“Julian!” Spurgeon bellows. “My good man! You’ve returned! Oh, what a delight to see you. Isn’t it, Mirabelle? He’s like the prodigal son!”
“Yes, Charles.” She stands watching the two men, the 20-year-old and the 37-year-old. Yet somehow it’s Julian who feels comforted by Spurgeon’s paternal patting. The pastor is distressingly animated. He has Nora bring in wine and bread and cheese despite protestations by both Julian and Mirabelle. He inquires (interrogates?) why Julian did not visit Vine Cottage yesterday and asks Julian’s “learned” opinion on the sermon he’s just heard.
“Mirabelle, why don’t you take Julian and today’s manuscript pages into one of the empty offices in the rectory. You two might as well get started. The pages are messy, I know, I’m sorry about that. I have made too many corrections. Trying to get every word perfect. It is my great downfall. Always striving for that unattainable perfection in my writing. My sermons are a work in progress, Julian—much like our souls.”
Julian shudders. Charles doesn’t notice.
“You two can begin copying out a clean version right here at the rectory. Have you got enough parchment, Mirabelle? I will get you more, and, Julian, you can borrow my pen and ink.”
Mutely but vigorously, Julian shakes his head.
“What Mr. Cruz is trying to say is that he can’t, Charles,” says Mirabelle. “He is busy. He has been called away. Anyway, I can’t either, I promised Betsy I’d attend to that Arts Council matter…and I must be at the Institute later.”
There is a firming of the facial muscles of the affable and effusive Charles Spurgeon in response to Mirabelle. He says nothing in reply, won’t even look at her. But she says the word Institute and the pastor’s features harden. He turns to Julian. “You agreed to help us, sir,” he says without a smile.
“I didn’t quite do that, Charles…” Arguing with a priest!
“Mirabelle is counting on you. Aren’t you, Mirabelle?”
“Charles, come now. If Mr. Cruz says he can’t, he can’t.”
“But you’ve returned to us! Why else would you be here this morning if it wasn’t to say you would help us?”
It certainly would seem that way to a casual observer. What other reason would Julian have to be loitering around Spurgeon’s study? Julian sees that he hasn’t thought this through. Too late now for careful planning. And how bad would it be, really, to work by her side? He’s not going to be chasing her through the rookery. It will just be work. Work only. They’ll be professionals—though not Silver Cross professionals. Dressed professionals, proper in all ways, a gentleman and a lady. Mr. Cruz. Miss Taylor. Nothing but good manners. Plus, she’ll be constantly surrounded by other people. Actual chaperones, not half-naked masters of the mint, the opposite of a chaperone. There won’t be a minute of privacy, a moment to get into any trouble, a second for alchemy. She probably has six or seven people around her 24/7, Prunella and Filippa leading the charge. How could she not? Look at her.
Like a slender orchid Mirabelle stands, smiling and serene.
A trapped Julian manages a half-nod.
“Excellent!” Charles booms. “It’s settled, then. I will forgo this afternoon’s sermon and accompany you to Vine Cottage myself. I might as well introduce this man to your parents, Mirabelle. You come along, too, my dear. I don’t want to bring Julian to your house without you by my side. As Madame Pye might say, it wouldn’t be proper.”
“All right,” Mirabelle says, “but not right now, Charles. Maybe this evening. I told you, I have Betsy and then this afternoon…”
“Yes, yes, I know. The Institute.” There’s a chill in Charles’s voice.
∞
From the start, things don’t go as Julian expected. For one, he and Mirabelle ride alone in one carriage. No chaperone there, except for Barnabus, whose back is turned. Like a stuttering mule, Julian asks if he should ride with Spurgeon instead, and the pastor stares back blankly. “Why? Ride with Mirabelle, of course. It will give you a chance to get to know one another. You should become comfortable; after all, you’ll be working together in such proximity.”
Just what Julian wants to hear.
In the carriage, sitting across from him, Mirabelle makes mild small talk and then clears her throat. Julian doesn’t like throat clearings. They often signal something untoward. “Before heading to Vine Cottage, Mr. Cruz, I do need to run that errand. Would you mind accompanying me?”
“Of course not.”
“It’s a little bit delicate, I’m afraid. I may require some assistance.”
“I’m yours, Miss Taylor,” Julian says. “I mean—I meant—anything I can do to help.” God!
“Thank you. Have you ever heard of the Crystal Palace?”
“Of course.” The Great Exhibition was held at the Crystal Palace in 1851, the very first World Fair. “Hyde Park, I believe?” Look at him, angling for a stroll in the park already! But a solemn stroll, right? Solemn and unsmiling.
“That was then,” Mirabelle says, as if then was so last century, not three years ago. “The Exhibition Hall has been relocated to Sydenham, where I live. It took two years to erect it at our local park. It came in six months behind schedule and millions of pounds over budget.”
“That’s how it always is.” Did she just say erect? Oh, what’s wrong with him. Julian stares out the carriage window. It’s pretty outside, hilly and forested. Sydenham, Kent, is considered posh country dwelling, even though it’s only a few miles south of the river. Centuries earlier, Sydenham began as a small settlement in the woods where animals grazed. Then its residents discovered that its spring waters contained healing properties and the upmarket population swelled and has been swelling ever since. But still, the crowds in Sydenham are thin, not like London.
“The new Crystal Palace opened to great fanfare two months ago, and at first it was wonderful.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yes, unfortunately, uh-oh. We were forced to shut down despite the sell-out crowds. Here’s where the matter gets delicate, Mr. Cruz.” Mirabelle speaks slowly and chooses her words carefully. She looks into her gloves, not at his face. “Our female visitors couldn’t help but notice and take exception to—how shall I put this—the nakedness of the male statues lining the transept. Of course no one complained about the nude female statues in the hall, not the women, and most certainly not the men…”
“Most certainly.”
“But the male Italian forms of the Greek and Roman gods being displayed rather prominently, on pedestals, no less, caused a public outcry.”
His face straight, Julian listens, watching her straight face. Is it his imagination or does something mischievous gleam in those chocolate eyes of hers as she speaks?
“I, being a senior member of the Arts Council, was tasked with covering up the offending parts of the male, um, anatomy with papier mâché leaves, which I had to make myself for eighty sets of, um—” Mirabelle covers her mouth.
“This is what being good at your job as a senior member of the Arts Council gets you, Miss Taylor,” Julian says. “Being tasked with large responsibilities.” There is definitely something mischievous in his eyes as he speaks, but she doesn’t know this, because she’s not looking at him.
She blinks as if she can’t figure out if he is being cheeky. “Yes, you are quite right,” she says slowly. “It took me over two weeks to accomplish the job…”
“Well, there was a lot to do, and it’s important to be thorough.”
“Yes…anyway, once the offending parts were camouflaged, the Crystal Palace reopened.”
“Congratulations.”
“And yet…”
“Ah. The story continues?”
“The story always continues.” She sighs theatrically. “When the hall reopened, our attendance dropped by forty percent.”
Julian laughs. “And what is the lesson in that story, Miss Taylor?”
“I—uh—I don’t know, Mr. Cruz.”
“As with all art, never hide th
e parts people want to see.”
“I suppose so.” Mirabelle maintains a modest expression. “After a hastily convened emergency meeting, our treasurer declared that the operating costs for the Exhibition Hall would put us out of business by the year’s end if we did not take immediate and drastic measures to address the prickly issue of low attendance.”
Prickly issue? “It’s important to tackle big problems head on,” Julian says. “How did you raise the attendance numbers?”
“Oh, I haven’t raised them yet. But I have been instructed by the Council to remove the papier mâché leaves I had just spent days gluing on and return the statues to their original, uncovered, condition.”
“Well, I am a firm believer in doing whatever it takes, Miss Taylor,” Julian says. “Is this where you require my assistance?”
She nods.
Julian tries not to smile.
She doesn’t look at him.
The enormously long glass-walled Exhibition Hall is spread out over several acres on a hill in a landscaped, newly renamed Crystal Palace Park. Barnabus lets them off at the foot of the entrance, and they make their winding way up to the palace. Julian gets to walk with her in a park, after all.
It’s a Friday and lunchtime, but there’s hardly anyone inside the mammoth building. The sun shines down through the thousand skylights. They walk through the ornate exhibit halls, filled with baroque furniture, life-size stuffed elephants, sewing machines and threshers. Julian wishes he could spend a week in this fascinating place, but right now they have a job to do.
The task before Mirabelle is not as easy as 1-2-3. The papier mâché leaves cannot just be ripped off. “I’ve done too good a job of gluing them on,” she says, trying to remove one dry and failing. Now they won’t come off without an equal and opposite effort of water and a brush to remove the residue.
Julian didn’t know there would be comedy today. As he always said, you have to know what your life is—comedy or tragedy. Lucky him that today is one and not the other.
Maintaining decorum is not easy during a job like this, but Julian and Mirabelle make a go of it. They find a short ladder and fill a bucket with warm water. He carries the ladder and the bucket, and she carries the scrub-brush. He holds the ladder steady, she climbs up to a statue of Chronos, the god of time, and begins to soak off the papier mâché and scrub the glue off the Grecian penis and testicles. Then on to Dionysus, and Tartarus, and next, and next. Julian’s job is to hold the ladder. But that can’t be his only job. He watches her work for a while, and then points. “Miss Taylor, you missed a spot of papier mâché. Right there, below. You can’t see it from where you are, but from where I stand, it’s quite visible. You must lean down and scrub harder.”
“Mr. Cruz…”
“A little more elbow grease, Miss Taylor, and I’m sure you’ll get it.”
She scrubs. “Is it all gone?”
Julian pretends to look. “There’s still some left. Look closer. Don’t tell me you don’t see it.”
“Mr. Cruz…”
“Just apply yourself, Miss Taylor. It’s not that hard.”
After a motionless moment, Mirabelle dips the brush into the water and turns to the statue. “Fine,” she says. “I will apply myself. But if you would please be so kind as to hold on to me while I work, I would be grateful. I would hate to put too much pressure on the brush and lose my footing. I can be so accident-prone.”
“Hold on to you…?”
“Yes, just hold my leg firmly with your hand.”
Julian looks around the empty hall. Is the unaccompanied maiden really asking him to touch her in public? Carefully, he puts his hand on Mirabelle’s stacked silver buckle shoe.
“No, Mr. Cruz, that won’t do. That won’t do at all. One hand on the ladder, one hand on my leg.”
She continues with her endeavor without returning his gawp. “You’re not doing as I requested.”
He puts his hand on her ankle.
“Higher.”
He raises it to her calf.
“Higher.”
Gingerly he holds the back of her knee.
“Mr. Cruz.”
What’s happening. “Higher than your knee?” He tries not to inflect his voice.
“Yes, Mr. Cruz. Higher than my knee. And firmer. I don’t want to fall and break my leg at this eleventh hour.”
Julian’s head is level with her hips. He doesn’t know what to do. Slowly he slides his hand upward to her thigh.
“Mr. Cruz!” exclaims Mirabelle, as loudly as possible. “That is much too high, sir, that’s so impertinent of you!”
His hand flies off. He stammers out an apology.
Wiping her brow, she hops down from the ladder, and takes a step to him. “Did you think your earlier linguistic ribaldry went unnoticed? This is me paying you back in kind.” Her smile is ear to ear.
For two more hours, they amble through the transept.
It’s late afternoon by the time they’re done. Tired and hot, they stroll downhill to the waiting carriage, chatting about the original Great Exhibition and all the diamonds and flowers and locomotives that were displayed there. Julian tells Mirabelle about Karl Marx’s sour reaction to man’s inventions, and she smirks. “Oh, for certain, he turned up his nose at the powered tractor,” she says. “But what did he think of the mass-produced ice cream? The ice-cream machine was the biggest hit at the Exhibition.”
“What did you think of it?”
“It was my favorite thing,” she says. “They don’t have one here in Sydenham, unfortunately. There’s one near Astley’s Circus in Westminster, but I’m not allowed to go there. Mummy says it’s seedy near Whitehall.” She smiles.
“We should ask Barnabus to drive us there. I can come with you, so you won’t have to worry about the seedy part.”
“When? Right now?” Putting her hand on her heart, she chuckles. “Oh, Mr. Cruz. We can’t. We are woefully short on time today. I’m so sorry. Would that we could drive across the river to get an ice cream, but unfortunately the male genitalia took up all our time.”
Julian laughs. And she laughs, too.
It takes them not enough minutes to arrive at her house.
“Look at that,” Mirabelle says, pointing out the window. “They’re waiting for us at the door.” It’s true, Charles and an elderly man and woman stand on the porch, waving at their carriage. “Everyone is uncommonly interested in you, Mr. Cruz.”
“Perhaps it’s my Welsh provenance.”
“Yes, perhaps.”
How does Julian help her? That’s really the question. How does he not do everything wrong like last time? “I can’t stay,” he says. “I really can’t stay.” Last time he stayed she was ripped from him like skin off ice. And the time before. And the time before that…
“Perhaps just for supper?”
“Very well, then. Just for supper.”
As Julian gives her his arm to help her out of the carriage, Mirabelle leans on him a moment. Her eyes peruse him, while his peruse the air to the right of her shoulder.
“Mr. Cruz, may I ask you a question?”
“Of course, Miss Taylor.” He will not face the woman who’s addressing him, the woman. For shame, Julian!
“Do you…know me?” she asks. “I’m not sure why I ask, it’s just…for some reason you seem, how shall I put this, quite familiar with me.”
“Familiar with you?”
She chuckles. “No, no. You haven’t been in any way improper. I was joking around earlier. I mean with me. As if—I don’t even know how to say it—as if perhaps you’ve mistaken me for someone else? Someone you once knew?”
Julian doesn’t know how to formulate a Victorian response to so forward a question. “I haven’t mistaken you for someone else,” he says. “But it’s true, I do feel as if I know you.” In the sunlight, Julian rotates his body to hers. His gaze rises. He stares into her face. “But tell me,” he says quietly, “do you feel as if you know me?”
N
ow it’s Mirabelle who turns red and looks away. “No, sir.” She nearly stammers. “Maybe a very little bit. But mostly I don’t think so. How could I? I shouldn’t think so at all. Shall we?” Composing herself, she adjusts her bonnet, holds tight her purse, and they start toward the house.
31
The Love Story of George and Ricky
VINE COTTAGE WHERE MIRABELLE LIVES MIGHT SOUND LIKE a hut with vines growing over it, but it’s named ironically. It’s a white stone, large-windowed, vine-covered manse in the middle of a park-sized parcel of private land with lawns and woods and streams abounding, with cricket grounds and stables and hill retreats. The house sits just inside the fence off Taylor’s Lane, as if the road is named after Mirabelle. The front yard is a botanical garden of well-tended, multi-colored rose bushes.
Julian’s first indication that no one is upset that the two of them have arrived so much later than expected is when Charles bellows across the roses, “Back so soon?” Mirabelle is greeted at the door by Aubrey and John Taylor who look too old to be the parents of a twentysomething woman. They look seventy. Frail, white-haired John in particular seems to be in poor health. Aubrey is a solid, kindly, white-haired woman who insists that Julian call her by her given name and not Mrs. Anything—not very Victorian of her.
“We’ve heard so much about you.” Aubrey drags him inside the house. “Where are your bags?”
“At Mivart’s. He can’t stay, Mummy,” Mirabelle says. “Only for supper.”
They revolt. “Mivart’s on Brook Street? Gracious me,” Aubrey says. “We will not hear of it. We practically have a hotel here, all these guest rooms and no one to enjoy them except us three. You will honor us by staying with us. Why spend your hard-earned money on frivolous nonsense?”
It’s not his hard-earned money. “I really can’t stay,” Julian says. “I’ll be glad to help Charles and Mirabelle with the sermons, but…”
“No, no, no,” Spurgeon says. “The matter is settled. Barnabus! Prepare the carriage. You and I are riding to Mivart’s at once and retrieving Mr. Cruz’s belongings.” He vanishes before Julian has a chance either to protest (what are they going to think when they see how few things he has?) or say thank you. Julian doesn’t know what was going to come out of his mouth, and now will never know. The cat is both dead and alive.
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