Angel of Ruin

by Kim Wilkins

  “It won’t be necessary.”

  Mary smiled at him coquettishly. “I have brought something else for you to read, though. Something far more interesting.”

  “What is it?”

  She pulled the letter out of her bodice. It had arrived yesterday, with “ERJENT” written across it in Grandmamma’s hand. “Go on, read it aloud,” she said, handing it to the angel.

  Lazodeus unfolded the letter and read: “‘Mary dearest, Lady Ruth Adworth has died of the gout, and now Sir Adworth asks me daily about you. I believe he purposes to marry you if you return. Do not delay, Mary. Write to him forthwith.’” He handed the letter back. “And why should I be interested in such a trifle?”

  Mary felt her face fall; she had hoped Lazodeus would be jealous that some other man loved her and wanted her to be his bride. “I thought you might care that I was appreciated by so wealthy and powerful a man.”

  “Perhaps you should marry him, Mary, if he is so wealthy and powerful.”

  “No!” she cried. “How could I ever … I mean, now that I have known your caresses, how could I …”

  “Did you hope to make me jealous by this?” he asked, and his voice was cool and puzzled.

  “I …”

  “Mary, trouble me not with the love letters of ageing suitors, when I have concerns about more important writings. I want you to watch your father for me: hear his plans and aim to know what he intends. Can you do that?”

  She nodded, chastened. “Of course, I shall do exactly as you say.” She could do no differently.

  Deborah watched her sisters and neither of them looked different. Neither of them looked like patricides. They sat in a circle in the sitting room, Betty and Liza behind them. All five of them were working on sewing up a new arras for the party on Thursday night. Father was expected home at dinner time and Betty was eager to have it done before his arrival.

  So it was a surprise to all when the front door banged and Father’s voice drifted up the stairs. “Where is everyone?”

  Betty put aside her sewing and hurried to her feet. “Why is he home so early?”

  “To torture us with his boring poem, I suppose,” Mary said when Betty was out of earshot. She turned her eyes to Deborah. “Though I suppose you like the foul thing.”

  “Yes, I do,” Deborah replied. “’Tis a great work of art.”

  “Please do not fight,” Anne said, but it was a vague shadow of the adamant entreaties she had spoken in the past.

  “Death, Anne,” Mary said, “you sounded more convincing when you stuttered.”

  It was true; the lines between them were drawn deeply now, and Anne seemed not to care. Deborah held up her sewing to her face and examined it closely. Her stitching was uneven, compared to Mary’s which was always excellent. She noticed her fingers shook a little; it was the anticipation of seeing Father. Once, she would have bounded down the stairs to greet him, excited at his return. But everything had changed. Somehow she had grown into a woman, disenchanted with her brilliant father, frightened of her sisters, overwhelmed with the responsibility of protecting them all, of healing this awful mess.

  His voice carried up the stairs loudly. “Mary, Deborah, come down to my study at once. I am in need of your services.”

  “I shall keep sewing, shall I?” Anne said under her breath.

  “Come down and say hello,” Deborah said, touching her sister’s hair.

  Anne smiled up at her tightly. “I hardly think he’s interested in my greeting.”

  With a deep breath, Deborah put aside her sewing and followed Mary down the stairs.

  “Good morning, Father,” Deborah said. “We were not expecting you so soon.”

  Betty stood outside the front door paying the driver and giving a coin to the boy who had been engaged as Father’s eyes for the journey.

  “I hurried the driver. My mind is on fire. I have so many new ideas for my poem, and I must dictate them immediately.”

  “Why do you require us both then?” Mary sniffed. “Surely Deborah will do.”

  “I require you, Mary Milton, to start making the fair copy of the poem. An old friend of mine named Samuel Simmons is a publisher at Aldersgate, next to the Golden Lion. We crossed each others’ paths in Cambridge, and he has expressed a keen interest in publishing the work.”

  Betty, who had rejoined them, nodded her head smugly. “It shall be published then?”

  “Of course,” Father snapped. “There was never any question. He has promised me twenty pounds — the first five when I give him the fair copy, provided the work is to his liking.”

  “Twenty pounds!” Betty exclaimed. “Why we shall be able to afford some new rugs.”

  “’Tis hardly a King’s ransom,” Mary said quietly.

  “Enough, Mary. I’m aware it is not a fortune. It is barely recompense for the many hours I have spent on it.” No mention was made of the many hours that Deborah had spent on it, or any of the other scribes he had used over the years. But Father’s arrogance was hardly a concern any more. His safety was far more pressing.

  “Well, I think twenty pounds is a solid sum, and we can use it,” Betty said. “And ’Tis a good reason for us to celebrate tomorrow night. John, I have organised a party in honour of your return.”

  “A party! Do I have time to make small talk with idiots?” Father shook his head in exasperation, but Deborah knew that by tomorrow night, when the guests started arriving, Father’s excitement would match Betty’s. “Now leave us be, Betty. We have work to do.”

  Mary set up on one side of Father and Deborah on the other. Soon, Mary was copying out lines in her strong, neat hand, while Deborah waited for Father’s grand ideas to form into blank verse. He intended new and dynamic scenes, and in his dreams he had acquired ideas: grand ideas, heroic ideas, breathtaking ideas for speeches and descriptions.

  And nearly all these ideas were about fallen angels.

  Deborah tried to keep up as Father dictated. His words were almost frantic, and yet so beautifully chosen, so grandly joined together. At one point he stopped to ask her to read back a speech which Lucifer — Father called him Satan — made to his ranks of angels. Deborah straightened her glasses on her nose and read to him:

  “Farewell happy fields where joy for ever dwells: hail horrors, hail infernal world, and thou profoundest hell receive thy new possessor —”

  “Ha!” Father said, and he actually clapped his hands together with glee. “I like him, Deborah. I like my new Satan. Better than that vain, toadying weakling I had originally imagined. Now he has pride; now he has dignity.”

  Deborah looked across at Mary. Her sister’s eyes were locked on Father’s face, and a smug, knowing smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Deborah’s gaze returned to Father, and he was smiling too, but it was a gentle smile, an innocent smile. In his moment of happiness, Deborah suddenly felt his awful vulnerability. An empty sick feeling opened up in her stomach, and she fought the keen urge to push aside the books and run to him, take him in her arms and tell Mary to get out. Tell her to leave them both and dally with her devils in some other part of the world and never to look at her Father again as though he were a fool, and she were his superior.

  Father’s fingers went to his throat. “I grow hoarse. I have been speaking too loudly in my excitement. Perhaps we should take a break until this afternoon.”

  Mary needed no encouragement. She put her writing tray aside immediately. “Good. I shall walk Max. ’Tis too hot to be inside.” She was gone before Deborah had tidied her ink pot and rolled her pens. Deborah stood and walked to Father, knelt in front of him.

  “What is it, Deborah?”

  “You must be tired from your journey.”

  “I slept in the carriage.”

  “Father …”

  He let the silence draw out between them. Finally, he said quietly, “What troubles you, Deborah?”

  “Father, make no more mention of your poem to Mary.”

  “No more mention?
But I must get a fair copy to Simmons by the beginning of September. How do you propose I shall do that without Mary’s help?”

  “I shall make the fair copy, Father. I shall take your dictation during the morning and make the fair copy in the evening. It stays light until quite late still, and I can work by candlelight just as well. Mary can do my chores — Lord knows she never really does work to the equal of the rest of us. But let me do it, Father. Mary should have no more involvement.”

  Father sightless eyes rested on her face, and it occurred to her for the first time she had been seen neither by her mother nor her father. Mother had died in childbirth; Father had been blind before she was born. Did that make her invisible? She reached out and touched Father’s hand. He withdrew it awkwardly.

  “And why should Mary not be involved?”

  “You must trust me, Father. I cannot tell you.”

  “I know some of what Mary does,” he said.

  Deborah felt her blood cool in her veins. “You do?” Had Betty told him? And if so, would Deborah have been implicated? She suddenly couldn’t bear for Father to know of the dark world she was now involved in.

  “Yes, I’ve known for many years. A friend from Forest Hill told me. She flirts with men … she gives her favours …” He dropped his head as though ashamed. Relief; this was only about Mary’s chastity. Father looked so embarrassed that Deborah produced a lie to reassure him.

  “’Tis not true, Father. ’Tis an unfortunate rumour. Mary is chaste and brings no dishonour to you.”

  He nodded, but didn’t seemed convinced. “Thank you, Deborah.”

  “Do you trust me, Father? Will you allow me to make a fair copy?”

  “Deborah, I trust nobody. But I will allow you to do Mary’s work. And I shan’t mention it to Mary again. Perhaps one day, when you are a grown woman and you bring my many grandsons to visit, you shall explain to me what this is about. Until then, I have confidence in your judgement.”

  That old familiar sensation of pride rose up inside her, and she pushed it away with her reason. It would not do to rely on Father’s praise. Father had little respect for women, Father expected her to marry and bear him grandsons, and Father would never understand her need to make her mark upon the world. She stood and moved to the door with a cool, “Good day.”

  “Deborah?” he said.

  “Yes, Father?”

  “Do not let me down. The fair copy must be complete by September the first. And I have many more scenes to draft. You must be reliable.”

  “You may rely upon me, Father,” she said. She stood in the doorway and watched him a few moments, then turned to rejoin her sisters upstairs.

  It had drizzled all day; a mournful misting summer rain which sent the party guests inside damp, with limp curls and sagging feathers. Enthusiasm was not dampened, though, and Father was in particularly high spirits, playing music and laughing with friends. Anne cared nothing for the party, and nothing for Father’s good mood. She only cared that two hours stood between now and reunion with Lazodeus. From her hiding place near the window, Anne watched as Mary sang and flirted. Deborah, however, was nowhere to be seen. Anne had heard her upstairs in her closet, a pen scratching away at paper, and had asked if she would come downstairs for the party.

  “No, I am far too busy,” she had replied.

  Deborah was becoming more and more a mystery to her. Once, not long ago, she had been her fresh-faced baby sister; precocious and delightful, kind-hearted and always trying to understand. But all that had changed. Lazodeus said she experimented with magic, and that seemed surprising as she had shunned the angel and his powers. No, more than that. Deborah had said that Lazodeus was her enemy. Anne pondered the statement. Was that the point at which her once innocent affection for Deborah had been soured, when Deborah had declared the creature Anne loved so much to be the enemy?

  Anne sighed as she assessed the merry people enjoying the bright candlelight and the games and singing. Life had become so very complicated, but perhaps sisters could not play games and share secrets with each other forever. They must go their separate ways and, for the sake of the love she felt for Lazodeus, she was willing to let them go.

  She heard a bell far away, ringing out the hour, and wondered at how time could crawl so slowly.

  At a quarter to midnight, the party was still revolving around her. Deborah had been brought downstairs to read scenes from Father’s great poem. Adam and Eve were being cast out of Paradise while an audience of enraptured faces oohed and aahed. Father sat proudly, back erect, listening to his dazzling phrases as if hearing them for the first time. Mary was nowhere in sight — perhaps gone to bed or to her secret room. For anyone else, perhaps, crossing the room and slipping out without being seen would not be so difficult. But she feared her ungainly walk would draw attention. She clung to the wall, shuffled slowly in the shadows. One or two glances darted in her direction but were soon diverted. She was the ugly sister; the lame, stupid one. Foolish to think anyone would care.

  She made it to the stairs and began to hurry her step. To get out the front door before Betty or Liza called her back was her next goal. She did not have time to find a rain mantle or scarf. With a secretive glance behind her, she was out the door and on her way.

  The drizzle had eased, thankfully. Lights from the window upstairs shone on the street, making the puddles glisten. She breathed the warm, wet air and savoured each second as it drew her closer to him. The bells rang out midnight as she crossed the street to the park.

  He was there already, waiting. She approached from behind. He had not seen her yet, and she took a moment to admire the lines of his physique. His hand rested on a tree trunk.

  “Lazodeus,” she said. It felt so bold to say his name.

  He turned around and smiled his slow smile. “Anne. You are late.”

  “Only by a matter of seconds.”

  “It seemed longer.” He took her hand. “Come under the trees here towards the hedge. I have found a dry place.”

  “How can it be dry? It has rained all day.”

  “Angel magic,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “What else?”

  They moved into the hedges and the leaves were indeed dry. He helped her to sit and then joined her. She gazed at him in warm silence, the darkness faintly eased by the soft glow he radiated. She felt wild, womanly, even beautiful, because she knew the dark was kind to her pinched face and dull eyes.

  With a slow breath, he spoke. “I have something to tell you, Anne, but it may not be as promising as it first sounds.”

  She shook her head, confused. “What do you mean?”

  He pressed his lips together, thinking. Then he said, “You remember how I cured your stammer?”

  “Yes. Of course. Not a day passes that I omit to give thanks.”

  “I have spoken to some of the potentates of my realm. I believe I may also eradicate your limp permanently.”

  For a few moments, she was desperately embarrassed. She squirmed. Her limp. Such direct reference to her physical shortcoming jolted her out of her romantic fantasy that she was somehow beautiful and womanly. He had never forgotten that she was grotesque.

  “Anne?” he said. “You do not seem excited. I said I may be able to make you walk freely.”

  She looked up. Forced a smile. “Yes, it is exciting. But you warned that the promise of such news may be a burden.”

  He dipped his head in a nod. “That is true. I understand your caution.”

  “What is it, then? Will it turn me into a toad? Expose you to great hardship? Mean that my sister Mary will have her heart’s wish and win your love?” She bit her tongue on this last, realising she had spoken too openly. Such a comment could only reveal her keen jealousy.

  “Fear not, I am already aware of Mary’s feelings,” he said. “I return no such sentiment, though, and never shall, no matter what I make of my magic.”

  “Then what?”

  Again he fell silent.

  “Please just
tell me so that I may feel the disappointment and grieve for lost opportunity.”

  “Anne, I do not mean to hurt you. My fears are for your dignity.”

  “My dignity?”

  “You remember, do you not, how I cured your stammer?”

  Anne felt suddenly light. “You kissed me.”

  “On your mouth. Because that was where the problem lay.”

  “Yes.” A promise rolled in her stomach.

  “Your limp is located in …”

  “My leg. My left leg.”

  “No, Anne. In your hip. In the very joint of your hip.” His hand reached out and touched her through her clothes. “Here.”

  “So …”

  “I would need to press my lips to the joint. Through the skin, not through these layers of cloth.”

  Anne felt her breath jerked from her lungs on a fleet hook. “I …”

  “I mean to offer you no indignity,” he said, his hands held out in front of him. “I cannot believe I am even suggesting it.”

  “No, no. I am not … there is no offence taken. I …” She fell silent and he let her be quiet for long minutes. “Will you be punished again?”

  “No.”

  “But last time …”

  “Because I acted without permission. I have received permission from the highest source.”

  Lucifer, then. Lucifer could heal her hobbling gait. How far she had come from the frightened mouse who would not tell her sisters the angel’s name. And yet, it mattered so little. For Lazodeus had locked his eyes upon her, and she was drowning in desire. Flutters of strange sensation drew up inside her, made her feel vulnerable and hollow.

  “I shall, then. I shall take your kind offer, and I shall walk and run and dance.”

  He let out a sigh. “Oh, I am so happy, Anne.” He took her hand and pressed his lips to it. “I am so happy that you will let me do this for you. I have wanted to repay you for your kindness when I was ill …”

  “I couldn’t let you die,” she said, her breathing shallow in her chest. Her fingers itched to touch his hair, but she held them back.