3 Great Historical Novels (17 page)

It was a relief to be back home and away from Mrs Blake’s chatter about her queer portraits, not to mention all the happy Christmas crowds. The season was ever more popular since they’d banned the rat pits and bear baiting. For once Juliette was glad to have so much work to do. If she didn’t occupy her hands soon, her stupid head would probably swell with all the thoughts in it, like something in a freak show. There was much to be done before she and Beth could leave for their three-day holiday. Mrs Blake had insisted on three days, which was kind because one was all that was expected.
And
she was going to cook Christmas dinner herself! Juliette had never seen Mrs Blake cook anything more than a slice of toast.

They scraped the grease off from the stovetop, and rinsed out the oven with vinegar and water, spreading damp tea leaves across the cinders so that the ashes would not settle on the newly clean range. They brushed black lead onto the brass and then rubbed it off with dry leather. When the grates shone, and the fenders and irons, Beth put her plump forearms into a tub of flour up to the elbow in preparation to make beef pudding and Juliette went to the washhouse.

She lit the fire beneath the copper and put the linen on to boil, then put ivory black on the three pairs of sensible boots that were waiting in a row.

The idea wouldn’t go away.

It would be a shameless thing to do – was she bold enough? The feeling of it spread through her as she worked, filthy as a cloud of cinders, until it almost choked her. She tried to get the better of it by brushing Mrs Blake’s boots harder and harder, but she only became breathless. Finally, she dropped the brush and then the boot and bent over double on her stool, almost gagging to keep from wailing. She took a square of lawn from her apron pocket and stuffed it into her mouth, trying not to make a commotion. Beth and Mrs Blake already thought her insensible. As for the Irish witch, well, who knew what she thought. She could be up to anything with those eyes, black and deep as two hellholes. Could she
know
? And what she’d said in the cab, about the
ghostly painter
was too awful. She
must
know.

They must never ever know about this new idea, though. They would think her wicked and mad, and maybe she was – how could she think such a thing otherwise. Juliette took a big breath, picked up the brush and the boot from the stone floor, and wondered yet again how such a thing could have climbed into her head. Maybe it was ‘the light’ – that wretched light that Mrs Blake was always on about. For Juliette, light was just a gas lamp, a candle flame, morning creeping through the window, nothing more or less.

She resumed polishing. The idea seemed daring and difficult, but it was the only means of knowing for sure, one way or another.

Juliette lined up the boots, shiny as a row of beetles, and sighed with satisfaction. From tomorrow, she would have three whole days with nothing to do but listen to Beth and her sisters gossiping, and take a walk down to the Serpentine to watch the skaters. She’d need to say extra prayers in church, of course.

Antonia sat at the table enjoying the serenity of a clean kitchen. White light glanced off the brass on the range and reflected on the floor, polished so highly that it resembled calm water. Apt, that cleanliness and godliness should be associated.

The kettle was rattling on the range, close to the boil. Tea first, and one of Beth’s spiced buns, and then she’d start on Christmas dinner. The goose had been hanging in the larder for three days, which Beth said improved its flavour. Beth had done the real work on the bird the evening before; plucking it and cutting off its neck and feet and then skewering it. Her first task was the onion and sage stuffing, and after that she’d get on with the vegetables and sauces and then the brandy butter for the pudding.

Rhia appeared quietly. She was very good at entering a room without being heard. She was not dressed, and her hair was unbraided. It hung heavily over her shoulders and woollen nightgown. She looked surprised to see someone else abroad.

‘Good morning, Antonia. I thought I was the first up. I should have dressed.’

‘Good morning, my dear. I woke to light the fires, and thought I’d make sure I’ve plenty of time to prepare Christmas dinner. It’s years since I was on my own in the kitchen.’

‘Well you needn’t be entirely on your own,’ Rhia said with
that insubordinate smile. ‘I’m not a terrible cook, only a clumsy one according to my mother.’

Antonia laughed and got up to take the kettle from the range. She poured water into the teapot, feeling Rhia watching her. She wanted to say something, Antonia suspected, but was unsure of its propriety.

‘I was thinking about the portrait,’ she began. Antonia held her breath. Rhia looked her in the eye. ‘You said you’d taken a portrait of several gentlemen in your garden – colleagues of your husband. Was my uncle amongst them?’

Antonia rotated the teapot. She doubted that someone like Rhia was afraid of looking into the faces of the dead. ‘Yes,’ she said.

‘What was the nature of his business with your husband?’

Antonia hesitated. She was still piecing things together from accounts and shipping records. ‘The gentlemen in the portrait were planning a joint venture. Mixed-fibre cloths, I believe, even though joint trading is not generally approved in the City. They invested in two clippers, the
Mathilda
and the
Sea Witch.’
Rhia was looking down at her tea, not really listening.

‘The portrait. Will you … ?’

‘Soon,’ said Antonia.

Rhia nodded. ‘When I watched the representations coming to life, upstairs, it was a little … eerie.’

‘It is an uncanny thing to watch,’ Antonia agreed. ‘Of course, revealing a latent image by exposing it to light is more delicate.’ She felt breathless merely imagining exposing the image. Rhia was watching her closely and with empathy. ‘You will know when the time is right,’ she said. She reached her hand across the table and touched Antonia’s lightly.

The morning passed easily with a companion in the kitchen,
though Rhia had not been jesting about being a clumsy cook. So far she had cut herself with a paring knife and knocked over the apple sauce, and Antonia considered it safer to send her to lay the table.

Laurence came looking for breakfast at half past ten. He was visibly suffering from last evening’s revelry, but his natural good cheer prevailed.

‘Happy Christmas, Antonia! I don’t suppose you’ve some coffee brewing amongst that collection of pots?’

‘I have, but I think you’d better pour it yourself. I’m quite literally up to my elbows, as you can see.’ Antonia blew a wisp of hair from her eyes and continued rolling the dough for the gravy dumplings. ‘And you could check on the fire in the drawing and dining rooms for me, Laurence. Rhia is in the dining room, and I’m sure she’s keeping her eye on it, but you could check all the same.’

Laurence saluted her and then wandered out with a bowl of milky coffee, a Parisian habit apparently. He was clearly taken with Rhia, but whether his affections were returned, or where such an attraction might lead, she could not say.

When the goose was in the oven and the kitchen in order, Antonia felt unreasonably pleased with herself. She wondered how the dining room had fared under Rhia’s supervision. The table was laid with the good pink china and Indian silver cutlery, and its centrepiece was a mistletoe wreath and a ring of candles. A little pagan for her taste, but pretty all the same. She glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was later than she had realised, almost midday. She barely had enough time to change and tidy her hair.

The doorbell sounded while Antonia was dressing, and Laurence called out that he would be the Christmas butler. By the time she arrived in the drawing room, Isaac and Mr Dillon were talking by the window and Laurence and Rhia were on
the divan looking at photogenic drawings. Laurence was an excellent butler; the fire was dancing and a decanter of claret was unstoppered on the mantelpiece.

Was it her imagination that Isaac and Mr Dillon stopped their conversation too abruptly when she entered? Antonia had the uncomfortable sensation that something was being kept from her. Her immediate thought was that it might be something about Josiah. She shook it off. A woman of faith should feel her husband’s loving presence rather than his shadow. It was within her means, by the use of salt and silver nitrate, to see his face. The negative was in the bottom drawer of Josiah’s desk, safe in its thick silk wallet. If she kept it thus protected then the latent image would be preserved. As Rhia said, she would know when the time was right.

Isaac and Mr Dillon were standing. She had not seen the journalist since the wake and he had still not visited the barber. He did have a flair for unusual clothing. The fabric of his waistcoat looked positively antique.

‘It was gracious of you to invite me, Mrs Blake,’ he said. I would probably have spent the day in the basement of the
Globe
with the printers otherwise. I’ve settled with my conscience by delivering them several bottles of burgundy and a Christmas pudding.’

‘Have you no family, Mr Dillon?’ Rhia was being bad mannered again. Or did she not like him? She looked positively bewitching in that claret-red velvet. Mr Dillon, to his credit, didn’t flinch.

‘My brother died recently and my parents are in Snowdonia, which is rather a long way by carriage. They are accustomed to my work habits.’

Antonia took a sip of wine and addressed Isaac’s query about the readiness of their cotton shipment for Calcutta. He
was eager to sail as soon as
Mathilda
was back from New York.
Sea Witch
, as far as she knew, was still somewhere in Indian waters.

Mr Dillon had turned his back to the room and was looking at the two Madonnas she had recently hung above the mantelpiece.

‘I’d thought iconography was disapproved of by an un - adorned faith such as yours, Mrs Blake.’

Isaac laughed. ‘As long as Antonia does not worship the icons, she is committing no breach of her faith.’

Antonia smiled as best she could. ‘They are antiques, Mr Dillon, I admire them for their artistry.’ She was privately surprised that he would challenge her faith, and besides, she could not explain something she didn’t completely understand herself. All she knew was that these images embodied what Christianity lacked, be that a female divinity, or just equality. She looked at the clock. It was not time to put the potatoes in goose fat. Rhia was still poring over the photogenic drawings on the divan. ‘May I see your new pictures, Laurence?’

‘They aren’t mine. They’re from Sydney. From the same chap who gave me the trees.’ Laurence chose several images and arranged them in a row on the low table. More trees whose leaves and branches looked too pale to be alive. The light that fell between the straight, narrow trunks was sharp and strong, as though they were the ruined columns of a classical temple. The intensity of the light excited Antonia.

Rhia gave an involuntary shudder as though the picture had exactly the opposite effect on her. ‘It looks an unearthly place.’

‘A wilderness, by all accounts.’ Laurence looked enthralled. ‘I hope to visit it myself one day.’

The talk turned to travel and then to commerce and it was soon time for the potatoes. At two o’clock, the goose was finally
roasted and glazed and served up sitting in the centre of a bed of mixed greens and caramelised onions. Laurence carved, and Rhia carried the slightly burnt potatoes and honeyed carrots and condiments to the table on platters. Antonia served Bordeaux that she’d found in the cellar. She knew little about wines and spirits and hoped the bottle had not turned.

She took her place beside Mr Dillon, who had taken it upon himself to serve the vegetables. ‘I hear that you will be trading in the spring, Mrs Blake?’

‘I shall.’

‘Have you been to the East?’

‘No. I have always kept the home hearth lit. Josiah spent as much time at sea and in Calcutta and Bombay as he spent in London.’

‘Am I to understand that your husband was buried in Bombay, madam?’ It was a raw question, almost cruelly so, but at least here was someone who was not afraid to speak of the dead. It took more energy to maintain the silence; the unasked.

‘I did not intend to cause offence,’ he added while she was gathering her thoughts.

‘You have not. Josiah was not buried. His body was never recovered.’ She sensed that he knew this, so what was his reason for asking?

‘No attempt was made to recover him?’

‘No one saw the accident, Mr Dillon,’ Isaac interjected. He sounded strained.

Mr Dillon frowned. ‘If no one saw the accident, then how is it that everyone is certain that it was an accident?’ The silence at the table was, for a moment, impenetrable.

‘It was assumed. The yardarm was broken.’ Isaac took a large swallow of wine. His hand was trembling.

Antonia couldn’t utter a word.

Isaac regained his composure and put his glass down. ‘He was not himself,’ he said quietly, ‘everyone had noticed it. He must have been standing too close to the aft rigging, which swings around swiftly when the sails are set. He should have known better. One of the crew heard his shout and saw him …’ He glanced at Antonia. She bent her head. ‘Saw him go down,’ Isaac finished.

When she looked up, Laurence looked as sober as she had ever seen him. ‘Were you aware of a letter Josiah wrote to Ryan Mahoney, Isaac?’ he asked.

Antonia dropped her fork onto her plate with a clatter. ‘What letter?’ Her voice sounded uncannily steady.

Laurence’s voice almost broke with emotion. ‘I’m so sorry, Antonia. I thought telling you would only make things worse. All I know is that there was something in the letter that distressed Ryan.’ Laurence sighed heavily. ‘He died before he could tell me more and we found nothing at China Wharf.’

Isaac drained half his glass in a swallow. He was normally a slow, careful drinker.

Mr Dillon was watching him. ‘You knew nothing of it, Mr Fisher?’

‘No.’

Mr Dillon frowned. ‘Josiah Blake was, by all accounts, as familiar with the ship as an able seaman, and Ryan knew his pistols like an armourer, yet both of these gentlemen died in accidents that might have killed infinitely less experienced men.’

Rhia, who had said nothing, suddenly tapped her fork on her goblet. The sound rang around the high ceilings and she soon had everyone’s attention.

‘It is Christmas. There is time enough for dark thoughts on every other day of the year.’

‘Well said.’ Laurence raised his glass. ‘Merry Christmas, all.’

Antonia lifted her glass with some effort and, as crystal tinkled, she caught Rhia’s eye. She too had known about the letter. It was a small betrayal, but it felt a betrayal nonetheless.

The conversation turned to the affairs of the City, but Antonia could not focus on it. She thought that she knew Isaac Fisher well, and she had never before now suspected him of not telling the truth.