by Wylde, Anya
“A fat poet? Whoever heard of such a creature?”
“Oh, go away.”
“I won’t. What’s his name? It may be easier to discover his whereabouts.”
“You want to help me?”
“Yes. A poet who paints his location and calls it poetry and a lovelorn girl who sets out to find him in a strange city. It is a sort of thing that intrigues me.”
“I suppose there is no harm. His name is Philbert Woodbead.”
“A fat ugly poet called Philbert Woodbead?” he enquired.
She nodded.
“You are bamming me.”
She shook her head.
And that was when he laughed.
Chapter 11
“Dorothy, stop teasing Gunhilda.” Celine pulled her sister out from under the table. “You cannot keep running away every time you have lessons. And the housekeeper informed me that your bed sheets were covered in soot. Were you trying to climb up the chimney?”
“Madame? The dinner—”
“Ah yes, Miss Cornley, Lord Elmer will be joining us for dinner again. In fact, he is going to remain with us indefinitely.”
“Is he really?” Dorothy brightened. “Can I have dinner with him?”
“You know Sir Henry will never approve. Don’t pout. You can meet him in the evening.”
“I would like that,” Dorothy said. Her shoulders straightened and she ran a hand through her hair. “How do I look?”
“Like an imp.”
“Can I wear my pink velvet?”
“Why, where are you going?”
“I shall ask George to walk with me in the oriental garden.”
“Don’t be so forward, Dorothy. Address him as Lord Elmer, and you are going for a walk not a ball. You will look silly wearing the pink velvet. Wear your brown paisley.”
“I don’t like brown.”
“Blue spotted?”
“Oh, alright,” Dorothy replied sourly. She raced up the stairs yelling for Gwerful to come and do her hair.
Celine turned back to the waiting housekeeper. “I am sorry, Miss Cornley. Where was I? Oh yes, sprinkle some tea leaves and rose powder on the carpets in the Jade Room. And can you request the house steward to meet me in the garden. I need to discuss the menu. Perhaps we can have some Gumballs, boiled fish, sugared plums, cheese wigs and a few peacock pies—”
“Amy,” George called out.
“My name is Celine, Lord Elmer,” Celine said briskly. She nodded a dismissal to the housekeeper.
“Amy,” he repeated more firmly, “what are you doing?”
“Putting on these white gloves. It helps spot the dust.”
“And after that?”
“I will walk around the mansion spotting dust.”
“Can you spare a few moments from your dust spotting? I need to—What was that?”
She tilted her head to one side, “I don’t hear anything.”
“Hush,” he said placing a finger on her lips. “There, did you hear that?”
“It sounds like someone is screeching.” She glanced at him worriedly.
“I am sure it is nothing, but perhaps we should check?”
“It sounds like Penny,” she said racing towards the music room.
She skidded to a halt outside the library when she spotted a bosom heaving, vein throbbing, enraged duchess facing a subdued duke.
“Have you listened to a word I have said in the last six months?” Penelope asked in a soft dangerous voice.
“I thought you liked fruit cake,” the duke replied confused.
Penelope eyed the duke and then the large fruit cake he held on a silver dish. “You did not want to cheer me up. This is your underhand, evil plot. You want to make me fat.”
Celine and Lord Elmer retreated a few steps.
“I did not want to make you fat. You could never be fat … a little plumpish but that is pretty—” the duke spluttered.
“Plumpish?” Penelope asked taking a small step towards the duke.
“Not that you are plumpish. But even if you do become plumpish, I will still find you just as beautiful.”
“Charles, do you recall on our wedding day I told you about the sign, the sign that made me realise that I loved you?”
The duke frowned, “Your toes curled every time we kissed and that is how you knew that you loved me. But what does that have to do—”
“I can no longer see those toes.”
The duke cleared his throat nervously, “Penny,” he began and then trailed off into an indistinct mumble.
Penelope took the cake and squashed it on top of the duke’s head. “You eat it,” she growled.
Bits of cake slid down the duke’s hair and onto his excellent shoulders.
Penelope snatched a mop from a trembling maid and took a step towards him. “Let me clean you up, your grace.”
The duke thought the time had come to run and he did. He flew the coup, deserted the army, and abandoned ship. In other words, he turned tail and sprinted down the corridor as fast as his muscled legs could carry him.
Penelope narrowed her eyes to slits and waddled after him. She chased him down the corridor throwing all manner of things at his fast disappearing back including a priceless ornament, an ancestral bust, a branch pulled out of a potted plant, and a rolled up rug.
She glared at her hands. Her aim was terrible. Everything she threw fell just a few paces away from her. She roared in frustration making the walls of the mansion vibrate. She gritted her teeth, lifted her skirts, and once again shuffled after him.
She stormed down the passageway like a lion headed, serpent tailed Chimaera breathing forth flames of red tipped fire. She was an unnatural creature, a creature not quite human and yet mortal.
She slithered and hissed her way towards the carved pillar behind which Celine and Lord Elmer were attempting to hide, her eyes pinned to the duke’s disappearing coat tails.
But before the bugaboo in the garb of the duchess could discover them, Lord Elmer grabbed Celine and dragged her through the nearest door.
They found themselves in a coat closet where they decided to bide their time until the threat looming outside receded.
A fur coat tickled Celine’s nose. She sneezed.
On the fifth sneeze Lord Elmer launched into speech, “Now, listen to me, I want you to meet me in the library tonight after dinner. Get the painting that has the clue of your fat poet’s whereabouts. Don’t forget, at nine sharp I will see you there.”
“But—”
“No buts.”
“But—”
He made an impatient noise, “The doting grandmother that is the dowager will come flying home the moment the new babe is born. And you, my dear, will be politely but firmly sent back to Finnshire. The babe will be here soon, Amy, and we are running out of time. Your chance of finding Puff Guts, I mean your poet, is now.”
“I know that.”
“Then why are you wasting so much time. We have to work quickly. I will see you tonight.”
“I don’t think it is seemly.”
“You are having an affair with a fat poet called Woodbead. You are doing this behind your beloved sister’s back, and you are telling me that my innocent offer of helping you is not seemly?”
“I don’t think you should get involved. This is my problem.”
“Celine, this job needs a man of wit, sensitivity, poise, creativity and good looks. How can you even doubt that I am not the man for the job? This problem of yours needs me, Celine, me,” he said jabbing a finger into his chest. “Besides, I am a man and you can’t do half the things that I can without questions being asked.”
“If we are caught?”
“You should have thought about that before you went and fell in love.”
“Well….”
“Do you even love him?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“You seem reluctant to find him. I mean a woman in love is passionate. She is desperate to find her beloved, willing to
jump off cliffs and whatnot, and here you won’t meet me at nine in the evening to research?”
“I shall meet you at nine.”
He smiled like a well fed cat, “Good, now let me leave first and you can follow in five minutes.”
“Fine,” was all she could manage before he had reached the door in one stride and was out in another.
***
The clock struck nine. It was time to meet Lord Elmer, but Celine did not move. She closed her eyes and leaned against the cold window pane in her bedroom. She wondered where her Philly was with a slight twinge in her heart.
She opened her eyes and gazed across the garden at the glistening lily pond. She did not notice the pretty yellow lamps reflected in the dark, opaque water. Instead, she saw her beloved Philly racing towards her on a bright summer morning.
She recalled how he had come skipping towards her, his bulbous cheeks pink with pleasure. His feet had pounded on the grassy meadow frightening the birds and the bees, his dumpy form lit from behind by the sun. He had looked like a cherub without wings, his smile frenzied and rolling towards her at great speed, clutching in delicate soft hands his latest poem.
She clutched that very poem to her chest now. Her mouth moved silently while the words danced in her head,
My love for you, my dear red haired lass, is eternal,
I promise, my love, it is not nocturnal but diurnal.
You are my Neapolitan ice on a hot summer’s day,
And stuffed game and wine when the world is cold and grey.
My heart beats harder when I see you smile,
Than when I am confronted by hungry tigers and poisonous reptiles.
Let me confess, I spotted your ankle uncovered,
I blush when I think how it left me bewildered.
Believe me, my dear, I love you eternally,
Truly, my darling, it’s a love not external but arising internally.
She heaved a great sentimental sigh. Philly had said it was a love poem for her. He had spent an entire week agonising over every sentence. Her Philly was a perfectionist, she mused fondly, with his big cornflower blue eyes fogged up in excitement and his … She frowned. Did he have a dimple in his chin? A variety of puffy weak chins floated by in her mind. None of them seemed to fit her Philly. A horrible thought struck her. If she loved him, then shouldn’t she remember what his chin looked like? Surely a woman in love remembers her lover’s chin.
She gripped the curtains, her bosom heaving in turmoil. What sort of a woman in love was she? A cruddy sort, that’s what. Not remembering her own lover’s chin, the horror.
She shoved the poem into her pocket. Women in love, Lord Elmer had said, were willing to jump off cliffs for their beloved. Would she, she wondered, jump off a cliff for Philbert?
What if she did jump, and instead of hitting solid earth she found a deep dark sea waiting to engulf her?
She gulped.
Perhaps jumping off cliffs was a little dramatic. After all, her mother said that she most decidedly at times loved her father, and her mother wouldn’t jump off a hay cart for her father, let alone a cliff.
She did love him she told herself firmly. After all, the feelings were still fresh in her mind. She may not recall his chin, but she well remembered the anticipation and excitement she felt whenever she met him. The tickle in her belly when they had kissed for the first time and how her heart had skipped a beat when he had confessed his love for her one frigid winter morning.
She watched a servant go by holding a flickering lamp in her hand. She wondered why she was dithering. Lord Elmer was offering her his help, and with his help, she was sure Philbert could be found … and yet her feet refused to move in the direction of the library where no doubt Lord Elmer sat pulling out his hair in boredom.
It had been a year since she had seen Philbert and six months since she had last heard of him. What if he no longer loved her?
The servant disappeared from her view, and with the fading light, she came to the conclusion that she would find him. She would risk taking a stranger’s help, telling him her secrets, not for sensible Amy, but for the Celine in her. This would be her adventure, and after that she would devout her life to being good, dutiful and an ideal accomplished lady.
With a firm nod, she picked up her diary and the sheets of poetry and made her way towards the library.
Chapter 12
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” she said the moment she spotted Lord Elmer in the library.
He eyed her quizzically.
“I mean finding Philly and—”
“You call him Philly?”
She ignored him and continued, “I don’t want your help.”
“But why? I already know your secret, and if you live in fear that I may tell someone, then isn’t it better to take my help in finding the fellow and marry him before you are disgraced in society.”
She didn’t reply.
“Do you even love him?” he persisted.
She caught the sneer in his tone. “I do. I just …”
“You just wanted to play at finding him. You did not really intend on acting out your fantasy. Is that it?”
Her mouth trembled.
He took her elbow and gently pushed her into a seat. “Shall we try to see how this evening goes? Now that you are here we might as well make use of the time. If you decide not to take my help from tomorrow, then I promise not to bother you. I will find something else to amuse me.”
She glanced at him and then looked away. The blasted man was looking kind. Not scornful but kind and slightly sympathetic. She nodded reluctantly.
He immediately spurred into action. The sheets of paper were spread out, the ink and the quill readied, more candles lit, and various maps pulled down from shelves. Finally, he turned to her and asked to see the painting.
A little breathless from how quickly he seemed to get things done she unravelled the parchment.
He eyed her actions with pursed lips.
She scowled. If he did not find her manner of unrolling a scroll sufficiently romantic, then she didn’t care. She wasn’t going to spend ten minutes cooing at the paper and caressing it with loving hands. If he could be quick, then she too was efficient and practical. Romance would come later once she met her darling Philly.
The painting was unrolled efficiently, not romantically, and she smoothed it out and placed it on the table.
They stared at the painting.
He picked it up and turned it over.
They frowned.
He brought the candle closer, letting the light illuminate the back of the painting.
They chewed their lips.
He made her hold the painting and then walked across the other end of the room and looked at it.
They strained their eyes.
He walked back towards her, and this time he peered at it with one eye closed and the other open. He then switched things up by closing the open eye and opening the closed eyed. He finally closed both eyes and fingered the paper testing its weight and texture.
They scratched their heads and stroked their chins.
He finally asked, “Has he painted a camel hump? Hills? Mountains? A pig with a stick and mountains?”
“Don’t be silly,” she replied irritably.
“Then why don’t you explain it to me?”
“Well,” she frowned, “I haven’t figured it out yet. If I had I wouldn’t need your help.”
“You must have some ideas?”
“I suppose, but they are not very good.”
“Tell me one.”
“No.”
“You have to. Otherwise how am I supposed to help you? You know him best. Now what could it be?”
She fidgeted for a moment and then said, “This here is a man with a crown on his head. See these points.”
“The only thing I see is a pig. Those points are ears. If it was a crown, then it would have more points. Now, what about this here?”
“I suppose
it could be a kidney?” she offered hesitatingly.
“A kidney?
“Yes, a kidney.”
“Why a kidney?”
“It looks like a kidney.”
“A human kidney?”
“A fish’s kidney.”
“Do fish have kidneys?”
“Well, then a human one.”
He tilted his head to the side, examining the painting anew. “Do you know doctors dig corpses out of the grave and then cut them up? And then they pull out all the innards and draw them.”
“How do they know that a living person’s innards are the same as a dead person’s? What if they shrivel up the moment a person dies?” she asked curiously. “Do they also cut up people who are alive?”
He looked at her bright, eager face and said hastily, “Let’s stop speaking of shrivelled up innards. It is making me feel queer. Instead, let us discuss why your poet would draw a kidney suspended in empty space over a pig. I for one don’t think it is a kidney. It looks more like an inverted hill.” He looked at her again but this time from the corner of his eye. “Why did you think of a kidney and not an inverted hill? Tell me, do you have violent fits? Have you ever woken up in the stables or a guest’s bedroom with blood on your hands and no idea how it happened?”
“Are you calling me insane?”
“If I am, then do you feel a bloodthirsty urge to pick up the letter opener and pepper my body with bleeding holes for revenge?”
“No, and you asked me what I thought the painting depicted. I was trying to help. No need to criticise.”
“Amy—”
“Celine,” she automatically corrected.
“Amy,” he repeated, springing out of the chair. He started pacing the room, “Are you sure your poet wants to be found. I mean, he knew you could understand his poetry. Hence, shouldn’t he have written you a poem with his address in it? Or better still, tell you directly and clearly without the need for rhymes. Why did he paint it?”
“I received the painting with a note attached that said that if I ever wanted to contact him, then he could be found at this place. He said if I truly loved him, then I would be able to decipher the painting.”