The Specimen (6 page)

When he woke in the morning he was still drunk. He roused himself and looked at the chaos of paperwork he had strewn about the night before. He knew he could be better than the sum of these
papers. It was just a matter of finding his own truth. Miss Carrick seemed to be aware of her own truth; she seemed to have a clear sense of purpose and a fierce determination, in spite of the hand
that had been dealt her. He went upstairs to bed where he slept until late morning. Waking for the second time he threw himself out of the covers. He stood still for a moment at the bedside and
reeled at his hangover, determined not to throw up. The pressing thought that he must find the Burns poem before he went back to see Miss Carrick was clear in his mind. As he splashed water on his
face at the wash-stand he knew, suddenly, what the inexplicable feeling was. The thing he had been unable to name was simple. He was in love.

“They are taking advantage of your vulnerable state, Isobel. These people are the lowest sort.”

“Then you should be happy that I shall find myself in suitable company, Edward.”

“Those are your words, not mine. What is done is done, but this will only serve to compound your unhappiness, not cure it.”

“I am not looking for a cure, Edward, I am looking for my child.”

“We buried him. Two days ago, we buried him; you know where his body lies. Wherever his tiny spirit has gone, I can guarantee that you will not find it in some spinster’s
parlour
overstuffed with horsehair, velvet and threads of manipulation tied to hidden china bells.”

“They say the spirits sometimes bring gifts from the other side. The Enderby sisters say—”

“All of it is nonsense, Isobel, and if you were not in this unfortunate state you would say the same yourself, without any doubt. Pure nonsense; it is nothing more than cheap
trickery.”

“And, of course, you are an authority on that particular subject. Why can’t you let me grieve?”

“I wish you would grieve, but this is no way to go about it.”

“You are punishing me because of the child.”

“I have no wish to do any such thing.”

“And yet, had he lived, I think you would have punished me more.”

“Isobel, you are not yourself. Let me take you home.”

“No.”

Isobel’s comment about his authority on trickery had pricked him, but he felt it unjust. Spirits quite simply could no more be conjured than congealed blood be made liquid and life-giving.
Life was governed by the function of a body. Its deterioration to the point of cessation of functioning parts stopped the flow of blood. It—the flow of blood, that ordinary substance in
veins—this in Edward’s mind was where the spirit lay. Blood became infected with disease, and the body still living could exist for a time with the process of decay. He glanced at his
wife, whose expression was unreadable. After the last breath, thought Edward, blood congealed, and then decayed. Once the body was dead, the spirit too was dead. He had watched, in his observation
of patients’ deaths, for evidence of the departure of the spirit. He could not attach to the process of a human death the sentiment enjoyed by those zealous purveyors of idiotic lies.

Their carriage came to a stop and Edward opened the door for her. He got out and helped her down. She was pitifully weak on her feet.

“We did not bury my child, Edward. You had him put in a box lined with lead and locked him into a cold, dark place. He will not be happy, and I need to let him know that it was not me who
put him there.”

“Your father and I did what you yourself asked us to do. You did not want him to be under the ground.”

“I did not want him to be dead; I did not want to let him go anywhere. At least allow me this.”

“I will be here again in one hour.”

He took her up to the house and surveyed its facade with distaste. The afternoon light made the masonry glow, and a blackbird sang in a branch somewhere above his head. It was very ordinary. In
spite of everything, he did not want to leave her here, but he did not stop her. He reached up for her and knocked on the door and watched her go in. My God, he thought, this is ridiculous. And
where was Charles, in all of this? In Cornwall, in exactly the place Edward wanted to be. Edward felt he had more right to be in Cornwall at that moment than any other man. He told the driver to
take him to the park.

“Which one, sir?”

“Oh, just any park, I don’t care.”

“Right you are then, sir, won’t take five minutes.”

When he went back to collect Isobel he could see that she had been weeping. They travelled in silence. He didn’t know how to tell her that he would be returning to Cornwall the next week.
She went to her room and he followed her.

“Isobel, I can’t stay here and watch you do this to yourself.”

“Don’t use pity for myself or my child as your excuse, Edward.”

“I am sorry. I must go.”

“Curiosities again, is it? Or some other brilliant new
idea
of yours?”

“I know that it might seem—”

“Edward, stop now. I am tired.”

Falmouth. May, 1859.

A Masqued Ball. If he was trying to make up for having neglected his favourite cousin, Freddie was doing it in the only way he could manage. His house in Falmouth town was
overspilling with guests when Gwen arrived in the carriage Freddie had sent for her. Freddie leaped down the front steps of the house to greet her, wearing a grotesque
papier-mâché
grimace on the top of his head and waving an elaborate feathered mask in his hand.

“No one but I shall know who you are. There will be no introductions, no ghastly formalities. We are going to have so much fun. No singing for those who don’t want to. No polite
trivialities.”

“This isn’t a little gathering, Freddie.”

“I’ve a wicked mind, dear Gwen. Do put this on.” He tied the tapes at the back of her head and admired her hair. “The beetle looks lovely on you.”

“It is too extravagant, Freddie. I can’t keep it.” The brooch he had sent her, a brilliant green beetle, was stunning in its design and the delicate craftsmanship of the
goldsmith. Freddie had no regard for the amount of money he spent. It was only money, he always said. Happiness and love are more valuable. But Gwen knew that the money Freddie spent so easily was
minted from the sweat and degradation of human beings he never had to see and never chose to dwell upon. It was the only subject which they could never discuss. If they did, then they would lose
each other irrevocably.

“Such rot, of course, you shall keep it. No one else could wear it with such an audacious charm. Besides, it was made for you. Now, come with me. All these people think that they have
abandoned London mid-season for a bit of riotous sensational whatsit, so we had better give it to them.”

“You’ve been planning this for weeks.”

“Months, if we must be truthful. I have missed you so much, and I know how you hated the way those half-wits swooned over you at my mother’s gatherings. But I know you too well to
know that you can’t actually like the way you’ve gone and cut yourself off from the whirligig of life.”

“Don’t let’s get into that again.”

“But this fixes everything! You can say whatever comes into your head to whomsoever you choose. No one can form an opinion of your opinions, if you get my drift.”

“I think Effie would be better at this than me.”

“Your sister has chosen her own amusements. She prefers mothballs to masqued balls.”

Gwen laughed, and Freddie pulled his own mask down onto his face and put his arm around her corseted waist.

Some of the guests had already spilled out onto the lamplit lawns of the garden and were having a treasure hunt among the topiary. The drawing room was set up as a gambling parlour and was a
clamour of noise—music, the rattle of the roulette wheels, the chink of crystal and money, and shrieks of laughter. Everyone was playing Freddie’s game to the letter and wore a mask of
some kind; even the musicians.

Freddie spoke into her ear as they walked past a roulette table. “You see, dear cousin, we all need a mask to be our true selves. Look at them all, having such fun. In two days’ time
they will be back in London; the last thrill of this mid-week excursion to the precipice of debauchery will be the rattling speed of the express locomotive, and when they alight at the station they
will pretend it was all just a dream. Now, come and trot a
gavotte
with me.”

Three men sat at one piano playing the music to which Freddie and Gwen began to dance among the crowd of guests. Freddie’s mask was the embodiment of the frustration Gwen knew he suffered
in real life; the mask he was forced to wear and could never remove in the company of those who believed they knew him so well. Gwen was whirled about and lifted from her feet by Freddie’s
exuberant interpretation of the music. She felt herself swept along in thrall to his enthusiasm. She glanced at the other masked guests in the confusion of costumes around them and recognised no
one at all though she knew there must be people in the room who were known to her besides Freddie. When the
gavotte
came to an end another man took Gwen around on the next dance until
someone else cut in halfway through. Over the next hour, Gwen drank punch and danced with more strangers; she lost sight of Freddie. The mask’s feathers stuck to the sweat on her face. She
eventually went outside to find a private place to take it off and cool down. Others had the same idea, and there were several ladies wandering about fanning themselves among the tightly clipped
hedges. She couldn’t find anywhere private enough and so kept her mask on.

“Marvellous stroke of genius, wasn’t it?”

Gwen turned to face the man who had obviously crept up behind her. “You refer to our host’s flair for entertaining.”

“I do, indeed. I’ve been trying to work out which mask is Fernly’s ever since I arrived. Dark fellow.”

“I think you mean that he has entered fully into the spirit of the evening.”

“Absolutely. Yourself likewise. I may not be permitted to ask your name, but may I bring you some refreshment?”

“A glass of water, thank you.”

He left her, and Gwen finally lifted her mask away from her face and craned her neck up to the night sky. Some of the lanterns hung about the garden had burned out; where she stood, another
guttered its last as she waited for the man to return. She heard the approach of a voice and put her mask back on, even though there was not enough light now to make out more than the outlines of
figures backlit by the bright windows of the house. But it was not the man bringing her a drink. She heard Freddie’s voice and was about to come out of the shadows to greet him when she heard
that he was speaking to another man. She pulled her mask off again and stayed out of his sight. The punch had made her woozy; away from the swirl of the company of others she felt it more acutely.
She tried to listen to what Freddie and his companion were saying on the other side of the hedge. It seemed that at last Freddie had found someone with whom he could wear his ideal mask. Gwen
leaned against the thick hedge, slightly jealous of his romantic success and his utter disregard for rules. Freddie and the other young man moved further on into the deeper shadows where they would
not be chanced upon by anyone.

Gwen retied her mask, but, unlike Freddie, she didn’t want to go through life feathered up in an elaborate disguise. She loved Freddie for his sincere and elaborate efforts to make her
happy despite his own deeply melancholic nature, but he didn’t understand her desire to be treated with respect when she spoke openly about the things she cared for most.

The man who had gone off to fetch her a glass of water now came holding it out in front of his person, his view of the ground limited by his mask. He picked up his feet and raised his knees in a
very comical way. Gwen thought he looked like a grey heron.

“I am very much obliged to you, sir.” She took the glass and drank all the water.

“The lamps are going out. I’m afraid I left you standing alone in the dark longer than I anticipated.”

“I didn’t notice. I was looking at the stars.”

“Ah, a romantic nature. Much like myself.”

“Actually, I was reflecting on the fact that I so rarely take the trouble to study the night sky, and that I can’t distinguish between the stars and the planets.”

“I don’t bother about it myself. They all twinkle, and they are all a very long way away, so I understand.”

“Yes. A long way away. Perhaps tonight is not the time to be thinking about the planets.”

“They are playing a waltz, madam. Would you do me the honour again?”

Gwen was disconcerted that she hadn’t remembered dancing with the man and that he had taken the trouble to seek her out in the garden, but she agreed to dance with him again. As she
waltzed she wondered how long Freddie would spend out in the dark with the other young man and whether either of them would take off their
papier-mâché
masks. She thought of
Edward Scales and wanted to know what he was doing at that precise moment. The sudden thought that he might even be there, at Freddie’s Ball, gripped her mind and would not leave her, even
though she was convinced that a place like this was the least likely venue in which she would ever find him.

It was seventeen days since Gwen had received the letter from Edward, and she had heard nothing more from him until this morning. His short note told her that he would be
taking a walk and begged for her company on the beach. Gwen picked up Freddie’s beetle brooch and fixed it into her hair; then she took it out again and put it back into the velvet box. She
changed her clothes again, swapping her good dress for the things she had been wearing the first time and looked at herself in the long mirror. The feathered mask she had worn at Freddie’s
ball hung by its tapes from the frame of the mirror. She unhooked it carefully and found some tissue to wrap it in. She placed it inside a hat box with some sachets of cloves and rosemary. When she
picked up her jacket, her hands were shaking.