Angel of Ruin

by Kim Wilkins

  “Mary, it is merely the pleasure of the flesh, as I have told you. Do you not enjoy the receiving of it far more than the giving?”

  “I shall never give it away again.” She reached up to touch his face, her addicted fingers finding solace in the warmth of his skin. A frown touched his brow.

  “What is it?”

  “I am sorry about the demon.”

  A cold tickle of memory eroded her pleasure. “That ghastly thing. Where did it come from?”

  “Ethereal beings communicate in many different ways. Some demons have the power of insight. I can only imagine that it was privy to one of our discussions, where you begged to lie with the King. It took advantage of your heart’s wish. A heart’s wish can be a dangerous thing to name.”

  “Is it gone forever?”

  “I banished it. It won’t return.”

  She snuggled her head against his chest. “I’m so glad you came. What would I have done?” And then quieter, remembering the pain. “I thought you must hate me.”

  “No, I do not hate you.”

  “You came to Deborah and to Anne.”

  “They needed me. You have not needed me until now.”

  She pulled away, shook her hair from her eyes. “That is untrue. I needed you desperately.”

  He smiled, and once again Mary was fascinated by the faint unearthly glow which rose from his skin. “I am the judge of your needs, Mary Milton. That is my role as your guardian.”

  “Even a fallen guardian?” she asked, teasingly.

  The smile faded. “Be not so glib, Mary. Every day I lament my fallen state. Every day, all of us long to be restored to God’s favour.”

  His admonition, gentle as it was, brought tears to Mary’s eyes. “Oh, oh. I’m sorry, I did not mean to …”

  “Shh, Mary,” he said, dropping a gentle kiss on her forehead.

  “I do not know why I’m crying,” she said. “I feel so strange … so different.”

  He sat up and looked down on her. “Mary, you are not to tell your sisters of what has passed between us today.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “They will judge you, and perhaps judge me. They would not understand for they are not like you.” He touched her bottom lip with his index finger. “Can we not just keep this secret between you and me?”

  “Of course.”

  “One little secret will surely not be noticed in a universe so large.”

  “Of course. I will not say anything.” She was unduly flattered that an angel should want to share such intimate secrets with her. “But, Lazodeus, do you not wish to sample your own pleasures with me?” She smiled in what she hoped was an inviting fashion.

  “Mary,” he said softly, tracing an idle pattern on her skin. “I am sorry, truly. But ethereal beings take no pleasure in lying with mortals. It is not for us to do that.”

  Disappointment nearly brought her to tears again. But she told herself not to be such a snivelly mouse and forced a smile. “You will not wait so long to attend me again, Lazodeus?”

  “Attend you?” he said, the corners of his mouth turning up wickedly. “Or make love to you?”

  “Either, both,” she said shrugging.

  “Are you expected home any time soon?”

  She shook her head. “I argued with Anne last night and Deborah this morning, so neither of them will have the least care for where I am or what I do.”

  “Then, let us spend the morning exploring your newfound pleasures.”

  Impossibly, the sweet ache was starting all over again.

  “Do you want me to show you, Mary?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, and the thought of surrendering to him no longer frightened her. It liberated her. “Oh, yes.”

  9

  Like a Black Mist Low Creeping

  Candles blazed from every surface, Father played the harpsichord to accompany Betty, and Deborah had never known a party could be so much fun. She had attended birthday parties as a child of course, but this, a real, adult party with loud-voiced men and laughing women, was something new to her.

  Anthony had arranged it, of course, and she found it hard to hate him when she saw how much pleasure he brought to Father. Their planned reading night had escalated into this event; men had invited their wives, the withdrawing room had been cleaned and decorated, the harpsichord brought upstairs. All the windows were open to let in the light summer breeze, but it grew very hot and humid in the room. To Deborah, a number of glasses of wine past prudence, the steamy ambience simply added to her pleasure. She had even taken the time to pin her hair up in a fashionable style — the back wound around with beads and the sides falling in long curling tendrils — and to squeeze into one of Mary’s less bold dresses. Whenever she moved she was aware of the bounce of curls and the rustle of blue silk. It made her feel quite grown and womanly.

  “How drably these women dress,” Mary commented wearily, as the three of them stood together with their backs to the window.

  “You more than make up for all of them,” Deborah commented, glancing at Mary’s scarlet and gold gown.

  “Thank you. I believe I look splendid,” Mary said with a smile.

  “Did Lazodeus bring you that?” Anne asked softly. Her pupils were very round and dark. Deborah had still not grown accustomed to her speaking so easily.

  “No, I had it from Grandmamma years ago. I’ve never had an opportunity to wear it ere now. Besides, I wouldn’t order an angel to bring me dresses.”

  “You ordered him to bring you cushions,” Deborah said.

  “When we could still command him,” Anne added.

  Mary sniffed. “There’s no point in being sour about it.”

  “And why should we not be sour?” Anne asked. “You took it upon yourself to —”

  “’Twas a mistake!”

  “Don’t interrupt me while I’m speaking,” Anne said.

  “You wouldn’t be able to speak at all if it weren’t for the angel,” Mary countered.

  “Stop it,” Deborah said.

  “What does it matter if we no longer command him?” Mary said glibly. “Anne has her heart’s wish: she speaks without impediment. I have my heart’s wish: a roomful of luxury. Deborah has her heart’s wish: to stay as dull as she ever was.”

  “It is dull to hear the same jokes told again and again,” Deborah replied. “So our angel is gone; perhaps ’Tis a good thing.” She meant it. With Lazodeus no longer at her command, temptation was out of her way. Not that she had stopped thinking about Amelia Lewis’s offer of an apprenticeship in magic. She had begun to consider whether she could trust a mortal woman more than she could trust a fallen angel. “Listen, doesn’t Father play marvellously?”

  “He does,” Mary conceded, “but Betty sings extremely poorly.”

  “She sings like a cat on a fence,” Anne added.

  Mary laughed. “I’m surprised to see Father enjoying himself so much. I didn’t know the old Puritan had it in him to be so gay.”

  “I’ve always told you he’s not a Puritan,” Deborah said.

  “Those two are,” Anne said, indicating a soberly dressed couple who stood by the door. “They have refused all drinks, even to Father’s health.”

  Mary turned to look at them. “Perhaps they are smellfeasts.”

  Anne shook her head. “No, Quakers don’t barge into parties uninvited.”

  “They are guests. Father has many interesting and divers friends,” Deborah said. “It simply demonstrates how impartial and tolerant he is.”

  “Tolerant!” Anne snorted.

  “Yes. He even has friends in Italy who are Catholics, to whom he writes weekly.”

  “He is not so gracious to the Catholics on Leake Street.”

  “’Tis politics, not prejudice,” Deborah replied firmly.

  “Deborah, don’t defend him on every count,” Mary said. “He is human, you know. He does piss and shit like the rest of us.”

  “Mary,” Deborah said, suppressin
g a laugh, “sometimes you are so coarse.”

  She smiled smugly. Anne giggled into her glass.

  “Oh, go and sing, Mary,” Deborah said. “I shall turn mad if I have to hear Betty murder one more note.”

  “No, I shan’t. I hate singing.”

  “But you have such a pretty voice.”

  “Yes, sing, Mary,” Anne said. “For all our sakes.”

  Mary needed little encouragement to take the centre of attention. She approached Father, who turned his ear to hear her request, then nodded enthusiastically and dismissed Betty.

  “Are you angry with Mary?” Anne asked.

  Deborah turned to her sister. “Angry? About Lazodeus?”

  Anne nodded.

  “I’m unsure. Perhaps I am just relieved.” Deborah took Anne’s hand. “Why? Are you angry?”

  Anne nodded again, more fiercely, and her eyes welled with tears. “Oh yes,” she breathed, “I’m unspeakably angry.”

  “You can speak now.”

  Mary had started singing, and a group of people had gathered around. Deborah glanced over, then returned her attention to Anne.

  “I feel ’Tis so unfair,” Anne said, dabbing her eyes quickly with her knuckle.

  “Anne, I hope you have not developed feelings for the angel which you cannot manage.”

  “No, no. I suppose I am just sick of people making my decisions for me. I feel I have no control over my own life.”

  “Very few people feel in control.”

  “Look at her,” Anne said, indicating Mary with a wave of her hand. “She is so independent, so forthright. Nobody ever tells her what to do.”

  “That is not the case, for she has to abide by Father’s decisions.”

  “She is never here! If he cannot find her, he gets us to do her chores. She is a free spirit.”

  “Not forever, Anne. None of us can be free spirits forever. We shall have to marry, to bear children, to grow old and infirm.” A twinge pulled in her stomach. She desperately wanted to be different from that. Go to the continent; practise medicine; understand natural philosophy. Or be like Amelia: independent, powerful, wealthy, and beautiful even in her old age. But this was not the destiny for which Father was preparing her, was it?

  Mary finished her song and started another to enthusiastic applause. Two of the couples had started to dance in the cramped space; the evening had grown almost raucous.

  “I wish I could dance,” Anne said.

  “I will dance with you.”

  “I’m a cripple.”

  “We shall dance unevenly then. Come.” Deborah pulled on her hand.

  “No. I would feel too conspicuous.”

  Deborah dropped her hand and smiled. “How strange it is to hear you speak so fluently.”

  “How strange it feels,” Anne replied. “And now I shall use my powers of speech to bid you goodnight.”

  “You are going to bed?”

  Anne indicated around her. “Each of these people, at one time or another, has visited with Father and looked upon me disdainfully. I do not wish to keep their company.”

  Deborah allowed Anne to go, and went to Liza to refill her cup. She was feeling a little woozy, but contentedly so. With Lazodeus out of their lives, she and her sisters were drawing close again. It was more like other, innocent times.

  “Deborah, come here, child.” This was Father calling her. She hurried over to his side. He had left the harpsichord to a doughy woman in a blue dress, and stood among a group of men by the curtain which separated the withdrawing room from Betty’s bedroom. “Yes, Father?”

  “I am telling Thomas and Cyriack about your command of languages. Would you demonstrate?”

  She felt her chest puff up proudly. “Of course, Father. What would you have me do?”

  “Can you recite a little bit in each?” He turned to his friends. “It is remarkable,” he said to them. “You won’t credit it.”

  Deborah took a deep breath to sober herself. She felt very clear and very confident as she launched into a few lines of Greek, of Spanish, then Latin, French, Italian (she even surprised herself how well she managed the first lines of Inferno) and, finally, Hebrew. The men gathered around spontaneously applauded, and Father looked very pleased with himself.

  “Well done, child,” he said. “You may go now.”

  “Is there nothing else I can do for you, Father?” she asked, disappointed that she was being dismissed so soon.

  “No, go and help Liza.”

  She was not going to help Liza, not tonight with a party spinning around her. Father had turned back to his friends, and she desperately wanted to hear if they would keep talking about her skill in languages. She hesitated a moment, then crept behind the curtain into Betty’s bedroom and tiptoed up to where Father stood on the other side. Hidden behind the draping fabric, she heard one of the men in mid conversation.

  “… truly remarkable,” he said. “And she’s quite a beauty.”

  When Father replied, there was a frown in his voice. “She’s only a child.”

  The men laughed, and Deborah heard Anthony’s laugh among them. He must have joined them. “John,” he said, “if you could see her you wouldn’t call her a child.”

  “You should be careful,” a man with an affected voice said. “She’ll catch a cavalier’s eye.”

  Deborah felt suddenly self-conscious. She was too tall, too big.

  “Lock her up like the Italians lock up their daughters,” Anthony joked. “’Tis something we could learn well from the Catholics. Women are far too free in London, wandering about unfettered.”

  “Your Mary sings like an angel,” a man with a plain, forthright voice said.

  “Mary and Anne have both been a great disappointment to me,” he said, and Deborah felt the guilty pleasure of his favouritism again.

  “I concur that Deborah is a credit to you,” the affected voice said. “How does one train a woman to do such things?”

  “By the same method one trains a dog: patience and rewards,” Father replied. “For, like a dog, learning is not instinctive for a woman.”

  A hollow space opened up in her stomach.

  “One can develop her appetite for knowledge, though,” Father continued.

  “How?” Anthony asked.

  “Let us return to dogs. What is it that a dog wants above all?”

  “Food,” offered one.

  “No,” said Father.

  “His master’s favour,” said Anthony.

  “Precisely. One must manipulate a woman’s innate desire to please the important masculine figure in her life. So a husband should teach a wife, but first a father should teach a daughter.”

  “I knew a fellow who trained a cat to ring a bell every time it needed to shit,” Anthony boomed, laughing.

  “Surely not! Cats cannot be trained.”

  “As easily as any other creature. Dogs or horses … Or women.”

  More laughter. Deborah sank to the floor, her face working to fight back tears. Was this how her father really saw her? Nothing more than a cleverly trained animal, a credit to his ability to exploit her sense of loyalty? She sat very still and listened further, but now their conversation had turned elsewhere. She waited half an hour, and they did not return to that topic. All her enthusiasm for company had evaporated, so she took herself to bed with heavy feet.

  Deborah lay, eyes open, reliving the conversation over and over. She felt such keen disappointment. Despite his impatience, his sometimes cruel sense of humour, she had always trusted that Father loved her and even respected her. Trusted that his pride was for her achievements, not his. How could he say that she had no instinctive love of learning? It had been all her care for as far back as she could remember.

  But then, was that because Father had developed her appetite for it, as he had suggested to his friends? Was it true, then, that it was to his manipulations she owed her cultivation? She flipped over on her side and groaned; couldn’t bear the thought. Was she even the pers
on she believed she was? Her whole identity seemed on the verge of shifting sideways.

  She sat up, ran her fingers through her hair, upsetting her hairstyle. Should she wake Anne and talk to her? No, Anne had suffered a lifetime at the hands of Father. She would be unable to understand how it felt ever to have imagined his respect was hers, let alone to learn that respect was a fantasy.

  Breathe deeply. Think rationally.

  Perhaps it was not as bad as she thought. Perhaps he had said something contradictory after her departure. Of course, when I speak of women’s learning, I mean women in general. Some, like my daughter Deborah, have such aptitude born to them, and these women should be lauded. She tried to imagine Father saying it: how his face would move, how his voice would inflect. But the fantasy would not form for her, kept falling apart, and he would say instead that women could be trained like animals, and did not know themselves.

  She heard the door to the bedroom open and she hoped it was Father, come to apologise. Vain hope. Drawers opened and closed, and she realised it must be Mary, coming to bed. Of course. Father had never been up here; he didn’t like the rickety stairs. And even if he knew he had hurt her feelings Father would never apologise. He occasionally admitted he was wrong, but he never said he was sorry for it.

  When she heard Mary and Max settle and the room fell quiet once again, she began to wonder where Father was now, to whom he was speaking. The sounds of the party had died off, and she assumed that most, if not all of the guests, had gone home. She still had Lazodeus’s scrying mirror, why should she not use it? Just to see if Father was even now telling his guests he had been wrong to say such things earlier. If he did exculpate himself and she never heard it, she would have to carry this wound around inside her needlessly. And using the mirror did not necessarily mean she had taken Lazodeus’s side: she still thought him untrustworthy and reserved her decision about whether any more attempts should be made to contact him.

  She reached under her bed for the wrapped package, drew it out and hid under the covers. The mirror glowed dimly under her blankets. “Show me Father,” she said.

  Instantly, the image washed over the surface. He sat with Anthony, and she could see his mouth moving but couldn’t hear him speaking. “Let me hear him,” she said. Faintly, as though heard from far away, the voices became clear.