Authors: Essie Fox
While we waited my stomach cramped in knots, more so with every second that passed. Samuel stepped back along the path and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the constant drizzle of the rain, through which he appeared to be studying every window in the house, and a sigh of frustration when he returned, knocking a final rat-a-tat-tat, though I had despaired of an answer by then – until we heard some shuffling feet and the tinkling of chains and the scraping rattle of turning keys, after which the door slowly opened up, and there in its frame was an elderly woman who blinked and then screwed up her
eyes, squinting to see who we might be – who had dared to knock so aggressively.
‘I’m sorry,’ she gave a breathless response, ‘Mr Black is not at . . .’
All at once her fearful expression changed, and she smiled with recognition. ‘Why, is it young Samuel Beresford? How long can it be since you came to the Mall . . . and your mother? Is she well?’
‘It’s been almost seven years, Miss Preece . . . since before Osborne travelled to Italy. I had not expected to find you still here.’
‘Oh, I’m still here, and shall have been fifty years next spring, though many things in the house have changed . . . and most of them last summer.’
When she stood back and allowed him to enter I found myself oddly reluctant to follow, to meld with the dinge of that big square hall where the atmosphere smelled of rot and damp, where the air was as mizzled and grey as the mists that hung low and ominous outside. But when Samuel Beresford glanced back at me his expression was so encouraging and, meanwhile, the old woman was prattling on, ‘He’s married, you know. But, of course, you must know, with such things written up in the papers, and all his Academy success, but . . .’ she frowned and began to look confused, ‘he didn’t mention expecting you. I hope I’ve done right by letting you in. He’s been so taken up of late, what with having the care of his invalid wife, attending to her every whim . . . and none of us servants allowed to go near, to disturb
her
peace and solitude. I’ve never known a man so devoted, feeding her tonics continually, and thank goodness she’s up on her feet at last after all these weeks of moping around. I must say it’s raised his spirits no end. They’re working in his studio now.’ She jerked her head back towards a door that led off from the farthest end of the hall. ‘Well, down in that grotto of his.’
‘Grotto?’ Samuel Beresford looked bemused.
‘Oh yes, he’s had the builders in. The excavations and
tunnels they’ve made! You’d never believe what’s gone on in those cellars . . . though how he can see to paint a thing! And the damp can’t be good for anyone’s health.’
On that pronouncement she tugged a cord that dangled in one of the corners, setting off a jangling bell which echoed somewhere low in the house – which brought me to my senses again, and I found the courage to look around and to see through a door that was standing ajar a space that must be a parlour. It possessed a severe formality with its dark panelled walls being relieved by what looked to be French porcelain plates – but those next to ghoulish African masks. There were several chairs around a hearth, some draped in oriental throws, whereas others were covered by plain white sheets as if the house remained halfway between being shut – or opened up. Curiosities were cluttered on tabletops; glassy orbs, silk flowers and stuffed birds in domes. In pride of place on the mantelpiece were ivory elephants, Chinese jars, and many-armed brass Indian gods, which made me think of Elijah, that day Pearl came to Kingsland House, when my brother was taking my photograph. I had to blink and swallow hard, looking away from those ornaments to the desk which held paper, inks and pens, and there at its side, in the window bay, what must be a very great treasure indeed – a tall black onyx pedestal and atop that two marble figurines; Leda’s arms caressing the neck of the swan.
Such a blatantly erotic scene. My eyes closed and then refocused upon the hall’s blue walls, and those hung with so many paintings that I could not begin to count. The watery mood of every one was enhanced by the liquid sounds outside, the rain’s pitter-patter on window glass, the thin splashing gush of the gutters which formed the most fitting accompaniment for all those exquisite landscapes – the streams, and fountains and rivers and pools – and nothing that you would think to relate to the character of Osborne Black. But they were his. There was no doubt. I saw his name quite clearly daubed.
Such minute attention to detail. Such precision in every stroke of the brush, where even the smallest blade of grass
might be plucked from the canvas and held in your hand. And perhaps there really was dew on that grass. And perhaps those canvases really perspired with what looked like some form of moisture because, down below, where the skirtings were fixed, the plasterwork was blown and wet.
My eye next fell on the peacock, the stuffed bird that Elijah had written about. And from there to a marble Venus who was rising up from a scallop shell; that figure between two luxuriant palms. But Elijah’s letters had not described what lay on a circular table, its base on a purple velvet cloth, a thing that made my stomach churn, reminded again of the freak in Cremorne – though this artefact was not ugly, for the contours of its wooden face were painted to look like living flesh, but with no biological origin, being one of those clockwork constructions with moving parts that mimic life – what they call an automaton. I found it eerie and sinister, having such an uncanny resemblance to Pearl, and not Pearl the woman I’d recently met, but Pearl as the girl once seen in Cremorne.
I shivered. I could not drag my gaze from the glassy green eyes that stared my way. I felt the damp brush of a draught on my cheek, and I thought I heard Elijah’s voice. But wishful thinking, that’s all it was, for when I looked round it was not him, only Samuel Beresford, still engrossed in interrogating that maid, who was growing increasingly reticent and evasive in her answering –
‘. . . all I know is that he was dismissed. We miss him around the place, we do. Mr Lamb was like a breath of fresh air. But really, I shouldn’t be saying. What goes on in this house is no business of mine. Mr Black is a very private man, and . . .’
‘And what brings my cousin here today? What business is
he
engaged upon?’
Osborne Black’s deep voice echoed through the hall. He stood in the now open door at its end. ‘You can go.’ He curtly addressed the maid, who wasted no time in scurrying off, her feet tapping along the passage until, at its end, she plunged from view: a little white rabbit who falls down a hole. Much like
Alice, I wanted to follow her, to hide from the heat of Osborne’s glare, for such a charmless greeting he gave when rapidly striding towards us then, calling out, ‘Good God . . . my cousin Samuel! What can you want, coming here today? If I wanted trivial gossip then I would have invited you for lunch. But I have no such inclination.’
What insults. My jaw almost dropped to the floor. How on earth to respond to this insolent man? In the months since our meeting at Kingsland House his beard had grown wild as a hermit’s again, and lower, the matted dark hair of his chest protruded through his undone shirt, where the flesh was flabby, gleaming with sweat. His aroma was animal, musky and thick, combined with the smell of turpentine – and something else; festering, fishy it was. And as on that day when he’d been in Cremorne there were streaks of paint all over his clothes, more glistening wet in his auburn hair, a deeper tone of purplish red, and when he lifted a hand to his brow, to push some strands of hair aside, that colour was smeared on his fingers too, a stain I thought too much like blood.
Thank goodness for Samuel there at my side, quite unfazed by his cousin’s semblance. ‘Dear Osborne, forgive our pestering. We have no wish to detain you long . . . our visit only being to enquire as to the whereabouts of Elijah Lamb.’
‘I imagined as much, with his lily-livered sister cowering there at your side.’ Osborne Black’s lips curled in a grimace. Meanwhile, he dragged a bench from the wall, its ebony fretwork inlaid with gold; surely what my brother had described as being an ancient marriage chest – upon which this ungracious groom proceeded to sit and cross his legs, his booted feet planted heavily on the turquoise blue glaze of the Eastern tiles that were laid across the hall’s expanse. I found myself admiring their beauty, some illustrated with birds, some trees, some purely geometric shapes, though my drifting attention was quickly regained when Osborne Black continued with, ‘If you’ve something to say then spit it out. I’ve nothing to hide. Not from you, or her . . . or anyone else.’
Samuel Beresford took a deep breath and proceeded to reel off his blackmailing threats, nowhere near as composed as he’d been in the cab. Even so, his cousin’s dark features paled as he stared through the webbings of dreary light to swear that my brother had not been dismissed but had simply disappeared one day, no one having seen him since the night he left Chiswick for Burlington Row.
Burlington Row?
Did my uncle know more than he let on? Through a sense of confusion I found my voice. ‘But Freddie made no mention of this.’
‘You must take his things. He left his things!’ A different voice now, soft and trembling as its owner emerged from the very door through which her husband appeared before, and I felt as if time was winding back to that day when she came to Kingsland, except that now the perfect Pearl looked too thin and drawn and ill, a condition that could not be disguised by the finely embroidered wrap she wore, which was clinging to every angle of which her frail body was made. Her hair fell loose, greasy and lank. Her milky complexion was roughened and marred by scaled and flaking patches of red.
Osborne made to stand and looked back at his wife. ‘This meeting is no concern of yours. Go upstairs. You need to rest.’
Without giving any acknowledgement she came forward and walked right past him, I presumed to obey his stern command when she began to climb the stairs. But once she had disappeared from view there came a fast drumming of footsteps above, as if she was running from room to room – after which she returned, breathless and panting, her green eyes glittering wildly when she gazed back down from the stairs’ balustrade, where her arms held a bundle of what looked to be clothes – which she suddenly flung high into the air, and as those items scattered round I recognised my brother’s things. How callously she discarded them!
Falling down on to my hands and knees, I was trying to gather those garments up when Osborne Black began to speak, his voice no less steely or controlled, though I feared that at any
moment the man’s temper might well explode, glancing back to see white-knuckled fists, above them shirt cuffs, oily and frayed, streaked black with smears of charcoal, and such a contemptuous sneer on his face when a fine spray of spittle fell over mine, which, combined with the rancid stench of his breath, almost caused me to retch in sheer disgust, inwardly quaking when he snarled, ‘Take what you want and get out of my house. As you can see, my wife is unwell. The last thing we need is visitors.’
My eyes lifted to Pearl, still looking down, her gaunt features strained and running with tears. I wanted to get up and run to her side, to keep her safe from this monstrous man. But I felt a restraining hand on my shoulder. I heard Samuel Beresford’s steady words, ‘Lily . . . we really should think to leave.’
He helped me to stand and we made for the door, though only halfway across the hall when he paused to stoop down, to pick up a shirt and next to that a package of papers, all secured with a ribbon binding.
‘What’s that?’ Osborne Black was at his side, the bulk of the man deceptive again, his movements as swift as a coiled spring when he snatched at what I recognised; all the letters I’d written from Kingsland House.
‘Leave them alone!’ Defiant anger made me brave when my eyes locked firm with Osborne Black’s, seeing his burning, red-rimmed with exhaustion – or was it guilt I witnessed there? ‘Those are the letters I wrote to Elijah. They are mine. They have nothing to do with you!’
The artist chose to ignore me, proceeding to flick through the first few sheets, staining the white with the paint on his fingers, his features full of a sneering contempt for whatever he’d happened to witness there – after which those papers were thrust at me, an act so abrupt and violent that I stumbled against the table upon which the automaton lay.
From deep within the mermaid’s bowels there came the sound of clicking and whirring, her mechanism jolted to life, and that was when Pearl began to laugh – high pitched it was, hysterical – during which she raised a thin white arm, pointing
down at her husband and shouting, ‘Look at the red . . . the red on his hands? What more proof do you need of what he’s done? Take those letters. Read the truth, and then go and tell Mrs Hibbert too. Mrs Hibbert has papers to set me free, to stop him putting me away . . . another ghost in Chiswick House.’
When that distressing tirade was done Osborne Black groaned and closed his eyes. His shoulders slumped forward as if in defeat, his voice gruff and weary when turning to me. ‘You can see how things are, what she has become, why I try to maintain our privacy. Now please . . . I’ve told you all that I know. Won’t you go? Won’t you leave us both alone?’
The horses’ wet coats were still foamed with sweat. The driver’s leathers glittered like jet. Icy rain still dripped from the big black umbrella beneath which Samuel guided my arm, the weight of my body pressed hard to his as I struggled to climb into the cab, clutching that bundle of clothes to my breast and within them the stack of letters.
For five minutes or so I sat there stunned, exhausted and on the verge of tears as the carriage trundled on its way, and when Freddie broke the silence and enquired as to what had occurred in the house, Samuel Beresford placed a hand on my arm and answered his friend with a shake of his head, as if suggesting he wait to hear. But then, what was there to hear? We’d been left with more questions than answers. We had no more news of Elijah. We only knew that Osborne Black had reverted to his brutish self, as offensive as he had been in Cremorne. And how strange was Pearl’s behaviour; her awful dishevelled appearance, and—