alice, tugging on her gloves. ‘I shall be back by six.’

  The door to Lady Wingate’s flat was open before she reached the bottom of the stairs. The old lady peered out, leaning heavily on a cane. She wore a dark green dress, rather worn in the skirt, and, pinned at her neck, though a little off-centre, an emerald the size of a robin’s egg. Her shawl, a heavy wool patterned with orange and purple checks, appeared to be a picnic blanket.

  Maribel nodded at her, pulling her fur tippet more tightly around her shoulders.

  ‘So they put your husband in prison,’ Lady Wingate said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I told him he would get himself in trouble. A Member of Parliament breaking the law, brawling with police. It doesn’t do, you know. I hope he is ashamed of himself.’

  ‘He is in prison. Some would call that punishment enough.’

  Lady Wingate tsked, shaking her head. ‘Of course the scandal will do nothing for the reputation of this building.’

  ‘Chin up,’ Maribel said. ‘If it is that bad they will throw us out. They might even be obliged to lower the rents.’

  The old lady contemplated Maribel, her bird’s face cocked on one side. Her eyebrows were pale and sparse and clumped with face powder.

  ‘I always knew that boy was incorrigible,’ she said. ‘Right from the start. It’s the Celt in him. Too wild by half. Handsome, though. Could whistle the birds down from the trees.’

  ‘I shall tell him you said so.’

  ‘They’ll let you visit him, will they?’

  Maribel bit her lip. ‘Not now. Perhaps after Christmas.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Well,’ Maribel said. ‘I should post these.’

  ‘My father used to say that good behaviour was the last refuge of the inglorious,’ Lady Wingate said. ‘But then my father was a notoriously bad egg.’

  She stared into space, her mouth slackening as though she had fallen asleep. Then she blinked and shook herself, like a dog emerging from a pond. The skin swung in mottled wattles from her neck, but in their creased pockets of skin, her eyes were as quick as a child’s.

  ‘My husband was an irreproachable man,’ she said. ‘A pillar of society. He bored me half to death.’

  Her smile was gleeful. Shuffling backwards, she pulled in her head and closed the door.

  ‘Spain?’ Charlotte leaned forward, taking Maribel’s hand in hers. ‘Maribel, you are not thinking clearly.’

  ‘On the contrary, I have never been clearer in my life.’

  ‘Dearest, you are still in shock. This trial has been a terrible ordeal. You need to rest, recuperate. Perhaps if you were just to give yourself a little time –’

  ‘I don’t have time. Not if I am to do this and be back before Edward gets out.’

  ‘But Spain? You cannot honestly mean to go to Spain alone?’

  ‘I would not be alone. I shall take Alice with me.’

  ‘Alice, the Yorkshire girl?’ Charlotte protested. ‘But what good is that? You might as well take Kitty.’

  At the mention of her name Kitty looked up from the tower she was building with wooden blocks on the floor. The tower wavered and fell. Kitty wailed, banging at the rug with her fists.

  ‘Kitty, my lamb, that is a quite awful noise,’ Charlotte said, and Kitty took a deep breath and shouted louder, pressing her face into the rug. Clumsily, obstructed by her plastered arm and swollen belly, Charlotte leaned down and placed a yellow brick on top of a blue one.

  ‘Come,’ she said, picking up a red brick and holding it out to her daughter. ‘How tall do you think you can make this one?’

  Kitty lifted her face from the rug. Her cheeks were red.

  ‘As tall as Papa?’

  Charlotte laughed. ‘Perhaps, if you are very careful. Shall I?’ she asked, reaching down to put the red brick in place.

  ‘No, me,’ Kitty protested and she took the brick from her mother’s hand. Her eyes narrowed with concentration, the tip of her tongue caught between her front teeth, she balanced it on the tower. The resemblance to her mother was sudden and striking.

  ‘It’s too soon,’ Charlotte said abruptly. ‘I shan’t let you go.’

  ‘Does that mean you won’t lend me the money?’

  ‘It means I absolutely shouldn’t. You are being hasty.’

  ‘I am being decisive.’

  Charlotte looked at her friend helplessly.

  ‘What does Edward say?’

  ‘I have not told him yet.’

  ‘Dearest –’

  ‘I do not want to worry him.’

  ‘Will it not worry him more to discover you have gone alone to Spain?’

  ‘I won’t be alone. And I shan’t go without telling him, of course I shan’t. I couldn’t. But what else am I supposed to do? Did you see the papers this morning?’

  ‘That will calm down now the trial’s over. There’s no more story to tell.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ Maribel said. She took a folded sheet from her pocket and handed it to Charlotte. ‘This was in this morning’s Chronicle.’

  Charlotte scanned the page, the frown deepening between her eyebrows. The last paragraph she read aloud, her eyes round with disbelief.

  ‘“The dandyish Laird of Inverallich, who divides his time between a luxurious home in Belgravia and his ancestral estate in the Scottish Highlands, was led from the dock in handcuffs. His equally flamboyant wife was in court to hear the judge pass sentence. Attired in a gold silk gown more suited to the ballroom than the courtroom, the exotic Mrs Campbell Lowe whispered with Mr William Morris throughout the proceedings. Her disregard for the proprieties of English law was further underlined by the discovery that she had, in advance of the case, sent out At Home cards, inviting her friends to attend the trial as though it were a private soirée. A senior figure in the Liberal Party told this newspaper that he considered her actions ‘to
be an outright mockery of the due process of the law, casting yet more disgrace over what is already a profoundly disgraceful affair’.” But that’s poisonous.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘How could they? All that spiteful innuendo – they’ve twisted everything. I thought the Chronicle was supposed to be on Edward’s side.’

  ‘So did Edward.’

  ‘You poor darling. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s my own fault. I should have listened when you told me to wear black.’

  Charlotte sighed, dropping the cutting on the table. ‘This isn’t why you want to go away, is it? Because of this?’

  Maribel shook her head firmly. The urge to confess was very strong. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Because they’ll lose interest. By tomorrow there’ll be another story. There always is.’

  And this time it will be mine, Maribel wanted to say. The story I’ve never told you, that I’ve never even properly told my husband. An old, old story and the end of everything.

  ‘I don’t have a choice,’ she said instead. ‘There isn’t any more money. I have been over and over the books and every time it only comes out worse than before.’

  ‘It’s a bad time, everyone says so, but things will look up.’

  ‘Not at Inverallich. Whatever I do we just seem to fall further behind.’

  ‘Surely you can borrow?’

  ‘Again? Perhaps. But for how long? It might be years before we are back to where we were before the storm.’

  ‘But a mine in Spain? Isn’t it rather a long shot?’

  ‘Of course it’s a long shot. But if we are right, and the mine exists, it would solve everything.’

  ‘And if it does not?’

  ‘Then I will have tried. I cannot wait here doing nothing, Charlotte. I shall go mad. And at least in Spain I shan’t see the newspapers.’

  The crash of bricks made her jump. Opposite her Charlotte froze, ready for the howl. Instead Kitty frowned, her hands on her hips, her neat front teeth pressing down on her lower lip.

  ‘Dash it all to heck,’ she said.

  Charlotte covered her mouth with one hand, holding back her laughter. Maribel smiled. Charlotte would lend her the money, she was sure of that. Tomorrow she would book a passage to Spain. The certainty of it steadied her. It would not be easy. It was a long journey and, in winter, an uncomfortable one. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps the mine would not be there. Perhaps it would be exhausted, the last of the gold dug out long ago.

  Or perhaps it would save them. Whatever happened it would save her. She could not stay in London, alone in the empty flat, woken at dawn with the dread of the morning newspapers. The journey would give shape to the empty days, a purpose, a goal, however far-fetched. She would forget London and perhaps, if she were lucky, Mr Webster would forget her. Charlotte was right. There was always a new story. Something else would come along and by the time she came back it would all be forgotten. By the time she came back she would have learned to be strong. Two days before the trial, walking by the river, she had hailed a passing cab. She reached the corner of Ida’s street before she found the presence of mind to ask the driver to turn round. She could not stay in London.

  Clearing a space among the scattered debris, Kitty began again. Charlotte smiled and leaned forward, lifting the lid of the teapot to peer inside. This afternoon her silk-scarf sling was scarlet, patterned with gorgeous paisley leaves in violet and black. The tips of her fingers protruded from its vivid carapace, pale as roots. ‘Is that stewed enough for you?’ she asked.

  ‘Could you stain a floor with it? Then it’s perfect.’

  Charlotte poured as, at her feet, Kitty added bricks to her tower. It leaned dangerously to the left. Maribel took the proffered cup carefully, for fear of agitating the air. Charlotte watched her daughter for a moment. Then she turned back to Maribel, touching her gently on the knee.

  ‘How are you? Truly?’

  ‘I am all right. Truly.’

  ‘I wish I had been there with you.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference.’

  ‘It would to me. Oh, Maribel, don’t go to Spain. Come and stay here with us for a while if you can’t bear the flat. Just until things settle.’

  ‘And Arthur?’

  ‘Nothing would please him more.’

  It was an outrageous lie and they both knew it. Maribel clasped her friend’s hand in hers and raised it to her lips.

  ‘Thank you. But I am going to Spain.’

  ‘Dearest, I beg you, think about this sensibly. What knowledge do you have of mining? Surely it is more practical to send an agent to investigate on your behalf. Then, if the mine does miraculously exist, as soon as Edward – next year you and Edward can travel out there together.’

  ‘And what if the agent stakes his own claim and cuts us out entirely? Charlotte, I have made up my mind. You will not talk me out of it, however hard you try.’

  Charlotte shook her head. ‘You know, if it is occupation you are after, I could find plenty for you here.’

  ‘Or you could come with me.’

  Her face screwed tight, Kitty reached out and placed a blue block on the top of the tower.

  ‘Look, Mama, look!’ she hissed in a stage whisper, tugging on her mother’s skirts. The tower swayed slightly but it did not fall. Charlotte smiled, putting a finger to her lips.

  ‘Hush, my lamb. The grown-ups are talking.’

  ‘Well?’ Maribel said.

  Charlotte contemplated her broken arm, her pregnant belly.

  ‘The perfect travelling companion,’ she said.

  ‘You would be.’

  Charlotte looked up, caught by the seriousness in Maribel’s voice.

  ‘There is more to this than the mine, isn’t there?’ she said softly.

  Maribel stared into her cup of tea.

  ‘I told you,’ she said. ‘I need to do something. Twelve weeks –’

  ‘I know.’

  The tower tottered. Then it fell. Kitty picked up the brick nearest to her and threw it across the room.

  ‘Kitty!’ Charlotte said sternly. ‘If you cannot behave you will have to go back to the nursery.’

  Her daughter glared balefully at the bricks.

  ‘You’re not playing,’ she said.

  ‘That’s because I only play with good little girls.’

  ‘No it’s not. It’s because you’re talking. You’re always talking.’

  ‘Kitty!’ Charlotte said again, making an apologetic face at Maribel. ‘Mrs Campbell Lowe is our visitor. We must make her welcome.’

  ‘It’s not fair. It’s my day to have you. Why does she have to come on my day?’

  ‘I should go,’ Maribel said.

  ‘I won’t hear of it,’ Charlotte protested. ‘Kitty, that was very rude. Apologise to Mrs Campbell Lowe immediately.’

  Kitty glowered at the carpet.

  ‘Kitty?’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  Kitty’s face was thunderous. Maribel suppressed a smile.

  ‘Thank you, Kitty,’ she said gravely.

  ‘Now go to the nursery and think about what you have done.’

  ‘Mama –’

  ‘I said now, Catherine Charterhouse!’

  Kitty sucked in her cheeks. Then slowly she made her way out of the room, scuffing at the carpet with the toes of her shoes.

  ‘And make sure to close the door properly behind you.’

  The door closed, a little too loudly.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ Maribel said. ‘I spoiled her afternoon.’

  ‘Kitty has to learn that she is not the only fish in the sea.’

  ‘Still.’

  ‘We are dining with the Woodwards tonight, for our sins,’ Charlotte said. ‘I suppose it is too much to hope that you are going too?’

  ‘Much too much.’

  ‘I wish Arthur would not insist on accepting them.’

  ‘You should have him arrested. Then they would no longer ask y
ou.’

  ‘Ah.’

  They were both quiet, staring into the fire.

  ‘It’s funny,’ Charlotte said at last, ‘I never knew anyone go to prison before Edward. And yet, with perhaps one exception, he is also the only man I have ever met who acts entirely according to his conscience.’

  ‘You’ll make other convict friends. Jane Morris says that it’s only a matter of time before her husband is arrested. It seems that these demonstrations have made a dervish of him.’

  ‘Well, there you are. Mr Morris was my one exception.’

  ‘Jane seems to think that prison will be good for him, that he will finally have the chance to write uninterrupted, but then she has always had an uncanny ability to discover silver linings to her husband’s misfortunes. She told me once it was having Mr Rossetti at Kelmscott that inspired him to his finest work.’

  Charlotte smiled sadly. ‘At least Edward has a wife who deserves him.’

  Maribel thought of Mr Webster. ‘I wish you were right,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t be absurd. Look at you two, how devoted you are to one another. Perhaps it is because you don’t have a swarm of children under your feet, or perhaps you Europeans are simply better at it than us English with our wretched –’

  ‘Charlotte, dearest, what is it?’

  Charlotte shook her head, fumbling a handkerchief from her sleeve.

  ‘It’s nothing. Something in my eye, that’s all.’

  She pressed the handkerchief hard against her eyes with the tips of her fingers. Then she blinked and took a deep breath.

  ‘So silly,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine what has got into me.’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘I’m tired. That’s all.’

  ‘Then promise me that you won’t go to the Woodwards tonight, that you’ll stay here and have supper in bed.’

  Charlotte shook her head. ‘Arthur wants us to go. Please don’t worry. I shall be quite better after a little rest.’