‘Start the fire, please, Mary, and make sure these things get dried.’ Sophie is all bustling efficiency now, her headache receding.
‘So how is it going with you know who?’ Agatha asks when Sophie comes back. She sits on Sophie’s bed, drying her hair. ‘Have you found out yet what his secret is?’
Sophie raises a finger to her lips and closes the door, checking first for the possible strip of light under Thomas’s door. The hallway is dark.
‘No,’ she says, turning back. ‘That is, I might have.’
Agatha sits up straight, her eyes eager. ‘Really?’
Sophie slumps onto the bed beside her. ‘I did what you suggested. I did some digging. I went through his belongings. First of all, I found this.’ She reaches over to her dresser, where she has placed the box containing the blue butterfly.
‘It’s gorgeous,’ breathes Agatha. ‘How special! Where can I get one? Did he have any others?’
‘Well, he had crates and crates of them, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Wouldn’t it look just perfect on a hat, Sophie? What do you think?’ She holds it up to her hair and Sophie snatches it away from her, suddenly jealous.
That stops her. Agatha seems to choke on her own breath. Sophie is not sorry. How tetchy she is today.
‘All right,’ says Agatha. ‘Sorry. I only meant it would look very well. I wonder if he would sell me one for a hat.’
‘It’s too delicate,’ mutters Sophie. ‘It would blow off and get torn.’ Can’t she leave the subject alone?
‘Well, maybe he has collected something else! Don’t they all stuff birds and animals on those expeditions? A little bird would be grand! With a tiny nest. What a fine hat that would make.’
Sophie has to smile. She never stays angry at Agatha for long. She pats her friend’s hand as an apology, hoping she will understand. She replaces the butterfly carefully on the dresser, keeping her back turned. ‘You and your hats,’ she murmurs. Then, ‘There is something else.’ A whisper.
‘What?’
Sophie takes a deep breath and sits back down on the bed. ‘I read his diary.’
‘No!’ Agatha leans forward and starts rubbing her hands together. ‘What was in it?’
Sophie’s not sure she wants to share, but Agatha is looking so eager. And it will do her good to talk about it, surely. ‘Mostly he wrote about the butterfly he hoped to find. Just day-to-day things, really, although there was quite a bit that he didn’t tell me in letters. Some of the dangers he faced, for instance. Fire ants and jaguars and piranhas!’ She chuckles as Agatha looks suitably enthralled. ‘I suppose he didn’t want me to worry. There were pictures, too, of the butterflies he’d caught. They started out quite simple, but they soon became quite expert. I was surprised.’ She pauses for breath. She knows she is procrastinating. ‘There were quite few pictures of the butterfly he wanted to catch, actually — it has one side yellow wings and the other black. A swallow-tailed butterfly, you know?’
Agatha nods, rapt. ‘So he did catch it?’
‘That’s what I thought at first, but the entries didn’t say so … not as far as I read, anyway. I think he was just obsessed with it, drawing it over and over, like a doodle.’
‘Is that it? Is that what you found?’
Out with it. ‘I think there was a woman.’
Agatha’s head snaps back. A woman, she mouths with big eyes. How beautiful she is. Her dark eyes are so striking next to her white skin; her teeth bite a full bottom lip that is always smooth and red. The gypsy in her.
‘You mean …?’ Agatha doesn’t seem to be able to say it, but Sophie knows what she means.
‘I can’t be definite. The entry was not direct by any means, but that is how I read it.’ She feels her mouth screw up and fill with saliva.
‘Not Thomas!’ says Agatha. ‘But he loves you!’
Sophie can no longer speak. Tears hammer behind her eyes.
‘Sophie, darling …’ Agatha lays a hand on her arm. ‘These things do happen. You mustn’t blame yourself.’
‘Oh, I don’t,’ bursts Sophie. ‘I blame him! And her!’ She slaps a tear away and composes herself.
‘Well, what are you going to do?’
Sophie thinks for a moment about telling Agatha of her impulse to see Captain Fale. What drove her there? Revenge? She can’t now imagine what was going through her mind — she seemed to move automatically, without thought or feeling, and the memory of the evening is blurred, as if she is remembering something that happened to someone else. Thank God he didn’t let her in, though she doesn’t have it in her to do anything really bad. She just wanted to try it out, she supposes. ‘I don’t know. Do you think this is why he won’t speak?’
Agatha grunts. ‘Hardly. Men do this kind of thing to their wives all the time. It’s not something they would lose sleep over, let alone their voices. It might explain why he can’t look at you, but he doesn’t talk to anyone. And he stays in bed all day long. Where has his passion gone? He has no passion.’
Sophie turns away, embarrassed to hear Agatha talking of her husband’s passion. She can be vulgar sometimes.
‘You must keep reading.’
‘Ugh,’ says Sophie. ‘I couldn’t. Not yet, anyway.’
‘Sophie.’ Agatha grabs her hand. ‘Look at me. Look at me. He loves you. Look at this.’ She stands and picks up the butterfly where Sophie let it drop onto the dresser. ‘This proves it. This is hope. You can hate him for what he has done, or you can keep going and find out what is the matter with him. I know it’s hard, but you’ve found out that he’s human after all … Now that it’s out, you’re just going to have to live with it.’
She’s right, of course. Agatha is so often right, even if at first Sophie doesn’t agree with her. ‘But I don’t need to know any more. This is bad enough. What if … what if it gets worse?’ She barely even mouths this last word.
‘Yes, well, there’s that. The world’s not quite the place you thought it was, is it?’
Sophie shakes her head, miserable, while Agatha lays a hand on her shoulder. The hand is shaking slightly — she must be cold, sitting there in damp underwear with only a robe to keep her warm.
‘Why don’t you go and get the journals?’ suggests Agatha gently. ‘We can look together. I’ll be here with you.’
Sophie finds herself obeying without question, standing and moving as if on wheels to the door and out into the hallway. No sound comes from Thomas’s room. She opens the door a crack. He lies on his side and she is startled to see his eyes looking at her. She expected him to be asleep as usual. Perhaps the rain drumming on the roof is keeping him awake. Or perhaps he simply can’t sleep any more. He must be bored, lying there like that. I must remember to get him up when it stops raining, she thinks, but stops. Where did that thought come from? She is angry with him, and here she is worrying that he needs entertaining, as if he were a child again.
She goes to back out of the room, but as she does so, she notices that the Gladstone bag has gone from its place by the door.
‘The bag’s gone,’ she says once she is back in her room.
‘Oh, bother,’ says Agatha. ‘He’s hidden it, I suppose. But you’ll keep looking, won’t you? Say you will.’
‘I don’t know,’ says Sophie. And she really doesn’t.
The next day Sophie watches Thomas get dressed with his back to her. She knows it would be polite to leave, but she gains some satisfaction from making him uncomfortable. The wounds on his back are healing — it is a good start — and she has removed the bandage from his arm. The cuts are dry now, shiny welts that are sensitive to touch — he flinches when she runs her finger over them — but tightly closed.
They walk down the hill through the gardens towards town. She holds his arm lightly, for appearances, but she feels as if she could crush that bone if she wanted, wring his reedy neck and nobody would ever know. She strays for a moment from the path; the earth springs under her feet like a sponge, still sodden fr
om yesterday’s rain.
‘Why don’t you unpack your specimens from Brazil?’ Her voice cuts through the moist air and a robin flies out of their path in fright. ‘Why don’t you do something? Surely this hanging about in bed all day isn’t doing you any good. I know, I know.’ She answers him as if he has spoken. ‘The doctor says bed-rest, but it’s not working, is it, dear? Do you even want to get better?’ She stops walking and drops his arm. He takes it back and holds it with his other hand, rubbing at it as if she has bruised him. Was she holding him too tightly? His bones are fragile these days. She takes it up again, gently, and they continue walking.
A cricket match is being played on the green; figures in white standing around scratching themselves, waiting for the red ball to be hit their way. She can’t understand the game herself. Thomas played when he was at school, but showed little interest in it. To prove it, he continues their stroll without a glance in the game’s direction. But then, he’s not interested in anything now, not even his precious butterflies. He’s probably thinking about her. She stops the thought immediately. It will drive her crazy.
Richmond is a busy town. In the weekends, the population swells with Londoners making outings, attracted by The Terrace Gardens and the boating in the summertime. Even during the week, rowboats shunt around beneath the bridge, lovers trailing hands in the water, or teams of boys competing in bunches. If today’s walk helps him, thinks Sophie, she will take him to Kew next. He has a friend there … what’s his name? Peter someone. Crawley, that’s it. She remembers because the name conjures up images of crawling insects and whenever Thomas has mentioned him she has glanced at the beetles on the wall. She imagines he looks like one — hard armour and mashing mandibles, or at least a shiny dark suit and a drooping moustache. Perhaps she will write to Peter — a friendly face might be just what Thomas needs.
So far they haven’t met anybody they know; Sophie is glad they don’t live in a smaller town. Perhaps she should have put the word out that Thomas is ill — she is unsure what she will do when an acquaintance wants to stop and welcome her husband home and finds him speechless. She couldn’t stand the awkwardness. Then again, maybe it would pull Thomas out of his muddy condition.
Thomas waits outside the draper’s while she goes inside to buy material for a new summer frock — she has decided to treat herself.
‘Mrs Edgar!’ cries Molly Sykes, gaudy in red and blue, with rough hands and chipped nails. ‘We ’aven’t seen you in ’ere for such a long time. Is that Mr Edgar outside? Is he back from ’is journey, then?’
Sophie bites her lip. This is it. Mrs Sykes is the most tenacious gossip in town. If she tells her, it will course through the streets like a flood. But how can she stop it?
‘Yes, Mrs Sykes, he’s back. The only thing is …’ She approaches the counter and drops her voice. She can almost see the ears of the girls working in the back growing and straining. ‘He’s ill. Very ill.’
‘Really? ’e looks fine from ’ere. What’s wrong with ’im, then?’
Nosey witch. ‘He’s had a bad shock. He’s not speaking. We’re trying to be very quiet with him.’
‘Not speaking?’ cries the woman, clasping her hands, feigning shock, but unable to suppress an excited smile. The whole of Richmond will probably know by tomorrow evening — what has she done?
As Mrs Sykes helps Sophie select her fabric — a light muslin with tiny cornflowers — she keeps stealing glances at Thomas out the window. He has turned his back to the street and is looking at Sophie imploringly. Mrs Sykes gives him a wave, a tinkle of the fingers as one might give a baby. He doesn’t return it, just looks more desperate, like a dog waiting for its master.
Rounding the corner from the draper’s onto George Street, Sophie and Thomas nearly walk into Captain Fale. He steps back in alarm when he sees them, but seems to compose himself. He raises his hat.
‘Mrs Edgar. Mr Edgar.’
Sophie nods, her face burning at the thought of her behaviour two nights ago. She means to keep walking, but Thomas — whose arm is linked with hers — has become rigid. He stares at the captain, with his bottom jaw jutting out and his breath coming in quick hisses through his nose.
Captain Fale obviously senses something is wrong and steps quickly out onto the street to go around them, just as a motor clatters past. It sounds its horn at the captain, who loses his composure and drops his cane. He bends to pick it up and his hat falls into the gutter, which is still wet and mulchy from the recent rain.
‘Samuel,’ says Sophie, and she steps forward to help him pick it up. He takes the hat without looking at her and limps away as fast as he is able. In his haste, his receding figure wobbles like a wind-up toy. A small crowd has stopped on the other side of the street to watch the commotion. Sophie draws herself up and takes her husband’s arm. The beginning of a smile curves his lips and she thinks she hears him chuckle, but it may be the rumble of a passing carriage.
The idea that she may have been mistaken in her reading of Thomas’s journal grows inside her. She has no way of checking now, anyway, until she finds the bag. She has a quick scan of his room while he sits in the garden, and around his study. She finds the bottom drawer of his Brady chest locked, but has no idea if it has always been so. She pulls open the top drawer and examines its contents — beetles he has collected in the park. She reads the labels aloud to herself, feeling the unfamiliar words curl around her tongue: Stenus kiesenwetteri, Anchomenus sexpunctatus (she was with him the day he caught one on the edge of the pond near the windmill), Lamprinus saginatus and Stenus longitarsus. Her low voice sounds to her ears like a chanting monk’s.
A movement catches her eye and she turns her head to find Thomas standing in the doorway, looking at her.
‘I was just admiring your collection,’ she says.
He looks at the crates beside her and his hand tightens on the doorframe.
‘They’re just languishing here, Thomas.’
He stares at the jagged scars in the wood where she prised the lids open.
‘I just opened a couple to see what was inside, that’s all. They’re beautiful specimens, Thomas. I’m sure they could fetch a healthy price. I’ve written to Mr Ridewell. He’s arriving at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.’
He wavers for a moment, as if he is going to come in, but he tears his gaze away from the crates and steps silently back into the dark hallway. She hears his feet drum on the stairs as he takes them two at a time.
Francis Ridewell’s hands sweat in his gloves as the cab pulls in front of the two-storey brick house. Already he has shed his coat and would like to do the same with his hat. Moisture beads on his head and he removes his hat to give it a quick wipe with his handkerchief before he meets Mrs Edgar.
The pretty little housekeeper leads him through to the drawing room, where he finds Mrs Edgar waiting for him.
‘Please, don’t get up,’ he says as she rises to greet him. ‘So nice to see you again, Mrs Edgar. Thank you for your letter.’ A draught licks at his damp head, deliciously cool.
He can see straight away why she called upon him. The room they sit in sags with neglect. Despite his understanding that Edgar has a comfortable allowance, Mrs Edgar could clearly do with some extra income. He hopes to be able to provide it: the first two consignments sent him from Brazil fetched a healthy price at auction. His commission made his efforts more than worthwhile. People are still nutty for natural history, even though its heyday was last century. It seems that at every dinner party he has been to, even the ladies know a good deal about the natural sciences, can reel off a list of sea anemones and their habitats; every wealthy man covets the most rare and exotic insects.
He has also managed to find publishers for any papers Edgar may have prepared on Brazilian lepidoptera, but he can’t help wondering if he may get his hands on the real prize — the account of Edgar’s hunt for the rumoured butterfly. Above all, he needs to know whether he found it and brought it back with him. He had been tempted to
look through the crates of specimens when they arrived in Liverpool with their silent owner, but he respected his client enough to wait until he was ready to share them. Perhaps the time has now come.
‘Will Mr Edgar be joining us?’ he asks hopefully.
‘He is still very ill, Mr Ridewell. He is in bed. I have informed him of your visit, and he will join us if he can, I’m sure.’
‘I see. And he knows I have come to look at his collection?’
‘I told him.’
‘And the time has come to sell them?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘But what does your husband think, Mrs Edgar?’
The lady begins to blush. She looks down at the arm of her chair and starts to pick at some loose tapestry. ‘How could I possibly know, Mr Ridewell?’ Her voice is a murmur in the gloomy room. ‘He hasn’t spoken a word to me, as you know.’
‘Yes, of course, madam. I’m sorry.’ This complicates things. Unless he is sure Edgar has sent for him, he is not comfortable taking anything away. ‘Shall we at least have a look at them?’
She seems relieved that the small talk has come to an end and she rises from her chair, nodding vigorously. She is a fine-looking woman, tall and strong. She reminds him of his eldest daughter, now safely married and living in the country. The fingers that scraped at her chair were long, artist’s fingers. Good for playing the piano, he thinks, but a quick glance around the room tells him there is no piano. He imagines her selling it to survive while her husband was away; the sacrifices she had to make for him, and now here he is, Ridewell himself, standing in the way of her plans. He shakes the guilt away. Letting his imagination run away again. She probably doesn’t even play the piano.
She leads him through the dark hallway to a door under the stairs.
‘Just through here,’ she says, and turns the handle. Her weight bumps against the door and she looks at him in surprise; she expected it to give way and instead it is a barrier between her and whatever is on the other side. She tries the door again, this time prepared, rattling the handle without leaning on the wood.
Sound of Butterflies, The Page 19
