A night wind rattled the shutters of the barn door and Lavinia, bare-shouldered, shivered. She was still wearing the evening dress she had put on for a lonely supper attended only by servants. She steadied herself against the wooden railing.
‘You realise I could have you dismissed?’
‘You could, but it is not for a servant to go against the word of his master. I’m sorry.’ Aloysius averted his gaze, ashamed of his cowardice.
Lavinia looked at the horsehair button at the top of his nightshirt. His black chest hair curled over the top; the sight rendered him human.
‘Please, Aloysius, it has been three days without word from him. I am at my wits’ end. I fear for his life.’ She clutched at his hand. ‘For the sake of our friendship, please.’
The coachman hesitated, calculating the consequences if he should acquiesce. He looked down at her; she was thinner, the bones of her face pushing up under a new anxiety.
‘If I take you there, will you promise to insure my position?’
‘I swear.’
The coachman glanced at her evening gown. ‘As a lady, you will not be allowed entrance.’
‘In that case I shall dress as a youth. They cannot refuse a boy.’
‘They can and they might.’
‘I am prepared to take the risk. Now, lend me the stable boy’s clothes.’
He drove her to Mincing Lane in the City. In the dawn sky, the moon had faded to a cadaverous phantom that glared censoriously down. The street was empty except for the market stall owners who had begun to drift in like mute spectres. Their labour was a mechanised dance: arms swinging as the wooden carts became transformed with all manner of goods—fruit, cloth, cabbages, pots and pans. Donkeys and ponies stood patiently alongside, snorting into the chilly air.
The carriage pulled up suddenly, the road blocked by a herd of cows, stamping and defecating in startled panic. Four herdsmen, their boots and breeches stained with mud and manure, swished willow sticks above their heads, whistling and shouting into the sleepy silence as they moved their animals toward the slaughterhouse, indifferent to the coachman’s frustration.
Lavinia opened the carriage window. Immediately, the stench of the street flooded in—the odour of fear radiating from the cows, the acrid smell of coal smoke, the stink of a nearby gutter running thick with sewage. Floating over the top of it all was the incongruous musk of joss sticks, trailing smoke from a smouldering bouquet strapped to the side of a Chinese pedlar’s cart.
One of the cowhands whistled, wondering what an ill-dressed lad was doing driving in a coach and not on top with the coachman. ‘Cheeky stable boy, you got there!’ he yelled to the coachman. ‘Thinks he’s king of the muck heap!’
Aloysius pulled at the reins, steadying the horses, which were infected by the cattle’s nervousness.
‘Just move your animals, we’ve a gentleman to collect!’ he called down.
‘Some gentleman to be around here this time of the morning!’ the cowhand yelled back, much to the amusement of his companions. In a minute, they and the swaying cattle were swallowed by the fog.
The coach halted beside a coffee house. Its sign—Garraway’s Coffee-house. Established 1645, for the pleasure of gentlemen— swung above a door painted in gold and scarlet. Next door was an antique shop displaying all kinds of exotic objects in the window: Chinese rugs, porcelain vases, small statues of Chinese deities, jewellery and other antiquities. The words Feng’s Oriental Palladium were painted across the glass window. In the centre of the display stood an opium pipe mounted on a small red velvet cushion, a sign below reading: For the sophisticated gentleman of leisure.
Stepping out of the coach, Lavinia pressed her face against the glass window. Through the smoked pane she could just discern some tables and chairs. The shop appeared empty except for a single candle burning deep in its recesses.
‘Madam, it is dangerous to dally,’ Aloysius took her arm. ‘Come.’
‘But where?’ Lavinia looked around; there was no sign of any establishment that appeared open for business. Apart from the stalls, which were now piled with wares, the street was silent.
In lieu of an answer, Aloysius led her to a door where he knocked four times, a distinctive tattoo. After a minute or so, an extremely rotund youth of Oriental appearance opened the door, his face a series of voluptuous curves that converged at his nose—evidently split in two by a knifing. A long scar ran from his cheek to beneath his rippled chin. Squeezed into breeches with a silk tunic over the top, he had long plaited hair that fell behind him to below his waist, and a woven silk hat on his head. His body was bent in an attitude of deep suspicion, and his hand slipped down to his hip pocket, where Lavinia was convinced a blade was concealed. He nodded at Aloysius then peered mistrustfully at Lavinia.
‘Who’s this? Your boy?’ He spoke in a broken English heavily tainted with an East End accent.
‘Yes, and he is loyal and discreet,’ Aloysius replied, placing a hand on Lavinia’s shoulder.
Lavinia, fearing her countenance would betray her, looked down at her shoes only to realise that she was still wearing her pumps. Hoping the Chinaman might dismiss this as an eccentric English custom, she attempted to conceal one foot with the other.
Finally satisfied, the Oriental turned to the coachman. ‘You early, he want you?’
Aloysius, acutely aware that he was risking his position, hesitated for a moment. Then he said firmly. ‘This was the time my master arranged.’
Coughing violently, the Oriental spat a scarlet thread into the gutter. Then, after glancing up and down the street for the peeler who often patrolled the borough, he opened the door wide.
The faint aroma of coffee drifted lazily through the air and, once her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, Lavinia noticed that the tables were still piled high with dirty plates from the night before, and used clay pipes flung like broken fingers into bowls of ash.
Beyond the tables was a counter covered with brass cups and glass jars packed with herbs and curios. Behind the counter stood an iron stove, for brewing; above it, shelves of jars of coffee, their brand and nationality painted on the side. A curious silk tapestry hung beneath the shelves.
The Chinaman led them to the hanging, then lifted the fabric to reveal a door. He tapped gently and a peephole appeared, the shiny orb of someone’s eye behind it.
‘Ni an quan ma? (You are safe?)’
‘An quan. Wo he peng you yi qi lai de. (Yes. I come with friends.)’
The heavy wooden door was pushed open; beyond lay a parlour. The walls were hung with silks and in the corner an old Chinese man plucked at a xianzi, the wooden drum of the stringed instrument clasped between his naked feet, the mournful notes hanging in the air like thin silver threads. Against the walls were low sofas upon which the customers lay or lounged in various states of torpor. They were a motley group—English, Chinese, Indian, men from all walks of life.
In one corner lay a turbanned merchant, an obese man in his sixties whose naked stomach rolled over his pantaloons. Next to him was a woman of about thirty wearing a stained day dress of lilac silk, its sleeves dirty and torn. She scratched madly at her arms, which were covered in scabs.
Crouching beside each customer was a Chinese boy who meticulously cleaned the stem of the opium pipe with a bamboo reed, then, after rolling the black resin into a soft ball, packed the bowl swiftly—an execution that ensured the customer was continuously smoking.
A long moan of elation or pain—Lavinia found it hard to distinguish—came from the shadows near her feet. Propped up against the wall was a young English girl, her eyelids drooped, her face a waxen mask, dried vomit down her torn dress. Her hand scrabbled at the thin cotton.
‘Where is he?’ Lavinia whispered, wondering if the lounging addicts were even aware of their presence. Aloysius indicated the far corner of the room.
The two men lay together on a low divan, a smoking candle barely illuminating them. Huntington, naked under a loose silk shirt, hi
s beard grown and unkempt, was almost unrecognisable. Campbell, his arms and legs curled around the older man, mumbled to himself, smiling inanely. Lifting a heavy hand, the Colonel reached for the pipe his boy offered. Resting his elbows on the small child’s shoulders, he inhaled, the embers of the drug glowing as he sucked greedily. Hamish, lolling drunkenly, continued to cling to him.
Carefully picking her way through the supine smokers, Lavinia reached her husband and knocked the smoking apparatus out of his hand. Completely ignoring her, he scrambled around on his knees desperately looking for the smouldering pipe that had fallen between the cushions.
‘You are to come with me,’ Lavinia said.
‘Pretty boy,’ he slurred, reaching for her face.
Hoping to shock some sense into him, she shook him violently. ‘James, it is I, Lavinia.’
He pushed the cap from her head and her hair fell to her ears.
‘So it is. Hamish, meet my wife. Such a pretty boy she makes.’ He languidly threaded his fingers through Lavinia’s ringlets.
Suddenly, his demeanour altered. Grabbing her hair, he pulled Lavinia down towards him, his breath an acrid concoction of indigestion, opium and stale wine.
‘You have no right to be here, do you hear me? No right!’
‘You must come home. It is your duty.’
Pushing her aside, he reached for the silver pipe that was being offered to Hamish and, inhaling, collapsed back onto the cushions.
‘Aloysius, help me!’ Lavinia commanded.
The coachman reluctantly stepped out of the shadows and hoisted the Colonel up under his arms. He dragged the lolling body out of the opium den, through the silken wall hanging and into the coffee shop, the Colonel’s inert feet banging against the tables.
59
LAVINIA SAT AT THE FOOT OF THE bed and watched her husband sleep. She had kept vigil for over six hours, watching him toss and turn, a fine film of perspiration covering his face, his hands curled up in childish rage. She wondered how many men were folded within him like the Russian doll stored in her trousseau: father, scientist, husband, visionary, addict?
She closed her eyes; the trip back from Mincing Lane had been harrowing. The Colonel had collapsed in the carriage, his face ashen, his limbs twitching as the rising sun progressively illuminated every mark of pain on his waxen skin. He looked like a man already murdered by his own unhappiness.
He stirred in his slumber, a lock of hair falling across his heavy brow. Very lightly, before she could stop herself, she caressed his cheek. His skin was hot to the touch.
‘Water,’ he croaked.
Lavinia poured him a glass from a jug on the side table, then helped him to sit. He tried to grasp the glass, but his hands shook furiously; water spilled onto the coverlet.
Taking the glass, Lavinia held it to his lips. As James drank thirstily, his bloodshot eyes fixed upon her. Finally, he pushed the glass away. Lavinia, dreading the moment he would speak, got up and pulled the curtains open.
A sparrow shot across the window: a feathered meteorite against the city skyline with its turrets, spirals and red-brick rooftops. Lavinia pondered the simplicity of the bird’s life, and for a moment wished she were outside, unburdened by all that lay within.
In that same instant, the Colonel found himself blinking at the sunlight he hadn’t seen for over a week. He looked down at his scratched hands, the wasted muscles of his arms.
‘I refuse to live as a hypocrite, Lavinia.’
‘You cannot love him.’
He answered by his silence. A terrible silence into which Lavinia’s whole future seemed to collapse.
‘Arrangements can be made,’ he said eventually. ‘As far as the outside world is concerned, we will continue to live as man and wife.’
She sat there, barely hearing him.
Clambering out of bed, the Colonel stumbled for a moment on weakened legs, his ankles bony below the hem of his nightshirt. He looked across at the photographic portrait they had sat for: husband, wife and son. They were the archetypal Victorian couple: his propriety and wealth indicated by his silk waistcoat, his fine pocket watch, his whiskers groomed and waxed; Lavinia, handsome in dark damask, held the sprawling baby on her knee, dressed in bonnet and smock. They could be one of a hundred society families, he suddenly thought; it was a mendacious image, the very artifice of respectability. Then the thought of losing Aidan shot through him like a deep and sudden bereavement. A child needed his mother above all else. God help the foundation upon which this society is built, he concluded, his knees feeble from hunger and illness.
Lavinia’s gaze followed his. ‘I will not allow it. You have an obligation to your family!’ she cried.
Fearing the servants would overhear, he gripped her wrists, pressing her arms against her body.
‘You have no choice!’ he hissed, his face inches from hers.
She kicked at his ankles, forcing him to drop his hold. ‘But I have. I can denounce you.’
Furious, he swung at her without thinking. His fist caught the edge of her cheek with a sickening thud. Lavinia fell to the ground and cowered there, her hands over her head. The Colonel steadied himself against the wall, then, gathering his strength, pulled her up and wrenched her towards the door.
‘Do so, my dear, and I shall take the child and see you in the workhouse within the year.’
He pushed her out into the corridor, surprising both Mrs Beetle and Mr Poole who were bent over at the keyhole. The servants stepped aside as the Colonel, still clutching Lavinia by the shoulder, propelled her towards the stairs.
‘Now, out of my sight!’ He returned to his room and slammed the door.
Lavinia, stumbling from her husband’s final push, tottered for a second. Then, with a heavy thump, she fell down the first flight of stairs, her skirts flying as she bounced across the wooden steps to land heavily against the banister.
She lay there like a tossed rag doll, her neck crunched against the wall. Then, as consciousness returned to her limbs, a dull throbbing started above her temples and beat its way down to her left shoulder. She opened her eyes, her cheek already a puckered mauve swelling, blood from her nose streaming onto the patterned carpet. Transfixed, the servants watched from above. Upon seeing that she could move unassisted, they slunk away to their tasks.
Slowly, Lavinia picked herself up, feeling for broken bones. Holding a handful of her skirt up to her bleeding nose, she hobbled down to the ground floor. Through her undamaged eye she saw the housemaids pause in horror, then turn away, embarrassed.
Limping, Lavinia arrived at the door of the kitchen, where the cook, busy preparing a goose, paused with a handful of stuffing in one hand. Her mouth dropped open in shock.
‘Oh, you poor young thing!’ She rushed to press a napkin to Lavinia’s face. ‘Should I call for a doctor?’ she whispered, feeling the violent trembling of the young wife’s body in her arms.
‘That will not be necessary.’ Mrs Beetle, lips pursued in disapproval, stood at the door. ‘Madam can attend to herself, Mrs Jobling. Now, if you could continue with the preparations for this evening’s supper.’
Shoulders rigid with anger, the cook pressed the napkin into Lavinia’s hand then returned to the bench. Lavinia swung around to face the housekeeper.
‘Where is Daisy, my maid?’
‘It is her evening off.’
‘You are a callous woman, Mrs Beetle.’
Affronted, the housekeeper straightened her shoulders, a parody of outraged authority.
‘I shall wait upon the master’s instructions and his instructions only. Until then, Mrs Huntington, I believe you will be able to attend to yourself.’
Outside, the autumnal air cooled Lavinia’s swelling cheek. Aloysius was standing with his back to her, brushing down one of the horses. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows and his arms were muscled and thickly veined, the limbs of a working man. The horse’s black coat glistened and it stood patiently, eyes half-shut in bliss, until it sensed t
he Irishwoman’s presence. Its nostrils flaring as it smelled her blood and fear, it whinnied, tossing its head. Aloysius turned.
‘Bejesus, I’ll kill him.’
It was only then, as her composure fragmented, that Lavinia broke into sobbing.
He sat her down atop a rickety wooden stool and sponged the blood away from her eye as gently as he could, but the cut was deep and he feared her nose was broken. A pool of pinkish stained water lay in the enamel bowl perched on a bag of oats.
‘You must leave him,’ he said.
‘And go where? My father will not have me, I have already written…’
Her high lace collar was sprayed with blood, and some of her hair had been pulled away from her scalp.
‘I have no inheritance of my own,’ she went on. ‘Besides, my father could not suffer the disgrace. There is one place I could go, but it would be little better than the workhouse.’
The smell of hay seeped up through the floorboards and light filtered in from the attic window, which Aloysius had propped open with a piece of wood. There were four iron beds in the room, lined up in military fashion. A handmade rack along one wall held the coachmen’s riding coats. Nearby, a small poppet made from rags peeped out from under a horsehair blanket; it belonged to the youngest stable boy who was only nine.
‘If he were not a gentleman and my employer, I would kill him, God help my sinful thoughts.’
He stood before her, the desire to stroke her hair, to pull her towards him and protect her, paralysing him. He did not trust himself even to take the stained cloth from her hands.
She held it out to him, and as he reached for it their hands touched. The wanting shot through both of them, the knowing of it bolting their bodies to the floor. Lavinia caressed his thumb, his forefinger, his index finger—the wonder of his rough and callused skin catching in her throat.
They stood like that for a good while, framed by the barn window, all the lovemaking that was possible contained in just the touch of their fingers, tip to tip.
Colonel Huntington, washed and dressed in his morning coat, his hair swept back off his brow, stepped out into the cobbled yard. Sobered, he was full of remorse.
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