Sound of Butterflies, The (24 page)

That evening, when Thomas came downstairs for dinner and entered the drawing room, the others were sitting down drinking brandy.

‘I have a treat for you tonight,’ said Santos. ‘Some music. Do you like music?’

‘Of course,’ said George. ‘We have not heard enough music since we have been here.’

‘Well,’ said Santos, ‘I assure you, Mr Sebel, this is unlike any music you have heard before.’

He rang a bell beside him where he stood at the mantelpiece. How curious, thought Thomas, to have a fireplace in a climate such as this.

A short, rounded woman entered the room, followed by two men. One of them Thomas recognised as Manuel, Santos’s servant who had lost his tongue. The two men carried guitars and sat in two hard chairs, while the woman positioned herself between them. She pulled a black shawl around her shoulders and stood with her eyes closed. The guitars began to play, mournful notes plucked from the strings by deft fingers. The two players worked in complement to each other, their notes weaving a tapestry of sound.

With her eyes still closed, the woman began to sing in a low voice, sad and throaty. As her voice built, she opened her eyes. She sang in Portuguese — Thomas closed his eyes and tried to make out the words. It was a melancholy song, filled with longing. He understood that the singer craved her lost homeland, Oporto; that there was a great river there. The words sang of drinking wine and dancing slowly. Thomas opened his eyes again and looked around at his companions, who were all captivated. Santos’s face held a sad smile, barely noticeable under his moustache. The woman’s eyes glistened with tears as she sang. She didn’t look at them, but stared off into the far corners of the room, as if looking through the walls and over the ocean to her homeland. Her face, with its golden skin and small chin, its large brown eyes, stirred something in Thomas. As the song came to a close and she held a final, impossibly long note, her eyes slipped to his and her eyebrows twitched. His blood froze and he stopped breathing as if a great fall had winded him.

The song ended and the men clapped heartily. Thomas’s hands moved mechanically in time with them. The woman bowed low, but there was something strong and defiant in the sweep of her dress as she did so. She spread the fan that dangled from her wrist and hid her face behind it, fanning herself. The two men picked up their guitars and left the room.

‘Beautiful, my dear,’ said Santos. He turned to the men. ‘This music is Fado, gentlemen. The music of Portuguese who long for their home. This lady is the best Fado singer in Manaus.’

She looked at the ground, her eyelashes flickering over the fan. Santos held his hand out to her and she walked forward to take it.

‘May I introduce my wife, Clara.’

Thomas thought he was going to faint as they all stood. He reached out a hand to steady himself on the back of George’s chair. As Santos went around the men, introducing them one by one, Clara would not look at him.

‘And this is Mr Edgar.’

Santos turned his back for a moment, to say something to Ernie, who had moved towards the fireplace. Clara angled her fan away from her face and looked Thomas in the eye. Then she raised one black-gloved finger to her lips.

Thomas nodded his quiet assent, the evening collapsing around him.

Manaus, January 7th, 1904

I am but a man. And man has historically been enslaved by his body — what could have brought me to presume I could be any different?

I have now betrayed two people — my wife and my benefactor. Part of me tells myself I am mistaken, but I know I am not. What business does a woman, the wife of one of the wealthiest men in Manaus, have in dressing in costume and joining in on a street party? Does Santos know she engages in such nocturnal wanderings? His behaviour is not exactly appropriate, but men are much more likely to behave in such a manner, are they not? Perhaps I am being naïve. I know nothing of this city and its customs. Perhaps its inhabitants are as wild as each other. With her silent gesture she implored me to keep quiet, and she has no reason to fear that I will betray her wishes — it would mean betraying myself as well. I will hold my tongue and I pray that she will, too. This journal will now have to be kept safe from prying eyes.

Sophie, will you ever forgive me?

Richmond, May 1904

Sophie flinches at being addressed directly, as if Thomas is in the room pleading with her. So
that’s
it. It’s the last entry in that particular journal, and she feels its note of despair, but has no sympathy. On the page opposite — the last page of the journal — is a coloured painting of the yellow and black butterfly. It has been painted with such intricate detail that for a moment she forgets herself and admires his ability. She wonders if he has painted it from life. It is beautiful. Is this supposed to give her hope after what she has just read?

The room is a dark grey now — it’s a wonder she’s been able to read at all. She examines the entry again in the gloom, trying to glean as much meaning from it as she can, to read it in as many different ways as she can. But only one possibility stands out to her at this moment. She’s not stupid; she knows men behave like this, but she could have sworn Thomas was different from other men.

She stands and flings the journal against the far wall, where it clatters onto the nightstand, knocking over an unlit candle, and falls to the floor. Clutching her stomach, she paces the room before picking the book up again and looking at it. The spine has come detached from its body and flaps like a ribbon. She stares at it as if it will give her the answers to the questions she wants to scream at her husband. She throws it back into the bag in disgust and opens the window to breathe some fresh air. The eastern sky reflects the sinking sun; clouds lie with bulging bellies on the horizon, promising rain. Everything is tinged with a lavender light; she even fancies she can smell it on the air. It’s a vista she has seen many times, but now the world has changed. Its corners are darker.

What can she do? Her fingers reach for her hair and scratch at her scalp. The edges of a headache press her brow from the inside. There is no going back. She wanted to know, and now she knows.

She stoops and gathers up the books that lie like leaves on the ground, shoves them back into the bag and slams it shut. Next, she edges open her husband’s door and slips the bag back inside, making no sound.

Down in the scullery, the last light slants through the window and falls across the bench. She works quickly, cutting bread and ham and cheese. Too quickly: the knife slips and, as it slices through her fingertip, she feels the resistance before the pain. Her gasp in the silence is deafening. Blood drips off her finger and onto Thomas’s supper. She thinks about leaving it there for a moment as she presses a cloth to the wound, but throws the stained bread into the sink and cuts another slice.

Thomas sits up when she enters his room with the tray of food. He stretches. He reminds her of a little boy, woken by his mother, but then she remembers what he is capable of and pushes this thought far from her mind.

Without a word, she places the tray in front of him. He catches it as it teeters dangerously, and she turns and marches from the room, feeling his eyes pierce her back.

Downstairs she pauses in front of the hallway mirror to fix her hair. Carefully she curls it over and pins it into place, trying not to dwell on what she is about to do. When she is satisfied, she takes her best hat and places it over the hairdo in the position to best flatter her face — tilted slightly forward, so her brow is covered and her eyes glint mysteriously from below. She takes a deep breath. Her dress is still marked with soot, but she doesn’t have the patience to go and change; instead, she selects a light coat to cover the damage — one she won’t be compelled to remove in the warmth of the evening. She lets herself out onto the quiet street, where the lamp-lighters have begun their evening’s work.

Captain Fale is not expecting any visitors, so when the doorbell rings, he jumps a little in his chair. He must have fallen asleep — he is now sitting in the dark. He fumbles for his walking stick and pushes himself up. It’s probably a note from Sid Worthing, saying he can’t make their engagement tomorrow. But on a Sunday? It really is most tedious to have visitors on Mrs Brown’s day off.

As the door swings open, he has a wild impulse to comb his hair, but it is too late. Sophie stands on his doorstep, looking up at him from under the low brim of a most fetching hat.

‘Mrs Edgar,’ he says. ‘This
is
a surprise.’

He doesn’t say
and a delight
. She has sought him out! Is that desire in her eyes? He barely dares to hope that his plan is working — that
she
has come to
him
. Perhaps his hint that her husband has lost his faith hit its mark. He wants to open the door wide, to pull her inside. His hands itch to embrace her. He has a flash in his mind of her sinking into his arms with a sigh, the feel of the weight of her. But something is wrong. She has forgotten to put on her gloves and a piece of white cloth is tied around one finger, with blood seeping through it like a cluster of jewels on a ring. The sight of her bare hands makes him blush — it feels conspicuously intimate. She shifts from one foot to the other, and her eyes dart about. She keeps glancing over her shoulder at the street.

‘Samuel,’ she says. ‘May I come in?’

‘I …’ What is he thinking? Already some people have passed in the street and given them curious looks — people he recognises from church. He can hear their thoughts now: what is a beautiful young married woman doing calling on a withered old single gentleman like this? As night is falling? He cannot act on his urge to pull her in after all. He shifts his weight and a stab of pain in his leg makes him flinch.

‘Mrs Edgar …’ he begins again. She called him
Samuel
again. And now here she is on his doorstep waiting to be let in. ‘Mrs Edgar, I don’t think …’

She rubs at her hands, pulling on them and flicking them as if they were dripping with water. She steps up onto the threshold and he falls back a pace in surprise.

‘Please, Samuel.’ She stands so close to him he can smell her; the scent of rosewater fills his nostrils and his head. He wants nothing more than to have her come in — in her state, who knows where things might lead? But he stands his ground and when she bumps against him does not relinquish his stance. She is clearly upset about something. Her face is tear-stained and slightly grubby, as if she has been standing in front of a smoky fire. She stares resolutely into his eyes and for a moment the struggle of power between them arouses him again. They stand for a few seconds, their faces expressionless — he is anxious not to give away any of his feelings, and she is determined to override him, it seems. But she relents with a sigh and steps down again.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘You’re right. This is most improper.’ Her voice is a notch above a murmur, as if she is talking to herself but hoping she might be overheard.

‘I can call on you tomorrow, if you wish,’ he says, but she waves a hand at him. ‘No, Captain Fale. That won’t be necessary.’ Without a farewell, she turns in a daze — a product of cold anger, perhaps — and floats away from him out onto the street.

He closes the door and leans against it. The wood is cool on the back of his head. His hands shake and he raises one to wrap around his throat. He is disarmed, to be sure — he should be overjoyed at her intentions but after the initial shock and joy of seeing her at his door he is left merely confused. Has he done the right thing by not letting her in? Yes, he has, he is sure of it. It would not do for her reputation to be ruined at this point. Not when he is so close.

The rain comes down all night, thudding on roofs and slapping windows with drops like fat tadpoles. By morning, nobody can leave their house without umbrellas turning inside out, coats whipping against legs and water reaching warm crevices and dry petticoats. Agatha watches the empty street from her sitting-room window while her sister Catherine plays the piano, fingers pounding the keys in time to the thumps of rain, and her brother Edwin plays with his new kitten. He is so gentle with it — too gentle for a boy his age — and holds it awkwardly, as if it is made of sand and might run through his fingers.

Catherine has come far in her playing. She is only fifteen and already she has surpassed Agatha’s own skills at the instrument. Agatha doesn’t have the patience to learn the scales, and suffered many a swollen knuckle from her teacher when she was young, until her father found out and sent Mrs Rogers crying out the door. No daughter of his was going to be smacked like a common animal, he said, and gathered her to him while she slipped her arms around his enormous girth and smirked into his vest. But Catherine can sit at the piano for hours, running up and down the scales until somebody comes to ask her to stop. It’s as if she’s in a trance and has sent herself far away; the scales are the sound of waves on the beach reaching and receding in an endless cycle. She inherited the gift from their grandmother, who could play any instrument she touched.

Agatha huffs and steps over Edwin, who now lies on his back with the kitten on his stomach. She can’t resist and reaches down to tickle his ribs, giving him a sharp jab and making him scream like a little girl.

‘Mummy!’ he calls, and she straightens in disgust.

‘Mummy can’t hear you,
Edwina
.’ She prods him with her foot and the kitten falls off his stomach, mewling. Then she crouches down again and sweeps her brother up in a quick embrace until he wriggles like a small animal. She drops a kiss on the top of his dark curls and slouches out of the room and up the stairs, heartily bored.

Her ouija board is hidden under her bed, away from prying little eyes and fingers. Her grandmother gave it to her just before she died, when Agatha was fifteen. Nona had held on for a long time, and it was as if she were waiting for Agatha to fully develop hips and breasts before she let herself go, satisfied that she had been guided into womanhood and her gifts were fully realised. She always said that while a girl went through puberty she was susceptible to the spirits, and certainly Agatha became interested in spiritualism, but the interest waned as she approached womanhood. This old thing — she has got it out a few times with friends, but puts it away again when she sees that it doesn’t spring to life as easily as it once did.

It is thoughts of Thomas that led her upstairs. She is tempted to take the ouija board over to Sophie’s and try it out again. What if he has been taken by spirits? If some part of him has gone over to the other side and not come back? The younger Agatha would have believed it unquestioningly, but somehow the adult Agatha stands in the way. She sits down on the bed and runs her fingers over the cool wood of the board. Nona would have known what to do. She would have taken no nonsense; she’d have got Thomas speaking again.

Nona was a Romany who ran away from life on the road and married an Englishman. She didn’t fit the stereotype of the gypsy — she didn’t wear scarves and gold earrings — but she had skin the colour of strong tea and an accent that could cut glass. And she held on to many beliefs and gifts. The music she passed on to Catherine —
Katerina
, Nona would call her — and to Agatha she passed the gift of spiritualism. She also taught her never to give in to convention, and of all her advice (which to Agatha had included a lot of superstitious nonsense) this was the piece that Agatha took to heart. It coloured her life every day and gave her the strength of her convictions.

‘Never care about what others think of you, child. You have only to answer to yourself and to God. Only those two. And God will love you no matter what you do.’

It was Nona who taught Agatha about the animal spirits that inhabit people. Agatha was stung on the ear when she was a child, and her hearing never fully recovered. Every now and then a buzzing starts up in her head. Nona told her that the bee left a part of itself inside her and when it died, its spirit stayed with her to guide her.

Perhaps she will suggest to Sophie that they use the ouija board. Sophie will no doubt refuse. She seems to think there is something unchristian about communing with spirits.

Agatha tried automatic writing once, and quickly tapped into two spirits who seemed to linger around her. They never had anything interesting to say, though, and they became like two bickering aunts. One of them would pop in and disagree with the other’s advice about removing tea stains and Agatha began to wonder, when she picked up the pen and emptied her mind, if it wasn’t the product of her own imagination, too unadventurous to come up with any ghosts who had died horrible deaths or who might have the answer to all of life’s problems.