A Man of Genius (26 page)

But no one would encourage long without proof that she could make him money. No more than other booksellers like Mr Hughes or Mr Newman did Mr Dean or Mr Munday give favours. And they were never a certainty. She must move with the times and move quickly. She had a horror of poverty. It was her only spur.

Mr Hughes probably still held his weekly dinners for authors but he proffered no invitation to her – in any case she'd never been a regular. When they met in the street after her return, he was polite and uninterested.

It was just as well. Mr Hughes knew Richard Perry and Luigi Orlando, and they would ask after Robert if she were there. She had no stomach yet for sociability. No prepared story to tell.

The flowers Sarah had delivered had long wilted and Ann had bought no others to cheer her lodgings. They were an extravagance just at this time. The room was not unpleasant but not light, in fact a little dismal even when it was bright weather outside. She'd done so little to decorate it. Some coloured cushions and prints might make a difference.

Sarah called round but didn't stay. It was nothing to do with the discomfort of the lodgings but Amy had gone to visit a very sick sister and Jennie couldn't look after the children alone; the girl employed to help was worse than useless. Sarah laughed. Again, there was no time for any real talk, just that sizing up of each other without comment.

She was not eating well. Since Aksel Stamer left she'd hardly taken or bought food sensibly, preferring instead to live on what was hawked in the streets, the pies and buns of dubious nourishment. Sarah had brought round some homemade stew, being sure her cousin was not living properly. ‘You must eat, Ann,' she said as she went down the stairs, ‘put some flesh back on your bones.'

33

S
o this was her life.

After Caroline, after the glorious Gilbert – Gilbert who had never added up – how could she have been so credulous, she who prided herself on seeing through deceit, she a maker of stories? After Gregory Lloyd even, after Robert James, and after Aksel Stamer, here she was.

Caroline had loved somebody, an elderly Frenchwoman it seemed, and not her. The selfishness she'd resented was impressive – her mother had needed no Gilbert by the end – though it had once been her bulwark against a nasty world. So she'd simply destroyed him for her daughter and herself.

Ann sometimes feared she'd inherited this selfishness, at other times knew it for a skill she lacked but should learn. Often she'd no idea which was true. She had no illusion she knew what and who she was. Now there was no one left through whom to find out more.

She should have been relieved to be back. Apart from work there was much to do in London. She could go to the theatre, she could shop in the bazaars and markets and look at the windows in Bond Street; she could walk in St James's Park and Lincoln's Inn Fields; she could visit Montagu House on Monday, Wednesday or Friday and see the Parthenon sculptures so cried up by poets, meet Mary Davies and other genteel hacks at an East India tea-room or in Lloyd's Coffee House where people still collected for the Patriotic Fund though Napoleon's war was long over. It was a life as others lived it.

And yet the melancholy was enveloping her more and more. As
inexorable as the fever that had descended on her in Paris. It inhabited her rooms, as if she'd rented part of them out to this lodger who was each day taking up a bit more of the space, making it danker and darker and less fit for anyone else to live in. It had crept inside her glass jar.

Nothing was how she'd anticipated. The horror of both her dead had not gone. In her head she was at a perpetual funeral. But people at funerals were always a little glad, a little gay within their black velvet and crisp bombazine. It was worse than that.

One night she was on her bed fully dressed, not bothering to light a candle, not preparing for sleep, though she was usually so fastidious about keeping the bedchamber as the place for rest. Instead she lay there as a stranger might, letting Robert flow over her, Robert as he'd been before his ideas were litanies, before they both became itinerants not inhabitants, before he thought that God had forsaken Attila and himself and was shitting on his worlds.

Was it right to forgive him in this way – for surely that was implied? Would it not be better to hold on to the outrage, to continue to hate the thing? But she could not avoid the truth: that she forgave him everything. He was violent because he couldn't stand losing the vividness – vividness that he'd momentarily given her and she had lost with him.

No, there should be no forgiveness, no excuse for him or for her. Since it was – also – her fault. She had thrown away the only person who'd enthralled her, who'd overshadowed Gilbert in all his imaginary splendour. If she hadn't murdered him literally, she had done so in other ways, by hating him and wanting him dead, and more, by being dull, by being ordinary and needy.

She deserved all the violence she'd suffered.

If she deserved it, what was the point of lamenting? She was better not being. Robert had had the courage to see that – for himself, she knew it now. But she averted her eyes from the memory of what that courage had achieved. It was a man's way to go so explosively.

The images hovered before and behind her eyes. There was no
point in closing or opening them. What she saw in front and inside the lids, dissolving and recomposing, was sometimes so bright it scorched her brain.

Then suddenly Aksel Stamer was present, stern and tall. Yet he was merging with the butterfly he named. It gave his silhouette a dazzling, translucent, shimmering quality. It was no image for a man so grounded on the earth, so stolid in mind, so present even where so little expected.

She bought pens and sheets of paper and set to work copying
Isabella; or, the Secrets of the Convent
, trying to move the elements of her work around to look like invention. It was hard going. Indeed, there were times when nothing seemed worthwhile, not even making a living. A hopelessness tinged everything.

Why struggle on? Robert had shown the way.

It was no disgrace to yearn for blackness, that perpetual night he feared but never quite believed true – he was always a Catholic boy. She would never leave life in his disgusting manner, but there could be grace in the going. It was possible to drift away more easily, with less repugnant display. Had he died quietly and alone on the Lido he might have been covered in sand and beauty, like the white bones she'd fixed there in her mind for so long.

She began to imagine her own scene, a scene as it
should
be. After days of silence, Sarah would come to visit her lodgings. She would find her peacefully on her bed on a check blue-and-white coverlet. Nothing would be disgusting, none of that dreadful incontinence of the hanging corpse. She could buy enough laudanum to do the job. She'd know the amount. She was susceptible to its power: she was a poor sleeper but with only a small portion of this drug she fell into the limbo she craved. It would be easy enough to take more and go beyond.

She would finish the book she'd agreed to write. She had a sense of duty – God knows where it came from. Wryly she noticed that, unlike Robert, she would not leave a few incoherent scraps and a fouled pile of paper, but a simple, tidily written manuscript of absolutely no value, competent, decent and ordinary.
Isabella; or, the
Secrets of the Convent
would be on the table beside a note for Sarah and Charles asking them to deliver it to Dean & Munday and receive the payment.

She collected laudanum from two apothecaries in Camden and Bloomsbury. She hid it in case Sarah came and suspected what she might be about.

Then she decided not to leave a note. What did it matter what happened when she was not there? Or perhaps she would leave something cryptic, so that no coroner could report that she was a suicide in sound mind.

The main point was that she would go without fuss. She'd like to have been anonymous but that could only work if she took a room in a distant inn. She wouldn't fancy travelling on that special day; she'd wish to be at home, she was sure of it.

She thought again of the note, whether or not to leave one. She must not appear to have died through any extravagance of emotion but through reason. It was quite simply that she had had enough. ‘Thank you very much,' the note could say. That would be short and to the point.

But to whom could this note be addressed? Those she would ‘thank' in that tone were all dead.

No, she would depart without undue seriousness or levity, without glamour or staginess, just go because it would be pleasant not to be here. She would declare no desperation or fashionable
ennui
from too much high or intense living. She would simply admit to being bored with being herself, having had such a bad hand that she'd always been in debt to every passer-by who wished to play with her.

She knew of course that no imaginary watcher would think her death pragmatic or sensible. It was not in the nature of the comfortably cheerful. Was it not enough that she thought so?

But she remained unsure of practicalities. Did they still bury bodies at crossroads at midnight? She rather thought not, at least not often, though she'd created such bizarre burials in her tales. A mare would shy at the spot, at that place where no Christian rites had been said; quaint will-o'-the-wisp lights would emerge to lure travellers
to their doom. Nothing like that. England was an improving if less heroic nation. Here her act would be accounted less blasphemous than wayward. There would be no essential ghost in these modern times, no thin veil over a spirit as it crossed that boundary, no stake to keep it hidden, no traffic back and forth tramping and impacting the grave.

She was glad this was an enlightened age. She'd have no aptitude for being spectral.

Whatever she left or didn't leave, it should all happen on a day when Sarah, after the interval of silence, would call and find her, not the maid who occasionally whisked a duster round the rented rooms and termed it cleaning.

She could already hear Sarah, kind, uncomfortable and sorrowing. She shook her head to remove the words for she didn't deserve their pity. Or she deserved it more than Sarah and Charles ought ever to know.

‘My poor cousin was disordered, infatuated,' Sarah would say, ‘else she would never have left us. For it is against all sense, all nature, all religion to do this. She cannot have meant it, poor darling. She must have mistaken the dose.' She would pause and look pensive. ‘Did we do enough, Charles?'

And what if Aksel Stamer, the inscrutable, the icy, the kind, was indeed her father and came back to find her? He had struggled to Paris with her, why wouldn't he come to London from whatever chilly northern shore he now strode along?

She stared at herself in the unflattering glass, catching and fixing her reflected eyes. They stared back at her with a haunted look. It made her dizzy to keep her real ones on the reflected ones, which faded in and out, yellowing into Caroline's but never quite disappearing.

She'd forgotten to breathe as she gazed. Now she started again. The image was still there.
She
was still there. She could send herself mad by staring at herself.

Was she perhaps a little mad? Poor old Ann. As mad as her mother who'd lived with a ghost all those years.

But that was not mad, it was breathtaking. What a sublime invention! You had to admire it.

Then she simply postponed killing herself. She'd assembled more than sufficient laudanum for the deed, but instead of using it for its original purpose, she prudently took small doses and achieved a deeper and longer sleep at night. It made a difference.

Time too was making an alteration. Her morbid state of mind was still there, she knew, the rank poison had entered her veins and stuck. But it was thinning. The glass jar might have cracked.

She was not quite sure why the change occurred but she knew that on some days she actually felt sorry for Caroline, the old story-teller and gossip, maybe even a little guilty.

To be more precise, she found her anger turning to scornful pity. It was not a nurturing emotion but improved on rage.

She'd linked suicide with reparation. But, when she consulted common sense, she knew her death would make not one whit of difference to Robert's. Besides, there was no need for guilt at what had been accidental for her: no sin or crime had been committed. He'd made a choice and in that choice had ignored her. So her act would not be linked to his.

No, if she'd destroyed her life – and she still might – this too would have been her choice and not necessity. It would be a way of silently absenting herself from further disappointment, having calculated that the past had on average held more pain than pleasure and was likely to continue in much the same way in the future. The guilt – for there was some, it couldn't be denied – came from knowing that, although she'd not killed him, she'd none the less wanted to do so, and that, if he'd not tumbled out of life, she'd still have been resentfully enthralled.

Then one day, turning the matter over in her mind, she realised she'd procrastinated too long.

Once this verb rather than ‘postpone' was used, suicide was no longer a near option. It had become close to comedy.

34

S
he must start writing faster, recoup her reputation among the booksellers as a diligent inhabitant of Grub Street. Messrs Hughes & Newman and Dean & Munday must be fed with gore and goodness as they wished, and she should start stimulating herself to deliver. At least
Isabella; or, the Secrets of the Convent
was ready and could be printed. It was time to begin on
The Ladies of Zitelle; or, the Prisons of Venice
. One of her nuns could discourse on obedience and humility during a short interruption from torture. Another might be pecked to death by a mechanical swan whose clockwork never wound down.

She would get out. She'd stayed too long cooped up in her new lodgings. Perhaps she'd invite a friend to drink tea from Sarah's nice dishes while storing away those delicate grey-green cups of Robert's.

It was now late winter, no sign of spring. Leaves were turning into slush and mud on the ground as frost hardened and melted. She was cold in her rooms. She must buy something thick. It was never easy to keep warm while needing to sit still scratching at paper.

Happily, ideas and plots came fast to her as they usually did: she smiled to note she retained that despised facility for the clichés of language and story, that
chiaroscuro
of a world inhabited by nothing real.

She was not quite returning to her old life. The last time she'd lived it, she'd moved on to a plane of drama and tension she still missed but knew she should now avoid. It had cost too much.

This would be easy, for Robert James was gone. When she was at her sanest, he dwindled into a memory of vanity and vexation and (she had to admit it now) mutual torment. Even the spectral Gilbert
had faded, his link with Robert left obscured, uninterrogated.

Only Aksel Stamer, the unlikely father, was still present.

Yet, although she entertained the fact and although he'd done so much for her, only explicable through close kinship, she couldn't quite think him back into her childhood, let alone her birth or conception. The idea of Caroline in middle age having a love affair with this young foreigner was truly too preposterous.

If she
had
, wouldn't she have embroidered this astounding event and not invented Gilbert at all?

For assuredly Aksel Stamer was not Gilbert. There'd been no cross-fertilisation there, the one so loquacious and loving, the other so reticent and stern.

It was all so double-dyed she resolved several times a day on the same course of action: not to think of the matter, to accept the unknowable, to be undemanding of herself, others and life, to skirt round pain and just carry on.

After Ann had eaten a number of the rich stews and meat pies so kindly sent over to her lodgings, Sarah expected some return. She was curious about the time abroad, an existence so very far from anything she'd experienced. She was careful of her cousin's feelings, her fragile state of mind; she didn't probe minutely.

Her interest lay not with the lagoon city and its paintings, the stuff of the two letters she'd received, but with Ann and her life. She wasn't sad to find that Robert had not returned with her cousin and unsurprised that he'd burnt himself out – with fever, she supposed. That type usually did. It was indelicate to ask the circumstances, they might have been painful for Ann to rehearse. That he was dead – and this Ann had finally confessed – was enough. With all her heart she pitied her cousin having to cope with such a dreadful thing in a foreign land. She could not imagine it. Weren't they Catholics there – what did they do?

She knew she'd have been utterly bereft without Charles in any emergency – but, then, she'd never have allowed herself to be in such a predicament.

She'd said it before and would say it again: her clever cousin was
a child when it came to dealing with life.

Ann appreciated the reticence but – and she knew it ridiculous – was hurt at the seeming lack of interest in Robert's death, despite her firm intention to hide the details. That he was out of their lives was evidently enough for Sarah and Charles. It should be enough for her, too. And, beyond Robert, she gave Sarah little material on which to hang her questions. She made no mention of Aksel Stamer.

So Sarah beat round the important topics. How had Ann managed out of England? How had she liked being somewhere else? Whom had she met? Ann answered vaguely and described again some curious aspects of Venice, the need to travel everywhere by boat, the gaiety of the conquered city.

Sarah turned her eyes on the youngest child – the baby had grown into a little boy. He was, yes, the bonniest of the tribe. His little chubby legs and flaxen curls added up to a bundle of joy, it was hard to concentrate elsewhere.

Ann halted her account and regarded the child. She didn't usually notice children, had hardly done so when she first visited on her return. They never took to her; she lacked the expression or gesture – or indeed the kindly intention: but no small child could know what she thought, or could he?

This chubby little boy was no exception. There was the usual indifference or outright hostility. When asked to greet her, he turned away and buried his face in his mother's increasing flesh. There seemed more of Sarah than when she'd left England and her cousin had been quite ample then. Perhaps it was in part the contrast: for there was less of Ann.

On this visit she'd brought a few presents for the children, aware that on her arrival back she should have come bearing something beyond her careworn self and an old silver box. This time she carried a book, coloured papers, wooden dolls and alphabet blocks. She'd been duly thanked by Charlotte and one of the twins, with prompting from Sarah. William was away at school; Sarah was sure he would be grateful for
Aesop's Fables
when he returned.

But this little chap – was he called Henry? – did not achieve such courtesy with even a reluctant grin. And yet when by chance she came
round the door unexpectedly from helping Sarah with the tea things down below – for, as ever, cook was simply too busy to do what was demanded by her mistress, having only one pair of very knobbly hands – he gave her a wide smile of such beauty it stopped her heart. Then he ducked behind a chair, or rather he put his head round it, like a cat leaving its tail in sight, thinking that by removing just his face he became invisible. Then he pulled it out and smiled again. ‘Boo,' he said. They were playing.

Ann went out and in, out and in, and each time he smiled and laughed, his whole body wriggling with delight.

Suddenly she caught him up and hugged him. Astonished, he accepted for a moment, then squirmed and pulled away, giving her a serious, even cold look. But it was no matter. She'd seen his smile and it had been for her, no, provoked by her. The act, the embrace had been hers, no need of his.

She'd no time to be as astonished at herself as the child had been, for just then Sarah came back into the room. ‘I see you're getting on with Harry,' she said, as the little boy raised chubby arms to be nuzzled by his mother.

‘He's a pretty child,' said Ann, blushing as if caught in unseemly flirtation.

‘Yes,' said Sarah. ‘He is that.'

‘Quick, too,' said Ann.

Sarah shrugged, ‘As quick as he needs to be.'

They both smiled.

‘It's not every woman's nature,' said Ann.

‘No, not every woman's,' said Sarah and stroked the chubby arm.

A silence followed. Then Sarah commented, ‘You know in him I do sometimes remark a likeness around the eyes to you, cousin Ann. He has your way of narrowing just the one. I believe Charlotte has it too.'

Ann smiled. ‘I must be going,' she said.

‘Will you not wait for Charles? He will want to see you.'

Ann doubted that but replied politely, ‘No, no, but I will come again when he's here, never fear. I was grateful for his help with my furniture. It's so long ago but I don't think I've really thanked him
enough.'

‘It was many weeks since, Ann – it's long forgotten. You must come more and come to dinner soon again. You are still too thin, dear cousin. You eat my pies but I can do more if you visit more. Cook will bake you the kind of pudding you can't resist and we'll put more flesh on those naked bones.'

‘I'd like that. But you know I'm already fatter than I was when I returned to England. I did grow thin abroad.' The memory crossed her face. She looked serious.

‘Come, Ann,' said Sarah, ‘that foreign food. It's not for us north-born people. We are used to something better here.'

She put down the now drowsy child. He stood swaying close to her and the door. Ann reached over and ruffled the pale curls. The child shook his head to push her off.

‘We will see you soon,' said Sarah as the door closed.

She'd been to Sarah's quite often since returning but hadn't asked what she'd wanted to. Perhaps she would always delay the moment.

There seemed now in the cold light of London so little possible connection between Caroline and a Danish stranger who'd become exotic through appearing and disappearing along the canals of Venice. She still hadn't mentioned him to Sarah; Aksel Stamer was her secret. Yet perhaps some piece of the puzzle might come from this source if she asked the right question.

After all, Sarah was the child of her mother's sister. That much was true, she supposed. Sarah accepted it, and wasn't there the likeness she'd mentioned with two of her children? Ann grimaced, a little embarrassed to think she might have been pleased at such a blatant compliment.

There did come a time when the useful moment and her courage coincided. Charles was at home, but not in the parlour where they sat or within earshot. The nursemaid and Jennie had all the children under their wing. It was relatively quiet. She would seize the instant. Sarah must know something. There was always gossip if not truth in families.

Ann began. She feared she would embed her thoughts so thoroughly
in something else that her listener would not catch the salient point, but she could only do it in her own way. Anything else would be so out of it that she'd stumble.

‘Did you ever meet – no, I suppose you didn't for the breach was made by then – did you ever meet my father – you know – ' she hesitated, ‘the man called Gilbert?'

Sarah looked blank.

Hadn't she made herself clear? Surely she had. Then – and this was certain – Sarah looked shifty. As ever, her broad pale face registered the slightest emotion. She must be an execrable card player.

‘Gilbert?'

‘Well, my father.' Ann reddened. It was too much to explain about Gilbert, it was still too raw.

‘His name doesn't matter,' she said. ‘I think there might have been several.'

Sarah was bewildered.

‘No, not fathers, but my father might have had several names. Did you happen to hear . . . ?' She trailed off. There was almost nothing to say without saying it all. ‘Caroline – Mother,' she corrected herself, ‘told me so little about him. He was or might have been a scholar of some sort, for Caroline – Mother – picked up a lot from him. She used to quote what he'd said.'

‘I don't know anything, I'm afraid,' said Sarah, her face hidden as she adjusted the tie on the pinafore of one of the twins, the slow one – Mary? – for they couldn't be long alone without a child coming back into the room. ‘They had no contact, my mother and yours, after you were born and long before I think. Some dreadful breach – but nothing was said to me. It was as if your mother was dead. Not that I mean . . .' She too trailed off. ‘What more can I tell you?'

Ann gave up. ‘It's no matter,' she said, ‘just an idle query, but I should know.'

Charles had entered the room more silently than was usual, masked by the children's noise from upstairs in the nursery where they were playing with tambourines, and Ann's eyes had been on Sarah and little Mary. Both women stopped as at a signal when they spied him. It was female talk.

Shortly afterwards Ann got up to take her leave. Once Charles was in a room, although he wasn't a large man, it seemed full, and Sarah always felt she must minister to her husband.

So Ann was surprised to find that, after Charles had politely escorted her to the door, he walked out with her and almost shut it behind him. They both stood on the doorstep. Ann looked at him enquiringly.

Perhaps he didn't want her there so much and would warn her off. She stopped the thought. That was the old abject thinking. Worse, perhaps he had something dreadful to divulge about Sarah – her heart fluttered – or one of the children, which he couldn't speak of to its doting mother.

He lightly nudged her shoulder but didn't talk at once. He wasn't fluent with words and waited that bit too long to reply even to ordinary remarks. She stood expectant.

He spoke at last. ‘I could not help overhearing what you told my wife.'

It was her turn to be discomposed. Charles was not blood family, he shouldn't be privy to such awkwardness. Perhaps he blamed her for embarrassing Sarah by enquiring about a shut and possibly painful past. Though Sarah had been bending over her little girl, Ann remained sure she'd been unsettled.

‘Yes, but it was idle talk. It's really no matter,' she said, about to hurry off.

‘No, no, Miss St Clair, cousin Ann. It is not my business. Not at all. But I think I heard, and it may be wrong, but I think it to be true, that your mother was in Shropshire, in – ' he paused, ‘in service. I thought that you perhaps wished to know.' He stopped again. ‘And
should
know.'

He looked at her earnestly for an instant, then turned away, patted her arm, gazed again at the door, pushed it open with his foot, and quickly entered. He closed it behind him without a further backward glance.