Another Heartbeat in the House (43 page)

Clara Venus was looking at me with eyes too big for her face, and a furrow drawn across her brow. She looked as sad as the orang-utan listlessly toying with the straw on the floor of his cage.

‘I will see, darling. I will see about going home soon.'

I did not want to make any decisions just yet. I wanted to wait until I heard news of the potato harvest. If it failed again, I might think about taking Clara further afield, to Paris.

‘Can we go tomorrow?'

‘No. There will be a lot to organize.'

‘But we came here without organizing anything.'

I remembered the disarray of my bedchamber as I threw garments into the trunk that Christy had trundled to the staging post. I remembered the blessings of God that Old Biddy called down upon my head when I gave her a purse to tide them over until I could send more money from London. I remembered the look on Jameson's face – bewildered, irate, anguished – as I tied the strings on Clara's bonnet.

‘This time things are a little more complicated,' I said, ‘for we shall have to help William find a new governess.'

I SAID NOTHING
to William about this contingency, but as it happened, something arose that made us both question the wisdom of maintaining the status quo. A novel was sent to him by a publisher friend. It purported to be an autobiography, edited by someone who called himself – or herself – Currer Bell. It was, I suspected, a pseudonym; I was proved right when some months later it was revealed to have been written by a woman called Charlotte Brontë.

Jane Eyre
told the story of a governess who falls in love with her employer, a gentleman who happened to be married already to a madwoman whom he keeps isolated from society. Within weeks the book had become a great commercial success, and rumour ran rife among the so-called cognoscenti that I was its author.

I was irritated by this for two reasons. I was appalled that anyone might think I would write about poor Isabella's condition in so callous a manner (the hapless wife in the novel was compared to a wild beast); and I was aghast that words such as the following (spoken by the novel's hero, Mr Rochester) should be attributed to me: ‘Jane, be still; don't struggle so, like a wild frantic bird that is rending its own plumage in its desperation.' If I were to write a novel, I liked to think that I might pen rather more elegant dialogue.

The raised eyebrows that greeted me when I made an entrance into a public room, the snickers from behind painted fans, the laboriously affected indifference of the people to whom I was introduced persuaded me that to stay on in London would be inviting public opprobrium, and might even damage the sales of William's book. I stood poised for flight, undecided whether to set sail south for France, or west for Ireland.

Then one day a letter arrived for me at the house in Young Street. It was from one of the Quaker soup kitchen ladies to whom I had written, seeking advice. Her letter assured me that the situation was improving.

I went to William, to hand in my notice. He was in his study. A quire of paper on the desk before him was covered in his dense handwriting, a sandwich lay untouched on a plate. One of Minnie's cats was curled up by the fire, and outside the window the rain was dripping steadily from the creeper that clambered the length of the wall.

‘How goes the work?' I asked, taking a seat opposite him. ‘Has Miss Sharp moved into her grand house in Mayfair yet?'

William took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. ‘Yes. But all the ladies of her acquaintance have snubbed her. Lady de la Mole has cut her while riding out in Hyde Park, and Lady Bareacres refuses to acknowledge her in the waiting room at the opera. What is poor Becky to do? What would you do in her situation, Eliza?'

I laughed. ‘I dare say she will find a way to win them over. As for me, I have neither the inclination nor the stamina to ingratiate myself.
Moi, j'en ai marre
. I have found a new governess for you, William.'

‘What?'

‘Her name is Miss Alexander.'

‘
What?
'

‘We both know that I can no longer continue here. I am giving you my notice.'

‘Eliza –'

‘You must know what people are saying.'

William looked so blank that I deemed it necessary to elaborate.

‘The
on dit
is that we met in Cork five years ago.'

‘And so we did.'

‘And that Clara Venus is the result of an indiscretion that occurred between us.'

William's face went puce. ‘But that is preposterous! We could never – I mean – how? How – I – it is preposterous!'

I spread my hands in a baroque gesture. ‘The more preposterous the story, the more people want to believe it. They can heap all the calumny they like upon me – I couldn't care less. But I will not have Clara Venus implicated.'

‘You mean, you are leaving me?'

‘I am.'

‘Don't, Eliza! Don't go – you can't leave me. I am but halfway through the novel!' William's red face had turned quite pale.

‘Come, come!' I rebuked him. ‘Did you engage me as a proxy amanuensis or as governess to your daughters?'

‘I engaged you because – because I wanted you here with me. I am much fonder of you than of anyone. I would do anything to make you easy. Please stay as my – my companion, my tender friend.'

‘William, you know that is impossible.' I realized that I was using the tone I often adopted when schooling Annie in her Latin grammar. ‘You are a married man.'

‘I am a widower with a wife alive! Isabella does not care for me. She cares not tuppence for anything but her dinner and her glass of porter. Please stay, Eliza. Any constraints you perceive can be –'

‘No.'

‘The constraints can be –'

‘
No
.'

I love the word ‘no'. It is the most powerful in any person's artillery. I use it sparingly, but to my mind too many people are afraid to use it at all. It had upon William exactly the effect I intended. He crumpled.

‘Oh, stop it, William,' I said, exasperatedly. ‘You cannot have your cake and eat it too.'

‘What cake have I got?' he said sullenly.

‘It is there in front of you. That novel is your cake, and since it is but half baked, you had better make sure that it does not come out of the oven unrisen.'

We looked at each other in a kind of flummoxed silence for a moment or two, and then I raised an eyebrow and William raised one back, and then his mouth quirked in a smile and mine did the same, and then we started to laugh and laugh.

‘I delight in your aphorisms, Eliza,' he said, finally, wiping tears of mirth from his cheeks, ‘but that one is certainly not worthy of inclusion in the book.'

‘I'm sorry,' I said. ‘It is the worst I have yet come up with.' Leaning my elbows on the desk, I looked at him with affection. ‘You must not worry about your book, dear heart. You are perfectly capable of finishing it without me.'

‘I shall miss your company here in the evenings. I shall miss reading aloud to you.'

‘And I shall miss hearing you tell the story. You must send the instalments to me in Ireland.'

‘And you must write to me.'

‘On condition, William.'

‘Name it.'

‘I want my letters back. Every one I have ever sent you.'

‘Why?'

‘Because they belong to me.'

William gave a smile that made him look ineffably smug. ‘In law, Eliza, I think you will find that they belong to
me
.'

‘Oh? I did not know that. In that case, I shall not trouble myself to write to you again.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because you appropriate some of my best
bons mots
without asking my permission. In
law
, William, I think you will find that that is called plagiarism.'

‘That's an infernal allegation!'

‘You're the one who raised the subject of legality,' I said with a shrug.

Prise de fer!
Of course I had no intention of levelling charges of plagiarism at him. I wanted my correspondence back for my own reasons; so that I could refer to it should I ever find time to pen a memoir. William bridled and blustered, but I ignored him and stood firm until he fetched me the letters I had requested.

‘Do you promise you will still write to me?' he said, handing over a sizeable bundle which, I noticed, was endearingly tied up in lavender-coloured ribbon.

‘Of course. But I will be sure to keep a copy of every letter I send. As insurance.'

He smiled sheepishly.

‘Where will you go?' he asked. ‘Dublin or Cork?'

‘Lissaguirra.'

‘You are not going back there!'

‘It is Clara's home. She is not yet ready to leave, and until she is, it must be my home too.'

‘But is it safe?'

I took from my pocket the letter that I had lately received from Ireland, and scanned the formalities. Then, ‘“The blight is on a far smaller scale than last year,”' I read aloud. ‘“The Temporary Relief Act has contributed to a general feeling of well-being within the community. The crime rate has decreased and it seems that a mood of optimism prevails.”'

‘Who sent you that?'

‘One of the Quaker ladies with whom I worked in the soup kitchen. I don't trust many people, but I suppose I must trust a Quaker to tell the truth.'

‘What will you do, in Ireland?'

‘What I intended to do – before I was forestalled by the birth of my beguiling daughter. I shall write my novel.' I rose to my feet and moved to the window. The sun had come out, and the small garden was agleam with fallen rain. Barnaby Rudge was sitting on the wall, washing herself. ‘I shall have to get some pet animal for Clara. She envies Minnie her cats.'

‘Will she go to school there?'

‘Yes. There was a schoolhouse built just three years ago, not half a mile from the lodge.'

‘Will you not miss society?'

‘I have no regard for society here. I prefer the camaraderie of the few friends I have in Ireland.'

‘But you will accompany me to Devonshire House tomorrow night?'

‘What?'

‘I thought I had mentioned it. Did I not? Perhaps I forgot … Look, here.' William rummaged among the papers on his desk and picked out a vellum card engraved with gilt lettering. ‘It is an invitation I received, to a reception Lord Cavendish is giving.'

Lord Cavendish! I had often passed the mansion where the Duke stayed when attending the House of Lords. I had been told of the opulence contained therein; the paintings, the statuary, the countless priceless artefacts. My contempt for the aristocracy was infinite, but still the artist in me yearned to behold those treasures that had for centuries remained hidden to all but the scions of the Cavendish family and their privileged cronies.

I remembered how the gentry used to visit my father's studio in Soho, masquerading as bohemians. I remembered pouring wine for them, laughing at their odious jokes and being pulled onto their laps to be tickled. Now I had an opportunity to climb the gilded echelons and observe them at frolic on their own territory.

‘Is not Cavendish the duke who had the banana named after him?'

‘The very one.'

I made a little moue, gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘Then how could I refuse?' I said.

Edie would have carried on reading, had she not been assailed by a sudden attack of pins and needles. She had been curled up in the fireside chair for so long that her leg had gone to sleep. Unhooking her foot from beneath her, she started to hobble around the room, in an attempt to get the blood flowing again.

On his pouffe, Milo was chasing rabbits in his sleep, his little ears atwitch, his muzzle all atremble. Had Clara Venus ever got her pet? Edie wondered. Had she sat here, curled up with a book on her lap and a kitty snoozing by the hearth? What might she have read? Edie could not recall seeing any children's books on the library shelves.

She flexed her foot, hopped over to the bookcase and scanned the titles. There was nothing there that would appeal to a small child, but her eyes lit suddenly on a series of Everyman titles, with their beautifully decorated art nouveau spines. Among them was the
Biographical Dictionary of English Literature
. She slid the volume out from between its companions and started to leaf through the pages.

Every one of the thousand or so writers listed was dead, and most of them were men. Jane Austen had been allocated half a page, Charlotte Brontë even less (with scarcely a mention of her sisters), while Fanny Burney did not merit a single line. Charles Dickens had been apportioned two full pages, as had Thackeray, William Makepeace.

‘Novelist.
b
. 1811;
m
. Isabella,
dau
. of Colonel Shawe, an Irish officer,' Edie read, then skimmed the rest of the résumé until she reached the final paragraph: ‘For some years Thackeray suffered from spasms of the heart. He died suddenly on December 24, 1863, in his 53rd year. He was a man of the tenderest heart, and had an intense enjoyment of domestic happiness; the permanent breakdown of his wife's health was a heavy calamity.'