The Circle of Sappho (5 page)

Swann made his way back to the boat, where Lady Harriet, Miss Jennings and Tom were waiting. The return journey across the lake was undertaken in silence. Once back on the other side, Swann requested to see where the teacher and pupil had slept. The girl, Grace, had been in a dormitory with seven other girls, and a quick glance at her possessions revealed nothing. There were a few textbooks, including one by Dr Borzacchini called
The Parisian Master or A New and Easy Method for Acquiring a Perfect Knowledge of the French Language in a Short Time
, but nothing which struck him as being relevant to her death. He smoothed his hand across the bed and then briefly knelt down and slipped his hand under the mattress. There he felt something. He brought it out. It was a book of poetry by Sappho, a name Swann vaguely remembered from his Classical literature studies during his own schooldays and from a work by his favourite author, John Donne. She was a poetess in ancient Greece who killed herself over a boatman, if he remembered correctly. Swann could recall little about her poetry though. He had no idea if the book was significant, but the fact Grace had chosen to hide it meant Swann swiftly seconded it about his person, before going across the corridor to where Miss Jennings and Lady Harriet waited outside Miss Leigh's room.

‘Miss Leigh slept across the corridor as she was responsible for the wellbeing of the girls in this dormitory,' explained Miss Jennings.

The irony of her statement was not lost on Swann. Once in the room, there was again nothing which seemed to him as being significant. Several books on a shelf were duplicated with those from Grace's possessions, but these were Classical texts and to be expected. Swann spotted a book behind the others. He pushed a couple of volumes aside and pulled it out.

‘Did Miss Leigh cover Sappho in her teaching?' asked Swann as he held up the book of poetry to show her.

‘No,' Miss Jennings replied, ‘that was definitely not on the curriculum.'

The rest of the room was an exemplar of neat and tidiness. A stack of papers lay on a small table; these were essays waiting to be marked Swann observed, as he briefly scanned through them. A bed, a wardrobe and a chair completed the room's furnishing. There was nothing to suggest anything sinister or out of the ordinary. She was there to do a job and for all intents and purposes, up to the point she disobeyed a school rule, murdered a pupil and then killed herself, she seemed the ideal teacher.

They walked down the stairs of the main building and out of the front entrance. It was twelve o'clock and the girls were coming out from their morning lessons. As Lady Harriet said her goodbyes to Miss Jennings, Swann noticed a girl standing at the top of the school steps. She was around the same age as the dead girl and stood watching intently, as if waiting for an opportunity to approach him. But then Elsa, the head girl, came along and appeared to chide her for staring; taking her by the arm and leading her away.

Swann and Lady Harriet got back into her carriage and departed. It had begun to rain heavily, but the protesters were still outside the gates as they left.

‘Elizabeth Singer was born in the Somerset town of Ilchester, in 1674, the eldest daughter of a dissenting minister. She began writing at the age of twelve and her work, consisting mainly of poetry and novels, is still popular today.'

Mary Gardiner sighed despondently, stood up from her writing table and went across to the bedroom window. Outside her Great Pulteney Street house the sky was a dark grey and rain pattered against the glass panes. The day was as dull as the words she had just read, written in her own handwriting, which began the booklet she was completing for Lady Harriet. It was to be one in a series her aunt was having published, which was to be entitled
Incredible Women Authors of Bygone Ages
, with each volume concentrating on a particular female writer. Mary had been allocated Elizabeth Singer Rowe; the ‘Rowe' in her name having been added on marriage. The publication would consist of two parts; the first, a biographical ‘sketch', as Lady Harriet had called it, detailing the writer's life, this being what Mary had recently completed, while the second would be a compilation of the subject's poems or prose pieces.

Mary had compiled the biographical section from numerous books, periodicals and unpublished papers her aunt Harriet had lent her from her own library, located at her residence near Frome, and consisting as it did of seemingly every book printed on the subject of women's education and equality of rights with men. The collection was housed upon numerous huge bookcases which stood ceiling to floor around the room and among which were long out-of-print works, limited editions, first editions – some as old as two centuries – and stacks upon stacks of unpublished essays, articles, journals and diaries that were the envy of several universities and museums. It seemed every female writer who had anything worthwhile to say about their own sex and their position in life was represented, from Aphra Behn to Mary Wollstonecraft, Catharine Macaulay to Hannah More.

Mary had read the biography, she had written, for the third time before going to the window and overall was pleased with it; in so much as she felt justice had been done to the life she had to portray in prose. It seemed Elizabeth Singer Rowe had been, at least towards the end of her long life, a pious, religious woman, whose righteousness had subsequently been held up by certain clergy as an exemplary mode of living to be followed. Mary felt, however, that there had also been a more feminine, radical woman underneath this veneer and had tried to balance this in her profile. If there was a problem with the piece though, it was the opening paragraph. Having read it a number of times Mary felt it lacked the impact her subject required, perhaps even demanded. It was competent enough and would no doubt be satisfactory to the majority of readers, but it was not inspirational; so not reflecting the premise behind her aunt's series. She had been trying to rewrite the opening all morning and had yet to find her own inspiration. The weather did not look inviting, but she was now determined to venture out into it in the hope of gaining a different perspective on her writing.

The need to rewrite the manuscript's opening had clouded Mary's morning as completely as the ones in the sky. It was doubly frustrating as she had been really looking forward to the morning, ever since her brother had announced he would not be returning at ten for breakfast. It was not that she found Jack's company disagreeable; on the contrary, she very much enjoyed his companionship and their stimulating conversations – but when she was in the middle of an artistic endeavour, one which demanded complete concentration, the presence of another person, even if there was no dialogue between them, always lead to distraction. So when Jack announced he would not be returning to the house that morning she had looked ahead to several uninterrupted hours' work. She could now see though that to continue would be counter-productive and so, from the moment she made her decision to leave the house and walk the short distance to the entrance of her chosen destination – the nearby Sydney Vauxhall pleasure gardens – only twenty-five minutes had passed.

Throughout the eighteenth century, promenading had become popular in many towns and cities in England. From this fashionable pursuit of social walking the concept of pleasure gardens developed; either in the centre of these metropolises or, more often, on their outskirts. Here, an area of land would be set aside for the planting of tree-lined avenues or other agreeable vistas, so as to give a formal setting and framework for socialising. In Bath, this had originally taken place among the rows of trees in Orange Grove, in view of the Guildhall, and then later on land near the river.

The Sydney Vauxhall pleasure gardens had opened in 1795 and when Mary's father had retired to Bath eight years earlier and bought their house in Great Pulteney Street, she had been fortunate enough to arrive in time for the pleasure garden's inaugural gala and a visit by the Prince of Wales. The pleasure gardens of Sydney Vauxhall were like a familiar and beloved acquaintance to Mary. She had sought solace here after her father's death, more often than not in the company of her mother, but now alone, since she too had also passed away. When the family had all been together, they would spend countless afternoons strolling in the grounds and trying to find their way out of the labyrinth, which was one of the central features of the gardens. Mary smiled as she recalled her mother and herself hopelessly lost within the maze, only to hear the sound of laughter above and, looking up, seeing her father on the swing, which had been erected at the labyrinth's centre and whose occupant, it was advertised, could ‘look down upon all the lost souls'. From his vantage point, he would then tell them where they were going wrong and attempt to guide them to the centre. They came here in all weathers, at least when it was open, and enjoyed all the seasons equally; each having its own atmosphere. It was now spring, and despite the gloominess of the day Mary could see clematis and honeysuckle beginning to bloom, finding the surface again after winter.

Her solitary figure had become a regular sight to the gardeners and groundkeepers, although Mary was not the only person to enjoy such walks. She had not been in the gardens long when her name was called from behind. She turned and saw a familiar face.

‘Oh, Mary, it is you!'

‘Jane, what a lovely surprise!'

Jane was around five years older than Mary and like her was unmarried. Unlike her, though, there was no fiancé in her life. In fact, Mary could not remember Jane ever talking about any romantic attachments in the three years she had known her. This did not concern her though, for although Mary did not see Jane often, each time they met she always came away feeling enlivened from their encounter.

‘How is your mother?' Mary asked. ‘I understand she has been unwell.'

‘Yes, she has been quite ill. So much so we thought we were going to lose her. Mr Bowden, our apothecary, was of the same opinion, but she has shown great fortitude and has come through unscathed. She is so recovered, in fact, that she has written a humorous poem about the whole experience!'

‘I am so glad to hear she is better. It must have been stressful for your father.'

Jane nodded.

‘Father is not in the best of health either. He has taken to using a walking stick and finds, at times, even the journey to Mr Bowden's premises in Argyle Street to be tiring. Mother's illness has shaken him into activity, however. We have a few months left on the lease of our house, but father has decreed we are to leave the city for the seaside, at least as a temporary measure.'

‘Oh, you are to leave Bath?' said Mary, surprised. ‘When?'

‘As soon as arrangements can be made, I believe. I will enjoy the sea air, but I admit I shall miss the city and its walks, in these gardens and in the countryside. I have come out today to take as much advantage of them as our time left in the city affords. I may even attempt a longer walk before we leave, although I do prefer a companion for those.'

‘My brother and I are going to walk to Swainswick this Friday, if the weather is fine; we are to visit my mother's grave. You are most welcome to join us.'

‘That would be most agreeable,' replied Jane, visibly excited. ‘And I can pay our family's respects at the same time. Mother was very sad she could not attend the funeral, as we all were, being in Lyme Regis at the time. Can I enquire as to the way you intend to walk there?'

‘We have not discussed the exact route yet.'

‘Then may I propose we go through the village of Charlcombe on the way. It is a charming little place, with wonderful views.'

‘That does sound wonderful. I am certain my brother will not mind which way we go.'

‘Then it is set,' said Jane, smiling. ‘Now, would you care to join me in a walk around the gardens, or shall we continue in our solitudes!'

‘Together would be most agreeable,' replied Mary.

As they walked through the gardens they passed a board advertising the foods available for the public breakfast, which took place at the Sydney Hotel each day.

‘I must confess,' said Mary, seeing the board, ‘I am quite hungry. I did have breakfast but did not eat much of it, as I was occupied with a piece of writing.'

‘I can appreciate that feeling,' replied Jane. ‘I can miss several meals at a time when my prose is in full flow.'

‘I did not know you wrote,' said Mary. ‘Have you had anything published?'

‘No. A manuscript was bought by a publisher last year. He even advertised the book as being for sale, but so far it has yet to see the light of day.'

‘What is it about?' enquired Mary.

‘Let us retire to a table for breakfast and I shall enlighten you.'

Once they had been seated, Jane continued. ‘It concerns an unusual heroine who finds herself within a drama of her own making. The first part of the book is set in the city. I had the idea for it when I first visited Bath a few years ago. And what about your own writing, Mary?'

Mary told her companion about the booklet and how she was having trouble writing an inspirational opening paragraph.

‘You must draw the reader in like an old friend,' said Jane, ‘and whet their appetite for a story.'

‘This is not a story,' said Mary, ‘it is about someone's life.'

‘Then you must make their life feel as though it is a story. In that way the words will come alive for the reader.'

‘I will try. Thank you,' said Mary.

They finished their breakfast together and made their way back to the Sydney Hotel entrance. Outside the gardens they parted, Jane crossing the street to her house in Sydney Place, Mary carrying on up Great Pulteney Street. Whatever else the morning had been, she thought, it had reacquainted her with a friend and also given her a female companion for the walk to Swainswick on Friday. As much as she was endeared to her brother, the opportunity to have an extended conversation with another female, of similar age and intelligence, was something to relish and anticipate.