Several others in the room rose in protest, their chairs scraping over the floor, but Reeves ignored them.
‘I have no wish to argue with you, gentlemen. If all you want to do is listen to a preacher, then I suggest you go to church.’
He nodded to James, and they both walked through the crowd towards the door. James seemed ready to answer every catcall and gesticulation, but the professor remained impassive. Even after they had left, the arguments continued, and Father suggested that we depart as well. In the hallway, I looked out for Reeves, and again on the street, but he must have slipped away quickly. Liam was parked on College Green, and we climbed into the quiet of the carriage to make our way home.
Father settled in his seat and drew the window down slightly. ‘I remember now why I stopped attending the Academy.’
‘How awful for Professor Reeves to be attacked like that,’ I said.
‘It was unfortunate.’
‘It was maddening, for a man of science to be shouted down. You were correct when you said that he could fend for himself. I thought he answered them so well.’
Father had been observing the passing streetscape, but he turned to look at me for a moment. ‘His rhetoric was indeed forceful.’
‘Did you not agree with all he said?’
‘I don’t recall a point with which I disagreed. But Abigail, there is a way to put forward ideas without upsetting the beliefs of others.’
‘It was their fault for confronting him.’
‘That may be. But some would look upon what the professor said as heresy and treat him accordingly.’
‘All the more reason to stand by him. We should not be cowed by those who claim ownership of the truth.’
‘Nor should we seek to provoke them.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they might hurt you.’ I glanced at him, but he shook his head at his own choice of words. ‘I mean sully your name, damage your reputation. I hope that Professor Reeves does not come to regret that.’
It seemed to me that the professor could not be daunted, but I let the matter rest and we continued the journey in silence. Outside, there was a gleam on the surface of puddles and pavements, and in the distance I could see the steeple of St George’s over the rooftops. It seemed the fog was beginning to lift.
5
We had a room in the loft next to Kathy’s bedchamber that contained a jumble of odds and ends. My old rocking-horse sat in one corner, tilted forward. It had scuffed paintwork and chipped nostrils, and a black mane of real horsehair combed over one eye. There were boxes filled with my mother’s old dresses and correspondence. Jimmy picked his way between the clutter to open a small sash window. Outside, there was a ledge, sheltered by eaves and gutters extending from the roof overhead.
Three devices sat on the sill exposed to the late-morning air. Jimmy leaned forward to examine the first: a Swedish thermometer, the temperature marked in centigrade after Anders Celsius. It had been a gift from my father on my fifteenth birthday, but though I loved the scrolled redwood surround, the slender glass tube and vein of quicksilver, I thought the Fahrenheit scale better suited to the Irish climate; for how could one consider a day’s temperature to be less than zero?
A breeze made Jimmy’s eyes water, and he blinked once.
‘What does it say?’
‘Sixteen,’ he said, the highest we’d seen it since we began taking measurements in the spring. The sun’s warmth had finally penetrated, and, for the first time that summer, hearths remained cold and winter cloaks were set aside.
The barometer was Jimmy’s favourite device, since he’d made it himself: an empty glass jar sealed with a thin piece of pig’s bladder stretched over the top. When air pressure was high, the membrane had a depression in the centre, and when low, it ballooned upwards. He bent lower so his eye was level with the top of the jar.
‘What do you think?’
‘Flat as a flounder,’ he said.
Church bells chimed over the city, and I said we had to hurry. The third instrument was a brass frame in which a small weight hung suspended from a single strand of my own hair. When we first set it up, I’d spent a finicky afternoon tying one end to the frame and the other to the weight; several had snapped before I got it right. Human hair was considered the best fibre for the task, expanding in the presence of moisture, and contracting when dry. And since my hair was completely unmanageable in muggy weather, I told Jimmy we had the most sensitive instrument in the city.
As the weight rose and fell it caused a long needle to oscillate within a half-moon scale. Fine lines had been etched in the metal denoting percentages, with the words ‘humidité extrème’ and ‘ sécheresse extrème’ at the top and bottom of the arc. On the day we set it up, a fog rolled in over Dublin. The weight descended and the pointer crept upwards, and I’d told Jimmy to imagine how slight the droplets must be that they could permeate the filament. He had found it pleasing, that something so imperceptible could still be detected.
Jimmy peered at the scale and said the humidity today was forty-two per cent, declaring that to be relatively dry. He opened a notebook on the sill. Each page was filled with lists of measurements arranged by date, tracking not only changes in weather, but the progression of Jimmy’s handwriting. He leafed to the final page, uncorked the inkpot and took up a quill.
‘Sixteen and forty-two,’ I said. ‘The year that Galileo died.’
Jimmy wrote out each figure with care, though his 2 had an exaggerated loop making it look like a lower-case a. Down below, my father and Ewan emerged from their workrooms. Father was speaking with expansive gestures, probably expounding on some medical phenomenon, and Ewan walked beside him with his head bent and hands held behind his back. They paused next to a wall where coils of sweet pea were just beginning to flower. In the sunlight, Ewan’s hair appeared more blond than auburn. He swept a forelock over his left ear with his thumb, a habit that I had begun to notice.
Jimmy was saying my name.
‘Hmm?’
‘I said should I close the window?’
‘No, I’ll do it. You go and get ready.’
He nodded and hurried from the room. While reaching up, a breeze ruffled the lace on my cuff, and I noticed that the temperature outside had dipped by a degree. The membrane atop the barometer swelled upwards. I gazed at the horizon over the terraced rooftops, but all I could see was a hazy blue.
St George’s Church faced on to a wide crescent of houses in Hardwicke Place, where parishioners were congregating from the surrounding streets. I walked with Jimmy and Mrs Perrin, while my father and Ewan went a few strides ahead. We turned a corner, and the elegant spire of the church came into view. A large group of Brethren stood on either side of the railed entrance. There were close to fifty of them, of all ages, their black cloaks billowing against the white façade.
Mr Darby was to the forefront, and once again Mrs Nesham stood near; it seemed she rarely left his side. It was still odd to see her dressed in black like the others. Whenever I’d met her before – in crowded salons, or even walking in Rutland Gardens – she’d worn refined gowns befitting the young wife of an established barrister. If her place within the Brethren had been affected by the scandal in her household, it didn’t show; indeed, she seemed to be the first among them. There was no sign of Mr Nesham; but there towards the back of the group stood the maid Martha, with young Lucia in her arms. Martha noticed me, and our eyes met for a moment before she lowered her gaze.
Two of the Brethren held a sign between them, a long black board with letters painted white, saying ‘Hosea 2:4’. My father and Ewan passed them without turning their heads. I had intended to do the same, but then I stopped, for I recognized the girl holding one side of the board. It was Edith Gould.
It had been months since I’d seen her last. She was paler than I remembered. The dark cloak didn’t suit her.
I said, ‘Hello, Edith.’
She searched my face for a moment, before lifting the
sign higher, as if she hadn’t recognized me.
‘It’s Abigail. Abigail Lawless.’
Her father was standing to one side, wearing the black coat and metal hooks like all the Brethren men. Judge Gould turned his head when he heard my name, and he said something in his daughter’s ear. She still didn’t speak, and focused her attention on people coming in behind me. In the silence I moved past her into the church.
St George’s was filled with the smells of varnished wood and candle smoke. I went towards our pew, where Ewan was already seated. Usually my father would be next to him, then Mrs Perrin, myself and Jimmy. But Father was speaking to Dr Barry, whose family occupied the pew in front, and Mrs Perrin and Jimmy were nowhere to be seen. Rather than wait for them, I stepped in and sidled towards Ewan, who straightened in his seat.
We remained silent for a while amidst the sounds of neighbours greeting one another. In the pew in front, a woman held a baby girl against her shoulder, and the child gazed back at us both. Pudgy arms emerged from folds of frilly white linen. The baby held a soft woollen mouse – with pointed ears, stringy whiskers, and a bootlace for a tail. She gnawed happily on its head until it slipped from her grasp and fell at Ewan’s feet. He picked up the sodden toy and handed it back. The girl accepted it with a smile and promptly threw it down again.
Bibles sat on the ledge of the pew. I picked one up and flicked through the books of the Old Testament until I reached Hosea, the first of the twelve minor prophets.
Ewan once more handed the toy to the baby, but this time he kept hold of its tail. When she tried to release it again, he said, ‘No,’ with a soft voice, the vowel made long by his accent.
I traced my finger to the second chapter and the fourth verse. And I shall not have mercy upon her children, for they be the children of whoredoms.
Mrs Perrin sat down beside me, saying, ‘Dr Barry has relations visiting, so he’s asked us to make room.’
I looked towards the aisle where Father was speaking to an elderly couple.
‘But we’re over as far—’
The housekeeper shifted in her seat, pushing me against Ewan to the point that our shoulders and hips touched. Mrs Perrin noticed the Bible in my hands. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘You two can share that.’ She passed out the others, and said in a loud voice, ‘Here you are, Dr Barry.’ The old man reached over and took one, saying that he could hear perfectly well.
The congregation quietened as Clarissa’s father entered the pulpit. Rev Egan placed some notes on a lectern and then looked for his spectacles, first by patting his silver locks, before locating them in a front pocket. ‘I thought I might have been able to start by thanking God for the break in the weather,’ he said, just as strong gusts began to make the front doors creak, and rain pattered against the roof. ‘But I fear it has reverted to form.’ He looked up over the rim of his spectacles. ‘Also, I believe you all had to run the gauntlet this morning.’ An amused murmur spread throughout the church. Rev Egan said, ‘I just pray those dark cloaks of theirs are watertight.’
The vicar read the parish announcements, raising his voice when the wind grew stronger. An organist in the balcony played a prelude, while rain continued to fall against the stained-glass windows behind the altar. The panes showed scenes from the gospels, as well as the apostles standing with bare feet and mournful eyes. Of the twelve, St Thomas was my favourite: Doubting Thomas, who would not believe that Christ was resurrected until he’d examined the wounds from the nails and spear, showing a healthy respect for forensic medicine that I’d always liked.
I was only thirteen when the stained-glass windows were installed. Back then, Rev Egan had encouraged the children of the congregation to look upon the images, to think about the stories and people portrayed. I could remember staring dutifully for several minutes, but then I whispered to my father, asking how could the light from the sun be blocked by the wood and metal of the window frames, yet pass through the glass that was just as solid. The colours had projected on to the nave floor in ruby red and cobalt blue, and I wondered why the designs hadn’t cast a plain shadow of black or grey. How had the light known the colour of the glass through which it passed? He said that he would explain it all after the service, but later he was called away – for me, people were forever dying at inconvenient moments. That evening as I readied for bed, I discovered a copy of Newton’s Opticks left on my nightstand.
Rev Egan continued to recite from first Corinthians, and we all looked down at our Bibles as if testing his reading. I held one open between myself and Ewan. He shifted in his seat, causing that side of the bench to creak. When he settled, his elbow rested against my arm, but not uncomfortably, so I decided not to move. Sheet lightning flashed behind the windows, and a few seconds later a low rumble echoed in the roof. Mrs Perrin tut-tutted, and said that she was glad she’d taken the laundry in. A brighter flash was followed by a loud peal. The baby girl in front of us began to cry, and Rev Egan had to raise his voice.
The side of my leg rested against Ewan’s, and I was reluctant to shift about, despite a stiffness from the awkward way I held the Bible. Eventually I allowed myself to relax. The pressure between us increased, and I wondered if he would feel it and pull away; or perhaps even press back.
Ewan reached over to turn the page, for I had failed to notice that Rev Egan was already reading several verses overleaf.
The lightning grew in frequency, and people started at the claps of thunder. A hinged window near the ceiling was forced open; the sash tilted and strained against the stile as rain swirled about, and then it was sucked closed again with a bang. Rev Egan faltered in his reading. He removed his spectacles and looked towards the church doors, saying, ‘Our friends would not have maintained their vigil, surely?’ He came down from the pulpit and marched through the church. All heads followed his progress. He grasped the door handle to pull it open, but had to brace himself as it was blown inwards. Rev Egan bent his head to peer outside, his wispy hair flying about. He began calling out, but his words couldn’t be heard above the wind. Gusts resonated in the pipes of the organ, adding a tuneless keen to the racket of the storm, and the sheet music of the organist was whipped into the nave.
Members of the Brethren began to enter in ones and twos. Their cloaks and hats were drenched, their faces reddened; it was incredible that they’d not sought shelter when the weather had turned. I looked out for Martha, concerned that Lucia might have been soaked, but when the maid came in she held her charge close beneath the cover of her cloak. Mrs Nesham and Darby were the last to enter. Though several pews near the entrance were empty, the Brethren remained standing in the aisles, like mourners who had arrived late for a funeral, or penitents of old forbidden from passing the narthex.
Rev Egan returned to the pulpit to resume his sermon, though he had to cough before everyone in the congregation turned to face him. For some, the thought that their weekly observances were being judged must have felt like a prickle on the nape of the neck, and several couldn’t resist glancing back towards the Brethren.
A flash of lightning and peal of thunder occurred simultaneously, its boom answered in the church by muttered prayers.
Rev Egan suggested that we sing a hymn to lift our spirits, and invited Clarissa’s mother to lead the congregation. He said, ‘Number twenty-nine, I think.’
In our pew, Mrs Perrin sang in an ardent voice from the hymnal that she shared with her son. Ewan and I remained silent. Like me, it seemed he had no wish to join in.
‘Amidst the storm Jehovah reigns,
And guards his people’s weal.
He holds the lightningfast in chains,
Though all creation reel.’
I took up the Bible again, then turned to Hosea and pointed at the verse. Ewan frowned while reading. He whispered, ‘The Brethren are keen to place all blame on the fallen servant.’
He seemed ready to speak again, but then he faced forward and remained quiet. My father was regarding us, one side of his hymnal drooping o
pen and his glasses perched at the end of his nose.
There was movement at the side of our pew. Lucia Nesham, dressed like her mother in a black frock and white bonnet, stood in the aisle, one hand on Ewan’s leg for balance. She and the baby in front of us stared at one another with wide-eyed captivation, their lips forming circles. The baby offered her woollen toy towards Lucia, who clasped her hands together, unsure if she should accept it.
Martha arrived and scooped Lucia up. The toddler creased her face and began to sob, then began to cry in earnest, despite Martha’s attempts to shush her. The church was full of noise, with the storm outside and the congregation singing, but Martha seemed to know that Lucia could not be brought back to the Brethren in such a state. She brought her further up the aisle and out through a side door which was sheltered by a small portico.
I glanced back towards the Brethren. Darby and Mrs Nesham were hidden behind one of the columns. I closed my Bible and handed it to Mrs Perrin, who paused in her singing. ‘I’m feeling slightly faint,’ I said. ‘It’s so stifling. I might get some air.’
She looked at me with concern and asked if she should come with me.
‘No, I’ll be fine.’
Ewan leaned back as I brushed past his chest, and I hurried past the pews. The portico outside was in the lee of the church, and Martha and Lucia were well sheltered. The toddler had quietened, and she was watching hailstones skitter over the pavement.
Martha heard me come out. She regarded me for a moment, her gaze made dark by eyebrows that almost met at the bridge of her nose, and although she was a young woman, her back had already begun to hunch.
‘Can I help you, Miss Lawless?’
I said that I just required some air, and she paid me no heed when I stood next to her. The hail continued to fall in sheets. Across the street, people had sought refuge beneath a shop awning.
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