The Specimen (12 page)

As he tiptoed towards the door with his shoes in his hand, Harris spoke out from the bed. “Much obliged to you, sir, for all that you have done.”

Edward paused. “Ah, yes. Don’t mention it. Take care of that eye,” and out of curiosity, he stepped back onto the square of carpet and moved over to the bed to peer at Fergus.
“Look here, um, Harris. About this business.”

Fergus hauled himself up and spoke as if he’d rehearsed his lines all night. “She hadn’t slept for about three or four days by yesterday, and I ain’t no medic, but
I’d say that was half the problem, sir.”

Edward sat down on the end of the bed, keeping his face turned away, so that he would not have to breathe in the rotten air expelled by Fergus. He felt sure his own breath smelled just as bad.
He needed to spit and gargle.

“Has she suffered from insomnia—I mean to say, been like that before?”

“Not since I was at the house, sir.”

“And do you know by any chance what the other half of the problem would be?”

“A romantic involvement.”

Edward frowned. “You know this for certain?”

“I do.”

“How unfortunate that she should take it out on you.”

“It was an accident.”

Edward was about to ask what kind of accident could possibly have resulted in the man having his eye sewn up when Fergus said, “You’ve your own romantic involvement, as well, sir.
Though I think you’ve picked the more sensible of the two of them.”

“What? Don’t presume to speak to me of things you know absolutely nothing about.”

“Well, I doubt Miss Gwen is ever likely to try sewing your eyes up and leaving you in a cellar to freeze half to death, now is she?”

“Have a care, Mr Harris. You’ve no business speaking about Miss Carrick like that. And I’ll thank you not to speak of her in those tones again.”

Fergus shifted against the bolster. He breathed deeply through his nose. “South America’s a long way to go.”

Edward narrowed his eyes, “Watch your tongue, Harris.”

“So, did you never finish your
special
medical studies then? Last time I heard, you was going to be a famous doctor. Writing some big paper, she said, all about her. And then
pouf!
No more. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think you abandoned Miss Jaspur for lack of interest. So, as I say, South America is a long way to go.”

Edward stood up. “Who in hell’s name are you?” He reeled, felt himself sway.

But Fergus had not finished. “Not saying I blame you, mind. Natalia snared all her men, including me. Don’t know though, what Miss Carrick would think about that.”

Edward found himself grasping the little man’s neck and squeezing. “Tell me how you know these things.” Fill his vile little mouth with feathers and let him choke. He released
the pressure, eased himself back. “How dare you.” Edward forced himself not to shout. “How dare you speak that woman’s name in the same breath.” He stared at Fergus.
He’s lying, he thought, he’s lying. He must have said something to Euphemia; he must have done something, known something. Perhaps he’d been taunting Euphemia with information
about her sister’s reputation. He’d infuriated Euphemia and she had acted on her anger. Edward breathed heavily, waiting for the impulse to grind Fergus into nothing to subside as the
extent of Isobel’s involvement became clear. Edward knew he’d be a fool not to recognise it. Waiting for him to answer when he could see that he would not. “I should kill you
now,” he said, “but I’ll not be a murderer for her.” He glanced at Fergus. “Yes. I know. I can see it.” He lowered his voice so that it was barely audible.
“My wife sent you here. But mark my words, whatever she’s promised you, she will never honour it. You are out of your depth, and you’ll do well to keep your mouth shut. By God,
you will.”

The door handle turned, followed by a faint knocking. Edward went and put his ear to the door before opening it a crack.

Gwen pushed open the door and pulled Edward into the corridor. “How is Mr Harris? Is the swelling very much worse?” Gwen’s own eyes were dark-circled and bloodshot.

“It looks worse than it really is. A lot of bruising, that’s all. Your poultice has helped enormously.”

Female hysteria, he thought. Common enough. Easy to handle that. Get some sedatives into the girl. But, by God, who was he trying to fool? He needed to get Gwen out of the house, away from
everything. Isobel’s hand was all over this. Her poisonous tendrils had spilled over the boundary he had constructed and were threatening to choke everything. He turned the object around in
his fingers, not realising that he’d taken it from his pocket. He could still persuade Gwen to go with him to Brazil. He felt Fergus’ presence in the closed room behind his back and he
dropped the object into the folds of his pocket again and bent to tie his laces. As he straightened up, he saw Euphemia running at him. She had on a soiled nightdress and was screeching as she
wielded a knitting needle in her hand.

“For goodness sake, Euphemia,” Gwen bellowed, adding to the din. “Pull yourself together and stop behaving like such an idiot. This really is too much. Especially before
breakfast—”

As Edward stepped neatly aside to avoid Euphemia, he stuck out his foot and tripped her up. Her face was stuck all over with matted strands of hair, glistening with fresh mucous; and her
features swollen and red-blotched from weeping. Her nightdress was unbuttoned down to her navel. Edward looked away as Gwen bent over her sister to try and tidy her.

Edward helped Gwen take Euphemia to her bedroom. There was a strong smell of shit-filled chamberpot in there; it shrouded them in a clinging gossamer of stink as soon as the door was opened.
Shafts of light hit the heaped chaos of clothes and torn papers. Gwen made her sister get into bed. Edward watched her tuck Euphemia into the covers as though nothing much more than a cold in the
head had aggravated her temper. She’ll not come with me, he thought. I’ll not be able to drag her away from this.

Gwen pulled the window down on its cord, letting in a gust of fresh air.

“You didn’t by any chance mention my travelling plans to that Harris, did you?”

Gwen picked her way over the mess on the floor towards Edward. (She stooped to pick up a visiting card. The photograph showed a beautiful, clean-shaven young man. She turned the card over. The
printing was scratched out.) Distractedly, she said, “No, I never discuss private things with—Why?”

“Oh, nothing. He was mumbling something last night, probably just talking in his sleep. I may have got the wrong end of the stick.”

“Susan will deal with all of this.” Gwen waved her arm over the mess, letting the card drop. “Let’s go downstairs now.”

“By the way,” Edward said, “I came across this in your guest room—an artefact from your childhood, perhaps?” He took her wrist gently and put the marble into her
hand. Puzzled, Gwen glanced at it briefly before shutting the door behind them.

Fergus heard the commotion outside the bedroom door but did not pay much attention to it. He had drawn the curtains wide open and pulled back the covers from the bed. It must
be hidden in a fold. He turned both pillows out of their cases and shook everything. He scrabbled around the mattress like a terrier looking for its rat. Then he got down and inspected the
underneath of the bed. He lifted the carpet at its edges. He shook out all the bedding piece by piece, and folded every sheet and blanket in turn. Not an easy thing to do. His arms ached. He
tussled with the panic bubbling in his throat and sat down on the heap of folded bedding to get his breath back. He began to doubt the memory of putting it under his pillow in the small hours
before dawn. Mr Scales had been snoring like a drunk. He had not imagined it. He had fallen asleep with the balas diamond in his fist. He got up off the pile of bedclothes and began to unfold and
shake out the sheets again, though he knew it was now a waste of time. His tears stung, and they blocked his already impaired vision. He poured the salty water from the jug into the bowl Gwen had
set down and then put on the clothes which had been laid out for him the night before.

It was time to reassess his situation. This bit of theatre was over; there were better things to worry about. Bugger. He had to find it. He couldn’t leave without it.

Edward looked about him in the library where he was waiting for Gwen to return after speaking at length to her maid. It had become clear to him that Gwen’s sister had
chosen the maid’s one night off in the month to cause her havoc in the household. His own brief first appraisal of Susan at Carrick House that morning had been that she was not the kind of
woman you would want to have about the house if you chose to misbehave in such a manner. Her hands were large and square. And she had an attitude he would never seek to cross in a month of her days
off.

The library was at the front of the house and its window had an excellent view of the drive; the fields either side of it with their crops of barley and flax were full of flowers; swallows
skimmed low for insects over the heads of the colourful blooms and ripening seed heads.

Gwen shut the door behind her, and Edward turned away from his gazing. He had been lost in his situation for a moment, but now he tried to guess what Gwen had to say. He waited for a moment and
when she said nothing he asked if there was anything more that he could do to help. She shook her head. “I’ll go with you to Brazil, Edward. You need not worry that my sister’s
hysterics will detain me here.”

“Thank God. Thank you, I hardly know what to say.”

“I am sure you’re tired, and want to go to your own house and sleep properly.”

“You are exhausted.”

“Yes.”

“But you are sure that you want this?”

“I am. It is not because of what my sister has done, or only partly. It has become impossible for me to live with her, but it is also impossible for me to continue to live the way I have
been since the day I met you. I want to be with you every day, and I want to expand my scientific knowledge. So, yes, I am sure I want this, because I want you.”

Edward lunged across the room and smothered her in a tight embrace. “You can’t know how glad that makes me.”

“I can guess.”

“I have almost seven weeks to make the last arrangements. I must return to London for a short while. I have been given the name of a gentleman who will verify and buy specimens and I must
meet with him to discuss terms. And there are other matters to tie up. But these things are routine, I should be able to return in three weeks’ time. Our ship embarks from here.”

“You mean from Falmouth?”

“Yes. I thought that if you did decide it was something you wanted, then you would not want to travel all the way to London or to Liverpool.”

Gwen nodded and closed her eyes. She was sure that this was what she wanted. It frightened her more than anything and it gave her a thrill it was difficult to conceal. It was worth enduring the
next weeks, no matter what kind of hysterics and difficulties Euphemia devised, when afterwards she would be able to be true to herself and to be with Edward.

“This is what we were always meant to do,” he said. “Our joining together, in this way, is more divine than anything ever imagined.”

Gwen opened her eyes again to find that he was leaning in; before she could speak he had clamped his mouth around her partly open lips.

Helford Passage, Cornwall. September, 1860.

Susan stood with her hip against the kitchen table in Carrick House and rubbed at the brass key with her apron. Fergus watched her bring the key up to her face and blow the
last bits of soil from its crevices. She was calming herself after all the bother with the large crate of glassware which had arrived that morning from town. There had been some wrangling, but
Susan had managed eventually to persuade the deliveryman and his lad to get the thing down the outside steps to the cellar. She eyed Fergus over the jumble of things on the kitchen table. He had
been emptying another cupboard, and was halfway through examining the contents. The stone jar of flour was half sifted into a large bowl and a white layer of dust covered everything else. Susan
cleared her throat and rubbed harder.

“I usually do that kind of thing in the springtime, Mr Harris,” Susan met his eye, “and that flour was only bought very recent, as you well know. You won’t find no grubs
in there.”

“I ain’t looking for grubs, Miss Wright.”

“Then what are you up to? It’s making such a mess.”

Fergus put down the sieve with a resigned huff. “I’m sorry, Miss Wright. I thought, with all the house being so upside down, I might have found—”

“Yes, Mr Harris?”

“You’ve been at this place a while, Miss Wright. Do you think—I mean, does this business seem out of the ordinary to you?”

“I never do the spring cleaning like that, if that’s what you mean, Mr Harris.”

“No. I mean the thing with the key. Her hiding it all over. And the other things, as well.”

“You mean has Miss Euphemia done this before?”

“It is her, then? Not the other?”

Susan pulled out a chair and sat on it, holding the brass winding key in her lap. She looked at him square in the face. “Mr Harris, Miss Gwen would never do anything to annoy me,
she’d never do anything to upset me and she’d never ever make extra work for me. I know that girl. She’s as true as the day is long.”

“And what would you have to say if I was to tell you that Miss Gwen has been making plans to go away?”

“Don’t be daft now, Mr Harris. Where would she go?”

“I ain’t being daft, Miss Wright; she’s going,” he lowered his voice, “to South America, Miss Wright. Yes,” he said seeing her expression change,
“Brazil.”

“I swear, Mr Harris, you shouldn’t tell tales on people like Miss Gwen. It’s not nice.”

“Maybe, but it’s true.”

“How come you know all about it?”

“Walls and doors have lugs, don’t they?”

“Why? Why would she do that to us, leaving us with her batsy sister?” Susan covered her mouth with her hands still holding the key. “I never said that.”

“Yes, you did. And it’s right enough. She is barmy.”