A Map of the Damage

by Sophia Tobin

  ‘This was a scullery,’ Livy said. ‘In 1841. And the next room was a small dining room for the director. But they’re both offices now.’

  Christian squinted in the gloom. ‘Not much ornament here.’

  ‘And no gold leaf.’ They said it in unison, and glanced at each other. She saw his smile in the shadows.

  ‘Can you make it out?’ she said. ‘These offices are painted in a certain shade of institutional green. Not 1841 original, I’m sure.’

  ‘But the windows are large, and beautiful.’

  She stood back, and let him absorb what he could in the low light. When he turned and smiled, she smiled back.

  ‘Did you see on your way in downstairs,’ she said, ‘one of the slabs of pink marble in the Stair Hall has cracked, and a corner has come away. It’s just bricks beneath, you know – London stock bricks and mortar, lined with marble panels an inch thick.’

  ‘It doesn’t surprise me,’ he said, his hands in his pockets. ‘I told you this place isn’t entirely what it seems.’

  ‘I think it’s rather beautiful, the damage,’ said Livy, remembering the distaste on Jonathan’s and Bill’s faces when they’d seen it. ‘It’s sad the piece of marble has broken, but to see the underside of the building – its humility, in a way – it rather makes me love it more.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I quite agree. I want to get into the bones of things. See what other people cannot. It’s why I love architecture: seeing beneath. I try and remember that, when I’m feeling tired and bitter.’

  She saw the trace of it in his face: the curl of his lip. She knew it must mask some deeper, darker distress. Still, that strange openness she felt with him spurred her on.

  ‘What is it like? Seeing how the landscape changes every night?’

  Christian thought of the bomb recorder’s notebook: a slim burgundy Carlton cash book, ruled up to account for other things. Dates, locations, everything as dry and precise as possible.

  Approximate damage: unsafe until shored up

  Rescue service operations: searching for casualties

  Casualties: 2m/2f (walking). Succeeded in recovering the body of a female

  He closed his eyes for a moment, and thought of the right thing to say. ‘When I mark a house as still usable, it’s a kind of triumph. There may be cracks in it, a window out, but it’s still standing. It’s still a home. When you see a map, and the street is coloured in black . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I pretend it’s not real. One must put a wall up. I can’t imagine – I used to enjoy using my imagination. Before the war. It was what I did the most, daydreaming. But now, I actively suppress it. It seems to me it’s a quality that is no longer helpful. Everything I see – I try to forget it.’

  ‘What do you do to forget it?’

  He took another step towards her, and she could see the shine of his eyes in the darkness. ‘I think about you, sitting on a picnic blanket with me in Hyde Park, before the war.’

  She stood there: frozen. There was a foot between them. He did not advance; he did not touch her.

  ‘Do you want me to tell you, what it was like?’ he said.

  She said nothing.

  ‘You were curious about everything,’ he said. ‘You had ambition. You wore your hair,’ his eyes moved over her face, ‘much shorter. In a bob. Pinned. A plain, dark suit. Sensible shoes. You didn’t want to be beautiful. You wanted to be taken seriously.’

  She had the sense he was getting closer to her, and yet he had not moved.

  ‘But your smile,’ he said. ‘The first time I saw you. It was your smile, which halted me in the office doorway. The world was fine as it was, before you. That is, I thought it was. But when you came into it, you made it brighter. You made it come alive, Livy. Alive in a way it had never been before. Vivid.’

  The room had narrowed. The space felt unfamiliar, unsafe. Her and him, in the darkness. She turned away from him, putting her hand out to the wall to steady herself. She felt torn between wanting to run away and wanting to know more; she hardly knew whether she wanted him to come closer to her. But all around her she was edged with a thin line of terror. Surely he must see it, she thought? Surely it must halo me, bright white in the darkness? everything crackled with it.

  ‘Livy,’ he said.

  ‘If we keep on walking this way, we’ll come to the entrance Hall,’ she said briskly. ‘At the end of the corridor, that door opens onto it. As I said, the service rooms form a ring around the public rooms. It’s symmetrical, and logical.’

  She turned and walked on, hearing his footsteps behind her. After a moment, he caught at her hand, and the movement was enough to turn her to face him. He took hold of her shoulders. She felt the burning heat of his hands through her blouse.

  ‘Do you remember?’ he said. He drew close to her, and she knew then that he wanted to kiss her, but that something was stopping him. ‘You must remember.’

  She read it in his eyes: I won’t, unless you know who I am.

  She put her hands on his chest. For a moment they stood there, cocooned in this kind of strange embrace. But the space between them felt uncrossable, and her hands curled into fists.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t remember.’

  He let her go then, absolutely, as though relinquishing her. Let her go, and stepped away from her.

  Livy felt tears in her eyes and she did not know why. She had not cried once since the day of the bombing: she had felt frozen, suspended in aspic. But now the feeling that rose in her was terrifying. She wanted very much, in that moment, to die. Just as she had for a moment on the top step of the staircase, after Jonathan had told her about the diamond. And it was a kind of crime, she knew, to feel that way, when so many other people were dying with no choice in the matter.

  ‘I must go,’ she said flatly. ‘I have things to do. The diamond.’ She wanted to be back in the Committee Room, reading the letters written by Henry, searching for the woman in the painting. Working out mysteries and puzzles. Burying herself in someone else’s past. She turned, and began to walk swiftly towards the door which led to the entrance Hall.

  ‘One more thing.’ Christian raised his voice. ‘You are a strong person. Warm, kind. Not fragile, not anxious, not broken. You will recover. You are strong. Livy?’

  But she had gone through the door, and he heard it bang shut behind her.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  1838

  The candles were lit, but the salon bleu at Redlands lay in deep gloom as the clock struck ten. Supper had been eaten and cleared; now the inhabitants of the room sought their own occupations. Charlotte took up her sewing, then let it sit in her lap, as she thought of her daughter Isabel. She had visited her before dinner, kissed her warm forehead, and received assurances that the little girl was getting better. And yet, the child seemed so far away – Charlotte feared that she might slip from this world, ungraspable and silent, in her upper-floor nursery. This fear, which continually followed her, gained strength every time her child was ill. She had been hopeful during Loveday’s illness, and it was a mistake she chose not to repeat.

  Tea had been a trial. Nicholas had been absent, and Barbara had ordered so much cake that even Ashton had murmured disapproval. Barbara had stood, poised over Charlotte, golden-eyed and unflinching.

  ‘Do eat, Ce-Ce,’ she had said.

  Charlotte had tasted the end of her fork. ‘Divine, Be-Be.’

  Nicholas had not surfaced for dinner and could not be found in his room. This was not unusual: he seemed to resent the inflexible routines of the house, and occasionally removed himself from its machinery. Now, as they all sat in the salon, they heard the oak front door slam, and the unmistakable tread of Nicholas, accompanied by the softer footsteps of a servant who was no doubt gathering Nicholas’s coat and hat as he hurtled through the house. In her chair, Barbara ruffled herself like a bird preparing for confrontation.

  ‘What a charming scene!’ cried Nicholas as he entered, waving away the servant as he handed him t
he last of his outdoor clothing. Ashton looked up, and then returned his eyes to his book.

  ‘Where have you been?’ said Barbara.

  ‘I had business to transact in the village.’ An answer which drew blank looks from everyone there, but said with the definite intention not to be questioned. ‘Good day to you, dear sister.’ With a careless gesture, he took Charlotte’s hand and kissed it. She smiled at him. Her brother-in-law’s sarcastic, easy manner was one of her few delights.

  ‘Nicholas has bought another watch at auction,’ said his wife. ‘Won’t you show darling Charlotte your new toy?’ She named a Swiss master jeweller, and Charlotte heard her husband’s breath catch. He rose and went to the fireplace. Barbara gave the final garnish to her words. ‘It doesn’t work, of course.’

  ‘It should be seen to in London,’ said Nicholas, turning his lazy smile on Ashton and Charlotte both. ‘I’ll take it to the Hamptons on Bond Street when I am next there.’

  ‘Which will be soon, won’t it, my dear?’ said Barbara. ‘One carriage rolls in and another leaves. Ce-Ce and Ashton had a carriage accident, Nicholas, by the way – yes, London can be a dangerous place. Still, it seems I am the only person who is content to stay here at Redlands.’

  ‘You may go to London whenever you wish,’ said Ashton, turning one of the ornaments on the mantelpiece. ‘And we are unharmed, Nick – in case you were worried.’

  Barbara said nothing, but Charlotte noticed how she watched them, almost hungrily. Barbara had been married a year when Charlotte had arrived, and though they had been friendly at first, it had clearly pained Barbara to watch Charlotte fall pregnant and bear children. Barbara had no children of her own, and now Charlotte knew that her sister- in-law disliked, perhaps even hated, her. She did not resent it. She recognized that Barbara was swept away in a storm tide of something that was quite beyond her control. Whenever she prayed, Charlotte always included Barbara; she knew that her sister-in-law suffered the most of all of them, and deserved the most mercy.

  ‘How was the business at the Mirrormakers’ Club?’ said Nicholas, who had finally lost interest in his watch.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Ashton. ‘The site is clear. That old commercial building is gone. Strange, it always seemed about to topple, and yet when it came to it, it was hard to bring down – like digging out the roots of the honeysuckle.’

  ‘And Dale-Collingwood?’

  ‘Well enough, though we will have to keep him in line. But he is just as we thought: intense, focused on the work, despite that dreadful bereavement he suffered last year. In short, he is just what is needed. I’m surprised you’re taking an interest in it.’

  ‘Why? I’m a member, even if I’m not on the committee.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ashton carefully. ‘But you’ve never cared to involve yourself in its affairs.’

  Nicholas shrugged. ‘Dale-Collingwood seems like a decent fellow. I’ve heard he’s close to a lot of artists. Interesting chap; I might call on the site one day.’

  ‘If you do, kindly don’t try and engage him as some kind of art dealer. Aren’t there enough people up and down Bond Street taking your money? Or should I say my money?’

  Nicholas fixed him with suddenly cold eyes. His look reminded Charlotte that he and Ashton were brothers, when they often seemed so different. ‘That’s a filthy thing to say.’

  Barbara had taken one of her tiny dogs into her arms and was feeding it a dainty.

  ‘My dears,’ Charlotte said softly. Everyone returned to their occupations: Charlotte to sewing, Ashton to his book, and Nick to inspecting his new watch. Only Barbara remained agitated, so that the dog jumped down despite her attempts to keep it in her arms.

  ‘I think I will retire for the night,’ she said. Nick did not look up. She came to Charlotte and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Do not sit so close to the fire, Ce-Ce; you will ruin your complexion. You haven’t sewn much at all; whereas I have almost finished the cover for the table in my boudoir.’

  Charlotte accepted the kiss. She watched her sister-in-law traverse the long room until she was finally swallowed up in the darkness at the far end. Then she caught Ashton’s eye and, in accordance with his look, moved her chair back from the fire. She put down the piece of ornamental sewing she had been pretending to work on, for it was now too dark to see it properly.

  ‘Shall I ask for more candles to be brought?’ said Ashton softly. He was a man of focused attention, he was a man who understood motivations, and this was something she had once loved about him. Now, his watchfulness irritated her a little. Leave me some space that you do not enter, she thought. She did not know whether he sought to increase her comfort, or to remind her that she was being watched.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘I am a little tired of it. It would be best if I continue in the daylight. Are you not looking at pieces from the collection tonight?’ It was his custom to bring a piece or two into the salon of an evening: a box, a clock, a medieval reliquary or a mineral sample. Ashton bought the rarest treasures he could find, garnered from dealers in London, europe and America. He would sit at the Louis XVI desk in the corner, surrounded by candles, and look at them with his various magnifying glasses, making notes. His was a great mind, she knew, aswarm with context and history, with a dozen languages, for during the day he balanced riding and business with reading and contemplation of his many pieces. She knew he missed his treasure while they were away, and thought he would have eagerly come down with a whole tray full of beloved objects to examine.

  But instead, he shook his head. ‘There is time enough for that tomorrow,’ he said, and she saw that his hand stole to his pocket, as though in search of something.

  Nick looked up from his watch suddenly. ‘Where is Barbara?’

  Charlotte smiled. ‘She has been gone these five minutes, dear.’

  Her brother-in-law cursed, and went without ceremony. Alone for the first time that evening, Charlotte and Ashton looked at each other.

  ‘I am tired,’ Charlotte said, rising and adjusting her silken skirts. She knew her husband loved her to dress in the colours of the Renaissance enamels he collected: the uncompromising greens and blues and reds rather than the softer tones favoured by the current fashions. Tonight she had made a real effort to please him, her dark hair smooth as lacquer, her jewels carefully chosen, and he looked at her appreciatively. ‘I will wish you a good night.’

  ‘May I come to you tonight?’ he said, as formally as if he were offering her tea.

  She felt a slow sinking, but inclined her head. ‘Will you put the lights out first?’

  Each night, Ashton toured the ground floor of the house with Sam, the under-butler, who was so burly that he could take on ten housebreakers. Ashton watched Sam secure the doors by the light of a candle, as the other servants swiftly put out the candles and the house was gradually bathed in darkness.

  It was a large house, and it took time, so Charlotte did not hurry to undress. Katie helped her, pulling out the fifty or so pins they had used to coiffure her hair, and brushing it out down the length of her back a hundred times. They did not speak to each other. It was only when a creak was heard outside the main door to Charlotte’s room that Katie caught her eye. Ashton shifted there, making himself known. Katie hurried to the servant’s door, which led to a dark passage that threaded its way unobtrusively through the house, and went out, closing the door in the panelling softly behind her. Charlotte had no idea whether Katie ever lingered there. Perhaps that was why Ashton disliked the girl: the sense that he had felt her eyes on him in intimate moments, the suspicion that she watched in the night.

  It was only once that door closed, that Ashton knocked.

  ‘Come in,’ called Charlotte, rising and turning, and he came, candle still in one hand, unbuttoning his waistcoat with the other. It surprised her, that he had dismissed his valet and not prepared for bed in his room. He took off his jacket and draped it over her dressing-table stool. But then he reached into the pocket and drew out a
box.

  ‘The diamond?’ she said with surprise.

  ‘You looked so beautiful this evening,’ he said. ‘You pleased me.’

  She settled beside him, a foot or so from him, and saw the hesitant delight in his eyes, not truly believing that she had caused it.

  ‘I was interested to hear you talk of the Mirrormakers’ Club,’ she said. ‘I can see why you are so fascinated by it. What shall it look like, when it is finished?’

  He frowned, smilingly. ‘Look like? It is of a classical model. Grand reception rooms, splendid detail. I may supply a painting or two – the ones I am tired of. That group of men giving a toast, the one my father bought. The Club will need some older pieces to give it gravitas.’

  ‘And the architect of the Club?’ she said, trying to return the conversation to Henry. ‘He seemed rather young.’

  ‘He looks younger than he is. He is in his early thirties. And exactly the right sort: from a good kind of background, but with a father in commerce, so aware of reality. Trained at the Royal Academy schools; travelled in europe. A thorough grounding in the classical.’

  ‘And you said he had suffered a bereavement,’ she said. ‘Was it so terrible?’

  He frowned in earnest this time. ‘What? Oh – yes. His parents and sister, taken all at once. His only family.’ He undid his cravat. ‘Let us not talk of such things.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

  He stroked her hair. ‘I did not think we would get on so well again, so soon, after yesterday,’ he said. ‘And yet, you have a way, Charlotte, when you are so delicate, so absolutely right and proper, caring about your dress and your deportment, you can convert me just like that to loving you again.’

  She caught his smile from him, as one would catch a ball in a game, and did her best to throw it back. ‘I’m glad I know how to please you,’ she said.

  ‘Lie down,’ he said.

  Obediently, she lay back against the pillows. He leaned over her, and swept his hands through her dark hair, spreading it over the white linen. Then he placed the diamond, nestled it in her hair, above her forehead. She saw the shine of it in his eyes as he stared at her: saw the sense of desire there, balanced by the comfort of possession, the hint of sadness that he could not sit like this for hours, simply looking at her.