Resonance (6 page)

Practicalities

V
INCENT HAD NEGLECTED
the first round of auditions in favour of inquiring after Matthew at the stables where he worked. Returning to the theatre no better off for accurate information, he was surprised to find the backstage door blocked by a girl. She wore a bright-blue bonnet and scarf, and was in the process of angrily buttoning a yellow tartan coat. She glanced up at the sudden influx of wintry light as Vincent came in, and rather than push his way past, he gestured that she should finish what she was doing.

‘Thank you, mister,’ she said. ‘I’ll be out of your way now.’

Vincent liked the way she looked him directly in the eye when she said this, her grim efficiency as she tugged on her gloves. Her hair and eyes were almost as dark as Raquel’s, her skin as creamy-fresh as Raquel’s had been when they’d first met.

‘You’re Lord Wolcroft’s man,’ she said.

Suddenly it struck him who she was. ‘You are the seamstress.’

She nodded, confused.

‘Cornelius told me of you: a pretty girl carrying a pretty dress that shimmered like the sea.’

Her sudden discomfort was charming, her disconcerted frown a delight. Vincent had an urge, suddenly, like a flash of old heat, to see this pretty girl in that pretty dress – to shine a light upon her and make her sparkle like the sea. How well Cornelius knew him.

The girl shifted, obviously nervous under his frank examination of her, but she restrained herself from looking around for help. Vincent admired that. ‘I have been looking for the stable boy,’ he said. ‘Joe, as you call him. He hasn’t returned from his luncheon, apparently. I believe you are his friend?’

She nodded uncertainly.

‘How long have you known him? The stable boy?’

‘A … a long time. Since we were children.’

He quelled a flash of irritation. ‘Come now. No lies. How long?’

She just stared at him, and Vincent sighed. ‘I want you to give him a message,’ he said. ‘Tell him I am not fooled by his rough clothes and speech. Tell him I
know
who he is.’

Vincent leaned close. The girl shrank back as he spoke low into her ear. ‘I had not been certain at first, but when I saw those men accost him – throw him to the water like that, like so much trash – I knew. Tell him this cannot continue. Tell him that his mother and I miss him. Tell him … tell him that we should both be
much happier
were he home.’

The girl remained motionless, her small hands clenched. Their faces were very close. She smelled faintly of violets. After a moment she glanced up and met his
eyes. There was a real core of steel beneath her fear, a genuine ferocity that thrilled him in a way he had not felt in years. Vincent had no doubt that if he tried to touch her, she would fight.

The thought made him chuckle. Drawing back, he gestured that he would like to pass. The girl pressed close to the wall, and he moved on.

C
ORNELIUS WAS JUST
where Vincent had left him, sitting in the middle row of the dress circle, by the aisle. There was a tray with fine china cups, a silver coffee pot and good pastries on the seat beside him. They had not been there when Vincent had left for the stables. It would seem that the theatre was going all-out to fete their impresario.

The stage manager was leaning over from the aisle, murmuring and pointing things out on the performance list, but Cornelius was only half-listening, his attention focused on the stage steps as if doggedly awaiting Vincent’s return from backstage. The stage manager continued to speak as Vincent approached, but Cornelius flung up a hand to silence him. The manager straightened, his face stiff with disapproval as Vincent slipped past him and reclaimed his seat at Cornelius’ side.

‘The next performances shall start within the hour,’ said the manager. ‘If that is to your pleasure, Lord Wolcroft.’

‘Auditions,’ corrected Vincent.

The manager’s jaw twitched. ‘Beg pardon?’ he asked tightly.

Vincent took his time, pouring himself a coffee and taking a pastry before looking at him. ‘They are auditions,
Mr Simmons. We have not yet decided which performers shall be chosen – so they are
auditions
.’ He took a large bite of the pastry and chewed, holding the manager’s eye.

‘Be sure they do start within the hour,’ said Cornelius softly. ‘We do not have all day.’

Vincent watched the manager leave, then spat the mouthful of chewed pastry into his hand and dropped it to the plate. He swilled the coffee around his mouth; savoured the almost forgotten process of swallowing.

Cornelius eyed all of this with horror. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?’

‘I have never done anything in God’s name, cully.’ Vincent chanced another small mouthful of coffee and swallowed, suddenly in tremendously good form.

‘You shall make yourself
ill
.’

‘May chance, but you know, I believe I might actually have begun to enjoy myself.’

Cornelius’ scowl made him grin. Nevertheless, Vincent placed the cup on its saucer and spread his hands in surrender. ‘I am done,’ he promised. ‘No more.’

Cornelius eyed the cup as if he would like to smash it, and, despite his amusement, Vincent felt a pang of guilt. He knew this uncharacteristic shortness of temper was a direct result of Cornelius’ physical distress.

Never mind, cully
, he thought.
Soon you will be home and this torment will end.

Cornelius nodded tightly.

I saw the little seamstress,
added Vincent, attempting to soothe him.

‘And?’

She is delightful.

Cornelius brightened.
I knew it! I knew you would enjoy her. Never fear, Captain, I shall obtain her for you.

Vincent thought about this a moment, then waved his hand.
No
, he said.
Leave her
.

Cornelius stared.

Vincent struggled to articulate his reasons. The girl was, as Cornelius had described her, oddly moving. Caught in the chiaroscuro of that gloomy corridor, she had been arresting in a way that went beyond prettiness. It was almost as though she emitted an aura – a magnetic field, perhaps – and Vincent found it particularly compelling. It was foolishness to leave her behind. Yet … Vincent thought again of Raquel, of Raquel’s decline, the calcification of her once passionate, if fragile, vivacity, and he realised he did not want that vibrant girl diminished. He did not want her used. It was as simple as that.
Besides
, he thought to himself,
she is Matthew’s friend. What would he think
?

‘Let her go,’ he murmured. ‘The ballet chorus will suffice for me.’

Cornelius grimly turned his attention to the list of players he held in his lap. He pretended to read, but his entire body was stiff with offence. Vincent sighed. Cornelius never did react well to the rejection of a gift. In an attempt to move the situation along, he leaned across to read the performance list.

‘Raquel will adore that little piano player.’

‘She did once love the piano …’

‘And the dog act is an inspired choice. And the woman with the monkey. Both will certainly appeal to the children.’

The corner of Cornelius’ mouth twitched with distaste, and Vincent threw his hands up in frustration. ‘Oh, come now! You cannot mean to have second thoughts about the animals?’

‘You know what the children are capable of.’

‘Cornelius, we are not discussing
torture
here. Simply a shorter than usual life – a speedier conclusion to the inevitably limited time on earth faced by all mortal creatures.’

‘I cannot stand the idea of an animal suffering,’ said Cornelius softly. ‘Mankind deserves all it gets, for the most part, but animals … Animals are entirely innocent and incapable of cruelty.’

‘You must never have witnessed a cat toy with a mouse then, friend.’

Cornelius shrugged. He continued to stare at the list, his fine face troubled, and Vincent knew where his mind was. When Cornelius had carried that bloodstained hatbox past him on the stairs, the waves of pain coming from it had fizzed against Vincent’s skin. The despair – even from such a tiny creature, so little aware of its own existence – had been astounding.

When Vincent had made his way to the playroom, there had been a pool of blood on the floorboards, pairs of scissors, an orderly collection of bloodstained hatpins. He had gazed at the multitude of bloody boot-prints that tracked to and from the sleeping children. Apparently they had got up many times during the poor creature’s ordeal – to adjust something on its body, perhaps, before taking their places again to watch. Vincent had to admit he had been shocked at that – it had turned even his stomach. He had had second thoughts, then, about having allowed this to happen. About having left it for Cornelius to handle.

Cornelius’ quiet voice intruded on this memory. ‘She had not even tried to stop them, Captain. The door to their room was unlocked, and yet …’

Yes, Raquel had been sitting motionless at the
sewing-room
window, her hands clenched in her lap, her eyes fixed on the path down which Cornelius was disappearing. Vincent had stared at her until she had turned to meet his gaze. Her expression had been a challenge. Everything about her was dark these days – her dark eyes, her heavy coils of braided hair, the dark-green of her dresses. These new, severe fashions suited her now in a way the old ones no longer could. Even the paleness of her creamy skin seemed to exist as a complement to the darkness.

She had tightened her hands and lifted her chin.
Spare me your disapprobation, Vicente. They are Cornelius’ creatures, not mine.

Vincent stretched his arm across the back of the seat, clutched his friend’s shoulder and squeezed. ‘Raquel is not what she once was. It is perhaps best not to expect too much of her … especially in relation to the children.’

‘I do not understand,’ whispered Cornelius. ‘I do not understand this wanton cruelty within them.’

‘We cannot help what moves them, cully. So …’ He tapped the list. ‘Monkeys and dancing poodles and parrots on sticks. The more the merrier. We can but hope they do their job. If they do not, well, perhaps we can arrange a dogfight?’

It had been meant to amuse, but Cornelius made a sharp sound of disgust. ‘Don’t be revolting! How can even you be so profane as to suggest such twisted amusements might sustain an angel!’

Vincent released his shoulder. ‘This from the man who planned to display an innocent girl like a bauble, that I might have my enjoyment of her. In your philosophy, that is worthy food for angels, is it? Cornelius, it would be so refreshing to
have just
one
conversation that does not end up marooned within your hopeless superstitions. Do you think it is at all possible, friend, that you might just this once reconcile yourself to a discussion of the practicalities without hiding behind your usual romantic self-deceit?’

There was a stretch of scalding silence, then Cornelius drew himself up. ‘Speaking of self-deceit,’ he said, ‘did you retrieve your overcoat?’

Vincent sat back. He did not reply.

Cornelius would not relent. ‘You have spoken with that boy? It is clear to you, now, that he is just like all the others? That he is not—’