‘Yes,’ she’d replied, her imagination taking flight, soaring high as the kites, to bucket and spade holidays and Christmas trees.
‘I worry,’ she’d said to him later. ‘That if I have children I might…’
It was an accepted psychological fact. That the abused became abusers? Did the abandoned become abandoners?
‘I’m sure you’ll do everything you can to make sure you have the kind of relationship with your children that you’ve missed out on.’ That was what he did. Drove all the fears and ghosts and dark spaces away. Let her sleep at night. ‘If you had a little girl, what would you call her?’
‘Catherine.’
He had looked at her as if she’d said something revelatory, tugged at a tuft of long grass by his foot and cast it onto the wind as if he was testing for direction. ‘Why?’
‘The name my mother used. It’s a regal name, and strong. From Russia as well as England, which seems appropriate. Katherine of Aragon the most popular of Henry VIII’s wives, and Catherine the Great, Russia’s most famous empress.’
He turned to her now. ‘Katie thinks you’re great. I’m sorry I never got around to introducing you before.’
‘It’s me that should be saying sorry.’
‘Consider it said.’
The trouble was, too many other words had also been said and hung in the air between them.
They drove back to the cottage and she went to serve up the roast while Marcus got the fire going again. Like old times.
When she took the roasting dish over to the table she saw that Marcus had taken her post and laid it in a neat pile. There was a package, in a slim padded envelope. She ignored it.
After they’d eaten they took the wine through to the living room where the fire was still blazing.
They sat on the rug in front of it.
‘You want to know about my family?’ he said. He took her hand, turned it over as if he was a fortune-teller about to read her palm, and then placed something in it, curling her fingers over it. It was a small object, cold and heavy. She opened her fingers and saw a miniature silhouette, a cameo of a shadowed face in profile, framed in a band of gold.
‘A self-portrait of my grandmother. Catherine. Katie was named after her.’
You could tell she was beautiful, just from her profile, the aquiline slope of her small nose and the spiral curls of her hair, cut out against the whiteness.
‘It tells you a surprising amount about her,’ he said. ‘Someone artistic who was interested in the past.’
Just like him.
‘Also unconventional.’ When he looked puzzled Natasha explained. ‘She chose to specialize in a medium that was redundant. Two centuries ago silhouettes were the cheapest and easiest ways for people to capture a likeness of their loved ones. A poor man’s oil painting if you like. Until photography took over.’
Later, lying in his arms, it struck her that if there was something ironic about her choice of profession – researching people’s ancestors when she had no way of finding out about her own – there was also something poignant about the career Marcus had chosen. As a boy he was given a silhouette, a shadowy outline, onto which he had to project his own image, just as he constructed faces from ancient bones.
Sometimes, as he touched her, she wanted to ask him if he used his medical art training, his understanding of anatomy and muscles and skin, when he was making love. If that was the reason he knew how to make her feel as if she came alive beneath his fingers like the faces that he created from clay. But she’d never asked because she’d never wanted to interrupt, for him to stop what he was doing.
This time though, it wasn’t the same. When he kissed her, his tongue finding hers, his fingers unpicking the buttons of her shirt, cupping her breasts in his hands, walking his fingers down her spine, it felt not like an awakening, but an exorcism, the end of something for him. He was clasping her to him at the same time as he was pushing her away. She couldn’t help thinking he’d just come back to finish it properly. So he could draw a line, move on.
When they separated, she could feel his sweat drying cold on her skin. And what made her colder still was that, just for an instant, it was Adam’s face she saw.
* * *
She woke at seven, turned over, automatically slipped her arm around him. Not tight enough.
He brought her coffee in bed like he’d always done. Except that he was already washed and dressed. He told her he was flying back to Canada at four o’clock. ‘Take care of yourself,’ he said.
She managed to say, ‘You too.’
‘Goodbye.’ He made it sound so final that the lump in her throat stopped her answering.
From the bedroom window she watched him drive away. She wondered if he felt better now.
She went to rinse their cups under the tap, couldn’t bear to wash the one he’d drunk from, set it to one side, and disconnected her brain.
Forty-Five
SHE CARRIED THE post through to her desk, peeled the adhesive tape off the padded envelope, and slid out the contents.
It was like pass the parcel. Another brown envelope and white piece of paper, embossed with the emblem that distorted in front of her still-watery eyes. The logo said St Mary’s Hospital, Norwich. The writing was sloped almost horizontal, practically illegible. A doctor’s handwriting
Dear Natasha.
Nigel Moore gave me your address. He said he’d tried to contact you but had no luck so I thought I might as well send this on anyway. I met Nigel very briefly years ago, through a friend of a friend, when we were both training at Edinburgh. He tracked me down because I’m a direct descendant of the surgeon John Marshall who I believe you are interested in. John Marshall’s son, also John, was my great-grandfather. As they say, it’s a small world, and the medical one is even smaller. As you can see, I’ve followed in my ancestor’s footsteps, not only in name.
I do hope the enclosed is of interest. It’s a letter to my great-grandfather from his sister. It’s been in my family for years – I’d be thrilled if you could shed any light on its meaning, or should I say, on the identity of the mystery lady. The other scrap of paper has always been kept with the letter – something, or nothing?
Please return at some point – no hurry,
All the best,
John Marshall
P.S. I received an e-mail recently, from another lady, in Cambridge, who is also researching the family (and who I’m ashamed to say I haven’t had the chance to get back to yet). Her name is Sue Mellanby and I’d be happy to give her your details if you think it’d be helpful.
No need. Natasha carefully tore open the smaller envelope.
The letter was two pages long, the writing instantly recognizable from Jeanette’s diary, albeit not as neat, some of the strokes were quavery, as if the hand that had held the pen was weak, not quite steady.
15 November 1872
My dear brother,
I am afraid a grave responsibility must fall to you which it had been my hope to spare you. I shall give you the facts and trust to your wisdom and compassion to deal with them as you see fit when I am gone.
It concerns the child you were led to believe Papa took in, out of the goodness of his heart, our dear little Eleanor.
It has long puzzled me, how you men can call us the weaker sex when you are such helpless imbeciles before us. I am not alone in believing that one patient of Papa’s cast her spell over many, not least her own husband, unintentional as it may have been.
No doubt she attributed Papa’s attentiveness and care, his inordinate distress on failing to pinpoint the cause of her ailments and his despair when his remedies failed to revive her, to the natural conscientiousness of a dedicated physician. I assume Papa was a great comfort to the poor girl, for I understand her husband did not find her sickness easy to cope with, leaving Papa as her protector and confidante. The one on whom she depended to relieve her pain, both mental and physical. Indeed one must see Papa’s attempts to cure her as a se
lfless occupation! For if she were made well, she would have no further need for his ministrations, and he would be no longer permitted his daily visits.
I like to think it was some strange enchantment that befell him on the night he attended her confinement. For so it seemed when he sent for me, and I arrived at her apartment to find him, his hair and face wild, a pathetic bundle in his arms, hidden in a blanket. In the previous weeks Papa had spoken about his fears for the infant, since it had stopped moving in the womb and on first sight I believed her surely dead, for she was quite blue and made no sound.
But, fearing for Father’s state of mind, I did as I was bid when he urged me to hurry to our fireside, swaddle the infant in warm blankets until his return. Whereupon I witnessed what I can still only describe as a miracle, as I watched him rub the tiny limbs until the colour returned and finally she gave the faintest mewing sound, so much like a kitten. He believed that his understanding of the workings of the circulatory system could bring about what others would deem a miracle. He called on the power of God to heal and said he felt it flowing through his finger tips.
Believing that unfulfilled hope is more dangerous than no hope, Papa had immediately told the baby’s mother that she was born dead. He did not consider this a deception, since he’d discovered only the faintest of heart beats and believed it more than likely that the event would happen soon. He deemed it better for its mother never to have seen the child than to have to exhaust what little reserves of strength she herself had in tending and nursing her, only to watch her slip away after a matter of hours or days.
I have always believed that it was Papa’s intention to attempt to restore the child to full health and return her to her mother, who, he trusted, would be so overcome with gratitude and delight that she would not question his actions.
I would like to say that I advised him against this course of action, and beseeched him to think again. But I did not. He seemed so sure, so steadfast. I assisted him in the care of the infant and grew very fond of her. Papa of course fell under a second enchantment. He could not help it, so alike was she, even from the first, to her mother. That same delicate face, sleepy eyes and wraith-like disposition. I feared that he would never be able to part with her, and admit the prospect was painful to me too.
And alas the parting was never to come. On the night of 11 February, when I was nursing the child by the fireside, Father was called out to attend her mother. He returned some hours later and took little Eleanor, for so we called her from the start, into his arms. He would not speak to me and there were tears in his eyes. I went to fetch him a glass of brandy and returned to find he’d left the room and taken the child with him. Fearing what I thought the worst, that Papa’s actions had been discovered and he was reuniting the child with her rightful mother, I sat beside the fire, and waited, my own heart about to burst. It was then I noticed a scrap of paper at the edge of the fire, crumpled, as if it had been thrown there. I did not understand the meaning of the few words written upon it until I heard the news the next morning.
I suppose her poor husband in his grief never noticed it. Father’s motives for taking it I cannot explain, for he does not know I ever saw it or have it still. I do not know if he feels guilt for her death, or if indeed he should. That surely rests with her husband if anyone. But with her melancholy disposition, perhaps no one could have made her happy, not least a demanding, sickly child. Papa had of course dealt before with those who had taken their own life, and I suspect he did not want that slur to sully the poor girl’s reputation, for her to be denied a Christian burial. This last service to her memory, to pronounce her death an accident and destroy the evidence to the contrary, I am certain he saw as his atonement.
Of course I cannot tell little Eleanor of all this whilst Papa lives. Indeed I do not know if it is ever right to tell her, or how much she should be told. It is a decision in which, once again, death will intervene, will save me at least from having to make.
Your devoted sister, Jeanette
The coil of red hair in the locket. Bethany’s great-great-great-grandmother. It might not be Jeanette Marshall’s hair at all. It might be a strand of the most famous red-gold hair in art history.
A tingle went down Natasha’s spine. The shadow on the Little Barrington photos. When Bethany had been posing as Ophelia. As Lizzie Siddal. She cursed herself for not saving them now. She could so easily have smuggled them out of the studio under her coat.
Someone was knocking at the door, loud and persistent. The letter still clutched in her hand, Natasha went to answer.
James was standing there. ‘Have you gone deaf?’
It took a few seconds for his grinning, exhausted, unshaven face to catapult her back to the present.
‘Last night,’ he said. ‘Mary just got back from the Records Office when it started.’
She flung her arms around his neck. ‘Congratulations.’
He was still grinning and she laughed. ‘Well, come on, give me all the details.’
‘He was born at eight o’clock, at home. Seven pounds and three ounces.’
‘And Mary?’
‘She’s terrific.’
‘When can I see them?’
‘Now, if you like.’
Mary was sitting up in bed, a woollen cardigan draped around her shoulders, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. She looked pale and tired, and as if she wouldn’t have it any other way.
The baby was cradled in her arms and the curtains were closed, the bedside lamp casting a pink glow like dawn.
Natasha tiptoed over, peered at the little red, crumpled face held against Mary’s nightshirt, the minute, perfect hand clenched in a fist. She reached out a finger and stroked the downy black hair on top of his head, then looked at Mary. ‘He’s beautiful,’ she whispered, then bent over and gave her friend a peck on the cheek. The baby snuffled, stirred. Looked at her. ‘Hello there, little fellow.’
This was what it was all about then. The next generation. As Natasha looked into those blue unfocused eyes she couldn’t help thinking. Where do you come from?
It was enough to make you believe in reincarnation, or the separate existence of the soul, or in something. Hard to believe that this little being was created from genes, and cells dividing. At least here was one baby welcomed by both its parents, who was coming into the world with the odds stacked in its favour.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Kieran.’
The baby gave a whimper and Mary slipped her little finger into the tiny mouth which instantly fell silent, started to suckle. Natasha sat down on a wicker nursing chair by the bed, watching them gazing into each other’s eyes, trying not to feel left behind. There was a completeness and rightness about the two of them together, a mother nursing a child, a scene replicated throughout thousands of years, across all continents and races.
An experience which Lizzie Siddal had been denied.
The letter was still in her hand, the current Dr Marshall’s note on top of it. His address and the title were printed in the top right hand corner of the letter. ‘Consultant Paediatrician’. Atonement for the sins of the father? Or a great-grandfather to be precise.
The young Johh Marshall would never have been able to tell Eleanor her story. He had died not long after Jeanette, long before his father.
She re-folded the letters, opened the envelope to slide them back inside, and saw another piece of paper tucked down at the bottom. The scrap Jeanette had referred to in the letter.
It was fragile and small, with scrawled, looped handwriting. Natasha didn’t recognize.
The words though, were familiar, and made Natasha’s heart leap into her mouth.
Say no goodbye.
I am gone to a distant land
Where at last you will be mine.
Forty-Six
NATASHA HEADED FOR the centre of town, avoiding Exeter College.
The exhibition opened today.
The Cornmarket would soon be thronged with January
bargain-hunters but first thing in the morning there were just a few early birds with their bags. Natasha crossed Beaumont Road in time to see the doors of the Ashmolean Museum opening for the day. One other early visitor was walking up the wide stone steps between the Doric columns as Natasha hurried up behind him.
She could barely contain her excitement. It was the sort of find every historian dreamed of. The answer to a mystery that had lain buried for over a century.
At the information desk in the marbled entrance she was told that Lizzie Siddal’s manuscripts and sketches were retained in the Print Room, that a request would need to be telephoned through if she wanted to view them. She watched the girl dial a number, explain what she wished to see, and then replace the receiver. ‘If you’d just follow me.’
Natasha knew the museum well. She was led up the main stairs to the first floor, past the Egyptian section, the displays of ancient Greek vases, the artefacts from Dark Age Europe, then down a back staircase into a little corridor and lobby with oak doors. Her escort opened one and she was shown into a long, quiet room lined with shelves of boxes, old books and framed prints.
Lizzie was there ahead of her again, waiting, at the back of the room, staring down from her gilded window. It was the original of one of the portraits from the book of sketches, the picture that had also hung in the corner of the room in Blackfriars.
Natasha imagined Lizzie, lifting those large, sad eyes now, watching the proceedings with interest.
Readers, wearing white cloth gloves, were writing with pencils in notebooks, poring over the contents of large boxes that were opened out on the long polished wooden table in the centre of the room. Manuscripts and sketches, watercolours and maps were propped up in front of them on wooden frames.
A girl climbed up a set of library steps and pulled down a box which she handed to Natasha, along with a pair of the white gloves.
Natasha went to sit at the table, and carefully lifted back the lid of the box.
There were several paintings and sketches on top.
It was so much more poignant, actually touching the drawings rather than seeing them displayed behind glass on a gallery wall. There was a rawness and immediacy about them, about viewing alone and at such a close quarters the rough sketches and jottings that Lizzie surely never intended for the public gaze.
Pale as the Dead Page 26
