A Proper Education for Girls (4 page)

She could remember holding Lilian's hand and dancing around
the tree. Their mother stood high above them on the soil-filled bucket, like Gloriana in her emerald green gardening dress, her pruning knife in her hand, the sunlight glinting on her auburn hair. If she closed her eyes and inhaled the gentle scent of its flowers, she was sure she could hear her mother's voice.
Push, little girls
, she had said.
Push as hard as you can and see what happens
. Alice could remember pressing her childish hands against the rough planks. The tree had eased forward slowly, the brass wheels of its vast conveyance protesting with every turn. Above them, the branches rustled, dropping blossoms onto their heads like blessings. Her mother's hands, beside her own against the bucket, were stained with green, her nails cut short and rimmed with soil from planting seedlings in the soft brown earth. Alice remembered those hands clearly. She remembered the emerald dress, the pocketknife and the pruning scissors too, though she was unable to recall her mother's face, however hard she tried.

But now, mother dead, her sister banished, the aunts too old to act as either gardeners or laborers, Alice had to tend it alone. She loved the peach tree, but it no longer brought her any joy to look at it.

“A
RE YOU FEELING
quite well, Miss Talbot?”

Alice became aware of a hand laid on her arm, a handkerchief flourished in front of her.

“Miss Talbot?”

She shook herself free. “Thank you, Mr. Blake. I'm just … just sad, that's all. But you were asking about the peach, were you not? It's not the original tree; of course, there have been a few of them, over the years. It's a system of my mother's own devising. Unique, I believe. Now then, is there anything else?”

Mr. Blake shook his head. “No,” he said. He stowed his rejected handkerchief back into his pocket. “Thank you.”

“As I was saying.” Alice pointed to a bench against the glass wall. “I set up a small studio here. It's north facing, so it's always
bright without being sunny, though I have to cut back the foliage every now and again. The shed—you can see it in the shrubs there—I have been using as a darkroom.”

“Are you a photographer?”

“Did you think I was wearing this apron to flatter my figure?”

“Forgive me. I didn't expect … I mean, your father didn't say …” Mr. Blake colored.

“You didn't expect to find a photographer
already
here?” suggested Alice.

“No.”

“And you are shocked to find a woman thus attired?”

“Yes. Well, a little, perhaps … That is to say, I mean no, no, of course not. Your attire is … as one would expect from anyone engaged in such a pastime.”

“I'm an amateur,” said Alice, seeming to grow tired of her querulous manner. “I have a limited amount of experience, though I continue to practice and to learn. I photograph plants and flowers mostly, but also pods and seed heads.” She smiled faintly. “They remind me of my sister, though the images I produce lack the vibrancy, the sensuality, she gave to them in her paintings—”

Mr. Blake passed his camera from one hand to the other. How heavy it was becoming.

“Your camera must seem heavy now,” said Alice, observing his discomfort. “I often put mine into Aunt Rushton-Bell's bath chair and wheel it about rather than carrying it. Will you not put it down?”

“No, thank you,” said Mr. Blake. “I shall keep hold of it.” He forced himself to smile. He knew his face was crimson, and he shivered as a bead of moisture trickled down his temple.

“What, exactly, did my father ask you to do here?” asked Alice suddenly.

“He asked me to photograph the Collection.”

“All of it?”

“His favorite pieces.”

“Is that all?”

“As far as I'm aware that is all he requires from me.”

“As far as you are aware?”

Mr. Blake nodded. The long journey from London, the humidity of the hot house, the weight of his camera, and the fact that he desperately wished someone would offer him a cup of tea had combined to make him feel quite weak. He felt himself wilting under her interrogation. “He said he might find more for me to do, once I got here.”

“I see. And what sort of subjects do you prefer to photograph, Mr. Blake? Surely body parts and diseased flesh are not your main interest?”

The photographer hesitated. She was looking directly into his eyes, and he felt his own gaze falter. “Oh no,” he replied. “The work in the mortuary was temporary. I was helping Dr. Cattermole—” He stopped. He found he didn't want to talk about his work with Dr. Cattermole. “Still-life compositions and landscapes—ruined abbeys and castles—are among my favorite subjects. But I have taken many portraits too. People have spoken very highly of my work. Why, you yourself should sit for me.”

“I'm too pale,” said Alice.

“Ah, but even the palest flower can be photographed to show its true beauty if the light is correct,” said Mr. Blake with a dazzling smile. To his relief, he saw a slight blush tinge Alice's cheeks. Encouraged, he put his camera down and pulled a small bundle of cards out of his pocket. “Look at these, Miss Talbot.” He handed the cards to Alice. Each one bore the dim calotype of a tiny flower.

“I photographed these last spring, when Dr. Cattermole was called away one afternoon. Despite his instructions that I should continue with my tasks, I left the mortuary and took a long walk through Hyde Park. Even now I can remember how good it felt to be out of that dank and chilly place, even for an afternoon! Before I left the park I collected a small posy from the grass and surrounding flower beds.” He gave Alice a wistful smile. “A memento of my one
afternoon of freedom, I suppose. A reminder that there is beauty in nature, rather than simply the death and disease that I saw on Dr. Cattermole's slab every day.

“Back in my rooms, before this tiny posy wilted, I took its likeness, and then separate images of each flower—buttercup, honesty, daisy, a sprig of broom, a few delicate strands of sweet-smelling lily of the valley … despite their dainty size and soft color, the camera captured every detail perfectly.” He drew an illustrative finger gently down the stem of honesty. “You see?” he murmured. “The trick is to get the light just right. And, of course, the exposure time.”

After developing these images, though of course he did not mention it to Alice, Mr. Blake had visited a local prostitute—a woman of indeterminate age with an air of silent resignation about her. The moth-eaten silk flowers in her straw-colored hair had bobbed and trembled as she earned her shilling, and Mr. Blake had been unable to tear his gaze away from them as they danced before his eyes in a monstrous parody of nature. In the warm confines of her room, the stench of the mortuary had emanated powerfully from him, so that afterward even the doxy herself had commented on his strange and unsettling smell. He had left her feeling as though death had been riding on his shoulders throughout, gleefully panting its fetid breath into the woman's face. It had made him uneasy, although he reminded himself that he had been careful to choose a whore whose face did not betray those signs of disease with which his work for Dr. Cattermole had made him so familiar.

Afterward, on returning to his lodgings, he had found his flowers wilted, their petals scattered about the table top like a handful of confetti. Feeling less than satisfied by his own behavior, Mr. Blake had taken solace in his images of nature, each immortalized in a sepia image no bigger than a playing card.

“I have kept them in my pocket ever since,” he said. “To look at whenever I need to remind myself of the beauty and simplicity of the natural world.”

Alice was examining the images closely. “They're very well executed,”
she said. She returned the photographs. “No doubt it was these pictures that won my father over.”

“Oh no, Miss Talbot. These particular pictures are private,” said Mr. Blake warmly. “Dr. Cattermole spoke to your father about me. I didn't actually show Mr. Talbot any of my work.”

“Dr. Cattermole spoke for you? Are you sure that was wise?” Alice gave a humorless smile. “Well, you're here now,” she added. “So whatever he said was agreeable to my father.”

Mr. Blake attempted a laugh, but the sound that emerged was more like a cough. “Indeed,” he said. He gazed at his feet. He found he could no longer look her in the face.

I
N THE EVENING, AS USUAL,
A
LICE COLLECTED THE AUNTS
from the hothouse. Murmuring to one another about the inclement weather, the drafts, and the lack of hot water that evening, they followed her in to dinner.

Alice was helping Aunt Rushton-Bell into her chair as Mr. Talbot strode into the room. Mr. Blake followed. He was wearing a smoking jacket several sizes too large. Alice had not seen him since their conversation in the temperate house, after which Mr. Blake had suddenly seemed anxious to get started. He had insisted that he alone carry his photography equipment. For the next hour or so, as she sat with her aunts in the hothouse, Alice had heard him passing backward and forward through the rustling greenery, his breathing becoming more and more labored, his footsteps slower and slower as he transported his boxes of plates, his bales of paper, his crates of chemicals, trays, bowls, tripods, head clamps, and sundry other items through the conservatory.

Now, thought Alice, he was looking disheveled and peevish; his dark curly hair was flattened against his head and his eyes were perplexed. He seemed uncomfortable in the smoking jacket and brushed at the lapels with fingers stained brown, like her own, with nitrates of silver. She peered closely at his curious costume. The jacket was one of her father's.

“Has anyone seen Mr. Blake's trunk?” bellowed Mr. Talbot, by way of introduction. “He has mislaid it.”

“Mislaid it? Oh dear!” murmured Old Mrs. Talbot.

“When did you last see it, Mr. Blake?” asked Aunt Rushton-Bell.

“It disappeared on its way to my room,” said Mr. Blake. “Sluce was supposed to have brought it over from the gates. I have no idea where it went.”

“Perhaps Sluce has carried it off!” cried Aunt Statham. “He's not to be trusted, you know. I hope it didn't contain anything valuable.”

“Clothes, mostly,” said Mr. Blake. “That's why I am dressed in so inappropriate a manner.” He gestured at his voluminous smoking jacket. “But I'd be grateful for its prompt return. There are some things in it that I need.”

“Keep an eye out for it,” said Mr. Talbot. “You especially, Alice. A large black trunk. It's got to be in the house somewhere. And if you see Sluce, ask him. We need it back. Mr. Blake needs it back.” He cleared his throat. “Well then. That's that.”

“Do you play whist, Mr. Blake?” called Aunt Pendleton from the far end of the table.

“Never mind what he does or doesn't play,” thundered Mr. Talbot. “He's a photographer. He's here to take photographs, not to play cards.” He thumped Mr. Blake on the back. “Now, sir, you must be hungry.”

M
R.
B
LAKE WAS
indeed hungry and, for a while, was unable to focus his attention on anything other than the food on his plate. Around him, he was dimly aware of conversation, though his brain was too fogged by gluttony to comprehend it. He looked up only once. Alice was watching him, pushing her food about her plate, though she touched none of it. No wonder she was so thin. He smiled at her, but she looked away. He speared another roast potato.

At last Mr. Blake found himself able to attend to the discussion that was going on. It appeared to concern other visitors to the house.

“Oh yes,” Aunt Lambert was saying, “and before the cuneiform translators we had Dr. Slater here.”

“Was that the fellow who burned his face?” asked Aunt Rushton-Bell.

“I beg your pardon?” said Mr. Blake.

“Among other things, Dr. Slater was searching for a cure for facial pustules.” Alice addressed the photographer. “His own complexion was sadly afflicted with the condition, and he smeared some of the preparation he had formulated upon his own face to see whether it would help.”

“But it burned him,” interrupted Aunt Statham. “Like acid. It was as though he'd rubbed his skin off with a pumice stone.”

“He ran screaming through the house clawing at his face to get the stuff off, as I recall,” added Aunt Lambert. “He burst into my dressing room and plunged his entire head into my wash basin. Apparently he had emptied his own that morning and had forgotten to fill it again before he began his experiments. It was just in time. The poor fellow could hardly speak for weeks, even after his bandages were removed. Certainly, he never looked quite right afterward. He didn't get rid of his skin condition either.”

“He tested everything on himself,” said Alice. “Mostly he drank his own medicines and observed the consequences. He had a special emetic to take if he felt that he had inadvertently poisoned himself.”

Mr. Blake felt the eyes of the entire table resting on him. Was he required to comment on Dr. Slater's bizarre behavior? He hastily swallowed his mouthful of food. But it lodged uncomfortably in his esophagus, like a mouse in an organ pipe, and a muffled “I see” was all he could manage.