Soul

by Tobsha Learner

  Afterwards, she wiped it with her nightgown and placed it carefully back onto the table where she had found it.

  The day of the At Home had arrived and Lavinia, stiff from sitting upright for three hours and profoundly bored by the chatter that dominated her parlour, felt the irresistible desire to jolt the two young heiresses sitting opposite out of their conceited self-righteousness. A pair of smugly rotund eighteen-year-old twins aptly named Celeste and Clementine, they were the daughters of an immensely wealthy merchant. Lord spare me such ignorant women, Lavinia thought. Have they no interests beyond securing a husband? Her mind turned to her husband and Hamish Campbell ensconced in James’s study—how she longed to be there rather than enduring this parody.

  She leaned forward. ‘All aristocracy has blood on its hands. There is not one family south of the Scottish border that does not have some history of enslavement. The French understood this. And now America, whose own Declaration of Independence took its cue from the French Revolution, is in the throes of a bloody civil war. Mr Lincoln is a brave man indeed.’

  At which Clementine dabbed a few tears from her eyes. Her sister, however—a more corpulent version of Clementine—puffed up her skirts in readiness to defend her father’s reputation as the owner of several cotton plantations in America’s South as well as one on the island of Jamaica.

  ‘Papa is a good man,’ she announced sanctimoniously. ‘Why, he gave all of the slaves a picnic for last Easter Sunday, and we had raised the pork ourselves.’

  ‘I have seen men dying of starvation, and you talk of the seating arrangements at the Derby Day banquet as if it were a matter of life or death.’ The compulsion to shake the sisters out of their twittering complacency threw Lavinia into a further rant.

  ‘Which proves my hypothesis correct,’ Lady Morgan interrupted, with an eye to the sisters’ chaperone, a dowager of great social influence who, at that moment, was fortunately having trouble locating her ear trumpet, ‘that an Englishman, unlike an Irishman, would die of embarrassment long before he died of starvation.’

  There was an awkward pause during which Lavinia silently vowed never to trust a woman who regarded human suffering as appropriate material for a witticism. Deciding to ignore the comment, she turned back to the sisters. ‘Tell me, how has your dear papa educated you?’

  The twins exchanged flustered glances: the Irishwoman confused them; she was so unpredictable in her conversation. Clementine finally spoke up.

  ‘Well, Celeste has a wonderful soprano, and Mama is forever boasting of my needlepoint.’

  ‘But what of intellectual matters—books, the classics, the pursuit of science, the arts…Are you really devoid of all curiosity?’

  ‘Papa does not approve of books, oh no, not at all, he is always reminding us that a bookish woman will drive a husband away. He has educated us for marriage.’

  ‘My father educated me as if I were a boy. I am fluent in Latin and have a good understanding of mathematics, biology and the physical sciences. I can only imagine how you must view the world without the benefit of such faculties?’ Lavinia’s voice was full of mock sympathy.

  While Celeste tried to work out what the word ‘faculty’ meant, Clementine glanced at Lady Morgan. ‘But surely that would be most unusual, even for an Irish Lord—’

  Lady Morgan, determined to avoid further social chagrin, interjected before Lavinia had the opportunity to answer. ‘Mrs Huntington’s illustrious father was the most delightful eccentric who did so want a male heir.’

  ‘Their name means “Sons of the Sun” and their goddess is Evaki. They consider her the guardian of both the day and the night. At night, she keeps the sun hidden in her cooking pot; in the morning, she releases it, thus creating the day. If we agree on the connectivity of all of these gods, who in other mythologies would be Evaki’s match?’

  In the silence of the study, Colonel Huntington and Hamish Campbell were examining the tribal groupings and icons of the Bakairi.

  ‘The Egyptian goddess Bast, the Irish Aimend and Sul,’ Hamish answered, proud of his knowledge.

  ‘Exactly. You see, under the skin humanity’s dreams are identical. We all dream the same symbols—of the god we would like to become, of the monster we fear we might really be.’

  Secretly enthralled by the notion of encountering his mentor’s inner demons, Hamish looked down at the notebook, hoping to conceal his sudden distraction. ‘Mrs Huntington has done an extensive job on the first few chapters,’ he said. ‘I hope I can continue the task in such a professional manner.’

  ‘You are generous. Her writing style has a theatrical flair it is true, but it is exact observation I require not dramatic ornamentation. Confidentially, your work is superior.’

  Exhilarated by the praise but not wanting to show it, Hamish carefully studied the various artefacts on the table, paying particular attention to two huge Yakwigado masks made from tree bark and daubed in white, red and black. Next to them sat a small figurine of a man. Made from ebony, the polished phallic head held a certain fascination and Hamish couldn’t help but extend a finger to stroke the smooth satiny surface.

  The Colonel watched him. The symmetry of the youth’s face was a source of endless fascination. He observed how the light caught at the blond down that ran across the upper planes of the boy’s face; the hair became coarser as it dipped into the hollow between cheek and jaw then flared out with an erotic violence across his lips and mouth. The azure of his eyes was so deep it did not look to be natural, and his dark brow served to illuminate the gold of his hair. There was something perturbing about extreme beauty in either sex, the Colonel philosophised. It was like a third presence, an independent entity separate from the observer and the observed.

  ‘I have read about your experience with the Bakairi,’ Hamish said, breaking the extended silence. ‘You consumed a local hallucinogen?’

  ‘It is called ayahuasca, made from the vine Banisteriopsis caapi, a powerful narcotic. The experience taught me that our perception of the known universe is defined by our cultural understanding of it, and that alone.’

  Hamish Campbell showed a certain inquisitiveness that the Colonel recognised as being one of his own most powerful characteristics as a youth: an enthusiasm for the mystical.

  ‘But to have experienced such intense transportation…’ Campbell began, then faltered as he met the Colonel’s gaze.

  For a moment, the two men looked at each other, each fighting the compulsion to touch the other. The tension was broken by a bell ringing elsewhere in the mansion.

  ‘I believe we are called to dinner. I insist you stay and eat with us,’ the Colonel said, distracted by the sculptural quality of the young man’s well-formed hands.

  ‘But I am not dressed…’

  ‘I have a dress coat of dark broadcloth which you may borrow.’ The Colonel placed a hand on the youth’s shoulder in a gesture he hoped would be seen as paternal, despite the tremor that ran through his body.

  ‘I am not sure your wife would find my presence at your table desirable.’

  ‘Poppycock! Besides, it is my table.’

  The table was set formally, and all eight candles in the walnut and silver Dutch chandelier that hung over the long mahogany table were blazing. Set defiantly in the centre of the jacquard tablecloth was a heavy, flamboyantly moulded silver epergne, its stand supported by two Rubens-like female figures. A pair of candelabra stood either side of the epergne, their light setting the five or six crystal decanters and the silver serving dishes aglitter.

  The dining room itself was a square room, heavily panelled and draped with thick blue velvet curtains. Consoles and side tables crowded the walls, some covered with family memorabilia and others with silver serving dishes. A painted firescreen stood before the huge hearth, to shield the diners nearest to it from the heat.

  The immensity of the table was emphasised by the fact that only three places were set for dinner, each with fine crystal glasses, and heavy silver forks, spoons a
nd knives either side of the green Wedgwood plates.

  Lavinia, in a low-cut, short-sleeved muslin dress, a simple choker of jade around her neck, sat to the right of her husband, picking at her plate of oysters. Hamish Campbell watched her, wondering at the strained awkwardness between husband and wife.

  ‘Your kitchen boasts a good cook,’ he complimented Lavinia, and picked up the handwritten menu Mrs Beetle had prepared. ‘Oysters Katharine, cream of celery soup, fillet of sole with Gruyère, pheasant Mandarin with carrots Vichy, followed by gooseberry fool and a savoury—you indulge your guest.’

  ‘Lady Morgan has been talking to our cook,’ Lavinia replied drily. ‘Lady Morgan has begun to dictate much of what happens in this household; she has even insisted that I subscribe to the Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine. It is full of information—from recipes for ginger beer through to a hundred uses for an old muslin dress. A talented individual, she has even managed to establish a salon of voyeurs, all of whom are breathlessly awaiting my husband’s forthcoming publication. We only pray that you are a speedy and proficient midwife, Mr Campbell.’

  Hamish laughed politely, but noted that the Colonel remained silent.

  Lavinia, deliberately ignoring her husband’s discomfort, continued. ‘Indeed, I myself have been reconstituted, grammatically parfait, and am to be served up with the appropriate amount of relish. I just wonder how long society will remain intrigued by this enigma Lady Morgan has so successfully constructed.’

  It was hard to keep the anger out of her voice. How could James imagine she would be content to pursue such banality? How could he reject her contribution to his work so easily? I must play his game, she thought, then find a way back to his study.

  The Colonel, choking on a crust of bread, coughed into his napkin.

  ‘From the number of times the doorbell chimed, I assume the At Home was a successful undertaking?’ he enquired, now concerned about Lavinia’s manner.

  ‘In that all forty guests appeared, yes. However, three left prematurely due to an impromptu lecture on the evils of the Confederacy.’

  ‘Given by yourself no doubt. The departed have my sympathy. Lavinia, you really must learn to separate the political from the personal.’

  ‘There was little of the personal about today’s gathering, and Lady Morgan’s efforts on my behalf have been entirely political.’

  For a moment there was only the clinking of glass and the noise of the diners eating. A footman, whose sole duty was the pouring of the wine, filled Lavinia’s goblet then moved on to the gentlemen.

  ‘So, Mr Campbell, what new and extraordinary things did you learn today in my husband’s study?’ Lavinia returned to the fray.

  Unused to the tumult of matrimony but an expert on the nuances of charm, Hamish mustered both his courage and his wit. ‘I learned about the Bakairi and a ritual called Lemaquely, where a Spirit will advise a woman on how she is to behave within the community—and list her personal shortcomings. Any scolding from the Spirit is regarded as an honour. So you see, even the Bakairi have a Lady Morgan spirit.’

  All three laughed, and the Colonel took Lavinia’s hand.

  ‘There, my dear, you can take comfort from the fact that the Bakairi have their social codes, just as we have ours in Mayfair.’

  The play of her husband’s fingers across her wrist caused Lavinia a small flutter of arousal; he had not touched her since their lovemaking after the ball. What did Hamish Campbell promise her husband that she couldn’t offer? Intellectual companionship? The possibility of reliving his youth through the younger man?

  ‘It seems to me that women are freed from their responsibilities only when they are merry widows or eccentric old spinsters,’ she concluded, ‘the rest of us have to make do.’ She turned to the student. ‘Sir, I would exchange the drawing room for the study any day.’

  35

  AFTER THE MEN HAD AGAIN DISAPPEARED into the study, Lavinia sat down to read. The crackling of the fire, the incessant ticking of the clock, the rustle of footsteps outside, and the faint, distant cry of a rat catcher all contributed to a certain restlessness—even the words on the page seemed to flutter like moths. Glancing up from the page she decided she could not stay a moment longer in this mausoleum, deprived of conversation and company, while in the room above the two men navigated the wilds of the Amazon.

  Jumping to her feet, Lavinia pulled on a long hooded cloak and made her way to the stables, careful to avoid the seemingly omnipresent housekeeper, Mrs Beetle.

  Lavinia sat in the enclosed carriage, her face concealed by her hood. Outside, from Curzon Street all the way up to the notorious Shepherd’s Market, groups of prostitutes lingered around doorways and shopfronts, their outrageously painted faces tinted yellow by the gaslights as they paraded hopefully for passing trade. Staring out, Lavinia searched for one particular girl whose visage was engraved upon her memory.

  In the driver’s seat, Aloysius was surly with disapproval. ‘No good will come of this, madam, I’m telling yer. ’Tis a man’s world and best left that way,’ he shouted down to her, as, to his disgust, an ancient whore winked up at him, her copious cleavage mottled and wrinkled.

  But Lavinia, fascinated by the vulgar gaiety of the women and the manner by which they marked their territory, sometimes spitting and shooing off competitors, was enchanted. These women appeared to enjoy a freedom that intrigued her. It was a pageant, she decided, and there were many characters she recognised: the ingénue with her virginal white gown; the duchess with her fleshy jowls and paste; the bohemian with her loose hair and floating robe under which her naked shoulders shifted provocatively.

  ‘Lady, you shopping for someone or are you here for yourself?’ A pockmarked face loomed out of the mist.

  Lavinia, startled, shrank back. ‘I am looking for someone in particular.’

  ‘Someone’s particular or someone’s peculiar?’ the prostitute chuckled, revealing a broken tooth within the deep crimson mouth.

  Aloysius shook his whip at her. ‘Away with you!’

  Laughing, the whore vanished into the night. The coachman shivered; it was getting colder. ‘Madam, we should be leaving. The master will be wondering where you are!’ he called.

  At that moment, a tall slim figure emerged from a doorway and slipped between the mingling streetwalkers, her face illuminated for an instant by the gaslight. Lavinia, forgetting herself, stepped down from the carriage and ran towards the woman, her skirts becoming soiled in the puddles of mud and horse manure.

  Catching her by the shoulder, Lavinia peered into the woman’s face. It was the girl she had seen walking with James outside the bookshop, but close up her features were heavier, her skin coarser, than Lavinia had imagined.

  ‘May I help you?’

  The well-spoken alto voice disorientated Lavinia.

  ‘Will you talk to me?’ she asked. ‘Just for a few moments?’

  The girl hesitated as she assessed Lavinia’s expensive dress, the fur-trimmed cloak.

  ‘I will pay you well,’ Lavinia pleaded.

  ‘As you wish, but I have an appointment later.’

  Inside the coach, the girl appeared even taller and more awkward. She lifted her black net veil embellished with sequins and sat back against the leather as if she were accustomed to such luxury, her long gloved arms draped elegantly across the back of the seat, her limbs arranged with a self-conscious air. Her perfume was a strong musk laced with lilac; it filled the carriage and seemed an extension of the dramatic face paint and clothing. There was something about the severe angles of her face that reminded Lavinia of her husband’s Amazonian masks. Was this what James had been attracted to, these unabashedly sensual planes? Watching the whore, Lavinia tried to imagine her husband making love to such a being. It was all too easy.

  ‘I want you to tell me what my husband likes,’ Lavinia said, hoping the whore would not be able to read her expression in the half-light. The girl laughed, taking care to cover her flawed teeth with her hand.
>
  ‘My brave friend, I know many husbands. Which is yours?’

  Again, Lavinia had the uncomfortable impression that the girl, who appeared no older than herself, was superior in both experience and years.

  ‘Colonel Huntington. I saw you both together several weeks ago.’

  ‘Ahh, so the Colonel has finally married, and one so young and pretty.’

  ‘You have known him for a long time then?’

  ‘Indeed, several years. He is a good and kind patron. But you look unhappy—really, there is no need.’

  ‘Surely a philandering husband is a source of unhappiness.’

  ‘Ah, so this is why you have sought me out. To discover why he makes love to me and not you?’

  Lavinia, unable to speak, nodded. The young woman smiled enigmatically and then, without a word, pulled her wig off. It was then that the masculine angularity of her countenance was explained. Amazed, Lavinia cried out.

  ‘Do not distress yourself, my dear. I am sure he cares for you in his way. Besides, I have not seen him for a good month. No doubt he has become one of those “reformed” gentlemen.’

  The transvestite pulled out an elegant pocket watch attached to his waist by a gold chain. As he opened it to read the time, Lavinia noticed it was engraved with the initials AC.

  ‘Now that your question has been answered, I will have to leave you. But first I have a question for you.’

  ‘What could that possibly be? Unless you wish to question my intelligence?’ Lavinia replied angrily.

  Smiling gently, the youth placed his hand over Lavinia’s, as concerned as any gentlewoman might be in the circumstances. ‘You mistake me. I do not pass judgement; I merely wish to make an enquiry of my own. Do you have an older sister, or an aunt perhaps? You bear a remarkable resemblance to an old employer of mine, also an Irishwoman.’