The Language of Paradise: A Novel (39 page)

“Enough now, leave a few branches to shade us in the summer,” Leander tells him, and the boy turns slack at his master’s mild reprimand and shuffles to a corner, scowling. He misses the thwack of the axe, Sophy guesses; also the sticky ooze of the wounded tree. Lem is a souvenir of Leander’s teaching days, recently ended. He does much of the physical work about the place, and is most tolerable when occupied. She and Gideon are a little afraid of him, though Leander insists he’s a gentle soul, roughened by hard use. Deprived of activity, he emanates a noxious compound of ill will and strong odor. Smells—even good ones—don’t always sit well with Sophy in her present state. She is grateful for the pungent, scouring fragrance of the pine.

In the midst of all this industry, she is the potted plant, spreading where they’ve placed her. She spends the brightest part of each day in here, conscientiously basking for the baby’s sake. Young plants don’t grow well in the dark, Leander reminds her, and it stands to reason that the same applies to infants. Sophy shuts her ears to his lectures on the Romans and their solariums, but has to confess she finds the sun nourishing. They’ve moved her rocking chair in, and someone—Gideon, she hopes—has thought to provide a chamberpot. Gideon keeps her company when he can. He has inherited a couple of Leander’s old students, sons of a dry goods merchant with aspirations beyond the village school, and three days a week he walks an hour to their house to tutor them; after months of tedious labor, he’s eager to call upon his old skills. Sophy doesn’t mind being alone. If Leander wanders in, she pretends to be asleep. Conversation is an effort. Her thoughts are few and sluggish. Her paintings are stacked along the back wall, safely covered. Pictures don’t come to her any more, but neither do the fears and worries that plagued her only weeks ago. She has surrendered to her body. At night she lifts her gown and combs the stretched skin with her nails. This is her greatest pleasure, though never enough to sate the itching. If Lem weren’t here, she would risk a swipe under her apron now.

MAMA
’
S THROAT HAS NOT IMPROVED
, but she makes her presence known in her notes and potions. Lately she’s instructed Sophy about Hardening the Nipples, and sent tincture of myrrh to toughen them for nursing. Twice a day, dutifully, Sophy lowers her chemise and bathes her breasts in the solution, marveling at their size and fullness, wondering if the baby will suck them small again or if she’ll be allowed to keep them. Usually she performs this rite in private, but on a morning last week she delayed her ablutions to coincide with Gideon’s. He seems oblivious to her lately, except as a vessel for the child. At times she even misses his skewed attentions in the study.

It was perhaps not the best moment. He was preparing to see his students, harried, pulling out one drawer after another in search of a shirt that could pass for clean. “We’ll have to find someone to do the washing until you’re able to work again. Look at this rag. You’d think I cleaned a lamp with it—” He waved a shirt at her, and she was ready, turning from the basin, breasts glistening.

He gaped and looked away, but not before she caught the raw shock in his face. “What are you doing, Sophy? Cover yourself, you’ll catch cold!”

She could have offered a simple explanation. She meant to. Instead she said, “I thought you might enjoy that I’m more womanly now—seeing as the rest of me is unsightly.”

He pulled a shirt over his head. “Why must you use such a word? Naturally you’re more womanly now, what else would you be? You look just as you ought to, and I
enjoy
you as I always have. You must try not to be so hard on yourself. Leander says women often fall into these moods toward the end.” He dropped a distracted kiss on her brow, staying well clear of the startling objects below, and went back to the dresser to root for a cravat.

HALF-PAST THREE
, the sky already darkening. Gideon and Leander gather armfuls of branches for the sitting room, and Lem follows, a stroke behind. The greenery has put them in a festive mood. Leander is promising to make eggnog “with a drop of brandy to help our little mother sleep.” Sophy understands, from a drowsy distance, that they are having a joke at her expense, for at this hour of the afternoon she couldn’t stay awake if she wanted to; by now she’s half-gone. Gideon adjusts her lap robe and he and Leander look down on her with that fond, patronizing gaze: she is another kind of prodigy now. Lem’s heavy presence is felt in passing. Even his shadow must be thick.

The room is warm, too warm, but outside snow has begun to fall as it does most afternoons when the sun sinks: big, lazy flakes drifting down. What a thin skin the glass is, yet how strong, keeping out the elements and who knows what creatures of the wild, wolves, bears . . . The baby moves suddenly, sharply, and she imagines him on his knees, his fists punching at the wall of her, trying to see out. Then it is she, Sophy, peering through a window. Bars interrupt her view, but she can see the spears of pine trees marching into a brilliant white distance. The sight fills her with longing. Such a vastness out there, and less and less room inside, the air so thick with moisture she can scarcely draw it in, even if she had space for a full breath. Her arms—how long have they been pinned to her sides? In a fit of impatience she works her wedged hands out until she can grab hold of the bars and shakes them until they way. She rises, the ground dwindling beneath her. At first it seems nothing has changed. The atmosphere is as oppressive as before, but her vision has sprung free. She is hovering above, looking down upon a mountain of a man sprawled on his side across the snow, solid as the earth he rests on but for the aperture in his middle, in which is framed . . . a woman’s face. Perspective is the Devil’s trick, but wonder of wonders! The world is infinitely larger than she knew, and so brazen-bright it pricks her eyes.

“Such a beatific smile. You must be dreaming of angels.” Gideon breathes brandy into her face. “Are you ready to wake up and be merry with us?”

While she slept, they transformed the conservatory around her. Candles glimmer atop upright logs and on pedestals of stacked stones, their flames doubled, blearily luminous in the glass. They’ve moved the table in, and dressed it tastefully: a white cloth, a vase of holly with a candle on either side, three flowered china plates from some long-departed aunt, and cut-glass goblets at each place, mismatched but harmonious.

Sophy blinks, suspended between two dreams, trying to make sense of this dazzling new realm. Gideon is her only orientation, and he is flushed and grinning, his hair tumbled over his forehead. “Come see what the elves wrought.”

He arranges her shawl around her and helps her to her feet. She is a little shaky, as she sometimes gets after a long sleep, and the whiff of spirits is not pleasant. Putting a hand on his arm, she moves stiffly, with a dawning sense that something has shifted inside her. A few more steps, and she knows she isn’t imagining it. The mound has descended. It is a revelation at once momentous and casual, for here she is, still in one piece and in no apparent discomfort. She takes an experimental breath, and finds that the crowding she’s endured for weeks is eased, the air reaching deeper down.

Gideon is looking at her anxiously. “Is everything all right?”

She pats herself to make sure. The baby is safely in residence, but no longer squeezed under her breastbone. She knows what this must mean; yet she feels lighter—buoyant even, as if a weight has been lifted off her. Eating has been a duty lately, each bite forced down only to be sent up again half-digested, but she has space now for her share of the feast.

“Oh, I’m quite comfortable,” she says, smiling at him.

Leander marches in, bearing aloft one of her mixing bowls brimming with white, foaming liquid, singing, “
The eggnog in hand bring I, perfumed with spice and brand-ee-iiii
. . .” He lowers it to the table without spilling a drop, and flings out an arm as if he’d just pulled a rabbit out of a hat.

Sophy claps her hands like a child. She would like to hold herself aloof from all this, to declare her preference for the austere observances of the Hedge house, the crèche on the mantel and the Nativity story read aloud by the fire. She ought at least to bemoan the prodigal waste of candle wax. But the magical atmosphere absolves her—absolves all of them. They have been serious for too long.

Leander dips the ladle in and gives her the first cup. “Perfectly wholesome,” he assures her. “Eggs and milk, with the merest whisper of spirits.”

Sophy sniffs cautiously: nutmeg and cinnamon. She intends only a few sips, but once she tastes it, she must have more. It is a concoction uniquely devised for her present state. She would happily subsist on this nectar for the rest of the pregnancy, though she can taste the brandy: a subtle serpent, its insinuations lathered in cream.

The bowl is nearly empty when Leander remembers that a proper meal is waiting. This is a matter of general hilarity for the eggnog is rich and no one is hungry. They laugh harder when they see that he has stuck quills in the capon, exalting it to a dainty dish to set before a king. Medieval manners prevail; they tear off pieces of the bird without bothering to carve it, and spoon up turnip and potato direct from the serving dishes. Tonight they are free from their earnest everyday selves. Different with each other, too. For the first time since Leander and Gideon set up the household, they are treating her as a true companion, not Little Wife, nor Holy Mother, nor stubborn child. It is a great relief, after too many long, solitary winter days, to put off her reserve and laugh with them in this easy way. She feels, for the moment, glad to be part of this odd little community. Also, a fugitive fondness for the schoolmaster. Whatever else he might be, he makes a clever fool. They can dispense with the peacocks, he’s all the amusement they need.

“A tune!” Leander says. Sophy has forgotten the tin whistle; he hasn’t played since they moved here. He lifts the hem of the tablecloth, and she watches wide-eyed, waiting for him to whip it into the air and magick the leavings of dinner away. Instead, he opens the door and calls for Lem, who is still here, crouched in some corner of the dark house with his bread and meat. He never eats with them, though Leander has invited him. For all his crudeness he is a creature of propriety, as shy of their company as they are of his, an arrangement that, truth to tell, suits everyone. The men clear the table quickly, and, with Lem hefting the chairs, carry it back to the dining room. The boy doesn’t return. She imagines him in the kitchen running his fingers around the eggnog bowl, sucking them one by one.

Emptied of temporary furnishings, the glasshouse seems capacious beyond its true dimensions, a long glinting blackness stitched with light from end to end. Leander declares he feels like a minstrel in a great hall.

“A ballroom,” Sophy insists. In the novels she used to hide from Papa, there was always a ballroom.

“Well, then, we will dance.” He hooks her rocking chair with one hand and drops it with a thud in its old place by the bedroom hearth.

Leander puts the tin whistle to his lips, and after a few sputters, launches into a melody that Sophy has never heard. It isn’t one of the familiar carols. The notes are meandering and plaintive, rather as she imagines Gypsy music to be. A thin stream only—a whistle is no violin—yet they pull at her. She begins to sway, swishing her skirt from side to side, and her feet follow. She can’t kick and spin as she once did, but her bulk is her pride, to be carried with dignity: the good ship Sophia in full sail. It is fitting that Gideon should bow before her, and call her Milady, and steer her up and down the floor, and turn her with a touch, Leander piping away until he joins them, the three of them linking hands and weaving in and out and under, dancing to the music in their heads as, one by one, the candles gutter out.

When a single flame remains, drowning in its pool of wax, they come apart. In the dark they are ghostly to one another, she and Gideon making one shade, Leander looming before them. Leander leans in close and kisses her full on the lips; then he kisses Gideon. It is a seal, a solemn imprinting.

GIDEON IS TOO FATIGUED
to worry about the wisdom of their late night. He manages to pull his boots off and loosen his trousers before collapsing on the cold bed. He fans his arms back and forth over the linen to stir some warmth, moaning, “Hurry, Sophy, I need you.”

It is left to her to build the fire, though they won’t get much benefit from it. Shivering, leaning toward the feeble heat, she peels off her stockings. As she lifts her dress over her head, a wave of nausea hits her. She barely has time to get to the basin. The eggnog comes up, and the capon, and the remnants of their festive Yule, the laughing, the dancing, the kiss. A long, nasty business. When it’s over, she crawls into bed, cradling her belly, and draws the covers over both of them, inching Gideon’s arm to his own side. He slept through it all, sprawled where he dropped.

Sophy closes her eyes and composes herself as best she can. Sleeping on her back is unnatural for her; these last weeks she’s reposed most nights between fitful dozing and waking. Gideon’s snores erupt raggedly, jarring her anew each time, and even with a wall between, she can hear the panes in the glasshouse rattle with each gust of wind. Minutes pass, or hours. She feels a need to use the chamberpot. Tries to ignore the urge—what can be left in her?—but it is pressing.

Unwieldy as she is, it is a feat akin to levitation to stay clear of the icy rim. Sophy squats as best she can, straining but issuing only a trickle of water. After a few minutes she struggles to her feet, realizing too late that she wasn’t finished after all, she’s drizzling down the inside of her leg. Her fingers come away clear, and only then does her heart begin to race, her weary mind warning her of the risk of blood. No use looking for a cloth now, might as well use her shift.

As she dabs at herself, the cramp grips, clenching her from back to thighs, doubling her over. She gasps, too shocked to cry out. Tells herself it must be her bowels, it’s too soon for the other. When it passes, she is afraid to lie down; she paces back and forth, hands on her back. Then she remembers the mock pains the women spoke about. Their voices rush in on her, a comforting chorus.
Not due for a week . . . came regular every five minutes . . . had me thinking I’d push my firstborn out all alone and not a soul near to help.