He suddenly remembered his cache of acid drops and reached into his pocket for the bag. He opened it and popped one into his mouth, relishing the tartness of lemon as it cut through the sweet sugar dusting. Had his palate been this refined as a boy? he wondered with a smile. Or had decades of vinolence taught him things about the complexities of taste that he would never otherwise have known? He heard a scuffling in the carpet of ochre needles near his feet, and looked down to see a red squirrel staring up at him, whiskers a-twitter. What would the creature do with a lemon drop, he wondered, half tempted to find out. “Children’s Poet Chokes Helpless Rodent,” penned his Fleet Street brownies.
A gust of wind caught the paper and nearly tore it from his hands. Damn! A mite of dust must have landed in his left eye, and he grimaced as he reached up and tried to wipe it away. How annoying it was in a public place to have something interfering with one’s vision. There was a sort of nakedness about it, as though one could not see but could still be seen. A passing gentleman caught his eye.
“Breezy, i’n’it?”
Gentleman? Well, the fellow had certainly looked the part before his speech gave him away. Then again, it occurred to Stevenson, the man may somehow have taken him for the working-class interloper, and condescended to a low parlance either in a companionable or in a mocking way. He ultimately decided that this bothersome spate of self-consciousness called for a measure of compensatory self-indulgence, and he broke his normal sweets rule and bit into the lemon drop well before it had completely dissolved.
“Hyde Park Rally Cites ‘Immorality’ of High Officials,” he read. In the wake of the previous week’s Criminal Law Amendment Act and the attached Labouchère Amendment, public outcry in London over the “gross indecency” of various men in high places had spilled out into the traditional open-air forum of the park for heated public exchange. Stevenson imagined the bowlered and top-hatted crowd just below Marble Arch, gathered around this particular day’s jeremiad. How many of them milling about there had attended public school? How many of them would, as a result, have known far more than they cared to admit about “gross indecency”—either as an unwelcome violation of their boyish innocence or as the natural consequence of affections and instincts that could enjoy, in their exclusively male environment, no other avenue for expression?
He searched his own emotional and sexual inventory. There were men he had loved, and still loved: Cousin Bob and Ferrier, Baxter, and perhaps now James, despite their brief acquaintance. Had he lived with any of them, he might well have found their foibles and particular forms of willfulness just as bothersome as he sometimes found Fanny’s. Yet one could perhaps say that his love of men—for example, of Walter—had been purer and finer than his love for his wife, even than his love for his Platonic Madonna, the London Fanny—Fanny Sitwell, now and apparently forever waiting to marry Colvin. Of physical longing, though, there was nothing he could identify, unless one counted the tipsy joy of carousing, arm-in-arm, through the midnight streets with Bob—or the almost unmanning tenderness of tucking Ferrier, drunk to insensibility, into his bed before he himself floundered home alone. Of course he coveted attention and affection, as he found it easy enough to admit to himself and to select friends. But he had never gone beyond the usual schoolboy explorations, either at school itself or with his venturesome cousins at Colinton. He never expected that he would, despite his three-quarters-in-whimsy, one-quarter-in-earnest jokes about Fanny’s mannish pistol-shooting and cigarette-smoking being precisely what kept her interesting to him. He remembered what Fanny had said about Symonds, and felt neither threatened by it nor inclined to explore what James would call the “implications.” He wondered, truthfully, about James himself—but that was neither here nor there.
“Indecency” might indeed be “gross,” in which case it had no place in civilized society. The old adage, though, about the first stone being cast only by him who is without sin struck him as never more valid than now. Curiously content with his interior exchange with the Hyde Park finger-pointers, he folded the paper and set out for home.
Stevenson sat alone in the half-furnished dining room, staring at the remains of as good a brandied flan as he could ever recall tasting. Valentine had clearly outdone herself, wanting him to know, as she said rather coyly when he came in from his walk, that Madame Stevenson’s absence must not prove to be a time of too great distress.
He gazed at his wife’s empty chair, surprised by a twinge of melancholy. It was not necessarily that she was gone for a week. He had prepared himself for that and was frankly grateful to have some time to work on a number of projects that called for concentrated effort, his new tale of a kidnapped youth being foremost among them. Perhaps it was that very relief, however, that lay at the heart of his malaise. His mind returned to their most recent conversation with James, and the way Fanny had asserted herself in matters about which she honestly knew so very little. Of course she was a woman of intelligence and worldly experience, and of course her total dependence on him and on his literary output justified her driving concern for how he fared in the literary marketplace. Yet the fact that she felt herself to be, somehow and in some regards, on an equal footing with a writer of James’s brilliance smacked either of presumption or of an inadequate grasp of certain realties.
He loved Fanny’s forwardness, but at the same time resented it. Perhaps it was the womanly change of life that accounted for her mounting assertiveness and unpredictability. Perhaps it was Sam’s departure for school, and Belle’s being so far away, all compounded by Hervey being so long now in his grave. Or perhaps he was making far too much of it. Had she been there, sitting now across from him, he would have flattered or teased her into a charming little display of Fanny-ness. If James’s assessment was accurate, and he was indeed uniquely gifted in his knack for remembering, as a grown man, the essence of the boy within, Fanny too was always within a wink and a titter of the girl she must long ago have been. Nothing about her was more alluring. But she wasn’t here for him to evoke that frivolous charm, and Stevenson worried that another side of his wife might day-by-day, week-by-week, be gaining some kind of embittered ascendancy. He refilled his glass with port and stared over into the fire.
A slight commotion at the door to the kitchen brought him back to the here and now. One of the new maids, a mousy girl with red hair and a wealth of freckles, stood on the edge of the carpet, her hands working anxiously against her apron.
“Yes, Millie?”
“Will that be all, sir?” she asked in a tiny voice.
“Pardon?” He had heard her perfectly well, but, without thinking, here he was requiring her to say it again, louder. It was something Fanny would have been apt to do, as it peeved him to realize.
“Will that be all?”
He restrained himself from requiring a second “sir.” “Yes, Millie. Thank you very much. It was all delicious.” He smiled encouragingly as the wee thing came around and removed his pudding plate and fork. “Please tell Valentine how pleased I was with her supper. Better yet,” he added, folding his napkin and tossing it onto the table, “please ask her to come in.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” She edged shyly away, facing him all the while and nearly backing into the sideboard. Here she was in his employ, and it was all he could do not to scrunch his shoulders and wave at her and say, “Bye-bye, then” as she crept back into the kitchen.
In a moment, Valentine entered the room, a perfect study in contrasts. She wiped her hands on a towel as she strode directly to the table, stopping there with her eyebrows raised in anticipation of his having something to say.
“That was wonderful, Valentine. Magnifique!”
“Thank you, monsieur.” She bobbed her head once in acknowledgment, the slightest smile blooming on her lips.
“The lamb was exquisite. And the flan divine.”
“Divine,” she echoed, drawing the word out just perceptibly in a way that suggested, frankly, that she was amused by the adjective he
had chosen. She stood there silently, perhaps a tiny bit closer than she would have had they not been alone. How did one determine such things? Suddenly, totally unexpectedly, something tightened in Stevenson’s chest and he found himself a hair’s breadth away from telling her he loved her. No, not that he loved her, for she would have laughed at that, but that he craved her with every ounce of his being.
What was it? The reserve, surely, that had never been broken. The austerity of the uniform. He had never seen her in anything else. The way, a thousand times it seemed, she had observed such perfect decorum, yet managed to suggest, through an infinite variety of gestures and intonations, that it was all an act that she continued to find it amusing to play but of which she might, at any moment, tire. “I will pretend to serve you, cher monsieur, but we know who truly desires to serve.” It was only when he felt reasonably certain he would do or say nothing daft that he allowed himself a thought: if she were a lemon drop, she might already be in his mouth. He smiled and shook his head.
“Monsieur Stevenson is troubled?” Again the raised brow, this time above what he swore was halfway to a calculated moue. If so, it was her least subtle manipulation of all of their time together. And Fanny was away.
“Not at all,” he managed to reply. “I was just reminded of something amusing. But I did want to thank you for taking such good care of me in Mrs. Stevenson’s absence.”
Valentine nodded. “You miss Mrs. Stevenson?”
“I do. And Sam.”
“She will be home again soon, no?” She crossed her arms and looked abstractly around the room, and then straight at him. “Is there anything else for me tonight?”
“No,” answered, Stevenson. “I don’t think so. Thank you very much, Valentine.”
“Thank you, monsieur. Have a good night.”
“And you as well.”
Lying in bed, his candle still flickering on the nightstand, Stevenson resisted as long as he possibly could. “Is there anything else for me tonight?” he whispered to himself, doing his best to catch every detail of her intonation. “Oh God, yes,” he sighed, throwing back his covers to expose himself. A few quick strokes and he gushed ecstatically over the sheets, covering the spot where, a few short hours ago, his wife had lain snugly up against him.
As the last contraction died away, he sat up in bed, wondering what to do. It would be hellish to clean up. Surely it could wait until the morning. He blew out the candle and curled up onto his side, facing away from Fanny’s half of the mattress. In a spasm of guilt, he reached back to touch where she customarily lay, only to draw his hand back from the already chilly mess.
“It doesn’t mean a thing,” he assured himself. “Not a thing.”
11
The steps drew swiftly nearer, and swelled out suddenly louder as they turned the end of the street. The lawyer, looking forth from the entry, could soon see what manner of man he had to deal with.
—THE NARRATOR
BOURNEMOUTH, OCTOBER 1885
The man dashes along, his coattails flying, footfalls clattering between darkened façades that lean in, like huge stone spectators, over the twisting thoroughfare. Lamplight glints off the damp cobblestones as he sprints on, his breath coming in sharp gasps. It is a racecourse to break an ankle, but his pace never slackens as he whips his head from side to side, looking desperately for a gap in the endless ranks of buildings that line his flight from his pursuers. At last, all but breathless, he spies the dark doorway of a public house slightly ajar and he bursts through the opening into a low-ceilinged room. He finds himself utterly alone, the only presence and movement a fire that lies dying in the grate. As he approaches it, stealthily on his toes, its glow unaccountably mounts until it lights his face like a footlight on the stage. His complexion is swarthy, his features coarse, and as his breathing slows in the silent room, he wipes a bead of sweat from his low brow. Dropping to a seat at a table by the fire, he reaches into a pocket and, pulling out a folded packet of paper, lays it out before him and peels back the layers. At the very center of it sits a clot of white powder, still compressed by its wrapping. Grinning with satisfaction and relief, the man lowers his head and laps at the pile with his tongue, noisily, like a hound. He licks every crease and fold, then holds the paper up to the fire to be sure nothing remains. Evidently satisfied, he throws the paper onto the table and leans back in his chair. For a moment he is still. Then, with a sudden grunt, he thrusts his legs out straight before him, sending the table flying across the scarred floor. His arms straighten rigidly as well, and his head arches back, the cords in his neck straining as though they will snap. Side to side his head flails, in quickening rhythm, and his dark features swell like a child’s balloon. His cheeks surge out to swallow his nose, his brow bulging out above until his eyes all but disappear into the dark crease between the two mounting waves of flesh. A gurgle and then a scream break from his distended lips, and his hands fly to his face, pulling and clawing as though they belong to another creature altogether. Staggering to his feet, he stumbles towards the bar and towards the mirrored wall behind the serried bottles. Sweeping them aside, he reaches into his pocket for a box of lights and, striking one with difficulty in his shaking hands, he holds it up to his face. Even as he watches, the grisly swelling begins to subside and, as his skin settles back into patterns of human order, a new set of features emerges. A high and pale brow. Eyes wide-set and sensitive on a narrow, even delicate, face. A chevron of moustache where, before, there had been none. He holds the match more tightly, and leans closer to the mirror to be sure. Yes. Yes indeed. The powder has done its work. Standing back in the litter of smashed glass, he throws his head skyward and laughs, a deep howl that shakes his very bones, shakes him again, shakes his shoulder, pulls at him like someone wresting a drowning man from a cold river, calls to him with a voice of dread.
“Louis! Louis! For God’s sake, what is it? Louis!”
He raised his head from a sweat-drenched pillow, struggling to orient himself. Fanny shook his shoulder again and leaned closer, her breath hot in his ear. “You were screaming in your sleep, dearest. What was it? Are you all right?”
Stevenson rolled onto his back, then sat up in the darkened room. The house was utterly silent. “Damn it, Fanny? Why did you wake me? I was dreaming a fine bogey tale.”
“My God.” Fanny laughed with relief, sitting up beside him. “You were screaming bloody murder. What was I supposed to do? Just lie here and let the neighbors think…I don’t know what the neighbors would think.”
Stevenson rubbed his eyes, then wiped a drop of something from the tip of his nose. “Damn! I don’t know. Perhaps that I was reviewing our finances.”
“Louis!”
“Or,” he turned to her, “that my savage American wife was molesting me once again.”
“Molesting you?”
“Fulfilling her wifely duties, then.”
“Is it that awful?” laughed Fanny. “What I do for you?” She reached over beneath the counterpane and slid her hand down to his crotch.
“Well. Not exactly awful.” He could feel himself hardening to her touch.
“Oooh. I think I sense some interest down there.”
“Perhaps.” He adjusted his hips to make himself more accessible.
“You’re not about to scream again, are you?”
“I don’t think so, no.” He lay back in bed, banging his head on the headboard. “Ouch.”
“Does it hurt?” Stevenson chuckled. “Let momma kiss it.”
When it was done, Fanny curled up next to him. “There. That should help you get back to your dreaming.”
“Thank you.”
“Mind you, no more crying out.”
“Of course, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”
He felt a slight blow to his shoulder, and then her arm crept across his chest as she nuzzled closer. Darkness welled back.
Fanny awoke to find herself alone.
“Louis?” she called. She sat up and looked about th
e room. “Louis?” There was no reply.
She rose, donning her robe and slippers before she hurried downstairs. She found him in the dining room, bent over a sheaf of papers with pen in hand, a cup of tea off to the side. “Here you are.”
He peered up at her distractedly.
“I woke to an empty bed,” announced Fanny.
“What? Oh! I’m sorry, Pig.”
“You couldn’t sleep?”
“Oh, I did,” he replied with a smile. He laid down the pen and pushed the papers away. “I did. Your ministrations were marvelously soporific.”
“I’m not sure how I should take that.”
“Well, I hope. But I’m afraid I was too excited to linger this morning, as adorable as you looked just lying there. Softly snoring.”
“Louis!”
“I was far too aroused.”
“Still?”
Stevenson waved his hand. “The dream you so rudely interrupted?”
“Like the man from Porlock?”
“In the interrupting, perhaps. Hardly in what followed.”
Fanny grinned and rearranged her robe.
“I’ve been jotting things down. Playing the sedulous ape to my brownies.” He gestured towards the papers and pen. “I think they have provided me with my missing link.”
“Your missing link?”
“The body for the story I’ve been after, you know…it seems like forever. About that sense of one man being two that I am always dithering on about.”
“You mean we’ll finally be able to put all that to rest?”
“I should get it all down today. I must.”
“Weren’t you saying you couldn’t wait to get back to David Balfour?”
“Did I?”
“Haven’t you left him and his companion starving out there on the moor somewhere?”
Stevenson snorted. “Let them eat rabbits.” He reached for a cigarette.
Fanny frowned.
“It fuels the muses,” he explained.
“Then at least give me one.”
Seeking Hyde Page 18
