I was still nursing Eddie. He was always hungry, and a difficult child to settle, so I stayed in our room, singing him nursery rhymes and rocking him to sleep. After an hour, when Alfred did not return, I began to wonder if there was something amiss, so I slipped on my dressing gown, gave the child to Bessie, and knocked on the adjoining room. Monsieur Brandt opened it quickly: “Sshh!” he said, as he ushered me in. “This is quite remarkable!”
Madame Brandt was sitting in an armchair in the center of the room. She was wearing only her nightgown, and the outlines of her uncorseted body were visible for all to see. Her mass of dark hair was unpinned and falling loosely over her face. Her eyes were closed as if asleep, but she was moaning and muttering disjointedly. Alfred was sitting opposite her, holding her hands and murmuring in a low voice.
“She has constant nervous spasms,” confided Monsieur Brandt. “But she responds well to your husband, I think.”
I watched as Alfred bent forward and whispered to her. “She can hear him?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. She hears him. And she answers. She is telling him all her fears.”
I could see then that she was muttering in response to Alfred’s questions, but I could not hear what she was saying, she was speaking so low. And Alfred had to bend even closer to hear her. “What fears?” I asked Monsieur Brandt.
“All the fears of her soul. The fears that creep into her and cause her pain.”
“But it is nearly midnight. We are to depart at six o’clock tomorrow.”
Alfred, hearing me, turned impatiently. “Then go to bed, Dodo. It is important that I stay with Madame Brandt. We are at a vital stage. I cannot stop now.”
So I went to bed. But I did not sleep. Occasionally from next door I heard a moan and stifled murmurings. Alfred did not return to my bed until half past one. He was exhausted, but also excited and tense. He pulled me to him urgently.
“It’s late,” I said, pulling away.
“We have time.”
“No.” I wrestled his hand away.
“What’s the matter?”
“How dare you come straight from her to me!”
“From her to you?” He let me go, sharply. “What can you mean? Are you suggesting improper behavior?”
“You have been with her for over three hours.”
“And so? I can assure you that Monsieur Brandt was with us the entire time.”
“What can you find to say to her for three hours?”
He lay back on the bolster. “I really cannot believe this. I cannot believe you are jealous of a poor invalid.”
“It only took you minutes to cure my headache. Why were you so long with her?”
“Because, my dear wife, her symptoms are more complicated. Her pain is not a simple defect of the nerves. It stems from a kind of hysteria deep within.”
“How do you know? You are not a doctor.”
“I can sense it. I know these things.”
“Why did she need to be so—dishevelled? So immodest?”
“She was not aware of how she looked.”
“Well, have you cured her, at least? That would be something.”
“It is a deep-seated malady. But I honestly think I can do it in time.”
“In time?”
“We shall be in their company for five more days. I shall mesmerize her each morning and again at night, when the pain is at its worst. I am determined to do my best for her. She has fearful memories. Her childhood was wretched. As bad as—well, as bad as can be.”
So as we traveled through France and on to the Alps, as we bowled through majestic mountains and picturesque valleys, we were forever preoccupied with Madame Brandt’s condition. And Madame Brandt was wretched and fearful. Especially when Alfred was present. Especially at night. It seemed to me that she babbled and moaned more and more each time he tried his powers on her. And that he became more and more exhausted as he tried to will her into some semblance of serenity. Some days she improved; then she swiftly succumbed again. But he would not give up. He tried all manner of things, sometimes holding her hands, sometimes holding her head, sometimes passing his hands down the side of her face, sometimes supporting her neck. Monsieur Brandt stood by, fingering his gold jewelry, seemingly unconcerned at the way my husband was paying such intimate attention to his wife.
When we arrived at Lausanne, the Brandts traveled on to their house on the outskirts of the town, and I was relieved that at last our household could get back to normal. But Alfred paced about our apartment, expressing anxiety about his patient’s condition, and seeming obsessed with her situation. He even failed to make his usual tour of the accommodation, and made no comment about the broken door on the broom cupboard and the dusty condition of the kitchen shelves.
“I must go to her!” he said, after only half an hour.
“But we have only just arrived!”
“Nevertheless, I must go!” And he set off—even though Kitty was crying for him to read her a story and Bessie was asking for his help in lighting the kitchen boiler, Alfie and Louisa were quarreling, and little Eddie was so overtired he wouldn’t suckle but clung to me and screamed.
He returned after midnight, elated. “I think I may have done it! I have never seen her so at peace.” And he took up his quill and some paper and went away to write. The next day, at nine in the evening, there was another call from the Brandts. He was absent until two. The next night, the same.
“I absolutely forbid you to see her again!” I said when the servant came on the fourth night.
“Forbid me!” He looked shocked. And for my own part, I could hardly believe I had uttered such a word. But I carried on: “You have a duty to your wife and children. They have a prior claim on your emotions, and your company.” Then, somewhat frightened at the look on his face, I went up and kissed him on the cheek. I strove to be calm, so as not to ignite his passion further. “We are all wretched without you, Alfred,” I said. “Kitty, Alfie, Louisa, and the baby—we all miss you so much.”
He looked at the children, then at me, silent for once. So I went on: “We know you are the One and Only, that you can do things others cannot. But please leave this woman alone. If you go on paying her such attention, you will make us all miserable.”
He went on staring at me. Then he turned away. “You make too much of this, as usual, Dodo. I am simply trying to help another human being in distress. This seems to me to be an act of kindness. But you choose to see it differently, and I should not want you or the children unhappy. I shall write to Monsieur Brandt and tell him I shall come no more.”
“Will you say why?” I suddenly felt foolish. I felt sorry for Madame Brandt, too; I did not wish her to be in pain.
“What should I say? That my wife does not trust me?”
“I do trust you, but—”
“Do you? Yet you are jealous—and jealousy and mistrust go together. It is mean spirited. I am disappointed in you.”
“But if you say I am jealous, you will make me seem foolish.”
“Well, indeed, Dodo, you are foolish. But how else can I extricate myself?”
“I am sure you will think of something if you try. You are so clever with words.”
“Maybe. But I try not to tell untruths.” And he went to the writing desk and scribbled a few lines which he gave to the boy. I never saw what he wrote, but I suspect he must have held me to blame, as over the summer I kept hearing rumors that I had stopped Alfred visiting Madame Brandt because I was jealous of her beauty; or that I had threatened to end my life (or his) unless he kept away from her.
It was difficult to face the ladies of the Lausanne drawing rooms after that. They all looked at me curiously—and many sidled away from Alfred if they saw me glance in his direction, as if they thought I might have a dagger concealed about my person, ready to do mischief to them. I hoped Alfred would say something—defend me, perhaps—but when I complained to him, he laughed and said that trying to interfere in the affairs of women was too much even fo
r the One and Only. He was amused, moreover, by my modest notoriety. Sometimes he would jokingly refer to my wife the murderess and would inspect my hands for bloodstains, and affect to be struck with dread every time I picked up a knife at table. Although we continued to receive invitations to every social gathering, I often let him go alone so that he could be fêted and lionized as much as he desired, while I sat at home quietly with Bessie and the children. I read a great deal in those evenings, taking courage to begin Mrs. Shelley’s Frankenstein. O’Rourke had sent me a copy, explaining it had been written at a villa not far away across the lake, and had a “note of philosophical horror.” I found the story at once bizarre and unsettling, and I couldn’t help wondering which particular dead person Alfred would have brought to life, if he had had the chance.
12
IT’S THE DAY I AM TO GO TO THE PALACE. O’ROURKE calls when I have hardly finished dressing. He stares at my black gown and at Wilson hovering around with my best shawl and bonnet. “What is this, Dodo? An outing? Where are you off to?”
I blush with annoyance that he has caught me in this way. “To Buckingham Palace, as a matter of fact, Michael. And don’t delay me with questions and queries. I must not be late.”
“The Palace?” As if I had said the moon.
“Yes, to see the Queen.” The words reminds me of the nursery rhyme. I can’t help smiling to myself.
“The Queen has invited you?” He looks nonplussed.
“Well, Michael, do you think I would be calling on her unannounced?”
He puts down the wide-brimmed hat he has been wearing. It’s rather racy. And he has a smart cravat and a buttonhole. “Of course not. But when did this happen? Why did you not tell me? How are you getting there?”
“I didn’t tell you, Michael, because I did not know. You remember the letters you brought? Well, the invitation was among them, and already delayed by half a week. So there’s hardly been time to do more than get these blessed mourning clothes made up. And in answer to your other question, I am proposing to go there by cab.”
“Cab? No, Dodo. I have the gig outside. Let me drive you.” An eager smile spreads over his face.
It is a long time since I rode in a gig. It’s not the most comfortable of vehicles, but the idea of having company for my new foray into the world is attractive. “Oh, Michael, I’d be delighted. It will lessen my anxiety greatly.”
He looks pleased. “That’s settled then. But why are you making this visit if you are so anxious?”
“She wrote so beautifully to me, I hadn’t the heart to decline. But I know that she is a demanding conversationalist.”
“And you are still going? Well, you’re a game’un, and no mistake!” He imitates Alfred imitating Boodles. We both laugh.
“Your gloves, madam.” Wilson hands me a pair from the table. “And you’ll need your umbrella, in case it rains.” She draws my old green one from the elephant foot, and gives it a shake. I can’t think when I last used it, although Kitty has borrowed it many a time.
I take it, and we go downstairs. The steps are steeper than I remember and the passageway darker and more constricted, so that O’Rourke and I bumble against each other as we descend. Then Wilson opens the front door, and for the first time in ten years I feel the smack of fresh air on my face. I catch my breath with the surprise of it. I blink, too, half-blinded by the sudden brilliance of the unfiltered sun after the soft gloom of lace curtains and half-drawn blinds. I stagger a little and Michael steadies me with his arm—how thin it seems!—as I step forward as gingerly as if I had just learnt to walk. It is good to embrace the world again, to feel part of the wider concerns of humanity. But as O’Rourke climbs up on the gig, I hesitate, suddenly afraid. It’s ridiculous that my first foray is not to some familiar location where I can lurk among the shadows unrecognized—but to Buckingham Palace, amid courtiers and ladies-in-waiting and goodness knows whom! I have taken leave of my senses; I half-turn, back to the safety of home, but O’Rourke is extending his hand and smiling encouragingly at me, and before I know it, I’m climbing up beside him, Wilson assisting me from below, guiding my skirts away from the mud-caked wheels. Now I am up and exposed, the sharpness of the air is even more marked; and I am further struck by the hot odor of the horse and beyond that, the acrid smell of a thousand chimneys. In my ears I hear the hum of the giant beehive that is London by day; I had forgotten the sound of it. I sit and look around at all the new things, feeling for a brief moment like a young girl. O’Rourke spreads a rug over my legs and clicks the filly into a trot. As we set off, I look back and see Wilson watching us from the pavement. She turns away quickly as I catch her eye.
“It’s a very long time since we rode together,” I remark, as we thread our way through carriages and cabs, avoiding darting pedestrians and slinking dogs. The weather is dry but extremely cold, and people are well muffled. I watch them all going about their business and wonder about their lives; what stories Alfred could make of them.
“How does it feel, Dodo? To be out in the air again?”
“Quite stimulating,” I say. I can’t stop smiling.
“You’ve been a hard person to prise from that blessed house. In fact, I can see it takes a Queen to dislodge you.”
“You know why I wouldn’t go out, Michael.”
“Do I?”
“Of course you do! I’ve explained often enough. How could I meet people? How could I look at their faces, imagining what they were thinking of me? Poor woman, or How did he stand it for so long? And I certainly didn’t want my dear friends to have to take sides. It was better to become invisible.”
“All the same, I hope you plan to become visible soon. It would make a big difference to my lonely old life.” He shakes the reins.
“Lonely? Don’t say that.” But I know he must be. No wife, no children, and now Alfred gone.
“Well, my acquaintance has dwindled to a whisker, and a very thin whisker at that. Now, hold tight, there’s a good woman!” He executes a fancy maneuver between a rag-and-bone cart and a little girl with a basket of laundry. She looks up and for a moment I think it’s Emmie, until I realize that she would be a woman of forty by now.
Forty! It makes me feel even older. Michael is old, too. And he fares badly as a widower. “You should have married again, you know,” I tell him. “You’d have had children and grandchildren to keep you company now.”
“Yes. Marry again: everyone told me that. Everyone except Alfred. He said some losses can never be replaced.”
We jog along in silence. I hear, My darling girl! I can’t do without you, and think how that dreadful loss was always with us, forever rubbed and made raw by constant repetition. O’Rourke, by contrast, speaks little of Clara, and I cannot gauge his feelings on the matter. It was a long time ago, certainly, but I doubt Michael can forget his young Irish bride with her fresh cheeks and dark curling hair, and the soft manner that made her a favorite with us all that brief summer in Yarmouth. I can see her sitting in the wicker chair, watching the waves day after day, her outline gently swelling with child. And I recall Alfred writing the scene where Edith Markham is washed up on the shore, her dead child still within her, and I wonder, not for the first time, whether Alfred really had the gift of premonition.
We are turning into the Mall. The autumn leaves are falling, and they brush the uniforms of the horse guards as they clatter past in red, white and gold. Now the Palace is so close, I feel my nervousness return. Will I trip over my gown or fall down in a faint due to standing up too long? What shall I say to Her Majesty? How much does she know of what passed between Alfred and me? I feel as if it is my first ball, and I have no faith in my social graces.
We stop at the gates and they let us through at the side entrance. A gray-haired gentleman in court dress escorts me into the building; O’Rourke says he will wait for me in the stable yard.
“Please follow me.” The courtier takes me to an anteroom—very bare, no fire in the grate. He addresses me in confidenti
al tones: “I take it you have not so far had the pleasure of an audience with Her Majesty? No? It is therefore important to impress upon you that Her Majesty is ever vigilant that protocol is maintained. When you are bidden to enter, take three steps into the room and curtsy to Her Majesty. Do not under any circumstances speak to Her Majesty unless Her Majesty addresses you first, and address her at all times as ‘Your Majesty’ or ‘Ma’am.’ Do not sit unless Her Majesty requests it, and never sit while Her Majesty remains standing. If Her Majesty graciously offers you tea, please be so good as to accept. And do not, on any account, stare at Her Majesty.”
I wish Alfred were here to hear him, to catch his rhythms, to delight in his pomposity. But the man turns abruptly and we are on our way to the Presence. The corridors are, for the most part, surprisingly narrow and poky, and my crinoline is too wide for us to walk abreast, so I follow the man as he guides me through. Maids carrying trays and footmen with coals stop and flatten themselves against the walls as we progress. Then we pass through a heavy door and the décor is suddenly grand—gilt, ormolu, plush. Grayhead eventually comes to a stop and passes me over to a younger man in morning suit, very superior in manner. He hardly lets his eyes rest on me, but knocks on a large mahogany door: “Mrs. Gibson, ma’am.” And I am in.
She is shorter than I am, and about as stout. Although her face is so very familiar, at the same time it is different. I am conscious that I am committing the crime of staring, and that I have not yet curtsied. I contrive the three steps and execute a kind of bob. I cannot trust myself to go low.
“Ah, Mrs. Gibson! We both find bending the knee troublesome. The penalties of increasing age!”
I look up. She is smiling. I smile back—then quickly avert my eyes.
“Please sit down.” She is still standing. I hesitate.
She seats herself. “Dear Mrs. Gibson, we cannot say how sorry we are that such a sad event has brought us together.”
“Yes indeed, Your Majesty.”
“We saw the crowds. Such a spectacle. Such a loss.”
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