The Shape of Darkness

by Laura Purcell

  Agnes winces. ‘I expected as much.’ She cannot decide who had it worst: Mamma forced to watch those she loved hurtle towards oblivion or herself; left to imagine the brutal scenes.

  And what an imagination she owns. She recalls the conversations, the marks of affection; how she even conjured up Cedric in his torn and trampled clothing. She would not have believed her mind capable of such deceit, but Simon does.

  ‘I have told you before that the brain is a powerful and delicate organ. That was why I wished for you to refrain from activities that might interfere with its natural workings, such as Mesmerism. You must view it from this perspective, Miss Darken: that what happened to you is not so very different from what befell poor Miss Meers. Your subconscious persuaded itself into seeing objects and people that were not there.’

  His argument carries the benefit of logic, but Simon does not know what she and Pearl witnessed in their upstairs room at Walcot Street. Ghosts do exist.

  She would rather believe that Mamma and Cedric were not hallucinations, but visitors. Her love called them up from beyond the grave. Did not Miss West say that the Gift often came after a long illness? It did feel like a gift: her short reunion with those she loved best.

  But she must never confess her theory to Simon. He would not understand.

  An orchestra tunes their instruments, ready to amuse the drinkers.

  ‘Do you think my equilibrium will be restored, Simon?’ She looks up at him, unsure of what she wants his answer to be. ‘Will I be as I was, before the pneumonia?’

  His smile does not waver. ‘I am certain of it.’

  He is so certain that over the course of the next week, he pays the two shillings for her to use the private baths. The famed healing springs are very different from the cold clutches of the River Avon. She descends into a cloud of fragrant steam, her shift billowing around her ankles, and when she is finally immersed the warm liquid feels like an embrace. She paddles her hands, watching her swollen fingers soften and flex. The mist makes her think of Pearl.

  It is all very well for Simon to claim that the girl was being mesmerised. But how did she and Agnes see the same delusions? The shadows; the writing on the floor; the grandfather clock that whirred and the dark figure of a woman, reaching out her hands.

  All of these spirits were definitely there.

  Someone had the power to raise them. If it was not Pearl … could it possibly be Agnes?

  She braves a chair back to Alfred Street. The jogging, jolting motion does not disturb her as much as she expects. It is not so very like a carriage after all. Stalwart men carry her along, instead of horses. They seem sturdy and reliable.

  Just like Simon.

  He has been so good to her. What must it have cost him to care for her these past two years? Few men would have acted with his devotion. He has saved her from death not once, but twice.

  She has always reserved the word hero for men like Nelson, but it is conceivable that Simon may be one too.

  She never thought them suited in temperament; could not imagine them living together. But as the chairmen set the sedan down on the pavement in Alfred Street, she realises that the house behind the black iron railings is already starting to feel like home.

  Much of Bath has been a strange welding together. The Royal Crescent is orderly and geometric at the front, yet a jumble of different roof heights and depths at the back.

  Perhaps it is the same for her and Simon. Perhaps they can meld, after all.

  It may be that, given the right circumstances, two very different people can find a way to become one.

  After attending the Octagon Chapel on Christmas Day, they set about preparing a feast. Naturally, the holiday will be a muted affair, but what they lack in spirits they make up for in food.

  Simon knows how to cook a goose. They have chestnuts besides, butter-coated potatoes, a cranberry pie, ham and oysters which part at the merest touch of the knife.

  It is pleasant to spend hours toiling in the kitchen, drinking wine as they work. Agnes finds she does not mind the sweat. While she is busy, she cannot dwell upon the family members she has lost.

  It is only when the table is all laid out and she is sat at the end of it, facing Simon across the divide of two lit candlesticks, that she notices the empty spaces.

  These gaps should be filled by Simon’s siblings and parents. On previous Christmas days, Constance, Mamma and dear little Cedric occupied them. Now there are only two chairs and a dog who noses under the tablecloth, licking her ankles in expectation of dropped food.

  Simon raises a crystal glass. He has drunk a touch too much wine and his nose is red. ‘Your health, Miss Darken.’

  She toasts it.

  For a time the only sound is cutlery moving against china. The food is exquisite. Agnes has every reason to be content, yet somehow she is not.

  It would be ridiculous to say she is lonely, while she is in the company of her closest friend. But there is something lacking. Perhaps it is the old adage that blood is thicker than water. She certainly felt a sense of fulfilment around her family which Simon cannot supply.

  Her happiness should not be contingent upon another person, yet somehow, it has always been. She has clung to the memories of Papa, Montague and Cedric in turn. Lived her life for others, never forming an independent identity outside of her art. Now that the silhouette parlour has gone too there is a flatness; a part of her is missing.

  Simon swirls the wine in his glass. He, too, glances to the sides of the table and the piles of food they will never manage to eat between them. He seems to read Agnes’s thoughts.

  ‘We have both of us lost families.’ The candlelight shines off the moisture in his eyes. ‘The pain of that never fades. I miss them all, my brother Matthew especially. Every day. But if I am honest, Miss Darken …’ He puts his glass down, hesitates. ‘The only companion I ever truly desired … was you.’

  These words have gone unsaid for many years. Simon must have waited most of his life to say them. But now that they are finally out … nothing has really changed.

  She knew. She knew before he went off to Scotland; she knew when she accepted Montague’s offer; she even knew when he stood at the altar marrying Constance.

  But she cannot tell him that. She dabs her mouth with a napkin. ‘Your company is always a great pleasure to me, Simon.’

  ‘Then you will … stay here?’ He touches the stem of his wine glass but cannot look at her.

  ‘I do not know how much longer I am able to. I may be your sister-in-law, but people will start to talk about us.’

  ‘I meant …’ His throat works. ‘Miss Darken. I must ask you, at last. Is there not any way you would consider staying … as my wife?’

  It is all very restrained; nothing like Montague’s ardent declarations and the kisses she showered on him. But Simon is so good, so kind, so assiduous for her health. Gratitude has done what affection alone could not.

  She wants to accept.

  ‘Could I?’ she asks in a small voice. ‘I mean to say … is it allowed?’

  ‘Not by the laws of England’s Church,’ he admits. He glances up at last, and his blue eyes are imploring. ‘Although Constance and I were never … It was not a marriage.’

  A log pops on the fire. Somehow her sister still hovers between them.

  ‘What is it you propose, then?’

  Simon inhales. Clearly, he has been deliberating this for some time. ‘It is a great deal to ask of you. I will understand if you object. But given the circumstances, perhaps it would be better for us both. A new leaf, without memories.’

  She cannot think what he means. She blinks at him. The air smells of cooling meat.

  ‘Our marriage would be possible on the Continent. I thought perhaps we could go to Switzerland, or Italy? The climate would be ideal for your lungs. It may even prevent your pneumonia from returning, and you know my work could continue without significant interruption. There are so many English families travelling in those
parts that I would never want for patients.’ His eyes slide away. ‘I knew it was useless to ask while Captain Montague … You were always adamant he would come back for you. But now he is truly gone, and I noticed … you have stopped wearing your ring.’

  ‘You want us to leave Bath?’

  ‘I understand it is not a decision to be made in haste. You will require time to deliberate.’

  Trepidation clutches at her. Bath is all she has ever known.

  Can she really leave?

  She always dreamed that she would one day; that she would stop living like one of her silhouettes, forever encased within its oval frame. She thinks of Pearl, who spent her whole life in the dark. It would be awful to end up like that.

  ‘I do not want time, so much as courage, Simon. I have mastered the hot baths, but facing a sea voyage, after what happened to me …’

  ‘I would be there to protect you, as I was fourteen years ago.’

  A spot at the centre of her glows. Simon has always been there, shielding her. And now he is offering her a version of the future she always wanted. She will be on board a ship, cutting across the sea towards new adventures, albeit in the opposite direction to the one Montague intended to take her.

  ‘Would Morpheus be seasick, do you think?’ she asks coyly.

  She smiles at Simon and it works like a tonic. He has known her long enough to realise this is a tacit acceptance.

  He throws his napkin down on the table. He appears handsomer, in his happiness, than she has ever seen him look before. ‘Come to the tree, Miss Darken. Dinner can wait – I have a gift for you.’

  Agnes obeys, feeling outrageously light and young. Was it really this simple, all along?

  The fir tree stands in a pot upon a circular table, adorned with candles, silvered nuts and strings of scarlet berries. Two oranges sit beneath it for their dessert. There is a greasy-looking parcel which she knows is a pig’s ear for Morpheus, and a small shagreen box she did not observe before.

  Simon takes the box into his palm. ‘It was not my intention for this to symbolise … I did not believe I would ever have the temerity to ask …’ He laughs at his own awkwardness. She cannot recall the last time she heard a genuine laugh from him. ‘I merely wanted you to have an item of jewellery in place of the one you have resigned.’

  He hands her the box and she opens the lid straight away. Nestled inside is a milky opal. It takes the candlelight and splits it into a thousand colours: reds, yellows, purples and greens. These are the hues Montague promised her, and more besides; Simon has provided an entire spectrum.

  Reverently, she pulls the gem out and sees it is attached to a solid golden band; a ring of fractured colour and beauty. She slips it onto the third finger of her left hand.

  Simon watches, enraptured.

  She cannot help thinking of Constance’s wedding ring. He did not smile when that was put in place. Nor did his bride.

  A strange shiver runs through her. No, Constance would certainly not be smiling now.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  She glances up, basks in the warmth of his affection. The choice is hers now. Everyone else has gone; she is free.

  ‘I will wear it always,’ she says.

  CHAPTER 38

  The Feast of Epiphany approaches. They receive a letter from Mrs Muckle’s brother, telling them that the charwoman has a putrid sore throat and must delay her return. In all honesty, they are happy to make do without her. There is plenty to eat, and Morpheus gobbles up any leftovers before they turn bad. The laundry can be sent out, so there is only the washing of plates and dishes to deal with for the moment.

  Simon is adept at scouring. ‘Cleanliness is paramount in medicine,’ he tells her. ‘A discipline no doctor should neglect.’

  The charwoman will have to be given warning, anyhow, if they are to go abroad and wed this year. Simon anticipates being able to sail in late spring when the weather is calm. Any gossip that arises between now and then shall simply have to be borne. England may not accept a man who marries his dead wife’s sister, but there are plenty of countries that will.

  Agnes decides she will not return to Orange Grove in the interim. It is not just the memories of Mamma and Cedric that keep her away; she does not want to step into the parlour where Pearl died, or see the wreckage of her studio. She thinks of the shattered frames, of the presence hovering upstairs and it makes her shiver even when she is sitting before the fire.

  In her dreams she sees the shadow woman rise again. Her black arms open in an embrace, stretching and extending around the walls, until their darkness encircles the room. Could it have been Constance, objecting to Agnes’s friendship with Pearl? If she managed to call up her other family members, it is conceivable …

  But it would be safer, Agnes decides, to never find out.

  She will send Simon to go and pack the things she needs. He will look after her, always.

  On Twelfth Night, Mrs Oswald, the pregnant lady who slipped on the ice back in October, is brought to bed. Simon is obliged to leave Agnes and attend the birth.

  ‘I shall make all possible haste,’ he says hurriedly, tucking the summons away and fetching his outdoor things. ‘But confinements can be lengthy affairs. I am likely to be absent well into the evening.’

  It is a disappointment to be left without company for the holiday, but she hoists a brave smile. ‘You must take as long as the lady needs. Do not fear, I shall save some wassail for you.’

  He deliberates, slapping his gloves against his wrist. ‘And you … you will be quite well, on your own?’

  ‘Oh, Simon, I am not alone.’

  Morpheus grumbles his agreement. Simon gives the pug a long stare. ‘Behave yourself, little beast. I am counting on you.’

  At length, he is persuaded to depart. Agnes is strangely charmed to have the house to herself. It is clean and uncluttered, full of gentle sounds like the fire sifting and the dog’s snorts. There are no magpies here.

  ‘Well,’ she says to Morpheus, ‘it seems you are King of the Bean and I am Queen of the Pea. We will find a way to have a merry Twelfth Night of our own.’

  Morpheus sits down and chews his foot.

  Despite her cheerful prognostic, the novelty soon wears thin. She reads, she eats, she sews a little; there is not much else to do. Without Simon’s conversation, the day drags. There are only so many times she can throw the ball for the dog.

  Her hands itch to make a papercut, but she has given all that up. They have agreed between them that she will paint watercolour landscapes instead, when they go abroad; that will give her a creative outlet free from associations with Miss West and murder. Yet in the meantime … Her fingers tug at her skirts. She really does miss the occupation.

  But she promised Simon, and besides, she has no scissors. Although perhaps there is a surgical pair kept in the house for emergencies … She brushes the thought aside.

  As evening bruises the sky, she receives a hasty scribble from Simon, telling her there is a complication with Mrs Oswald and he will certainly not be home tonight. That decides her: she will retire to bed early. Morpheus can sleep by her feet if he likes; she is still not quite comfortable with the prospect of facing shadows alone.

  She bars the street door, extinguishes the gas lamps and tamps down the fire. Deliberately not lighting a taper, she feels her way upstairs and climbs under the covers fully dressed. It is childish, she knows, but she does not want to give her fancy – or her power, whatever it is – a chance to stretch its legs. Imagine how pleased Simon will be if he comes home tomorrow to find she has managed to pass twenty-four hours with no illusions and no upsets.

  Although she drank plenty of the cider-rich wassail, sleep evades her. She is not frightened, exactly; there is simply too much to occupy her mind. She tosses and turns, uncomfortable in her clothing. Morpheus does not share her problem. The dog snores, louder than Mamma ever did.

  Somewhere down the street, perhaps in the Assembly Rooms, music is being played.
There will be fun and games all over the city tonight, except for at the Oswalds’ house, where all is fraught with tension, and at the gaol, where Miss West draws near to her sentence hearing and almost certain death.

  She flips over the pillow. It does not feel like a night for ghosts. There is no sense of menace or oppression, nor can she hear Cedric’s hoop, clacking over the cobbles.

  So why can she not rest?

  It is only when a firework explodes, waking Morpheus and prompting him to issue a single bark, that she remembers: Simon left in too much of a hurry to prepare her nightly opiate.

  She sits up against the bolster. Morpheus pads around the chamber and she can sense people outside, celebrating. Nothing is eerie or strange. She is quite equal to venturing downstairs and finding a bottle of laudanum.

  ‘Come along, then,’ she sighs, throwing the covers back. ‘I will not get a wink of sleep without it.’

  Morpheus stands behind her legs as she fumbles the door open. There is a pier table on the landing – one that Simon’s mother used to decorate with floral arrangements – but tonight it holds a lit beeswax candle, set into a silver holder.

  Agnes frowns.

  ‘Simon?’ she calls.

  Her voice echoes through the empty house.

  She certainly did not bring that candle upstairs. Could it be a delusion? It burns like a genuine flame. She picks up the holder, tests its weight in her hands. It feels real. The silver is slightly tarnished, engraved with a floral motif that matches the hairbrush on Constance’s dressing table.

  Morpheus sniffs.

  ‘It comes in handy, anyhow,’ she tells him and they set off together down the stairs.

  She keeps her eyes trained straight ahead, reluctant to let them wander off and follow shadows. The music from the Assembly Rooms swells outside as she descends. It is sacred, choral, with the deep thrum of an organ beneath.

  The consulting room door is unfastened. Agnes slips inside with ease. Her candle flame sparks on glass domes and slides over the gilt tooling on the spines of the books. She lights the lamp upon the desk, illuminating a circle of walnut wood.