Elijah’s Mermaid (18 page)

My head was throbbing, was swimming. I hardly know how I found the strength to walk back upstairs to my room again, where I saw my face in the looking glass, already bruised and swelling. But nothing compared to Angelo, for whose sake I knelt down and tried to pray, pressing my forehead against the boards and weeping until my tears ran dry – until Osborne Black was there in the door, towering above while telling me that he had called in a doctor, that Angelo’s eye had been
removed, the wound well cleaned and now stitched up, the boy taken back to his mother’s house. ‘There will be no further consequence. Financial arrangements have been made.’

‘No consequence?’ I could not believe that Osborne could be as callous as that, inflamed by my anger and crying out, ‘When Angelo must bear the brand of your spite until his dying day!’

Only then did Osborne show any sorrow, collapsing to his knees at my side, where he rocked back and forth like a man possessed, burying his face in those monstrous hands, and his moans barely comprehensible. ‘He knows . . . I’m sorry. I thought he’d betrayed me.’

‘Betrayed you? But he’s just a boy!’

‘He betrayed my love. My trust in him.’ Osborne’s bloodshot eyes met mine, filled with self-pitying anguish for which I could feel no sympathy. In truth, I would gladly have struck the man, clocked him then and there with my own bare hands. But I didn’t, because I was afraid. His mood could change as fast as the wind – just as it did in my room right then, all remorse in his voice too soon replaced with, ‘Forget him. Forget about Angelo. It’s time we thought of going home. You’re old enough to pass off as a wife. Start packing. We’ll leave in the morning.’

And that was that. We left Italy. I said no goodbye to Angelo. I never thought to see him again – which is why it came as such a shock, when we’d been back in London for less than a month, when we went to the Royal Academy, as vulgar as any penny gaff with such a chattering thronging crowd, all flimflam girls and square-rigged men who leered from beneath their tifters at me while I stood below Osborne’s painting, and that lifted well above ‘the line’, which pleased my husband inordinately, having complained of years gone by when his work had been hidden away in dark corners. I wished I was in a dark corner, away from all the scandalised stares, all the prudish disapproving frowns of the ladies who huddled with fluttering fans, who had surely recognised my face in the picture called
The Libertine
.

There I was, a mermaid again, this time rising up in a river, my hair and flesh wet with droplets of water, water that glistened like sparks and pearls. And there, on the bank, lying down in the grass and reaching out with extended arms, the fingers of one of his plump little hands tweaking the tip of my nipple, was a Cupid who looked just like Angelo – a perfect Cupid with two brown eyes.

I was all too aware of Osborne’s smile, how cruel and calculated it was when he watched for my reaction then – and me hardly being able to breathe, lonely and heartsick with all of the grief when I bolted and pushed my way through the crowds.

At last I was standing outside, turning round in slow circles, at something of a loss to find myself in the entrance court. The blazing of torches. The queuing of cabs which went rattling out through the high arched gates, and leading to what? My freedom? But where could I go? How could I survive? Could I return to Cheyne Walk to live in Mrs Hibbert’s house? Since coming back to England I kept dreaming about her, all of the time. I had written some letters, but how could I send them? What if the wrong hooks opened them up? What if the touch of black silk gloves was replaced by jagged fingernails?

A touch on my arm made me start in alarm. A man’s deep voice, not Osborne Black’s: ‘Can I offer you some assistance? My name is Frederick Hall. I saw you leave the gallery. I thought you looked to be distressed.’

His face was vaguely familiar. A thick head of lustrous steel-grey hair. An airy self-possession he had. A smile exuding confidence. Had we met that night in the gallery, or was it— Yes, I had him now! One of the gentlemen in Cremorne, with the whisky-veined cheeks of a lushington, the sort Mrs Hibbert took pains to befriend – though before another word was said Osborne appeared on my other side, glaring at me as he waved for a cab – which this Mr Hall then asked to share.

To tell you the truth I was almost glad. Less chance of receiving a reprimand for daring to spoil Osborne’s grand hour
of triumph, though any delay could not last long. The hotel was barely ten minutes away, during which I was fretting in silence while this Mr Hall – who might be another painter, or perhaps he was a dealer, for I sensed him and Osborne not strangers – became intent on enquiring what price
The Libertine
might be to buy.

I wondered how much he’d stump up for it, but Osborne said it was not for sale, of profound ‘sentimental value’ to him – at which I felt nauseous all over again while Mr Hall expressed disappointment but suggested the painting could be mass-reproduced, an independent profit raised with the sale of limited-edition prints. ‘You need only create the engraving . . . a copy of the work, which may then be viewed in every home while you retain the original.’

‘I have no time for such things as that!’ Osborne’s answer was rudely snapped, until giving the matter a little more thought. ‘But, I suppose . . . if I had an assistant. Is there anyone you might suggest?’

Mr Hall then mentioned a friend of his. It was someone who, by all accounts, Osborne had met several years before. ‘Do you remember Augustus Lamb, and his grandson, Elijah . . . a gifted young man with a very fine eye, and now gaining skill in photography? He has sent me examples of his work. Really, the most stunning visions. Pastoral idylls of fields and streams and . . .’

While Mr Hall was wittering on, I turned my face to the window, hoping that way to hide my tears. Such a stone of grief was lodged in my heart at the memory of Angelo, but through that came the niggling question:
Do I know that name? Augustus Lamb?

Suddenly, I turned to ask, ‘Would that be the writer Augustus Lamb? The writer of fairy tales?’

‘Indeed it is,’ Mr Hall replied. ‘And I am Mr Lamb’s publisher . . . though we’ve met too infrequently of late.’

He looked down at his lap, become morose, his moustache glinting silver when caught by the light of each street lamp we
passed along the way until our journey came to an end, halting at Claridge’s white-pillared porch, where Mr Hall was the first to get out, extending his hand very gallantly while assisting me down to the pavement. Osborne soon followed on behind, and such a scowl upon his face – I felt sure he was going to start a row. But before such a fear could be realised the porter stepped forward and spoke in his ear, some message about a note from his dealer being left with the hotel receptionist.

While ‘my husband’ strode on through the hotel doors as if he’d forgotten my presence there, Mr Hall snatched his moment to talk with me. ‘Mrs Black, must I really call you that? I hardly think it suits. And I feel this journey has been too short, passing by in the merest blink of an eye . . . almost as fast as the past six years, since the day I first saw you in Cremorne.’

He had remembered me! I was shocked, but I stared back into his eyes, too tired and upset to think to lie when I replied, ‘My name is Pearl.’

He took my hand in his again. His lips brushed the skin in a gentle caress, before, ‘Ah . . . how appropriate. The pearl thrown down among us swine. My dear, should you tire of Osborne Black then . . .’

‘Don’t you know how unlucky a pearl can be? Pearls represent tears and misery.’

He smiled at my stark interruption. Above his dark eye a brow was arched. ‘I’m sure
you
could bring much happiness. How the Italians must have adored you . . . and how charming their natural tongue must sound when issued from lips as sweet as yours. I have always found its rhythm seductive. The language makes me think of love.’

I thought his tone too suggestive by far, and the words that almost slipped my tongue were not Italian at all, rather, ‘
Shut your face and all your sauce!
’ But then, I remembered my lessons well, all those texts that advised on etiquette. My lips remained politely closed, and what a relief when Osborne returned, his big feet stamping heavy on pavement slabs while Frederick Hall
continued with, ‘You have an enchanting wife, Mr Black. Pray do tell me how you came to meet?’

‘I painted her portrait.’ Osborne was blunt.

‘And then you took her as your bride.’ Mr Hall fixed me in his gaze again. ‘Are there any more like you, Mrs Black? Do you have any relatives near by?’

‘No!’ My voice was wavering, all confidence lost with Osborne’s return. ‘No one but my husband.’

‘Forgive my persistence, but are you sure? I once saw a girl who might well be your twin, her picture impressed on a
carte de visite
. Who could ever forget such a face as that? And the name on that card . . .’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Could that name have been something like Hibbert?’

‘I know of no such name.’ Osborne was coldly dismissive. ‘Whoever these Hibbert people are, there is no connection with my wife.’

But before he could think to drag me away Mr Hall placed his hand on Osborne’s sleeve, not lifting it until he was done. ‘I’m so glad we met again tonight. You know how much I admire your work, even if you do refuse to sell. But, in time, you might think on the matter again. Markets and tastes can fluctuate. Fame and fashion can be such fickle things.’

Nothing more was said. We left Mr Hall beside the cab and entered the hotel’s vestibule, and all that night, alone in my bed, I tossed and turned and fretted to think of what Mr Hall might know of me. I imagined that Osborne must feel the same, but what a surprise when the morning came, when he looked in at my bedroom door and made the blithe announcement, ‘It’s clear that you’ve not been well of late . . . the stress of the journey from Italy, and London in summer can be so oppressive, not to mention the noses and gossips around. The builders have almost finished in Chiswick. But, until then, I think a trip to the country, to visit with Augustus Lamb. You’d like that, wouldn’t you . . . to meet an author whose work you admire?’

A day later we met with the author, and Elijah and Lily, his grandchildren. She – Lily – she gave me a curious
smile – though I didn’t remember her at all. But Elijah – Elijah –
that
is his name, the boy I once saw in the mermaid tent!

Now I sit in the cage of this railway carriage, alone again with Osborne Black. The cut on my foot is stinging and sore. I try to ignore it, pretending to sleep, but through the corner of one eye I can see the fast blurring of steep grassy sidings, the green of the trees, the green of the fields – the world that is Elijah Lamb.

‘Pearl.’ Osborne is calling my name.

I don’t want to answer or look at the man, to feel myself trapped like an insect in amber.

‘Here . . .’ he goes on, ‘I have something for you.’ He draws a book out of his pocket. ‘A good omen, don’t you agree? To think that my new assistant will be sharing my interest in mermaids.’

He tosses the book high into the air. It lands with a thud on the seat at my side. I lift it and open the green embossed covers and look at the pictures instead of the words. My fingers trace the elegant lines. Every one has been drawn by Elijah Lamb. And inside my head I am silently chanting, the words repeating, again and again in time with the engine’s rattling drum –

I want him to come. I don’t want him to come
.

I want him to come. I don’t want him to come
.

I want him to come . . . I am frightened
.

I am frightened because he will.

LILY

His image in the dusk she seem’d to see
,

And to the silence made a gentle moan
,

Spreading her perfect arms upon the air
,

And on her couch low murmuring, ‘Where? O where?
’

From ‘Isabella; or, The Pot of Basil’ by John Keats

He went. I always knew he would. The days before were torturous – watching him packing and making arrangements, receiving letters from Osborne Black, and seeing how anxious Papa was I tried to hide my own distress by wandering off to be alone, more often than not going down to the stream.

I was there when Elijah found me, late in the day on that last afternoon. I’d been sitting quite still among the ferns when I startled to hear him call my name, hurriedly lifting up my skirts to wipe at the tears running down my face, which were dribbling salty and warm on my lips, through which I blurted the sudden sob, ‘Oh, Elijah, I’m going to miss you so much.’

‘Little sister . . . please don’t cry!’ My brother knelt down, very close at my side. The sketchbook that he’d held in his hands was dropped to the ground with a muted thud over which he carried on his plea. ‘I’m not going away to the ends of the earth. I’ll come back and see you in Kingsland House . . . and I’m sure you’ll be able to visit me.’

When I still didn’t dare to face him, he cupped my chin in one of his hands and as soft as a lover’s were his words, though I was reminded far too much of the night we’d returned from London before, when he said, ‘Won’t you tell me that you
understand . . . even if you don’t? Won’t you try and give me your blessing?’

‘I do understand. I think I do. In your place I would probably do the same. And . . .’ I paused before going on, ‘Pearl Black is very beautiful.’

My brother gave no answer to that. For a while there was only our silent farewell, the trickling song of the stream in our ears, our breaths coming heavy and steady, in rhythm, and our thoughts – for I’m sure they were also entwined – all full of our recent visitor. I recalled our visit to the stream, and the way she had exposed her legs without the slightest pang of shame, and the pale down of hairs that had glistened there, and how ugly and thick the dark growth of my own. I thought of the way she’d looked at me when drying the water and blood from her foot, and—

And Elijah broke my reverie. ‘Do you mind if I draw you . . . here, by our stream? Something of my sister for me to keep, to look at whenever I miss her most. My dreaming lady of the ferns.’