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Annie continues to borrow books from Eldon’s library. At night, creeping along the passageway with a candle. She is always careful to replace the previous volume before taking another from the shelf. She does not want to be caught, so she doesn’t leave the books in her bedroom in case Tess will find them there and she will have to explain herself. Lie, she will have to lie, and she does not want to do this. Instead she takes the books into the room with all the baby things, a room she is certain no one ever goes into. She sits on the floor, wedged in between the carriages and cradles, and reads. She leaves whatever book she is currently perusing stuffed under the straw mattress of the big perambulator. Sometimes she is able to sneak into the room during the day, when there is a break in her chores, but mostly she comes here at night. It is better to read than to try and sleep because sleep offers only the dream of her family on that road, the hollow achy feeling that follows upon waking.

Annie has not tried to pattern her reading, or impose a certain kind of discipline on it. Mr. Dashell’s library is so much broader in range than the library of the reverend in Portman Square and Annie wants to take advantage of this. She wants to read as widely as she can.

Sometimes the contents of the library sadden her. She thinks of their talk that afternoon on the road, how Mr. Dashell had confessed his desire to have been an explorer. All these books that explain something of the world, so that he could know what to expect when he journeyed out of England. A whole wall of words in readiness for a pursuit that never happened.

Tonight, wedged down against the wheels of a carriage, Annie is reading Samuel Johnson’s dictionary. It is a large book, comes in four volumes. She has skimmed the first one and is now reading the second.

She opens the book, the weight of it heavy as a stone across her knees. The candle on the floor beside her breathes in the dusty air in this room, breathes out as this sputter of flame. In all her reading Annie is not sure if she is stopping something or bringing something back. Reading blocks the dreams, but reading also gives words to that experience she was not old enough to remember, being on that road in Ireland. What is to be believed? Is the true story the story that is made or the story that is forgotten?

Annie opens Samuel Johnson’s dictionary to the entry “heart.” “The chief part; the vital part; the vigorous or efficacious part.” And then further down the page it says, “The inner part of any thing.”

Eldon is having a drink with Robert Hill at Robert’s London club. Tomorrow Eldon is to see Dunstan and he has been walking through the streets nervously rehearsing the imagined conversation. He is having a drink with Robert to practise his arguments.

“Nonsense,” says Robert, sipping his brandy, his feet extended towards the fire which has been extravagantly lit on this dreary summer’s day. So far he has disagreed with everything that Eldon has proposed.

“But it is,” says Eldon. “Can’t you see? It’s all the fault of Crystal Palace.”

“Nonsense,” says Robert again. “Crystal Palace was a triumph.”

“Well,” says Eldon, slightly hurt by his friend’s differing opinions. “I don’t see why something can’t be both a triumph and a disaster.”

It was Eldon’s feeling that the Great Exhibition first held at Hyde Park in 1851, and repeated each year at Crystal Palace in south London, was responsible for Dunstan’s desire for a themed map of the world. “The commodities of the world became desirable to the average man and woman,” says Eldon. “Who, after seeing the finest Chinese silk, will not want some?”

“It was just a market,” says Robert. “On a grander scale than usual.”

“No.” Eldon will not be convinced otherwise. “It was something more. Many of those products were items never seen by Englishmen before, from places they had no knowledge of.” He remembers the beautiful iron-and-glass building, the rooms and rooms of furniture and jewellery, textiles, and sculpture—Turkish carpets, jade vases from the Orient, ornate Austrian bedsteads made of dark zebra wood. “It made the world seem small, Robert,” he says. “It made the world seem ours.”

Robert Hill, who finds nothing wrong with this notion, wriggles his toes and swishes his brandy around the inside of his glass. He has exhibited paintings at Crystal Palace. He thinks of his art hanging in those magnificent sunlit rooms and experiences a rush of pleasure. “I do know that it is hard to perform work you have no interest in,” he says. It is all he can think of to say to Eldon that is sympathetic. His young friend is obviously in distress over his meeting with his publisher, but Robert is comfortable in his chair by the fire, comfortable drinking brandy and remembering his triumph at Crystal Palace. He cannot move far from that comfort to provide a different sort of comfort to his friend. What Eldon wants is always so moral and heightened with emotion, as though he constantly suffers from a kind of fever of the soul. Robert sighs. Why can’t Eldon just enjoy what is in the world?

Eldon looks into the fire. It is not making him feel better, being here in Robert’s club. He would be better off striding down Cheapside, thinking up reasons to convince Dunstan that a map of the heart was a better idea than a map of gold mines. Eldon studies the fine profile of his friend. Robert’s wealth shows in his fine grooming, his shiny new leather boots, his baggy linen suit which is neat and well tailored. A dandy, thinks Eldon, unkindly. An aging dandy. He wishes he was talking this over with Isabelle. No. Eldon watches the flames shift and send a shower of sparks, like applause, into the air. He wishes that he was telling this to Annie Phelan.

Eldon is with Robert Hill at the Royal Academy. Robert’s new show is being hung and he is flitting around the gallery, ordering people about who know perfectly well what they are doing.

Eldon stays down at the calm end of the room, surveying the paintings already satisfactorily attached to their designated places on the wall. It has been a while since he has seen a body of his neighbour’s work and he realizes, again, both how brilliant and how offensive it is.

Robert Hill depends upon a muse. The muse is invariably a young, good-looking woman. He finds her, paints her, beds her, and then rids himself of her. Sometimes he seeks to paint a particular young woman as an act of wooing her, hoping the attention she receives as his model will move her feelings towards him.

The three paintings Eldon stands in front of show the history of one of Robert’s recent muses. In the first painting she is Helen of Troy, her bosom straining at the loose fabric of her dress, nipples visible through the organdie sheer. Her
red hair is loose around her shoulders. Her gaze demurely lowered to the apple on the table before her. The apple is red and luscious, almost glows with indiscretion.

In the second painting this model is now Medusa. She looks towards Eldon, a startled expression on her face, as if she can’t quite believe that Robert would really paint snakes in her hair, that he would want her to look crazed and monstrous, that this is how he has come to see her, as he tires of her attentions.

Eldon looks at the snarl of reptilian flesh in the girl’s hair. The snakes look alive, Robert’s rendering is that good, his lines so clean and acute. It makes Eldon want to stand well back from the painting, in case one of them strikes out at him.

In the third painting it is obvious that Robert has wearied of his muse, and has probably already, at the time of painting the picture, moved on to another. In this painting the model is dead, floats beneath the surface of the water she has drowned in, her eyes shut tight, her face pallid as the moon. Ophelia. The faint colours of her dress are visible from where she lies, on her back, in the shallows. On the banks of the stream the vibrant colours of flowers mock her pale failure at life. Once she was as bright and necessary to the painter as they were. Now she is over. This dead heart. This unnecessary girl.

Sappho

A
nnie is having a late supper in the kitchen. She has been cleaning all day and is tired. She has swept, dusted, and tidied the bedrooms, the landings, and the sitting room. She has polished the drawing-room silver. She has cleaned the lavatory. Because Mr. Dashell is in London and Mrs. Dashell has gone out to supper, there has been no meal to help prepare and serve, and so Annie has worked right through, scrubbed the flags and swept out all the hearths. She is trying to make up for being neglectful of her duties when Mrs. Dashell has required her to model. She wants to show Tess that she will never have to take up any extra work on Annie’s behalf, but it is Tess’s afternoon off and she isn’t back yet, has not been witness to Annie’s industry.

Annie sits at the kitchen table and eats her plate of cold chicken, potatoes, and carrots. Since the cattle have started dying they have been eating a lot of chicken. Annie rushes through her meal, not looking up from her plate until she is finished. It is warm in the kitchen. Cook is moving about, wiping down the range, putting water on for tea. She keeps stopping, freezing into position. A statue of Cook reaching up to the shelf above the range for the teapot. A statue of Cook setting the kettle on the burner. Annie watches Cook as she acts out, in a slow sort of mime, the process of making them tea.

“You should leave soon,” says Cook, handing Annie a mug of tea and sitting down opposite with hers. “Mrs. Dashell said nine o’clock. She isn’t one to be kept waiting.”

Annie knows this, knows how impatient the Lady can be when she is made to wait even a few moments for someone whom she feels should be attending to her that very instant. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I have no desire to keep the Lady waiting.”

“Don’t know why she bothers,” Cook says, arching her back into the flat of her hand. “All she does is complain about it afterwards. Used to come down here and pace up and down and tell me how much she hated going over there.”

“But she still goes,” says Annie.

“Yes, she still goes,” agrees Cook. “I guess she’s not one to heed her own good advice.”

Isabelle is off having supper with her neighbour, Mrs. Robert Hill. She has left instructions for Annie to walk over and fetch her at nine o’clock. This is her way of ensuring an exit if she is not enjoying herself.

“Missus,” asks Annie, sipping her tea to try and prolong the comfort of it. “Who was here before me? Who was it that I replaced?”

Cook is now rubbing her shoulders, her eyes closed. “What?” she says, wincing from a particularly painful spot at the back of her neck.

“Who,” says Annie, leaning forward over the table, “was the old me?”

“No one, really. We had day-girls mostly. Mrs. Dashell was meant to hire someone and then she didn’t, and then she was meant to again, and didn’t. This went on for about a year.” Cook opens her eyes and smiles at Annie. “And then there was you. And a good thing, too. It was wearing on me, explaining
the house always to someone new and only there for a month or so.” Cook pours them both more tea. “Would you like to see something?” she says, on her feet before Annie has had a chance to reply. She goes over to the stove, takes a biscuit tin from a shelf, and brings it back to the table. “Scoot over here, love,” she says, patting the chair beside hers. Annie obediently changes sides of the table.

Cook removes the lid from the biscuit tin. There, stacked up inside, are piles of small photo cards.
Cartes de visite.
She takes them carefully from the tin, arranging them on the table neatly in rows, the same amount of space between each one.

“Look,” says Cook. “My sister had her likeness done.” She taps one of the small photo cards in front of her.

Annie leans towards Cook, towards the photograph, sees a stern-looking woman in a dark morning dress and bonnet. She stands facing the camera, her arms stiffly pinned to her sides.
Cartes,
unlike most portrait photography, usually include the whole body of the subject and Cook’s sister takes up most of the frame. To the left of her, Annie can see what appears to be the arm of a chair.

“They put her head in a clamp,” says Cook. “To keep it straight.”

“She looks”—Annie fumbles for a word that isn’t a complete lie—“nervous.”

“I’m saving up to get mine done,” says Cook. “But I don’t want to look like that. I’ve been trying to decide how it is I want to be looking. A book might be good, don’t you think?” She glances up at Annie. “If I was sitting in a chair holding a book, I’d look the part of an educated Lady. I can’t read, but no one would be knowing that from the likeness, would they?”

Annie studies the photographs laid out so carefully on the table. To be who we think we are. To look to someone else
how we feel to ourselves. How hard that is to align. Cook’s sister might never have her photograph taken again. For people who don’t know her she will only ever be this stiff woman, her body so rigid in the photograph that there is nothing to read into it, into her. There’s no crooked elbow to suggest a casual ease with life, no chin tilted upwards to show interest in the world. And yet, who has decided that is what those things mean? If eyes are looking skyward, couldn’t it just be that something has caught the model’s attention? A bird has flown into the room or a drop of water has filtered through the ceiling plaster.