The Binding

by Bridget Collins

  ‘Ah, Lucian.’ He says it as if he’s been expecting me. ‘Come in. De Havilland, you’ve met my son, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ De Havilland springs to his feet and shakes my hand. His skin is as smooth as soap. ‘Master Darnay.’

  My father gestures to a chair and I sit down. The blood stings my cheeks and throbs in the fading bruise over my eye. Betty arranges the tea things on the low table beside the fire. She’s only brought two cups, but no one asks her to bring another. We wait in silence for her to finish. There are hothouse roses in a silver bowl on the mantelpiece, between the china spaniels. They’re fat, blowsy bundles, dark-purplish red.

  Betty leaves. My father strides over to the table, pours himself some tea and leaves the other cup empty. He saunters to where he was standing before and goes back to examining the book. A small, cloth-bound book, plain blue. ‘Helen,’ he says, looking at the spine, ‘of course, I had never thought … Miss Helen, indeed. How quaint.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Darnay. My apprentice gave instructions without my knowledge. If you’d rather I asked the finisher to redo it …?’

  ‘No, no. I rather like it. Look, Lucian.’ He holds it up. I see the shine of silver lettering. ‘“Miss Helen Taylor”. It makes her sound rather more important than she is, doesn’t it?’

  I lean forward and pour tea into the other cup. De Havilland shifts, as if he’s expecting me to offer it to him. I catch his eye and sip. It’s black and bitter.

  ‘I must compliment you, de Havilland,’ my father continues. ‘The text of this is … elegant. Quite unlike your usual productions. Even the writing is less elaborate. Some day you must initiate me into the mysteries of what makes one binder’s work so much more compelling than another’s.’ De Havilland gives a bloodless smile but makes no riposte. ‘Your apprentice seems to show some promise. Such a pity he was ill.’

  ‘I must apologise again, Mr Darnay. He came to my bindery after his first master died, hardly two weeks ago. If I had had the slightest idea of his frailty …’

  ‘No, no.’ My father waves the apology away like a fly. He comes over to me and holds out the book for me to take. ‘Don’t you agree, Lucian? Lucian,’ he adds to de Havilland, ‘is something of a connoisseur himself. Or at least he will be, when he has more experience.’

  ‘Expertise is so often inherited,’ de Havilland says. ‘And what a privilege it must be to have access to your collection.’

  I swallow. I take the book. It’s so light I nearly drop it. I open it at random and rub the paper between my finger and thumb. I look up at the clotted roses in their silver bowl. ‘Very nice,’ I say.

  ‘Twenty guineas, I believe.’ My father writes out a cheque. He passes it to de Havilland, who puts it into his pocketbook with precise womanish fingers.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Darnay. And once again my sincere apologies, my apprentice will certainly not be—’

  I say, ‘How is he?’

  They both look at me. My father raises an eyebrow. I put my cup of tea gently on the side table. The saucer chinks. I want to get up, but instead I cross my ankle over my knee and lean back. I tilt my head enquiringly at de Havilland. ‘Your apprentice. Is he recovered?’

  ‘Please believe me, I am mortified.’ He clutches his pocketbook. ‘If it proves impossible to remove the stains from the rug …’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘But how is he?’

  ‘Truly, if I’d had the slightest idea of his character—’

  ‘I’m anxious to know about his health, de Havilland, not his morals.’

  There is a slight pause. My father sips his tea. When he lowers his cup there’s a faint smile playing about his mouth.

  De Havilland says, ‘Oh. I see. Ah … well, it was a bad attack of fever. Nothing contagious, I am sure of that, but he was delirious for a few days. The doctor’s bill came to six shillings and twopence ha’penny, can you imagine? To tell you the truth, I don’t know what I shall do with him. Perhaps he might be useful in the workshop. But it is kind of you to take an interest, Master Darnay.’

  ‘It is indeed,’ my father says. ‘Lucian bore the brunt of your deputy’s indisposition. He was quite upset.’

  ‘That must have been most distressing.’

  De Havilland knows the exact amount of the doctor’s bill, but he hasn’t once mentioned Emmett Farmer’s name. I put Nell’s book to one side, go to the mantelpiece and brush one of the roses with my finger. It’s like silk, so soft I can’t feel where it begins.

  ‘I hope – er – your face—’ de Havilland glances at my father and stops suddenly. He fumbles for his handkerchief and coughs delicately into it.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘no, that was an accident a few days ago.’

  ‘That is a relief. I would be horrified if … Pardon me, I do hope I wasn’t taking a liberty in mentioning it.’

  ‘Not at all,’ my father says. He joins me at the mantelpiece and bends his head to inhale the scent of the roses. ‘There’s no denying that Lucian looks as if he’s been in a bar-room brawl. But it was entirely his own fault.’ He rubs my temple with his thumb as if the bruise is an ink stain. ‘Never mind. Young men drink too much. It’s a fact of life. Don’t you agree, de Havilland? Especially when those young men are going to be married in ten days or so.’

  ‘Certainly, certainly. And may I offer my congratulations?’ De Havilland inclines his head in a sort of half-bow. ‘And while I think of it …’ He fumbles in his pocket and holds out his card to me. It has an embossed wreath on a dense cream background, a monogram of ‘d’ and ‘H’. I turn it over. De Havilland, S.F.B., 12 Alderney Street, Castleford. I know Alderney Street; one of the elegant houses with a discreet brass plaque is a brothel. ‘If you need my services …’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You’d be surprised how many young couples find it useful to visit a binder before a wedding. Separately, of course.’ He tilts his head with a smile. ‘It’s quite the thing, you know. Particularly for young men who want a clean slate before they marry. Those little white lies can become a burden. It’s so much better to start a new life with nothing to regret or hide.’

  I glance at my father. He has plucked a rose from the bowl and is twirling it in his fingers. He meets my eye and smiles.

  I say, ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘We have the securest vault in Castleford – at Lyon and Sons. And our storage rates are very reasonable.’ He glances from me to my father. ‘I have a very long and illustrious list of clients. Their books never see the light of day. I keep my true bindings entirely separate from trade.’

  ‘Assuredly,’ my father says. He plucks a petal from the rose he’s holding. It flutters to the rug and lies there like a small wound. ‘Because selling a true binding while the subject is still alive is, as we all know, illegal. My dear de Havilland, I am quite confident that nobody’ – he puts a subtle, dangerous weight on the word – ‘in this room would dream of breaking the law.’

  ‘Certainly not – but in a few cases there is a grey area.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

  De Havilland falters and nods. ‘If you change your mind, you have my address. Or if Miss Ormonde feels differently. It would be an honour.’ He leans towards me and lowers his voice. ‘I dare say I could arrange for you to see her book. That is another advantage. Although naturally I wouldn’t offer that to anyone else.’

  I turn away. The only sound is the murmur of the fire and the tiny rip of petals as my father dismembers the rose.

  ‘Well, then,’ de Havilland says, ‘I must be going. I’m having lunch with Mrs von der Ahe. Thank you for your time, Mr Darnay. And if you change your mind,’ he adds, to me, ‘I am entirely at your disposal. Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning,’ my father says.

  The door shuts behind him. My mouth is dry and my tongue tastes sour. I move towards the sideboard where the decanters are.

  ‘Not now, Lucian.’

  I stop. I push my hands into my pockets. The corner of de
Havilland’s card digs into the base of my thumb. ‘If that’s all,’ I say, ‘I need to get back to work.’

  ‘Must you?’ He says it with faint amusement, as if I’m a child. He flicks the bare stem of his rose into the fire. ‘Dear de Havilland. He really has no idea, does he? A binder is only an asset as long as he can be trusted.’ He wanders over to the window. De Havilland’s carriage is rolling awkwardly down the drive. ‘Trade bindings are one thing – no doubt de Havilland has a licence. And the occasional book without a stamp … well, who would bother? When he has Lord Latworthy as a collector …’ My father taps the glass, idly. Outside a bird startles and flies away in a clap of wings. ‘But I’ve never heard him offer to show a true binding. If he’s offering that to me …’

  ‘Wasn’t Nell’s a true binding?’

  ‘Don’t be disingenuous, boy. A paying client. Someone like us.’

  ‘Someone who matters?’

  ‘Exactly.’ He smiles at me. ‘What happens to a doctor, when he starts selling his clients’ secrets?’

  The question hangs in the air until I realise he isn’t going to answer it. He watches until the carriage has gone through the gate, and the wrought-iron ‘D’ has clanged back into place. He yawns, picks up Nell’s book and flips through. I want to leave, but some queasy impulse makes me stand there, watching him.

  Then he turns a page, and something slips to the floor.

  A thin, cheap envelope and ink that’s already turning brown. Mr Lucian Darnay. It’s careful, competent, day-school handwriting. My father sees it just as I do. A split second passes.

  I fling myself forward. But he gets there first. He whisks the flimsy paper away from me. He examines it, raising his eyebrows. ‘I must say, mysterious billets-doux smuggled in by a bookbinder … Poor Miss Ormonde won’t like that.’

  I struggle to my feet. My pulse drums in my ears. The writing is the same as Nell’s book. But what has Emmett Farmer got to say to me? ‘I have no idea what it is.’

  ‘Then you won’t mind my keeping it.’

  I say, ‘It’s mine.’

  He taps the envelope against his thumbnail. The sound sets my teeth on edge. ‘Calm down, Lucian,’ he says. ‘I am merely curious.’

  ‘Give it to me. Please.’

  He smiles, twirling it at arm’s length. ‘If you must continue to sow your wild oats, dear boy – and I suppose you must, you are my son, after all – please ensure they stay manageable, won’t you? If you lose your head entirely … well, it is rather a bother to arrange a binding. Not to mention expensive.’

  I refuse to reach out. I take a deep breath. ‘I wouldn’t let myself be bound. I’m not that cowardly. Or dishonest.’

  ‘I think we must be talking at cross-purposes,’ my father says. He tilts his head with a quizzical half-smile. ‘I would never encourage you to be bound … But I am intrigued by your point of view. I thought you despised me, not Nell.’

  ‘Nell didn’t have a choice. Anyone who chooses …’ I stop.

  ‘Yes?’

  I swallow. If I look down I’ll see the stains on the rug where Emmett Farmer vomited, and the hearth where his memories went up in flames. I can see him retching and clutching at the air, his wet face. ‘I wouldn’t do it, that’s all,’ I say.

  ‘Well,’ my father says, ‘may you live up to your high opinion of yourself.’ Now he’s flicking the corner of the letter as if it were a playing card. Any moment now he’ll make it disappear. Into his sleeve, into nowhere.

  ‘Father,’ I say. ‘Please may I have—’ In spite of myself I hold out my hand, like a beggar.

  He slides one finger into the fold and starts to rip the envelope. He’s going to read it here, in front of me.

  My heart trips over itself. For a vivid instant I see Farmer as he was before he burnt his book: handsome, a little gauche, with his hair falling over his face. His shirt was too small and he hadn’t done the top button up properly. When I called him a servant he looked at me as if he wanted to hit me.

  I snatch the letter out of my father’s grasp. Before he has time to react I cross to the hearth, pull the fireguard back and drop the envelope into the fire. It glows white and falls into swift golden holes. They meet in a flare of flames and the letter curls into a scrap of grey gauze. There’s a tiny, dancing flicker of triumph in my belly. For once I’ve defeated him. Then the silence floods back into my ears and I feel sick. I’ll be sorry. He’ll make me pay for it.

  His eyes narrow. But he only walks past me, picks up the poker and stirs the fire. Sparks swarm upwards. ‘How sensible,’ he says, at last. ‘I imagine you will find it hard enough to satisfy one … person.’

  I don’t imagine I’m forgiven. My punishment will come later, when I’ve stopped expecting it. ‘I’d better get back to work.’

  ‘So you keep saying.’ He gestures to the door with a flourish, as though I don’t know the way.

  I go to the door. I glance over my shoulder at the hearth. Every trace of the letter is gone now. Whatever Emmett Farmer wanted to say. An apology for ruining the rug. An apology for looking at me as if he pitied me. What else could it be, but an apology? So there’s no reason to feel the way I do now: as if I’m locked in a grey cell, and I’ve burnt the key.

  XXII

  We’re having tea in the drawing room. There are only five of us, but the room feels small. The yellow walls are giving me a headache, and the air is thick with my mother’s toilet-water and the pomade Cecily and Lisette use on their hair. Even the smells of tea and lemon make my gorge rise. I take shallow breaths. There’s a fire roaring in the hearth, but the air is chilly. One side of me is sticky with heat: the other is cold. Miss Ormonde is sitting opposite me, her ankles crossed demurely and her head bent. She’s listening obediently to my mother, but every few seconds her eyes flick to me. Her gloved hands are fiddling with something. I see the lump on her third finger and realise it’s her engagement ring. She catches herself, and stops. I don’t meet her gaze. Outside, the garden is grizzled with a thin layer of snow. The white is like tissue paper that’s been left out in the rain, ragged and forlorn. The deadish grass pokes through it. The gardener’s footprints are dark with mud.

  My mother strokes her skirts, patting the purplish watered silk and making her rings glitter in the pale daylight. Then she passes the plate of biscuits to Miss Ormonde with a smile. Miss Ormonde passes it to Cecily. My mother coughs delicately. Cecily blushes and passes them to me without taking one. Her corset creaks as she lowers her arm, and she darts a look around, hoping no one noticed.

  Lisette leans past me to take a biscuit, and then – with a glance at Cecily – another. She wanders to the piano and picks out a tune with her other hand.

  ‘Lilies,’ my mother says, to Miss Ormonde. ‘Are you quite sure, my dear? One must be confident that one’s bouquet is becoming.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Ormonde,’ Cecily says, ‘lilies are so sombre! And the scent is so overwhelming. Can’t I put in a plea for freesias? You would look so perfectly darling with a fountain of freesias.’ She knocks the sugar bowl over. ‘Oh – silly me!’

  Lisette strikes the same note twice, and pauses. ‘Perhaps she’s right. Lilies are very stalky.’

  ‘I think it would be best to avoid anything too … straight,’ my mother says. For an instant they all stare at Miss Ormonde. ‘I adore lilies myself – our hothouse is full of them – but when one is, perhaps, a little lanky … No, I think roses are decidedly more forgiving.’

  Miss Ormonde dips her head. ‘Yes – whatever you think would be right – I expect I’ll look a bit of a scarecrow, I always do.’

  There is a tiny silence. I am supposed to say something comforting. I watch a bird hop across the dark-prickled lawn.

  ‘Nonsense,’ my mother says. ‘You will look like a beautiful blushing bride. But you can’t possibly have lilies. Roses – no, Cecily, roses. But what concerns me most is the decoration of your sitting room. Now I know it will be yours and Lucian’s, but after all you will
be staying under this roof and I can’t abide that awful grey-green. Couldn’t we have something more cheerful?’ She looks around at the sunshine-yellow walls, the colour my father calls ‘gambogian’. ‘Lucian?’

  ‘Whatever you want.’

  ‘Thank you, darling. You see, Miss Ormonde, how obliging he is. You don’t mind a different colour, do you?’

  ‘Well, I – no, after all this is your house, I wouldn’t want to …’

  ‘Good, that’s settled. Lucian, sweetheart, you shouldn’t really be listening to all of this! Not a man’s business at all.’

  Lisette plays a high tinkling trill. ‘But that’s Lucian for you, Mama. He’s never been a proper man.’

  ‘Don’t be unkind.’ My mother leans across and pats Miss Ormonde’s knee. ‘She’s being silly. Lucian won an awful lot of prizes at school. Riding, fencing …’

  Lisette rolls her eyes. ‘Verse-speaking, dancing …’

  ‘Those can be very manly accomplishments. A gentleman who can waltz is a credit to his sex.’

  I get to my feet. ‘We’re already engaged, Mama. You don’t need to advertise.’

  There’s a split second before Mama laughs. She bends over the teapot and pours Miss Ormonde another cup of tea. ‘Do excuse him, my dear. He’s always been modest. Now, tell me about your going-away clothes. I saw the loveliest chinchilla tippet in Gallant’s. With your complexion …’

  I stand at the window, looking out at the fraying snow. The drawing room is reflected palely in the glass; ghosts of my mother and Miss Ormonde sit under the trees. Miss Ormonde rubs her forehead with the inside of her wrist.

  ‘… charming,’ my mother says. ‘But in summer, they can be a little unfortunate, can’t they? Our cook makes a wonderful lotion with lemon juice and soured cream that you might like to try. One doesn’t want to look as if one has dropped a bucket of brown paint.’

  Miss Ormonde stands up. My mother falls silent. Lisette plays a long arpeggio, keeping the pedal down until all four notes hang in the air. Cecily hides a half-eaten biscuit under her saucer.