‘But to reinvent oneself, to escape all one’s mistakes and others’ judgements. Wouldn’t that be grand?’
He edged closer to her. He could smell her perfume: an aroma of lily of the valley and the slightly oily musk of her hair. He saw the faint scar above her lip that her husband had given her.
‘Is that what you want?’ It was almost a whisper, dangerous in its intimacy.
Marvelling at the green of his eyes, she wondered at the constrictions that kept her sitting there and him pinned to the floor. Her mouth dried as she stared at his naked throat, the feathery curls of his chest hair. To keep looking would be to touch.
‘Aloysius, I have a child to think of. I am well looked after—many would envy my social position. I have tried to forgive my husband. Instead, I find myself possessed by a great anger.’
He held his hands tightly by his sides. Otherwise, he feared they would lift of their own accord and betray him.
‘But even the practical cannot live without affection.’
And it was then that she slipped from the barrel and fell into him, catching at his clothes, his mouth, the hot shock of his tongue. She taking him, because in that first touch Aloysius heard nothing but the roar of his heart like a bagged cat under his flannel shirt. He struggled with the enormity of their actions until the heat of her breath burst all that he knew that was wrong and he forgot who he was and who she belonged to and catching at the thousands of buttons of her dress that popped under his clumsy fingertips like roasting chestnuts and her breasts, white as marble angels, falling clear so he could take them between his lips, and sweet Jesus there was no way he could stop now until his fingers found her and played her until she was wet and sweet for him, her hands at his neck, pulling his mouth down until he was buried beneath her petticoats, and the tent his brother was lying in and the tent of her skirts became one huge kaleidoscope, the lawny scent of her clawing at the back of his throat, his cock as huge as he’d ever known it, a great rod with which he could smite with just one thrust all of the indignities, all of the humiliations she had suffered. Her thighs quivering against his palms until, standing, he pulled her up onto his hips, steadying himself with one hand pressed against the dusty wall, her ankles locked behind his back.
And the tightness, her wanting, that parted for him as she lifted herself and rode him. Her small breasts pressed against his face, the wine bottles rattling in their racks faster and faster until she cried out, her cheeks as scarlet as the field of poppies he’d once lain upon, her skin a mottled battlefield of bite-marks and desperate handfuls. Only then, watching her half-open eyelids luxuriant with orgasm, her mouth swollen and bitten, the sapphire streak of her blue eyes as she tilted her face to the candlelight, did he reach his own climax and, to his great chagrin, found himself sobbing.
Back in her bedroom, Lavinia stripped off her stained dress and washed out the coal dust herself, then hid her torn camisole at the back of a drawer.
Half naked, she sat on the edge of her bed and examined her neck in a hand mirror. She touched the row of bruises he had left with his mouth in wonder, the tattoo of his caresses still echoing.
Then, trying not to think of her husband at his card game five streets away, she threw open the travelling bag she had brought from Ireland and packed a day dress, a shawl and two pairs of boots.
Walking over to the dressing table, she opened the drawer and took out the gold and pearl earrings, three necklaces—one pearl, two diamond—that she had inherited from the Viscountess, and wrapped them carefully in her undergarments.
Finally, she went to the nursery.
62
RELUCTANTLY, ALOYSIUS HAULED the bag up the steps of the old terrace. They were grimed with centuries of soot and grass widened the cracks between the stone slabs.
‘’Tis no place for a child nor a lady,’ he muttered, eyeing the prostitutes, who, sensing the gravity of the situation and awed by the luxury of the brougham, hung back in silence. Lavinia, clutching Aidan, reached the top step and rang the bell.
‘I could have driven you to a better boarding house,’ he said. He wanted to put his arms around her to stop her shivering, but it was impossible to shake the suspicion that such an embrace would be a terrible transgression.
‘And how am I to pay? I have some jewellery to pawn, but I intend to use the money for a passage to France.’
‘You are to France?’Trying hard to disguise his emotion, he cursed himself for his naivety—he had imagined they would have a future together.
‘I will find a position as a governess. And if you were with me, you could find a position also.’
‘I don’t speak a word of French.’ Aloysius was gruff in defence.
‘I will teach you.’
Gloriously relieved, he kissed her, ignoring the wolf whistles from the watching prostitutes. Suddenly, a torrent of filthy water cascaded from a window above. Aloysius looked up at the torn and faded velvet curtains as the now empty pail disappeared.
‘Still, I would rather you found a better lodging.’
‘Aloysius, it’s my mother’s house and it will only be a temporary measure,’ Lavinia replied tersely, the immensity of her actions already prickling at her scalp, feeling uncomfortably like fear.
‘Your mother’s?’
Before she had a chance to explain, the front door swung open. Meredith Murphy stood in the hallway, her dress tidy and the stray wisps of hair tucked neatly back into her coiffure. Finally, Lavinia could see remnants of the beauty her father had spoken of.
‘Come in, child,’ the woman said, ‘before the babe catches a fever. Your servant—that’ll be the one with the cheeky tongue—can wait outside.’
‘He is not my servant and he will come with me,’ Lavinia replied firmly, thankful that Meredith Murphy appeared sober.
The bedroom at the top of the boarding house was a loft with two windows that looked up to the sky. A china washstand stood in the corner of the room; there was a reasonably sized fireplace (at which knelt Bartholomew, the young boy Lavinia had met on her previous visit, puffing a pair of bellows into the flames), and a large bed, covered in a bedspread embroidered with the Brian Boru harp, was pushed against the wall.
Aidan, wrapped in blankets, lay sleeping in the middle of the lumpy horsehair mattress, his face softly oblivious to the mayhem that surrounded him, his bent arms raised to his ears, his fists clenched in his customary manner.
‘He might be a good man, but you cannot afford to love him, Lavinia. Have you ever stopped to think what this will do to his livelihood? You will be disgraced, but that coachman will, quite likely, never work again in this town. And he is naught but a boy.’
‘We will find a way.’
The two women sat in armchairs by the fire, Meredith smoking a clay pipe. Lavinia, made drowsy by the flickering flames, was dazed by the speed with which her circumstances had changed.
A portrait hung above the mantelpiece: her parents some twenty years earlier. Her father, dressed in his clerical robes, looked rawly earnest in his youthfulness, while Meredith was almost unrecognisable—there was an optimism in her wide cat-like face (no longer visible in the older woman) and her black eyes danced with wry humour. She sat in half-profile, looking up at her husband, the Reverend’s hand on her shoulder. Fascinated, Lavinia tried to fathom the sentiment that had made her mother keep the portrait all these years.
Emptying her pipe into the fire, Meredith coughed then spat to clear her lungs.
‘What of my grandson then—what can you offer him instead of his father’s fortune? Think I don’t know what it’s like to part with a child, to place its happiness before your own?’
‘But I am his mother,’ Lavinia replied faintly.
‘And I was one too. It is not a woman’s world, Lavinia; all marriages end up a prison and most husbands are rakes, whether it be in their dreams or on their travels. Your father would call your husband’s behaviour a sin, but in my profession I’ve learned there are all manner of
men and quirks and it is not for us to judge. You were blessed. Your prison was a palace. You should have stayed there.’
Reaching into the purse hanging off her belt, Lavinia pressed a one pound Bank of England note into her mother’s hand.
‘We’ll be leaving as soon as I’ve booked a passage to Marseilles.’
‘Save your money.’ Meredith handed back the note. Standing heavily on her walking stick, she limped to the door.
‘Lock yourself in tonight. I shouldn’t want any clients stumbling in. Sleep well, daughter.’
‘But where will you sleep?’
‘Sleep?’ She broke into a cackle that finished with a wheeze. ‘Morpheus and I have not had words for years.’
Lavinia bolted the door and, after blowing the candles out, lay down on the bed. A moment later a loud thud somewhere below, followed by the sound of a man groaning in pleasure, made her sit up. She wrapped the lumpy old pillow around her ears then broke into a sneezing fit because of the dust. Another loud cry from the room beneath woke her ten minutes later; it seemed as if the rickety terrace was literally shaking with the spooning that was occurring between its thin walls. Somewhere below, someone started to play reedy-thin but beautiful violin music. Lavinia wondered what manner of musician would play in a brothel. Suddenly, she was scratching furiously; after locating the culprit, she crushed the bedbug between her fingernails.
She lifted Aidan into her arms, his sleepy head lolling against her bosom, and stared up at the night sky while the music of the violin filled the bedroom like writhing snakes.
‘I will have you dismissed without a character reference. You will be utterly without employment. I promise you, you will see the inside of Mount Street workhouse within the month.’
The Colonel stood in front of the huge marble fireplace, his voice barely containing his rage.
‘That might be, sir, but I cannot help you for I’ve no idea where Mrs Huntington is.’
The Colonel’s cane smashed down onto a console, cracking the marble top and narrowly missing the coachman. Aloysius did not flinch.
‘Damn you! This is my wife and child!’
His narrow shoulders hunched, his eyes downcast, Aloysius tried to think only of the notion of a new life awaiting him across the Channel.
‘I am sorry, I cannot help you, Colonel.’
Staring at the gaunt young Irishman, whose truculence transformed him into a graceless block of wood, the Colonel wondered what Lavinia had seen in the youth.
‘You are dismissed. Pack your bags and collect your papers. I expect you out of the house by tonight.’
Strangely relieved, Aloysius walked to the door. ‘Even if you do find her, she will never be yours,’ he said before turning to leave. It was the first time he hadn’t bowed to his employer.
Lavinia’s bedroom was a jumble of upturned drawers and opened cupboards, her clothes and papers scattered across the carpet and bed. The Colonel looked around wildly; he’d searched everywhere without finding a single clue. The only calling cards he’d found belonged to associates he had imposed upon her. It appeared his wife had established no intimates of her own.
Thinking on where he would hide something himself, he again ran his eye over the room. The photographic portrait of their family sat on top of a commode, the drawers of which were pulled open, undergarments spilling out. He lifted the framed picture and opened the back, then removed the thin layer of card that kept the photograph in place. A slip of paper fell out. To his absolute amazement, the address scribbled upon it was that of Polly Kirkshore.
As Lavinia and Bartholomew picked their way through the filth and refuse, the boy shooed away the hordes of child beggars that descended like locusts. Many were crippled, but it was the small girls who were missing jawbones and fingers that horrified Lavinia the most.
‘Surely they weren’t all born that way?’ she asked.
Bartholomew laughed. ‘Born like that? You are green. They’re phos girls, from the Victorian Match factory. The phosphorus has begun to eat their bones like, some of them are lucky to ’ave any fingers left at all. Nothing they can do like that, can’t even whore.’
He led her through a back alley. Lines of washing hung above them stretching from window to window; the ever-present stream of sewage ran down the centre of the tiny lane, while a group of stray dogs barked at a tethered pig outside the canvas shack that served as an entrance to a hovel.
As Lavinia hurried to keep up with the boy, the money she had received from the pawnbroker, now secured inside her blouse, bounced against her skin. The pawnbroker had given her twenty guineas for the earrings and one of her diamond necklaces. Lavinia calculated the money would be enough to buy three passages and board for a month in France; after that they would have to find work. A great excitement had begun to bubble up in her chest, usurping her fears. For the first time, she was in control of her own fortune.
They turned the corner and arrived suddenly in Burton Street. A coach stood in front of her mother’s house. Lavinia recognised the Huntington crest and saw Mrs Beetle waiting beside it. At that moment the Colonel emerged from the brothel carrying Aidan, who was kicking and screaming. Meredith Murphy stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her face as dark as a thundercloud. Breaking into a run, Lavinia shouted her son’s name.
Handing the child to Mrs Beetle, the Colonel swung around to meet his wife.
‘You can’t take him!’ Lavinia tried to reach Aidan, but Mrs Beetle quickly lifted the child into the coach as the Colonel grabbed Lavinia to pull her away.
‘I can and I will, and you will come with us!’
Struggling, she tried to break his hold. ‘I will not!’
‘Is this what you want? To stay here in this hovel with your degenerate mother?’ he hissed. ‘Dr Jefferies warned me of this.’
‘I am my own person!’
‘Understand this, wife, if you do not step into this carriage I shall have you in the Bedlam asylum before sunset, and I promise you will never see your son again.’
63
Los Angeles, 2002
‘HE’S GOING TO WIN, IT’S JUST too seductive, too damn Hollywood—people love that shit. Celebrity is America’s aristocracy—it’s been said before, but it’s so surreal to actually see it happening before your eyes, the way people are sucked in.’
Andrew lifted his Cosmopolitan and mournfully contemplated the pink-tinged liquid. They were sitting at a bar on La Brea. It was 6 p.m., the cocktail hour, and the two geneticists were engaged in a political debate.
‘It’s not that simplistic. He embodies masculine leadership, an I-ain’t-gonna-take-this-shit attitude,’ Julia said. ‘Love him or hate him, the current senator doesn’t embody that in any shape or form. It’s a reaction to the World Trade Center nightmare—everyone’s scared.’
Julia checked her watch. She’d left the lab an hour ago and was waiting for Gabriel to call in with some results.
‘So goodbye gay rights, goodbye abortion rights, goodbye stem cell research, hello twenty-first-century puritanism. Oh boy, I need another drink.’
As Andrew, flirting with the barman, ordered another round, Julia watched the aquarium that doubled as a wall. A large silver carp, its tiny fins rippling like over-powered propellers, gaped directly at her, its lugubrious expression bearing an uncanny resemblance to her colleague’s.
‘So, how is the research going?’ Andrew asked in a deceptively casual manner.
‘Okay,’ Julia answered carefully, knowing full well that if she shared any of her discoveries he would incorporate them into his own research the next morning. Competition between scientists was ruthless, particularly in an area where new findings meant celebrity, publication and funding that was crucial to survival. All Julia’s staff signed confidentiality forms.
‘They’re an imaginative mob at Defense,’ Andrew went on. ‘I mean, they’re prepared to throw money at the wackiest research but only on condition they get to do whatever they like with it at the end. Intriguing.
’
There was a pause while Andrew waited for Julia to volunteer more information. Instead, she studied the carp, which was still gazing at her, and wondered about a Darwinian aspect to competition—did it really push people towards flashes of insight or would cooperation be a more successful strategy? As if in answer, a smaller fish swam past and bit the unsuspecting carp on the tail.
‘I mean, don’t you ever have ethical qualms?’ Andrew persisted.
‘Sure, but why do you assume I would have one in this case?’
‘C’mon, Goldilocks, genetic detection of antisocial or violent behaviour, plus a myriad of other factors all aimed at creating an über soldier—who wouldn’t?’
‘And I thought you asked me out for a drink because you were concerned about my emotional fragility.’
‘Whatever it is, I think you’ve cracked it.’ He downed his cocktail, deliberately ignoring her last remark. ‘There’s an excitement about you. Either that or you’re getting laid.’
Julia smiled mischievously.
‘Oh my God, there is someone! Oh, thank Christ, I was afraid you were going to become one of those embittered divorcees whose vagina’s mummify. Seriously though, I am so happy for you.’
He fiddled with his watch a moment, his eyes glinting wickedly.
‘So I guess it’s cool about Klaus and Carla?’
Julia looked at him, confused.
‘She’s pregnant. Talk about moving on. The guy is ruthless…’ His voice trailed off as he watched her face blanch. ‘You did know, right?’
Trying not to react, Julia grasped the edges of her barstool as the room appeared to tip on its side. She imagined the fish in the aquarium struggling upstream as the water tumbled out onto the floor.
‘How pregnant is she?’ The hysteria in her voice betrayed her.
‘Oh shit, you didn’t know. Julia, I am so sorry.’
‘How far?’
‘Six months. I thought you knew—everyone else does.’
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