Great Historical Novels (15 page)

It feels as though a lifetime has passed, though it is only a week since I arrived in London. Mrs Blake and I sat together in her morning room on Friday afternoon and dipped our quills by turn into her ink pot. She composed an obituary notice to be published in
The Times
and then, while I wrote and rewrote the letter to my mother, she wrote to Ryan’s friends and associates on black-edged stationery. The wake will be held after the service this morning.

On Saturday I went to the Petticoat Lane market for black crêpe and green velvet ribbon for a tabard, and sat sewing in the morning with Mrs Blake and Juliette. Juliette is habitually miserable. She barely speaks and hunches her shoulders as if she alone bears the sins of all Catholics. Her
gloominess irks me now that I am so wretched myself. I have sewn a tabard trimmed with green ribbon for the coffin and a mantle for myself. I can barely bring myself to wear a black gown, but I must. Only for the burial though, because Ryan told me that he found the excessive mourning habits of the English extremely dull. I would prefer to wear the print I saw in his room, of golden leaves spinning across emerald green. This was a cloth more symbolic of death than black crêpe; a reminder that the falling leaves of autumn sustain the tree that bears new leaves in the spring.

A gentleman by the name of Dillon has taken it upon himself to mediate with the authorities. Laurence trusts him. I only hope I have not been a fool, telling him as much as I have. Both men have been looking for a letter, written to Ryan by Mrs Blake’s husband before he died, and now I cannot stop wondering what it contained. Perhaps it will explain Ryan’s strange mood on the day before he died. I believe he was in some kind of financial difficulty. Someone is on the stair. I will write more anon.

Ribbon

Rhia closed her drawing book and ran her hand over its red cloth cover. It contained designs and sketches of ideas. Now, the ‘letters’ to Mamo were interspersed with drawings of ivy on stonework and winter roses. It felt odd writing at first, but now it seemed the most natural thing in the world. She even wondered if Mamo had always intended that this was how the pretty pen with its shining knot-work would be used.

There was a light rap on the door and Antonia appeared carrying a breakfast tray.

‘You are dressed already,’ she said, surprised.

‘I couldn’t sleep.’

‘Nor I. Laurence left an hour ago for China Wharf. Isaac has offered to collect us in his carriage. I thought I’d make sure you had time to dress, but I can see that I needn’t have worried.’ She took the tray to the table and stopped still when she saw Rhia’s painting.

‘Is this your work?’

Rhia nodded.

‘But, this is
accomplished
! I had no idea. I am quite astonished. So delicate. Such inventiveness. You have an eye, my dear.’

Rhia was pleased to be praised by someone like Antonia, who clearly had an eye herself. She joined her at the table and squinted to assess the worth of what she had painted. The leaves
were in different shades of blue, more like spiralling arabesques that whorled across the page like candle flames in a draught.

Antonia was leaning over the table, examining the design more carefully. ‘Extraordinary that one colour can have so many moods.’

Rhia nodded in agreement. ‘I once bothered a dyer until he would name every blue in his workshop, probably in the hope that I would go away.’ She pointed out different jars in her box. ‘This is pearl blue and that one mazarine and that is ultramarine. The names were given to different shades of Indian indigo by the dyers of the last century. Before that there was only woad.’

Antonia was listening intently. ‘Wasn’t that what the Irish painted themselves with before going into battle?’

‘It was. To frighten off the Romans. Perhaps we should try it on the English …’ Rhia trailed off, remembering that she was talking to an Englishwoman, but Antonia was smiling.

‘You are well-read,’ was all she said, and she didn’t seem displeased.

‘Too much so, according to my father. When he is angry he says that no man will have me. And I
have
made him angry rather a lot.’

‘Some men are at loss to know what to do with a woman who can think for herself. They cannot help it. They are bred to believe that they are our intellectual superiors, and to be proven otherwise would topple their world from its perch. But topple it we must! I hope that you will never consider marrying a man who does not want you to think for yourself.’ Antonia was quiet for a moment, looking at the blue arabesques. ‘Do you have others?’ Rhia nodded and unearthed her binder. She had been unable to bring herself to leave behind all her paintings, they were like a journal; each one reminding her of the
day it had been created. Antonia examined design after design, exclaiming over knot-work roots, brightly coloured vines and twirling ribbons of lilies. She said she loved them all, so Rhia showed her the chintz from Thomas. Antonia seemed quite in awe as she trailed a finger along the golden feather of a bird, and then a bough laden with jewels of fruit.

‘How wonderful,’ she breathed finally. ‘My dear, this is a treasure. You must never part with it!’

They ate a little bread, though neither had the stomach for it, and then waited in the entrance hall until they heard bridles clinking outside.

Rhia was intrigued by Isaac Fisher immediately she stepped into the carriage. He wore a flat-brimmed hat and the white neck tie that made Quaker gentlemen resemble clergymen. He was large, though not corpulent, and the shoulder length hair beneath his hat was greying brown. His gaze was distant, but his handshake firm. He only spoke to ask where Laurence was, and after Mrs Blake explained that he had left early to supervise the casket bearers, they rode across London Bridge in silence.

In the small, overgrown churchyard of St Andrews, there were perhaps a dozen gentlemen in black hats and coats, but Rhia recognised only Mr Dillon. He stood a short distance from those gathered at the grave. She suspected his presence was more than a mark of respect for a man he had barely known. Did he expected to find some clue here, amongst her uncle’s mourners, or did he already know why Ryan had taken his own life? He caught her eye and bowed deferentially.

The casket bearers arrived and discharged their sombre duty impeccably. Rhia was glad that she had decided not to be present when Ryan’s body was nailed shut into his coffin. It was kind of Laurence to offer to oversee the formalities, particularly as he seemed a little nervous about doing so.
Rhia would only have feared for her uncle’s comfort and the lack of air within the casket. It was foolish but she could not help it.

Laurence was at the front of the queue of bearers, his hand resting beneath the front of Ryan’s coffin as gently as if he were carrying a precious object. The priest seemed vaguely inattentive and kept trailing off as though he had forgotten where he was or what he was doing. The service was brief. Before the casket was lowered into the earth, Rhia stepped forward and draped her crêpe tabard over it. As the dirt was shovelled carelessly into the grave, Laurence came to stand by her side. They watched until only a corner of ribbon was poking through the brown dirt. It was the green velvet ribbon disappearing into the gaping earth that was Rhia’s undoing. The irrevocability of it. Her knees suddenly felt like aspic. Antonia rested a hand beneath her elbow, and each held the other up a little straighter than they could have managed alone.

The mourners stirred when the last clods of earth were in place, and two men approached. The taller had the self-assured air of a successful gentleman and looked aristocratic. His companion was slight and a little stooped, and more modestly attired. Rhia took him to be a clerk.

‘Good morning, Mrs Blake,’ said the tall gentleman. ‘And this must be Miss Mahoney?’

Rhia saw Antonia’s hand flutter to her hair before it was corrected. Who was this man who made the Quaker self-conscious? Antonia composed herself quickly and smiled her gracious smile.

‘Yes, this is Miss Mahoney, Ryan’s niece, and this is my husband’s cousin, Mr Blake.’ Antonia introduced the gentleman as Mr Montgomery, a mercer of Regent Street, and his associate as Mr Beckwith. Rhia had not heard Antonia Blake
use formal titles before. Was she doing this for Mr Montgomery’s benefit? And if so, what of her Quakerly values? Rhia extended her hand, which Mr Montgomery took. His clear hazel eyes met hers for only a moment, but she felt a small thrill at their intensity. It must be useful, as a mercer, to have such an effect on women – his clientele being largely female. He turned to Laurence.

‘Ah, Mr Blake, I heard you had moved to London. Your reputation precedes you. I understand you are making great advances in the photogenic field.’

‘Indeed I am,’ said Laurence. ‘If you would like a portrait or a personalised calling card, I am at your disposal.’ Even Laurence seemed a little in awe of the man.

‘But Mrs Blake has already taken my portrait! Or rather, she took a group portrait in her garden in the spring.’ Mr Montgomery turned his handsome face back to Antonia. He was in the region of fifty and had an abundance of pewter hair and a toffee-cream complexion. The corners of his eyes were crinkled to suggest he often smiled. Mr Beckwith barely raised his eyes. He was either painfully shy or overcome by emotion. Perhaps he had been fond of Ryan.

‘I have done nothing with the negative yet,’ said Mrs Blake eventually, softly. ‘It is not transferred.’ It was clear that she did not want to talk about the portrait, which made Rhia even more interested in it.

‘My deepest commiseration for your loss, Miss Mahoney,’ said Mr Montgomery. ‘Your uncle was very well liked. He will be missed. Sadly, Mr Beckwith and I have a pressing engagement elsewhere and cannot attend Cloak Lane, but I would very much like to make your acquaintance. I know it is abominably short notice, but you must, all three, agree to be my guests this Saturday for supper.’

‘That is gracious,’ said Antonia. She looked at Rhia, flushing. Laurence was clearly pleased, so Rhia nodded.

‘Splendid! Shall we say eight o’clock?’ Mr Montgomery strode away through the churchyard with Mr Beckwith hurrying behind him. He looked rather magnificent, with his polished leather top hat and black mourning coat. It must be English broadcloth. The quality, Rhia had to admit, was superior even to that woven in Wicklow. His patent boots and the silver tip of his walking stick flashed in the sun, affirming that he was a man who had money and who liked to spend it. There was something reassuring about this.

The vision of the ribbon in the brown earth would not leave Rhia as they returned to Isaac’s carriage. It was a symbol of renewal, she decided, and of hope. If today were a cloth, it could only be green velvet.

At Cloak Lane, Beth and Juliette wore starched white aprons and caps, they curtsied and took top coats and hats and showed guests down the hall.

The fire was lit in the drawing room, at the centre of the house. Rhia had not yet seen this room in use. Like any drawing room, it was a statement of the prosperity of the household, but it seemed out of place in the Blake household. The carpet was deep rose and the curtains heavily patterned damask. The furnishings were teak and mahogany upholstered in red velvet, and the walls were papered in dark green. The room was conventional and did not have Mrs Blake’s lightness of touch. Rhia felt, instinctively, that this room had been Josiah’s and that it had not been used since he died.

Several gentlemen, whose names Rhia immediately forgot, approached her and offered sympathy and condolences and murmured a few kind words about Ryan. They drifted off to
converse quietly in huddles by the fire, on the ottoman or by the windows.

Antonia brought her tea in a cup and saucer of pink china, so fine that it might have been made from a sea shell. Neither of them spoke for a time. Rhia was puzzling over the drawing room and Quakerism. For all of the simplicity of their faith, the Blakes unashamedly embraced the accessories of wealth.

‘You must be thinking about Ryan,’ Antonia coaxed.

Rhia almost felt guilty that she was not. ‘No. Is it true that Lloyds and Barclays are Quaker banks?’

Antonia looked puzzled. ‘Yes.’ She nodded slowly. ‘But affluence can be a consequence of ethical trade as much as large-scale production. The real error is in being without charity, which is, after all, what God intended for us.’

‘How can you know what God intended? He has not been in direct conversation with anyone for almost two thousand years!’

Antonia had the good grace to smile before she said she must fetch more of Beth’s barberry tarts and ginger loaf cake. Rhia suddenly longed to be like her; to believe in something wholly and unquestioningly; to follow a creed that made sense of life and death, instead of hovering between the worlds of the living and the dead. On the other hand, wearing grey and brown for the rest of one’s life seemed a high price to pay for unwavering faith.

Laurence and Dillon appeared and were, for a time, deep in conversation with Isaac Fisher. When Antonia went to the kitchen, Dillon approached Rhia. He was dressed respectfully in black, but his boots were as narrow and pointed as ever.

‘May I speak with you for a moment, Miss Mahoney?’

‘Of course.’ She wished he wouldn’t, as her tone probably implied. She was tired. She caught Laurence watching from the
other side of the room, frowning, though he smiled quickly when their eyes met. She felt unsure of herself and wished someone would bring out a fiddle or tell a joke about Ryan. She could not help admiring Mr Dillon’s apparent disregard for social graces.

‘It is remarkable that your arrival in London should co incide with your uncle’s death,’ he began, and she braced herself. ‘Is it possible that the circumstances which brought you here were connected to his … situation?’

Rhia felt a surge of anger which seemed to fortify her. ‘If you think my arrival in London somehow contributed to my uncle’s—’ She didn’t manage to finish before Mr Dillon interjected.