Authors: Martha Lea
The surprised astonishment, embarrassment, and later, the disgust betrayed by Isobel’s face.
Edward had arrived at his home in London at nine-thirty in the evening. His manservant still on extended leave as Edwards’ had not been due back for another week or so, he brushed aside
the feeble attempts made by some maid (whose name he did not know and forgot as soon as he learned it) to help him out of his overcoat and remove from him his travelling bags containing all his
rocks and fossils. His intention had not been to see Isobel immediately, but the rather peculiar noises and furtive looks from the maid persuaded him to go straight to Isobel’s rooms.
Edward had stood unobserved in his wife’s bedroom as he watched her receive the attentions of his best friend, Charles.
He had assumed it was Charles; whose face was hidden between his wife’s pale thighs; whose hair was being twined into knots by her dumpy fingers (he did not remember Isobel’s fingers
as ever having been dumpy). Edward thought that he would step out of the room as quietly as he had entered it, but the play of lamplight on his wife’s skin kept him there. He saw Charles move
his head up from between Isobel’s thighs and over her belly, slowly licking her skin in a line up to her chin where she caught his mouth with her own. In quiet fascination Edward watched
Charles take possession of Isobel, his eyes fixed on Charles’ buttocks, reminding him of the young woman with the flushed pink cheeks in the hotel room below his at Lyme Regis.
He did not wait to see it end. He let himself out, allowing the door to make a noise, and returned downstairs, still grimy from his journey, where he poured himself a gin and drank it neat. He
stared at a portrait of Isobel hung above the fireplace, whilst another servant whose name he had no intention of learning fussed over the fire which had been allowed to get low. Half an hour,
perhaps forty-five minutes later, he heard someone leaving the house. Edward poured himself another gin and went back upstairs in the manner of someone who has only just that moment arrived to
greet his wife.
She was sitting at a card table, wearing a green silk dressing gown, embroidered down the front with pale yellow butterflies. She was dealing herself a game of patience. She had dabbed cologne
on her wrists, which did not mask the smell of Charles’ own distinctive hair pomade, nor the acrid linger of his cigars in her silk. And as he looked at her he saw how plump she had become. A
loose sentence from the pile of burning letters skipped in his mind: “We have a new addition to the kitchen; he does not take up much space and so does not incur the wrath of Cook, but the
best thing is that he makes the most delightful pastries.” What pleasant words of greeting there might have been were obliterated by what had happened next. The shouting, and the bath water.
Forcing his wife to wash herself, his hand gripping her neck and her fine pale hair coming loose. The way the bath water wicked into his dirty clothes as he rammed her head under. Hurt her, Isobel,
his wife. And her placid face all the while despising him; her eyes open beneath the surface, bubbles escaping from her nose, just waiting for him to finish.
He let go of her when he saw her hands. The palms flashed up at him revealing the brown rash. He stepped back from her, as if that would have made any difference. Very slowly, Isobel got out of
the bath, drew to her skin the green silk which clung and darkened against the contours of her. There, around her middle, obvious now, the swell in the candle light.
“You are finished,” he’d spat out at her, pointing at her belly. “If that doesn’t kill you, then those marks will.”
“What are they?” she’d whispered.
“Hasn’t he told you? A medical man. I suppose he thought to get himself a nice easy cure. Bit more palatable than mercury but, unfortunately for him, utterly useless.”
“What is it? What do they mean? Please, tell me—” the whisper barely audible.
He’d backed further away from her, wiping his hands on his clothes. “I’ll get you—” His voice fragmented and he struggled to contain the pieces. “I’ll
see to it that you receive the best treatment, but it’s probably too late. For God’s sake!”
“Please, Edward?”
“You have syphilis, courtesy of Mr Charles Jeffreye.”
He’d turned and left her there, deaf to her calling him to come back. He’d rung for a maid, any maid, and told her to bring him some carbolic and hot water.
Afterwards, he’d gone and looked for Natalia, but he’d not been able to find her that night.
And how could he ever have thought of mentioning Natalia’s name to Gwen? He cursed himself for it; and then he cursed Gwen for passing on the lie, for making others
become entwined in a moment which had been so intensely private, tenuous and desperate between himself and Gwen. As he turned the thing over in jagged thoughts he remembered that Gwen had made such
a play of not remembering that second rainy day in her garden. He could not fathom her game.
Edward took the letter from Cornwall out of his collecting bag and ripped it open.
Mr Scales,
My Mistress being unwell, it falls to me to write to you with the grave news that your wife, Mrs Isobel Scales, died here at Carrick House on the 21st February in the year of Our Lord,
Eighteen Hundred & Sixty-One. Mrs Scales visited here & she was taken ill. She did not recover well enough to return home nor leave her bed here. I am sure it would be a comfort to you
to know that your late wife was well cared for & wanted for nothing except to be able to speak with you at some time in the future, when, as she conveyed to my Mistress & to me, she
hoped that you would attend one of my Mistress’ Spiritual Evenings in order that she could talk with you. This was her dying wish.
We had a big fall of snow here, & we were not able to get a carriage through to take the coffin back to London. It must be my duty, also, to tell you that your late wife was buried
here, at our church.
Another person has been here who was very interested to know where both yourself & also the late Mr Harris had got to. She payed my mistress a visit not long since & not so long
after Mrs Scales had come here and passed away. This person said that she had spoken to your wife previous, & I thought that all in all you would want to know this as well.
Yours Truly,
Susan Wright.
If this is what happens to every woman who becomes a mother, thought Gwen, then it is no wonder men want as many offspring as possible. A woman continually pregnant would make
her forever stupid to the world and to her own thoughts. To her own self. Gwen thought of Edward, of his silly, purposeful stride, boxing up his specimens, busy, his mind uncomplicated by the kind
of emotional demands her own body made of her. She thought that she could see his purpose in getting her with child. She did not need to
think
to be his illustrator; he did not want her as
his assistant in the true sense. He had brought her here to be the skilled labour. She was becoming a kind of base animal, full of maternal instinct and nothing much else. It was a struggle to find
herself each day, to carve out an inch of motivation. It was a battle of wills: her own and the will of nature. If I was not in this state, she thought, if I was not tied down by my
‘condition’ as Edward had referred to it, then I would leave. The fact that she could not possibly leave pressed a weight of almost unbearable discontent into her being. She steeled
herself against it, washed her brush and carried on with her painting. All thought left her. She lost sense of where and who she was as she entered the topographies of the creatures before her.
Gwen looked up from her half-finished study of a large green caterpillar and met the amused gaze of Vincent Coyne. She regarded him for a moment, allowing a smile to curl the corner of her
mouth, and then went about the business of putting the object of her study away. Here, at least, was another chance to take her mind out of the spiral of self-pity she had allowed herself to become
absorbed in that morning. The defoliated citrus twig went back into the cage with the caterpillar. She wiped her paintbrush on a cloth, and then wetted her fingers with spit to make a point on the
sable hairs. Gwen had not been expecting Vincent. He had sent her a note a few days before, telling her that he would not be able to come and visit. He had apologised and described how Mr Pemberton
had been struck with a fever. Now, he leaned over the open windowsill.
“How can you do that when he doesn’t keep still for one minute?”
“Oh, it’s simple enough. Far more agreeable than being presented with an empty skin.”
“People actually stuff those things?”
“Sometimes. Thankfully, Edward is far too busy.”
“So, you’ve got him trapped in there, food plants on your doorstep. Will you let him go free, or is your plan to observe the whole transformation and then stick a pin through
him?”
“No, I couldn’t do that.”
Vincent brought up his closed fist and dropped a pale green pupa attached to a leaf onto Gwen’s workbook. “I have no idea how old it is, or if it will hatch, but I think you’ll
be pleased with it if it does. I believe that the mush in that thing is pretty damn impossible to catch with a net.”
Gwen eyed the gift without picking it up. “Are you an expert on lepidoptera?”
“Is that what you call it? Well, you learn something new every day.”
Gwen took up the leaf and pupa and held it up to the light. You are getting too familiar, she thought, but I like you. “You can include moths in the order, as well. Thank you for this, Mr
Coyne. I’ll keep it on my desk.”
“I’d like to see Mr Scales’ face when it hatches.”
“That is probably unlikely since he has taken himself off on a little excursion. He should be back in a couple of weeks.” Why on earth did I tell you that? Gwen blinked and avoided
his gaze while making a show of examining the pupa more thoroughly.
“Are you comfortable, alone here?”
“I’m not alone,” she said quickly. “I have Maria; she stays at night. I have no reason to feel uncomfortable.”
“No, of course not. So. I’ll let you continue.”
“And what of Mr Pemberton, is he well enough?”
“To tell you the truth, I think he is malingering.”
“The fever has eased off?”
“Some days it seems like he’s just about himself again, and others he is the picture of woe. I’m convinced he eats hot peppers while I’m out to make himself come out in a
sweat.”
“But he has enough quinine?”
“Enough? He’s using my supply now. We won’t be able to make another excursion until the next boat comes in. Our search for your mysterious lady has been put back
somewhat.”
“These things are out of our control.”
“May I come in? Where is your maid, by the way? I’ve been all around the house.”
“I asked her to take a letter for me. I expect she has stopped to visit her family.” Gwen felt suddenly uneasy; there was a kind of suppressed determination in Vincent’s voice,
which made her want to shrink into herself, like the mimosa leaves at the edges of the forest paths. She tried to make herself sound careless, but her own voice was now stretched with a
breathlessness. “Do you know anything about Oxbow lakes? Edward is determined to find one.”
“Is that where he has gone, to find one?”
“No.”
“Just as well. Easy when you know where to look. They happen when the river changes its course.”
“Have you seen one? Perhaps when Edward comes back you might show him on a map.” Please, please, she thought, don’t start on again about Darwin. She certainly wasn’t in
the mood for another convoluted conversation about the gigantic scientific discoveries Coyne believed he could make or prove.
“It’s a possibility, certainly, but, you know, these lakes dry up. It may be that by the time Mr Pemberton and I are able to travel again, the lakes I know of will have turned to
swamp. Of course, if Gus decides to malinger for much longer I may have to review my situation.”
“You don’t mean that. I think the pair of you are inseparable.”
Vincent picked up the telescope from its resting place and extended each section. “Now this is something I never had the brains to think of acquiring. Perhaps I have gotten a little
complacent and ought to put myself in the shoes of a novice, or semi-novice, and learn something.”
“That spyglass actually had nothing to do with foresight. It was a gift.”
“Then I wish I had friends like yours.”
“It was a gift from the captain of the
Opal
. If I hadn’t asked to use it so much, he probably would not have given it away.”
“Ah.” Vincent put the telescope back on the shelf and seated himself on one of the cane armchairs. “Don’t mind me. Just carry on as you were; I don’t want to
interrupt you. I promise not to disturb you.”
“You won’t disturb me. I ought to move around a little, anyway.”
“You look remarkably well, I must say. And your innovative style is rather becoming.”
Gwen was suddenly annoyed at his candour. “Let me bring you a little something. I think we still have a drop of
cashaca
, or I could make some fresh coffee.”
“No, no thank you. I don’t need anything.”
“Are you sure? What about some fruit? I am going to have some. Will you take an orange, Mr Coyne?”
Gwen went out to the next room and came back with two oranges. She sat in the chair opposite Vincent Coyne and began to peel one, dropping the peel into a handkerchief. Vincent played with his
orange. He prodded it all over and sniffled the skin. He dug his nail into the zest and scraped off a tiny amount.
For goodness sake, she thought, just peel the orange. When Gwen had eaten half of her segments, he had still not begun to peel the fruit, nor had he said anything. Gwen noticed that a dullness
had come over his expression. She let him be for a few minutes more and then asked if anything was the matter.
Vincent sighed. “Rust.”
“Pardon?”
He leaned forward, his fist tight over the orange. “Tell me honestly, do you have any problem with rust?”