Angels and Insects (22 page)

‘For I do not trust the village postmistress not to tell
everyone
that such and such a fat packet has gone off—to where it has gone—and we do not wish to attract attention to what may be a completely unfruitful endeavour, do we? When the book is handsomely bound, and ready for review,
then
we must be open. But that time is not come.’

‘I had thought we were to include some of your stories in the text. As it is, we have a few illustrative verses—Clare and Wordsworth and Milton and so on—but none of your fables.’

‘I was a little discouraged by the nature and
length
of “Things Are Not What They Seem”. And then I gathered myself, and thought I would try to put together a
collection
of such tales. I should dearly love to have an income of my own. Is that a shocking thing to say? I cannot tell you how dearly.’

‘I cannot help wishing—for your sake—you had taken up the pen a little earlier.’

Oh, I waited for my Muse. Our ants, you know, were my muses. They inspired me.’

When the letter from Mr Smith came, the time did not still seem quite ripe for explaining to the Alabasters that he had turned author. Matty Crompton brought the letter to him in his workroom, where he was mounting a very
fiddly
birdskin from Mexico. He had never seen her so full of life—her sallow cheeks were hot, and her breath uneven. He realised she had been watching the postman come and go, like a hawk, for weeks. She stood in the doorway, her fists clenched in her skirts, all tense muscles and angles, whilst he read the letter, at first to himself, and then, in a half-whisper, aloud.

Matty Crompton let out a great sigh, and leaned weakly against the doorpost.

‘I knew it. From the start, I knew it. But I was so
afraid—
’

‘I can hardly believe—’

‘You must not be over-sanguine. I have
no idea
of the profit from a successful book—’

‘Nor I. Nor I.’ He paused. ‘I hardly like to mention it to Sir Harald. He is in a very bad way with his own project. He has torn up several sheafs of writing, only yesterday. I feel I have not given him the support he needs—’

‘I understand—’

‘Perhaps, after all, it is not certain enough yet to be revealed? Perhaps we should keep our own counsel a little longer? We have done so well—so far—’

‘I am quite happy to go on as we are. The shock—the surprise, I should say—will be the more complete when we come to reveal what has been in the making—’

There was also, though William could not mention this, the embarrassment, in Alabaster company, of his latest contretemps with Edgar. For he had noticed—it had impinged very slowly, too slowly, on his preoccupied consciousness—that his little beetle-sprite, Amy, was no longer trotting along the corridors with her buckets, no longer creeping out into the paddock on her day off. In fact, he slowly came to see, Amy was no longer there at all. He had asked Miss Crompton if she knew where Amy was, and Miss Crompton replied tersely that she believed Amy had been dismissed.
William had not liked to investigate further, but casual questioning of Tom, the gardener’s boy, had produced a sudden outburst, choked off, equally suddenly, by caution.

‘Amy’s in the workhouse, with a baby, Sir, or will be any day, and she no more than a baby herself. And
without a character
, Sir—what will she do, I don’t know, I can’t tell, poor little creature—’

Something in William boiled over, remembering Edgar in the scullery, remembering Amy’s submissive droop of the spine. He went out, without reflection, to the stableyard, where Edgar was saddling Ivanhoe.

‘I wish to say something to you.’

‘What then?’ without even turning his head.

‘I hope this about poor Amy is nothing to do with you.’

‘I know nothing, and care nothing, about “poor Amy”.’

‘I think you are lying. The poor girl is in trouble, and you are the cause.’

‘You jump very early to conclusions. And in any case, I do not see what business it is of yours.’

Edgar let go of the girth he had been steadily tightening round Ivanhoe’s belly, straightened himself, and looked at William with a very slight smile on his pale face.

‘What
is
your interest in the matter?’ he said slowly and deliberately.

‘Common humanity. She is only a child. And one I like, one I care for, one whose childhood has been drudgery—’

‘Ah. A Socialist. Who “cares for” little drudges. I could ask, where has your “care” led you? No one looking at the two of us would be in doubt which of us had spent more time with the little woman. Would he? Think about what people would make of your concern. Think about that.’

‘That is ridiculous. You know it is.’

‘And I answer the same, your accusations are ridiculous. The girl
has not complained, and you cannot do anything to disprove what I
state
.’

‘Why can I not? I can find Amy and ask her—’

‘That would do no good, I assure you. And you should think what Eugenia might think. Of what I might choose to say to Eugenia.’

Edgar looked so pleased with himself that William was momentarily confused, and could feel the blood banging in his head.

‘I could bang you against the wall,’ said William. ‘But that would not help Amy. She should be provided for.’

‘And you should let those who are able to do that,’ said Edgar, ‘—who do not include
you
—take care of that as they see fit. My mother will send some sort of present. It is her place. You yourself have found us generous enough, I trust.’

‘I shall see that something is done.’

‘No,
I
shall. The girl was in
our
service and unless you want to brandish your
care
for her in Eugenia’s face—’

He turned back to his horse, led him out, and mounted.

‘Good day, brother-in-law,’ said Edgar, and dug his heels into Ivanhoe, who gave a startled bound and trotted away.

He could not bring himself to discuss Amy with any of the women, neither with Lady Alabaster, nor with Eugenia, nor with Matty Crompton. Edgar had aroused in him some disproportionate and inhibiting male shame at his own powerlessness and impotence. He thought of collecting what pitiful sum he might collect and asking Tom to give it to May, and then thought of the uselessness of such a sum, of the misconstructions that might be put on his action, and did nothing. Here and there in Brazil, it might well be, were pale-eyed dark-skinned infants with his blood in their veins, to whose support he did not contribute, who knew nothing of him. Who was he to judge so righteously? It
was not his place
to care for Amy, Edgar was right about that. And so he wavered, and did
nothing, whilst Amy’s biological time, presumably, moved sweetly or painfully along its inevitable track.

In the Winter of 1861 and 1862 Edgar had spent much of his time riding to hounds, or out with a gun, and the family indoors had been even more sedentary and female than in the Summer. In this Winter of 1863, whilst the Ant History was going through the press, Robin Swinnerton asked William rather diffidently if he cared to hunt, for he had a horse that needed the exercise, and could mount him. No Alabaster had proposed this, or supposed William might be interested, and perhaps other circumstances, tact or delicacy towards the family—his family—might have led him to decline Robin’s offer. But he was angry with Edgar, and full of nervous energy over his book and its progress. He did not want to stay still in the house. So he accepted, and rode out once or twice on Robin’s mare, Beauty, who jumped neatly, like a cat, but was not the fastest horse in the field. He was almost happy, going out across crisp English fields in the grey morning, smelling the polished leather, and the warm mane and glossy neck of Beauty, and beyond these animal smells, the whole Autumn and stubble and bracken, a whiff of woodsmoke, a sharpness of crushed hawthorn leaves that suddenly and surprisingly, as Beauty pricked her ears and rose in a rush of air and a suck of mud beneath her feet, reminded him of Matty Crompton’s secret smell, her sharp armpits, the acrid touch amongst lavender and lemon.

Hounds met one day outside the Bay Tree Inn, in a neighbouring village. Edgar and Lionel rode off immediately after the Master, in the place that was usually theirs. They did not acknowledge William’s presence at the Meets, as though some rule of minimal courtesy, which obtained in Bredely Hall, did not need to be kept in the outer world. They did acknowledge Robin, when he was not with William, and this led William to hold back, as the Hunt followers pressed forward, and to set off in the rear. On that day the
field spread out quickly and over a distance: William could hear the horn vanishing, and the faint echo of galloping whilst he himself was still negotiating a quiet, rutted lane between high hedges. It was here that a Bredely stable lad, whom he knew only by sight, caught up with him, riding a stolid cob, and said, ‘Mr Adamson, Sir. You are asked to come back to Miss Eugenia, please.’

‘Is she ill? Is anything wrong?’

‘I couldn’t say, Sir. I don’t think it can be anything bad or them as gave me the message’d’ve said, but that was all. You are asked to come back to Miss Eugenia.’

William was irritated. He turned back, listening to the horn and the hounds baying, and set off at a good trot—Eugenia
never
commanded his presence, so the matter must be urgent. The hedges slipped by, he galloped peaceably across a few fields and turned in at the stable gates. The ostler took his bridle and William hurried into the house. No one was around. On the stairs, he met Eugenia’s maid.

‘Is my wife well?’

‘I think so, Sir.’

‘Where is she?’

‘In her room, Sir, I think,’ said the young woman, unsmiling. ‘I brushed her hair, took away her breakfast, and she told me she was not to be disturbed until after dinner. But that is where she is, I believe.’

There was something odd about the girl’s manner. Something furtive, apprehensive, and also excited. She lowered her eyes demurely and went on down the stairs.

William went up, and knocked at Eugenia’s door. There was no reply. He listened, his ear to the wood. There was movement inside, and, he could sense, a listening watchfulness which became still, reflecting his own. He tried the door, which was locked. He listened again, and then went quickly round, through his own room and the dressing-room, opening that door without knocking.

Eugenia was lying back in her bed, largely naked, though a kind of wrapper was still clinging to her arms and shoulders. She was much plumper now, but still silky-white, still sweet. As she saw who it was, she blushed, over face and neck and breasts, a great flood of furious rose. Standing next to the bed, clothed in a shirt and nothing else, was a man, a large man with his back to William. Edgar. The room was full of an unmistakable smell, musky, salty, aphrodisiac, terrible.

William did not know what to feel. He felt revulsion, but no primeval awe. He felt a kind of grim laughter rising in him, at Edgar’s grotesque appearance, at his own open-mouthed idiocy. He felt humiliated, and simultaneously he felt hugely empowered. Edgar gave a kind of stifled bellow, and for a moment William sensed Edgar’s thought, that it would be simplest for Edgar to kill him, now, quickly, before any more could be known or could happen. He was to think later that Edgar
might
have killed him, if he had not been caught with his tail between his legs. For a naked prick which was power two minutes ago, in the presence of the female, is vulnerability and ridicule when three are in the room. He said, tersely, to Edgar, ‘Get dressed.’

Edgar fumbled obediently to obey. William became slowly decisive. He said, ‘Then go. Go
now
.’

Neither brother nor sister could say, ‘It is not what you think.’ Neither tried. Edgar’s feet would not find the outlets in his breeches. He flapped and swore to himself. William continued to watch Edgar intently and did not look at Eugenia. When Edgar bent to put on his boots, William, feeling sick and trembling with some powerful feeling said, ‘Just take those, take them, in your hand, and anything else, and get out of here.’

Edgar opened his mouth, said nothing, and closed it. William nodded at the door. ‘I told you to
go
.’

Edgar picked up his boots, and his jacket, and his whip, and went.

William looked at his wife. She was panting. It was no doubt from fear, but it resembled closely enough the pants of pleasure, which he knew.

‘You too. Dress yourself. Cover—
cover up
.’

Eugenia turned her head on her pillows towards him. Her lips were parted. Her limp legs were still parted. She lifted a tremulous hand and tried to touch his sleeve. William sprang away as though he had been stung. He repeated, with an edge in his voice, ‘Dress yourself.’

She rolled herself very slowly out of the bed, and gathered up her clothes. They were cast down here and there in the room. Stockings on the carpet, drawers on a chair, her corset draped over a stool.

‘It is like a whorehouse,’ said William, simply telling the truth, and betraying himself into the bargain, which went unnoticed. He remembered, then, thinking he might smutch her, God help him. His sickness increased. She ran around, curved on herself, cradling her breasts in her arms, moaning.

‘I can’t put this on without Bella—help me.’

‘I shan’t touch you. Leave it off. Hurry. You are horrible to see.’

She obeyed, and put on a white dress, which hung oddly on her uncompressed flesh. She sat down at the mirror and made one or two automatic passes with the hairbrush. When she saw her own face, a few tears fell between the pretty lashes. She sat, lumpish, in front of her mirror.