Love and Fury

by Samantha Silva

  I had a letter from him right away: “Business alone has kept me from you. Come to any port, and I will fly down to my two dear girls with a heart all their own!” What had my imagination done to me? How sick was my mind that I let myself doubt him so thoroughly? I felt confused and hopeful all at once. England held no appeal for me, not anymore. But Imlay was there, and he was calling us to him.

  We sailed for England in April, with Marguerite so violently seasick, and Fanny restless and mad, that I felt I had to hold them both together for the long passage. Here I was again on choppy seas, heading for an uncertain future, to a country I no longer loved. The only thing that got me through was a vision of Imlay spotting me in the crowd coming off the ship, pushing his way through, and pulling me into his arms.

  But he wasn’t there to meet us. The disappointment was crushing, but I didn’t show it. I was the one leading the charge for our small brigade, and couldn’t give up, not yet. We’d left everything behind; all our hopes resided in him. I dashed off a note and booked a coach to London the next day. The man who did greet us, though he looked like Imlay in every respect, seemed more like a polite stranger. There were no kisses, no long embrace. I wanted to grab his lapels and shake him but instead held my tongue.

  * * *

  We shared a house in Charlotte Street, but it was cold. Shared meals, but they were distant. Shared a bed, but Imlay slept on the far shore, and never pressed me to his heart the way I’d hoped, the way he had before Fanny was born.

  I had no energy for anything. Not for a walk, for reading or writing, not even the simplest household chore. I felt the way I had when my mother turned away from me, when Father hanged darling Betsy from my favorite tree—some mix of anger, desperation, grief—even worse when Fanny took her carnelian ring from her own finger and closed it in my palm, then took her last breath and left me forever. The way I felt when Fuseli rejected me, refused to see or talk to me, despite how I’d opened myself to him. And now this.

  I refused all company, even Johnson, who came nearly every day only to be turned away. He wrote me letters, but I didn’t answer. Marguerite tried to force me to eat, but it was a struggle to lift my head. She laid clothes out for me; some days I dressed in them, but sloppily. Mostly I wept, and wept some more. Sweet Fannikin, not yet one, had just learned to walk. She would come to me with her doll to coax me to play, but my limbs were heavy and my spirit weak. She put the doll in the crook of my arm, stood very close, and kissed my cheek. My sorrow had made a child of me, and it was my young daughter—your sister—who tried to comfort me. I was conscious of feeling nothing but the merest sense of being alive. If the house had been burning, I would have thought it too much effort to rise. I was not well enough to mother anyone, little bird, not strong enough to leave Imlay and start again. The world, and Fanny most of all, would be better off without me.

  Mrs. B

  September 8, 1797

  As Mrs. B fussed about, fulfilling her morning duties—check the bedpan, replace the water in the basin, dip clean linens in cold vinegar—she turned to find Mary awake, staring out the wide-open window, very still, the way she’d been that first day, with a faraway look. The midwife turned to close up the panes. “Must’ve left it open all night. Didn’t even notice.”

  “Leave it. Please. It’s like sleeping outdoors.”

  Mary’d had a fever in the wee hours, Mrs. B remembered. The rounds of hot and cold hardly seemed separate anymore. It wasn’t easy to recall which was which, and when. She was happy to leave the window open now. The room smelled of sickness; it was hard to be rid of it. And the autumn morning was apple ripe, mists clinging to the ground, slowly warmed away by the soft September sun. Mrs. B felt Mary’s forehead, her cheeks. They were damp but cool.

  Mary put her slender hand on top of the midwife’s, and searched her tired green eyes. “Am I dying, Mrs. B?”

  Mrs. B took Mary’s thin wrist in her fingers, and found her pulse, slow and faint. “It’s not for me to say,” she said.

  She didn’t believe in hiding things from patients or their families, but she believed in not giving up hope where there was any at all to be had.

  “What about Fordyce?” said Mary. “What does he say?”

  The midwife sat Mary up slowly so she could pat the pillows behind her, give them more air. “Dr. Fordyce recommends a wine diet. He believes it might be of some benefit.”

  “Of course he does,” said Mary with a half smile. “But I’m not much of a drinker.”

  Mrs. B laid her gently back against the pillows and returned the smile, unguarded. “Shall we brush those teeth, then?”

  Mary nodded. Mrs. B didn’t have her usual salt and charcoal, but it would’ve been too much anyway. She used water and a rough cloth instead, taking her time. Mary’s tongue was hard and thick; the white coating had turned to brown fur that stuck to the edges of her teeth. The midwife cleaned each one as best she could.

  There was no order to dying, but there were signs.

  “What an irony it would be, wouldn’t it?” said Mary. “Me, finally content.”

  Mrs. B didn’t answer. Didn’t think it needed answering. But she felt relieved when Marguerite knocked on the door, bringing little Fanny in with her. No matter how sallow Mary’s cheeks, her eyes sparkled at the sight of her girl.

  “Bonjour, Maman!”

  “Bonjour, ma chérie!” said Mary, patting the bed.

  Marguerite lifted her onto it. Fanny sat cross-legged beside her mother.

  “Have you seen your little sister today?”

  “Yes. And we took flowers from the garden. For the nice woman who looks after her.”

  “I’m so glad you think she’s nice, Fannikin.”

  “She gives me sweets.”

  Mary shot a look at Marguerite.

  “I took them to her as a gift. Some caramels, hopjes, from my Dutch cousin. I just wanted to thank her for looking after little Mary.”

  “How thoughtful, Marguerite. Thank you.”

  “You’d like her. She’s good-hearted and gentle, sings songs while she suckles. A Scottish girl.” She turned to the midwife. “And a redhead! You’d like her too, Mrs. B.”

  “What about my little bird?” said Mary, her voice catching in her throat. “How is she today?”

  “Très, très bien,” said Marguerite.

  “She’s getting fat, Mama! Even her tiny feet.”

  “Isn’t that lovely,” said Mary, stroking Fanny’s hair.

  Desperate for her mother’s touch, Fanny leaned into the crook of Mary’s arm, resting her small head on her shoulder. She made spiders with her fingers, crawling them in the air.

  “Today, Mama, we found a spider in the kitchen, but we didn’t kill it. We put it outside, because I told Marguerite that you like spiders, and wouldn’t want it to die.”

  “I admire them more than I like them. But I’m glad you saved its life.”

  After a moment, and without any warning, Fanny looked up into her mother’s face and said, matter-of-factly, “Are you going to die, Mama?”

  Mary looked down at Fanny, still nestled against her. How keen children were. Fanny, with her natural curiosity, always wanted to know everything, and Mary encouraged it. Why should now be any different? But the whole room held its breath.

  “I am, sweet Fanny. I am.”

  Marguerite all but gasped, and had to turn away. Mrs. B kept her gaze steady on mother and child. Just like that, it was said out loud, and done with.

  “But does that mean we can’t play anymore?” said Fanny.

  “There will be so much playing, Fannikin. You have Papa, and Marguerite, and your sister will want to play hoops with you sooner than you think, and you’ll have to teach her, of course, and then you’ll make friends at school, and hardly notice after a while.”

  Marguerite turned to the window, her ribs heaving.

  “May I play school in your study, Mama?” said Fanny, already on to the next thing.

  “If it’s a
ll right with Mrs. B,” said Mary, shooting a glance at the midwife. “She’s our guest.”

  The midwife held her arms out for Fanny, who climbed into them without a second thought. “I’ll take you there myself.”

  In the study Fanny climbed right onto the chair, stood up, and reached for the cracked quizzing glass hanging around the gold frame over her mother’s desk. She put the velvet ribbon around her neck. “I’m allowed,” she said.

  Mrs. B had no doubt of it. The door was open, and she could see Marguerite turn to look at Mary, who reached out her hand.

  “Don’t be afraid of me. I’m still who I am.”

  Marguerite went to her bedside. “I wish I were half as brave as you.”

  “It’s not bravery if you’re not afraid, dear Marguerite. I’ve seen you, seen you be fearful, but it never stopped you, not once. You’ve followed me to the ends of the earth.”

  “I would do it again, from the very first day. All of it.”

  “So would I.”

  Mrs. B could see Marguerite pinching the elbows of her sleeves. “I don’t know what will become of me, without you.”

  “You’ll stay here. For my girls. Who need you. It would be a great comfort to me—”

  “Of course I will, if that’s what you want. They’re my family too.”

  “I know maybe one day you’ll want to have your own family—”

  “I don’t wish to marry. I’m not only your servant; I’m your pupil. And I’ve seen what it’s put you through.”

  “I know you have. But not all men are hopeless. You don’t have to marry them, you know.”

  “You’ve given me a taste of my own liberty. Married or not, why would I ever give that up?”

  Mr. Godwin knocked lightly on the bedroom door, and peeked his head in. “Morning, ladies. All safe for me?” he said, with his usual worried smile.

  At the sound of his voice Fanny rushed to the door to greet him. “Papa!” she called.

  Mary watched as Godwin lifted the little girl into his arms and brushed the hair out of her eyes, asking her where she’d been all morning, and how she got the fresh scrape on her knee. Fanny put her arm around his neck and toyed with his ear while she answered, and he listened, his face darkening or brightening according to the vicissitudes of her story.

  Mrs. B stood in the threshold. The morning breeze coming in from the window kissed the scene.

  “I think I ought to have some of that wine, Mrs. B,” said Mary, with a smile that was equal parts love and sorrow.

  Mary W

  When you read this, I’ll be gone.

  My soul was calm, the tempest subsided. Nothing was left but an eager longing to forget myself, escape all anguish, all thought—fly away from this hell of disappointment. Some vision, like a liquid dream, appeared, but I couldn’t catch it. I was aware of my head turning, but it was no longer my head, the sinews in my neck, not my neck. My hands, not my hands. “A little patience, and all will be over,” I said to myself, dissolving into blankness, at last, oblivion.

  I woke to Imlay’s face in mine. One vein at the side of his head bulged purple. He shook my shoulders in his hands, trying to rouse me. “What have you done, Mary? Wake up!” He slapped my face lightly, but my eyelids were too heavy to open; my head bobbed and fell onto his chest. He hoisted me up from the bed, but I was a rag doll in his arms. “Think of Fanny!” he said, gathering the back of my hair to hold my head up. “Your little girl!” I mumbled her name, or his name, but the sounds that came out of me weren’t sounds I knew, or a voice that was mine.

  Imlay walked me around the room, strong hand at my waist, asking me questions, sometimes soft, sometimes shouting, making me answer. He must have found the empty bottle of laudanum by my bedside.

  “How much did you take, Mary? What time did you take it?”

  “Why are you here?” I kept asking him, even as my knees buckled under me. “Why did you come?”

  “Your letter,” he said. “I read your letter.”

  A doctor came, who gave me purges until I vomited everything in my body—what felt like everything I’d ever ingested, violently so. I was turned inside out, outside in, weak and listless. I was an empty vessel, without a will of my own, neither to live nor die. Either seemed too much effort.

  It was then I caught sight of Marguerite at the door, wiping tears away, and Imlay, through the crack, trying to reassure her. She always spoke rapid French when she was upset or afraid. Imlay’s French was halting, but his voice calm. Then I saw Fanny, burying her face in her nursemaid’s skirts. Even then, too sweet for the world.

  “Ça va aller,” Imlay said to Marguerite. “Tout ira bien.”

  “Ça va aller,” she repeated, stroking Fanny’s hair. “Ça va aller.”

  This was my coming back to consciousness.

  The next few days I rested, woke, wept, refused to eat, stared out at the barren sky, and slept some more. Imlay often sat in a chair by my bedside, reading, sometimes aloud. But he felt more a guard than a guardian, I understood, lest I try again to end my life. Once a day Marguerite would bring Fanny in, little legs wrapped around her hip, but Fanny reached for me as soon as she saw me.

  “Mama’s tired,” Marguerite told her. I caressed my little girl’s honey-gold hair. “Forgive me, darling Fannikin. We’ll play soon. Very soon.” Which was the most I could muster.

  When I began to sit up in bed, then moved to the parlor, then took tea and toast, Imlay didn’t speak to me of love, but commerce.

  “You can’t live on the sofa, Mary. There’s no future in it.”

  “Is this a sofa?” I said. “I thought it was an abyss.”

  “A sense of purpose. That would help.”

  “Thank you for knowing so cleverly what I need.”

  He managed a rueful smile. “You move onward. Outward. It’s what you do.”

  “Perhaps ‘flee’ would be a better word.”

  “A trip would do you good.”

  I looked at him, some ember of hope in my hollow heart. “Together?”

  He started to pace. “I know I’ve neglected you,” he said, “but only because of the worries pressing on me. If we could find out what happened to the silver, the lost ship—”

  “Ellefsen’s ship?” His tight turns around the room made me dizzy. We knew the Maria and Margarethe had never arrived in Norway. There were reports that Ellefsen had unloaded the silver in the dead of night and then sunk the ship, or planned to; indeed, there were rumors of such a wreck near Arendal, all the treasure lost. But the ship had lately reappeared, battered, with no silver on it. Ellefsen had been arrested and released, awaiting a formal inquiry. By now I hated the whole crooked business.

  “Our future depends on it,” he said, scraping a chair across the floor to sit across from me, our knees touching. He clasped his strong hands together. “A thousand pounds. That’s all. We’ll go to America. Be farmers—read, study, write—the way we planned. If you can just find where the silver’s gone.”

  “You want me to find the silver?”

  “I have to go back to France to track the other end of this business. And you hate it here. Think of it, the sea, the air, something to do—”

  “And you, successfully dispensing with me—”

  He pulled a folded page from his coat pocket. “I’ve already written the commission. It authorizes you, Mary Imlay, my best friend and wife, to undertake the sole management and direction of all my affairs and business in Scandinavia. You are my helpmate, my equal. The only person in the world I trust entirely.” He unfolded it and handed it to me. “If anyone can find what was lost, or make the case for restoration, it’s you.”

  My eyes scanned the words, but my head was swimming. I didn’t understand why Imlay clung to the ship as our salvation, but certain words teased me: “trust,” “best friend,” “equal.” There sounded a future for us in it, the utopia I’d imagined for so long. Still, I didn’t know if I had the strength to take it on, to pack my things yet again and
go.

  “Then we’ll have a glorious holiday,” he said in response to my hesitation. “You, me, Fannikin.” He knew this would lift my chin. “To celebrate.”

  “And you’ll give up your commercial venturing, your speculations? We’ll go to America?”

  He looked down at his hands, ground his palms, the way he did when he was thinking. Then looked at me squarely with soft brown eyes. “I believe in you, Mary,” he said. “I need you to believe in me.”

  I sighed and looked out the window, trying to decide whether I could, after all, still believe.

  “I won’t be separated from Fanny,” I said, as if negotiating terms.

  “I’ve spoken to Marguerite. She’ll go with you both. She wants to go.”

  I didn’t have the wherewithal to resent him presuming to speak to Marguerite without consulting me first, but marveled at her willingness to go.

  “How can someone so afraid be so intrepid at the same time?” I said.

  “Elias Backman expects you in Gothenburg. He’s our partner there. Knows all the details and has begun a lawsuit on our behalf.”

  “To think that a month ago she’d never even left Paris.”

  “He’ll make any necessary introductions.”

  “And suffers such awful seasickness. But still she longs to go with me?”

  Imlay sat back in the chair and studied me. “You make everyone’s world bigger, Mary. You can’t help yourself.”

  * * *

  Within a week we were in Hull, where Fanny, Marguerite, and I stayed in a house as cold as a tomb, with fewer comforts, waiting for a vessel to take us to Sweden. I wrote the first of my letters to Imlay an hour after we arrived: “Imlay, dear Imlay, am I always to be tossed about thus? Shall I never find a haven to rest contented in? How can you love to fly about—dropping down in a new world, cold and strange, every other day? Why do you not attach to those tender emotions round the idea of home, which even now dim my eyes?”