Angelmonster

by Veronica Bennett

  The shop was dark and low-ceilinged. The day after my wet dress escapade, when I had been instructed by my loving mama not to venture outside as I would catch my death, I sought my father there.

  “Papa, I am so bored upstairs,” I pleaded. “Mama will not let me go out.”

  “Quite right.”

  He emerged from between the bookshelves with a pile of books, smiling his serious smile. The sharp nose I had inherited looked sharper than usual. “But since you are here, you may make yourself useful. If you please, my dear, would you put these back on the top shelf? You are more agile than I.”

  “Of course, Papa.”

  He hesitated before he gave me the books. “And about last night’s performance…”

  “You forgive me, do you not, Papa?”

  He nodded, more with relief than condescension. “You are your mother’s daughter, Mary, in more than name. A wild spirit. But I know you are a good girl.”

  I sighed. I was a good girl. I spent my entire time trying to please unpleasable people, it seemed. I took the books and, lifting the hem of my skirt, made a shaky ascent of the ladder. When the books were safely on the shelf I gathered the skirt around my knees and prepared to go down.

  The bell on the door clanged as a customer came in. I stayed where I was, perched on the top rung of the ladder, obscured by the darkness. I often hid in the shadowy shop like this. I liked to watch my father being a Great Mind, encouraging those with money to part with it and those without to share as much philosophical discussion as time and idleness would allow.

  I shifted my position to obtain a better view of the visitor. The light from the front window revealed a tall, slightly-built man, still wearing his hat. He was young, no more than twenty or so, with a blue jacket, tan breeches, a badly tied tie and an armful of books. He put the books down and said cheerfully to Papa, “Good afternoon, sir. What chance a sovereign for these?”

  His voice was measured, yet at the same time urgent, as if the simple words had important meaning. Curiosity crept over me. Was this young man a regular customer, known to Papa?

  My father began to inspect the books. While he did so, the young man removed his hat, leant on the door frame and gazed around the shop. I saw that his face was well shaped, with a high brow and clean-shaven chin. He had extraordinary eyes – large, and expressive even at a distance – and light, curly hair.

  Curly hair!

  I lifted my skirt a little higher. Happily I was wearing my second-best dress, a blue silk. It was fine stuff, trimmed with recently replaced lace. And my hair, washed for the party last night, had been curled again this morning. I looked as well as I ever could look.

  “Papa!” I called boldly. “Would you hold the ladder? I fear it is a little unsteady.”

  The customer looked up when he heard my voice. “Er… Miss? If you please … may I assist you?”

  Peering into the recesses of the shop, he located first my boots, then my stockings, then my skirt, then my face at the top of the ladder. He placed his foot sturdily on the bottom rung. His upturned face showed amusement, but no mockery. “My apologies,” he said. “Are you this gentleman’s daughter?”

  I began, slowly, to descend. “Yes, sir.”

  My father could not allow himself to be excluded. He advanced and made a small bow. “She is my middle daughter, sir. Her name is—”

  “Mary,” interrupted the gentleman. “You see, I know it. By repute, all your daughters are charming.”

  Papa bowed lower. As I gained the lowest rung, and the young man had to remove his foot to make way for mine, I felt the blood rise to my face.

  “I see repute is not mistaken,” he said.

  It was gallantry, but I was flattered. Although in my mother’s philosophy women were equal with men, and curtsying was reserved for servants and sycophants, I performed a low curtsy. Very prettily, I thought.

  The man bowed. “Shelley,” he said.

  “Mr Shelley is a poet, my dear,” added my father proudly.

  I could not prevent myself from blushing. The rules of flirtation I had recited to Jane last night deserted me. This man had been plucked from romantic fantasy and placed here before me. In the blue-coated figure I saw my dreams and excitement beyond any “sport” my sister and I had ever concocted. I managed to say “How do you do?”, but so quietly he could not have heard.

  “I believe I dined in your company some years ago, when you were a little girl,” he said.

  “Oh!” I exclaimed, raking my brain for the memory of this occasion. Suddenly it was there: pink ribbons in Jane’s hair, flowers on the table, a young man laughing with my father and drinking a lot of wine. “Oh, was that you?”

  “Mr Shelley will be a great poet one day,” observed Papa.

  “Sir, you flatter me,” said Shelley, bowing.

  As I watched him, another memory came to mind. A few weeks ago Papa had shown Mama something in the newspaper, shaking his finger at it excitedly and telling her that this poet, a man of his acquaintance, was on the verge of success. Jane and I had taken no notice. We had assumed that the poet, like the rest of Papa’s acquaintance, would be middle-aged, tedious and less talented than he supposed.

  Papa recollected that he was in the middle of a business transaction. He went to the desk. “I can offer you fifteen shillings, Mr Shelley.”

  “You are kind, sir, but eighteen would be the least I could accept.”

  “Sixteen shillings and sixpence.”

  Shelley nodded, replaced his hat and touched the brim in my direction. He pocketed the coins gravely. “My thanks, sir. Good day.”

  The door clanged. Papa and I exchanged a look. Then the door clanged again.

  “Will you allow me to call?” Shelley asked my father.

  “Certainly.”

  He bowed, and was gone.

  I no longer had to worry my father for useful employment. Hitching the second-best blue silk dress above my knees I bounded up the stairs two at a time, in a fashion long since banned by my stepmother, laughed at by Papa, imitated by Jane and disapproved of by Fanny. All the way up I called, “Jane! Jane!”

  But it was Fanny who came out of the drawing-room, sewing in hand. “What are you doing?” she asked sharply. “Mama and I wondered what the noise could be.”

  Fanny was barely four years older than Jane and me, but she seemed ancient. Even Papa, with his habits of pursuing famous people and drinking more than was good for him, seemed younger. She was wearing an ill-fitting afternoon dress, and her hair was in its usual severe braids, with no softening curls at the temples such as Jane and I wore.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “I am looking for Jane.”

  “You are always looking for Jane,” said Fanny, and went back into the drawing-room. “She is in her room.”

  Climbing the next flight of stairs no less noisily, I opened Jane’s door without knocking. “Guess who has just come into the shop!”

  Jane was lying on her bed reading a novel. When I entered she put the book down, puckering her eyebrows. “The King? The Duke of Wellington? Napoleon himself?”

  “I am in earnest.” I sat on the bed. “Do you remember when we were about twelve, a man coming to dinner whom Papa said was going to be a poet?”

  Her eyes took on a faraway look. “Do you mean Mr Coleridge, who recited that dreadfully long poem about an albatross?”

  “No, that was much longer ago. I was only six then, and you were asleep, and you only know the story of The Ancient Mariner because I told you afterwards, so do not show off, please. This is a Mr Shelley. Papa says he is an aristocrat – the son of an earl, or something, though he does not use his title. He came into the shop today and sold Papa some books, and spoke to me and said he remembered me.”

  Jane looked cynical. “And did he buy any books?”

  “No, but what has that to do with it?”

  “Have you never noticed how titled people are always the least ready to part with their money?”r />
  “Jane!” I was exasperated. “Sometimes you sound more like your mama than is good for you!”

  She smiled her beautiful smile. “I am teasing you because I am envious that you were there and I was not.” She leant towards me. “And you were wearing that blue dress which I covet so shamelessly. What was he like?”

  I took her by the shoulders. “Like a god. Like an angel. Like every hero in every romance you have ever read.” Releasing her, I took up her book and looked at the title. “Like the most perfect example of male beauty represented in this book. Which, by the way, I have never heard of.”

  “Why, Mary, how old-fashioned you are!” Peevishly she took it back. “It is newly published. Mama borrowed it from somebody.”

  “It must be a novel, then, since Mama reads nothing else.”

  “It is a novel.” She sighed. “But so far it is rather dull. Three or four families in a country village, that is all.”

  “Abominable!” I put my hand to my throat, affecting shock. “Do you mean there are no haunted castles? No thunderstorms? No abducting and rescuing? Why, Jane, what possessed you to begin such a serious book?”

  She responded to my mockery by kicking me gently. I looked at her foot, elegantly shod in one of the soft kid slippers she always wore indoors, aware how much smaller it was than my own.

  “It is supposed to be a comedy,” she said. “And I must admit that the story is very true to life. There is a family of daughters whose father can leave them no fortune, so they must find rich husbands.”

  “In that case,” I retorted, “male beauty will certainly appear soon. Perhaps in the very next chapter.”

  “The most beautiful daughter is called … now, let me see.” She turned the pages, frowning prettily. “Oh! Her name is Jane! How penetrating this author is!”

  She said this with the coyness she had learned from her mama, which never failed to drain my reserve of tolerance. But I collected myself. “Shall we speak of Mr Shelley, or do you not want to hear?”

  “I can scarcely contain my impatience!” she said, putting Pride and Prejudice aside. “Describe his looks immediately. In every detail, please.”

  “He has curly hair, quite long, over his collar. And beautiful eyes.”

  “And are his clothes new, and well kept?”

  “Jane! I thought you were a romantic!”

  “I assure you I am,” she said gently. “But if you are going to fall in love with an earl’s son, or whatever he is, do you not think you might make sure he has money, as well as a title?”

  I paused before I spoke. “His clothes are shabby, actually. His boots are quite worn out.”

  “Ah.”

  “Papa knows he has money, though. I could hear it in his voice when he spoke to him. You know, that way Papa has of speaking to people who admire his work, and whom he considers might be induced to give him financial support.”

  Jane looked thoughtful. “Mama told Fanny that Papa is in debt for the rent. He has not paid for the shop or the house for six months. Do you suppose he is hoping this Shelley will help him?”

  I said nothing. I was surprised enough by this news, without having to consider Shelley’s potential involvement.

  “But of course …” said Jane with a sly look, “if he were to become Papa’s son-in-law…”

  “Jane, do not torment me!” I stood up and walked about her room. “I must not invite ridicule by throwing myself at him.” I was glad Jane had not witnessed the performance with the ladder. “All he did was remember my name. If you had been there, do you not think he would have done the same for you?”

  “No, I do not,” she said decisively. “And if we do not receive a call from Lord or Viscount or Whatever-he-is Shelley in the very near future, I will eat this novel, pride and prejudice and all, with potatoes and gravy.” She took up the book again. “Now, go away and let me read about the lover of the beautiful Jane. He must surely enter soon!”

  ANGEL

  He must surely enter soon.

  Every day for three days I sat on the window-seat and watched for Shelley. Naturally I could not mention his name to Papa, and I had no wish to speak it in front of Mama or Fanny. Only Jane shared my secret. The man I marry will…

  On the fourth day, he came.

  His tie was neat and his jacket had been brushed, and he carried a cane with a silver top. He had a handsomely bound book in the crook of his elbow. When he was shown into the drawing-room, he took little notice of Mama’s effusive welcome but handed the book straight to me.

  “I understand you are a reader,” he said, smiling broadly. “Would you do me the honour of reading this? I am very happy to lend it.”

  The book was Cowper’s Hymns. A suitably improving text to give a young girl in the presence of her mother. Mama, admiring the book, drowned my thanks with hers. But as Shelley attended to her I realized he was not attending to her at all. I care nothing about the book, he was thinking, I care only for the girl. How can I get her away from her tiresome mama?

  “The day is very fine,” he declared when Mama paused. “Might we not take a walk? We are but a few strides from a pleasant churchyard, I notice.”

  “I do not take walks, sir,” said Mama.

  I was not inviting you, madam, said Shelley’s small, pinched bow.

  “But of course my daughters would be happy to accompany you,” she continued. “You will take some tea with us first?”

  “That would be a pleasure,” said Shelley.

  “Ring the bell,” she instructed me. “And summon Jane and Fanny.”

  I went to the bell by the fireplace, dismayed. Did she think Shelley wished to escort all her daughters?

  When Jane and Fanny appeared Shelley bowed, his gaze lingering on Jane’s face longer than on Fanny’s. Fanny, confronted with an attractive man only a year or two older than herself, flushed. But Jane remained as cool and coquettish as always. I reflected sourly that she must have rehearsed that perfect smile in front of the mirror upstairs, just as I had rehearsed my own less-than-perfect one.

  We sat down uncomfortably. While Mama prattled, I examined Shelley.

  He was still the angel I had described to Jane, as perfect a specimen of young manhood as I had ever seen. His smooth cheeks and light curls made him look even younger than his years. He held his head nobly, with the air of a man of means and education poised at the beginning of a brilliant career. His tall frame fitted into the armchair without awkwardness. He nodded as Mama talked, but made little reply.

  I looked at his hands. They were bony like the rest of him, and white, with prominent veins. On one of the fingers of his left hand he wore a gold ring. I tried to see the seal, but he put the hand in his pocket suddenly. Perhaps it was not a signet ring, but a family heirloom of some kind. Whatever it was, I was satisfied that Shelley met all my expectations of a suitor. As I passed him a cup of tea, our fingers touched. He caught my eye. I summoned a smile as charming as Jane’s, and more sincere.

  Then Mama fired an arrow into the conversation.

  “May I ask, Mr Shelley,” she began, a slice of bread and butter halfway to her mouth, “after the health of Mrs Shelley? I hear she is indisposed.”

  I was standing by the tea tray. During the silence which followed, I sat down shakily on a footstool. I could not look at Jane or Fanny.

  Mrs Shelley? She was Shelley’s mother, surely. Hope rushed forward eagerly, then retreated again as I recollected that Mama was too much society’s slave to neglect anyone’s title. As the wife of an earl, Shelley’s mother would be referred to as Lady Shelley. My thoughts racing, I was forced to conclude that Shelley was, indeed, married. And his wife was indisposed. Jane and I knew what was meant by that word, even if our less worldly older sister did not – Mrs Shelley was expecting a baby.

  My heart felt ready to burst, but Shelley seemed unembarrassed. He sipped his tea, put down the cup and sat back in his chair as calmly as if my stepmother had remarked upon the weather.

  “I
thank you for your solicitations,” he said. “She is recovering from the sickness she has suffered recently. Her family is hopeful that she may take a change of air at some coastal town next month.”

  Mama had swallowed her bite of bread and butter. “And shall your little daughter accompany her?” she asked, tilting her head to one side in a way which might have been attractive twenty years before. “Or is she to be left in the care of her capable papa?”

  I stared at her. Then I stared at Shelley. Then I stared at the carpet. Oh God, I thought, what it must be to bear the child of a man like this! And this woman, his wife, had already done so, and was about to do so again!

  My head began to ache. If all this were true, why had Shelley taken notice of me in the shop? Why had he come here today? Why, if he was already a husband and father, had he brought me a gift and offered to take me for a walk? The effort of understanding was too great. I felt hot. The pattern on the carpet began to dance, weaving between the legs of the footstool and around the hem of my gown.

  Jane and Fanny sat beside each other on a small sofa, Jane alert and interested, Fanny slumped languorously in her seat, her hand resting on Jane’s, her face and neck still pink. Now I understood why Mama wanted all of her daughters to accompany Shelley on a walk. The expedition was to be a family outing, with Shelley performing the role of a kindly male visitor taking a trio of spare females for an afternoon stroll.

  I drew my shawl more closely around my shoulders. Beneath the thin knitted silk, more fashionable than warm, the flesh on my arms tingled. Though I was sitting on a footstool like a child, at that moment I did not feel like a child.

  My heart forced its way into my throat and beat there, forbidding speech. For all my shock at Mama’s revelation, I sensed that Shelley’s intentions were quite different from hers. I had received his silent communication in the shop, and another just now when he had given me the book. He wanted me. Me, me, me and no other.