Twenty-Five
âBut weâve discussed everyone except you, William,â says Lady Bridgelow, as they stroll side by side on the glistening footpath. âYour life is becoming shrouded in mystery, and I am so curious!â
William chuckles, momentarily relishing his status as enigma. But he wouldnât wish to keep Constance (as Lady Bridgelow insists he should refer to her) uninformed for long. She is, after all, his best friendâwell, 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, thereâs real warmth in it, as it lights up the tiles of Notting Hillâs 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.
âDid you find a governess for your daughter?â enquires Lady Bridgelow.
âYes, yes, I did, thank you.â
âBecause I know of an excellent girl available very soonâfrightfully clever, placid as a lamb, father just gone bankrupt . . .â
âNo, no, Iâm sure the one Iâve employed is perfectly adequate.â
Lady Bridgelow frowns slightly at this reminder of yet another unknown quantity in her friendâs life.
âSheâs not a Rescue Society girl, is she?â
William feels his cheeks and neck growing pink, and is grateful for his ever-more-plenteous beard and high collar.
âCertainly not: what makes you think that?â
Lady Bridgelow casts a backwards glance over the ermine stole wrapped around her neck, as though absolute privacy is required for what sheâs about to divulge.
âWell, youâve heard that Mrs Fox has returned to her old . . . profession, havenât you? And working harder than ever, Iâm 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.â
âOh?â Stability has finally returned to Williamâs own household, at considerable cost in money and brain-racking; he hates the thought of anything going awry. âWhat went wrong?â
âNothing I can mention in polite company,â 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.
âAm I polite company, Constance?â
She smiles. âYou are . . . sui generis, William. I feel I could discuss any subject with you.â
âOh, I hope you could.â
Emboldened, she presses on: âSuch a shame you couldnât attend the launch of Philip and Edwardâs 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!â
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 âsans femmeâ on his own invitation.
âWell, Bodley and Ashwellâs book is close to the bone,â he sighs. âAnd Iâm not wholly convinced by their statistics. If there were as many prostitutes in London as they claim, weâd be tripping over them . . .â
âYes, 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 noticeâthen scolded them for insufficient seriousness! âThere is nothing to laugh about when a woman falls!â she saidâand of course, everyone roared.â
âPoor Mrs Fox. âForgive her, Lord, for she knows not what she saysâ . . .â
Lady Bridgelow chuckles, a surprisingly earthy sound. âAh, but one mustnât be unkind about other peopleâs indiscretions, must one?â she says. âI was speaking with Philip and Edward afterwards, and they mentioned how very concerned they are about your poor Agnes . . .â
William stiffens as he walks.
âTheir concernâs appreciated,â he says, âbut happily unnecessary. Agnes has quite recovered.â
âNot in church with us this morning, though . . . ?â murmurs Lady Bridgelow.
âNo.â
âBut possibly attending Catholic Mass in Cricklewood?â
âPossibly.â William knows very well she is. His wifeâs belief that she and her coachman share âa little secretâ is a pitiable delusion. âSheâll grow out of it, I trust.â
Lady Bridgelow heaves a deep, elegiac sigh, and her eyes mist over. âAahh, trust,â she echoes sadly, hinting at the slings and arrows sheâs had to endure in her life so far. Melancholy suits her face, lending her that faraway look thatâs come into vogue lately. However, she canât be glum for long, and bounces back with:
âDo you have anything extra-ordinary planned for Christmas?â
âJust the usual, Iâm afraid,â says William. âI 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 canât imagine why anyone besides my banker should take the slightest bit of interest in me . . .â
âOh but no, you must make room for me, too, William,â she demurs. âEvery great businessman needs a female friend. Especially if what he manufactures is of such value to females, hmm?â
William struggles to keep his face composed, almost irresistibly tempted to beam. It hadnât occurred to him that Lady Bridgelow would ever use Rackhamâs. The new catalogues and placards must be having the desired effect . . .
âAs for me,â says Lady Bridgelow, âIâve achieved something of a coup for my next party, havenât I? Both Lord and Lady Unwin, together in the same country, at the same dinner table!â
âYes, how did you manage it?â
âIf truth be told, sheer swiftness! I popped the question before anyone else had recovered from the surprise of Lord Unwinâs return. I certainly canât 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 appearanceâor else.â
William has trouble imagining Lord Unwin being coerced in this way. âIâd have thought it would take more than that.â
âAh well, you must remember his current wife is not the submissive creature Agnesâs mother was. And, of course, he has children of his own now. That is, of his own blood.â
William responds with an empty hum; heâs never met the current Lady Unwin. Not that the Rackhams havenât been invited to her house several times, but these invitations, in Agnesâs view, might as well have issued from Beelzebub, and she invariably responded with a Regret Not Able To Attend.
(âIâm sure she means you well, dear,â William would counsel her, but Agnes has never forgiven her step-fatherâs remarriage. The least he could have done was mourn, for the rest of his life, the saintly Violet Pigott, who âsacrificed her soulâ to please him! Instead, the hoary beast rushed to marry this . . . this thing)
âI must admit,â says William, âIâm apprehensive about meeting the old man after all this time. When I petitioned him for Agnesâs hand, I mayâve led him to expect that sheâd be kept in grander style than . . . Well, you know the story of my fortunes, Constance. I always wondered if he thought badly of me . . .â
âOh no, heâs an old pussycat,â Lady Bridgelow affirms, as they approach the corner of Chepstow Villas. âHe 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 wasnât clever like you . . .â
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.
âHow do you do, Miss Sugar,â William hails her, cool but cordial.
âVery well, thank you, sir,â 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.
âA rather brighter day today,â remarks William, âthan some weâve had lately.â
âYes,â agrees the governess, âto be sure.â She reaches awkwardly for her pupilâs hand, and grasps it. took Sophie out of doors because sheâs so very pale . . .â
âA lady can never be too pale nowadays,â says Lady Bridgelow. âRosy complexions seem to be a thing of the past, donât they, William?â
Neither she nor William lower their attention to Sophieâs level. Their gazes and their words pass through the air in a straight line to Miss Sugar, well above the childâs head.
âI am finding Sophie,â says the governess, transparently at a loss for any sophisticated conversation, âa most obedient and . . . um . . . hard-working little girl.â
âHow very agreeable for you,â says Lady Bridgelow.
âVery good, Sophie,â condescends William, meeting his daughterâs 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 trembleâto shakeâwith indignation, on her own behalf, and Sophieâs. 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.
âWho was that lady, Sophie?â she asks evenly, after a very deep breath.
Sophie is playing with the wooden animals of her toy Noahâs arkâstill 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 sheâs 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.
âI donât know, Miss.â
âHow often does she visit your father?â
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.
âBut youâve seen her before?â pursues Sugar, her voice tightening.
Sophie ponders for a while. âSometimes I hear the servants ânounce her,â 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 wouldnât be a man, but a horrid little pug-dog of a woman, bound with twine at her wrists and ankles.
âHave pity! Have pity!â she yammered, as she felt a sharp object probing the tightly-clenched hole between her buttocksâa cold, leathery protuberance bristling with hair.
âWhatâs that? Whatâs that?â she cried in terror.
âDonât you recognise it? Itâs the snout of a stoat,â replied Sugar, twisting the sharp head of the ermine stole in her fist. âThe poor creature is sure to be happier up your arse than around your neck . . .â
âDid you hear,â pipes up Sophie, âwhat my father said, Miss? He said I am a good girl.â
Sugar is jolted from her fantasy of revenge, and is confused to see a happy smile on the childâs face, a sheen of pride in her eyes.
âHe didnât say that,â she snaps, before she can stop herself.
Sophieâs look of contentment evaporates, and her brow creasesâa 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.
âBut my dear Rackham, if youâll forgive me saying so: you are still evading the subject.â
âAm I?â says William. Itâs Monday morning, and heâs entertaining a guest in his smoking-room. Cigars are already lit, and William uncorks the port-bottle with a thwipp. âPerhaps we arenât agreed,â he says, âon what the subject is. I am asking you for advice on how to hasten my wifeâs 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.â
Doctor Curlew grunts. His effusion of information was only natural, provoked by Rackhamâs pretence to know something about lunatic asylums that he doesnât. 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 pretensionsâor, 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?
âThereâs no virtue, Rackham,â he says, âin 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.â
William sips unhappily at his port. âI do wonder,â he muses, âif there isnât something physically the matter with her . . .â
âIâve investigated her inside out. Thereâs nothing wrong that wonât correct itself if sheâs properly handled.â
âSometimes, when sheâs behaving very badly, just before she collapses, I could swear one eye is bigger than the other . . .â
âHumphh. I imagine sheâs having trouble looking you straight ...