The Painted Bridge

by Wendy Wallace

  Emmeline looked at him along the length of the table, willing him to respond to her meaningful glance. He slapped down the paper and turned his attention to the plaice on his plate, scraping off the flesh on the top, lifting out its spine in one supple piece.

  “Benny is here, Querios.”

  “I know that, Emmeline.”

  “He wants to speak to you.”

  Querios sighed.

  “Well, Benedict? Do your tribe of scallywags need my support?”

  “The boys are doing well. They’re not scallyw-w-w-ags and if you intend to ridicule my p-p-petition, I will not m-m-make it.”

  Benedict’s face contorted as if every last muscle was involved in the effort to get out the words. Emmeline felt her own face stiffen in sympathy. Ben’s stammer was worst at the table. But the table was the only place they ever saw each other all together, these days, with Querios working all hours and Ben out of the house so much.

  “Until I have heard the plea,” Querios said pleasantly, “I don’t know whether I shall ridicule it or not.”

  “We want to start a second school for g-g—young ladies, F-f-father. We have a room, in G-g—Golden Lane. We need benefactors.”

  Emmeline braced herself for the answer, resting her elbows in the soft furrows of the tablecloth. She sometimes had a feeling that the trust she placed in Querios, had always placed in him, to know better than she did, to have a surer sense of what to do, was not justified. The idea gave her the same swimming sensation as a dream she’d had recently—where they all lived in France, in a house of papier-mâché, built on ground of blancmange. She was often in France in her dreams.

  “It’s a marvelous thing, persuading others to be the instruments of your charity,” Querios said to Ben. “How you can call yourself a teacher looking like that, hair all over your face, I don’t know.”

  “If you still had hair, Father, how would you wear it?”

  Catherine’s voice was innocent.

  “Catty, darling,” Emmeline interrupted. “Pass me the marmalade, would you?”

  Querios didn’t seem to have noticed Catherine’s remark. He was in full flow, his fish forgotten.

  “At your age, Benedict, I was working with my father. You might have the luxury of indulging your conscience with the poor but I am obliged to labor alone to keep your brothers in school as I dimly remember I once kept you in school.”

  Emmeline listened with half an ear. She took a sip of China tea and felt the bite and smokiness assuage her sinking spirits. The truth was that Querios had feared Septimus Abse. Even in middle age he used to become nauseous before an audience with the old man. But when Septimus died, Querios was lost. Grief-stricken. The ringing in his ears had begun that hard, cold spring. Could it be five years ago already?

  If Benedict wanted to give his time to the ragged school movement, she had no objection. He would grow out of it soon enough. Querios had wanted to be a teacher himself when she first met him. He believed it was his vocation. Sometimes she thought that Querios felt reproached by Benedict, by his good heart and his desire to help people, and that his son reminded him of his own younger, better self.

  She returned her empty cup to its saucer with a sharpness that caused the teaspoon to jump.

  “You might consider my nerves,” she said. “It is distressing to see you quarreling over trivial matters.”

  “We’re not quarreling, Em.”

  “They’re not trivial, Ma.”

  Emmeline looked down the table at Querios again.

  “He’s not asking for very much, Q. Only a contribution.”

  “A contribution, eh? That’s all any of us want.”

  Emmeline felt a pulse in her temple begin to throb. He was getting more and more impossible lately, still refusing to talk to her about Catherine—sidestepping every conversation she tried to begin on the subject.

  Catherine picked fragments of shell from the sides of a boiled egg.

  “I’ll give you some books for the girls, Ben,” she said. “I think it’s an admirable idea to teach them to read and write.”

  “Not r-r—read, Cath. They are going to learn to cook and s-sew.”

  “Why not teach them to read? What are they meant to do in their leisure time?”

  “They don’t have any l-l-l … Anyway, Cath, I’ve got a new book for you.”

  “Oh, Ben, I love you. You are the best possible brother. What is it?”

  Catherine jumped off her seat and ran to him as Ben finished off his third plate of mushrooms and, dropping his fork on the cloth, extracted a book from his pocket. She threw her arms round his neck, kissed him, and dashed out of the room with the volume, her feet pounding on the stairs.

  Hannah stepped sideways through the door with an empty tray in her hands and began collecting plates. Querios rolled up his newspaper, stuck it into his pocket and pushed back his chair. Benedict folded another rasher of bacon into his mouth with his fingers and got up.

  “Thank you, Hannah,” he said, as she took away his plate. “How are you this morning?”

  Emmeline could never get used to Ben’s height. He’d outstripped her own five feet three inches when he was fourteen and now at over six feet he towered over Querios as well. He was tall and straight and handsome despite the old clothes he affected, his unkempt hair and the holes in the toes of his shoes. She felt a rush of pride and love for him. Gratitude too. It was such a simple matter to love sons. Catching hold of his hand as he passed, she pressed it against her cheek.

  “Your father means well. I’ll talk to him later.”

  “I know, Ma. Don’t trouble yourself.”

  “Ben? Do you think it’s a good idea, bringing Catherine all these books?”

  “Yes, I do. She enjoys them. I’m off to school.”

  And he went. They were all gone, before the longed-for togetherness had ever quite arrived. Emmeline felt sticky even though she hadn’t touched the marmalade in the end. She sat on, alone at the table, as the golden rectangle of sun narrowed and disappeared, dabbing at her mouth again with the square of damask. The hyacinths lolled against each other in the bowl as if overpowered by their own scent. She got up and went around the table, lifted the top of Catherine’s egg. It was untouched, the yolk hardened and opaque in its soft white collar.

  * * *

  Emmeline climbed the stairs toward Catherine’s room. She intended to ask what she meant to do with the day and suggest that they pay some morning calls. If they wanted any society, they had to go and find it. People didn’t like to visit Lake House. They feared being seen coming through the gates—feared the whispers about confined relatives, contaminated bloodlines and unmarriageable daughters. She’d felt the same herself the first time she came to meet Abse Senior and his wife. It was hard to shake off the feeling as the carriage passed through the high gates that the air on the inside of the walls of Lake House was different air, the ground a far country. That she might not escape.

  Catherine didn’t understand the handicap with which she was setting out in life. She was unaware of the prejudice she was likely to meet when she did finally decide to go out and about in society more. Perhaps it was for the best.

  “Rejoice,” Emmeline muttered, approaching the closed door. “This is the day the Lord hath made.”

  She prayed often, not from the staunchness of her belief but from its feebleness; she felt that faith must be like good grooming—desirable definitely and achievable possibly, through hard work.

  “Catherine! Dear!”

  The good humor in her voice sounded forced. Sometimes she wondered whether she feared her own daughter. She pushed open the door without waiting for an answer and walked in. The air was stuffy; dresses were strewn over the backs of chairs and silk shawls lay in puddles on the floor alongside unpaired shoes that looked as if they had been running around independently. Catherine had taken off her wrapper and was lying on the bed on her stomach, dressed in a chemise and a pair of red flannel drawers, a book propped on th
e pillow.

  “What a mess it is in here. Hasn’t Hannah been up?”

  “I told her not to.”

  Emmeline stepped farther into the room and the loose board creaked under her foot—louder here than when she heard it from underneath, in her own bedroom. She stooped to pick up a stocking, considered whether she might risk sitting on the edge of the bed and decided against it. She would wait for an invitation.

  “You didn’t eat your egg. Are you unwell?”

  “I’m perfectly well, Mother. I’m reading Mrs. Barrett Browning. Listen to this! ‘Some people always sigh in thanking God.’ Just like Aunt Flo does.”

  She laughed and for an instant something in her face looked just as it did when she was five years old. Emmeline smiled.

  “I’ve told Cook to make the biscuits you like.”

  Catherine repositioned her book but made no response.

  “I thought we might pay some calls this morning.”

  “You go, Mother. I’m busy.”

  Emmeline sighed.

  “You can’t let your life slip away, Catty, while you lie in the gloom reading books.”

  “This isn’t my life. And don’t call me that.”

  “You know your cousins wish to see you. Especially Henry.”

  Catherine rolled onto her back and pulled the pillow over her face.

  “Stop it, Mother,” she said, her voice stifled by down. She removed the pillow. “If I get married, it will be to a poet. An Italian poet.”

  “But we don’t know any Italians.”

  Her daughter burst into laughter and Emmeline stood by the glass-fronted bookcase wondering what was funny. She felt rather like crying. She steadied her voice and spoke levelly.

  “Darling, I want to pay some calls. I would like you to come with me. I worry about you not seeing anyone your own age. And of course I hope you’ll marry one day but not everything I say is about finding you a husband.”

  “All right, Mother,” Catherine said, quietly. “I’ll come down soon.”

  Emmeline descended the stairs, one at a time. She felt more tired going down them than she had going up. She straightened her spine, trying to remember her deportment, reached the landing and stopped, leaning both elbows on the banisters. Once, Catherine had loved nothing more than to be by her side. Even at seven, eight years old she used to beg Emmeline to stay with her at night to tell her stories and sing to her. Clung to her limbs with the whole of her fierce strength if she tried to leave her bedroom before she fell asleep.

  It was all happening so quickly, Catherine growing up.

  TWELVE

  Lunch was two thin slices of ham, served with boiled potatoes and a dollop of yellow mustard that made Anna feel as if the top of her head was on fire. There were small burrowings around the heel of the loaf where mice or worse had been feeding on it. The scrape of spoons on china, the coughing and the banging of chair legs on floorboards were louder and more discordant than usual. The pudding, stewed apples still in their bitter, green skins under a white blanket of corn flour, set her teeth on edge.

  “No appetite today, Mrs. Palmer? Are the apples too sharp for you?” Talitha Batt was standing by her with a bowl of sugar and a teaspoon in her hand. Anna pushed away her dish.

  “I’m not hungry, Miss Batt, thank you all the same.”

  Anna was in low spirits. She had delayed writing the letter to Maud Sulten from a belief that when she did, something must happen. She’d thought that even if she provoked Vincent’s wrath she would through Miss Sulten find a way to free herself. Eleven days later, there had been no response. She felt a sharp humiliation every morning as she asked whether any letters had arrived for her and Makepeace shook her head, affecting sympathy while her eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

  Most of the others had left the table for the dayroom. Only Anna and Lizzie Button remained in their places. Mrs. Button seemed oblivious to the fact that lunch was over. She rocked to and fro on her chair next to Anna, muttering about her angels, her arms folded tight over the piece of wood held against her chest. Occasionally, a moan escaped her. Anna turned to her. She’d been waiting for an opportunity to say something.

  “Mrs. Button, I’m sorry for your loss. You have my deepest sympathy.”

  Button put both hands in front of her face. “Leave me alone.”

  “Mrs. Button, I only wanted to say that I’m so sorry you—”

  Button dropped the stick, clamped her hands to her ears, and let out a wail that gave Anna goose pimples along the length of her arms.

  “Let me alone, Mrs. Palmer. You know nothing about anything.”

  Anna took a mouthful of water and pushed back her chair, her jaw clenched. She made her way into the dayroom and threw herself into the window seat, preparing to endure another interminable afternoon. Was it true what Button said, that she didn’t know about anything? It couldn’t be. But perhaps it was. The photographer doctor had not returned. Maud Sulten had not replied to her letter. Even her own sister made no response to her. She was completely alone.

  * * *

  She became aware of Makepeace standing in front of her.

  “Visitor for you, Mrs. Palmer. In the office.” She jerked her eyes to indicate the door that led out of the dayroom and began leading the way toward it. “Come along, please.”

  Anna followed on Makepeace’s heels down the stairs, almost tripping on the hem of the woman’s skirt. At the bottom of the stairs, in the short corridor that led to Abse’s office, she couldn’t contain her impatience. She pulled up her skirts and flew past Makepeace, almost falling through the door into the office.

  “Where is she? Let me see her. Lou? Oh …” She stopped dead. “It’s you, Vincent.”

  He was standing in the very spot from which he’d disappeared, dressed in the same long coat, his hat held over his chest.

  “Good morning, Anna.” He took off his gloves and put his hat down on Abse’s desk, balancing it on its brim. “How are you getting along?”

  She’d thought that when Vincent came she’d fly to him, kiss his hands, beg him to see reason. But she couldn’t take a single step toward him. She took in his hair, slick with bear’s grease, the fresh tone of his skin and his air of wary benevolence. He wasn’t suffering from her absence. He didn’t share her anguish.

  Her head felt light and hollow. She put out her hands to steady herself and Makepeace stepped forward, propelled her onto a chair.

  “Mr. Abse will be here shortly,” she said. “Try not to upset yourself, Mrs. Palmer. The visit should not be a prolonged one, Reverend, if you’ll pardon me for observing. Visits meant to comfort can result in disturbed emotions.”

  Anna interrupted her.

  “I am dying here, Vincent. You have to take me out of this place.”

  Vincent ran his finger along the top of his moustache.

  “Come, Anna, please. Don’t exaggerate. A retreat is intended to provide respite for the nerves, not to inflame them.”

  “I did not need to retreat anywhere, from anything. You … you tricked me into coming here.”

  “Calm yourself, Anna.”

  “Don’t tell me to be calm when you’ve taken my life from me. Have you been speaking to my sister? Trying to turn her against me? I’ve written to her again and again and heard nothing.”

  Vincent’s air of smugness faltered. He turned to Makepeace.

  “Are you the housekeeper? I understood from Dr. Abse that guests were able to remain in seclusion here? Without, er, unwelcome contact with the world outside?”

  Makepeace’s face was at war with itself—her mouth opening and closing, waves of unexpressed thoughts passing over her features. She cleared her throat, loudly and at length.

  “That’s right, sir,” she said. “I’m the matron. I’ll fetch Mr. Abse.”

  Her mind racing, Anna barely heard their exchange. Makepeace left and Anna and Vincent were alone in the room. Vincent walked around it, tipping back his head as he surveyed the highest shelves o
f ledgers. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead.

  “Marvelous collection the doctor has.”

  “Vincent, please. Why are you doing this to me? I don’t understand.”

  “Have you got out for walks much? Wonderful countryside.”

  “I’m begging you.” Her voice sounded shrill. She took a deep breath. “I’ll lose my mind, any woman would. Your own mother would go mad here.”

  “‘The Lord will not suffer the soul of the righteous to famish.’ Please don’t speak about Mother, Anna.”

  Abse hurried in.

  “Welcome, Reverend. This is an unexpected pleasure. I thought for a moment you were another party of visitors.”

  “Good day, Doctor. God bless you.”

  Vincent pumped Abse’s hand. Abse walked behind his desk, began shifting the papers around, leafing through piles. Vincent glanced at the door. He wasn’t staying, Anna understood. He had no intention of taking her away. She had the odd feelings in her body that had become familiar at Lake House—an ache in her lungs and a sense of her blood stopping in her veins, with the wrongness of things. She made a low, animal howl.

  “You shouldn’t have come, Vincent, if you only intend to go away again and leave me here. Why have you come?”

  “My wife appears emotionally excited still, Dr. Abse. I’d hoped to find her more rational.”

  “She has made fair progress,” said Abse. “She hasn’t been troubled by any more visions.” He pronounced the word with a flourish, turned to her. “Have you, Mrs. Palmer? No boys jumping from rocks or anything of that nature. Eh?”

  Anna turned away, feeling the words like slingshot. So Vincent had informed Abse about her visions. She had tried to explain to Vincent before they were married about what she saw. She’d thought he ought to know. Sometimes they came regularly, sometimes there were gaps of a year or more. Waking dreams that she’d had from the time she was a young girl. She’d never thought they were anything to be ashamed of. She thought of them as God speaking to her.