Resurrectionists (45 page)

“I understand.” She leaned forward, reached out and smoothed down his hair. He seemed not to have noticed.

“My mother’s going to be inconsolable. I’ll have to track her down. When she hears this, she’ll be up here in a flash. You’re not alone in this, Maisie.”

“Thanks. It’s nice to know that.” She watched him watching her, let her eyes drop for a moment to that top lip of his, then back to his eyes.

Their eyes met and some kind of charge seemed to pass between them. She could see his pupils dilate, and knew hers were doing the same. Then he stood up, put his back to her, and started looking at books on the shelf above the mantelpiece.

“What are you looking for?” she asked, her voice straining for normality. In that instant, it had seemed possible. Rather than being a daydream, having Sacha had been something that could be real in her world. She felt dizzy.

“Here,” he said, pulling a book from the shelf.

“You should read this.”

It was a book about the tarot. “Thanks.”

He shrugged. He seemed uncomfortable. “I think you should learn it. If you’re really serious about not going back to the orchestra, serious about the psychism.”

“Of course I’m serious.”

“Sybill read cards. She used to charge forty quid a turn. You’ll need to memorise all the meanings.” He looked around. “Where does Sybill keep her cards?”

“In the chest at the end of the bed.”

He went off in that direction, and she watched him go, admiring his long legs and feeling the demented lust spinning inside her again. She would kiss him. That was it, it was decided. A kiss wouldn’t hurt anyone, wouldn’t necessarily lead anywhere. Tonight, after dinner, after a few glasses of wine, just one kiss and then it would be out of her system. She turned back to the book and realised her hands were shaking. Leafed through a few pages without taking anything in. She mapped out the conversation in her head:
I’m really attracted to you
. No, how about,
if I
wasn’t practically a married woman
. It was useless, there were no good lines left. They’d all been overused, and none of them conveyed as much meaning as that glance that had just passed between them. In a few minutes he was back.

“I think Sybill would have been happy for you to have these,” he said, handing her a deck of cards wrapped in black cloth.

“Do you think I can do this?”

“Sure. It might take time. But your Gift is growing stronger every day.”

She nodded, opened the cloth and slowly thumbed through the cards. Sacha still hadn’t sat down. He stood in front of the fire, his hands on the mantelpiece.

“Where were the last two sections of the diary?”

he asked.

“One was in the floorboards in the back room. The other was in the ceiling above it.”

“I wonder . . .” he started.

“What?”

“Well, she probably found them while the place was being renovated.”

“That’s what I figured. And?”

“So we have to work out what else she’s had done since the floor and the ceiling. The last thing she put in was the dryer. Down the back in the laundry.”

Maisie considered. “And she always returned them to their original location.”

“Shall we check?”

“It can’t hurt.” She stood and followed him down to the laundry. The dryer was mounted on brackets screwed to the wall.

“Do you have a screwdriver?” he asked.

“I don’t know. It’s entirely possible, but good luck finding it.”

Sacha bent to the cupboard underneath the laundry tub and began to rummage about. Maisie had turned to look in the kitchen when he called out, “Here’s one.”

He backed out of the cupboard and stood,

brandishing a screwdriver.

“Is it the right size?” she asked.

“Not quite. But we’ll manage.” He fitted the screwdriver into the first screw and got to work, swearing and bumping his knuckles every now and again. Maisie watched as, one by one, the screws came out. Sacha had her prop up the dryer as the last one was freed, and then he heaved it off the wall and balanced it on top of the washing machine. He felt along the wall. Immediately, it was apparent that one of the planks was not nailed as tightly as the others. He easily picked out the nails with his fingers and the plank came loose. He plunged his hand behind it.

“What have we here?” he said as, with a dramatic flourish, he produced a small wad of paper.

“Let me see,” she said reaching for it. Yes, it was Georgette’s writing, but this section had clearly been water damaged. The first few lines were legible, but then pages and pages were nothing more than blurred black ink:
Virgil is much improved. His colour is
returning and it shall be less than a week I am sure
before he is
***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

***** ***** ***** *****

“Damn,” she said.

“What’s wrong?” Sacha was peering over her

shoulder.

“It’s in very bad condition. I don’t know how much of it is readable.” She flicked forward through swollen pages. “I guess I won’t know until I start.”

“Where’s the rest of the diary?”

“Back in the lounge room. Do you want to read it?”

“Spending an afternoon reading by the fire sounds like a good idea,” he said. “Can we fix the dryer up later?”

“Sure. Come on,” she said as they walked up the hallway. “Do you want another cup of tea? A glass of wine?”

“Yes to the latter. Though I suppose lunchtime is a little early to get started.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’ll be dark in a few hours.” She handed him the iron box with the first two sections of the diary in it. “The handwriting’s a bit difficult at first but you get used to it quickly.”

She left him in the lounge room, uncorked a bottle of wine and brought it back with two glasses.

“Cheers,” he said, as she handed him a glass.

“You too.” She watched him settle in his chair and start to read, spent a few moments in anticipation about the coming evening, then forgot everything as she was lost once more in Georgette’s world.

Sunday, 20th April 1794

Virgil is much improved. His colour is returning and it shall be less than a week I am sure before he is *****

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

******* would not meet my eye. He says it requires more than physical stamina: that it requires emotional and mental stamina also, and those strengths are not yet returned to him. I can only imagine how somebody like my father would respond to such a remark, for we are nearly starving. I’ve eaten nothing but ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

******* today sold the rest of our plate but for the barest of necessities. That means we have now sold virtually everything that we owned when we came here. The house is so empty and I despise looking around and feeling that I am a pauper. I suspect that Virgil feels the same way, yet he is always *****

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ****

******* for it is not so cold now and we need no fires at night. Summer will be upon us within a fortnight and while everything blooms outside I do not feel so desperate. We do not make love any more, Diary. Virgil has lost all interest in that. But we are still lovers of the soul. There is no-one but him for me. I’m sure that some women look

forward to the birth of their first child with less anxiety than I, but no other woman has Virgil for a husband. No other woman will be able to look at her babe and see the traces of Virgil’s gentle dignity in its face and hands. For that I am grateful. I do still love him very much.

Virgil is out of bed every day now, and often walks along the cliff-top. I will ask him once more to return to work before the baby is born. We simply cannot manage without it. I’m sure that it is not good for me to be so thin when the child is scarce six weeks away.

Friday 30th May, 1794

From where have I learned this quiet acceptance of horror? Is this how poor people understand the world?

That it is a cruel and brutal place from which they may expect nothing but sorrow?

Diary, one week ago I was made an orphan

and I knew it not. For a week, I went about my business, I scrubbed and cooked and cleaned and bathed and ate and drank and held my

husband’s hand, and I knew not that my parents were dead.

This morning, I received a letter with Hattie’s seal on it. It is the first I have had of her in a very long time. I took it into the parlour and relished the opening of it, for I anticipated some money, or some news of her imminent return to England. I am – I was so very aware of her as the only bridge between myself and my family. And yet, the letter expressed something so very different from what I had hoped. It wasn’t written by Hattie at all, but by her new husband Baron Thorsten Verhaiden:

Dear Mrs Marley

It is with the deepest regret and sympathy that I
must impart to you some very unwelcome news. Your
Aunt Harriet has this morning received word of the
death of her sister, your mother, and her husband at
Lyon. As you know, your father was an idealistic
man who believed in the highest principles of liberty
and justice. He and your mother were harbouring
some peasants who had deserted the army. These
deserters were old and infirm, and unfit to fight. An
informant to Robespierre discovered them, and all
were soon dispatched by guillotine, your parents
among them.

Harriet extends her love to you and apologises for
not writing in person, but she is inconsolable. We
now do not intend to return to England at any stage,
as the house on St James Square holds too many
memories of your mother for Hattie’s endurance. It is
to be sold forthwith.

With regret, T. VERHAIDEN

My hands shook as I put the letter aside. All through the past week, my mother and father were already cold in their graves and I knew it not. Surely impossible, yet it has happened. This is how things are now in France. Even the lowest classes, who were supposedly the beneficiaries of change, now must do as Robespierre orders or face the guillotine for being enemies of the Revolution. And now all my father’s property belongs to France and not to me, and nor will it ever. I am crushed below my grief, and cannot see a path beyond it. Writing, as always, helps a little. But it seems I cannot erase a certain scene from the Eye of my Mind, a scene which I, in fact, never witnessed. The scene does not involve Papa. My father, I am sure, would have been defiant until the last moment as he died for what he believed in. I rather wish he had believed so vehemently in me, but his support of the lower classes did not extend to marrying his daughter among them.

Rather, it is my mother I see, her hair shorn close to her head, in prison garb rather than one of her fine frocks. She is forced upon the bloody block, and I see in her eyes the kind of desperate fear we know from the eyes of hunted animals. Mama was afraid. She must have been afraid, for she knew she was to die. How am I to stop seeing her terrified eyes? For I know if I could stop, my pain would begin to ease. I have not told Virgil, and perhaps I will not for some time. I fear any kind of shock or emotional strain may retard the progress of his Recovery. So I must keep this pain inside me, accept it, allow it to disperse along my limbs and settle in the bones of my fingers. Of course, now that my parents are dead, it means I have no escape from poverty. I can not ***** *****

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

******* said he could do it if I were there. I am Horrified in anticipation of such an event, but I must agree. For if Virgil does not return to work soon, I fear that he will never return. So, in two days, I shall accompany Virgil as he fulfils Flood’s request for specimens, and somehow I shall survive it.

Saturday 14th June, 1794

Daylight is such a miracle, such a welcome balm. Nothing seems so very bad in daylight. Virgil has gone walking. I offered to join him but he preferred some time alone and so I sit here, instead, to recount last night’s dreadful details.

Once I had agreed to accompany Virgil about his work, he cheered immensely and said he was sure he could manage with me there. The burden of returning to his employment seemed vastly lifted and in the afternoon I saw him pick up his crystal canister of laudanum, and then very deliberately place it back beside the bed, as though to show me he was making an effort to stay in the real world.

Night fell around nine – he can only work in the darker hours – and he packed up a blanket for me and asked me once more if I was certain I wanted to come.

“Of course I am certain. If coming with you eases your burden, of course I shall come.”

“But, Gette,” here his voice dropped to a whisper,

“you must promise me you will not look upon the product of my labour.”

“I shall not. I shall sit quietly under a tree and listen to the sea.”

He reached out and touched my great belly, his long fingers twitching nervously. “I must be a madman forcing you to accompany me.”

“You are not a madman. You have been very ill and it’s merely a matter of prudence that you have somebody nearby. It will be no strain upon myself or upon my body to wait for you.”

So we left the house. It was a fresh, clear night, and soft moonlight lit our way to the abbey.

“I must see the Doctor, first,” Virgil said, hesitating near the entrance.

“Are you well enough?” I asked.

“Yes. Yes, I am well enough.” He was clearly distracted. “Wait exactly here. I shall not be more than a few moments.”

“As you wish.” I moved into the shelter of the corner of the abbey. It was a mild night, but I worry about the infant, especially as I seem to have so little fat upon me to keep the poor child warm. Virgil disappeared through the hatch and into the dark stairs. Only a few minutes passed before he returned with a lantern. He took my hand and led me around to the other side of the abbey. There we found a twowheeled cart.