Ollie's Cloud (16 page)

“Herbert, what’s that up ahead?” he asks.

Herbert shrugs his shoulders. As the carriage draws near to the commotion, Ollie hears voices shouting, but he can’t make out the words. Suddenly, Herbert yells, “Driver, pull up, will you?”

“What is it?” Anne asks.

“I don’t know, but it looks like some kind of trouble. Stay here.” Herbert’s news instincts draw him out of the carriage. Turning up his collar, he starts to walk toward the crowd of seven or eight men, then turns to see Ollie following him.

Three men are pulling ropes connected to something heavy that is located down the steep embankment. Herbert holds up a card and says, “I’m Herbert Eaton with the London Times. What’s the trouble here?”

One of the men, mud-spattered to his waist, says, “The Times, eh? This mean we’re going to make the papers?”

“That depends on what you’re doing here.”

“A woman coming across the bridge saw a man leap into the river—suicide, probably. Never hit the water, though. Body hit the rocks under the bridge.”

“Who was the man?”

“Between you and me, sir, I’ve got no idea, that’s the truth. Haven’t got the body up here yet. It’s on the other end of the rope here.”

Feeling a bit foolish just standing there, Herbert grabs one end of a rope and helps to pull up the body. Ollie joins him. After five minutes or so, a lumpy corpse finally appears on the level grade of the bridge. As men are fascinated by dead things, the rope pullers gather around it.

Ollie remains on the fringe of the group, not anxious to see the remains but able to hear the voices of the men. “Some sort of priest, I’d say, from his clothing,” one of them says. “Any identification on him?” asks another.

And then Ollie hears Herbert’s voice, calm but grim. “I know this man,” Herbert says. “His name is Reginald Pennick.”

Ollie pushes his way through the thick knot of men and sees the body lying there. More than any of the others, he understands what has happened, and yet he does not feel sadness for the priest—or shock, or regret. He looks at the limp, corpulent body and feels nothing except… What name can he give this feeling that is starting to rush through his body, making his head swirl and his feet tingle? Yes, of course.

Pleasure.

Chapter 17

Anne’s April wedding to Herbert Eaton is distilled to its essence, a simple ceremony presided over by Judge Horace McIntyre, a close friend of Mrs. Chadwick. In the backyard of Mum’s Belgravia mansion, attended only by close family and friends, the service lasts but fifteen minutes, including a short interlude for an unscheduled cloudburst. Despite the miniaturization of the wedding, the account of it dominates the first page of the
London Times
Society section; it is fully eight inches longer than the meager story of Reginald Pennick’s suicide, which had been published on the fourth page of the News section several weeks earlier.

The heart of the wedding story is a revisitation of Anne’s adventures in Persia and eventual “escape” (no longer a “rescue” by that scoundrel Gordon Cranston). The story had been carefully concocted in advance by Anne and Herbert in a crafty attempt to resurrect interest in the exotic tale and reinvigorate Anne’s flagging lecture career. Long ago she had abandoned the “free” talks at Evangelical religious meetings to concentrate on maximizing the economic gain from her notoriety, but the attention span of fickle Londoners has proven to be limited and there is no shortage of exciting tales by returning explorers and soldiers, sudden political whirlwinds, local scandals, and bloody murders to replace the increasing staleness of Anne’s exploits in the public mind. The tactic works, and within days of the wedding new letters begin to arrive inquiring about Anne’s availability to speak at meetings throughout the city.

Appreciating now the value of publicity, Anne proposes that Mrs. Chadwick reconsider the publication of Gordon’s book with several important revisions. The author of the new version, of course, would be Anne herself, but Herbert would be her ghost-writer. Herbert thinks it is a good idea and supports Anne’s appeal to Mrs. Chadwick, who at last relents with a wordless and dismissive wave of the hand.

As the press of writing consumes Herbert, the act of recreating and revising her life rejuvenates Anne, and after supper she often takes the carriage to the Charterhouse, gathers up Ollie, and heads to the theatre. Increasingly, the fantastic images and shocking plot twists of the evening’s entertainment begin to influence and embroider her version of adventures in Persia, which with each retelling becomes less fact and more fiction.

Chapter 18

It is the saddest day in Ollie‘s fifteen years; sadder even than the day he was uprooted from Bushruyih and separated from his father and Jalal. He can think of nothing that compares to the despair that he feels as Mum’s coffin is lowered into a dark rectangular pit on the grounds of Chillington-hall. Though he had roamed these grounds freely during holidays, he had never before seen this small, secluded cemetery on the eastern side of the mansion.

The bones of many ancestors rest here, and a disturbing thought occurs to him: one day, perhaps, his own bones will molder in a grave on this very spot. Only the brilliant spring morning, with new life budding in the trees, gives Ollie solace.

To the left of Mum’s grave is a weathered tombstone identifying the grave of great-grandfather Edward Chadwick. To Mum’s right is another marker for her son, Augustus; Ollie knows that this grave is empty, for his grandfather and grandmother, Elizabeth, died somewhere in Persia attending to God’s business.
Where will Anne’s grave be
, he wonders,
and mine?
He wants to be buried near Mum.

Numbed by the death, he remembers little of the dignified ceremony except that no one cried—no one except Ollie, who cried silently. Perhaps this is the fate of those who grow very old and die in the fullness of time; few are left to mourn them, and the young ones remaining are glad to have the decks swept clean at last.

The old woman had just missed the publication date of
Midnight March to Freedom
, Herbert Eaton’s version of Anne’s story, but tomorrow the volume arrives in bookstores throughout London. To celebrate the long-awaited event, Anne has invited Oliver home for dinner,
home
being the Belgravia estate now solely occupied and managed with glowing pride by Anne and her husband on behalf of Oliver, the legal heir.

For months, Anne’s speaking career has been slowly rising as the evangelical fever of America has slowly spread like a contagion throughout London. The smart gilt-edged first edition of
Midnight March
, with enticing pen-and-ink drawings by Harold Willoughby, London’s foremost book illustrator, will surely turn the fever to her advantage. Already, the Evangelicals—who usually plead that they are “poor as church mice”—have been offering substantial fees for Anne’s services. With a little luck, a retooled presentation emphasizing her “redemption” from pagan Islam, assisted by her prodigious storytelling talent, can turn her into the spokesperson for revival in London.

For a substantial fee.

With Anne’s agile mind occupied by career-building, it is Herbert who has preserved and deepened a relationship with Oliver. Their common interest in writing—news writing in particular—has built a bridge between them that is now well worn from frequent travel. Herbert appreciates the boy’s interest in his craft, and basks in Ollie’s admiration of his talent and skill, though he realizes that his own abilities have limits.

On this particular evening, this celebration of the release of the magnificent George C. Boothby & Sons edition of the book, Ollie finds himself reliving past moments. As on that first evening nearly three years ago, the room is dominated by a long mahogany table and twelve brocaded chairs. He has eaten in this room many times—everything here is familiar—but his thoughts return to that very first dinner, with Mum at the head of the table. Reginald Pennick and Herbert Eaton had been seated to her right, Gordon and Anne—after the harem-girl’s dramatic entrance—were to the old woman’s left. Everything in this room is the same, the crystal bowl filled with fruit, the gleaming dishes and sparkling silverware, even the long-stemmed wine glasses filled with port. But it is all wrong! Mum is not seated at the head of the table; that chair is now occupied by Anne. Herbert has shifted to the other side of the table, now seated to Anne’s left next to an empty chair, presumably Ollie’s. The two chairs to Anne’s right are filled with unfamiliar people, just as Herbert and Reginald were unfamiliar to Ollie that first evening.

Suddenly, Oliver is homesick for where he is. He longs to be in this very dining room, with this very table and these chairs and those long-stemmed glasses, but at an earlier time. A time before Reginald was a villain and Herbert was Ollie’s step-father. A time when Anne was still a mother, not a lecturer, and the Charterhouse was still an English madrisih. A time when Mum was alive.

The sadness that overcomes him is almost unbearable. He steps away from the door to quiet his emotions before entering and decides to think of happy memories to lighten his mood. But what? For a few unbearable, frightening seconds, he can think of nothing. And then an unexpected image appears. A smiling, sun-sweetened face. A twelve-year-old boy.

Jalal.

Never has Ollie felt so alone. Mum has died, perhaps to escape the lies and half-truths in the book. And Anisa—his mother Anne—has exposed the wide gulf between them. He feels like crying, but a young man of fifteen should not cry, so he stands, crosses the room to a writing desk, and finds a piece of note paper. Dipping a quill into the inkwell, he readies himself to write. He will record his feelings, document the conversation with his mother, nudge the river of ink into answers. Writing helps him organize his thoughts, and as the first words appear on the page, he is surprised to find them moving from right to left.

In Farsi.

Chapter 19

Discriminating book buyers from all over London patronize Bumble & Stryker, a labyrinthine purveyor of new and used books for the erudite (and those who pretend to erudition.) The publication of a major new book is a seed from which germinates countless blooms of conversation among the well-rooted members of fashionable society.

Nobody who is anybody can afford to be uninformed of the latest literary sensation, for during the London Season—called simply “the Season” by those whose lives become sodden with the social froth of this annual rite—one’s ignorance can be easily and publicly laid bare. Indeed, it is the intent of many during the Season to expose the deficits of others, no matter how petty, lowering by degrees the standing of rivals and elevating one’s own position by comparison, as if there is a fixed amount of status to be continuously rebalanced.

Fool’s Day is the favored time, then, for releasing a new work in the book stores of London, for it demarcates the home stretch of preparation for the Season, the Party That Lasts One Hundred Days. There is only a month to bone up on the latest volumes.

April is the month for sending and receiving invitations to a whirlwind of court balls and concerts, private balls and dinner parties, debuts and dances and sporting events, all of which earnestly begin in May. In the brief span of time until August 12, when Parliament adjourns (and, coincidentally, grouse season opens), London turns into a simmering stewpot of matchmaking. Titled girls—and the daughters of clergy, military officers, physicians and barristers—are queued up and presented, always by a lady of higher rank, to the Queen; without such an anointing, they are not eligible for introduction to potential suitors during the Season. Once presented, prospective brides may attend as many as fifty balls in one Season, sixty parties, and two dozen breakfasts and dinners. Presentation to the Queen ignites a fuse that burns bright and hot; if these girls are not married within one or two Seasons, they are considered failures. If unmarried by thirty, they become hopeless spinsters unlikely ever to marry within (or above) their station.

April is also a month of crushing humiliation for those ladies and gentlemen who find themselves suddenly among the Unforgivens, exiled from important events because of some social faux pas of the previous year, or a financial reversal, or perhaps the merest taint of scandal among one’s cousins. When invitations to the expected “occasions” do not materialize in the post, and the invitations sent out are returned with the poisonous inscription
Regret Not Able To Attend
, the rejection can bring about an early winter of despair before the Season has even begun.

April is a popular month for suicides.

In Bumble and Stryker, Anne Chadwick is seated behind an elegantly carved walnut table stacked high with copies of
Midnight March to Freedom
. She is privileged to be one of two “authors” allowed to sign books for purchasers, and the queue for her autograph stretches out the front door and halfway to the butcher’s shop. The book is a handsome leather-bound edition with the title embossed in gold foil and the attribution “By Anne Chadwick Eaton and Herbert Eaton.” While hurriedly signing her name, the dulled quill in her hand spatters ink onto her dogskin gloves and she curses silently; a true “lady” would not be seen at this time of year with ink-stained gloves. She turns to a silent figure perched on a tall stool behind her and says, “Herbert, I need another pair of gloves, if you would be so kind.”

Herbert Eaton stands wearily and ambles out in search of ladies gloves. He had put so much work into that bloody book, but no one wants
his
name signed on its title page. They only want Anne’s. The Harem Girl. At least he is married to a woman that most men would give an arm to possess, and has moved from his moldy bachelor cottage to a mansion in Belgravia. Still, being assigned to the servant-girl’s duty of fetching gloves is humiliating.

Inside the bookstore, Anne continues to scrawl her name in book after book. Despite her spoiled gloves and stiffening fingers, she smiles, looking up only occasionally at the buyers. At last she sets the quill down and massages her cramping hand; she can rest for a moment or two, surely. Perhaps find a knife to sharpen the dull quill.

As her eyes scan the table for a sharp implement, she feels a presence before her. How odd, that the socially attuned body can almost mystically sense the aura of the socially elevated ones. Without even lifting her eyes, Anne knows that the woman standing before her is rich and powerful; the gravitational pull of the lady’s influence is immense. As the woman had approached the signing table, the others had backed away in hushed reverence, like the parting of the Red Sea.

“My goodness, child, you are a beauty, just as your grandmother told me,” the woman says, her voice caressing the words like a lullaby. “Miss Chadwick—I suppose I should call you Mrs. Eaton now,” the woman continues, “I am Lady Cowper. Agnes, if you like. Pleased to meet you.”

Anne wilts. Slumps in her chair. Reddens with embarrassment at her speechlessness. She knows of Lady Cowper; who doesn’t? As one of the Patronesses of Almack’s Assembly Rooms, she is one of the de facto Queens of London Society. Almack’s on King’s Street is the glittering site of Wednesday night balls during the Season, and the premier curtain-raiser for society debutantes. Along with her doughty cronies—Lady Sarah Jersey, Lady Castlereigh, Lady Sefton, Princess Esterhazy, and the Countess of Leiven—Lady Cowper arbitrarily decides the social fate of countless young ladies who long for, live for,
compete
for the cherished prize of their approval. Rejection (horrors!) means unbearable humiliation and disgrace from which no recovery is imaginable. Life would be over.

If accepted, however, and upon payment of a subscription fee of ten guineas, these nubile nymphs are admitted into Almack’s holy chambers for the Season, and by extension into London society’s highest circles. It is a ticket to rub shoulders with the
ton
, that envied set of people who possess the threefold advantage of being rich, well-born, and fashionable. The lustrous Assembly Rooms are fertile ground for husband hunting, and the debutantes, who have been bred to beautify and dignify the male of the species with their doting presence, coquettishly strut and flirt and fan their feathers to attract a mate from among the most highly placed bachelors in London.

Unlike much of London bureaucracy, bribes to obtain acceptance are wholly ineffective, and the Patronesses are not easily swayed by social rank or personal wealth. Anne has heard that several years earlier, the Duke of Wellington had been denied entry to the Rooms—imagine!—because of the double solecism of tardiness (he arrived at 11:07 p.m.) and unacceptable attire (he had worn trousers rather than knee-breeches as prescribed by the Committee.)

Such is the power of the dowagers of Almack’s.

Lady Cowper, slim and perky for a woman of sixty, with loose-fitting skin that suggests rapid weight loss for the Season, studies Anne for a moment and then cocks her head before saying, “I would like to purchase one of your books.”

This breaks Anne’s stupor and she murmurs a quiet, “Oh, my, yes—of course. I’m so sorry, I was just not expecting—I was… surprised, that is—“

“That’s perfectly all right, my dear. Your grandmother told me so much about you—before her untimely passing, such a tragedy that was!—I feel as though I practically know you.”

Anne is astonished and delighted that Emily Chadwick had spoken of her to such esteemed acquaintances. “We all grieved for weeks. I thought of her more as a mother than a grandmother.”

“You didn’t know your mother very well?”

“I was young when she was killed in Persia.” Anne hands a copy of
Midnight March
to Lady Cowper, explaining, “It’s all in the book, actually.”

Lady Cowper does not touch the book in Anne’s outstretched hand. “If you’d be so good as to sign it for me, dear,” she says.

Embarrassed, Anne sets the book onto the table’s surface and opens the cover. “Of course, I’m so sorry,” she says, her cheeks pink-tinged with embarrassment.
Lady Cowper must think her such a jinglebrained mushroom!
She takes up her quill, dips it into the inkwell, and begins to inscribe her name on the title page.

Lady Cowper eyes the ink-spattered gloves on Anne’s delicate hands. “Oh, my dear, this will not do at all.” As Anne finishes her signature, Lady Cowper reaches out gracefully and takes Anne’s writing hand in her own, gazing at it dolefully. “Not with the Season upon us.”

Suddenly Anne understands the woman’s meaning and again her cheeks rouge brightly with the ruby betrayal of her mortification. “I’m so sorry. I was… I sent my husband to—”

“Don’t worry, my dear. Your hands are about the same size as mine.” Lady Cowper opens her satin, pearl-rimmed purse and plucks from it a pair of white silk gloves. “These will do, I believe. I always have a second pair, just in case.” She hands the gloves to Anne. “We can’t have a new Member of Almack’s signing her name in stained gloves now, can we? Some very important people will be seeing you today.”

Anne removes her dogskin gloves and slowly takes Lady Cowper’s. She begins to put them on before she comprehends what has just happened.

“Lady Cowper,” she timidly says, “did I hear you correctly? Have I been accepted into Almack’s?.”

“It was one of your grandmother’s final wishes, and after meeting you—gloves notwithstanding, under the circumstances—I see no reason not to honor her wish. Of course, there will be the matter of the subscription fee.”

“Oh, that will be no problem I assure you.”

“Of course not. You can bring it to the first Wednesday ball.”

“Of course. There is one other little matter that just occurred to me. I was wondering about my husband, you see… whether he will be permitted to accompany me to the balls.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Herbert Eaton of the
London Times
. Forgive me, my dear—so many of the young ladies we accept are unattached and prefer to attend our events unaccompanied. Of course, we have our rules.”

“Oh yes, I understand completely. If it is not possible—“

“I suggest you bring your Mr. Eaton to the Rooms. Let me see now—” Lady Cowper pauses and rolls her eyes toward the ceiling, as if consulting a calendar up there, then continues: “Wednesday afternoon would be a convenient time for us. We can interview him then. Naturally, I am only one vote, but if he makes a favorable impression on the Committee, then—” Lady Cowper raises a flat palm in a gesture of optimism.

“How generous of you!” Anne hands the book to Lady Cowper.

“I shall read it with great interest before the Season begins,” the older woman says. “I’m certain it will be much discussed this year. You may keep the gloves, my dear, but do be careful with the quill.”

Lady Cowper wheels and glides effortlessly out of the store, the very picture of dignity.

With the excitement of the afternoon, Anne has forgotten about Herbert’s mission of mercy, so she is surprised when he enters the book store with a long flat box tied with a pale yellow ribbon. He is in a much better mood than when he left, a wide grin exposing uneven teeth yellowed by pipe smoke. The musty smell of ale that clings to him like an aura explains the length of his absence.

“Here they are, my sweet,” he says, proudly holding out the box for her to take, which she does. But as her hands grasp the shiny package, Herbert notices the silky white gloves that she is wearing. Not an ink stain on them! Confused, he looks up at her and says, “I was quite certain that you needed a new pair of gloves. Or was it stockings?” He cocks his head and looks down at her ankles. The ale has addled his brain.

“Yes, Luv, I did. Until Lady Cowper loaned me a pair of hers.”

“Lady Cowper!” he shouts. “Herself?” He is impressed.

“In person. I’ve been accepted into Almack’s for the Season.”

“That is wonderful news! What a Season this will be. And my book is out just in time. Boothby’s timing is impeccable, isn’t it?” His spirits are soaring so high that he risks a sardonic thrust of his verbal sword in retaliation for his injured pride: “I didn’t know that Evangelicals were admitted into the Best Circle.”

Anne flinches but chooses to ignore his remark. Instead, she parries: “After you meet with the Committee, my dear, I’m sure they’ll permit you to accompany me.”

“
Permit
me to—?” The phrase—the concept—steals the joy from him. He grows suddenly somber, his moods magnified by the two pints sloshing in his belly. “What am I to make of that? A group of old women passing judgment on
me
?” But then he remembers the well-publicized incident with the Duke of Wellington. Thoughtfully now he says, “And when will this audition take place?”

“I’m sure it’s just a formality, Luv. Please be a good boy and try not to spoil this for me?” She leans forward and kisses him, stifling a gasp at the stale odor of alcohol that he exudes.

He can smell her sweet and humid breath, feel her soft lips so succulent and tender, her warm body pressing against him. The flesh is weak. As she withdraws, he can see her lips pouting as if the kiss had not ended, and her moist eyes smiling at him expectantly.

“Of course, of course,” he says, or something like that. As soon as he speaks, he forgets what he said. What he wants now is another pint of ale to marinate his twice-wounded pride. “I’ll be off, then. “I have some business. The carriage will pick you up at six as we planned.”

He turns and hurriedly leaves Bumble & Stryker to the care of his wife. Marching blindly through the double doors to the street, he bumps into another pedestrian and mutters an insincere apology without looking up.

The jostled man, who follows Herbert with his eyes, is an odd sight on the London street. In contrast to the many clerks and businessmen who stride about in their severe waistcoats of black or gray and crisply pressed hats, he is attired in a flowing cream tunic and elaborately layered turban. He speaks quietly to a companion and the words, if heard by Herbert or any other Londoner, would be gibberish. The two men nod to each other, and then the first man looks into the shining window of Bumble & Stryker. There, on a carpet of burgundy felt, is a display of books called
Midnight March to Freedom
. The man cannot read the title—he can read only the simplest English—but he can clearly see the centerpiece of the display, a poster with a magnificent life-size portrait of the exotic Anne Chadwick imaginatively dressed as a harem girl; the publisher is counting on the woman’s exquisite beauty to sell a considerable number of books.