A Proper Education for Girls (16 page)

Aunt Statham dug her fingers into Mr. Blake's arm so sharply that that he almost cried out. The snowfall of face powder on her aged cheeks had been rendered sticky by the damp heat, and it glimmered in the lamplight like quicklime on the cheeks of a corpse. “Men like you come here all the time,” she whispered. “Talbot brings them. And Lilian was the beautiful one, you see. But Alice is special too—though not everyone can see it. Don't give her cause to regret that she ever met you.”

“M
ISS
T
ALBOT, HOW
delightful to see you again,” said Dr. Cattermole, stepping forward with a smile. Alice forced herself to smile back.

Her father had met Dr. Cattermole in the same way that he met so many of his friends and acquaintances, at a meeting of the Society for the Propagation of Useful and Interesting Knowledge. Dr. Cattermole's interests were varied: He was fascinated by statistics of vice and immorality in the capital and proud to say he had compiled some useful ones of his own. He was intrigued by new scientific ideas that explained behavior. He was also a keen advocate of surgery as a remedy for social and psychological ills and collected all manner of medical instruments of diagnosis and cure, possessing an extensive array of forceps and speculums, a varied assortment of phrenology brain casts and a comprehensive library of photographs depicting diseased body parts, anatomized cadavers, portraits of
maniacs and criminals, and surgical procedures in progress, as well as photographs of slivers of human viscera viewed through the microscope. It was his use of these two marvelous optical inventions—the microscope and the camera—which particularly attracted the notice of Mr. Talbot, and not long had passed before Alice's father realized that he had found in Dr. Cattermole a fellow eclectic, another dedicated gatherer of the artifacts of knowledge and progress. Soon, Dr. Cattermole was a regular visitor to the Talbot household, and the two men began to enjoy evenings of “scientific amusement” together. These events usually involved playing with Mr. Talbot's latest acquisitions, activities undertaken with exuberance that often went on until the early hours of the morning.

“What a pleasure it is to meet a man of medicine and science so dedicated to experiment and inquiry,” Mr. Talbot gushed. “A man who has sat at the feet of Charcot and attended some of the greatest universities. I am, in comparison, a mere amateur. My dear Cattermole, I stand in awe of your achievements and have much to learn from you. Perhaps we might push at the boundaries of knowledge and progress together? I will be delighted to help you in any way I can.”

“The man is a quack,” Alice had muttered one day, after the doctor had left.

“Oh no.” Mr. Talbot looked at her closely. “His knowledge is informed by reading and experimentation. By education and reflection. You might learn from him, my dear, and be humble in your gratitude. After all,” he had added, darkly, “he says he has much to learn
from you.”

Such was their developing relationship that it had been Dr. Cattermole who had been called in to officiate at the birth of Lilian's baby. Rubbing his hands together as he laid out his instruments, he assured Alice, his horrified assistant, that he had delivered any number of fatherless babes, as the Magdalene asylum where so much of his charitable work took place was not two hundred yards from the mortuary where he spent a goodly part of each day.

Dr. Cattermole had not, of course, remarked upon the numerous
cases of puerperal mania among his patients. Nor had he mentioned the high incidence of mortality among the mothers and infants whom he attended when he was called away from the dissecting tables. He had not said anything at all about either of these occurrences because he had not noticed them. The possibility that he, Thomas Cattermole, might be the vector of such misfortune as he almost never stopped to wash his hands, would not even have entered his mind.

N
OW
, D
R.
C
ATTERMOLE
took Alice's fingers and raised them to his lips. It was a gesture Alice hated, especially from an individual like Dr. Cattermole. His hands were cold and his lips unpleasantly moist. Cake crumbs dotted the lapels of his jacket like mold spores and she could smell the sweetness of sugar and almonds on his breath.

“You look pale, my dear Miss Talbot,” said Dr. Cattermole.

“I'm quite well, thank you,” said Alice, removing her fingers from the doctor's grasp. “And you have been enjoying cook's Bakewell tart, I see.”

Dr. Cattermole laughed a breathy, sugary laugh and dusted off the telltale crumbs. “Of course, of course, Miss Talbot. How observant you are. You know my fondness for it. Your father had one baked especially. He is a most courteous host.” He bowed and eyed her appreciatively.

Alice turned away.

At last, everyone was seated. Alice noted with interest that Mr. Blake had busied himself with attending to the aunts' comfort so as to avoid anything but the briefest of communications with Mrs. Cattermole. He had engineered his own place at the table so that he was between Aunt Pendleton and Old Mrs. Talbot and as far away from the doctor's wife as possible.

As for Mrs. Cattermole, she was sitting adjacent to Mr. Talbot. She was opposite a lamp, and Mr. Talbot's eyes were focused greedily upon her golden ringlets and rosy cheeks. Alice wondered
whether she had taken that seat deliberately, knowing that her features were at their best when fully illuminated. Her milky-white shoulders—artfully revealed by the seamstress—sloped meltingly into her dress. She smiled a coquettish smile at Mr. Talbot and ventured a similar look down the table to Mr. Blake—who missed it, as he was preoccupied with retrieving Old Mrs. Talbot's napkin from beneath her chair where it had fallen.

Without doubt, Sophia Cattermole was a beautiful woman, thought Alice. No wonder Mr. Blake had found her irresistible. She glanced at Dr. Cattermole, wondering how he would be reacting to her father's obvious lechery and found to her discomfort that the doctor was staring directly at her, a slight smile on his face. Alice returned his stare but chose not to return his smile. She was feeling slightly sick and pushed the food about her plate, wondering why she had not stayed in her room.

“Have you been enjoying your new commission, Mr. Blake?” said Mrs. Cattermole.

“It's very interesting,” said Mr. Blake, scarcely lifting his eyes from his roast beef. “The diversity of artifacts here is quite astounding.”

“More interesting than the body parts you photographed for your work in London? Surely not.”

“Of course it is!” cried Mr. Talbot before the photographer could answer. “The Collection is fascinating, awe inspiring, and educative. It must be better than the contents of a mortuary!”

“But there must be some aspects of your activities in London that you would be happy to go over again, Mr. Blake?” murmured Mrs. Cattermole.

Mr. Blake gave a wan smile. He glanced at Alice, but she seemed absorbed in replenishing Aunt Statham's water glass.

“Of course, Miss Talbot herself is an amateur photographer. She helps you, no doubt,” said Dr. Cattermole.

“We must put her to some use, sir!” cried Mr. Talbot. “She may as well assist the fellow. After all, she is very well informed, is most efficient, and of course, has nothing else to do.” He twinkled at Mrs.
Cattermole. “Naturally, the darkroom is no place to hide away a face as lovely as yours, my dear.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Mrs. Cattermole. “All those terrible smells. They make one feel faint. Don't you find it so, Mr. Blake? You always used to say that being in the darkroom made you quite … breathless.”

Mr. Blake's face turned pink.

“I daresay Miss Talbot finds it most oppressive,” continued Mrs. Cattermole. “Her complexion shows it—she is so very pale.”

“She's always pale,” said Mr. Talbot.

“Miss Talbot shows a very promising talent,” interrupted Mr. Blake loudly. “Her botanical photographs are especially impressive. She used the calotype method. It's much slower than collodion, but the image is sharper, the detail more defined. They are quite excellent.”

Alice said nothing. She didn't remember showing him her photographs.

“That mouse has the number twenty-one marked on its back,” observed Aunt Rushton-Bell.

“Where?” cried Mr. Talbot, leaping to his feet. He rushed over to the curtains. Halfway up, a mouse was hastily ascending a long velvet ridge. From the pocket of his coat Mr. Talbot produced a small wooden box with a glass lid. He shook the curtain, dislodging the mouse and catching it in the box as it fell. “Number twenty-one it is!” he cried.

“Good heavens, Edwin!” murmured Mrs. Talbot.

“This mouse has traveled at least two miles to be here this evening,” shouted Mr. Talbot.

The room was silent. All eyes were on Mr. Talbot.

“Allow me to explain,” he said. “You may or may not have heard of the perpetual mousetrap. It is a device capable of catching any number of live mice. I had the thing in the cellar earlier this week and in a single night it accumulated no less than twenty-five of the creatures.”

Mrs. Cattermole gasped and put her hand to her throat theatrically. Alice and Aunt Lambert exchanged glances.

“Being in possession of such a quantity of mice I decided to conduct an experiment,” continued Mr. Talbot, as though addressing a meeting of the Royal Society. “I painted a number upon the back of each captive. I returned the mice to their box and took them two miles hence, to Whitmarsh Cross. I then released them at the side of the road. My aim? To ascertain whether any, or all, of these mice would return home. I commissioned Sluce on no account to leave the house while I was in London but to remain vigilant in case of the appearance of one of these numbered rodents. He reported no sightings. But this one”—he patted his pocket fondly—“is the second I have seen this evening.”

“Fascinating!” cried Dr. Cattermole, clapping his hands together.

“Indeed, sir. Perhaps the next logical step is to take them farther still. Perhaps to Charringdon, five miles away, or Bispham St. Michael. How far will a mouse travel to return home? It's a question, sir, that remains unanswered.” Mr. Talbot returned to his seat.

“Edwin, you have a mouse in your pocket,” said Mrs. Talbot. “At the dinner table.”

“Allow me, sir,” said Mr. Blake, standing up.

“I'll take it,” said Alice. “If you'll excuse me?”

A
LICE GAVE A
sigh of relief and sagged against the dining room door as it closed behind her. She opened the box to release the creature where she stood. It leaped out and scurried off down the hallway, disappearing behind the cogs and flywheels of her father's apple-peeling machine.

She walked through the dark and silent house. The cut on her head was throbbing, but she did not feel tired. Her tread was light, and in the dark her senses were sharp and focused.

Alice stopped at her father's collection of Oriental and South American knives and swords. They were mounted on the wall
opposite a tall window halfway down the stairs and were illuminated by a watery pool of moonlight. She selected a machete. She tested its blade on her finger and felt the weight and balance of the thing in her grasp. She had used it before but was pleased to find that it had lost none of its sharpness and still felt well suited to her hand. She sliced though the air with a swift downward slashing motion. It was perfect.

Showing a characteristic disregard for Mr. Talbot's economizing, the aunts had left their lamps burning in the conservatory. Alice took one from a tabletop and went over to the winding wrought-iron staircase leading upward to the leafy heights of the hothouse. By the time she reached the walkway that ran round the top of the building Alice was hot, dizzy, and out of breath. She wiped her forehead. The staircase was not usually quite so overgrown, she thought guiltily. She really had been neglecting her pruning duties. And she had promised her sister that she would look after the place. Lilian would be disappointed if she knew.

Alice held up the lamp. The walkway before her was almost impenetrable with foliage, and how close the plants were to bursting though the glass ceiling! Here and there a knotted green fist of leaves had actually cracked a pane, though none that she could see had yet broken through. She hacked her way rapidly through the tangle of stems and creepers, tossing severed leaves and branches down into the darkness below. But it was heavy going, and it was not long before she was gasping with exertion. Salty stains appeared beneath her arms and down the front and back of her dress. Wiping a mustache of moisture from her top lip, in the lamplight she saw herself reflected in the freshly exposed glass wall of the conservatory—dark-ringed eyes staring out of a pale face shiny with sweat. She laughed. What would Mrs. Cattermole say about her complexion now, she wondered.

She swung the machete again.

“I thought I'd find you here,” said a voice behind her.

Alice jumped, the knife flying out of her hand. She heard a distant
thunk as it embedded itself in one of the aunts' tables far below. “How did you know I'd be here?” she said.

“It's your favorite place.”

“I like the temperate house best, actually.”

“I don't believe you.”

Alice wiped her forehead. “I must look a fright,” she muttered. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to make sure you were not feeling unwell.”

“There's nothing the matter with me. I simply have a cut to my head.”

“All the same—”

“And
I
didn't show you my botanical photographs. Have you been looking through my things?”

“They were in the temperate house,” he said. “You left a portfolio under the bench. Of course I looked at it. You'd look in mine if you found it, wouldn't you?” Alice said nothing. The ever-present drip … drip … drip … of water from somewhere in the foliage measured the seconds of silence. Mr. Blake sighed. “Sluce told me you had found my trunk.”

“That is correct, yes.”

“You didn't think to mention it?”

“I was going to.”

“I see. And you … you looked inside, I presume?”

“I did.”

Again he waited. A drop of sweat ran down the side of his face. Down below, the hot-water pipes throbbed rhythmically beneath their iron grids. Alice raised her lamp so that both their faces were fully illuminated. She noticed that the photographer looked pale.