‘There’s no harm in her at all,’ says Baines. ‘In fact Eleanor is a good, practical sort of person – she organises a women’s cooperative. She’s taken a weekend house in Salisbury. Miriam is her sole folly. We see her most weekends floating around at the gates, watching for us.’
‘Miss Jackson says she can never love a man,’ says Mirrie.
That sticks at a curious angle in Anna’s mind. She twists the fingers of her gloves between her hands.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Mirrie says. ‘But isn’t all love a good thing, Anna?’
‘Well, no. Not really. Unrequited love is not good, or love that destroys. Or slavish love. Quite a few categories really.’ She says she can never love a man. ‘Has something happened, Mirrie, to distress you?’
‘Come and sit with me – dear Anna. There are things I’ve kept from you. This I can no longer do. I am a published author, a novelist. Perhaps you had guessed this? An author rather than an authoress – that at least is what I aspired to be. But the secret is betrayed. And with it the legal irregularity of our marriage has become public knowledge. I shall be a pariah. You will be called upon to shun me. Only the Eleanors of this world will remain faithful.’
‘How can you say that? No, Mirrie. Truly, I never shall.’
‘You may be forced to.’
‘Not ever. How can you even think so?’
‘Bitter experience.’
‘But not of me – not bitter experience of me.’
‘I’ve always thought myself exceptional. But we all struggle in the same web. You cannot visit me and keep your reputation, Anna. That’s just how it is. I am a woman writing under a man’s name; I have been unmasked; stripped naked to public view. And in any case, Baines and I cannot continue to live in England.’ She announces this briskly, with decision. ‘We’ve been driven from our own country.’
‘But where shall you go?’
‘What does it matter? Weimar, perhaps. Paris. I shall miss you. And yet in some ways I’m glad to leave.’
Anna seems to see her friend across a room that has expanded to a continent of space. Nothing Mirrie can do will restore her to society’s acceptance. Her parents and brothers have disowned her. ‘And, Anna, I was a filial child. I meant to be a loyal wife. I was prepared for self-sacrifice but … there are limits. And I’ve always nourished ambition. I married a gentleman with whom, as it turned out, I had nothing in common. I met Baines. He was the first man in my life to see and value my gift.’
Miriam has no wish to allege anything against her kin. With hindsight, she sees that there were opportunities before her engagement to recognise her intended’s narrow, fastidious character and its incompatibility with her own: she fooled herself. Marrying him against the judgment of her family, she went on to leave him against their judgment. Miriam has carried her family’s reputation into the gutter. They have all but one aunt repudiated her. She no longer has a family.
Anna glances from Miriam to Baines, leaning forward to listen, nod, sympathise. Yes, you’re devoted to her now but how will you be in ten years’ time? What if you desert her? Mirrie must have asked herself this a thousand times. It occurs to Anna that, having attained celebrity as an author, even if it takes the form of notoriety, Mirrie is at least equipped to support herself, should the worst come to the worst.
And were there children of this marriage? Miriam doesn’t say. It’s impossible to ask. Should Anna ask to accompany the Salas to Weimar or Paris?
But I have no sufficient private means, she thinks, being dependent on my sister. If I joined them, Mirrie and her husband, all in all to one another, would welcome, then tolerate, then suffer my presence – just another hanger-on like Eleanor Jackson. She can never love a man. Anna would begin to bore them. And then again the thought of abandoning Wiltshire is a fearful prospect: tearing up her roots, forfeiting the only home she has ever known.
‘But, Anna dearest, let us ring for tea. I have not asked after you at all.’
As they talk, a draught crosses the room. The fire roars in the chimney, keeping its heat to itself. The cedar thrashes, rattling the panes. It will take no time at all for me to go mad, if I stay or if I go, Anna thinks. Either way I’ll be alone.
If I called, who would answer?
All the while at the back of her mind, there’s the recognition, She says she can never love a man. If this is also true of herself, Anna lives in a world of greater aberration than anything guessed by those around her. The best she can hope for is to hide her anomaly. At Sarum House she lives amongst the partially blind. Or in disguise, behind a thick veil.
‘Oh, I’m well, thank you, Miriam. No tea – really. I should be returning home.’
The bells of St Osmund’s toll as Anna walks the river path. A doomy, lachrymose message. Crossing the footbridge, she views a cluster of black-clad mourners outside the Anglican church, awaiting the hearse. Conform, conform, the bell insists. The coffin is removed from the hearse. The black plumes of the horses shake in the wind; leaves are lashed from the graveyard’s ancient beeches. Anna recognises the family: the Tourneys, Wiltshire gentry, High Churchmen, formerly recusants, latterly Tractarians. The aisle is paved with their ancestral tombstones; the walls boast their monuments and inscriptions. The Quarles tombs too. The minister arrives, robed in pomp of alb, stole, chasuble, whatnot – and a phalanx of blond choristers in blue cassocks. A bearer carrying a cross. They file into the church; the doors close behind them.
Circling crows call: Conform, conform. Generations ago the Pentecosts took the momentous step into nonconformity; a dissidence not subdued by persecution. It held to its Christ with heroic quietism and still demands from its daughters not less than everything. The door of the Baptist chapel stands open. Anna steps in. The plain whitewashed interior is drenched in light, as if transparent to the day. Nobody about. Nothing to distract the eye. Anna kneels in the family pew. She listens. My beloved, are you still there?
The soughing of wind in the overarching copper beech: Come home, come home.
Chapter 11
When she sees him, when she does not, Will is physically present, distressing Beatrice’s nerves as if he brushed against her or breathed on her face. Performing all the necessary chores and the extra tasks in readiness for the wedding, Beatrice is shiveringly aroused.
He has said, turning away, ‘You’ve killed me, Beatrice. You know very well I’ve never seriously loved any woman but you.’
And she said, ‘Seriously? Do you even know the meaning of the word? You’ve flirted with the whole of Chauntsey. You have compromised Anna. You’re honour bound to marry my sister now. If there’s any scrap of honour in you, Will.’
‘Why on earth do you say that?’
‘You know perfectly well. Running away with her. You’ve made her into an object of scandal.’
‘Run away! That’s ridiculous. I love Anna. I love her because she’s your sister. And therefore my sister.’
‘There’s no point in trying to woo me back. None. Just accept it, Mr Anwyl.’
Beatrice sees him walking in the garden alone, then later arm in arm with Anna. They vanish into the wilderness. Beatrice’s ribcage squeezes her heart with the most intense pain she’s ever known. But I can get you back from her any moment I like. Thirteen days is a period composed of tens of thousands of such moments. At any time I can stop the clock; the whole process can be brought to a standstill.
Three days pass in the blink of an eye: Mr Anwyl calls with news of Mr Kyffin. He relates it over lunch, directing his gaze at everyone in turn excepting Beatrice. The Florian Street congregation is in turmoil: nearly half have voted against the Prynne clique to invite Mr Kyffin back as their pastor, epilepsy or no epilepsy, heresy or no heresy. Mr Prynne and the deacons have initiated the procedure to expel the rebels. Charlie Kyffin, burning with rage, felt moved to rise and testify against Mr Prynne’s malice and ambition. When Mr Prynne ordered him out, Charlie sat down and gripped the rail: Prynne would have to
remove him by force ‘from my father’s chapel’. Mr Prynne and five irate deacons marched out themselves, leaving the chapel in uproar.
‘What does Mr Kyffin say?’ asks Joss.
‘Not a word. He’s understood to be awaiting a leading from the Lord.’
‘And dear Mrs Kyffin?’
‘I saw her yesterday. She is considering a hydropathic treatment.’
‘For herself or for her husband?’
‘That wasn’t clear. Her Christian spirit up till now has been perfect, forgiving every persecutor. Chwarae teg, I think the candle’s burning rather low; she’s weary of it all. I have prayed with her and I shall go again. Dear Ellen is a great support to her mother. At her tender age, she’s all but running the household. And – it’s rather disquieting – the child has taken on a certain authority: the mother quite defers to her.’
Beatrice allows herself to look into Will’s face. His calm, thoughtful voice affects her strangely. She has always looked down on him as a second-rate Christian, accusing him in her heart of lack of spiritual calibre. How fair has she been? Will has taken Beatrice at her word and given up on her. That’s clear. And perhaps she herself brought out the worst in him.
‘That’s well done, Will,’ says Anna, quietly.
Her sister’s gentle tone pierces Beatrice. This last week Anna has spoken little. She has constantly had her head in a book. The Bible, as far as Beatrice could make out. Beatrice sees her visiting the chapel. And this is good: it should be a source of reassurance, a sign that her sister is healthily back in the fold. True, Anna eats little. But she tries everything on her plate and makes sure to thank Beatrice for her efforts on her behalf. She’s sewing a hat for Beatrice’s honeymoon journey; tries on her bridesmaid’s dress and stands for the alterations, with a willing if rigid smile.
After luncheon, Will and Anna seat themselves at either side of the fire in the parlour. They do not talk. Yes, they do. They’re speaking with their eyes.
Eight days before Beatrice’s wedding: she awakens with a start, dreaming that she’s giving birth. A boy-child’s turnip skull rams aside the wincing tissues. It ploughs forward but then fixes fast. She cannot shift the man-child, however she strains. When Tibby died having given birth to one dead kitten, Beatrice dissected the dear body and found two further kittens, one putrescing in the birth canal, the other intact in the womb but lifeless. Opening the maternal body, she came face to face with death. This dream-birth threatens to kill her; she must expel it. In a cold sweat Beatrice begins to surface and detects her mistake. The child has grown into her own membranes and become a vital organ of her own body. It will not be ejected except by destroying the matrix of life. She’ll have to live with the growth like a tumour, humping it obscenely around with her.
The double dream taints the day. Beatrice checks herself for blood. No blood. She calculates. How mortifying if she should bleed on the wedding night. This appears more than likely. Christian is fastidiously clean; one would not care to bring female mess and smells into his bed.
Throughout his young manhood, he kept himself pure for her. What if she lets him down?
An explosion of laughter, out of nowhere. And the Pentecosts are romping all round the house. Back to their old selves, up and down the stairs, hide-and-seek, blind man’s buff. The last soft sand sifts through the hourglass with the appearance of a whirlpool. Surely time is speeding up? Or going back? Charlie Kyffin, Joss, Rose and Lily Peck, Mr Anwyl, Beatrice and Anna are all ten years old again. Piggy in the middle, Mr Anwyl leaps up to catch a flying cushion that jangles the chandelier.
Beatrice crashes upstairs and hides in her bedroom. In burst the others: ‘Found you!’ They look round in wonderment at acres of crinoline, violet, cream, yellow and scarlet, frills and lace and ribbons not yet attached to any garment. ‘Oh that is so very Parisian, Miss Pentecost!’ Rose and Lily marvel over the wedding dress with its flattened front and the drama of its billowing back portions. Mais it’s so belle! The Peck girls address one another in pidgin French, the sacred language of fashion. Lifting the wedding gown by its shoulders, they hold it between them before the long mirror, a headless third party at whose reflection they gaze with critical reverence.
‘You’re going to look a picture, Miss Pentecost,’ says Rose. ‘I wish I were getting married.’
‘You will, I’m sure.’
‘But I want to marry now. Not in years and years.’
‘But then it would be all over, wouldn’t it, Rose,’ says Lily. ‘You’d have nothing left to look forward to.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Well, there is the marriage itself,’ Joss points out. ‘The new life and all that.’ A life Joss has never seen fit to embark on.
‘Well, I suppose so. But that’s the porridge, not the honey.’
The Peck girls study Beatrice with compassion. ‘Old,’ their looks say. ‘Almost past it. You have a sprinkle of grey hairs, showing at the back where you couldn’t reach to tweezer them out. We take note of it whenever you turn. Your skin is nothing like peaches and cream. It sags. But never mind.’ Beatrice passes her hand over her hair. Turning away, she glances out at the autumn garden. Wasps have devoured the sugars in the windfall pears, leaving behind brown shrivelled corpses and a smell between ferment and decay.
When the doorbell rings, there’s much smoothing of garments.
‘Mr Ivor and Mr Thimbleby, Miss Pentecost,’ calls Amy from halfway up the stairs. ‘Where’ll I put them?’
Why must the girl stand yelling? Why can’t she introduce visitors decently? Beatrice hopes they haven’t heard the infantile games going on in Sarum House. She descends sedately and, opening the parlour door, sees Mr Thimbleby advancing with his hand held out – and her sister retreating, face white as flour. What’s the matter with her now?
Anna’s hand goes up to her throat; she cringes. Half her face is lit by a strip of sunlight that makes her look one-eyed: an eye widened in terror. Is Anna about to be ill again? More hysterics? She is, isn’t she? Can’t you control yourself for five minutes? There’s too much to do, too much to think about: and shouldn’t Beatrice be the centre of attention in this prelude to her wedding?
Anna takes a further step backwards. She’s now standing against the shadowy crimson of the curtains.
‘Joss,’ she hisses to her brother. ‘Don’t let them.’
‘Don’t let them what, dear?’
Beatrice ignores Anna’s little drama; greets the visitors. Thimbleby, eminent Congregationalist that he is, has turned his family home into a retreat for genteel female lunatics, run on modern, humanitarian lines: there are no barred windows, locked doors or physical restraints, just sustaining food, warm clothes, an intimate family home. So benign is the regime that Thimbleby can allow the best-behaved to mingle with his young family.
‘Have I alarmed your dear sister?’ he whispers.
‘She’s not quite herself today.’
Mr Thimbleby apologises for intruding at such an important time. Two inmates absconded in the night. May he and Mr Ivor look round for them in Miss Pentecost’s grounds?
It has happened before, several times, and on one occasion a poor creature broke into the scullery of Sarum House and raided the pantry, going off with cherry tart and cheese. The Pentecost sisters sorrowed for her and hoped that the good food comforted the lost soul. Mr Thimbleby’s inmates are rarely violent. They inflict wounds on themselves rather than on others, burning or cutting their own arms or faces. As Anna did when Lore died. They cannot be allowed access to matches or knives. Two by two, the least deranged are led through Chauntsey to Morning Service on the Sabbath. Beatrice, having shown the two men into the garden, returns to stand at the window; her sister has sunk down on a chair.
‘Poor creatures,’ Beatrice says. ‘The temperature was below freezing in the night. What is it, Anna? I’m sure they’re harmless. Oh look, he’s found them.’
‘It’s true, then … it wasn’t a … pretext.’ Anna heaves
a trembling sigh.
‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘I thought you might have – invited them.’
‘Whyever would I do that?’
The women have fashioned a nest for themselves in a pile of straw and sacks, packing a quantity of it round them for warmth. They allow themselves to be shepherded down the lawn by Mr Ivor and Mr Thimbleby. Neither makes the least fuss. Perhaps it’s a relief to have been found. Perhaps they only wished to taste the air of freedom. In the chill of the night they must have huddled to one another, fearful of the vast sky and the constellations. They hold hands, a woman in middle age and one somewhat younger, like mother and daughter, dressed in the same Quakerish grey; there’s nothing to distinguish them from normal folk.
Afterwards Beatrice watches her sister examine the lunatics’ nest; observing the shape left by the two bodies clasped in one another’s arms. Anna seems calm. Can she have imagined that Mr Thimbleby had come for her?
Five days remain and Mr Ritter is expected early tomorrow. The final preparations are hectic. The wedding breakfast has been ordered: salmon and perch, beef and pork, poultry, mince pies and cake, jellies. The trousseau is complete and can be admired by visitors. Beatrice rests her aching feet and, with the kind of pleasure the tongue takes in probing a rotten tooth that’s temporarily quiescent, insists on sketching Anna with Mr Anwyl. She positions Anna on a dining chair, with Will just behind her, as if for a photograph. Beatrice laughs with affected gaiety; the models remain glum, like a morose married pair after a tiff, the most recent of many, to which they’ll return after the session.
Will catches Beatrice on the stairs. She pulls away. He follows her into her room without permission. He snares her wrist. She wants him to. She wrenches away. There’ll be a scorch mark where Will has ringed her wrist. She rubs it. Look what you’ve done. It’s a trophy.
Awakening Page 14