‘So why would this Captain Fale have told me, when you did not?’
‘I didn’t want to worry you. You can understand that, can’t you?’
‘There was something else I want to ask you about Fale. Could it be that he has reason to hope for some kind of separation between you and your husband?’
‘Oh, Father, no! I love Thomas with all my heart. Things have been difficult, yes, but you see they are improving.’
‘Well, whether you know about it or not, this Fale clearly has plans for you, and for Thomas. I would avoid him at all costs.’
‘And you … you don’t think I should have Thomas sent away? You don’t agree with the Captain?’
‘My dear, I hardly know the man. When a complete stranger comes to me with such an unusual request I can’t help but be suspicious. At first I was angry with you … how could you not have told me?’
‘I was worried about what you would say! I know you have never liked Thomas —’
‘This is not true.’
She bites her lip again. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Forgive me. I’m tired.’ Indeed, she has dark circles under her eyes, clearly from lack of sleep. She must be worrying. She has never spoken to him so boldly. He is surprised that he does not mind.
‘I couldn’t tell you. You would have thought Thomas had failed me. You might have insisted on sending him to hospital.’
How well she knows him. This is precisely what had gone through his mind — how to get Thomas as far away from her as possible. But now he can see that Thomas is on the mend. How fiercely she defends him! He is reminded again of Martha — how loyal she was to him, when he wasn’t always the ideal husband. He knows what it is to be separated from the object of one’s love. How could he have considered inflicting this on his own daughter?
‘I would never have you left alone like that.’ This is only a small lie. ‘Do you understand me? Do you?’
Sophie pauses before nodding. Her chin wrinkles with the effort of holding in tears.
Charles suddenly has an idea. ‘Why don’t you both move in with me for a time? Just until Thomas is better.’
She starts to cry then, and he gives her his handkerchief.
‘May I think about it?’
‘Of course.’ He looks at his pocket watch. ‘And now I must be going.’ The truth is, she has never cried in front of him so openly. The sight makes him uneasy.
But as he walks out into the street, his feet are light. He has done the right thing. He tried to raise her not to rely on anybody but herself, so she could never be disappointed, as he was, but the time has come to stretch out a hand and claim her as his daughter.
Sophie needs to get out, get some air. It’s all she can think of now: that she has to escape this dark house. She waits a few minutes to be sure her father will be well away, picks up her hat and parasol and walks out the door.
The catch on the gate eludes her shaking fingers and she curses at it before it gives way. Her chest begins to ache with keeping the tears in, and when she reaches the street, she can’t do it any more. She opens her parasol and drapes it low over her face as she walks painfully on her blistered feet.
She wipes her eyes with her glove and sniffs to try to contain the trickles escaping her nose. She grunts at herself, clears the phlegm from her throat. Why can’t she hold herself together? It’s still not safe to take her parasol down and she knows she will be drawing curious looks from passers-by.
Did she lead Captain Fale on? Yes, quite possibly. When he first came calling she told herself she felt sorry for him; he was lonely and would be good company for her. But his conversation was stilted — and always going on about the war and his injury, when everybody knew perfectly well he had hurt himself falling off his horse in the park.
But he was so strong under his uniform, and being with him aroused feelings that were so different to her feelings for Thomas. Where Thomas’s eyes looked into her heart, Samuel’s looked under her corset. In turn, she had found herself examining the shape of his body as he walked ahead of her. Broad shoulders, long thighs, rounded buttocks. She even imagined his naked chest with all that thick hair, imagined running her fingers through it and burying her face in it. A smell surrounded him, too — sweet and lemony, with a hint of perspiration. It should have disgusted her; instead, it drew her in. She became fascinated with her body’s response to it, seemingly independent of her mind. The fact that she didn’t even particularly like Samuel only made the feelings easier, for it couldn’t count as a betrayal if she wasn’t in love with him — could it?
The day she had read Thomas’s journal and gone to see the captain, she’d had a vision of throwing herself at him. She’d wanted to walk in there, take his face in her hands and press her body into his. If Thomas had done it, why couldn’t she? But he’d been so resistant, and in the end it just wasn’t in her to have an affair. Not when she loved her husband so much.
And she does still love Thomas, she realises. Even though she wants to slap him. To keep on slapping him until her palms ache. She will not let Samuel come between them. The thought of the captain’s body disgusts her now, and so does the idea that he somehow thought he could get rid of Thomas and have her for himself.
Her stinging feet have carried her to the park. She passes through the tall gates and sits down on a bench to compose herself and to rest. The tears have stopped now but it feels as if her stomach is full of rocks.
She gazes out at the people entering and leaving the park: a young mother with a pram, pulling a small child roughly by the hand; an elderly couple moving slowly but regally, dressed more appropriately for church than for a stroll; a fat nurse trying to placate a little girl who has dropped her ice-cream and is crying while attempting to scrape it up with her fingers. And — no! — Captain Fale, coming through the gates towards her.
She lowers her parasol over her face again but it is too late: he has seen her. She hears the tap tap of his cane as he approaches. She stands, detours around the back of the park bench and begins walking back the way she came, keeping the parasol so low she can only see his feet as she passes.
‘Mrs Edgar.’
Sophie falters, then stops. She raises the parasol a fraction and looks at him. He stares back. She calmly collapses her parasol, keeping her eyes on his hopeful face. Then without a word she turns and continues on her way, his gaze heavy on her back.
Thomas is leaning on the wall by the gate as if he has been waiting for her. He silently takes her arm and turns her around, back into the park, and she finds she doesn’t resist. She suspects he has followed her here, but she has no idea whether he has seen her exchange with Captain Fale.
The captain hasn’t moved from where she left him, stupid man — why doesn’t he walk away? Sophie fears suddenly that there will be a confrontation: whether initiated by Samuel or Thomas she’s not sure. But Thomas steers her past him, and as she averts her eyes her husband tips his hat at the captain.
‘Fale,’ he says.
Sophie allows herself a small turn of the head, in time to see Samuel, red in the face, nod dumbly and take a step back, stumbling slightly on his bad leg.
Thomas leads her up the path towards the wood — the same path they took when he first arrived home. Though they walk in silence, it is the silence of being alone with their thoughts: the way they used to walk before Thomas went away, when his mind was on the butterflies he would catch.
The wood is cool and dark. Soft pennies of light litter the ground. The only sound is the crunch of acorns underfoot. A red admiral flicks across their path and Sophie glances at Thomas. He is watching it, but sees her looking at him and places his hand over hers and squeezes.
‘Red admirable,’ she says, and smiles.
He smiles back, shyly.
They come to the fork in the path and both move without question towards their private hollow, which winds around the oak tree and into the undergrowth, hidden from view.
‘Shall we sit?’ Thomas takes off his jacke
t and lays it on the ground for Sophie.
She sits, and picks one foot up to nurse it in her lap.
‘How are they?’ he asks. ‘Your feet.’
‘Much better, thank you. But a rest is good.’
He crouches beside her, takes her hand and brings it to his face. His breath is warm on her skin and she is surprised — this is the most forward gesture he has made to her since he has been back. Thomas kisses her hand gently. It is sweet of him and she is touched. She responds by patting his hair, which has become quite long. The soft curls remind her of a child’s and make her wonder for a moment whether their children will have curly hair or not; certainly they will be blond.
‘My love,’ whispers Thomas, and now he lays his cheek against her fingers. ‘Will you — can you — ever forgive me, do you think?’
Will she? She doesn’t like to admit to herself, but she does now understand the lust that can drive one to act against one’s conscience. They both need time, now, to get to know each other again.
‘Yes, I think I can. You’ve been through so much.’
He nods and looks at the ground.
‘My father … he offered to have us stay with him for a time. Just until you’re feeling better.’
‘Very kind, but we’ll be all right now.’
She looks at him, doubtful. She wants to believe him.
‘I’ve got work to do,’ he says. ‘And we have so many specimens still for Mr Ridewell to sell.’
She feels a wash of shame. Some of the specimens were ruined in the fire she started, but they did manage to save most of them.
He shifts his legs so he is kneeling and looking down at her. He leans over and takes her face in his hands to kiss her. It is the first kiss he has initiated in so long, and she feels it through her body, between her legs. She opens her mouth in response and he kisses her harder. Then he pulls back, surprised at the intensity that is passing between them. But Sophie lies back on the ground and pulls him with her. She feels dry dirt rubbing on the back of her neck, falling into her collar, but she doesn’t care: she is kissing her husband and he is kissing her back and this is all that matters.
He lifts her skirt and puts his hand on her leg, but suddenly stops and looks at her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and starts to move his hand away.
‘No,’ says Sophie, and places his hand back where it had been. Her skin crackles where he touches it. She pulls him closer so that his body presses against hers.
A twig breaks nearby. Sophie pushes Thomas off her and sits upright, horrified. What has she been thinking? She keeps her eyes turned away from whoever it is that has come upon them, and her face burns.
Thomas starts to laugh, an alien sound. She has forgotten how it swoops, low, then high. ‘Hello,’ he says. ‘Look, Sophie.’
She turns slowly. A doe stands a few yards from where they sit, ready to take flight. It breathes quickly, heavily. Sophie is relieved; the blood throbs in her cheeks.
‘Thank God,’ she says. ‘I thought we’d been caught.’
The deer turns and leaps away, but Sophie is not ready to resume their embrace, not yet.
‘I saw another doe around here once,’ she says. ‘It was the strangest thing, Thomas. I was thinking about you, and how I was missing you, and this deer … it looked at me, and it was crying. It was so sad.’
‘Crying?’
‘Yes, real tears. I didn’t know it was possible. What do you suppose it was so sad about?’
‘Oh, sweetheart, animals can’t cry. Deer’s eyes have oily secretions, that’s all. It’s nothing to do with feeling sad.’
She nods and sighs. He takes her hand and begins picking twigs and leaves from her hair.
Finally, Sophie speaks. ‘Thomas, I have to ask … that is, you haven’t mentioned your butterfly. Did you find it?’
He shakes his head. ‘I thought I had. There were times when I was sure I had it. But the forest — it played tricks on me. I don’t think my butterfly ever really existed. It was just a dream.’ His voice sounds wretched; she thinks he might start crying. ‘It drove me mad, Sophie. I think I actually might have gone mad.’
Sophie says nothing.
‘I’m glad to be home now,’ he says. ‘I think I’m ready to put it all behind me.’
‘But what of that man Santos? What are you going to do about him?’
‘What can I do? My friends are still with him. He’ll kill them. Or worse.’
‘You must contact the British directors. You must. Be brave if you have to.’
‘Brave?’ He drops her hand and wipes at his face in disgust. ‘Things aren’t as simple everywhere as they are in Richmond, Sophie.’
Something is wrong with his voice. It trails off and she is suddenly gripped with a fear that he is losing it again — that the mere thought of speaking out is making him retreat once more into silence.
‘We’ll find a way,’ she says, and puts her arms around him and pulls him close. Butterfly wings unfold and flicker in her belly.
Epilogue
Malay Archipelago, September 6th, 1912
Dear Sophie,
I will be very brief, as I am soon due to go out to dine, but I wanted to reply quickly to your letter, which you must have sent some weeks ago now. There is something I find soothing about writing to you, as if you are in the room with me and I am holding a real conversation with you.
It was with some amusement that I read your letter. That Agatha has turned out to be such a splendid hostess is wonderful, of course, but I can’t help but laugh at how different she seems now that she is married with children. I know she’s your friend and I mustn’t be unkind, but wasn’t she always lecturing you about social evils and the whims of society? I wonder sometimes how poor Chapman copes with her, now that she wants to throw parties every night for her new friends. I am glad I am not in Richmond, otherwise I would have to find excuses not to go — you are much better at that sort of thing than I am. I’m pleased Agatha’s hat business is doing well, though. Tell her I have a few specimens she will be very interested in.
Finding all the new species here has made me think of the Papilio sophia I never caught in the Amazon. What a fool I was — no doubt Wallace and Spruce were playing a joke by starting the rumour. Perhaps it wasn’t even them who started it, but some prankster at the Natural History Museum. What an idiot I was to believe it, when a butterfly like that is an impossibility. To think of all I nearly lost on its account. To think, too, what I put you through, and how you’ve stood by me — encouraged me even — to get back into the saddle and become a professional collector. You have my word, dear Sophie, that I will never do that to you again, and neither will I keep things from you as I did back then.
I received a letter yesterday from Mr Roberts, the American, forwarded to me by Mr Ridewell. Roberts informed me that Mr Santos died before he was due to stand trial. I don’t know how to describe how I feel about that. Part of me is glad that he is dead — is that terrible? — the other part is disappointed that he wasn’t prosecuted for his crimes. If only things had moved more quickly, but with nobody believing Roberts — especially the British directors of Santos’s rubber company, the blind fools — proceedings were certainly slowed. I’m very grateful that you encouraged me to write to Roberts, Sophie. Some might call me weak for deferring to your good counsel so readily, but no matter. You are my strength, and I will always listen to you. The way you now voice your opinion so strongly fills me with pride and admiration.
I only wish that George and Ernie had spoken out as well before they died. At least their disappearance made our government sit up and take notice. I thank God that they died of natural causes, although perhaps we’ll never know what to believe. I sometimes have nightmares that Santos found out about my giving evidence and killed them, just as he had implied he would do. Cholera was rife, though, and Ernie was looking ill even when I left. I was fortunate not to catch it myself, so weakened by my malaria bout, which still comes back
to me, as you know. How many sweaty, delirious nights you’ve nursed me through!
Roberts has only just told me how Santos tried to blackmail him — had in fact set him up while he was in Brazil, by getting one of his lackeys to offer him money — and that the British directors almost believed it until someone tried to bribe them too. Then they realised that Roberts was telling the truth about it all, and gave in. They sent their own inspectors out there who managed to gather quite a bit of evidence. I suppose the directors thought they could be absolved of all blame if they investigated and found their own company corrupt, and it looks as though they have been. What this means for the trial, I do not know.
Mr Ridewell has been encouraging me to re-visit my journals and bring them up to a publishable format, but I am so busy with other projects — the butterflies in the archipelago wait for no man! — that I am reluctant to start that difficult task. I could scarcely bring myself to read them and remind myself of that time in the Amazon. Perhaps, if it weren’t too hard for you, this might be a project you could help me with upon my return? Think about it, anyway, my love, and say no if you want to.
Well, I must run now as Frederick, my new assistant (and an enthusiastic one at that! He keeps me endlessly entertained — you would like him very much), has just come to tell me that we are soon expected. How I wish I could send him off to dine without me, and continue my conversation with you. I ache for you and the children, to be back with you again. Nine months is too, too long, and I promise not to be away for such a time again. Give my love to the children and my regards to your father. I do appreciate the time he spends with them when I’m not there.
My next assignment is to be Australia, next year. I hope, my dear wife, that you and the children might accompany me on that trip. You say the children are running wild in the park — well, in Australia they could be free to be the intrepid little ragamuffins they are. Wouldn’t that be an adventure?
I am, as always, yours.
Sound of Butterflies, The Page 34
