Sound of Butterflies, The (45 page)

‘Father?’ Sophie is in the room with him now, removing the pins that hold her hat on, pulling the hat off her head and grasping it tightly. Affection bubbles inside him like boiling toffee but he dampens it down.

‘Hello, dear,’ he says. ‘I was just passing.’

She eyes him suspiciously and he drops his head. She becomes more like her mother every day.

‘Actually …’ He gestures to the chairs by the window. ‘There is something. Can we sit?’

‘Of course. Mary?’ Mary appears and takes away her hat and gloves.

Sophie smoothes her hair down as she perches on the edge of the chair.

‘There’s no easy way to say this.’ He has become hot suddenly and fights the urge to loosen his tie. ‘I know about Thomas, Sophie.’

Sophie collapses back into her chair with a sigh. She is relieved, he supposes, that she no longer needs to keep the secret from him, as if the lie has kept her tightly coiled.

‘How do you know?’

‘It’s not a secret any more, is it? Doesn’t the whole of Richmond know?’

She shrugs. ‘And Kingston now, too, I see.’ Is she angry with him?

‘Where is Thomas now? Is he in bed?’

‘Come and see for yourself.’ She pushes herself up and stands over him. He has no choice but to rise also and follow her into the hallway.

She knocks at a closed door — two raps: one, two — but doesn’t wait for an answer.

‘There’s someone here to see you,’ she says to the room, and when Charles enters, he sees Thomas sitting at a desk. The air is heavy with a chemical smell, which reminds him of his school days, mixed with dust. Thomas is surrounded by piles of papers, several inkwells and stacks of small boxes. Charles glimpses a flash of colour in the dreary room — a pink and white butterfly, and a pallet of paint beside it, with a jar of dirty water holding a paintbrush.

In the corners of the room, dust creatures crouch, undulating in the draught from the open door as if ready to pounce. Thomas has not yet looked up, and Charles pokes discreetly at a book on the shelf next to him. It moves, leaving a ghost image of itself below.

Finally Thomas looks up from his work, and Charles crosses the room to greet him. The young man stands reluctantly. He stares at the hand Charles has extended before raising his own slowly and offering it. His hand is surprisingly rough, like a gardener’s, dry and papery. Charles examines his face for signs of the violent nature Fale described to him, but Thomas’s eyes are more timid than dangerous.

‘Nice to see you again, Thomas,’ says Charles. ‘We won’t keep you from your work.’

‘Not at all,’ says Thomas, and Charles drops his hand in surprise.

‘Good God. But I thought …’ He lets his voice trail away.

Sophie places her hand on her father’s arm and begins to steer him from the room.

‘I know what you thought, Father. We’ll leave you now, Thomas.’

Sophie is walking awkwardly as she leads him back into the parlour, as if on hot coals.

‘Are you all right? Have you hurt yourself?’

‘It’s nothing.’ She waves him away and sits down. ‘Too much gardening. As you can see, Father, Thomas is quite well.’

‘Well then, tell me. Tell me why it is that I heard otherwise.’

‘Who told you?’

‘A Captain Fale came to see me. I believe he is a friend of Thomas’s. He was most concerned for you both. He said Thomas … I know this sounds extraordinary: he said he was mute. Not speaking. And violent, too. He feared for your safety, in fact. He enlisted my help to have him sent to … to hospital.’

‘Did he now?’ Sophie presses the back of her hand to her mouth, thinking. ‘I see. Well, I’ll tell you, Father, he was ill when he returned, and I
was
rather worried about him, but as you can see he is much better now. As for his being violent, that’s preposterous! You know Thomas. You know how gentle and kind he is.’

‘So why would this Captain Fale have told me, when you did not?’

‘I didn’t want to worry you. You can understand that, can’t you?’

‘There was something else I want to ask you about Fale. Could it be that he has reason to hope for some kind of separation between you and your husband?’

‘Oh, Father, no! I love Thomas with all my heart. Things have been difficult, yes, but you see they are improving.’

‘Well, whether you know about it or not, this Fale clearly has plans for you, and for Thomas. I would avoid him at all costs.’

‘And you … you don’t think I should have Thomas sent away? You don’t agree with the Captain?’

‘My dear, I hardly know the man. When a complete stranger comes to me with such an unusual request I can’t help but be suspicious. At first I was angry with you … how could you not have told me?’

‘I was worried about what you would say! I know you have never liked Thomas —’

‘This is not true.’

She bites her lip again. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Forgive me. I’m tired.’ Indeed, she has dark circles under her eyes, clearly from lack of sleep. She must be worrying. She has never spoken to him so boldly. He is surprised that he does not mind.

‘I couldn’t tell you. You would have thought Thomas had failed me. You might have insisted on sending him to hospital.’

How well she knows him. This is precisely what had gone through his mind — how to get Thomas as far away from her as possible. But now he can see that Thomas is on the mend. How fiercely she defends him! He is reminded again of Martha — how loyal she was to him, when he wasn’t always the ideal husband. He knows what it is to be separated from the object of one’s love. How could he have considered inflicting this on his own daughter?

‘I would never have you left alone like that.’ This is only a small lie. ‘Do you understand me? Do you?’

Sophie pauses before nodding. Her chin wrinkles with the effort of holding in tears.

Charles suddenly has an idea. ‘Why don’t you both move in with me for a time? Just until Thomas is better.’

She starts to cry then, and he gives her his handkerchief.

‘May I think about it?’

‘Of course.’ He looks at his pocket watch. ‘And now I must be going.’ The truth is, she has never cried in front of him so openly. The sight makes him uneasy.

But as he walks out into the street, his feet are light. He has done the right thing. He tried to raise her not to rely on anybody but herself, so she could never be disappointed, as he was, but the time has come to stretch out a hand and claim her as his daughter.

Sophie needs to get out, get some air. It’s all she can think of now: that she has to escape this dark house. She waits a few minutes to be sure her father will be well away, picks up her hat and parasol and walks out the door.

The catch on the gate eludes her shaking fingers and she curses at it before it gives way. Her chest begins to ache with keeping the tears in, and when she reaches the street, she can’t do it any more. She opens her parasol and drapes it low over her face as she walks painfully on her blistered feet.

She wipes her eyes with her glove and sniffs to try to contain the trickles escaping her nose. She grunts at herself, clears the phlegm from her throat. Why can’t she hold herself together? It’s still not safe to take her parasol down and she knows she will be drawing curious looks from passers-by.

Did she lead Captain Fale on? Yes, quite possibly. When he first came calling she told herself she felt sorry for him; he was lonely and would be good company for her. But his conversation was stilted — and always going on about the war and his injury, when everybody knew perfectly well he had hurt himself falling off his horse in the park.

But he was so strong under his uniform, and being with him aroused feelings that were so different to her feelings for Thomas. Where Thomas’s eyes looked into her heart, Samuel’s looked under her corset. In turn, she had found herself examining the shape of his body as he walked ahead of her. Broad shoulders, long thighs, rounded buttocks. She even imagined his naked chest with all that thick hair, imagined running her fingers through it and burying her face in it. A smell surrounded him, too — sweet and lemony, with a hint of perspiration. It should have disgusted her; instead, it drew her in. She became fascinated with her body’s response to it, seemingly independent of her mind. The fact that she didn’t even particularly like Samuel only made the feelings easier, for it couldn’t count as a betrayal if she wasn’t in love with him — could it?

The day she had read Thomas’s journal and gone to see the captain, she’d had a vision of throwing herself at him. She’d wanted to walk in there, take his face in her hands and press her body into his. If Thomas had done it, why couldn’t she? But he’d been so resistant, and in the end it just wasn’t in her to have an affair. Not when she loved her husband so much.

And she
does
still love Thomas, she realises. Even though she wants to slap him. To keep on slapping him until her palms ache. She will not let Samuel come between them. The thought of the captain’s body disgusts her now, and so does the idea that he somehow thought he could get rid of Thomas and have her for himself.

Her stinging feet have carried her to the park. She passes through the tall gates and sits down on a bench to compose herself and to rest. The tears have stopped now but it feels as if her stomach is full of rocks.

She gazes out at the people entering and leaving the park: a young mother with a pram, pulling a small child roughly by the hand; an elderly couple moving slowly but regally, dressed more appropriately for church than for a stroll; a fat nurse trying to placate a little girl who has dropped her ice-cream and is crying while attempting to scrape it up with her fingers. And — no! — Captain Fale, coming through the gates towards her.

She lowers her parasol over her face again but it is too late: he has seen her. She hears the
tap tap
of his cane as he approaches. She stands, detours around the back of the park bench and begins walking back the way she came, keeping the parasol so low she can only see his feet as she passes.

‘Mrs Edgar.’

Sophie falters, then stops. She raises the parasol a fraction and looks at him. He stares back. She calmly collapses her parasol, keeping her eyes on his hopeful face. Then without a word she turns and continues on her way, his gaze heavy on her back.

Thomas is leaning on the wall by the gate as if he has been waiting for her. He silently takes her arm and turns her around, back into the park, and she finds she doesn’t resist. She suspects he has followed her here, but she has no idea whether he has seen her exchange with Captain Fale.

The captain hasn’t moved from where she left him, stupid man — why doesn’t he walk away? Sophie fears suddenly that there will be a confrontation: whether initiated by Samuel or Thomas she’s not sure. But Thomas steers her past him, and as she averts her eyes her husband tips his hat at the captain.

‘Fale,’ he says.

Sophie allows herself a small turn of the head, in time to see Samuel, red in the face, nod dumbly and take a step back, stumbling slightly on his bad leg.

Thomas leads her up the path towards the wood — the same path they took when he first arrived home. Though they walk in silence, it is the silence of being alone with their thoughts: the way they used to walk before Thomas went away, when his mind was on the butterflies he would catch.

The wood is cool and dark. Soft pennies of light litter the ground. The only sound is the crunch of acorns underfoot. A red admiral flicks across their path and Sophie glances at Thomas. He is watching it, but sees her looking at him and places his hand over hers and squeezes.

‘Red admirable,’ she says, and smiles.

He smiles back, shyly.

They come to the fork in the path and both move without question towards their private hollow, which winds around the oak tree and into the undergrowth, hidden from view.

‘Shall we sit?’ Thomas takes off his jacket and lays it on the ground for Sophie.

She sits, and picks one foot up to nurse it in her lap.

‘How are they?’ he asks. ‘Your feet.’

‘Much better, thank you. But a rest is good.’

He crouches beside her, takes her hand and brings it to his face. His breath is warm on her skin and she is surprised — this is the most forward gesture he has made to her since he has been back. Thomas kisses her hand gently. It is sweet of him and she is touched. She responds by patting his hair, which has become quite long. The soft curls remind her of a child’s and make her wonder for a moment whether their children will have curly hair or not; certainly they will be blond.

‘My love,’ whispers Thomas, and now he lays his cheek against her fingers. ‘Will you — can you — ever forgive me, do you think?’

Will she? She doesn’t like to admit to herself, but she does now understand the lust that can drive one to act against one’s conscience. They both need time, now, to get to know each other again.

‘Yes, I think I can. You’ve been through so much.’

He nods and looks at the ground.

‘My father … he offered to have us stay with him for a time. Just until you’re feeling better.’

‘Very kind, but we’ll be all right now.’

She looks at him, doubtful. She wants to believe him.