What Empty Things Are These

by Crozier, J. L. ;

  ‘Been watching events in America? That Lincoln fellow, unsettling things with the South.’ The marquis leaned into the deacon’s white-whiskered ear.

  ‘Well, slavery, you know. Still, interesting. I’ve investments, you know, in the North.’

  ‘Yes, worth watching.’

  Mrs Farquharson, to whom none of this was addressed, smiled and nodded, her eyes darting, and a growing strain evident between her brows.

  Dickie raised his own brows to me.

  Lapsed now into silence, the marquis and the deacon gazed about themselves, cheeks glowing like new and well-glazed buns. I imagined, behind the murmurous cacophony, the hissing in their brackets of all those lights on all those walls, as they heated the air about them more and more with each passing hour. We all steamed, I fancied. Each member of the group now stood wordless, looking about and searching each passing face for, it could only be surmised, some acquaintance or someone with whom it would be advantageous to be acquainted; for someone, indeed, who would rescue them from the growing social consciousness of this singular lack of conversation.

  It gave me, at least, the opportunity to look about on my own account. Such an array of persons! From high to . . . well, not low exactly . . .

  I cast about for faces that I knew, well or otherwise, and then felt hot, embarrassed because that was what all seemed to be about. Mrs Charles, I was confident by now, was not in this crowd. Most of the folk that I could see were intent that their presence be noticed, but beyond this achievement were in the main at a loss as to how to spend their time. It was not, after all, very much different from other occasions I had attended with Mr Hadley.

  There was at some distance, a gentleman with a confection of whiskers above his cravat that I recognised from a soirée among parliamentarians—and those who aspired to be parliamentarians. I bowed to him, and he to me, and I confessed to myself some relief that there was little possibility of conversation with him.

  Young women in groups giggled past. They were galleons under sail, all swaying and dipping and gleaming, with young men as eager skiffs trailing in their wake.

  ‘Ah. See there, our host!’ Dickie murmured into my ear.

  Mr Farquharson was weaving, slowly and overwhelming in his confidence—such as a roaming society gourmet might display, dipping into proffered viands or confectionary—in and out of small knots of people. As with my own companions, some of these visitors stood mute, staring about them for persons of note to acknowledge, until such time as they could catch Mr Farquharson’s eye. Others chatted like birds in an aviary, and tossed the fronds and garlands in their hair or laughed in hectic excitement. Fashion was insistent at every point upon the floor, and each confection of dress was a burst of hue and shape and frill at violent odds with every other.

  Mr Farquharson would stop, I saw, and the person he addressed grow pink and smile, casting a glance about to check that others had heeded their host’s condescension. Sometimes the conversation was general, it was clear, and Mr Farquharson, with a genial if watchful nod at others as he passed, moved on like some stately, towering potentate. Other times, there followed something more serious: with questions from the guest, and responses of an evidently intense cast from Mr Farquharson. His beringed hand would rest upon the guest’s shoulder, he would nod a moment and look up searching over one way or the other, until a clerkly man appeared, of slight build and with a face as sad as a monkey’s. Then Mr Farquharson would bow and move on, and the clerk would stay to write in a small notebook he had removed, apparently just for this purpose, from his pocket.

  There is purpose to this ball, beyond the dancing.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Mr Farquharson’s acolyte that you notice there, sister,’ Dickie bent to my ear, ‘is Mr Giles, his secretary.’

  Curious, I watched Mr Farquharson speak in this way to a bishop, splendid in his apron and gaiters, as well as to a tall woman of middle years whose old-fashioned curls jiggled and bounced with every word, and to the Member of Parliament I had noticed earlier. Each time, Mr Giles, with that look of simian distress that was no doubt merely an habitual expression and not a mirror to his soul, would slip up behind his master, bow, and hold his pen at the ready.

  A waltz from Mr Farquharson’s large room struck up its three-beat time, and I swayed a little to the music. Dickie, I could see, gazed over several heads, first at the perambulating Mr Giles—himself with his eyes on Mr Farquharson and whomever he might speak with next—and then at the intricate beribboned headdress of a young woman whose skirt held at least twenty flounces. I swayed the more…one, two, three; one, two, three… I wished very much to prevail on Dickie to accompany me to the supper room, and realised that I marked time so obviously in order to catch his attention. It was very hot, also, and I realised I had a thirst for iced tea that was perhaps greater even than my desire to dance. When tea had been taken, it would be high time to take to the floor—the crowd being so great—for the ensemble did keep excellent time.

  I was about to say so, when Mrs Farquharson touched my arm. It made me start a little, and I thought then that the little whispering woman might have been trying to get my attention for some minutes.

  ‘Would you care to see my little Steven, dear Mrs Hadley?’ She looked full into my eyes, and I, who had neither considered nor looked for this possibility, took breath and said, ‘I would be delighted, of course.’

  I suppose there is some obligation that attends the deed of rescue, I thought in duty, and it was with a twinge of regret that I looked about the twinkling throng. Dickie’s attention was still with the travels about the crowd of Mr Farquharson.

  ‘It would not do to abandon my brother overlong, of course,’ I said. I placed my hand on his sleeve.

  ‘Eh? Oh, of course, of course,’ Dickie murmured, craning still over our heads. He realised only then, it seemed, where my hand rested, and looked, at last, at me. ‘You will be anxious to dance, my sister, and have refreshment, if I know you—’

  ‘In any case, I would not be responsible for keeping little Steven from his bed—‘ I began in the midst of this small confusion, but already Mrs Farquharson had my arm once more in a steamy embrace, and we were off, the two of us a flurry of my own blue silk and Mrs Farquharson’s froth of pale tulle.

  ‘Yes, you are quite right.’ The little woman nodded her head as she hurried, so that the tiny daisies in her posies lost a petal or two. ‘We must be quick lest Nurse has put him…’ Her eyes grew wide at this, and her words died away. She seemed unable to both speak and continue our too-rapid swaying toward the nursery.

  We rustled thus arm in arm, stopping to bow left and right to guests as we passed. As we swept through doors that closed behind us, the press grew less and then ceased. Corridors were more hushed, the lighting less bright, the shadows longer. Yet, everything here—as with everything in that more public part of this great house—I could see was new, brand new and shining with polish, carved with great intricacy, inlaid so that no seam could be discerned. Everything, from carpet to vase to heavy bureau, sang of the wealth that had bought it…and that not long ago.

  At last, the nursery was reached, and its door, finally, closed behind us.

  In the silence, where the noise of the grand party was but a murmur so distant it might only be fancy, a single lamp stood subdued on a table next to the large cot, itself an architectural feat of great craftsmanship, hung with netting and bows and satin fit for a princeling. A fire crackled mightily behind a guard to one side of this cot, and beyond that, an open chest that might have passed for a small boat was filled beyond its brim with toys both soft and wooden.

  But it was all very quiet indeed, and the signs, I recognised, were not good for a visitation. Very likely, the young Steven was already enfolded for the night. I was still short of breath from the barely dignified rush (nay, gallop!) through this house’s many chambers, its long corridors, its num
erous doors—but whispered in a kind of gasp that it seemed we were too late.

  ‘Oh!’ Mrs Farquharson’s eyes sprang pink and full of tears. I looked away and hoped the little woman had reserves of self-control from which she might draw—what shall I say if she does not?—but then I saw instead the shade in the corner. It moved, and revealed itself as the nurse bearing a small bundle.

  ‘No, see! I was mistaken. We are just in time.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Mrs Farquharson’s voice was a breathless squeak. ‘Nurse, may we? May I show—?’

  Please do not weep! This was a scene too far, surely, and she far too like the wringing, anxious girl that I myself had been. I was not looking for this, for this… My cheeks burned with recognition. My very thoughts themselves were left speechless. Suddenly, away from crowded pomp and splendid condescension and worshipful hubbub, here in hushed shadow and the snapping firelight was a mother pleading for the mere sight and handling of her own child, as I myself had done.

  Her child. I looked at Mrs Farquharson. This child. I must brush from my mind the notion that there stood that tattered other in this room, as if standing where the light did not reach and watching, rather than shivering somewhere with the rats of this city. The girl, that other child, that took this child and loved him too.

  How will this child know his mother? came the thought, unbidden and clear, and the name Toby, so that I thrust it away. I would rather die than be as Mrs Farquharson. I realised suddenly that this was no melodramatic phrase but the absolute truth. And yet do I not lack my Toby still? How much was Mrs Farquharson my mirrored self? I closed my eyes a moment, over the thought. I would rather die. I was obliged to clear my throat before I could speak.

  ‘Come,’ I said. ‘Show me this brave fellow before he goes to bed.’

  It was a subdued journey back to the crowd, chatter, music and lights, though Mrs Farquharson still had hold of my arm. Yet I had time to regain something of my dignity, and Mrs Farquharson time as well to wipe at her eye and retrieve her smile. She squeezed my arm, so that we veered a little off-course a moment. ‘I think that we shall be the best of friends. I do indeed!’

  I could find no words to say, but bowed my head at this clutching at love and regard. Who is it that grabs at the first smiling face and claims such a relationship?

  ‘We shall go about together and show off our sons.’ Mrs Farquharson tossed her head and laughed. ‘What fun!’ The buzz, like that of a distant hive, had increased for some minutes as we walked along, and finally the last door from the house’s domestic quarters was opened and the chatter of hundreds leapt at us with full, immediate force. From apiary to aviary once more! I fancied, dizzied by it.

  ‘See, there is your brother!’ Mrs Farquharson nodded toward the crowd, and I did see Dickie standing at a small distance. But then certain guests billowed past, and it was only after they had moved on that I saw my brother was in florid and earnest conversation with Mr Farquharson, who nodded, spoke, nodded again and waved the clerk, Mr Giles, over with his notebook.

  ‘Oh, I see he is in conference with my husband.’ I glanced at Mrs Farquharson and understood that the two men were not to be disturbed. More business, Dickie? My hostess dipped her head to a couple, and introduced them to me, so that more how-d’ye-dos were exchanged and there was more gazing about by these people (whose names I do not recall) in search of a worthier introduction; until, glancing over, it was clear to me that Dickie and his host had finished their discourse. My brother seemed well pleased with whatever business matters had transpired. There he was, adjusting his cuffs and casting his own amiable gaze about. Mr Giles was gone, scurried, I supposed, somewhere into the crowd. Mr Farquharson’s back could be seen at a little distance, another set of pink faces tilted up at him.

  Dickie saw me and smiled. Describing a hesitant semi-circle around a woman who surged back and forth without discrimination, he arrived at last at my side.

  ‘Adelaide, Mrs Farquharson, how was the young master?’

  ‘Oh, as lovely as I remembered him, of course,’ I said. Mrs Farquharson’s face stretched into a smile once more, and I wondered if this young woman spent her time swinging like a pendulum from bereft despair to ecstatic gratitude, and thought that this would be a very wearying sort of life.

  ‘So kind, so kind. Thank you.’ Mrs Farquharson’s smile continued for several moments until the oompapa-oompapa—which had halted for a few minutes—began again. ‘You will want to enjoy yourselves. I shall be off, to attend… We shall have you to tea, and much more besides…’

  We watched her progress away, and I turned to Dickie.

  ‘Dickie! What do you do with Mr Farquharson?’

  ‘Business, my dear sister.’ He looked self-satisfied, and drew himself up. ‘I have given Mr Farquharson my undertaking for a greater investment, which should render even greater dividend!’

  ‘Dividend?’

  ‘Profit.’

  ‘Ah…’ I thought everything that night twinkled like some children’s fantasy, everything larger than life. The shadows of the nursery, and those darker shadows in my own mind, were far away. Young Mrs Farquharson, while nervous and apt to cling, was pleasant enough. Her only fault was her youth, really. Acquaintance with her might be a very good thing.

  And here was Dickie, smiling, with another part of a tale full of happy endings. I wonder if my own could be as magical… Ladies, surely, do also make investments. The very thought of a life that held no uncertainty, that held every day some interest, where every day was guided by myself—this made me breathe fast, and it made my head swim.

  ‘My mind does ring with all this right now, brother. Take me for refreshment and then to dance.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  My breath frosted even here in my own chamber, such was the time of year. Yet I was content beneath the blankets, worn out with the dancing I had had last night with Dickie—and some other

  gentlemen also. Still there stayed with me the remainder of that faerytale twinkle, the glorious bewilderment of lights and movement, a kind of glamour cast on all who attended the Farquharsons’ occasion, even while in a dark and ill-defined part of my mind there was also a heavy rankling to do with Mr Hadley. I knew not whether this last arose from an abiding resentment at him for all his past coldness and violence, from his contempt for and humiliation of me—even while he continued his unconscious ebb toward death—or from a guilty pity, in the fact that he must lie, empty, and stare at nothing by day and night. While I, it must be admitted, gadded about from time to time. It occurred to me there might have been some satisfaction, after all, had Mrs Charles been present at the great party. Herself similarly caught gadding . . .

  I do, of course, maintain the wifely duties. I do. Did Mrs Staynes, I wondered, make judgement of me, or indeed did Sobriety do so? I felt sure Gwendolyn would, if she knew. Dickie will not say, I am certain.

  Still, I did hug to myself the events that had shot my life through with interest these last weeks. And last night, last night.

  ‘Mr Farquharson is such a man that he will carry us all with him to greatness,’ Dickie had said in the carriage as he escorted me home, and I felt and hoped in my heart of hearts that it must be so.

  I blinked at the cool light now showing through the lace at my window, and smiled. A warm and sleepy cat. It must be quite late; and what luxury it was, to lie abed in this way. And yet, I must arise. Dear Sobriety, waiting now to straighten my chamber, would have known to leave her mistress be after such a night, and would therefore need alerting that she was needed. I rang the small silver bell at my bedside.

  In my morning room, I stretched my feet in my shoes. There was a certain soreness and possibly a little swelling—I had danced more than I had intended last night—and consequently, some tightness around the toes. I smiled into my coffee at the small discomforts that served as reminder. And despite the sufferings of my feet, exa
ltation—nay, exhilaration!—had lasted through my exhausted slumber to my waking. Sobriety had laughed at me this morning: ‘Keep still! You are like a schoolgirl! I cannot keep grip on your buttons!’ Sobriety is patient with me, it must be said, given how my little Methodist eschews ribbons, bows, and frills. All curls stretched straight; the plainest of buckles and buttons! I smiled, and my heart was suddenly full of fondness for her who disapproved so, yet loved me.

  I turned a page of the journal, meaning to find some news of America’s troubles, since I had overheard talk last night. But my thoughts dwelt instead on the swing and sway of skirts, their sweep and rustle as the music gave time, and the babbling and chatter that passed back and forth, ebbing and swelling through great doorways beyond which the hopeful sought magical fortune.

  If my adventures had put Dickie in touch with such a very successful and influential man of business as Mr Farquharson, and with his wife (who seemed so intent on developing a fondness for me), might this not herald the end of all my own troubles? I might not, after all, be obliged to nibble my way through a widow’s mite, once Mr Hadley was gone. I might not be obliged to fade away from society’s sight, banished into the gloom for the sin of not mattering. I might not be obliged to take guidance in all things from Gwendolyn, and Harry, and Mr Gordon, all of them in lieu of Mr Hadley.

  Of a sudden, I found I had to breathe in deeply and then out, lest my eyes blur. For there came a rush of feeling; a grief for my mama, who I missed sharply, deeply; the more entirely because Gwendolyn sought so to supplant her. Gwendolyn would fail always to do so, would merely make thoughtless mess of her memory—for Gwendolyn