by Kate Forsyth
Ned loved her, she knew. And he adored his baby son.
Yet no-one but Georgie could feed her baby.
By her side was a letter from John Ruskin, in which he cautioned her not to try to keep up with her woodcutting.
‘I can’t imagine anything prettier or more wifely than cutting one’s husband’s drawings on the woodblock: there is just the proper quantity of echo in it … only never work hard at it. Keep your rooms tidy, and baby happy – and then after that as much woodwork as you’ve time and liking for.’
Except there was no time for it. Every second of the day was sucked up into keeping baby happy. Ned went about his usual daily business, drawing, sketching, scowling at canvases, going out with friends. Georgie scarcely had time to pin up her hair or change her petticoat.
Ned’s laugh rang out from the other room.
Georgie’s tears fell faster.
16
Lord, May I Come?
Winter 1862
A barrier of dark glass stood between Lizzie and the world.
She could hear what was said to her, if she concentrated hard.
She tried to smile and pretend that their words had meaning. It was all play acting.
She found it almost impossible to meet anyone’s eyes.
Eyes were the mirror of the soul, people said. She could not bear anyone to look into hers.
Everything was hard. She did not have the strength to brush her hair and pin it up. She just screwed it back and stuck a paintbrush through it. What did it matter anyway? She was ugly as sin. Lips cracked and sore. Wrists like sticks. No wonder Gabriel didn’t want to paint her anymore.
Soft curves, round flushed cheeks, bare shoulders broad enough to carry a yoke. That’s what he wanted now. Corn-gold hair, cherry-red lips, milkmaid skin.
Fanny Cornforth. What a name. What a pouting sluttish name. Lizzie said it over and over to herself, when Gabriel was sleeping. Fanny Cornforth. Fanny Cornforth. He painted her as a girl tying up mistletoe. Begging to be kissed. He painted her as Lucrezia Borgia. Beautiful as belladonna. He painted her as Fair Rosamund. The king’s whore.
Did he think she did not know that his paintings were confessions?
Lizzie could not sleep. Lizzie could not eat. She lay in the crumpled sour-smelling bed all day, scarcely moving, unable to muster enough energy to drink the soup Mrs Birrell brought her. Sometimes, when Gabriel was out, she got up and went into the studio to spy on what he was painting. The effort cost her all her strength. When Gabriel came home, she’d be lying down again, red-eyed and weeping. Gabriel would sit beside her and brush the tangled hair away from her forehead, bending to press his lips to hers.
She wondered what other lips he had kissed while he had been gone.
He swore he had not betrayed her. But how could she believe him?
Who would be faithful to a woman like her? Sick and pale and ailing all the time, unable even to carry a child to term. He had wanted that child so badly. She had failed him. Like she had failed at everything.
Lizzie had wanted to give all the baby clothes she had made to Georgie, but Gabriel wouldn’t let her. ‘We’ll have another baby,’ he promised her, holding her tight. She smiled and nodded. But deep down she knew that any other baby would just die too. Her womb was poisoned. All that bittersweet poppy juice. She had not known. How could she have known?
But the scandal about the Opium Wars in China had caused everyone to talk about laudanum’s evil influences. The newspapers said the Chinese emperor himself was addicted, and that was why he had ordered the terrible torture and murder of British diplomats and journalists. Then a newspaper had reported that little babies in England were dying of starvation after being kept so doped up with laudanum they never cried for milk. Lizzie had wept when she read this, and Gabriel had taken the newspaper away and forbidden her to read anymore. But Lizzie could not stop thinking about it. She felt sure that her black drops were why her baby had died. Which meant it was all her fault.
It was strange. She hated the black drops now, and yet she craved them horribly. She had to bribe Mrs Birrell’s daughter to go and fill up her bottle, for Gabriel would not. She hid the laudanum in her pocket, so that she could take a quick surreptitious sip whenever he wasn’t watching. She tried and tried to withstand the craving, but every single time she broke.
At night, when Gabriel made love to her, she lay silently, her face turned away. She tried to smile and pretend she enjoyed it, but she felt nothing at all. And when the doctor told her that she had conceived again, and that another child grew within the black corroded wasteland of her womb, she still felt nothing. Not hope. Not fear. Just a relentless bleakness.
For surely this baby would die too.
Lizzie heard the outer door open, and Gabriel’s heavy steps coming towards her. Sighing, she sat up and pushed back her hair. He came and sat on the bed beside her.
‘How are you feeling, Gug?’
If only she could be sure the tenderness in his voice was not feigned. She leant into his arms, sniffing his collar for any trace of perfume. He smelt only of fresh air, and rain, and his own familiar lemony scent.
‘Did you eat anything?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘A little. Mrs Birrell brought me up some tea and toast.’
‘Do you want to go out to dinner? Algernon would like to see you.’ Gabriel spoke hopefully. He knew that Lizzie loved young Algernon Swinburne. His gaunt face, wicked eyes and cloud of red hair reminded her of her brother Charlie, and he never failed to make her laugh.
‘All right. If you like.’
‘It’d do you good.’
Lizzie nodded and got up. A whirl of dizziness washed over her. She stood motionless for a moment till it passed. Then she rubbed a wet towel against her face till it tingled, pinned her hair up as best she could, and dressed herself. She looked at herself in the mirror. Pale face. Sunken eyes. Bloodless lips.
Only that month Gabriel had painted her as Princess Sabra, kneeling and kissing the bloodied hands of Saint George. The knight had just slaughtered the dragon to save her. Sabra’s face was white as a ghost, her eyes deeply shadowed. All her vitality seemed drained into her hair, scarlet and writhing down her back. Saint George gazed over her head at the dead body of the dragon outside. He looked as if he was about to pull his hands away from her feverish lips. He looked as if he longed to be free.
Lizzie could not bear to think about what lay ahead. Another dead baby, rotting in her womb? Gabriel could not pretend to love her anymore after that. What would happen? Where could she go?
‘Shall we go to La Sablonnière?’ Gabriel put his head in the door.
She nodded. ‘Just a minute.’
He withdrew. Hurriedly Lizzie took out her bottle of laudanum, gulping a mouthful. She could not go out … she could not face all those teeming crowds … she could not pretend to smile and laugh and eat … without it.
She refused to think of the little worm of a child within her. She refused to think of the promise she had made Gabriel. What was the use? This child would die like the last. Perhaps she too would die. She had prepared for death for so long it felt familiar and comfortable to her now. Did you not see your loved ones again in death? She would hold her little daughter, she would hug her dearest brother, she would reach up to kiss her father’s rough cheek, glinting with silver dust. All mistakes would be forgiven.
‘Cab’s here!’ Gabriel called.
She drank another measure, then hid the bottle again.
Algy was waiting inside the hansom cab. He was so glad to see her. Yet Lizzie was so drowsy she could scarcely string a sentence together.
Gabriel was worried. ‘Are you well enough for dinner? Shall we turn back?’
Lizzie roused herself enough to say, ‘No, no, I’m fine. Algy, how does the poetry go?’
Algernon was a finely drawn, restless young poet with beautiful hands and an instinct for self-destruction. He drank too much, daringly smoked opium like a Chinaman, begged
strangers to flagellate him when he was drunk, and wrote the most exquisite poems. He only came up to Lizzie’s shoulder, but when he was in the room no-one looked at anyone else. Gabriel should have despised him, but was tender and solicitous, as if Algernon was a guttering candle that the slightest breath would blow out. When Lizzie was with him, she felt like the girl she used to be. Bold, laughing, filled with dreams of glory. And she knew that Gabriel loved the girl she was then, rather than the poor husk of a thing she was now. So she drew on all her reserves of strength to banter and laugh as Algernon declaimed his poetry to them, in the darkness of the hansom cab as it clopped slowly through the icy winter streets.
He had written a hymn to Prosperine. Phrases pierced her through.
I am weary of days and hours … Blown buds of barren flowers … Desires and dreams and powers … And everything but sleep …
It awoke in Lizzie all her old longing to write poetry and paint art to make all who saw it weep. It had the same effect on Gabriel. He imagined painting Proserpine at the moment she realised she could not return to the world of life. He spouted his own poetry back to Algernon, and Lizzie joined in. The three of them quoted back and forth at one another, in the close darkness of the cab, improvising to the slow spondee rhythm of the horse’s hooves. Lizzie felt something quicken within her for the first time in months. Perhaps it was not too late. Perhaps she could truly make something worthwhile of the ruin of her life. Her baby had died; she had another one growing within her. Her art had failed; she could make new art. She had driven Gabriel from her with her sickness and despair; could she not draw him back to her with the crimson thread of her love?
That dinner was the merriest they had shared for a while. Lizzie had to rest her head on her bent hand, and occasionally she felt a wave of dizziness rock her. But she laughed and pecked at her food and drank some wine, and saw some of the heavy despondency lift from Gabriel. In the cab on the way home, she nestled into his arm and imagined that tonight, perhaps, she might embrace him with real joy.
‘I’ll just see you safely home,’ Gabriel said, ‘and go on.’
Lizzie stiffened; drew herself away. ‘Go on where?’
‘I’m teaching tonight. At the Men’s Working Club.’
All the old suspicions rushed back on her. Lizzie said waspishly, ‘So you say.’
He sighed in exasperation. ‘Lizzie, you know I have to work. We’re in so much debt. All those doctors’ bills.’
It was an unkind thing to say. Tears rushed to her eyes. ‘I’m sorry I cost you so much money.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that, Lizzie. You know I didn’t. It’s just … you know. Bills, bills, bills.’ His laugh sounded artificial.
‘It would have been better if you’d never married me.’
‘No, Guggums, don’t say that. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned the doctors’ bills. It’s just … it’s just so cruel I have to pay them … when … you know.’ His voice was choked with emotion, but Lizzie had no strength to give to him.
‘Are you going to see her?’ Her voice was flat with despair.
‘Who?’ Gabriel’s voice sounded strange. Sharp and guilty.
‘That Fanny girl.’
He sighed. ‘No, Lizzie. I’m not going to see Fanny. I’ve told you, she’s married now. I’m going to teach.’
‘I know you’ve been seeing her. I’ve seen all the drawings, the paintings.’
‘People want paintings of her, Lizzie. They sell. And we need the money.’
‘And paintings of me don’t sell?’ Her voice thin and high.
‘Not nearly as well,’ he answered, losing his temper at last. ‘And I can’t just keep painting the same thing over and over, Lizzie. I need new models, new subjects. I need to find new patrons. Why can’t you understand?’
‘Oh I understand all too well.’ Her temper rose to match his. ‘I’m too old and sick and ugly … and … and … barren.’ She forced the last word out.
‘Lizzie …’
‘Don’t! Just don’t! I don’t want to hear it.’ She pressed her hands over her ears, rocking back and forth. ‘Oh I hate you! I hate you. Why did I waste my life loving you? When I think of all the years, all the promises, all the lies.’
The cab had drawn up in front of their building. She wrenched open the door and tried to jump out, only to stumble and fall to her knees on the cobblestones. Ice cracked under her weight, sharp against the heels of her hands. She managed to get to her feet, trying to keep herself steady by holding on to the cab door.
The horse’s body steamed in the icy air, wreathing it in an unearthly halo. The driver was just a black shape against the blur of the gaslight, hunched over the reins. Gabriel climbed down and paid, ignoring her. She could not see his face in the darkness. Lizzie fled across the street and inside the door. She stumbled again going up the stairs. Her head was swimming. Too much wine on an empty stomach. She held on to the wall and climbed up to their door. She could not get in. She had to wait for Gabriel who had their key. Lizzie pressed her head against the wall, giving in to her sobs. She heard Gabriel’s slow reluctant footsteps behind her. He said her name again.
‘Just go,’ she said. ‘Go on. Go and have your fun. But don’t even think of coming home again.’
Gabriel unlocked the door for her. ‘I’m going to work.’ Each word enunciated slowly and clearly.
Lizzie went inside the apartment and slammed the door behind her. He did not follow her or try to call her name again. She felt an acute and unreasonable disappointment. Remorse overwhelmed her. She flung open the door again, and ran to the balustrade. Leaning over, she cried, ‘Stay with me, Gug, stay with me!’
His echoing footsteps did not falter. She heard the front door slam shut.
Lurching through the apartment, Lizzie knocked over a brass urn and banged her knee on the edge of the table. She undressed, pulling her long white nightgown over her head and unpinning her hair so it fell in heavy copper waves about her. She found one of her hidden bottles and recklessly drank half the bottle. She wanted to sleep tonight. Deeply, dreamlessly. Oh, please, dreamlessly.
Lizzie crawled into bed and drew a sheaf of papers towards her. She had been struggling with a poem for some time. Now the words poured from her.
Life and night are falling from me,
Death and day are opening on me,
Wherever my footsteps come and go,
Life is a stony way of woe.
Lord, have I long to go?
Hallow hearts are ever near me,
Soulless eyes have ceased to cheer me:
Lord may I come to thee?
Life and youth and summer weather
To my heart no joy can gather.
Lord, lift me from life’s stony way!
Loved eyes long closed in death watch for me:
Holy death is waiting for me –
Lord, may I come to-day?
Her hand was weak. The words were mere scratches of ink. Tears fell on the page and made the words smear. But she wrote on, though she could scarcely see what to write. Gabriel, why aren’t you here? Don’t you know I need you?
He’s gone to her. The thought was sharp as a stiletto blade. Lizzie lifted the little bottle of laudanum and drank the rest down.
I’ll make it all better … tomorrow … just let me sleep now … free of pain …
She folded the poem with clumsy fingers and slipped it back inside her sketchbook. Then she lay down her head. Thoughts ground past in their old deep groove.
Slowly Lizzie let herself fall.
17
Her Ghost Is Unquiet
Winter–Autumn 1862
Such a cold, bitter morning.
Georgie sat in the hansom cab. Tears ran unchecked down her face.
Could it be true? Could Lizzie really be dead?
Georgie caught back a sob. The cab drew up in Blackfriars. Fog drifted about the iron railings. The dismal call of foghorns. She clambered down and shook the straw from her
skirts, before paying the driver and beginning the climb up to Gabriel’s apartment.
Bruno opened the door. ‘Hello, Georgie.’ He allowed her to step through to the hallway and shut the door behind her. All was gloomy and dark, for the lamps had not been lit. ‘A sad day.’
‘So it’s true?’
‘Oh yes. She died early this morning. The doctors worked on her all night, pumping her stomach, trying to revive her. It was no use.’
Georgie pressed her hand over her mouth. ‘Gabriel?’ she managed to ask.
Bruno shook his head. ‘He’s in a bad way.’
Georgie scrubbed at her eyes.
‘You’ll want to see her. She’s through here.’
As Bruno led her down past the drawing room, Georgie saw a glimpse of the glowing hearth, the fan of peacock feathers on the wall, the blue-and-white china of which Lizzie had been so proud. Then she saw Gabriel, sunk to his knees before one of his most beautiful drawings of his wife, his head bent down into his hands.
Georgie looked away, her throat closing over. She followed Bruno into the cold bedroom, where no fire was lit.
Lizzie lay in bed, her hands crossed over each other on top of a neatly folded counterpane. Her eyes were shut, her red-gold hair tumbling down on either side. If it were not for the pallor of her skin and the bruised colour of her eyelids, Georgie would have thought her sleeping. But her chest did not move, her eyes did not twitch, her fingernails were blue.
Georgie caught hold of a chair to steady herself.
‘There will have to be an inquest,’ Bruno said. ‘We can only hope that they see what a terrible accident this is.’
Georgie nodded. When a young woman of only thirty-two years of age dies unexpectedly, questions must be asked.
‘If they could just have seen him,’ Bruno said in such a low voice she only just caught the words. ‘On his knees, clutching her to him, begging her to come back to him. They could never suspect …’
Georgie lifted her eyes to his face in wonder. It had never occurred to her that Gabriel would fall under suspicion. All her fear had been that Lizzie would be accused of killing herself whilst of unsound mind. If so, she would be buried in unconsecrated ground. The stigma of suicide would have been a heavy cross to bear. But the idea of murder …