Resurrectionists (16 page)

“Perhaps,” I said, turning my eyes down so I wouldn’t see his disapproval.

“Very well. Goodnight, Mrs Marley.”

I bid him goodnight and returned to you, Diary. What a strange, inquisitive man he is. I’m sure Virgil would not be so kind in his summation. I wish the Reverend had not made me feel so guilty, for what should I care for his opinion of me? I suppose that I have been used to being treated as a Lady, as an example of moral fortitude and grace. However, when Reverend Fowler looks at me, I am sure he sees another Charlotte. I wanted to tell him that I was a virgin until my wedding night, and that this elopement is the first disobedient thing I have ever done, but I doubt he would have believed me. When he talks of my parents, my family, he would not believe that my father is noble, that my aunt a rich widow. He probably imagines they are cobblers or tailors or some other such lowly profession. Why, it makes my flesh burn with indignation.

But listen to me! As I write these words I must remember that I have chosen lowliness. We cannot afford even one servant, but Virgil promises upon Edward’s arrival to engage a maid-of-all-work immediately. The house shall be overcrowded, for it is only a little place, old and draughty and dark, with tiny, dingy rooms and hideous black beams in the ceiling that seem to weigh me down.

I am sorry. I really must pull myself out of my misery. It is Virgil’s place to be melancholy, and mine to be all cheer and optimism. This place has been the seat of all my bliss as long as just Virgil and I were here, but I suppose I have always known that bliss would be short-lived. Virgil must go to work every evening now, and sometimes does not come home until nearly three a.m. If I hear the church clock strike two and he’s not yet in bed with me, I worry and pace until he comes home. And when he does come in, he is too tired to talk with me or to make love (which I suppose I should be ashamed to admit an appetite for!). I think he dislikes his employer, because he often seems disturbed and distracted when he comes home, and sometimes must take a few drops of laudanum for his nerves. Still, any day we may hear from my parents, with some forgiveness and perhaps generosity: I know I am entitled at least a little money. And any day we may hear from the publishing house in London who are considering Virgil and Edward’s collection. I’m sure these circumstances are only temporary, and I must take heart that my misery will be short-lived. I have chosen this life, and I stand by my choice. Sunday, 6 October 1793

What an evening we had last night! Edward and Charlotte arrived in the early afternoon, insisting that they will not stay long, a declaration that caused me no end of happiness. Already my spirits were buoyed, and became even more so when I saw how much Virgil cheered in Edward’s company. I know that I have said I prefer it when only we two are here, but I perhaps was being selfish, and had not noticed how withdrawn Virgil was becoming. He is like his old self, full of teasing and gentle smiles (for Virgil smiles never more than gently). With all Edward’s raucous joking and Charlotte’s squealing, and with all the conversation and drinking of wine, I could not hear the awful wind outside (which even now howls over the eaves and down the chimney). Then, at suppertime as we sat around the table in the kitchen, Virgil began to tell Edward about his nerves, and that Dr Flood had given him opium, which he took as a tincture. I had heard stories about opium, and was immediately appalled.

“Virgil!” I exclaimed, “how is it that you have not told me about this?”

Virgil looked at me, bewildered. “But, Gette, you know that I take it. What do you think laudanum is? It is merely opium in alcohol.”

Charlotte saw no shame in screaming with laughter at me.

“I did not know,” I mumbled, not meeting anyone’s eye. You see, I had always thought laudanum a medicinal, and opium-eating an immoral custom imported from the East. I remember my father breaking off a friendship with another man because he engaged in the debauchery of “
l’opiomane
”. But then, my father is a stern and strictly self-regulated man. As Charlotte’s laughter trailed off, Edward said,

“Do you have any left?”

I looked up. Virgil nodded. “Shall we?”

I began to protest, but Virgil grasped my hand.

“Gette, do not worry. It’s just like drinking wine, only a little more potent. We have had it before, and do not forget that it is a medicine. It works to heal the body, not to harm it.”

I was not going to allow Charlotte to laugh at me again, so I merely nodded. He let go of my hand and rose to go to the bedroom. One of the candles on the table began to splutter, so I went to the sideboard for my snuffers. We are trying to conserve our candles, so we have only two burning most nights, and they are tallow and smell faintly of sheep grease. I clipped the wick and the candle surged back to life.

Virgil returned with the crystal bottle which sat beside our bed, and proceeded to pour out a measure of the red liquid to all four of us. I picked up my glass and sniffed it gingerly, but could smell no Sin. Rather, the liquid smelled faintly of cinnamon and eastern spices. Charlotte and Edward held their glasses to each other’s lips, quickly downed the tincture and then pressed their mouths together in a passionate kiss. I returned my attention to Virgil. He was gazing at me solemnly, his eyes nearly black in the candlelight, so beautiful that my breath stopped in my lungs.

“Gette?” he said quietly, holding his glass close to my face.

“I’m frightened,” I whispered in return.

“I would never let anything bad happen to you,” he replied.

I looked once again at my own glass, then boldly held it up to Virgil’s mouth. At the same moment, I felt the cool of his glass touch my own lips, and we tilted in unison, the bitter-sweet drink passed over my tongue and I swallowed it. Virgil put our glasses aside and kissed me, but not in the animal way that Charlotte and Edward kissed, just a slow, gentle touch of warm reassurance.

“What now?” I asked.

“We wait,” Edward said, pulling Charlotte on to his lap.

To my dismay, they returned to ordinary

conversation. I felt no immediate difference, except perhaps a light sickness of the stomach. But within ten minutes (and some of the following descriptions may not make sense) it seemed as though the whole room began to pulse, as though with an unnatural heartbeat, and the candlelight seemed to glow suddenly so much brighter.

Then, oh, what a revolution to my senses! My hands had been resting on the table-top, and without realising it, my fingers were moving over the smooth polish. It felt like nothing I had ever felt before – like silky glass, or wet diamonds, sending tingles through my fingertips that wove icy cobweb patterns in my brain. I could not stop feeling the table-top. It seemed to me as though my hands could sense colours, but not the colours we ordinarily see: my hands could find the truth about colours. Although I had always known the table as chestnut, I realised now that it was actually glacial white. I said aloud, “The table-top is white,”

and Virgil replied, “I know.”

So I touched Virgil, and found that he was the colour of red wine as one sees it by candlelight through glass: glowing darkly, mysterious, promising. I leaned over and kissed his hand, which was lying upon the table, and found he tasted the same.

“If only we had music,” he said, and even his voice was dark wine. My cheek rested on the table-top, my mouth closed around one of his fingers. I breathed in the impossible combination of the glacial wood and the dark liquid of his skin.

“Charlotte will sing,” Edward declared, and I looked up to see him propel Charlotte out of his lap so that she stood unsteadily in the candlelight, an amused smile curling her lips.

“
Where e’er you walk
,” she began in a clear belllike tone, “
Cool gales shall fan the glade, Trees where
you sit shall crowd into a shade
. . .”

I closed my eyes to listen, and though her voice was unaccompanied, it was as though a choir of angels were singing with her. Even the wind outside seemed to have found a harmony for her voice. It

was little short of rapture to listen, as I was, slumped over the table with Virgil’s finger still trapped between my lips.

But then Virgil withdrew his finger and I heard him say, “Bravo.”

I opened my eyes and sat up. Edward was now standing behind Charlotte, caressing her ribs while she sang.

“
Where e’er you tread, the blushing flowers shall
rise . . .”

“Yes. Come, my angel – sing, sing!” Edward cried as his hands rose and closed over her breasts.

“
And all things flourish, and all things flourish, and
all things flourish
. . .”

Now his fingers had pulled apart her bodice.

“
Where e’er you turn your eyes
.”

He pushed underneath her breasts so that they spilled out of her stays. She stretched like a cat, clearly enjoying herself.

“
Where e’er you turn your eyes, where e’er you
turn your eyes.
”

Indeed, I could not turn my eyes away. Edward gathered her skirt and chemise, pushing them up so we could see her thighs (I was not so out of my wits that I didn’t notice what awful, sturdy, man’s legs she has). She had stopped singing now, and instead had leaned her head back on Edward’s shoulder, letting him undress her before us. The sudden resumption of silence, or at least what passes for silence in this windy place, caused a strange shock to my senses. A peculiar panicky feeling came over me. When Edward grew bolder and exposed the very flower of her womanhood, I pushed myself out of my chair and thumped my fist on the table.

“Don’t!” I cried. “Do not!”

“Jealous little virgin,” Charlotte hissed in reply. As I looked at her, it seemed her mouth was a huge, wet thing; her breasts, her thighs, everything womanly about her suddenly became obscene, overdeveloped, grotesque and hungry.

Rather than look at her, I fled to our bedroom. It was blissfully dark. I threw myself upon the bed, and clutched at the sheets as though they might stop me from falling into the awful abyss that seemed to have opened around me. I realised after a few moments that I could hear muffled laughter from the parlour, and I became so angry that I thought my feelings would split me in two. I simply could not bear the thought that Virgil might be enjoying such a display of Harlotry, but I knew if I called him I would seem like the jealous little virgin which Charlotte had accused me of being.

I pressed my palms to my eyes and tried to calm my senses, which was impossible because they were in such a tumult from the opium. Once again, I heard the muffled laughter, and this time I heard Charlotte make a little moan of delight. I simply could not stand for it, so I called for my Husband.

“Virgil,” I cried, trying to sound pathetic and not at all angry. “I am so very ill. Would you please come?”

I heard him push his chair back and approach the room. In a moment he had closed the door behind him and sat down next to me.

“Gette?”

I sat up. “I have a sickness in my stomach.”

“It’s just the laudanum. You’ll get used to it.” He touched me tenderly on the forehead. I was so overwhelmed with sensation that I began to cry.

“Please, Virgil, promise you will always love me.”

“Of course, my little poppet, of course I will.”

What I really wanted for him to promise was never to love Charlotte, but he had gathered me in his arms to comfort me, and I knew that I would only demonstrate my jealousy if I asked him. He lay me down and wrapped me amongst the covers, then sat with me until he thought I was asleep. In fact, I dozed a little, but as soon as he got up to leave I woke again, and lay there listening. I dreaded hearing sounds from the parlour that may suggest Virgil was enjoying Charlotte and Edward’s debauchery, but even though I strained my ears over the gusts of wind which shook the windows, I could not hear her voice or her laughter. I did not know how long I had dozed, but I think perhaps she and Edward had finished their ridiculous business, and she had gone to bed also. Still, I listened to Virgil and Edward talk. I found it comforting to hear the low rumble of male voices. Rain had just started falling outside, and a constant drip-drip sounded off the eaves. I burrowed further under the blankets, feeling warm and content. I heard them speak of poetry and politics, and of returning to London as soon as they could, as soon as they had enough money or their collection was published.

“And so you have told Flood that I’m looking for work?” Edward asked.

“He says he’ll be happy to have you work for him again,” Virgil replied. A clink of glass against glass told me they were drinking wine together.

“Does Georgette know what kind of work you’re doing?”

“No. And she won’t find out. It would disturb her too much.”

My skin prickled.

“Are you sure it’s not you who will become

disturbed?” Edward asked. “I remember last time.”

“I’m better now. I can endure anything for Gette’s sake. No other employer would pay me so well for only a few nights’ work.”

“No other employer is a monster.”

A short silence prevailed. I could see reflected candlelight dipping and swelling against the wall of my room. The rain had become heavy, making it hard for me to listen.

“Do you think he is a monster?” Virgil said at last.

“Truly?”

“You know he is,” Edward replied.

“He does monstrous things, I’ll grant you. But it is in the interests of scientific discovery.”

“I don’t believe that, Virgil. I think Flood is interested in far more personal goals than scientific discovery.” I heard one of them, Edward I think, stand and walk to the sideboard, perhaps to fetch the snuffers.

“Have you ever touched his hand?” Edward

continued.

“Yes. Upon our first meeting I shook it.”

“His fingers are icy but smooth. So unnaturally smooth, like a pebble worn down by the sea.”

“I think he is very old.”

“I cannot imagine how he can live where he does,”

Edward said.

“A fitting lair for a monster,” Virgil said laughing, but I sensed from his voice that it was only mock cheer. That perhaps Flood frightened him a little. “The dark, the cold, the half-finished experiments.”