Twenty-Five
āBut weāve discussed everyone except you, William,ā says Lady Bridgelow, as they stroll side by side on the glistening footpath. āYour life is becoming shrouded in mystery, and I am so curious!ā
William chuckles, momentarily relishing his status as enigma. But he wouldnāt wish to keep Constance (as Lady Bridgelow insists he should refer to her) uninformed for long. She is, after all, his best friendāwell, certainly of those with whom he can nowadays be seen in public.
The morning drizzle has cleared up, making way for a Sunday afternoon of exceptional mildness. Pale though the sun is, thereās real warmth in it, as it lights up the tiles of Notting Hillās rooftops and brings a corona of brilliance to the church spire. William is glad he came out today; with weather like this, his resolution to be seen in church more regularly promises to be quite painless.
āDid you find a governess for your daughter?ā enquires Lady Bridgelow.
āYes, yes, I did, thank you.ā
āBecause I know of an excellent girl available very soonāfrightfully clever, placid as a lamb, father just gone bankrupt . . .ā
āNo, no, Iām sure the one Iāve employed is perfectly adequate.ā
Lady Bridgelow frowns slightly at this reminder of yet another unknown quantity in her friendās life.
āSheās not a Rescue Society girl, is she?ā
William feels his cheeks and neck growing pink, and is grateful for his ever-more-plenteous beard and high collar.
āCertainly not: what makes you think that?ā
Lady Bridgelow casts a backwards glance over the ermine stole wrapped around her neck, as though absolute privacy is required for what sheās about to divulge.
āWell, youāve heard that Mrs Fox has returned to her old . . . profession, havenāt you? And working harder than ever, Iām told. Striving to convince ladies with any sort of servant problem at all, that one of these . . . reformed specimens is the solution. She knows better than to approach me; I had a Rescue Society girl in my kitchen, and was obliged to dismiss her after four months.ā
āOh?ā Stability has finally returned to Williamās own household, at considerable cost in money and brain-racking; he hates the thought of anything going awry. āWhat went wrong?ā
āNothing I can mention in polite company,ā smirks Lady Bridgelow, miming, with a subtle sweep of her kid-gloved fingers through the air in front of her silky abdomen, a swollen arc.
āAm I polite company, Constance?ā
She smiles. āYou are . . . sui generis, William. I feel I could discuss any subject with you.ā
āOh, I hope you could.ā
Emboldened, she presses on: āSuch a shame you couldnāt attend the launch of Philip and Edwardās new book. Did you know I was one of only five ladies there? Or four ladies, actually: Mrs Burnand was fetched out of the hall by her furious husband, in front of everyone!ā
William gives her a grin, but is a little pained, wondering if he was justified in taking umbrage at the heavy-handed way his old friends scrawled the injunction āsans femmeā on his own invitation.
āWell, Bodley and Ashwellās book is close to the bone,ā he sighs. āAnd Iām not wholly convinced by their statistics. If there were as many prostitutes in London as they claim, weād be tripping over them . . .ā
āYes, yes, but let me tell you: Mrs Fox was there at the launch. She stood up from the crowd and commended the authors for helping to bring the problem to wider public noticeāthen scolded them for insufficient seriousness! āThere is nothing to laugh about when a woman falls!ā she saidāand of course, everyone roared.ā
āPoor Mrs Fox. āForgive her, Lord, for she knows not what she saysā . . .ā
Lady Bridgelow chuckles, a surprisingly earthy sound. āAh, but one mustnāt be unkind about other peopleās indiscretions, must one?ā she says. āI was speaking with Philip and Edward afterwards, and they mentioned how very concerned they are about your poor Agnes . . .ā
William stiffens as he walks.
āTheir concernās appreciated,ā he says, ābut happily unnecessary. Agnes has quite recovered.ā
āNot in church with us this morning, though . . . ?ā murmurs Lady Bridgelow.
āNo.ā
āBut possibly attending Catholic Mass in Cricklewood?ā
āPossibly.ā William knows very well she is. His wifeās belief that she and her coachman share āa little secretā is a pitiable delusion. āSheāll grow out of it, I trust.ā
Lady Bridgelow heaves a deep, elegiac sigh, and her eyes mist over. āAahh, trust,ā she echoes sadly, hinting at the slings and arrows sheās had to endure in her life so far. Melancholy suits her face, lending her that faraway look thatās come into vogue lately. However, she canāt be glum for long, and bounces back with:
āDo you have anything extra-ordinary planned for Christmas?ā
āJust the usual, Iām afraid,ā says William. āI really am a very boring fellow nowadays. I sleep, I eat breakfast, I conquer another part of the British Empire with my manufactures, I have dinner, and I go to bed. Honestly, I canāt imagine why anyone besides my banker should take the slightest bit of interest in me . . .ā
āOh but no, you must make room for me, too, William,ā she demurs. āEvery great businessman needs a female friend. Especially if what he manufactures is of such value to females, hmm?ā
William struggles to keep his face composed, almost irresistibly tempted to beam. It hadnāt occurred to him that Lady Bridgelow would ever use Rackhamās. The new catalogues and placards must be having the desired effect . . .
āAs for me,ā says Lady Bridgelow, āIāve achieved something of a coup for my next party, havenāt I? Both Lord and Lady Unwin, together in the same country, at the same dinner table!ā
āYes, how did you manage it?ā
āIf truth be told, sheer swiftness! I popped the question before anyone else had recovered from the surprise of Lord Unwinās return. I certainly canāt claim my charms brought him back here; I think his wife decided they should celebrate Christmas in England en famille, and ordered him to put in an appearanceāor else.ā
William has trouble imagining Lord Unwin being coerced in this way. āIād have thought it would take more than that.ā
āAh well, you must remember his current wife is not the submissive creature Agnesās mother was. And, of course, he has children of his own now. That is, of his own blood.ā
William responds with an empty hum; heās never met the current Lady Unwin. Not that the Rackhams havenāt been invited to her house several times, but these invitations, in Agnesās view, might as well have issued from Beelzebub, and she invariably responded with a Regret Not Able To Attend.
(āIām sure she means you well, dear,ā William would counsel her, but Agnes has never forgiven her step-fatherās remarriage. The least he could have done was mourn, for the rest of his life, the saintly Violet Pigott, who āsacrificed her soulā to please him! Instead, the hoary beast rushed to marry this . . . this thing)
āI must admit,ā says William, āIām apprehensive about meeting the old man after all this time. When I petitioned him for Agnesās hand, I mayāve led him to expect that sheād be kept in grander style than . . . Well, you know the story of my fortunes, Constance. I always wondered if he thought badly of me . . .ā
āOh no, heās an old pussycat,ā Lady Bridgelow affirms, as they approach the corner of Chepstow Villas. āHe and my poor Albert were friends, you know, and he did his best to dissuade Albert from all those imprudent . . . Well, you know the story of my fortunes, too. And when Albert died, Lord Unwin wrote me the sweetest letter. Not an unkind word in it. And Albert did some foolish, foolish things, I assure you! He wasnāt clever like you . . .ā
Lady Bridgelow suddenly hushes in mid-flow: she and William no longer have the footpath to themselves. A tall scrawny woman in a plain black dress, with gangly arms and red hair that badly needs cutting, is advancing with a roly-poly child at her side.
āHow do you do, Miss Sugar,ā William hails her, cool but cordial.
āVery well, thank you, sir,ā replies the scrawny woman. Her lips, deplorably, are flaked with dead skin, although she has comely enough eyes. Her demeanour is as dejected as one expects from a governess.
āA rather brighter day today,ā remarks William, āthan some weāve had lately.ā
āYes,ā agrees the governess, āto be sure.ā She reaches awkwardly for her pupilās hand, and grasps it. took Sophie out of doors because sheās so very pale . . .ā
āA lady can never be too pale nowadays,ā says Lady Bridgelow. āRosy complexions seem to be a thing of the past, donāt they, William?ā
Neither she nor William lower their attention to Sophieās level. Their gazes and their words pass through the air in a straight line to Miss Sugar, well above the childās head.
āI am finding Sophie,ā says the governess, transparently at a loss for any sophisticated conversation, āa most obedient and . . . um . . . hard-working little girl.ā
āHow very agreeable for you,ā says Lady Bridgelow.
āVery good, Sophie,ā condescends William, meeting his daughterās wide blue eyes for the merest instant before moving on.
Back at the house, in the suffocating warmth of the nursery, Sugar can barely control herself. Her body wants to trembleāto shakeāwith indignation, on her own behalf, and Sophieās. All her sinews and nerves are tingling with the undischarged desire to propel her body through the air, a whirling fury of claws and feet to tear that smug little bitch apart.
āWho was that lady, Sophie?ā she asks evenly, after a very deep breath.
Sophie is playing with the wooden animals of her toy Noahās arkāstill her favourite Sunday activity, despite the permission Miss Sugar has given her to do whatever she pleases on the Sabbath. She shows no sign of anguish at how shabbily sheās just been treated by her father and his companion; her cheeks are a little flushed, true, but the unaccustomed exercise and the blazing fire accounts for that.
āI donāt know, Miss.ā
āHow often does she visit your father?ā
Sophie looks up from shepherding the giraffes, her brow knotting in bafflement. A historical question about the succession of Mesopotamian monarchs would be an easier challenge than this.
āBut youāve seen her before?ā pursues Sugar, her voice tightening.
Sophie ponders for a while. āSometimes I hear the servants ānounce her,ā she says.
Sugar lapses into a sulk. For the first time in months, she itches for pen and paper, to write a fiction of revenge like the ones in her novel. Only this time, the victim wouldnāt be a man, but a horrid little pug-dog of a woman, bound with twine at her wrists and ankles.
āHave pity! Have pity!ā she yammered, as she felt a sharp object probing the tightly-clenched hole between her buttocksāa cold, leathery protuberance bristling with hair.
āWhatās that? Whatās that?ā she cried in terror.
āDonāt you recognise it? Itās the snout of a stoat,ā replied Sugar, twisting the sharp head of the ermine stole in her fist. āThe poor creature is sure to be happier up your arse than around your neck . . .ā
āDid you hear,ā pipes up Sophie, āwhat my father said, Miss? He said I am a good girl.ā
Sugar is jolted from her fantasy of revenge, and is confused to see a happy smile on the childās face, a sheen of pride in her eyes.
āHe didnāt say that,ā she snaps, before she can stop herself.
Sophieās look of contentment evaporates, and her brow creasesāa change that serves only to emphasise her resemblance to William. She turns her head away, taking refuge in the less dangerous world of her playthings. Held erect in her tiny hand, Noah begins to ascend the gangplank of the Ark with slow, dignified hops.
āBut my dear Rackham, if youāll forgive me saying so: you are still evading the subject.ā
āAm I?ā says William. Itās Monday morning, and heās entertaining a guest in his smoking-room. Cigars are already lit, and William uncorks the port-bottle with a thwipp. āPerhaps we arenāt agreed,ā he says, āon what the subject is. I am asking you for advice on how to hasten my wifeās progress back to full health, here in her own home. You seem intent on cataloguing the merits and demerits of madhouses from Aberdeen to Aberystwyth.ā
Doctor Curlew grunts. His effusion of information was only natural, provoked by Rackhamās pretence to know something about lunatic asylums that he doesnāt. In fact, Doctor Curlew has probably spent more time in mad-houses than any sane man; as a young physician, in the years before he decided that surgery was not his forte, he performed many operations on asylum inmates, and learned a great deal besides scalpelling techniques. He knows the good asylums from the bad; knows which of them are nothing but glorified prisons, or boarding-houses with medical pretensionsāor, at the other end of the scale, first-class hospitals devoted to the increase of knowledge and the full recovery of the patient. He has observed many times that hysterical ladies, so degraded as to be no use to man or beast, may effect miraculous recoveries once removed from the circle of indulgent fuss-pots on whom their illness feeds.
Knowing all this, Doctor Curlew can predict with authority that, in her own house, Agnes Rackham is doomed. What hope for recovery has she, when she not only has a permissive husband, but is pampered by obsequious and gullible servants?
āThereās no virtue, Rackham,ā he says, āin keeping a sick person at home. No one blames a man for sending his wife to a hospital when she breaks a leg or gets smallpox. This is no different, I tell you.ā
William sips unhappily at his port. āI do wonder,ā he muses, āif there isnāt something physically the matter with her . . .ā
āIāve investigated her inside out. Thereās nothing wrong that wonāt correct itself if sheās properly handled.ā
āSometimes, when sheās behaving very badly, just before she collapses, I could swear one eye is bigger than the other . . .ā
āHumphh. I imagine sheās having trouble looking you straight ...