The Conjurer's Bird

by Martin Davies

  PREGNANCY SUITED her. Even in the early months, before it showed, before Banks left for North Wales, she was aware of a warmth within her as if the life stirring there was already part of her future. She found herself more vital than before, and her body seemed to find a new equilibrium and a new harmony. The collection of watercolors from her Madeira sketches grew rapidly. She knew she must finish them that summer, and she painted with a passion inside her that, in the meticulous detail of her work, showed itself only as a shining freshness. She worked from early each morning until the heat of the afternoon, often dressed in nothing more than her night dress, sometimes with a jacket of Banks’s wrapped around her, its sleeves hanging loosely at her sides. In the afternoon, when the heat became unbearable, she rested quietly in the shaded drawing room. Martha would often find her at the window with the shutters a little open, watching the crowds of strangers below her, a calm, contented smile on her lips.

  When the evening began to lift the heat from the streets, she would take up her paints again with a freedom in her heart that she had never before experienced. Even when Banks left for Wales, her life felt no less complete. His absence was a relief, a chance to work uninterrupted. She had been very quickly aware of how her announcement had affected him. She had seen him touched with wonder, moved by both pride and excitement, and she had seen those things fade as he began to ponder what it meant and how things would change. She watched the explorer and the statesman struggle inside him.

  That conflict pained her more for his sake than her own. For her it made things easier. His departure for Wales was both a confirmation and a release.

  And then there was Fabricius. He first came to the rooms in Orchard Street soon after she moved there, a pale, shy, slightly serious young man. She sensed he came reluctantly and at Banks’s insistence. At first he seemed loath to notice her, his attention directed at Banks, his only interest apparently the taxonomy of insects. Then one afternoon he called at Orchard Street in search of Banks and found only her. She was painting, her hair loose around her shoulders. He attempted to withdraw. Amused by his embarrassment, she insisted that he wait. She settled him in a chair and while she worked she asked him questions that required him to talk. He answered carefully and precisely and eventually with growing animation, surprised to find that the slight figure in front of him understood the basic anatomy of insects and seemed to know a good deal about Linnaean principles. Lulled by the fact that her back was turned, he found himself talking at length, explaining to her about his life in Denmark and about his aspirations and hopes. When Banks’s return interrupted him, he grew confused and the formality of his farewell made her smile.

  After that he began to call more often, always in the afternoons when the heat made it difficult for either of them to work. He would usually find her alone, as Banks was seldom there at that time of day. When Banks departed for Wales, Fabricius became her only visitor.

  At first this dedication amused her, and the shyness of the Dane made her mischievous. He hovered a little awkwardly in the background while she painted and she would tease him with personal questions and smile to herself at his attempts to answer. But gradually she began to find his presence restful, part of her daily routine, and she listened to the descriptions of his studies with only half her attention, intent on the detail of a leaf or the precise shade of a flower. She found that she began to listen for his arrival.

  Her work fascinated him. When introduced to the mistress of the famous Joseph Banks, he had expected studied coyness or the arch femininity of the professionally alluring. But what he saw on her easel astounded him. He had seen the work of Parkinson and Masson, of all the botanical artists of the day, but hers stood out. Her subjects seem to live on the page as if they were still growing, still stirred by the breeze or freshened by dew. He would watch her paint, her body now curved with child, her small face furrowed with concentration, and feel intensely moved by what he saw. As June turned into July, his visits grew longer.

  They began to laugh together, uncertainly at first, then more often and more comfortably. It marked a new easiness between them. She began to call him by his first name and he found that when he took his leave in the evenings his mind was no longer disposed to study.

  One day, as he admired her work, she turned to him. “Do you know that this one is the last?” she asked. “After this the work from Madeira is complete.”

  “I had not realized,” he replied solemnly, his eyes still on the painting in front of him. “It is the very finest body of work. It will grace the collection of botanical paintings that Mr. Banks is assembling.”

  She looked at him carefully then, and shook her head slightly. “We have not talked of that,” she said.

  “But surely? Where else would it go? It must certainly be displayed.”

  She began to put away her brushes, her back turned to him so that he could not see her face.

  “Tell me, Johann, have you ever heard of a Frenchman called Martin? He is in London quite often.”

  “I have met Monsieur Martin,” he replied. “He is in London at the moment.”

  “I have met him, too,” she said. “Joseph brought him here once.”

  “And what of him?” His tone was short and suspicious.

  “I don’t know yet,” she replied, and continued to put away her things.

  That day Fabricius began to feel a disquiet that marred his time with her. Outside, the summer was still growing to its height, but he found himself gripped by a sense of ending. Banks would return from Wales soon, and here in London the companion of his summer was finishing her paintings. She was seven months pregnant. Soon she would be a mother, Banks a father. And he would be returning to Denmark and his studies.

  Before departing that day he decided to speak. They were sitting in the drawing room, high above street level. The room was shaded against the heat, and at the hour when he usually took his leave they were sitting together quietly in the shadow. Instead of rising and making his farewells, he prolonged their conversation hesitantly, aware of her hand on the cushion beside him, delicate and graceful next to his own. Finally, spurred more by impulse than calculation, he reached out and took it, gripping it much harder than he intended.

  “I need to know,” he said simply. “When your child is born, what will happen then?”

  Very gently she detached her hand from his, but she smiled as she returned his look.

  “What usually happens will happen. I shall become a mother and do the things that mothers do.”

  “And Banks? What will he do?”

  “He is generous with his feelings. It is a good quality in a father.”

  “And will you stay here? In Denmark it is one thing for a man to maintain a mistress, another to raise a family under the noses of his peers.”

  She looked down. “Things will be different in the future, yes.”

  “You will leave London?”

  “Yes, I will leave London.”

  “And raise his child somewhere more discreet. I see. It is not uncommon for a young man in that position to…” He trailed off, suddenly embarrassed.

  “To find companionship with another?” She was still looking down. “A woman unencumbered with the cares of motherhood, perhaps?”

  “Forgive me,” he said, and took her hand again. This time she let him retain it. “I should not have spoken in that way.”

  She looked up and smiled again, her eyes slightly misted. “You must understand. In the future his life is going to be very full of people and plans and social niceties that he will have no choice but to observe. But I also know there will never be a time when he does not think of us, of his child and me. Wherever his life takes him, that care will always be there, somewhere, underneath.”

  It was Fabricius’s turn to bow his head. “Of course. How could it be otherwise? He is a lucky man. Though I hope he understands his good fortune. If I were he, I would not leave you alone at a time such as this.”

  “I am not alon
e, am I?” She pressed his hand a little tighter, then rose and moved away from him. He saw she was smiling to herself, a sad, uncertain smile.

  “Forgive me,” she said, realizing he was observing her. “I was thinking of something someone once said to me. A gentleman. He told me that one day Joseph would lose me to someone who would value me more highly. I have thought of it often these last few months.”

  “And you smile because you think he was mistaken?”

  “No, Johann. I smile because once I chose to disbelieve him. Now I know that what he said was true.”

  THERE IS a hill in North Wales that the people there call Pen-y-Cloddiau, the Hill of the Ditches. It rises hunched from the Vale of Clwyd, a crooked vertebra in the spine of hills that runs northward to the sea. Below it the whole vale is spread out like a map, and the clusters of farms are reduced to no more than a cartographer’s shading. The hill is so named because its summit is ringed by three mighty earthworks, the ancient, overgrown walls of a fortress whose very name is now lost, buried beneath the heather that has overrun its defenses.

  On a warm day in July, Banks made the expedition there alone. His tour of Wales was almost complete, and it had brought neither the escape he sought nor the clarity he needed. Now he stood on the curved ridge of the highest earthwork and looked out at the sunbathed world of farms and forests below him. Above him there were skylarks. Beyond the vale, the land rose again and he could pick out the blue ridges of Snowdonia, distant and slightly mysterious. The solitude of the place suited him.

  As always in those months, when left alone he would think of her. The news that she was pregnant had shaken him. It was a change to the order of things that somehow he had never contemplated, and it threw him off balance. At first he felt only amazement and a sense of wonder. But then there came doubt, a long, slow tide of uncertainty that crept closer each day, tugging at the sands beneath his feet. It was on this stealthy tide that he had traveled to Wales, guilty for going, resentful that his life had been taken from his control.

  The sun was high above him as he stood on the empty hillside, but it was cooler there than down in the vale. When he shut his eyes he could smell heather and hear bees. Stronger than either, he could feel how much he missed her. He wanted her with him there and then. He wanted her to run her fingers across his lips and smile at his seriousness, to feel her body curved against his. He wanted her to make sense of it all in the way he knew she would. But her body was a different shape now. Their world had changed. He had never imagined losing her undivided love. Now he knew he had been wrong. She would have a child to love. She would never be purely his again.

  The advice of his friends was clear. A discreet establishment at a discreet distance, a generous allowance, and a settlement to secure the child’s future. Then he would be free to start afresh with someone sleek and pretty who would understand that their union should not result in lasting consequences. But he didn’t want the future they described. He wanted the closeness that he had shared with her, he wanted her eyes when he couldn’t see things clearly. But if she were occupied with a child…Standing there in the sunlight, wanting her more than ever before, he blamed her for everything he wanted but couldn’t have.

  FABRICIUS BEGAN to make plans for his departure: he would leave London before the autumn. His visits to Orchard Street had a different feel to them now. The painting was finished and her afternoons seemed busy with quite different things. On one occasion he arrived and found her sitting with Monsieur Martin, the Frenchman. The two seemed at ease together, and Martin was elaborately polite and solicitous of her comfort. Fabricius had the feeling he had interrupted two people who shared an understanding. On another occasion his visit was interrupted by the arrival of a gentleman announced as Mr. Parker from Lincoln. Fabricius took his leave discreetly, but not before he had caught a glimpse of a small, dry-looking man with a country appearance and an inscrutable expression. The following day he called and found the Frenchman there again, taking his leave. Hurt and suspicious, he waited until they were alone before he demanded a reason for the visits.

  “Monsieur Martin is an admirer of my paintings,” she replied, and offered no other explanation. Instead she came up to him and slipped her arm through his.

  “Don’t be anxious for me, my friend. A woman in my position needs friends. The gentlemen you have met are people who will help me.”

  “If you need assistance…” he replied.

  “Oh, I know you would help me. But you have your studies. And I am not really a part of your life, though I have helped you to pass the dreariness of a hot summer in London.”

  “Dreariness? You have done much more than that. You have—”

  “No, do not say it. You will be gone from London soon. Joseph will be back. Let us leave these strange summer afternoons as they have always been, something gentle and good and not quite real. That is how we should remember them when we go off in our different directions. It’s a consolation that I shall be able to follow your career from a distance. I know it will be distinguished.”

  He cast his eyes down at that. A small part of him that had started to bloom seemed to shiver in the cold.

  “I see. And I of course shall follow your future path. I’m sure Mr. Banks will keep me informed of how you fare.”

  Still with her arm in his, she led him across the room to the window. Looking out, her eyes on the people below, she spoke to him softly.

  “It may be that these are the last moments we spend together. Whatever happens, promise not to be sad for me.”

  “The thought of you suffering any hurt does more than sadden me. It leaves me desolate.”

  “Don’t let it. You must believe that I intend to be happy.”

  He said nothing for a long time. “I shall try,” he said at last, and for a while longer they stood at the window while the sun lit their faces and sent the shadows long across the room.

  Time was tight. I reckoned I had two days at the most before Potts and Anderson decided something was up and came looking for me. And I couldn’t afford to have them on my back while I was desperately trying to call in favors and scrape together what I needed. The plan was for Katya to be back in Lincoln by evening to make sure they stayed there—we’d worked out what tale she’d spin—but we both had other things to do before then. First, still a bit groggy from lack of sleep, we went back to the Natural History Museum. I wanted Katya there with me as a second set of eyes, so that between us we would be quite sure what we were looking for.

  We had to wait about half an hour before Geraldine the librarian brought the picture to our table—the mysterious bird of Ulieta, drawn on the day it was last seen alive, still fresh and striking, utterly oblivious of its curious place in history. Katya studied the picture again, then looked up at me.

  “It’s so plain, isn’t it? When you first told me about it, I expected something really exotic. You know, bright colors and fancy feathers.”

  “I know. Just a small brown bird. There’s nothing very striking about it, is there? But when you look at it closely, it changes. See? The beauty’s all in the detail. Things you only notice when you look properly.” We let our eyes wander over all the tiny vagaries of shape and markings that made the bird beautiful and unique, and then we set about remembering them. I attempted a sketch; we both took notes, describing the tones of each shade of color so we could remember them later. We did everything we could to burn the image into our minds: we measured and memorized, and then we shut our eyes and tried to recall.

  “Would you recognize the real thing if you saw it now?” I asked when our note-taking was over.

  Katya nodded solemnly. “Yes, I’m sure I would.”

  “Of course, the colors would fade over time. We have to allow for that. Imagine those chestnut browns much paler, imagine the wings bleached where the sunlight has touched them. And the eyes won’t look like that. The eyes will be eighteenth-century glass, gone cloudy with time.”

  “What about you? Is it c
lear in your mind?”

  “As clear as it will ever be. Come on, let’s go.”

  Outside the museum we went our separate ways. We parted in bright sunshine, the buses on the Cromwell Road swirling urgent eddies of old leaves around our feet.

  Katya smiled. “Good luck.”

  “Thank you.” I smiled back, awkwardly, not really sure what we did at moments of parting. In the end I just nodded a little foolishly and waved as I walked away.

  My plan was to spend the rest of the day on the phone asking favors, but first I needed money. So when I found a cash machine, I took out all the money it would let me have. This was going to be an expensive business.

  Katya’s first action was to pay another visit to the London archives. She was back on the trail of Miss B, but this time she knew the names we were looking for. Even so, it wasn’t easy. When she rang me at midday she’d found absolutely nothing.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I reminded her. “It’s just for neatness, really, just to tie up the loose ends. What’s really important is that you get back to Lincoln in time to stop the rest of them from getting too curious.”

  She called again two hours later and this time her voice was clipped, a flood of excitement held back by crisp efficiency.

  “I’ve found them,” she said. “She went south of the river for the baptism. To be discreet, perhaps.”

  “What does it say?”

  “Sophia, daughter of the late Joseph Burnett and his wife Mary. September 1773.”

  “So she pretended the father was dead? That would be so the real Joseph wasn’t implicated.”

  “What about you? How are you doing?”

  I considered the question. “I think I’ll be able to get most of what I need. It’s outrageous, really. I’m trying people I haven’t seen for years. But most of them are being very generous. The trouble is that I’ll have to spend most of tomorrow driving around to collect. Bristol, then Dorset, then a couple of places on the way back.”