I wondered if Augustus came here, and if he did, what he saw.
A sound from the other side of the graveyard made me turn. They were voices, low but clear in the still air. I could not make out the words. Now I recognised the woman: she was muffled to the chin but I had registered that shape and face too clearly to forget it. She was Lucie’s godmother. She stood at the shoulder of a younger man who was sitting on something – a stool perhaps – and sketching with quick, firm strokes. They were beside another grave which, like Mammie’s, was not yet marked by a stone.
Diner had said Lucie’s godmother was leaving Bath for London soon, but here she was in Clifton. I could not think what she was doing in this graveyard. Perhaps she or the young man had family connections here. I hesitated.
She looked up. I saw that she did not recognise me, because the last time she had seen me in my apron she had taken me for a servant and now I wore my cloak with the hood pulled up. I could have left the graveyard without speaking to them, but instead I drew my hood more closely around my face and waited with my hands clasped, looking down, until it seemed that their attention had left me. I glanced cautiously to the side, and saw that they had gone back to their work: the young man sketching, the older woman watching and occasionally putting out her hand as if to indicate something to him. I would wait a little longer. It was cold, but not intolerably so, and with my cloak wrapped closely around me I was warm enough.
Yes, they were deep in their work now. I stepped carefully through the snow, my head bowed. I stopped as if to read another gravestone, and went in between the trees until I was behind the pair of them. Their breath smoked white. She chafed her gloved fingers and said something which sounded like a complaint. They did not seem to notice as I drew closer, passing behind them.
His hand went quickly across the paper, but as I watched more closely I saw a certain nervous hesitation just before each stroke of the pencil. His fingers paused as if a vibration ran between his brain and his hand each time he made a mark. She spoke to him but he never looked at her; he only inclined his head, and drew on. The paper was pinned to a board and tilted towards me. I could see the drawing clearly enough each time his hand moved away. His subject was the grave a little to the right of him; he must have chosen the angle so that he could include the stone angel which belonged to a neighbouring grave. He had drawn it very beautifully, reducing the over-ornate stonework to purer lines. But it was background: in the foreground was an unmarked grave, like my mother’s, with a rose bush growing at its head. The bush was leafless. One dark-red hip still clung to a thorny twig which was bowed down by snow. Perhaps the family had not wanted a stone, but had preferred roses. He was drawing the bush now. I watched as his pencil conjured up the pallor of the ground and the depth of the snow. It would be a fine drawing. Someone would treasure it and frame it. The air was so still that I could hear the sound of his pencil, and his breathing. The woman stretched out her hand and pointed to an immature birch tree which was growing some ten yards off. He looked at it too, considered, shook his head.
It was then that the woman turned, as if she had felt my eyes on her. I could not help meeting her gaze, and now, even with my hood, she knew me. She exclaimed aloud in French, and prodded her companion to draw his attention to me. She spoke hurriedly to him, much too fast for me to make it out. I stepped forward, and walked towards them.
‘Bonjour,’ I said. She was silent, but her eyes snapped at the young man, urging him on.
‘Good-day,’ he said, and I knew from his accent that he was also French.
‘It is a very cold day for drawing,’ I said.
‘And cold for you also,’ he said rather pointedly.
‘I am here to visit my mother’s grave.’
‘Ah, I understand. Then it is not so strange. Excuse me, I must explain this to Madame Bisset.’
He did so, too rapidly for me to follow. Nor could I understand the volley of words she let loose in reply, but I knew that they were angry words and meant for me, not for her companion.
‘What does she say?’ I asked.
‘She says that it is strange that your husband has not set a stone on the grave, after so long. She says – that perhaps you have discouraged him.’
‘I don’t understand you. You are mistaken. My husband has nothing to do with the grave, and the reason that there is no stone is because it is not yet six months since her death. She died in September.’
‘You mean your mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Madame Bisset does not concern herself with that. She is talking of Lucie’s grave.’
‘Lucie’s!’ I stepped back. I could not believe it: was he mocking me? Had they decided to punish me, because I was married to Diner and Lucie was dead?
‘Yes.’ His face was clear and open as he pointed to the snowy mound that he had been drawing. ‘This one is Lucie’s. Your husband came to this place and he showed it to Madame Bisset. But surely you knew this. You know the graveyard well. You live here in this city, while we are strangers.’
Whiteness dazzled in my eyes. His words were bright flecks in it but they too jumped and danced until I could make no sense out of them.
‘Surely you know this,’ he said again. His sallow face was impatient now, as if I were pretending stupidity.
I forced down my thoughts.
‘You draw very well,’ I said, in a voice which surprised me by its calmness. ‘And you also speak English very well.’
‘I am here since – for three years, already,’ he said. ‘I live in Bath. Many of us live there.’
‘You mean émigrés?’
‘I think that “exiles” is your English word,’ he said.
‘And you are drawing this for Madame Bisset?’
‘No, it will be for the father of Lucie, Monsieur Ribault, if we can arrange a way to send it to him safely. He is an old man and will never be able to visit his daughter’s grave.’
I saw that the task had affected him. He was one of those ugly men who cling to a spirit of chivalry that more handsome men can afford to dispense with, and besides he was an artist and he would sit here in the snow until the drawing was done to his own satisfaction. I stared at the grave. What this man said was inconceivable. Lucie had fallen ill in France. She had been buried in France, by her family. I remembered every word Diner had said. I could not be mistaken. He had told me this, and he had told Lucie’s godmother that she lay here in an unmarked grave.
‘And Madame Bisset is really her godmother?’ I asked. It seemed as if all truths were collapsing around me.
‘Why do you ask such a question?’
‘No reason. I did not mean to offend you.’
‘You should go home, madame, and ask your husband why he does not raise a gravestone to the memory of his wife. Although, for myself’ – he paused, holding out his pencil before him and squinting at it as if to make a measurement – ‘for myself I prefer the rose tree.’
‘So do I,’ I said.
All this while Madame Bisset had stood silent. I glanced at her face and thought that it was impassive but then I looked again. It was not so. She was possessed by an anger which would not express itself on her features, but would be implacable. She hated Diner; she hated me. She believed ill of us both, and if she could, she would do us harm. She did not know that we were now entirely separate, as the head is separated from the trunk when the blade of the guillotine cleaves it. A moment before the stroke the body was entire, speaking, breathing, trusting to its own wholeness. But now, although the eyes still stare and the limbs twitch, there is no connection. The creature is dead.
‘But you see how I draw the angel, as if it is hers,’ said the young man.
‘Yes, I see it all. I must go now.’
I took a last look at the drawing. Madame Bisset had loved Lucie, that was clear. She had been bold in coming to our house, bold in questioning Diner and bold in bringing this young artist here so that there would be a memorial to Lucie on paper if
not in stone. Her father would be consoled by an image which was a lie. It was because of Lucie that we were all standing here, and even though she was dead and we were alive I understood now that she was stronger than all of us.
I walked away. It was very cold and I wanted to be at home but I could not think where to go. My legs shook. My hands had begun to shake too and I thrust them deep into my cloak and clenched them to keep them still. I must not think of anything. And yet something within me had resounded when the young man spoke of Lucie’s grave, just as a bell resounds when it is struck, even after years of dumbness. Lucie had not died in France. Diner had lied to me. I had not known any of this before the moment when the young man spoke, but it seemed now that I had known it all.
24
I went home, because of Thomas.
‘He’s been a good boy,’ said Philo fondly. ‘He et all his pobs and then straight back to sleep. That blessed tooth is through.’
‘Good. Has Mr Tredevant been home?’
‘No, he ent been home.’
He might come home any moment. I must be quick.
‘Philo, I find I must go to see Mr Gleeson. I may be some time, so I will take Thomas with me.’
‘You’re never taking him out in this! It’ll be dark soon, and with the snow—’
‘He’ll be wrapped up to the eyes and I’ll carry him inside my cloak.’
‘What if you slip down and fall on top of him?’
‘I won’t do that. Hurry, Philo. Put his pap boat in a basket for me, with some of his milk in the blue can, but make sure you cover it tightly. And put in half a dozen clouts and a pilcher. He’ll need a spare gown – a cap—’
‘You’re never going to take him away?’
‘Don’t be frightened. I’m not taking him away from you, but if it comes on to snow again then I may need to stay longer at Mr Gleeson’s than I intend.’
‘I can come!’
‘No, you stay here for now. If Mr Tredevant comes home, tell him I am at my stepfather’s house because he asked to see Thomas. He will understand that the snow has kept me there. Make his dinner and do the work of the house as usual. If he needs me he will easily find me. Now be quick.’
She did not like it but she saw that there was no changing my mind. I could not explain it all to her. I thought of nothing but that I must get Thomas out of the house, now, before Diner came home.
‘I’ll put on his pudden cap,’ she said, ‘that we were keeping till he starts to crawl. He’ll be warm in that.’
‘It will wake him if you do. Put in it the basket, and I’ll change him when we get there.’ When the basket was filled we lifted Thomas, deep in sleep, limp and warm. He mewed and shuddered all over at the change of temperature, but did not wake as we wrapped him quickly in his warmest blanket. I tied him into my shawl, and wrapped my cloak over us both. Philo watched us over the banister until we were out of sight.
It was beginning to snow again, very lightly. As I walked I felt as if I were following in my own footsteps, a second self going after the first. I trod carefully, because the weight of the basket and the baby would have taken me over if I began to slide. These were old boots, but they had nails knocked into the heels and they held me secure.
Augustus would be surprised to see me. I had made such a point of taking the baby home with me, and insisting that Diner’s anger had been a passing thing. I had meant it then: I had seen no threat. I had understood nothing. Now I clutched Thomas to me, not daring to hurry in case I fell. Whatever happened, Thomas must not be hurt.
As I walked the light thickened and the snow came down more heavily. I looked up and saw it whirl against a lighted window, but snow fell in my eyes and blurred them. It was not far now. I wondered where Diner was. In my mind an endless line of footprints unrolled, leading farther and farther away from me.
There was the kitchen window, full of warm, ruddy firelight. They had not yet lit a candle. I picked my way to the door and knocked loudly.
It was Augustus who came down. ‘Why, Lizzie, are you out in all this snow?’ he asked, a question to which there could be no sensible answer. Instead, I stepped inside and pulled back my hood. Snow fell on the floor and Augustus stooped to gather it before it melted.
‘Our neighbours downstairs complain terribly if we allow water to pool on the floor,’ he said.
‘Let me take off my cloak.’ I put down the basket and, as I untied my cloak, Augustus saw Thomas wrapped in my shawl.
‘Is it not rather cold for him to be out?’ he asked mildly. ‘But you know best, I am sure.’
A change of tone indeed. Perhaps he had had time to think about the reality of having Thomas to live with him. A moment later the true cause came out: ‘Caroline Farquhar is here, Lizzie. She will be pleased to see you.’
Augustus carried my basket and I walked up the stairs behind him. It was so good to feel again all the old, familiar annoyances: Caroline Farquhar; Augustus’s long, black legs ascending the stairs ahead of me; the thin, out-of-tune singing of the seamstresses who lived downstairs: they were all here, just as they had always been. Nothing had changed so very much. Augustus had greeted me just as usual and had not seen that everything in me had changed.
‘You are out of breath,’ he remarked as we reached the top of the stairs.
‘Am I? Perhaps it is the cold.’
It was dread that I had swallowed down, filling my stomach, squeezing the air from my lungs. Caroline Farquhar was here and so there could be no conversation with Augustus, even if I had known what to say. A rose tree; a white mound of an unmarked grave; an ugly young man who drew beautifully. How could I give him those things and expect him to make sense of them, when I could hardly do so myself? If I made a tale of them it would sound less credible than one of Mrs Radcliffe’s more lurid fancies.
‘Ah, Caroline,’ said Augustus, opening the door to the parlour. ‘Here is Lizzie come through the snow to see us.’
There were four candles burning in the parlour. Very likely Caroline had brought them with her, because they were fine wax candles and not what we usually had. The fire was hot and my mother’s tea-things stood on the table beside Caroline.
‘Good God!’ she said. ‘You have brought the baby.’
‘I suppose she could not very well leave him,’ said Augustus.
‘But it is so cold. Surely it cannot be good for an infant to be out in such cold.’
I put my hand close to Thomas’s sleeping face. ‘He is quite warm.’
‘Sit here, Lizzie, close to the fire. Caroline is telling me the news from London. She says that there are many wearing crêpe bands for the death of the King of France.’
‘They are even carrying effigies of our dear friend Tom Paine through the streets,’ said Caroline, stretching her eyes wide. ‘They read nothing but the penny broadsides which call the King a martyr. Of course every crowned head in Europe is now feeling its own neck in fear, and the press is directed accordingly. They are out in force, you may believe! Kemble closed the Haymarket on account of the execution. They have expelled the French Ambassador and war is expected at any moment.’
‘We are very fortunate to have your first-hand account,’ said Augustus.
‘Did you see the effigies?’ I asked. I was curious as to what such a thing might look like.
Caroline hesitated. ‘Not with my own eyes,’ she said at last, ‘but I obtained a close description from someone who saw it pass by him not fifty feet away. It had been shot through with bullets.’
‘We are certainly fortunate,’ I said. ‘In France they do not trouble to shoot at effigies.’
Caroline gave me a sharp look, and said no more. Augustus unfolded a sheet of paper. ‘I have a very different account here,’ he said, ‘from one who is daily witness to events in Paris. He says that there is no such hatred and madness as our press pretends. The King’s trial was carried out with all due process. Votes were taken in the proper form. Many preferred him to be punished with imprisonment, since
they did not wish to make a martyr out of a vain, luxurious man who had ruled foolishly, has plotted against his own country with her enemies and would not hesitate to plot again and bring ruin upon France.’
‘But such wishes for clemency did not prevail,’ I said.
‘No.’ Augustus sighed, and folded up his letter again. It came to me that he did not want me to see the signature. He did not fully trust me, then.
My own self-possession disturbed me. The Lizzie who had glanced behind her, out in the snowy street, seemed to have vanished. Each word and gesture came to me with absolute clarity. I saw Augustus and Caroline more vividly than I had ever seen them.
‘He sleeps very well,’ said Caroline, leaning forward to peer at Thomas. ‘Do you use quietness with him?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘My nursemaid would use Godfrey’s Cordial for teething.’
‘We use no such thing with Thomas.’ It flashed across my mind that perhaps this was what the wet-nurse had given to Thomas, and why he had become so thin. A baby who is lulled into sleep with opiates would not feel his own hunger. ‘I did not know that you had had a child.’
‘One only,’ said Caroline. ‘She died before she was a year old.’
‘I am sorry.’
She stretched her eyes again and said, ‘It was a great sorrow, but time is a greater healer,’ and she glanced sideways at Augustus, as if seeking his approval. But I noticed that her fingers gripped her cup tightly, and for the first time I felt a pang of sympathy for her. And then it came back to me, like sickness: dread, cramping my stomach again and sitting upon my tongue. Thomas, the warm sweet fire, the wrangling of Augustus and Caroline: all of that was far away and I no longer had the right to belong to it. I was divided from them, because I knew now that Lucie had not gone home to her family and died there from some complication of childbirth, but instead she rested in an unmarked grave in Clifton. Or so Diner had said to Madame Bisset. But he had said quite other things to me and I had believed them. Both stories flapped their dark wings inside my head. If Augustus had been alone … But he was not alone.