Mortal Love (12 page)

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I thought you were one of the staff.”

“No.” Radborne gestured at his drawing board. “I'm an illustrator. I'm making some sketches for a magazine in New York City.”

“An American!” the tall man exclaimed as his companions scurried excitedly toward Radborne. “Drawing the Merrow's sundew? You are aware, then, that this plant has an unusually superstitious pedigree? In the West Country, they say it bleeds if a maiden's tears fall upon it.”

Radborne forced a smile and tried to protect his color box from the jostling onlookers. “Because of the sap?”

“But the sap is not red—”

“No, of course not.” Radborne moved his drawing board to safety, then edged past the others to join the tall man. “It's the way light hits it—see?”

Radborne peered into the globe, where a gnat hung above a beckoning green frond. “For some reason the refraction of light makes the sap glow red. I think it must attract insects to the plant. And then, of course, when they land on it, they're caught, and the plant devours them.”

Excited murmurs from the men bent over Radborne's drawing board. The tall man glanced at them, then at Radborne. “You are observant, even for a painter,” he said. “Have you studied botany?”

“Not really. I studied medicine at school. Anatomy. I have an amateur's interest, I suppose.”

The man tapped a finger against his cheek. He was gaunt, with a long, narrow face, high forehead, pointed chin with no more beard than a boy's, and lank gray hair that hung to his shoulders. A youthful face, save for his sly restless eyes, large and slightly protuberant, the vivid blue of cheap glass jewelry. His eccentric clothes were dandyish and out of date: faded red trousers, tight-fitting blue waistcoat over a canary-yellow shirt, loose tie patterned with violets. “May I see your drawings?”

Radborne hesitated. Then, “Certainly,” he said. He stepped back to retrieve his sketches, and handed them to the tall man. The man shuffled them between his long, slender fingers, grunting softly to himself.

“Hmm. Ha. Ha.
Ha
—” He lifted his head. “These are for your own amusement?”

“No. They're sketches for a story I'm illustrating. For
Leslie's
—it's an American magazine; I don't know if you've heard of it?”

“I regret to say I have not.” The man smiled and extended his hand. “May I introduce myself? I am Thomas Learmont—Dr. Learmont—and these gentlemen are my fellow members of the Greater Outer London Folk-Lore Study Society.”

Murmurs and genial nods from the other men, who were now drifting back to the display table. Dr. Learmont's hand closed around Radborne's. “And you are an illustrator? An artist? How very interesting. I must apologize for interrupting your work and thank you for your original observation about our little plant. Dr. Gill had suggested something similar, but he is merely a botanist and lacks, I think, your particular aesthetic insight.”

Radborne smiled. “Radborne Comstock, pleased to meet you.”

Dr. Learmont turned to gaze at the drawing board. “Are there other pictures? Might I look at them?”

“Be my guest,” said Radborne as Dr. Learmont sidled over to the bench. “They're very rough.”

As the others continued to discuss the sundew, Dr. Learmont perused Radborne's work. Not just the studies for “The Knight of the Garish Shield and the Cockatrice” and his drawings of the slums around Mint Street but the hasty sketches he had just done on the omnibus and the other, more fanciful drawings Radborne had never shown to anyone. He found himself oddly anxious to hear this stranger's opinion of them.

“Very interesting.” Dr. Learmont stopped suddenly, staring at one of the drawings of the woman on the bridge. He looked at Radborne, his expression watchful, even wary. “You have a very good line, Mr. Comstock. And unusual subject matter.”

He tapped a drawing of a man who had tree limbs instead of arms and bees flying from his eyes. “Let me ask you this, Mr. Comstock—would you by any chance be interested in attending our next regular meeting? That would be Monday week, at Paynim House in Bloomsbury.”

“Oh—but I don't actually know anything about—”

“That doesn't matter. We're all amateurs of one sort or another, aren't we? I'm sure you'd find something of interest. Where is it you're staying?”

“In Southwark.”

“Ah.” Dr. Learmont gave Radborne an appraising look, taking in his frayed cuffs and worn shoes and unkempt hair. “It is a bit of a distance from Southwark. But there will be refreshments. And you will almost certainly meet a different sort of people than your neighbors.”

Radborne flushed. “I don't think—” he said, but Dr. Learmont had already withdrawn a card and was scribbling out directions.

“It's not difficult to find. I gather you've not been here long?”

“A few weeks—”

“Well, we don't want to lose you just when we've found you.” Dr. Learmont handed him the card. “There. Follow those directions, and tell the cab not to wait. We'll expect you Monday.”

Before Radborne could protest further, Dr. Learmont had turned away. “Gentlemen!” he cried. “Time for our final statements!”

Radborne watched as the members the Greater Outer London Folk-Lore Study Society took their leave. Last of all went Dr. Learmont.

“I do desire we may be better strangers,” the doctor said, and bowed. It was only when he turned to go that Radborne saw the pair of long-handled brass scissors protruding from the doctor's back trouser pocket, their narrow eyes winking at him as Learmont disappeared into the greenery.

The following Monday,
Radborne made his way to Paynim House. Mr. Balcombe had returned and once more taken possession of his ulster (no mention was made of the missing umbrella), but by then Radborne had found a woolen coat at a stall in Petticoat Lane, dark crimson, with buttons that the rag seller assured him were real crystal. It was slightly moth-eaten, but the sleeves covered his bony wrists, and the pockets were deep enough to hold the apples that supplemented Mrs. Beale's mutton stew each day. He counted out a few shillings from his alarmingly diminished funds and prayed it would be enough to hire a cab—he had no idea which omnibus went to Bloomsbury.

He mitigated the expense by walking across Blackfriars Bridge. As he approached, the memory of the woman overcame him: her hair, the color of her eyes. He glanced around but felt such a pang at the thought of not seeing her that he forced himself to walk with his head bowed, ignoring the laughter of the motts who left a raw smell of unwashed crinolines as they passed.

On the other side of the river, he hired a cab. The driver looked askance when they reached the entrance to Paynim House. The building was not old, but its neighbors were in disrepair; Radborne could see figures standing in the shadows, see the flash of blue flame as matches were struck, and sniff an acrid odor of burning cloth.

“You're sure?” The driver chucked at his horse and glanced dubiously at Radborne. “It's the address you gave me, but it don't look right.”

“Yes, thank you, this is it.”

Radborne paid the driver, then stood in the dark courtyard. In the distance gaslights flickered through yellow fog, casting a dismal glow over Woburn Place. He peered at the terrace of buildings across from him, but the figures were gone. There was no sound save the diminishing echo of the departing cab. He took a deep breath and went inside.

He was met at the entry by Dr. Gill, who did not remember him but was disinclined to turn him away—the evening's lecture was already in progress, and he was obviously anxious to return.

“Mmm, yes, Dr. Learmont's guest, mmm. Come now, this way, this way. . . .”

Radborne followed him through to a central room where rows of chairs had been arranged to face a lectern. An elderly man stood there, rustling through a sheaf of long blue postal paper. Radborne found a seat in the back, although he could have sat anywhere—there were only a dozen people present, all clustered in the front row. He recognized all of the men from the Palm House at Kew. A solitary woman in a monstrous blue hat with a stuffed ibis on it was seated beside Dr. Learmont.

Radborne settled himself quietly, trying not to stare at a table set with tea caddy and a platter of cakes. The elderly lecturer, an amateur archaeologist employed by the Government Census on Hallucinations, was presenting a lengthy and apparently controversial exegesis of the Subboreal Problem at the First Maiden Castle in Dorset.

“. . .
we need not despair of the ultimate emergence of some insular equivalent of the old ‘dry subboreal'
...”

Radborne gave up pretending to comprehend any of it. But he enjoyed the heated commentary provided by the audience, especially the caustic comments offered by Dr. Learmont. When the lecture finally ended, there was a burst of enthusiastic applause, after which the other members of the Folk-Lore Society rose and, to a man (and woman), rushed to the food table. Radborne joined them, helping himself to a slice of treacle tart that looked much nicer than it tasted.

“Did you enjoy Mr. Trefoil's paper?”

Radborne looked up to see Dr. Learmont. He wore the same faded red trousers and brilliant blue waistcoat, augmented by a bottle-green jacket that hung to his knees.

“Very much,” Radborne replied, dropping crumbs on the carpet as he shook Dr. Learmont's hand. “I only wish I knew more about the subject of subboreal excavation.”

Dr. Learmont laughed. “I daresay you know more now than you ever thought you would.”

“Well.” Radborne smiled. “It might be useful someday,”

Dr. Learmont nodded, then glanced over his shoulder. Behind him a figure loomed, a mountain of red silk topped by a dead bird. “Ah! Lady Wilde. This is the young visitor from America I was telling you about.”

Dr. Learmont stepped aside. Radborne hurriedly wiped his mouth. “Yes. Er—”

“Lady Wilde, Radborne Comstock,” announced Learmont. “Mr. Comstock, this is Lady Wilde. One of our most esteemed members, from far greater Outer London.”

“Ire!” shouted Lady Wilde. “Ire!”

Radborne flinched, then realized she was using the Gaelic,
Eire
for Ireland. “Oh—yes, of course,” he said.

She stared at him fiercely: a woman tall as he was, towering over six feet in high-heeled boots. She wore a sweeping dress of crimson silk, tufted with black velvet tassels and with numerous onyx and ivory brooches pinned haphazardly across the bodice. Beneath the ibis-crowned hat, her hair was the color of a magpie's wing, blue-black and so heavily lacquered that the smell made Radborne slightly ill. She must have weighed nearly twenty stone, not fat but genuinely massive—broad-shouldered and with a wide, once-handsome face, now thickly dusted with pearly gray powder, deep-set brown eyes kohled cartoonishly black, her hands all but invisible beneath dozens of bone and ivory and tortoiseshell bracelets. When she took a step toward Radborne, she clattered like a wheelbarrow over cobblestones.

“Why, you are an American!” She had an aristocrat's orotund diction, somewhat at odds with her Irish accent. “And yet I have never been to America. My son will be touring there later this year. He expects to find the wilderness distracting. I would find it merely disagreeable. What do you think, Mr. Comstock?”

Radborne swallowed. “Well . . .”

“You have made a home there for many of my countrymen. And
women,”
she added.

Radborne raised his hands. “I wouldn't know, actually—I live in New York. Which, ah, is not much of a wilderness these days—

“—though as a matter of fact,” he went on quickly, seeing Lady Wilde's eyes narrow, “I'm half Irish. My father was American, but my mother was from County Meath.”

“Was she.” Lady Wilde looked Radborne up and down. “Well. I find your Irish top quite as appealing as your American bottom.”

Radborne turned bright red. Beside him Dr. Learmont laughed softly. Lady Wilde continued to gaze at the young man, then smiled to reveal uneven teeth. “So, Mr. Comstock. What is your particular interest in the the lore of our island?”

“I . . . well, I—”

“You have chosen a propitious time to visit. A few days from now is Samhain.”

“Sow in?” Radborne looked puzzled. “Something about pigs?”

Lady Wilde laughed, the ibis on her hat trembling as with imminent flight. “No, no. Samhain, An t-Samhuinn. One of the two days when your mother's ancestors believed that the walls between the worlds fell down. I have been studying it for a book I hope to publish.
These
people”—she gestured disdainfully at the men chattering beside the remains of treacle tart—”
their
ancestors called it Blod-monath. Blood-month. They slaughtered their livestock then for the coming winter.”

Radborne grinned. “So it did have something to do with pigs after all.”

“Certainly not,” snapped Lady Wilde. “‘Samhain, when the summer goes to its rest.' It is a holy day for the country people; Puca Night, they call its eve. A dangerous time, Mr. Comstock, especially for handsome young men. Mind your manners if you meet new neighbors.”

To his astonishment she winked at him, then turned, slow and grand as a schooner coming about, and crossed the room.

“Lady Wilde takes many masculine prerogatives,” said Dr. Learmont sotto voce. “As does her son, I hear. Well, come along.”

He grasped Radborne's shoulder and began to steer him away. “Who is her son?” Radborne asked.

“An affected young Irishman. But amusing. Lady Wilde arranged for him to speak to us last fall. He lectured movingly on the romantic possibilities of blue china.” He gave Radborne a sideways look. “I did not know you were Irish.”

“My mother—”

“A noble race ruined by poverty and drink. You are not to be ashamed. I mention it only because Lady Wilde is compiling a compendium of folklore of her country.”