by Kim Wilkins
“I am not such a bad seed as she would have you think, you know,” Mary said.
Once again, he fell silent. Typical. The old bore always refused to talk when he felt uncomfortable. She took her book and left.
So Deborah and Father were secretly working away on the manuscript together. She remembered what Lazodeus had said about spirits in Pandemonium being unhappy with what Father wrote. What was her sister up to?
“Deborah! Deborah, come downstairs please!”
Father’s voice. He sounded agitated. It was unlike him to call to her up through the house, rather than sending Liza. But then, Liza was unusually busy this week. Betty had gone to visit her sister in Suffolk, and Deborah spent all her time finishing off Father’s manuscript. All the housework fell on the poor maidservant and whichever of the hapless sisters were available. Needless to say, they made themselves unavailable as often as possible. The house was dusty and the kitchen was in chaos.
Deborah put aside her writing tray and bounded down the stairs. They were almost finished. Father had pronounced himself happy with the newly rewritten beginning, and she had made a fair copy of it for Simmons’s approval. She was just finishing off the last few pages of book ten. Soon it would be all over. She would be able to sleep all night, instead of rising at three o’clock.
“What is it, Father?” she asked as she approached. His pale hand was pressed against the dark wainscoting as though he were holding himself up. “Are you ill?”
“No, not ill, Deborah. I have a letter just delivered. Could you read it for me? The messenger said it was from Simmons.”
“Simmons?” Deborah snatched the letter from his hand. She was nervous, and knew he must be too. If Simmons did not like the poem the promised advance would not come, and Father would be forced to seek another publisher. And the damage to his confidence would be irreparable. Her fingers broke the seal and she unfolded it.
“Read it. Read it to me,” Father urged.
Deborah grasped Father’s hand. His skin was cool and smooth, and to her surprise, he returned her squeeze.
“‘Dear John, I thank you for the opportunity to read the first two books of Paradise Lost. I am astonished, sir, by the scope of your work, your erudition and your unrivalled ability to write the most splendid verse. I am so very impressed with this superb work, and eagerly await reading the poem in its entirety. I believe that Paradise Lost may challenge the works of Virgil himself. Please deliver the complete manuscript post haste. I shall pay you the agreed sum upon its speedy delivery. I remain, your faithful servant, Samuel Simmons.’” Deborah looked up. Father was glowing.
“Challenge the works of Virgil …” she said.
“Let us walk, Deborah, for I cannot contain such an overmeasure of excitement in my heart by standing still.”
“I’ll fetch your hat.”
Summer was refusing to give up her hold on the streets. September was only a few days away, but the heat and dryness of the season still clung to trees and houses. In fact, Deborah could not remember a hotter summer in the city. A warm breeze gusted up the Walk as they made their way to the Artillery grounds.
“Anywhere in particular, Father?” she asked.
“Let us head in the direction of the burial ground,” he said. “Be my eyes, Deborah.”
“The sky is dazzling blue and the clouds are moving fast, as though there is a great engine driving them, very high up. The sun …” They crossed the open road, emerging from the shadows of the crowded houses on the Walk. “Can you feel the sun, Father? It is still harsh today, as though it has no idea it must prepare for winter. I see a lark overhead, and two blackbirds in the field. Over the treetops the windmills are moving slowly.” She glanced around. “A group of men approaches us. They are dressed like Quakers, four of them. Beyond them, across the road towards the city wall, a young man woos a young woman with a posy. Come, this way.” She pulled his hand gently and led him across the road, down the hill and into the burial ground. She knew which game he wanted to play, but today it didn’t feel like a game. The rows of graves laid out crookedly through the grounds only reminded her that Father could be at risk.
“Read me some dates, Deborah,” he asked.
“Father, surely we could find a more cheerful place to be on one of the last mornings of summer?”
“Nonsense,” he said, waving his hand as if to wave away her suggestion. “Go on.”
Deborah moved forwards slowly, scanning the headstones. “Here, Father, Elizabeth Lincoln, born 1608, died 1636.”
“Women aren’t made of as strong stuff as men,” he said knowingly. The comment should have angered her; it was, after all, his opinion about the capacities of her sex which had driven such a wedge between them. But seeing him standing among the headstones, an old blind man who did not know he was in danger from his own daughters, it was all she could do to stop from throwing her arms around him.
“And here, Father. Jonathan Harris. Born 1610, died 1660.”
“In truth, there are not many of us that live as long as I, Deborah.”
She smiled at him, his unseeing face in dappled sunshine, and squeezed his hand gently. “No, Father. And long may you live.”
He shook her hand off and said gruffly, “No need for mournful sighs. The plague didn’t finish me, nor did the return of the King. I’m meant to be here, Deborah. I was meant to write my great epic. I’ve always believed I have an angel on my side. I shall live a good long while yet.” He wandered off by himself a few steps, stopping and putting his hand out to find a headstone to rest upon.
Deborah stooped to pick an errant wildflower from under a stone, wishing she could enjoy the morning. But such a heavy weight was upon her heart. How well she knew: the angel was not on his side at all.
Idly, idly, Mary slunk past Deborah’s closet to see if she was in. No sign of her. The old man was gone, too. She supposed they were out walking. With Betty away, Deborah was on escort duty. She probably enjoyed it, toadying up to Father as she had always done. They were two of a kind, those two. Pompous, lily-livered, and impossibly dull. Mary checked around again, and entered the closet. She opened the lid of Deborah’s trunk and quickly ploughed through. Nothing. She fell to her knees and peered under the bed. A flat wooden box lay there. She pulled it out, flipped up the brass fasteners and opened the lid.
Here it was. Father’s manuscript. She riffled through the pages, sniffing derisively. Deborah’s handwriting was appalling compared to her own. She could barely keep her lines straight. Father was mad to let her do the fair copy. Mary read a few lines. So very tedious. The parts she had heard by Lazodeus were far superior. At least they had a measure of intensity, of fire. She deliberately found such a scene; being close to Lazodeus’s story was a sorry substitute for being with him in person, but he had not responded to her calls for three days.
When she read the lines, she was surprised. She had been sure it read differently. She read on.
“Why the little minx,” Mary said. Deborah had changed it. This was why she had insisted upon doing all the copying, even though it was wearing her ragged. What lies had she told to Father? What would he say if he knew she had toyed with his words?
More importantly, what would Lazodeus think? All his hard work, finally trying to get the real story told, only to have Deborah make the archangels superior to Lucifer and the fallen angels. Superior to Lazodeus! Such a creature did not exist in the universe. Mary placed the pages back in the box and stood with it under her arm, not sure who she would read it to first: Lazodeus or Father. She turned to leave the closet and saw Deborah standing in the doorway.
“Hello, sister,” Mary said evenly.
“Hand it over. It is not yours.”
“It is not Father’s either any more, is it? You’ve done quite a satisfactory job of ruining his poem.”
“I have not ruined it.”
“He wanted to tell it his way. You should not have changed it.”
“It was not his way. It was
Lazodeus’s way and you know it.”
“What would Father know about the war in Heaven? Lazodeus was there, Father was not.”
Deborah put out her hands. “Give me my box.”
“And if I don’t? Shall you use your demon key? Shall you turn me into a frog, dear sister?”
Deborah took a step forward and snatched for the box. Mary lifted it over her head, remembering too late that Deborah had a good six inches on her. She whipped it out of Mary’s hands and pressed it against her body, her arms crossed over it.
“Please get out of my closet.”
“I shall tell Father you have changed his words.”
“He won’t believe you. He trusts me. He loves me.”
Mary snorted. “He does not love you, Deborah, do not be a fool. He loves nobody but himself. If you could not take his dictation he would ignore you. Like he ignores Anne.”
Deborah did not answer, she merely stepped aside to let Mary through the door. Mary slunk past. As Deborah slammed the closet door, Mary went to the window. She took a few breaths on the ledge, then slipped into her secret room.
“Lazodeus,” she called. “You must come. It is important.” She didn’t care either way about Father’s poem, really. This was just a magnificent excuse for calling Lazodeus. Her body missed his touch, her eyes missed his seductive glow.
“I must come?”
She whirled around. He stood between two billowing curtains of blue velvet, in his familiar layers of black silk and lace. He bowed deeply.
“You have ignored me nearly a whole week.”
“I apologise. I have been otherwise engaged.”
“Are there other girls? Are you someone else’s guardian?” She couldn’t bear the thought. As it was, with only doddering Anne for a rival, she felt safe.
“No, I see no other mortal women except you.”
“What about other angels?”
He smiled. “There is no attraction between angels.”
She wasn’t convinced. “Are there female angels?” If there were, they would be as beautiful as him. More so. How could she compete?
“We are ungendered,” he said. “In our true form we have no distinguishing organs. We are pure light.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand, and I don’t care to understand. If you say I am the only one, I shall endeavour to believe you.”
“You are the only one,” he said gently, touching her cheek. “Now, what is the important matter?”
“Important? Oh, yes. Deborah has changed Father’s poem.”
“What do you mean?” His voice sounded urgent.
“She’s making the fair copy — insisted upon it, warned Father to replace me with her — and she’s changed it all about.”
“What has she changed?” His eyebrows drew together, giving his face a dangerous aspect. Mary started to wonder if this matter were more important than she had originally perceived.
“Well, not all of it,” she said slowly. “But she has changed significantly the scenes you told to Father.”
For a moment, she saw his lip curl in rage, the scar drawing up into a puckered line. It was an expression almost animal in its intensity, but it was soon gone, replaced by a slow smile. “That wicked girl.”
“Wicked? She’s hardly wicked. That almost makes her sound interesting. She’s rather too dull for wicked.”
He shook his head. “Silly, silly Deborah.”
“I’ve a good mind to tell Father about it.”
“No, don’t say anything to anyone. Let me think upon it. I need to speak to some of my peers.”
Mary wrinkled her nose, pulling his hand to draw him closer. “Father’s not really that important in Pandemonium, is he?” His body touched hers. Electric.
“Do you have no concept of his fame?”
“I suppose I know he’s rather notorious. People sometimes walk past our house to see where he lives. But he is hardly as famous as a fine actor, or a courtier, or the King.”
His hands closed around her waist. “Mary, there is no more powerful, persuasive, subtle and evocative force in this universe than that of words. Those who wield them mightily can change history, they can endure forever.”
“Nonsense,” Mary said, tired and a little repulsed about speaking of Father while in the angel’s arms. “He’s a doddery old blind man. His shirts are always musty and he eats his food like a nervous sparrow.”
Lazodeus laughed. “Mary, Mary, one of the things I adore about you is your disrespect for knowledge.”
She smiled. “You do?”
“Oh, yes, there is a certain charm in a woman who refuses to avail herself of the facts.”
That didn’t sound particularly complimentary, but he was gazing at her with such a pure expression of passionate desire that she could not find it in herself to question him.
“If you say so.”
“Stay in the dark, Mary,” he said kissing her. “I like you there.”
“Come, Deborah, are you ready?”
Deborah looked up. Father stood impatient by the door of his study, hat and coat on, ready for the walk to Simmons’s printing house.
“Nearly, Father. Just a moment longer.”
She bent her head once more to her task, checking that all the pages were in order. She had finally finished the copying, the censors had been consulted and duly ignored; Father was no lover of censorship. He had declared he would do no more revisions, the manuscript for Paradise Lost was complete and ready to take to the printers. Deborah’s fingers trembled a little as she leafed through the pages. Here and there, she could see her alterations, alterations which would soon be in print forever. Although she wished every success upon her Father, she secretly hoped that Paradise Lost would vanish very rapidly after its publication. The thought of her deception being reprinted into a remote future was not one she relished.
“There,” she said, squaring off the pages. “’Tis done.”
“Then let us go, Simmons is expecting us.”
“Mr Simmons will wait a few moments, Father. I must wrap it. We cannot have pages scattering far and wide between here and Aldersgate.” As Father stood by, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, she placed the manuscript in the middle of a sheet of plain brown paper, wrapped it carefully and tied it with string. The result was a large, heavy package which required both hands to carry.
“Father, we may need help. I cannot hold your hand to guide you while I carry this package. Shall I call Liza?”
“Liza? No, I do not trust her. As Betty is not here, it will be just you and me, Deborah. I require no hand to hold. As long as you watch out for me, I shall walk just behind you, and I shall carry the package.”
“Are you sure, Father?” she asked.
He reached out impatient hands, clicking his fingers. “Here, here. Give it to me then.”
Outside, a fierce, hot wind blew. Deborah had been listening to it in her bed this morning as it rattled windows, lifted tiles and scattered the first dead leaves of autumn up the alley. The dry weather had made her eyes sore and her skin rough. The whole world appeared to be moving under the wind’s impetus. She kept her head down as a particularly violent gust rushed up the street. When she turned to check on Father, his hat had vanished.
“Father, your hat …”
“Never mind the hat, I still have my manuscript and nothing matters more than that.”
They made their way slowly down to Aldersgate. Deborah spotted the sign of the Golden Lion and found Simmons’s printery next door. She took Father’s elbow despite his grumbling that she would cause him to drop his package, and led him to the front door. The top half of the door was open, the bottom closed. Through it, she could see a small office where a pale, dark-haired man sat wearing tiny spectacles, reading closely. Beyond him, through a doorway, she could see men busy in the workshop, calling loudly to each other and clattering and banging. The man glanced up without a glimmer of recognition for Deborah, but as soon as he saw Father
he leaped to his feet.
“John! How delightful to see you. I wasn’t expecting you until later this afternoon.” He spoke very rapidly as he rose and came to them, his hands emphasising every second word.
“Good morning, Simmons,” Father said, and he tried a smile. But he was so nervous that it looked like a grimace. “I have brought my manuscript for you.” He held out his manuscript with shaking hands, and Deborah looked away, unable to witness such vulnerability in him.
“I’m so pleased,” Simmons said as he took the package and carelessly dropped it onto his desk. “I’m very excited to be publishing this, John. There are many people who are waiting for it to appear.”
“Is that so?” Father said, pleased with himself.
“Oh, yes, everyone I’ve mentioned it to is most eager for its publication.” He suddenly broke off his address to Father and looked at Deborah. “Excuse my manners, my dear. You must be Mrs Milton. I’d heard that John had married a young beauty but —”
“She is my daughter,” Father said, his face suddenly stony. “She is little more than a child.”
Deborah had thought Simmons might respond with a barrage of prattling apology, but instead he fell silent for a moment, then withdrew into his office, calling behind him, “I shall find you the first part of your advance, John. Just you wait there.”
The next few minutes as Deborah waited next to Father were deeply uncomfortable, but she didn’t know if it was due to Father’s anxiety as he waited for his payment, or his embarrassment that Simmons had presumed his daughter to be his wife. When she tried to touch his shoulder he flinched away, and she suddenly wished to have been his son; a young man with whom he could proudly walk down the street, free of speculation.
Simmons returned, held out some gold coins which Deborah took and pressed into Father’s hand.
“Thank you,” Father said, but Deborah wasn’t sure if it was for her or for Simmons.
“’Tis my pleasure, John.”
“And when will … when will it be …?”
Again, Deborah felt a twinge of compassion. Confronted with his dearest wish, Father became rather smaller and paler. He seemed not so frightening at all, and Deborah was unsure if she liked that. With the threat of Lazodeus over his head, she would prefer he seemed indestructible.
