The Midnight Witch (44 page)

24.

From the window of the bedroom that currently serves as his studio, Bram has a good view of the finer houses in Skimmerton. His mother offered little resistance to the idea of his using the room. She was so pleased to have him home again she would, he thinks now, have agreed to his commandeering the drawing room if he had only asked for it. His father had not been so accommodating.

“Thought you’d done with all that,” he’d said, seeing Bram wincing as he attempted to raise a paintbrush to easel height. “Would have thought you could put that arm to better use, now that the hospital has seen fit to send you back to us.”

The rifle bullet that found Bram’s shoulder had seen him spend the final months of the war in a ward full of similarly wounded soldiers. He counted himself fortunate. His injury had healed, leaving only a scar and some residual weakness and occasional pain. After the months he had endured in Africa, fighting disease and hunger as much as the enemy, watching his brothers in arms fall victim to the deadly Blackwater fever or malaria day after day, trudging through the swamps along the Rufiji River or baking beneath the equatorial sun alongside the Ugandan railway, he knew he had been lucky to come home at all.

“I’ve said I’ll come in to the steelworks with you, Father. I can enjoy my painting in my spare time.”

His father’s answer had been a disapproving grunt, but Bram has stuck to his word. For months he has traveled across town to the steel yard and spent his days in the office, carrying out his father’s instructions, familiarizing himself with the running of the works. And as soon as he is free he hurries home to his paints and his canvases and picks up wherever he left off, with whichever painting currently holds him spellbound. He has never felt so inspired, so in the grip of some artistic fever of creativity. It is as if, after touching the edge of oblivion, after the smell of death filled his nostrils and almost claimed him, he is reinvigorated with the desire, the
need
, to put what he has seen, what he has felt, what he has known, onto paper. To strive to capture the presence of those who were lost. To depict what they went through, and to show the strange land where they fought, suffered, and, some of them, died. He has been entirely taken up with his mission this past year and a half. And now it is done.

He turns back from the window and considers what he has achieved. The paintings stand leaning against every wall, stacked against one another, carefully wrapped and bound and ready for their journey down to London. So many images. So many faces.

But have I succeeded? Will others see what it is I have struggled to show? Or will they simply find figures? Compositions. Clever slants of light or depths of shadow, but nothing more. Nothing more.

Moving to the bedside table he picks up the letter he received from Jane the previous week. Reading her words he can hear her warm but harassed voice in his ear.

“… so you simply must stay with us when you come up for your exhibition. Mangan will be so very pleased to see you. He has not yet recovered his health entirely. The months he spent in that dreadful place weakened his lungs forever, I fear. Thank heavens darling Lilith was able to come to our rescue and secure him a place working on a farm in Somerset. You know, he took to the work! Can you imagine?”

Indeed, Bram can imagine. He can just see Mangan coming to grips with plowing fields or milking cows and then setting about telling everyone else how it should be done. The image makes him smile, but he knows the reason he reads and rereads Jane’s letter is for the pleasure of reading of Lilith. To hear news of her is to feel a tiny bit closer to her once more. He resolved, while lying wounded in the hospital in Nairobi, that if he made it home he would seek out Lilith. Go to her and tell her how he felt. Make her see that the gap between them was bridgeable, and that there was no one else he could ever envisage being with. He would convince her that somehow they would find their place in the world, together. The war has changed things. What stood in their way a few years earlier surely did not, could not, matter so much now. He would find her. He would speak with her. He would make her see.

But men make plans and the gods laugh. Perhaps it was the fever I suffered after I was wounded that gave me such a ridiculous view of how things might be.

He forces himself to read on, make himself face the bleak reality that the second page of Jane’s letter contains.

“… Charlotte is quite the darling of high society now and is in the newspaper on the arm of some duke or other nearly every day, it seems. Or course, Lilith was so very busy with her war work, doing so marvelously in the soup kitchens at St. Mary’s Convent. And now she is to be married. I think you met her husband-to-be, the Earl of Winchester? He was still a viscount back then, of course, but his father was killed quite recently, in an air raid. How people have suffered! Mangan seems to recall Lilith’s fiancé being at that rather grand ball you went to some years back, do you remember? You and Perry looked terribly dashing, and poor dear Mangan was barely let through the door, he looked such a fright! We saw the notice in the
Times.
So I suppose she will cease being Lady Lilith Montgomery and become Lady Lilith Harcourt instead. Oh, say you will stay with us at least until the week after your show finishes, so that Mangan may have plenty of time with you, do…”

Lady Lilith Harcourt. Louis. Of course. She was always going to marry Louis. She was always going to marry an earl. She was always going to marry a witch. Why wouldn’t she marry an earl?

Bram folds the letter and puts it in his jacket pocket. He is not quite ready to dispose of it yet. He will go to London. He will stay in the familiar muddle of the house in Bloomsbury and enjoy letting Jane fuss over him, and see the children, and spend time with Mangan. He will hold his exhibition, show his work to the world, and brace himself for its reaction. But he will not look for Lilith. He will not hold her hand and tell her what is in his heart. He will not.

He busies himself checking the packaging on his paintings, and marking them off against the list he has made, with the layout of the hang attached. As he does so, his eye is caught by a slim, unwrapped canvas standing in the corner of the room behind some works that are unfinished. He knows what it is. He knows what he will see if he chooses to look at it. Who he will see.

Cross with himself now, he strides over to the corner and drags the canvas from its hiding place. Without pausing, he takes the painting and carries it to the empty easel, where he sets it up and stands back, mouth grim, determined to face his fears. Lilith’s enigmatic face gazes back at him. The artist in him is struck at once by the quality of the work. It is one of his best, and he knows it. The man in him is struck by the beauty of the subject.

Dear God, Lilith. What spell have you cast over me?

In his heart he knows that he did not imagine her love for him. That it is more than likely duty and loyalty and fear that have made her abandon him and turn away from the possibility of a life together. And he believes, if he allows himself to do so, that were he to go to her, to take her hands in his, to meet her soulful gaze, and to tell her he still loves her, he still wants her, he would see in those glorious, wild green eyes that she still loves him, too. There and then, he resolves to try one more time. To risk the pain of possible rejection. To risk humiliation. To risk falling again into that kind of madness into which he descended those lonely years ago when she spurned him.

We
could
be together. We
could
find a way. If she still loves me. For after all, surely there is no greater magic than love.

*   *   *

It is a warm April night and the window is open. Sitting on the cream sofa in my bedroom, my eyes closed, I can hear the chimes of Big Ben announcing the hour. Nine o’clock. Louis will be here any minute to take me to Charlotte’s fancy-dress party at the club she has booked for the purpose in Kensington. I would rather not go. Not only because of my natural dislike of such large, rowdy gatherings but because there are so many spirits whispering in my ear tonight. Some of them seem so lost. Others have pressing matters they wish to discuss with me. How can I leave them to go off and indulge in hours of frivolous society? Why do I allow myself to be persuaded to attend such things? I know the answer is Louis. He loves me to go, so that he may show me off, as if I were some sort of rare wild animal he has managed to trap. And, of course, there are Charlotte’s feelings to consider this time. This party is one of her fund-raising events. We have all bought our “tickets” to attend, and the money will go to one or another of the several good causes of which she now finds herself patron. She would be hurt if I did not attend.

There is a knock on my door and I bid Terence enter.

“Lord Harcourt is here, my lady.”

I take a slow breath and then release it, mentally sending the spirits on their way. I do not want any of them thinking they might accompany me to the party.

“Thank you, Terence. Would you help me with this, please?” He hurries forward and takes my ceremonial cape from me. With some difficulty, for I am taller than he is, he succeeds in draping it around my shoulders and helping me to fasten the ornate clasp at the front. It is a rare treat for me to be able to go out in public dressed as a witch. The fashion for fancy-dress parties has allowed me this small pleasure. Beneath my cloak I am wearing a favorite velvet gown. There is a medieval look to it, with long sleeves looped over a finger on each hand, and a low-slung gold-stitched belt sitting on my hips. Earlier I rinsed my hair in lemon juice so that it shines as it swings, the blunt cut stopping level with my jaw. I have kohled my eyes, and chosen my favorite dragonfly tiara, so that I do indeed resemble an exotic witch from an ancient land.

Downstairs, when Louis sees me he smiles broadly.

“What a wonderful costume, Lily. It suits you terribly well. Why is that, I wonder?” He kisses my hand and leans forward to touch my cheek. He is dressed as a vampire count, though he has decided against donning fangs. He still manages to look dangerous somehow and, disconcertingly, more like his father.

“Louis. I hope you aren’t planning on biting unwary maidens tonight.”

“Even Charlotte’s parties don’t get quite that wild.”

“Don’t be so certain.”

Louis’s chauffeur has the motorcar outside and we are sped the short distance through the nighttime streets. People are out enjoying the pleasant evening. Couples stroll arm-in-arm along the river. A few horse-drawn cabs still ply their trade, retaining something of a romantic appeal in these fast-moving modern times. Within minutes we are at the party venue and are escorted inside by a doorman liveried as some sort of Arabian pirate.

Louis whispers to me as similarly attired maids take our coats. “Oh dear, was there some theme or other we were supposed to know about, d’you think?”

I shake my head. “No, don’t worry. I’ve already spotted two Marie Antoinettes and a Robin Hood.”

The party is an uneasy marriage of old and new trends. The club itself has been recently refurbished and is a wonderful example of Art Deco, from its newly built facade, through the arrangement of the interior, to the smallest detail of the decor. The reception area has as its central focus a wonderful mural of angular shapes arranged in a starburst. Colors are clear, lines are crisp, with the thinnest strips and lines of gilt highlighting the geometric designs and shapes.

Charlotte’s choice of fancy dress, however, hopes to appeal to the partygoers’ fondness for the elaborate prewar balls we used to attend. There was always fierce competition in some quarters to win the prize for the best costume. Rivalries ran for several seasons, with outfits becoming ever more elaborate and outlandish.

“Lilith, darling!” Charlotte, exquisitely turned out as Titania, complete with gossamer wings, floats over to us and embraces me in a flurry of chiffon and seed pearls. “You look simply divine, as always. Oh, Louis, it is beastly of you to look so heart-stopping when you are firmly engaged to the most beautiful woman in the room. What
are
the rest of us supposed to do?”

She leads us into the throng, through the foyer, and into the main room that is not quite a ballroom, more a modern dance hall, with a bar to one side. There is a small stage, where an energetic jazz band is playing loudly. Waiters in vaguely Middle Eastern costume of several centuries ago weave through the merrymakers, silver trays of mysterious cocktails and glasses of champagne held perilously high. Already I wish I were back in the calm of my own apartment. I do not feel like dancing or engaging in the idle chatter I am required to find interesting.

Louis senses my resistance and sends to me a little spell to evoke the smell of roses. As he had anticipated, it makes me smile.

“That’s better. Can’t have you glum so close to our wedding day. People will think you’ve gone off the idea of marrying me,” he says, pulling me through the melee. “Come on, let’s dance.”

“But, Louis, I don’t know this new one. I’ve no idea…”

“Nor have I. Let’s make it up as we go along, shall we?”

He holds me tightly, picking up the upbeat tempo, expertly guiding me through the other dancers as we invent something between a foxtrot and an as yet undiscovered sequence of steps. I can tell he is enjoying himself, and I don’t wish to spoil his evening. All around us the young and the not so young are dancing, laughing, and drinking with something akin to desperation. It is as if their very lives depend on their having a good time. As if the only way they can banish all the pain, all the loss, all the sadness of the war, is to fill each moment with wild enjoyment. But that very desperation is itself a kind of loss, as if they have misplaced the spontaneous, sincere happiness of old and replaced it with something contrived. Something that is only on the surface. Something pitiful.

We pass the next two hours dancing, drinking, and exchanging words we can barely hear above the din of the party with a curious assortment of historical and legendary figures. The evening becomes ever more surreal, as a gigantic rabbit attempts the Charleston with Queen Elizabeth I, and at one point three Julius Caesars are spotted playing a game of poker on the bar. I find myself withdrawing, overcome by a melancholy brought on by the sight of such determination to have fun. And part of the frenzy, it seems to me, is to distract us from noticing what is surely the most poignant difference between this party and a similar event that might have been held six years ago: the room contains easily three times as many women as men. And among those men who have survived to be here, plenty carry visible wounds bequeathed to them by a dying bomb or a bullet. One can only guess at how many endure scars of the invisible kind.