The Specimen (18 page)

“I’m sure I—”

“Marcus Frome has arrived at long last, the dear soul!” Hettie exclaimed and clapped her hands. “Ladies, do let us give him an impromptu musical welcome.”

Gwen did not know where to look. She could sense the hilarity of the situation unfolding as the gathered ladies began to twitter like syncopated chickens whilst they decided which piece would be
best. She moved herself a little apart from the group and then, sure that she would not be missed, went back to where Edward stood, still talking to Tristan Grindlock and now the eagerly awaited Mr
Frome.

“Is everything all right?” Edward asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“Mrs Scales,” said Tristan Grindlock, “may I introduce you to Marcus Frome, who is just regaling us with his tale of woe.”

Marcus Frome looked to Gwen like a toad. She gave him a pleasant enough smile and let him take her hand and press his lips to her fingers, glad that she had worn the lace cotton gloves after
all.

“Enchanting wife, you have, Scales,” he said with a wet smile on his lips. “Enchanting.”

“Mr Frome,” Gwen said, unable to find anything pleasant to say to the man as she felt his saliva soak into her glove and between her fingers.

“Frome, poor chap, was just telling us how he’s lost everything in a gale,” said Tristan Grindlock.

“Yes, I’m making arrangements for my passage back to Liverpool. Can’t get the stuff, see, out here.” He rolled on his heels. “Got to hop back and stock up all
over.”

“How terrible,” Gwen managed to say without irony.

“Yes, it’s a blow.” He turned away from Gwen to address the two men: “Two years’ work sunk. Capsized, see? Not enough ballast. I expect you, Scales, I expect
you’ve seen to it that you’re properly kitted out?”

“Properly, indeed!” said Tristan Grindlock. “Took a week to land all those crates. Well, near enough anyway, eh, Scales?”

“Entomology? Almost my line.”

“Indeed, Mr Frome?” said Gwen, still put out by the saliva which lingered on her glove.

“Yes, Mrs Scales,” he said, very deliberately turning to address her, but finding that he had to look straight into her eyes, lowering his gaze to her bust and addressing her there.
“Mosquitoes.” He turned away again to speak to the men.

“Mr Frome!” Hettie floated herself up to him. “Do forgive us, we are ready now.” Quite unselficonsciously, Hettie Grindlock took his hand and pulled him to a sofa where
she made him sit down. Ranged in front of him now were the ladies, some of them breathing too rapidly to be able to sing effectively. Gwen thought, I do hope this turns out to be truly dreadful; he
certainly deserves a good blast of bad notes.

Hettie ushered everyone else into seats, and Gwen noticed that all the Grindlock children were now present. Her eyes widened in search of creatures on the ends of strings. There were none.

“A little bit of ‘Lucia’, we have decided upon, in honour of Marcus Frome, who will soon be leaving for England, and will be very much missed. We give you ‘Spargi
d’amaro pianto’,” Hettie declared.

It was as Gwen had hoped and more so. She revelled in Mr Frome’s discomfort and, when it was over, stood up to give her very enthusiastic applause to the ladies. She beamed at them all
with genuine smiles of appreciation.

Edward muttered in her ear, “You do know that was a dreadful rendering. A cat, a dead one, could have done better.”

“Of course,” she said, still smiling. “It was most extraordinary, and I would not have missed it for anything.”

“Are you sure you are quite all right?”

Gwen didn’t have time to reply; they were called to dinner and spliced to different parts of the table. She was happy to note that Marcus Frome was nowhere near her and that she
wouldn’t have to speak to him. Gwen was amongst the ladies, who having delivered their masterpiece, now wanted to know all about the young couple. They began to quiz her in earnest. Gwen gave
vague replies and picked up her glass of wine.

“French,” nodded a woman called Mrs Trisk, whose top notes had been delightfully grating. “They have it shipped twice a year. Royal stuff, royal.” Mrs Trisk gulped at her
own glass. Gwen sipped and felt a rush of energy swoop down her arms and rest in her elbows. My God, she thought, I’m absolutely drunk on one mouthful. Her plate of meat and fruit danced on
the table, and she gripped the edge of her chair with her free hand. She took another sip and the same rush powered its way to her elbows, but she steadied and let go of the chair.

“Eloquent, isn’t it?” said Mrs Trisk, studying Gwen’s reaction.

“Very.”

“So, do tell me again, your family are Cornish?”

Gwen sliced at a bit of meat.

“Why, that’s extraordinary good luck!” Everyone at the table stopped talking or eating to look up and direct their attention to Marcus Frome who had just shouted the words out
and was standing up to lean over the table and shake Edward by the hand. He pumped his arm as though he would never stop.

“Mrs Scales, you were saying?”

The noise of resumed conversations rose to fill the air again, and Gwen couldn’t catch what Edward had said in reply to Mr Frome’s outburst.

“My family? My family is my sister.” Gwen did not want to get further drawn into the conversation.

“And she is married, too?”

“No, she is not. What do you know about Mr Frome?” Gwen looked past Mrs Trisk towards Edward and strained to hear how his conversation was developing. His words were muffled, but Mr
Frome’s were not.

“Absolutely, my dear fellow! One cannot allow these matters to flourish. In my opinion—”

“Not married?” Mrs Trisk engaged her again. “How on earth does she live?”

“Quite well, as a matter of fact. What do you make of Mr Frome?”

“Oh? Ah. I am sure I am not as well acquainted with Mr Frome as our dear Mrs Grindlock.”

“But why do you think he must go back to England, when, surely, all he needs to do is send for whatever he requires?”

“But, my dear Mrs Scales, the man lost everything, everything, you understand. He had not even a full set of clothing on his back when he was rescued, you see.”

Gwen pushed the food around her plate, slicing it up into ever smaller and smaller pieces until it resembled something indescribably horrid. She stabbed a flake of meat and put it into her
mouth.

“Can’t let them loose amongst such dangerous subjects,” Mr Frome said, and Gwen tried to hear the rest. “Consequences dire, I may assure you.”

“Is he married, Mr Frome?” she asked Mrs Trisk, “Is he perhaps returning to see loved ones?” The very idea struck her as unimaginable.

Mrs Trisk tucked her chin into her neck and tried to sip her wine. “I think he is a confirmed bachelor, Mrs Scales.”

“Really. How interesting.”

Later during the meal, Gwen heard Edward’s voice raised. He was being too loud because of the wine. She heard him say, “Of course, the country offers a vast opportunity, as you
yourself are aware, Frome, to make one’s mark, to secure one’s place in the annals of history and scientific endeavour. And, in entomology, especially so.”

“And what of the opportunities of the land itself, eh, Scales? What do you make of the fertility of the place?”

“Obviously, the verdant nature of the forest points to all kinds of opportunities, indeed it is so. If one were to cultivate the land in the civilised way—”

Gwen listened to Edward’s talk with a growing sense of disbelief. Everything they had talked about before they had come here was being flayed. Knowledge for its own sake, not kudos; the
value of pristine nature and its role in the search for that truth which was as yet incomplete. In her bleary, tipsy state she saw Edward in a moment of intense clarity, and she hated it. She
blanched and then felt suffocated as the talk went on. Edward’s voice pitched over the clusters of babble going on around the table.

“From what I have seen so far,” Edward was now saying, “the local way of cultivation is very primitive. These fellows don’t seem to take much pride in their kitchen
gardens; weeds choking things, nothing in any discernible order, a hotchpotch. From what I have been able to gather, the attitude is just the tip of the iceberg—”

The evening had to end, and it did, and Gwen was very glad of it. She couldn’t wait to get back and take off her clothes, breathe again, eat something, empty her bladder.
Stop talking, stop trying to both hear and blot out what the men were saying. To just get away.

“There’ll be a slight change to my routine tomorrow,” Edward told her as he unfastened her gown, his breath hot on her neck. “I’ve invited Frome for breakfast.
Well, he’s invited himself, actually. Nothing I can do about it now, of course. Still. So, formal for breakfast. Apologies.” He let his hands fall away from her.

Gwen stood still for a moment, and then without a word went to her hammock and dropped her clothes to the floor, too tired to care about what might crawl into the folds of it all.

In the morning, she chose from between the layers of tissue and mothballs in her trunk a good dark skirt. She struggled to fasten the skirt’s topmost hooks and eyes. As
long as I don’t sit down, she thought. She undid the last four fastenings and tied a sash over the gape, its tail hanging down over her hip. To make up for it, Gwen fixed her hair into the
neatest, most severe style she could manage on her own, using every pin and comb she could lay her fingers on.

“You won’t mind if I don’t wait for Mr Frome,” Gwen said as she took up a cup of pale tea and stabbed at the lemon slice with a small fork. “Only, I didn’t
eat last night.”

Edward coughed, and Gwen froze, looking up at him.

“Carry on,” was all he said.

Marcus Frome was an hour late. They received him on the verandah where he arrived in a burst of noise. Gwen wondered how anyone could be so consistently obnoxious.

“Capital morning, Scales!” he said. “Capital morning! My God, I’ve hardly slept a wink all night. I’ve been revising everything. Up to here I am, up to here,”
he said, his hand jabbing at the air above his head.

“Good morning, Mr Frome,” Gwen said. “May I get you something?”

“Enchanted again. Enchanted.” He turned to Edward. “Listen, old chap, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

Gwen moved towards Marcus Frome with a cup. “Your coffee, Mr Frome.” She put it into his hands so that he had to take it from her or risk scalding himself. Marcus Frome was also
forced to acknowledge her. “One gets frightfully jungly,” he said, looking her over, “but that’s to be expected. Shall we get on with it, then?” Marcus Frome put the
cup down untouched and walked off into the house. “Ah yes,” he said through his nose, “standard set-up. Though, of course, with me, there were no females to complicate the
situation. Through here then, is it?” He busied himself into Edward’s workroom and stalked about, surveying the room and its contents, touching things with an offhand flutter of his
fingertips.

“It’s, er, not exactly. No, not in this room at present,” Edward said quietly as he followed him.

“So, let’s see the thing then, shall we?” Marcus Frome’s eyes widened in impatient expectation.

Gwen stood in the doorway and leaned against the timber with her arms folded. Edward turned to her, his face pale. “Gwen, I wonder, if you would mind very much, if Mr Frome were to have a
look at the—at your microscope?”

“I beg your pardon?” Her arms unfolded.

“Microscope, Mrs Scales; not a plaything but an instrument of science.”

“I’m fully aware of its function, Mr Frome.”

“Let’s have it, then, Scales old boy, and I’ll see what I think of it and write you out the note.”

“Would you mind stepping outside for a moment, Edward? Do excuse us, Mr Frome.” Gwen trod heavily to the verandah and turned on Edward. “What is going on? What does the man
mean, ‘Let’s have it’?”

“Gwen, I was meaning to—I would have liked to have had more opportunity to discuss the matter.”

“I’d like very much to know what there is to discuss.”

“Nothing to discuss, Mrs Scales.” Marcus Frome had appeared behind them and picked up the cup of coffee to blow noisily over it, grinning at them. “Scales is selling me his
microscope, see. But I can’t very well buy the thing if I haven’t seen it first.”

“Mr Scales doesn’t have a microscope to sell,” she said, not taking her eyes off Edward.

“Ha! What did I tell you last night, Scales, eh? Got a pair of trousers on under that skirt have you, Mrs Scales?”

“You’ll kindly leave at once, Mr Frome.” Gwen’s voice was level. “Good day to you.”

“Sorry, can’t do that. See, Scales here made me a promise.”

“Mr Frome! You appear to have been labouring under the misapprehension that Mr Scales is at liberty to sell my property without telling me and without my say-so. Allow me to divest you of
this misguided notion.”

“The modern woman, eh? Well, let me tell you, Mrs Scales, when you made those vows, you relinquished all rights to your property; Mr Scales is your protector and keeper. He has promised me
a microscope, and, by golly, I’ll have it.”

“You are not having my microscope, you impudent toad of a man; get that plain fact into your fat head.”

“Gwen,” Edward’s voice was quiet, “perhaps if we take a moment to discuss the matter—”

“I’ll be discussing it no further, Mr Scales.”

“For God’s sake, Scales! See to it that your obstreperous woman here understands her obligations.”

“This man is offensive, Mr Scales; invite him to leave immediately.”

“You see, the fact of the matter is this. Frome was in the middle of some very—” Edward’s manner was irritatingly calm and reasonable, and it stirred up a turbulent fury
just underneath Gwen’s breastbone.

“Will you, or will you not, tell this person to leave?”

“He was telling me about his undertaking some research, you see, into malaria, and—”

“Malaria? He said that he was interested in mosquitoes.”

“Madam, I most certainly did no such thing. I—”

“Mr Frome, I am not stupid, and I am not a liar. You told me your interests lay in mosquitoes.”

“I didn’t! I said no such thing at all. I assure you both on my life that I am not interested in mosquitoes and I have no reason to be interested in mosquitoes. I am not an
entomologist. I am a medical man; I am a doctor of medicine. It was not mosquitoes, not at all.”