Great Historical Novels (11 page)

Rhia sat down at the breakfast table. Mrs Blake had left a copy of a broadsheet, the
London Globe
open on a page that she
presumably thought would interest Rhia. This was clearly not a household that disapproved of women reading the papers. The page was divided into narrow columns of print so minuscule that it was almost illegible. She bent over it. A commodious property was being let in Regent’s Park, complete with chaise house, water closet and counting house. It would cost one hundred and fifty guineas for five months. A parish in Limehouse was seeking to contract a butcher who could supply mouse buttocks, maiden ewe and ox beef without the bone; suet included. A respectable officer’s daughter could teach the globes and French grammar and the rudiments of Latin. This lady was apparently qualified by accomplishments and education. Rhia sighed. What chance did she have against a respectable officer’s daughter?

She felt a cold breath on the back of her neck, as if a door had opened behind her. She turned, but directly behind her was only the photogenic drawing of tall, pale tree trunks, like the columns of a classical temple. Yesterday, she had imagined she’d seen a shadowy figure amongst those unearthly trees. She’d been overtired of course, and besides, who’d ever heard of an apparition in a
painting
. Of course it wasn’t exactly a painting, though it was very like one. Perhaps it was all those pictures of the Holy Virgin on the wall that had thrown her. Their presence unnerved her almost as much as the trees did. She turned her back firmly on the photogenic drawing, and the Madonnas, and saw a man standing in the doorway watching her. A real man, not an apparition, though she was beginning to worry that she might not be able to tell the difference. He was a smiling, boyish man with very blue eyes. She had no idea how long he had been there.

‘You must be Miss Mahoney.’

‘And you must be Mr Blake.’

‘Please call me Laurence. Antonia does. Quakers don’t believe in formalities.’

‘Then I suppose you should call me Rhia.’

‘Very well,’ said Laurence, beaming.

‘But I thought it was impolite in London to call a stranger by their first name?’ This was just the kind of etiquette she had been dreading.

‘Then we must pretend that we are old friends.’

Rhia laughed. She liked Laurence Blake immediately, with his carelessly tied cravat and crumpled shirtfront. He held a top hat in one hand, as though he was on his way out. With the other hand he attempted to smooth a hillock of dark blond hair.

‘I hope I am not disturbing you,’ he said, suddenly awkward.

‘Oh, I’m pleased to be disturbed. I might otherwise be forced into looking for a position.’

‘I see,’ he said, though he didn’t look as though he did. ‘If you need further assistance in the matter, then perhaps you will permit me to join you for breakfast.’

‘But the table is laid for you.’

‘That’s because Beth is a gem, even though she is constantly grumbling about not being a downstairs maid or a housekeeper. I was going to visit the stationer in Cornhill, but it can wait. Besides, it is raining.’ He sat down opposite her, his very blue eyes hardly leaving her face. ‘Might I enquire what profession will be so fortunate?’

Rhia sighed. ‘I am to be a governess.’

Laurence chuckled as he poured her coffee from the samovar. ‘Surely it will not be so awful?’

‘No, it probably won’t.’ She buttered another roll, feeling self-conscious. She searched for something else to say. ‘Mrs
Blake says that you make photogenic portraits. That sounds far more exciting.’

‘Oh it is, and I’m a fortunate fellow to have made a career of something so jolly agreeable.’

‘Is your studio close by?’

‘I’m using one of Antonia’s rooms for now.’

‘Then you are making portraits in this house!’

‘Why yes.’ He looked pleased by her enthusiasm. ‘I am recently arrived in the capital from Bristol, you see, though I used to visit regularly. In fact, it was your uncle who urged me to come to London when Josiah … died.’ His lips twitched for a moment and he lowered his eyes, but he recovered his humour quickly. ‘Antonia is quite a devotee of photogenic drawing. Now tell me, Miss Mahoney – Rhia – how does London seem to you?’

How did London seem? She considered this. If London were a cloth …

‘Like devoré, I think.’ Was this being too clever? Did Laurence, too, think this unattractive in a woman?

‘Devoré?’

‘A cloth whose pile is—’

‘Ah, I do know what devoré is, but only because the weaves that allow light to filter through make extremely good subjects. Antonia likes experimenting with lace, for example; it is very
photogenic
, as we say.’

‘Then Mrs Blake also makes photogenic drawings?

‘Indeed. But tell me why London is like devoré.’

‘It is as rich as velvet, but in parts the bare cloth is exposed.’

‘Poetic.’ Now he was looking at her as though she were some specimen beneath a glass.

‘Can you really make photogenic drawings of cloth?’ she asked.

‘Would like to see one?’

‘Oh yes!’

‘Then you shall, as soon as I return from the stationer.’

Laurence drank his coffee in a gulp, bowed flamboyantly and was gone.

Rhia coiled a strand of hair around her finger thoughtfully. It felt coarse and reminded her that she had still not bathed. She went looking for the kitchen.

Beth seemed proud to inform her that there was a ‘bath room’, and led her to the back of the house. It was a recent addition at Cloak Lane, the maid explained. The piped water came into Mrs Blake’s basement and it was carried upstairs and heated in coppers, then transferred to the porcelain bath. No wonder Beth wanted Mrs Blake to employ a downstairs maid.

The bath was of such a dimension that a small body could easily recline, and the room was warmed by a rotund iron stove in the corner. A brass rail was fixed to the green-tiled wall near the stove and draped with a white linen bath sheet.

Inside it, Rhia sat with her knees to her chest. It felt strange being in a room that contained only a bath. She felt acutely aware of her naked, honey-coloured limbs. Did she feel this way because of Laurence Blake? He had looked at her as though she was something unfamiliar. He thought her uncultivated. He would marry a pale English girl with a demure smile.

The steam hanging in the air reminded her of the Atlantic fog that had wrapped itself around the
Irish Mail
as it carried her away from Dublin. She hugged her knees more tightly as though to protect herself against homesickness. But now the green tiles reminded her of the Wicklow forests, and she could feel their clean breath in her lungs as though they had taken root in her; inhabiting her blood and bones.

She heard Laurence return, and she held her breath, listening. Did he hesitate outside the door? Surely not. His boots tapped briskly up the stairs. She heard more footsteps and a soft rap on the door and then Beth’s voice. ‘Mr Blake says go up when you’re ready. He’s on the second floor at the back.’

Rhia dried herself and dressed hurriedly, and dried and braided her hair in front of the fire before she went in search of Laurence. The second floor was laid out like the rest of the house, with a landing and housemaid’s closet in the centre and two large rooms either side. He was in the south-facing room. The room had little furniture, and a large Turkish rug covered the dark floorboards. The rain had pattered rhythmically on the windows all morning, but now sunlight fell across a long table that stood against the wall. Laurence’s tall frame was bent over its surface and he straightened when she came in, his hair falling into his eyes. Rhia could not decide if he was handsome or not. She assumed that his gaze was presumptuous, but it didn’t bother her.

‘Ah, Miss Mahoney. Rhia. Welcome to my calotype workshop!’

‘It sounds like a torture chamber.’

‘On the contrary, calotype, in Greek, means “beautiful picture”. Come and see for yourself.’

There was a row of pictures on the table, and they certainly were beautiful. Disturbingly so. Somehow this science or wizardry could conjure the membrane of a leaf; the delicacy of a piece of lace and, most extraordinarily, a number of miniature portraits of sombre-looking gentlemen. These, Laurence explained, were a new enterprise: calling cards; an idea he had picked up in Paris where, he said, the personalised calling card was
de rigueur.
The shadowy lace fichu, the scallop of crochet and the broderie anglaise, he said, were Antonia’s.

‘But how is it done?’ Rhia breathed. She was unable to take her eyes from the pictures. They looked as though they were rendered, oh so delicately, with the steadiest hand and the finest black and brown ink.

Laurence looked pleased. ‘It is, supposedly, a secret,’ he stage whispered, though she could tell it was one he had no intention of keeping. ‘Fox Talbot has patented his calotype process, so one must apply for a special licence to be able to make a certain type of photogenic drawing. He has discovered the means by which one can make several copies of a picture, using a single exposure. I don’t expect you to know what any of that means, but perhaps you would like to watch me transfer an image.’

It was true, Rhia had no idea what he was talking about, and she could only nod and sit down on a stool by the table. Transfixed, she imagined how these motifs might look printed onto linen but then remembered that, here, she was no longer the daughter of a linen clothier. Who was she, then? She concentrated on the motifs. They would look even better printed onto silk, but she was not the daughter of a mercer, either.

Laurence was explaining how the paper that he had brought back from the stationer must first be treated to make it ‘light sensitive’, and that this chemical process must be undertaken at night and by candlelight to achieve greatest success. He had some paper that was treated already. ‘It is best to use a parchment with a smooth surface,’ he said, as he took a sheet from a writing box, ‘and to keep the treated paper away from the light. You will soon see why. I will show you a simple experiment. The more complex transfers, such as portraits, require the use of a lens and a light box.’

He laid the paper on the table and placed a dried frond of wheat on top of it. Within seconds the paper began to darken,
and quickly turned black. After no more than a minute, Laurence removed the frond. The feathery outline remained, in all its filigree detail, pale and perfect against the inky paper.

Rhia watched Laurence do the same with a small posy of dried flowers, and then with a scrap of curtain netting. She lost track of time and was surprised when Beth puffed into the room with a tray of cold cuts and boiled eggs and pickles. This, she explained, was how Mr Blake always took his lunch and she hoped it would do. Rhia assured her that it would. She was too excited to be hungry.

When she asked Laurence if he had any more photogenic drawings she could see, he laughed and pointed to a large chest of drawers against the opposite wall. ‘Be my guest. I have some letters to write and accounts to address, but stay as long as you wish.’ He sat at the end of the table with his writing box and inkpot and was soon absorbed, though Rhia felt his eyes on her occasionally.

She opened one drawer after another. The first was full of portraits; gentlemen in high-backed chairs or with a woman standing behind them. The women stood behind in the family tableaus, too. There were children in sailor’s stripes, and portraits of newly-wed couples with frozen smiles. In another drawer were representations of instruments and teacups; samovars and candlesticks, vases of roses, seashells and even a shelf full of books. Another drawer was filled with pictures of London and Paris and Rome; cities that Rhia knew only from paintings.

When Antonia appeared, Rhia was sitting in the middle of the floor surrounded by pictures of bridges, wrought iron gates, landscapes and every type of masonry from angels to gargoyles.

‘I see that you have been introduced to the industry of the household,’ said Antonia.

‘An industry of light amongst the dark industries of the factories,’ Rhia replied. It sounded melodramatic, even to her ears.

Antonia only nodded. She crossed the room and put on her spectacles to look at Laurence’s new work, and he looked up from his letter writing as though he’d only just noticed her.

‘Hello, Antonia. Have you been out saving condemned souls?’

She smiled but still said nothing and Laurence put his head back down. Rhia wondered if she had offended. Antonia returned to where she was sitting. ‘Industry is a double-edged sword, isn’t it? It has liberated some and ruined others. Will your family continue to trade?’

‘My mother is spinning wool. When my father is well enough we might …’ She was not sure what they might do. Everything was uncertain. She had hoped Ryan would help, but she now suspected that he had cares of his own. In fact, she wondered if he had moved to China Wharf not only for convenience, but because he could not afford the upkeep of his house.

Mrs Blake was looking at her kindly. ‘There is absolutely no reason why you and your mother cannot achieve the same standard of excellence, with or without your father. I am intent on doing so myself.’

Rhia sighed. ‘I would not know how.’ She wished she did, and that she was the kind of woman who would think nothing of riding camels across a desert, climbing icy mountains and exploring Africa without a crinoline.

‘We are bred to believe the opposite,’ Mrs Blake continued. ‘It is the demands of women that keep the cloth industry lucrative. It is fallacy that only the men who run the trade benefit from it. We clothe not only ourselves, but our families and our
homes when we have little else to keep occupied with. We sew, we embroider, we mend. We desire harmony and novelty in the house because it is here that many of us will spend our lives; those of us who do not know that we have a choice.’

Mrs Blake had taken off her spectacles, folded them and put them in a worn pouch. ‘I’m afraid I will be out this evening – I have a meeting. Will you be in, Laurence?’

He looked up. ‘Hm? This evening? I expect I’ll be at my club.’