Tracy Chevalier

by Falling Angel

  “Anyhows, best see to the girlie,” our pa says then, nodding at Livy. Maude’s crouching by her, and Mrs. C. goes over to her too. Livy sits up. She’s all right—she always is.

  Ivy May’s standing next to me. “You should have marked that angel,” she says.

  Takes me a minute to work out she means the skull‘n’ crossbones. “Can’t,” I say. “Livy won’t let me.”

  Ivy May shakes her head and I feel bad, like I let her down. No time to say more, though, ‘cause Mr. Jackson says to me, “Simon, run to the mason’s yard and tell Mr. Watson he’s wanted here immediately. If he complains, give him this.” He hands me the angel’s head, whose nose is broke off. It’s heavy and I almost drop it, which makes Livy shriek again. I tuck it under my arm and run.

  Jenny Whitby

  I were in the garden beating carpets when he came tumbling over the fence and fell right at my feet. “Ow!” I shouted. “What’s this boy doing here? You muddy little rascal, jumping the fence like you own the place. Don’t you come tracking that mud from the grave into this garden!”

  Cheeky boy just grinned at me. “Why not?” he said. “You track enough of it here yourself on the bottom of your skirts. Though we ain’t seen much of you these days up at the cemetery.”

  “Shut your trap,” I said. Oh, he were cheeky, all right. Simon, he’s called. Never said much to him at the cemetery but the girls talk about him all the time. He’s the brother Maude never had, I always think.

  I seen him creeping behind graves to have a look when I been busy with that gardener. He thought he were hidden, but I seen him. Wanted to see the business. I didn’t care—I thought it was funny. Not now, though. Gardener don’t want no more to do with me. Bastard.

  “I never thought much of him,” Simon said now like he knew exactly what I was thinking. “You’re well clear of him, I’d say.”

  “Shut it,” I said. “No one asked you.” But I weren’t really mad at the boy. Talking to him gave me a chance to rest my back—these days beating rugs is a killer. “Anyways, what you come here for?”

  “Want to see where the girls live.”

  “How’d you find it?”

  “Ran after their cab. Lost it for a bit, so I just walked round till I saw it again, leaving Maude and her mum here. Must’ve already let out Livy.”

  “Sure, she lives right there, Miss Livy and her sister.” I pointed at the house across the way.

  Simon had a good look at it. He’s a scrawny boy, for all his digging. His face is pinched round the eyes and his wrists are all red and knobbly, busting out of a jacket too small for him.

  “Wait here a minute,” I said. I went into the kitchen, where Mrs. Baker was cutting up a chicken. “Who’s that boy?” she said right away. She don’t miss nothing round here. Can’t keep a thing from her. I seen how she looks at me sideways these days, though she don’t say nothing.

  I ignored her, cut a slice of bread and spread it with butter. Then I took it out to Simon, who looked glad to see it. He ate it fast. I shook my head and went in to get some more. As I was spreading the butter, thicker this time, Mrs. Baker said, “If you give a stray scraps, it’ll never leave you alone.”

  “Mind your business,” I snapped.

  “That bread is my business. I baked it this morning and I’m not baking more today.”

  “Then I’ll go without.”

  “No, you won‘t,” she said. “If I let you, you’d eat the entire kitchen these days. You watch yourself, Jenny Whitby.”

  “Leave me alone,” I said, and ran out before she could say more.

  While Simon ate the bread I started to beat the rugs again.

  “Look,” he said after a bit, “there’s Livy in the window. What’s she doing?”

  I looked up. “They do that all the time, them two. Stand in the windows of their nurseries and make signs at each other. Got their own language no one understands but them.”

  “Bet I’d understand it.”

  I snorted. “What’s she saying, then?” Miss Livy was pointing up and bowing her head. Then she pulled a finger across her throat and pouted.

  “She’s talking about the cemetery,” Simon said.

  “How’d you know that?”

  “That’s what the angel on her grave looks like.” Simon bowed his head and pointed. “Or did, anyway. The head come off—that’s why she did that with her throat.”

  Then he told me about what happened to the angel and how his pa saved the guv’s life. It were thrilling stuff.

  “Look,”Simon said then. “Livy’s seen me.”

  Miss Livy was pointing at Simon.

  I heard a window open above us and when I looked up Miss Maude was poking her head out to look down.

  “I should go,” Simon said. “I got to help our pa with the grave.”

  “Nah, stay. Miss Maude’ll be down to see you.”

  “Thanks for the bread,” Simon said, getting up anyway.

  “If ever you come there’s always bread for you here,” I said, looking out over the garden and not at him. “And you don’t need to climb the fence to get back here. If the gate’s locked the key’s hid under the loose stone by the coal chute.”

  Simon nodded and went out of the gate.

  I should’ve given him something to take with him. I hate to see a boy go hungry like that. Made me hungry just thinking of it. I went inside to get some of that bread for me. To hell with Mrs. Baker.

  Lavinia Waterhouse

  I went stargazing on the heath with Maude and her father tonight. I wasn’t sure I ought to do such a thing on the night of the very day of dear Auntie’s funeral, but Mama and Papa said I should go. They both seemed very weary—Mama even snapped at me. I looked up in Cassell’s and The Queen under stargazing, but neither mentioned it, which I took as a sign that I could go, as long as I didn’t enjoy it too much.

  And I didn‘t, at first. We went at twilight because Maude’s father wanted to see the moon just as it appeared above the horizon. He was looking for something called Copernicus. I thought that was a person, but Maude said it was a crater that used to be a volcano. I am never certain what she and her father mean when they talk about the moon and stars. They let me look through the telescope and asked me if I could see any craters—whatever they are. Really I couldn’t see anything but to please them I said I could.

  I much preferred looking at the moon without the telescope—I could see it so much better. It was lovely to look at, a half-moon hanging all pale orange just above the horizon.

  Then I lay down on a blanket they had brought with them and looked up at the stars, which were just appearing in the sky. I must have fallen asleep because when I woke it was dark and there were many more stars. And then I saw a falling angel, and then another! I pointed them out to Maude, though of course they were gone by the time she looked.

  Maude said they are called shooting stars but are actually little pieces of an old comet burning up, and are called meteorites. But I know what they really are—they are angels stumbling as they take messages from God to us. Their wings make streaks across the sky until they are able to find their footing again.

  When I tried to explain this, Maude and her father looked at me as if I were mad. I lay back down to look for more, and kept it to myself when I saw one.

  Richard Coleman

  The moon was magnificent tonight, with Copernicus clearly visible. I was reminded of a night years ago when I took Kitty and her brother out to look at the moon. We were able to see Copernicus then almost as clearly. Kitty looked so lovely in the moonlight and I was happy, even with Harry babbling on in the background about Copernicus the man, trying to impress me. I decided that night I would ask her to marry me.

  Tonight, for the first time in a long while, I wished Kitty were with us instead of sitting at home with a book. She never comes stargazing now. At least Maude is interested. Sometimes I think my daughter is the saving grace of this family.

  Kitty Coleman

 
When it came to it at last, he did not hesitate at all. He laid me back on a bank of fading primroses, my body crushing them so that their almond scent filled the air around us. An angel hovered overhead, but he did not want to move. He was daring it to frighten him as the other angel had yesterday. I did not mind it being there, its head bowed so that it looked straight into my eyes—I had cause to thank an angel for driving him into my arms.

  I lifted up the skirt of my gray dress and bared my legs. They looked like mushroom stems in the dim light, or the stamens of some exotic flower, an orchid or a lily. He put his hands on me, parted my lips down there, and pushed himself into me. That much was familiar. What was new were his hands remaining there, kneading me insistently. I pulled his head down to my breasts and he bit me through my dress.

  At last the heaviness that has resided inside me since I married—perhaps even since I was born—tifted, boiling up slowly in a growing bubble. The angel watched, its gaze blank, and for once I was glad its eyes could not judge me, not even when I cried out as the bubble burst.

  As I lay there afterward with him holding me I gazed up through the branches of the cypress arching over us. The half-moon was still low in the sky, but above me stars had appeared, and I saw one fall, as if to remind me of the consequences in store. I had seen and felt the signs inside me that day, and I had ignored them. I had had my joy at last, and I knew I would pay for it. I would not tell him, but it would be the end of us.

  MAY 1906

  Albert Waterhouse

  Why I have received two invoices from the mason’s yard at the cemetery is a mystery. “For repairs to grave furniture,” one read. This was separate from the invoice for chiseling my sister’s name into the plinth. At her funeral I didn’t notice anything wrong with the grave. Trudy said she knows nothing of it, but Livy became quite upset when I mentioned it, and ran from the room. Later she said it was because she was having a coughing fit, but I didn’t hear any coughing. And Ivy May just looked at me as if she knew the answer but wasn’t about to tell me.

  My daughters are an even greater mystery to me than the rogue invoice—which I have sent on to the superintendent with a query. Let him sort it out—he seems a capable fellow.

  JULY 1906

  Edith Coleman

  It has often been the case that I am the one forced to take in hand an unfortunate situation. This age has gone soft. I see it everywhere: in the foolish fashions that pass for women’s dress, in the shockingly permissive theater, in this ludicrous woman’s suffrage movement we hear of. Even, dare I say it, in the conduct of our own king. I only hope his mother never got wind of his shenanigans with Mrs. Keppel.

  The young lack the moral fiber of their elders, and time and again my generation is required at the last to step into the breach. I do not complain of doing so—if I can be of assistance, of course I will do whatever is required, out of Christian charity. When it happens in my own son’s house, however, I feel it as a more personal attack—an ill reflection on him and on the Coleman name.

  It seems that Kitty is simply blind. It was I who shone the light into the dark corners and illuminated them for her.

  I had come to lunch, served on that horrid black-and-yellow-checked service—another example of the frivolities of the day. Far worse, however, was the state of their maid. After she had banged every dish onto the table and waddled out again, I sat stunned. Kitty did not meet my eye, but pushed the poached fish and new potatoes around her plate. I disapprove of lack of appetite—it is selfish behavior when there is so much hardship in the world. I would have said so but I was more concerned to address the problem of Jenny.

  I tried at first to be gentle. “My dear,” I said, “Jenny is not looking her best. Have you spoken to her about it?”

  Kitty gave me a puzzled look. “Jenny?” she repeated vaguely.

  “Your maid,” I said more firmly, “is not well. Surely you can see that.”

  “What is wrong with her?”

  “Come now, my dear, open your eyes. It is clear as day what the trouble is.”

  “Is it?”

  I couldn’t help but grow a little impatient with Kitty. In truth, I should like to have given her a good shake, as if she were a young girl like Maude. In some ways Maude is more mature than her mother. I had been disappointed that she did not join us for lunch—at times it is easier to speak to her than to Kitty. But I was told she was at her friend’s. At least I was able to be more frank with Kitty than I could have if Maude had been with us.

  “She has got herself into trouble. With a man,” I added so that there could be no doubt.

  Kitty clattered her cutlery most unbecomingly and stared at me with her dark brown eyes that had made my son into such a fool years before. She was very pale.

  “She is six months gone at least,” I continued, as Kitty seemed incapable of speaking. “Probably more. I always knew that girl would come to no good. I never liked her—far too insolent. You could see just by looking at her. And she sings as she works—I can’t abide that in a servant. I expect the man will not marry her, and even if he does she can’t possibly remain here. You don’t want a married woman and mother in that position. You need a girl with no attachments.”

  My daughter-in-law was still staring at me with a bewildered look. It was very clear that she could not manage—I would have to take charge.

  “I shall speak to her after lunch,” I said. “Leave it with me.”

  Kitty didn’t say anything for a moment. Finally she nodded.

  “Now, eat your fish,” I said.

  She pushed it around her plate a bit more, then said she had a headache. I don’t like to see such waste, but in this instance I said nothing, as she had clearly had a shock and did look rather ill. Luckily my own constitution is more robust and I finished my fish, which was very good except that the sauce was rather rich. Thank goodness for Mrs. Baker—she shall have to hold the house together for the moment until we find a replacement. I’d had my doubts about her when Kitty first hired her, but she is a good plain cook as well as a solid Christian. It does help to hire a widow—like myself she does not have great expectations of life.

  Jenny came in to clear and I couldn’t help but shake my head at her brazenness. How she thought she could wander about the house with such a thick waist and think no one would notice is quite astonishing. Mind you, I suppose she knows her mistress. If I had not alerted Kitty she might never have noticed until the girl held the babe crying in her arms! I saw Kitty inspect Jenny as she leaned over to gather our plates, and a look like fear crossed her face. She was most certainly not up to dismissing Jenny. I myself felt no fear, but righteous determination.

  Kitty said not a word except “No coffee for me, Jenny.”

  “Nor hot water for me,” I added. There was no point in delaying the proceedings.

  The girl grunted, and as she left I thought what a blessing in disguise this was—a chance to get rid of a bad apple.

  I told Kitty to go and rest, then waited a short interval before going down to the kitchen, where Mrs. Baker was wiping the table clean of flour. I do not go there often, so I suppose she had reason to look surprised. But there was more to her look than that. Mrs. Baker is no fool—she knew why I had come.

  “The fish was quite good, Mrs. Baker,” I said pleasantly. “Perhaps a little less butter in the sauce next time.”

  “Thank you, ma‘am,” she replied quite correctly, but managing to sound put out as well.

  “Where is Jenny? I want to have a word with her.”

  Mrs. Baker stopped brushing the table. “She’s in the scullery, ma‘am.”

  “So you know, then.”

  Mrs. Baker shrugged and began brushing the table again. “Anyone with eyes to see would know.”

  As I turned toward the scullery, she surprised me by adding, “Let her be, ma‘am. Just let her be.”

  “Are you telling me how this house should be run?” I asked.

  She did not answer.

&nbs
p; “There is no use in being sentimental about it, Mrs. Baker. This is for her own good.”

  Mrs. Baker shrugged again. I was surprised—she is normally a sensible woman. She is from a very different background than myself, of course, but at times I have thought she and I are not so different.

  It did not take long. Jenny cried and ran from the room, of course, but it could have been worse. In a way the girl must have been relieved that it was out at last. She knew very well that someone would finally find her out. The waiting must have been excruciating, and I like to think I put the girl out of her misery.

  My one regret is that Maude was there. I had thought she was at the Waterhouses‘, but as I came out of the scullery she was standing in the doorway of the larder. I had spoken to Jenny in a low voice, and I don’t think Maude heard what I said, but she heard Jenny’s shout, and I would have preferred it if she had not been there.

  “Is Jenny ill?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I answered, thinking that was the best way to explain it. “She will have to leave us.”

  Maude looked alarmed. “Is she dying?”

  “Don’t be silly.” It was exactly the kind of dramatic question her friend Lavinia would ask—Maude was simply parroting her. I knew that girl was a bad influence.

  “But what—”

  “We missed you at lunch,” I interrupted. “I thought you were at your friend’s.”

  Maude turned red. “I—I was,” she stammered, “but Lavinia has a—a cough, and so I came back. I’ve been helping Mrs. Baker make soda bread.”

  She has never been a good liar. I could have exposed the lie, but I was weary from the business with Jenny, and so I left it. And if I am honest, I didn’t want to know. It gave me a pang to think that my own granddaughter would rather bake bread with the cook than have lunch with me.