by Kim Wilkins
“We’re having lasagne tonight, is that okay?”
“Sure,” he said.
“It’s my boyfriend’s favourite.” This was untrue. Adrian stayed away from red meat and from cheese as much as possible. Just a couple more things which were bad for the voice.
“What’s your boyfriend’s name?” He hadn’t even blinked in surprise and he hadn’t changed the way he was looking at her: just a little too steadily.
“Adrian.”
“And is he a musician too?”
“He sings. Opera.” Why did she feel embarrassed to say that? Was it because Sacha swept floors in a bakery?
Sacha didn’t seem to be embarrassed that he swept floors in a bakery. “And why didn’t Adrian come with you?”
“He’s busy. He’s working all through Christmas and then he’s teaching at a summer school in January. Besides, I needed to be alone.”
Sacha raised his eyebrows.
“I’ve got a lot to think about,” she continued. “About my future.”
“Ah. The future.”
“Yes. Like what am I going to do with my life.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-four. Nearly twenty-five.”
“I should say you’re already doing it.”
Maisie laughed. “Well, it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like I’m waiting and waiting for something amazing to happen, and the longer it doesn’t happen, the more stuck I’m going to be with second best.”
“You’re like your grandmother. She was always yearning after something, she didn’t know what. She used to go for long walks along the cliffs, gaze out at the waves and get herself all wound up. Then she’d come home and find me in her garden and say, ‘Sacha, the sea knows something about me. Even if no-one on earth can understand, the sea knows something about me.’ But I always understood her. And I think I understand you.” He rose and took two steps towards her. Maisie’s breath caught in her throat.
“I can smell something burning,” he said, walking straight past her and out to the kitchen.
“Oh, god. The lasagne.”
She raced to the oven and pulled open the door. It wasn’t ruined, but a dribble of the cheesy topping had dripped over the edge of the pan and was merrily burning on the element. The lasagne was well and truly done. She’d have to remember that halfway on the dial wasn’t necessarily a medium heat.
“Sit down,” she said, indicating the table.
“You’ve really made a difference to this kitchen,” he said, looking around him as he pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Thanks.” She had spent hours cleaning the kitchen properly, adding decorative touches like dried flowers and fresh fruit. Now it was inviting and homey, rather than jumbled and smelly. She served up the lasagne with potato salad on the side, then filled two fresh glasses with wine and joined Sacha at the table.
“I can’t imagine how Sybill lived amongst all the clutter,” Maisie said.
“I don’t think she noticed it. Hey, this tastes great.”
“Thanks.”
“You should have seen the place when I first met her, when I was just a lad. Really creepy. You could still see the roof beams – they were centuries old – and it was really dark and very gloomy. But over the years she renovated the inside, put in the new ceiling, new floors in places, the new bathroom – don’t you love the colours?”
“Kind of sickening.”
“In fact, the only thing she didn’t change was the fireplace in the lounge room. That’s why it looks a bit old and crumbly. It’s original, probably dates to around the middle of the seventeenth century.”
“Wow. Is the house that old?”
He nodded because his mouth was full of food.
“In Australia, we’ve got nothing that old. Not built by European settlement anyway.”
“You get used to it living here. I hardly notice. So, what are you doing for Christmas?”
She shook her head. “Trying not to think about it. I might see if Cathy, that’s my friend in York, wants to get together.”
“Oh.” He kept eating.
Idiot. Maybe he was going to ask you to join him for Christmas. “But that’s not for certain,” she said quickly. “I don’t know what Cathy has planned.”
He didn’t respond. Had she missed her chance?
What chance, Maisie? What are you planning?
She had to stop thinking about him like this. By the end of the evening she had given herself a headache. Don’t be encouraging. Don’t be unavailable. Don’t hold his gaze too long. Don’t look away too quickly. Don’t forget about Adrian. Don’t talk about your boyfriend so much. Where was the voice of reason? Where was the voice telling her that flirting just proved she had a pulse, and if she could simply enjoy Sacha’s company all would be well?
“I’d better go,” Sacha said around nine-thirty, pulling himself to his feet. “I have to work early in the morning.”
“Okay.” She succeeded in not sounding too disappointed. She followed him to the door and waited while he put on his coat.
He stood still for a moment, looking at her. “Thanks for dinner,” he said.
“You’re welcome.”
He leaned over and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. She could feel herself light up. He fumbled with the door and walked out into the cold evening air.
“I’ll see you soon,” he said.
“Great.”
Then he was on his way to the van, and it was too cold to hold the door open any longer, so she went back inside and sat by the fire. She was a little tipsy from the wine (she had drunk more than he because he had to drive), and a warm glow settled over her.
He had kissed her.
He had said he would see her soon.
It wouldn’t be soon enough.
She had to do something to get her mind off Sacha, so she pulled out the rest of the diary. It was late and she should have been sleepy from the wine, but lying alone in her bed was only an invitation to toss and turn all night. Maybe the diary would help her doze off.
CHAPTER NINE
Monday, 23 September 1793
Though far from being a blissful New Bride, I find myself quite comfortable and hopeful in my new surroundings. I notice it has been scarce a week since I last wrote, but I feel a lifetime has passed. Virgil and I made our escape on a series of mail coaches, with a corresponding series of disagreeable horsemen to make innuendoes about our circumstances.
We were due to stop over with friends of Virgil’s in Nottingham, but found their residence deserted and boarded up. We slept on their doorstep, then continued on to Gretna Green, where we were married in the Scottish way. We headed immediately back to York, and from there we made our way by hackney coach to Solgreve, population 650. This village has the most extraordinarily large burial ground, which lies directly behind the great ruins of an old abbey and a small modern church. We have been reluctantly welcomed to Solgreve by a pious Reverend named Fowler, who I can tell thinks little of our hasty Presbyterian marriage. We now live in a little stone cottage about a quarter-mile from the sea, on St. Mary’s Lane. It is a rather old and curious place. Edward’s great-uncle’s father built it himself, and lived in it until he was 109! It has been empty for many years, and is quite small and dim.
We are very close to the sea here, and Virgil and I have already learned to appreciate its comforting sounds. In fact, we have been down to the beach on two occasions. I suppose I need not blush to admit these things now that I am a married woman, but there is a little story that I would like to record of our first trip to the beach. You see, we found there an old fishing boat. We pulled it out of the sand and saw that it looked whole and unbroken, and decided foolishly to try it in the water. It floated perfectly for the first five minutes, as Virgil and I paddled with our arms out onto the pale blue sea. Virgil christened her the Good Ship Sweetheart, and we thought ourselves terribly clever for finding such a sound vessel. But then I noticed my skirts becoming wet and it
became apparent that there was a tiny leak somewhere. We hastily paddled back to shore, up to our ankles in seawater before long, and pulled the boat back up to its place behind the rocks. Here in the soggy boat, laughing and falling about like children, Virgil and I made love under the smiling sun. Yes, out in the open! I can scarce believe that I did it, now, as it seems so incontinent a thing to do. But there, I have done it, and I enjoyed it, and here I am, two days later, boasting about it like a silly fool!
I have written to my parents in Lyon and hope for a reply in the coming days. I know that they will be angry, but I’m sure they will come to love me again as time passes; perhaps even to help with our money problems which appear to be greater than either of us first anticipated. We have yet to acquire more than the most basic of Furniture, Silver and Plate, and I now regret not bringing more than one case with me, as I find myself with only three good dresses and one house dress, which I have hardly been out of these eight days. Still, Virgil is due to start work later this week, assisting a local medical researcher, Dr Aaron Flood. He says he has helped him once before, and insists the man pays well. I have some little savings of my own which will bear us until things improve, and there is always the prospect of Virgil’s poetry being published very soon by an interested House in London. We hope daily to hear an answer from them.
You may sense in my words a kind of curious contentment with my lot, and I must admit that this is exactly how I feel. I have not the trappings of luxury to which I am used, but I have by my side the most beautiful partner for whom I could wish. We eat nothing more exotic than bread, bacon and cheese, and yet we eat it together. We have no fine linen, and yet we awake next to each other in the morning. We light no fancy lanterns, but we love each other just as well by rushlight. I feel every day that I have made the right choice, that I would much rather be here with Virgil than in France without him.
At this point, the only thing which troubles me is the inclement weather! This town must be the windiest place on Earth, and such a tumult of weather at night did ever make me anxious. I expect I will become used to it very soon, and as long as I have my husband’s body against which to warm myself at night, I vow that I shall not complain. Let the mad, rich world of barons and dukes and countryside mansions spin on without us. We shall nurture each other with love.
Tuesday, 1 October 1793
My entries, you see, are not as regular now I am occupied with the business of Marriage. It is usually Virgil to whom I turn when I need to express what I feel or think. However, tonight I am alone, for Virgil is out at his new place of employment. And tonight also, though I despise myself for admitting it, I am so very angry with him that I can only write it down, for to tell him would certainly cause an argument, and I have vowed we shall never argue.
It seems we are soon to have the company of Mr Snowe and Miss Andrews, living with us in this self-same house. You cannot imagine my misery, my disappointment. In the short time we have been together, Virgil and I have learned to live modestly, and I can endure modest living most sweetly when it is just we two. We create Peace between us. The thought of losing our privacy is intolerable to me. And to lose it because the house will contain those two! Of course I don’t mind Edward on his own, but Charlotte I despise, and she leads him on to greater and greater ruin I am sure. When they come to share our house, all the harmony and agreeable solitude which Virgil and I have had will be gone.
Virgil says that as this house belongs to Edward’s great-uncle, we can scarcely say No to him. But I rather think that Virgil may be looking forward to his company, so that they may work on their poetry together. He has also mentioned that Edward may work for Dr Flood too, and that the extra income may –
Diary, the most odd thing has just happened. As I was writing, I heard a knock at the door. Upon answering it, there stood the local Reverend. I invited him in, but he refused my invitation.
“Not while your husband is out at work,” he said. “I shall not disturb your peace for long. I wanted only to ask whether or not you have been in touch with your family yet, to tell them of your new circumstances.”
The Reverend, of course, knew that we had been married in Scotland and could easily see I was under 21. It does not surprise me that he had deduced our marriage did not have the approval of our families.
“Yes, Reverend, I have written to my parents, but as yet I have not heard anything in reply. My aunt in London sent me a note just a day or so ago to tell me my mother’s last letter to her mentioned nothing of my marriage. So either she has not received my last letter –”
“Or she is not acknowledging you.”
“That is what I fear, Reverend.” I did not tell him that even Aunt Hattie had become frosty towards me, accusing me of not knowing the difference between Life and a Game. I do not know that they are so very different.
He nodded as though satisfied with my response. “Do let me know if you hear from them. Shall we see you in church this weekend?”
Virgil and I have not attended a service since our arrival. I was raised a Catholic (albeit a reluctant one), and Virgil is experimenting with atheism, so it hardly seems appropriate. But we had promised the Reverend when we first met to become faithful members of his congregation.
“Perhaps,” I said, turning my eyes down so I wouldn’t see his disapproval.
“Very well. Goodnight, Mrs Marley.”
I bid him goodnight and returned to you, Diary. What a strange, inquisitive man he is. I’m sure Virgil would not be so kind in his summation. I wish the Reverend had not made me feel so guilty, for what should I care for his opinion of me? I suppose that I have been used to being treated as a Lady, as an example of moral fortitude and grace. However, when Reverend Fowler looks at me, I am sure he sees another Charlotte. I wanted to tell him that I was a virgin until my wedding night, and that this elopement is the first disobedient thing I have ever done, but I doubt he would have believed me. When he talks of my parents, my family, he would not believe that my father is noble, that my aunt a rich widow. He probably imagines they are cobblers or tailors or some other such lowly profession. Why, it makes my flesh burn with indignation.
But listen to me! As I write these words I must remember that I have chosen lowliness. We cannot afford even one servant, but Virgil promises upon Edward’s arrival to engage a maid-of-all-work immediately. The house shall be overcrowded, for it is only a little place, old and draughty and dark, with tiny, dingy rooms and hideous black beams in the ceiling that seem to weigh me down.
I am sorry. I really must pull myself out of my misery. It is Virgil’s place to be melancholy, and mine to be all cheer and optimism. This place has been the seat of all my bliss as long as just Virgil and I were here, but I suppose I have always known that bliss would be short-lived. Virgil must go to work every evening now, and sometimes does not come home until nearly three a.m. If I hear the church clock strike two and he’s not yet in bed with me, I worry and pace until he comes home. And when he does come in, he is too tired to talk with me or to make love (which I suppose I should be ashamed to admit an appetite for!). I think he dislikes his employer, because he often seems disturbed and distracted when he comes home, and sometimes must take a few drops of laudanum for his nerves.
Still, any day we may hear from my parents, with some forgiveness and perhaps generosity: I know I am entitled at least a little money. And any day we may hear from the publishing house in London who are considering Virgil and Edward’s collection. I’m sure these circumstances are only temporary, and I must take heart that my misery will be short-lived. I have chosen this life, and I stand by my choice.
Sunday, 6 October 1793
What an evening we had last night! Edward and Charlotte arrived in the early afternoon, insisting that they will not stay long, a declaration that caused me no end of happiness. Already my spirits were buoyed, and became even more so when I saw how much Virgil cheered in Edward’s company. I know that I have said I prefer it when only we two are here,
but I perhaps was being selfish, and had not noticed how withdrawn Virgil was becoming. He is like his old self, full of teasing and gentle smiles (for Virgil smiles never more than gently). With all Edward’s raucous joking and Charlotte’s squealing, and with all the conversation and drinking of wine, I could not hear the awful wind outside (which even now howls over the eaves and down the chimney).
Then, at suppertime as we sat around the table in the kitchen, Virgil began to tell Edward about his nerves, and that Dr Flood had given him opium, which he took as a tincture. I had heard stories about opium, and was immediately appalled.
“Virgil!” I exclaimed, “how is it that you have not told me about this?”
Virgil looked at me, bewildered. “But, Gette, you know that I take it. What do you think laudanum is? It is merely opium in alcohol.”
Charlotte saw no shame in screaming with laughter at me.
“I did not know,” I mumbled, not meeting anyone’s eye. You see, I had always thought laudanum a medicinal, and opium-eating an immoral custom imported from the East. I remember my father breaking off a friendship with another man because he engaged in the debauchery of “l’opiomane”. But then, my father is a stern and strictly self-regulated man.
As Charlotte’s laughter trailed off, Edward said, “Do you have any left?”
I looked up. Virgil nodded. “Shall we?”
I began to protest, but Virgil grasped my hand. “Gette, do not worry. It’s just like drinking wine, only a little more potent. We have had it before, and do not forget that it is a medicine. It works to heal the body, not to harm it.”
I was not going to allow Charlotte to laugh at me again, so I merely nodded. He let go of my hand and rose to go to the bedroom. One of the candles on the table began to splutter, so I went to the sideboard for my snuffers. We are trying to conserve our candles, so we have only two burning most nights, and they are tallow and smell faintly of sheep grease. I clipped the wick and the candle surged back to life.
