The Journal of Dora Damage (15 page)

She was, she explained, a founder member of the Society, which reported to the British and Foreign Anti-Slavery Society. She
told me, with increasing rapidity and shortness of breath, of her initiation into the abolitionist movement as she entered
womanhood, when she felt the burden of frivolous society being lifted from her slender shoulders and replaced by a meaningful
crusade, which would weigh heavily but not crush her.

I finally accepted that I did not have to be poised with something interesting to say. As I listened I let my gaze roam around
the room again, and this time I saw a framed handbill, depicting a figure not unlike the boy in the hall, only kneeling and
chained. I could just make out the inscription, ‘Am I not a man and brother?’

‘I will tell you,’ she went on, ‘of the horrors our dusky brethren still have to suffer in America.’ And she did, and she
was right in describing them as horrors. Yet I could not help thinking of our own workhouses, which sounded similar enough:
wives taken from husbands, and children from mothers, and sickness and hunger and those girls whose bodies were found and
everyone knew it was the master who had done it, but no one could say anything, because they were nothing more than his plaything,
as they all were, even the little ones. So as she sounded forth about whips and bodies on trees, I couldn’t see much difference,
although I am sure she could have found me one. I was relieved when she cut to the purpose of her summoning me to her, which
I feared she had started to lose sight of, as I was unable to fathom it all this time. I was even starting to think that perhaps
this was what ladies of her station did for pleasure: call for some hapless poor woman, and torment her with ghastly stories
of what people of our colour did to people of other colours in far-off lands.

‘One of the Society’s main activities, aside from our endless campaigns for abolition, is sponsorship. Each year we raise
enough money to assist a handful of fugitives from slavery in their flight, and their establishment in a new way of life.
It is hard to live as a free man even in a state where slavery has been outlawed. It is safer in Boston than in Virginia;
it is safer in Canada than Boston, yet it is safer still in Europe. The lucky ones find safe passage here, and here we can
help them.

‘There is one slave in whom we have been particularly interested. Lady Grenville was visiting friends in Virginia last year,
and was so struck by a certain young man that she raised a large enough sum, from teas and bazaars, to purchase him from his
owner. Lady Grenville has since, sadly, died, and it has fallen to me to deal with the matter. We placed him as a porter for
Messrs Farmer and Rogers in Regent-street, but they have unfortunately removed him, due to tardy habits. He deserves a second
chance. I have been hoping to procure him a more stable position, in a more intimate, family business, to earn himself a living,
and ultimately relieve his dependence on the Society.

‘The inevitable fact is, that he is a man. We were all rather startled, my dear, when we discovered that our little bookbinder’s
is run by a woman, but . . .’

‘. . . you can only have half of what you desire.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Oh, I beg your pardon, madam. It just slipped out. It’s something my mother said. “You can only have half of what you desire”.
Not meaning you, that is, but . . .’

‘I see. Yes.’ She seemed to weigh this for a while. ‘A peculiar sentiment. But yes, in this situation, one can only have half
of what one desires.’ She nodded slowly. ‘I see you are not of the ordinary sort, so I imagine you will be capable of managing
this peculiar servant.’

What could I possibly have said to her? Did I not have more than enough on my plate than have to mother a vagrant fugitive
slave as well? What of the millions of poor souls on my doorstep in Lambeth who also deserved a spot of employment? And what
if the work were to dry up? Jack and I could manage at present, but what of the day when my efficiency had increased so much
that I could bind a book of twice the beauty in half the time? It would not have occurred to Lady Knightley to ask if this
suited my own ambitions for the business, or whether trade was healthy enough to sustain another employee.

And then she swept away all my fears and appealed directly to my lowest nature, which, due to desperation, was very receptive.
‘The Society will provide you with a substantial subsidy. We do not expect you to cover the costs of training and settling
from your own pocket. You will receive an initial sum of five pounds, followed by twenty-five shillings a month.’

Five pounds! I could not refuse. I knew I had little choice anyway, but the money swept away my doubts. A rudimentary plan
was already forming in my head: the new clients to approach, the efficiency of a renewed triumvirate in the workshop. Besides,
he might have been a man, but he was as desperate as I was, and would no doubt be grateful even to do women’s work: I could
hand over to him all the folding and sewing.

‘You will keep a tally of any damage to property or goods, and we will cover this too.’ Oh my, I thought, and the doubts flooded
in again. Had I agreed to take on a wild animal? ‘I said you were not of the ordinary sort. By doing this for me you are proving
to be altogether rather remarkable.’ I did not feel it. I only felt foolish. But five pounds, Dora, and a guaranteed turnover
of twenty-five shillings a month!

At some point she must have finished talking, for she rang a little bell which sat on a silver platter by her chaise, and
looked at me with a fancy smile, and we waited in a small silence, before Buncie appeared at the door. I rose and made to
leave.

‘And Mrs Damage.’

‘Yes, madam?’

‘Don’t mention this to Jossie. He will surely try to intervene. I cannot tolerate another lecture about slavery.’ She closed
her mouth and looked away.

‘Oh.’ I paused, and heard Buncie huff behind me, so as only I, and not her mistress, could hear. I thought of the file he
held on me. ‘But he . . . he . . . knows all about what happens in the workshop.’

‘Well, he doesn’t have to know this, does he?’ she snapped.

And so Buncie led me out into Berkeley-square again, and I ran home, intrigued by yet one more pact with another strange,
luxurious person, suspended in her magical chamber, in a city full of secrets.

Chapter Nine

Miss Polly had a dolly who was sick, sick, sick,
So she called for the doctor to come quick, quick, quick.

The doctor came with his bag and his hat,
And he knocked at the door with a rat-a-tat-tat.

He looked at the dolly and he shook his head.

He said, ‘Miss Polly, put her straight to bed.’

He wrote on a paper for a pill, pill, pill.

‘I’ll be back in the morning with my bill, bill, bill.’

D
espite the curious turn of events and the promise of a new worker, the rigours of the daily round ground the memory of my
visit to Lady Knightley out of my mind almost as soon as I returned. I worked hard in the workshop until late in the afternoon
when Peter awoke and began crying for me. Every cavity of his face was swollen: the folds of skin under his eyes looked like
bags of blood, dark like kidneys on the butcher’s block, and his mouth was blistered and puckered.

‘I had a b – b – bad d – d – dream.’

‘Did you, my love? What was it that so scared you?’

‘I, I, I, I’m not scared. Sit me by the fire.’

I settled him with a blanket and a cup of tea, before returning to the workshop to finish the botanical gold-tooling on the
twelfth book. I was glad I had developed the motif of the ivy-wreath, for there had never again been a wedding ring on all
those roaming hands. Jack was forwarding
Cults, Symbols and Attributes of Venus
, and Lucinda was rearranging the leather off-cuts into pretty shapes on the floor.

The only interruption I expected was Peter, with some complaint or other. So when we heard the sound of hooves and wheels
stop outside the very door of the workshop, we were caught unawares. Jack opened the door to reveal a shiny black brougham,
with bright red wheels, gold lamps, and a coat of arms on the side, pulled by a single chocolate-bay horse, and I was so startled
when I saw who descended from it that I had to look away. And when I did, I saw Mrs Eeles, and Patience Bishop, both with
arms folded and eyes watching, and behind them Nora Negley peered amongst twitching curtains. Some of the children had even
stopped their playing to watch.

He was an even more wonderful sight than his carriage, I will admit. Quite the pink of fashion, as he stood there in his fine
black frock coat, with his red cravat, gold eye-glasses, and heavy gold watch-chain across his vest. He held a silver cane,
topped with a large round ball of red glass, like the largest ruby I’d ever seen. I almost forgot I was in my smock, with
not a moment to change into my good cap and collars. At least I had my old ones on; I was not caught bare-headed by Sir Jocelyn
Knightley.

He reached for my hand, and I proffered it, and he kissed it, even though it was stained with dye and gnarled with dried glue,
and I bid him come in.

‘Why, what a neat, well-kept workshop you run, Mrs Damage. And ah, that succulent, gamey smell you get in only the finest
bookbinders’ establishments.’ It was the politest way yet anyone had ever described it.

‘Good afternoon, Jack,’ he said, before I had a chance to introduce him.

Jack stopped what he was doing and came to the side of the bench, made a little bow and said, ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ before
going back to his work.

‘And you must be little Lucinda,’ he said to my daughter, and ruffled her hair. She scowled at him. Then, from beneath his
frock coat, he produced something that looked remarkably like a tiny baby. He held it by the head, and its body hung limply
from it, its limbs dangling independently, so I surmised it could not be a doll. I gasped in shock, and Lucinda screamed,
‘Mama!’ and ran to my skirts where she buried her face.

‘What’s the matter, Lucinda? Don’t you like your new friend? If I am not mistaken, she is in need of some care.’ He held it
closer to her, and I could see the sweetest porcelain face looking at her, with rosebud lips and feathery eyelashes, and yellow
curls painted over the smooth scalp. But if this really were a doll, I could not fathom why its body was not stiff, not all
one with the head. Then he held it upright, both hands encircling its chest, and squeezed. A noise like the in-breath of a
victim of pulmonary disease ensued, followed by the sound of a goat bleating: a high-pitched, ‘Maaa-maaa’.

‘Fancy that! She even calls you Mama. Here. What are you going to call her?’

I took the doll from Sir Jocelyn and crouched down to Lucinda. It astounded me: I had never seen a doll that was pretending
to be a baby. All the dolls I had ever seen were dressed as miniature ladies, only even stiffer. I turned this one over in
awe and lifted her cambric gown with as much care as if she had been a real baby: she had jointed limbs and a flexible chest
that seemed to be made from india-rubber, and real little boots on her feet, tied with a green ribbon.

‘Maaa-maaa,’ she moaned back at me.

I couldn’t help but giggle. ‘Oh, my! Isn’t she quite the little one!’ I tried to press her into Lucinda’s hands, but she refused,
preferring to peek over my upper arm. ‘I fear Lucinda wishes to be her elder sister, and not her mother.’

‘Which seems to suit you perfectly, madam,’ Sir Jocelyn remarked, and I blushed in an unseemly fashion for I knew he was teasing
me.

‘Will you show me around, Mrs Damage?’ Sir Jocelyn said. He had started to stroll around the workshop, so I stood up quickly,
and laid the doll gently on the bench, as if rough handling might hurt her.

‘I’ll leave here for you, if ever you feel like it,’ I whispered, and indeed, as I turned to follow his roaming frame, I saw,
out of the corner of my eye, that Lucinda had stealthily taken the thing off the bench and was investigating it at closer
quarters.

I barely reached his shoulders, for he was a big man, yet he moved around the benches with perfect balance and agility, and
I knew from the flashing and glittering of his eyes that he was taking in every detail, down to the absence of my Peter.

‘I congratulate you on the cleanliness of the place, Mrs Damage. I imagine that is not as easy task in Lambeth. Sometimes
I loathe city life and yearn for the open veld. Or if it must be a city, make it Paris. I was born there; my father was French,
did you not know?’

‘No, I did not. Is Knightley a French name?’

‘His name was Chevalier. I was orphaned young, and brought up in Worcestershire by my aunt, who decided to anglicise it. So,
Knightley. But Sir Jocelyn Chevalier has a ring to it, does it not? You have been to Paris, Mrs Damage?’

I shook my head.

‘The air affords wondrous clarity; the city rings pure. It is to the hideous opacity of London as heaven is to hell. I resent
the return to London. I notice its stench most when I do.’

It was as if I mattered to him, and I knew I was succumbing to his derring-do and dash.

He picked up one of the books on the table, and ran his finger over the ivy-leaf wreath. ‘
Hedera helix
. Not the gentlest of plants. A hostile assailant, with quick, hardy runners; it deprives its host of sunlight, with a resultant
loss of vigour, and eventual demise. I should recommend it to the Foreign Office as an emblem for the construction of Her
Majesty’s Empire.’

‘You are too harsh on the plant, Sir Jocelyn,’ I said. ‘Pray tell me, what does not injure that to which it clings?’

‘A very good question, Mrs Damage. I see you are no stranger to the philosophies of love.’ He pretended to ponder, as we shared
the joke. ‘Woodbine,’ he finally answered, with mock triumph, and returned to the ivy wreath. ‘Your tooling is excellent,’
he said. ‘Strange to think we find such beauty in the posthumous scarification and gilding of an animal’s hide. Like a tattoo,
on dead skin.’ Then he ceased his musing, seized one of my hands, and turned it over to stroke the palm, like a fortune-teller
at a fair. ‘Do these delicate hands really do all this hard work?’

I nodded, and he started to chuckle.

‘Why are you laughing?’ I asked, slightly indignant.

‘Why, Mistress Binder? I will tell you why. Because you make me happy. And why do you make me happy? Because of your ingenuity,
and your creativity, and your bravery.’ He waited before delivering each attribute to me, like a gift on platter. ‘Ah, Mrs
Damage. You delight me. You are the fresh air we need in this stale old business. These are sumptuous, supple bindings, for
men like me, who do not wish simply to read and shelve our books.’ Then he added casually, ‘Did you enjoy the
Decameron
?’

‘Yes, thank you, sir.’

‘Translated by John Florio, 1620. It’s about time someone did a more modern version. With all one hundred stories. I pity
poor Alibech, whose tale of putting the devil back into hell gets left out every time. Possibly I should . . . why, there’s
a capital idea! You see, Mrs Damage, what purpose science without its application to human existence? On my travels through
the Orient I have gained wisdom of the sensual side of human nature, which has informed and transformed my scientific study,
such that my purpose is now the liberation of our oh-so-corseted society from the restraints of decency and prudery as an
urgent matter of health and well-being. Is this not a far greater, and more necessary, import to this country than tea or
sugar or pineapples? The sacred texts of the East, along with, of course, the buried classics of Greece and Rome – buried
by priggish translations and expurgated editions, I mean – and more recent works such as the
Decameron
: these are works which captivate, and which liberate, and no, that is not a semantic impossibility, and it is what England
needs. Our literature is chaste and ailing, because we as a society are chaste, and ailing.’ Here he leaned conspiratorially
towards me, and said in a stage whisper, ‘And were not your husband’s bindings terribly chaste, Mrs Damage, and is not he
ailing?’

‘Chaste, Sir Jocelyn?’

‘I knew his work, of old. It was not his fault; he, and everybody else it seems, was only operating within a tradition that
exalts the terribly dull, the ineffably boring, the tediously prudish. But you: your bindings are as beautiful, as sensual,
as arousing, as full of vigour as . . . well . . . as
you
are, Mrs Damage.’

I mewed involuntarily, and quickly made a show of looking at Lucinda’s doll.

‘What are you going to call her, Lucinda?’ I said, hoping my voice did not quiver.

‘Mossie,’ she said.

‘Mossie. How lovely.’

Oh, but he was dangerous, and I was not immune to his charms, for all that I could see through them. There would be too many
ladies who loved him already, too many dandies scouting the style of his coat, the angle of his hat, and his fashionable turned-down
collar. And even as I considered the demise of the stock and high-pointed collar that would surely become general because
of Sir Jocelyn’s example, I was sensible enough to know that even my new status as Mistress Binder did not justify the way
in which he spoke to me, and so immured was I by the boundaries of class, age, and education, that I was determined that my
head would remain resolutely level in my transactions with this rogue.

Which was just as well, for, having so skilfully unlocked me, he cut to the purpose of his visit.

‘Lucinda.’ The bolts slammed shut again inside me. ‘At the risk of indiscretion, Mrs Damage, am I right in thinking that Lucinda
suffers from Epilepsie?’

My eyes widened in alarm, and I reached for Lucinda and she for me in the same moment. Jack put down his tools.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Does she have convulsions? The Morbids? Falling Sickness? Oh, but I did not wish to alarm you in the slightest. I applaud
your wish to exclude the authorities. I am not an advocate of institutions. Some may call me a radical, and they may well
be correct, but I can safely say that not all doctors wish to lock people up. May I ask Lucinda a few questions?’

There was terror in Lucinda’s eyes, but the nobleman knelt down to be at her level. He was as disarming of the daughter as
of her mother; he was gentle and teasing, and soon had her giggling. He smiled at her, and she smiled back; and despite myself,
my cold loathing of doctors melted somewhat.

‘Now, Lucinda. A little frog came to my window the other night, to tell me that his dear old friend Lucinda sometimes comes
over a bit peculiar. Is he correct?’

She chortled and exclaimed, ‘A frog!’ Then she nodded.

‘The frog was unable to tell me what happens to her when she feels like this. Can
you
explain it to me?’

‘Yes. I feel strange.’

‘Strange. Anything else?

‘And I feel like lying down.’

‘Lying down. And do you?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Anything else? Does your head hurt?’

‘Yes, and my eyes too, cos sometimes it’s like candles are flickering in them, but they’re not really there, cos we never
have so many candles lit at once, and then sometimes I been sick, and then I wake up and there’s a fog inside me although
I’m better.’

He listened intently, all the while crouching down at her level. He held his finger up. ‘Do you see my finger? I’d like you
to blow on it as if it were a candle,
but
, you are not trying to blow the candle out. You must blow slowly, as if you want the candle flame to
lie down
. Now, inspire deeply, and take care that your shoulders don’t rise. Now breathe out, and make that flame lie down.’ She obeyed.
‘Well done, Lucinda. What a good girl you are.’ He ruffled her hair with his hand. ‘Whenever you feel funny, I want you to
ask your mother to hold her finger up, and blow on her candle.

‘Now, observe. This peculiar contraption is called a pair of callipers. They are like the pincers of a crab.’ He showed her
how they opened and closed. ‘But look, they are a most discerning crab. They will not snap at pretty little girls. They may
tickle, but they are friendly callipers.’ She let him measure her head, and then he felt her head all over with his bare hands,
and she watched as he made some notes in a tatty little book in need of a re-bind. He looked in her mouth, her ears and her
eyes, and wrapped a tape-measure around her skull, and her neck, and her chest. He listened to her heartbeat, he tested her
reflexes.