The Muse (55 page)

TRISTAN visited her faithfully every day.

“Imogene, I’ve had a letter from Byron.  I told him you’ve been…ill, and he is very worried about his dear
cousin
,” he said the last teasingly, hoping to get some sort of reaction out of her.  Imogene responded with a half-smile, clearly indulging her friend the best that she was able, which wasn’t much at all.  “He sent something, for you to have personally.  I think you’ll like it.”  Tristan placed a soft, bound, printed leaflet in her lap.  It’s a new story from the Turkish tales he’s writing now called, ‘The Bride of Abydos.’
He’s giving it to you before it’s even been published.  It’s about a princess and her travails in love.  He honors you specifically, Imogene.”  Tristan pointed to the page, showing her.  “See here?  The heroine is named Zulekia.”

Zuly lifted her head from where she lay at Imogene’s feet and looked up quizzically when her name was spoken.

“Zulekia?” she mumbled, trying to focus on his words.  “Why would he name her after the dog?”

“He was taken with the name, remember?  I believe he did it to show his admiration for you, Imogene.  Byron thinks you are magnificent.”

“Oh, that is so like him.  Byron is a master at flattery,” she said dazedly.

“One of his many talents.  Would you like me to read it to you?” Tristan asked her gently.

“Yes, please.  That would be most welcome.”  She attempted to show an interest for Tristan’s sake, but he wasn’t fooled.  “I cannot read for myself—trouble concentrating.”

“Very well, then.”  Tristan began to read aloud to her, his voice resonating with suppressed emotion and worry for his most dearly loved friend.

…The might — the majesty of Loveliness?

Such was Zuleika — such around her shone

The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone;

The light of love, the purity of grace,

The mind, the Music breathing from her face,

The heart whose softness harmonised the whole —

And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!

He read for a few moments before glancing over to find she had fallen asleep again.  Sighing in resignation, he left the story for her on a side table.

As her friend, Tristan knew what needed to be done.  Feeling anger at her pathetic condition, he left the solarium to seek out Graham, bracing himself for the confrontation he knew would be forthcoming.

“Your wife is overdosed with opium.  How can you allow such a thing to happen to her?”

“Not you, too.  Please…she is not able to bear the pain of the loss, Tristan.  Surely you can see that.”

“I see nothing of the sort other than a woman completely at the mercy of the person who should be helping her.  It disgusts me.  You—the great watcher and onlooker.  When you look in her eyes do you see anything you know?   Because I do not!  She is completely drowned in drug!”

“How dare you accuse me of hurting her.  I am protecting her!”

“Graham, surely you can understand she will have to face her loss eventually.  I doubt she even remembers the tragedy.”

“She doesn’t remember because her mind cannot bear the pain of remembrance, you daft idiot!”

“Fine, I’ll accept that bit, but the opium has to stop, Graham.  You know she cannot live like this.  She would hate the state she’s in if she were coherent of the fact.  She would hate you for allowing it to happen to her.”  Tristan saw the painful wince from Graham at his words, but he wasn’t finished.  “Start cutting her dose and get her off that goddamn opium!  Colin has spoken to me and is ready to bring in Brancroft if need be, and I support him wholeheartedly.”

Graham snapped in rage.  “Get out!  Get the hell out of my house, you miserable fucking traitor, before I hurt you!”

Tristan walked to the door, but turned back for one last word.  He spoke gently this time.  “I know you love her, Graham.  I love her, too.  We all love her.  Remember that beautiful woman who captured your heart?  She is lost right now and needs your help in finding her way back.  Help her, Graham.  Help her to come back to the world of the living, with all of its painful realities.  It will hurt her, I know, but it is the only way.”

AFTER Tristan left him, Graham brooded alone in his study.

He sat there and looked out at the sweeping beauty of all he had been given and mourned.  For the loss of the babies, for Imogene, for himself, for his parents, and for the paths of fate that could not be changed no matter how badly you wished for things to be other than they were.  The fact remained—he knew his wife.  She was strong, resilient, tireless in her determination to be independent.  She would want to be well, not veiled in her delirium. 
That is not my beloved
chérie
.

He knew the words of Colin and Tristan were correct and true.  The time had come to make a change or he
would
lose her forever.

He cut the opium dosage for Imogene that night, decreasing the amount steadily as the days passed.

There wasn’t a great deal of change in her at first though, other than a general irritability, which was telling really, for Imogene was already fighting her way back to him.

And then one night he dreamt a new dream.

…
A lovely country scene, the summer day, very fine.  His parents were out of doors, under a tree.  Mother had such a look of happiness on her face.  Father looked upon her with love and admiration.  She turned and spoke to him directly, ‘Graham my dear, Mamma has something important to tell you.  Graham, listen carefully to me.  It is very important that you tell her.  Tell Imogene that Father and I have them.  The babies.  They are here with us, and they are happy and loved.  Tell her, my dear son, so that it will ease her heart.  Do not forget.  Tell her, Graham.

“Mother, wait!  Do not leave!  Help me…please!”

Graham wakened instantly, bolting upright in the bed, guessing correctly he had shouted the words out loud.  The dream he had just experienced so vividly, struck him immobile.

Overwrought, his heartache and fear for Imogene so great, it all became too much to contain for even a second longer. In that moment, he felt a great rending of his heart as it tore apart and everything came pouring out.  A great splitting sob came from somewhere inside him, accompanied by fear, and anguish, and loss.  It couldn’t be kept in, and once allowed to breech the surface, came gushing out in a flood.

He woke Imogene with his shouting, and then his tormented sobs.

“I am so sorry for everything,
chér
—”

“—I am here now, Graham.  I will help you and you will help me…”  Graham felt her arms come around him as she said her gentle words.

“Oh, Imogene.  Have you come back to me?” he sobbed, clutching onto her like a drowning man.  “It will be all right.  Everything will be all right.  I know it will be all right now,” he repeated.  “You have come back to me.  Imogene, never leave me again!  I cannot be without you; the pain was—it nearly killed me.  You were lost and I could not reach you.  I was so afraid.” He struggled to pour his profound agony out to her in great gasping breaths.

She put her mouth to his ear and whispered, “I was confused at first, but then enlightened when I heard you in so much pain.”  Reaching for his hair, she tucked it behind his ears, as she had always liked to do.  It felt like the most wonderful gift to feel her fingers trailing in his hair again.  “Graham, somehow you released me from the shroud of terrible fog I’ve been in.  I am so sorry—”

“No, Imogene.”  He pressed two fingers to her lips to stop her apology.  “You should not be sorry for anything.  I love you so much.”  He kissed the top of her head and breathed in the scent of her hair, relishing the sound of her voice and knowing she was back with him in spirit as well as body.

But she wasn’t finished.

“The sounds coming from you pierced through that shroud of terrible fog and shattered it like glass, Graham.  And once I was free from the burden, nothing could have kept me from trying to help you, because I love
you
so much.”

He didn’t really have any words equal to what she’s just told him.

So he switched to French and just held onto her, telling her again and again how much he loved her, and that he would love and need her always.

And in facing their great loss together, that first step toward healing was also taken together.

THE next morning, Graham made his way to his brother first, and then to his friend.  He begged their pardons, and also thanked them for showing him the way back for Imogene.  Humbled by their perception and caring, he told them both he would forever be indebted.

Graham made an additional request of Tristan—a favour.

Tristan agreed to carry it out.

And Graham prayed that it was the right thing to do.

Let not the dark thee cumber;

What through the moon does slumber;

The stars of the night

Will lend thee their light,

Like tapers clear without number.

Robert Herrick   ~ The Night-Piece to Julia, 1648

IT
was a first step.  The clouds did not bow to the sunshine.  Birds did not sing nor did rainbows appear in celebration.  Things did not magically return to the way they were before.  Imogene remembered now, but was by no means finished with her grief.  Both were changed by their experience and would have to live with it.  Their loss was a part of them now.

Graham was patient and careful.  He didn’t want to remind her unduly of the loss of the babies, so it was with the best of intentions that he made the decision to destroy the portrait of Imogene sleeping in the chair.

He would later recall i
t was almost as if she had a sixth-sense about that portrait.  Because she caught him in the act, red-handed.

“What have you there?” Imogene demanded as she passed him in the hall.

“Nothing, just a painting.”

“Is that my sleeping portrait?  Graham?  Why are you trying to hide it?” she wailed.  “You keep things from me.  Why do you do that?”

“No, Imogene.”

“Give it to me.  It is a painting of me.  I demand you give it to me!”

Graham hung his head.  “I don’t want it to hurt you, and thought to destroy it so you wouldn’t have to look at it and remember.”

“No!” she gasped.  “I
want
to keep it.  I’ll not have it destroyed.  It is the only image I have of them.  You see, when I look at that painting, I know they are safe inside me…alive and well.”  She knelt down on the floor in front of the canvas.  Reaching out a trembling hand, she traced over her shawl, draped strategically to hide the swell of her belly.  “My shawl covers them.  I am their mother,” she whispered.  “Can you understand?”

“I am so sorry,
chérie
.  I didn’t know what to do with it…or what you wanted.”  He reached for her, pulling her up into his arms, breathing in the glorious scent of honeysuckle.  “Forgive me?”

She nodded against him.  “Ask me next time.  I want it hung in the gallery,” she responded determinedly. “Not for the image of me, but for them.  Our children must take their place in the family history.  It is what I want.”

“As you wish,
chérie
,” he whispered, still holding onto her tightly.

“WHERE is my shawl?  Someone has taken it and I want it back.  Damn you, Hester, find it for me!” Imogene shouted at her maid.

“I have not seen it, my lady, for some time,” Hester said meekly, her head bowed.

Imogene felt irrational anger boil inside her because she knew Hester wasn’t telling her the whole truth.

Graham must have heard her shouting because he burst into her rooms and stepped between them.  “Imogene, calm yourself.”  He gripped her by the arms and gave her a shake.  “Hester, apologies, she doesn’t mean it.  You are excused.”  The traumatized maid fled the room in tears, and Imogene felt a pang of guilt.  She would have to make her apologies to Hester later.

“I want my shawl…” she whimpered, crumpling to the floor in defeat.  Not really wanting to know, but needing to hear, she asked, “What happened to it?”

Pain flickered across his face.  “It is gone now.  I cannot get it for you.”

“Are you ever going to tell me, Graham?”

He did not speak.

“No?”  She turned her back to him from where she still sat on the floor.  “Get out then, for I cannot look upon you, knowing what your eyes have seen and that you will not say.”

The silence of the room engulfed them both.  It seemed like hours went by.  Perhaps they did, before Graham spoke.  “I…I will tell you,
chérie
.  Even as much as I know the words will flay you, I’ll do it because you wish it.  Would that I could take your pain away for you.”

“No one can do so for another.  Give me the respect of allowing me to own my own pain.  Stop trying to shield me—I hate it!”

Graham sucked in a great pull of air at her harsh words.  She knew she was being cruel but she couldn’t help saying what she truly felt.  Imogene had to hear it all, every excruciating word, and Graham was the only one who could tell her.

“I—I wrapped them in your shawl.  Held them in my arms, swathed in the shawl of their mother, and loved them for the hour they lived.  I told them all about you.  Your beauty, of how much you looked forward to being their mother; how you loved them, and how sad you would be to miss that experience.  I told them how we met, of how you looked the first time I saw you.  That you are an expert rider and an excellent shot, competitive at games.  That you laugh at little things…and love to tease.  That you have the kindest heart and so much love to give.”

She could tell he was having to force down his emotions in order to speak.  “You see, I wanted them to have something of yours to enfold them, so they could sleep in your embrace, in a way.  It is what I thought to do at the time.  Was I right to do that,
chérie
?”

“Yes.”

She still didn’t face him.  Not because she was angry, but because she couldn’t stand to see the pain he bore.  She did not credit his grief as she should have done.  It was wrong of her—he was hurting too.

“You were right, Graham.  Th—thank you.”  Imogene felt like she was out of her body, looking down on herself sitting on the floor, like she could just float away with only the slightest bit of effort.  “Can you…can you tell me all of it?” she asked, much more gently.

“Our daughter was born first.  She had dark hair like me.  Our son followed in his birth about five minutes later.  His hair was lighter, like yours.  They were so tiny, but perfectly formed, and ali—alive.”  His voice broke.  “I heard them cry.  They breathed at first, but it seemed to get more laboured as the minutes passed.  They simply went to sleep.  Our daughter went to heaven first, and then our son.”

“And where,” she whispered, feeling strangely calm, “do they rest?”

“The Compass.  They are together, wrapped in their mother’s shawl, in all of her love.  I buried them at the centre.  They rest at the centre of…of the whole world.”

“Oh.”  She grew still, absorbing the reality of what he’d done for her…done for their children.  “Take me there?  Now?”  She turned herself to face him and held out her hands to her loving husband.

He took her hands.

FULL disclosure of the birth experience was comforting to Imogene.  It soothed her to know her children were cherished for their short time on earth and that Graham had loved them for her in her stead.  She visited their grave at The Compass and with the help of Hiram, planted bulbs that would flower every spring in a glorious carpet over them.  She also chose honeysuckle vines to be placed outside of the circle so the scent would fill the space when they bloomed.  Her babies would have her favourite scent all around them.

It was after one of her visits to The Compass that Graham called her to his studio.  He said he had something to show her.

“Have you been painting something magnificent, my darling?”  She looked toward a large canvas covered with a cloth.

“No,” he whispered.  “Tristan did this at my direction and from my inspiration.”  His hand visibly shook as he reached to remove the cloth covering, as if he were afraid to show her the painting.  With a flick of his wrist, the cloth fell away.

Imogene expelled a long breath and just stood there, transfixed, in total awe of the image before her.

Long minutes stretched out.

Graham came up behind and put his hands on her shoulders.  Leaning back onto him for support, she felt relief because she thought her knees might buckle.

“I had a dream the night you came back to me.  It was so real.  My mother spoke to me most clearly.  She said—” his voice faltered as he fought for composure.

“What did she say?  It’s all right, you can tell me, Graham.”

“Mother said I must tell you they are with them. The babies are loved and happy together watched over by their grandparents.  She said it would ease your heart to know they are not alone.”

Imogene stayed in Graham’s arms, savouring the image before her.  It was a portrait she recognized of his mother and father, painted only a five years ago.  They were outdoors under a tree; his mother sitting in a chair, his father, Lord Rothvale, looking down with pride in his expression.  But Tristan had added something splendid to this painting.  He had added in something very precious.  There was a blue blanket set on the ground.  A blonde baby boy sat on the blanket and looked at his sister who appeared to be taking her first toddling step.  The baby girl had darker hair and clutched in her fist the edge of Imogene’s shawl, the other end of which was steadied by her grandmother’s hand.

“It does ease my heart…it very much does.  Thank you, Graham, for this gift.”

RALPH Odeman placed the letter from his solicitor into the fire.  The regimental orders received the same treatment. Best to get rid of any written evidence in the event someone came searching.  Money could be traced and it was prudent to be cautious.  For his plan to succeed he had to be ever watchful, and careful of what might be placed as an obstacle before him.  He had new goals in his sights now.  Goals much loftier than the support payments of a whore who’d birthed the by-blow of an aristocrat.  Now that those monies had been stopped, he didn’t have a choice but to find new sources of annuity.  And they were out there for the person who had half a brain to figure out a way to gain them.  Odeman counted himself just such a person.