Mortal Love (19 page)

“Have you brought my dog?” The woman gazed at him imploringly, then made a fierce, impatient gesture. “No. I can see you haven't. You are another damned physician.”

He could not speak. He had never heard a woman swear or seen a woman with hair unbound. He had painted nude models in van der Ven's studio, but never anyone like this, the room around her ablaze with sun, her hands raised, fingers folded into fists. As he stared, she recoiled slightly, lowering her head so that a spill of dark hair hid her face.

“No,” he whispered.

She looked up and stepped toward him. He could smell her, salt and musk and vervain; if he dared extend his hand, he would feel heat radiating from her exposed skin, wrists, throat, cheek, brow. He knew she would not recoil again. Instead she would press her face against his palm; he knew that, he knew that.

“Who are you, then?” she murmured. She pressed her palm against his cheek. He shut his eyes; his lips parted as he forced himself to remain still, still: willing himself to deathly calm so that her touch would be burned upon his skin, her smell. “Radborne?”

He opened his eyes. Her face was inches from his own. He could see that her irises were not pure green but had tiny jagged spokes—peat brown, slate blue, black—radiating from the pupil. Her eyes were wide, not with surprise or fear but a sort of shocked wakefulness.

“Yes.” He nodded, conscious of his breath against her cheek. “Radborne Comstock. I'm an artist. A painter. From America,” he added in sudden desperation. “I didn't mean to intrude, Miss, Miss . . .”

“
He
calls me Mary. Or May.”

“Mary.” He hesitated. “Is that your name? Is that what Dr. Learmont calls you?”

“No. He calls me Evienne Upstone.”

“Miss Upstone. I ... I apologize for entering your room. I have just been hired, to—”

He stopped, trying to recall exactly what he had been hired for. Unexpectedly the woman laughed. He flushed, but then he saw that she was not mocking him but seemed delighted. Despite himself he smiled.

“Well, I'm not really certain yet,” he said. “I think I'm to assist with a patient here. A painter.”

“I am a painter.”

“You are?” The woman gave him a look of such scorn he blushed. “Oh. But I thought ... he said a man. A—”

He stopped again before pronouncing “murderer.”

“Jacobus Candell. Yes, he is here,” the woman said impatiently. “He is a criminal lunatic. Whereas I . . .”

She turned and with long strides crossed to the back wall. There were windows here, covered by heavy iron grillework, a narrow iron bedstead like his own, and a desk scattered with charcoal pencils, hair pencils, a drawing board. Beside the drawing board was part of a large bird's wing, its pinion feathers the color of porter. An easel held a canvas blotched with every imaginable shade of green: turf, viridis, hellebore, lichen, emeraude, holly. The woman glanced at it and shook her head. “
I
am merely a prisoner.”

She stood with her back to him, her hair a dark serpent coiled upon gray silk. From outside came the surge of waves cresting and falling. Radborne stared at her, stricken.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

She seemed not to hear, only continued to gaze upon the turmoil of green and gray and blue below. Finally she said, “Did you know there is a country there?”

Radborne ventured a smile. “No.” He walked over to her and stared outside. Behind the iron lattice, the window was studded with tiny vortices where grit had been thrown against the glass.

“It is in ruins now.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “Long ago a great queen ruled it with her consort. They were very happy, and the queen loved him, but as the ages of the world passed, she grew restless. Someone once had shown her a painting of a place she had never seen. She would see it, and she left in search of it.

“Years upon years she wandered, and saw many things—wonderful things! Places she had not imagined. She saw an owl, and a boy with a net who would catch it, who did capture it, and the owl died. She saw a man in green upon a black horse; she saw many men.

“And though she did not know it, her husband had come in search of her,” she went on, her voice rising. “And like her he lost his way, though never so lost as she. Always she was searching for him, and never was he finding her.

“At last she could walk no more: she had come to the end of the world. At the edge of the world, she jumped, and as she fell, flames consumed her. The king called upon the sea to quench the fire, but not even the sea could do so. Only there, see?”

She touched Radborne's arm. “Beneath the water she is burning still. Do you see her?”

He could feel her fingers through his sleeve like hot tongs. “I've never heard that story,” he said in a low voice. “It must be very old.”

“It is not so old.” The woman turned, her eyes too wide and her cheeks white. “I am that queen.”

“I don't—”

Behind them came the muted
snick
of a door latch. Radborne turned to see Dr. Learmont. He looked grave; from his hand dangled a large key ring. “Mr. Comstock, would you be so kind as to meet me in my office? Miss Upstone has had enough visitors for one morning, I think.”

“Yes, of course. I'm sorry, but I heard—”

Dr. Learmont gave him a look that commanded him to leave. The woman snatched her hand from Radborne and whirled to face Learmont.

“Why will you not give him me? Coward! Coward! You are afraid of me! You are all afraid—”

Dr. Learmont pushed past Radborne. “Leave us, Mr. Comstock! I'll call if I need you.”

“Yes—yes, of course.”

He turned and stumbled into the hall. The door slammed shut behind him. The woman shouted, words he could not understand. He could hear Dr. Learmont, then Evienne Upstone laughing bitterly.

“
Miss Upstone, please
—”

“
I will not drink it! I refuse
—”

“
—must take it, Miss Upstone, your welfare depends upon it
—”

“
—please, no. .
. .
Where is Fancy?”

Then the sound of scuffling, then silence, then soft weeping.

Radborne leaned against the wall. He touched his cheek and withdrew his hand to see a fingertip streaked bright red.

Blood,
he thought, sickened. The madwoman had scratched him.

But when he brought his hand to his face, he smelled linseed oil.

I am a painter.

He looked up. From Evienne Upstone's room, there came no sound. The corridor was flooded with October sunlight, yet he could feel darkness all around, and cold. He recalled the voices of the men he had heard before.

Learmont will come, you
must
leave her
—

“Swinburne,” he said. He turned and raced downstairs.

He found him at the back of the house, in a long gallery furnished with a few leather armchairs and high windows that faced southwest. In the far corner, a spare red-haired figure stood and stared at the ruined tower on the next headland. Radborne watched him from the doorway, silent. After a minute Swinburne spoke without turning.

“Did you know this is a cursed place?” He was wearing a heavy, dark-green mantle, its hem laced with dried mud and leaf mold. “No innocent babby was ever born here: just bastards and morphodites.” He turned suddenly. “Which are you, Mr. Comstock?”

Radborne walked toward him, hands clenched. “Who is the woman? Why is she here?”

“Why is she here? Why is she here?” Swinburne trilled. “Why, because she is a lunatic, sir! Why are
you
here?”

Without warning he feinted at Radborne, then darted to an arm-chair, sinking into it as though exhausted and clutching his mantle about his shoulders. Radborne stared at him and walked to the window. He gazed out, for the first time noticed a small cottage a few hundred yards from the manor house. Behind him he could hear Swinburne's breathing, high and shallow.

“What business do you have here?” Radborne said at last.

“Why, your welfare,” Swinburne said, and tittered.

“Who was the other man with you?”

“Burne-Jones. My friend, once. I have not seen him for many years. I did not expect to see him now. He arrived on the same train as yourself, but in the invalid coach, and had more difficulty finding his way.”

“Is she—” Radborne hesitated. “Is she his wife?”

“His wife?” Swinburne's pale eyes widened in astonishment. “Why, no. His wife is Georgie.”

“Who was it she called for, then? Another man? Her husband?”

Swinburne looked puzzled, then gave a shrieking whoop. “Fancy! He means Fancy !”

It was a moment before he regained control of himself.

“That is her dog,” he said.

He hunched his shoulders, his faded ginger hair caught inside his cloak, and drew his feet up onto the edge of chair. He looked so frail that Radborne felt a pang, to be harrying him like this. But when the little man spoke, his voice was harsh and taunting. “She is Burne-Jones's mistress. His ‘muse,' he would say, his ‘stunner'—”

He fairly spat the last word. “But she would be a painter, too, you see. She would be an
artist.
Learmont encourages her—he thinks that will bind her to him, but it will never do, never!”

He giggled wildly. Radborne nodded tentatively. “Yes—she told me. And I saw that she had an easel, there”—he gestured at the ceiling—“in her room. I was asleep in my own room, but when I woke, I heard voices. I was concerned there might be danger. In America I worked in an asylum. The patients had a little journal that I assisted them with—that is why Dr. Learmont hired me—and my understanding was that I was to serve a similar function at Sarsinmoor. He told me there was a painter here. He wrote to me, offering me a position.”

He withdrew Learmont's letter from his breast pocket and held it out to Swinburne, who ignored it. Instead he narrowed his eyes and leaned forward in his chair.

“Are you well, Mr. Comstock?” He tugged his cloak about his shoulders and shivered. “You do not look at all well. It is the chill—the spirit of this damned place. It devours you. You've seen that hag he keeps as a housemaid.”

Radborne continued to hold the letter out to him, finally shoved it back into his pocket. “I am very well,” he said coldly. “But I would like to know why you have come here, sir. Are you to be a patient?”

Swinburne gave a high-pitched laugh. “Not I!”

“Burne-Jones, then?”

The red-haired man shrank even deeper into his cloak. “Don't be absurd. He came to see
her.
He will not break with her—he refuses to, though his soul is imperiled! Yet they dare not call
him
mad.”

“And the woman?”

“She suffers from a moral languor: the air of this world does not agree with her. She was at The Lawn for some months—do you know it? A private ladies' asylum, I recommend a visit—most entertaining.”

Swinburne sat up, eyes shining. His hands crept over the edge of his mantle like two white mice. “Learmont found her there and introduced her to Ned. Since then she is his
Mysteriarch;
he says that he cannot work without her, but the thought of her devours him. Everything within this house eats away at something else.”

He glanced out the window at the silhouette of the fortress upon the next headland. “
Sublata causu, tollitur effectus.
One must remove the cause for the effect to cease. So Learmont brought her here. He claims that it is for her own well-being: that here she is safe and perhaps may recover from her extremity. I do not think that is his intention for her.”

“What is the nature of her illness?”

“Learmont believes that she is inflamed by a sexual nisus.”

Radborne looked disgusted. “I would suggest that she is deeply unhappy. She is very beautiful,” he added.

“‘The sort of beauty that's called human in hell,'” chanted Swinburne. His beryl eyes glittered. “Such beauty serves as a portal to the Abyss. I would not have her for a thousand pounds.”

He paused, seeming to weigh his next question. “Mr. Comstock. Have you not wondered about your employer? He has a highly specialized practice and attends only a very few people. He has been doing so for many years now, in London and Bath. Very discreet, I have had the opportunity to observe him firsthand: we shared a circle in Fitzroy Square—Brown, do you know him? And Monsieur Andrieu, who had such an interesting friend ... a sort of wild peasant boy, perfectly filthy. Verlaine has just published his poetry in
Lutèce.”

He sighed and drew a hand across his brow. “No matter. Learmont claims to have inherited this heap, although I don't believe he ever set foot in it until he came here with Candell. I first heard of Learmont from Gabriel, whom he treated for lypemania, a nervous condition.”

He broke into another uncontrollable spasm of laughter, rocking back and forth in the armchair. “‘Every physician almost hath his favorite disease!'” Our Dr. Learmont has carefully chosen which maladies he will cure and which he will sustain. He selects those whose honey is distilled from despair and longing, and gorges himself upon it. Oh, he is a greedy creature! Confess, sir—didn't you think it curious to find yourself in the employ of an alienist who specializes in the treatment of melancholy painters?”

Radborne was silent. “It is coincidence,” he said at last. “Of course it is coincidence. I told him that I had experience working with the mad—”

“Oooh,
experience!”
squealed Swinburne. He leaped from his chair and paced across the room, stopping in front of the bookshelves. “Our Mr. Comefuck has
experience!”

His eyes narrowed. “You say you know the tenets of alienism. Are you familiar with the work of Cesare Lombroso?”

“I am not.”