Sound of Butterflies, The (17 page)

Sophie lies in her bed and watches the line of sunlight move across the floor. When it reaches her she knows it is time to get up and get ready for church. She remembers Thomas telling her how as a child he watched a similar patch of sun in the spring — that if it wasn’t there when he woke up, he knew that it was a grey day and the butterflies would be in hiding. Even worse, if it was raining he would have to spend the day inside with his brother Cameron, who would inevitably pull his ear or push him over and make him cry.

She washes and dresses carefully, with Mary’s assistance, in tight stays — which emphasise her already substantial bosom and pitch her forward with a concave back; two petticoats; a high-necked blouse with leg-o’-mutton sleeves; and her best Sunday suit — an emerald-green woollen skirt with a slight train and bolero jacket that Agatha helped her pick out. At the time Agatha said it was boring. ‘But if it’s for church, boring is probably what you want,’ she’d said with a sigh. The rigidity of the undergarments will leave her breathless and sore within a few hours, and she will join the rest of the women in the congregation in tottering about stupidly in order not to fall flat on her face from being front-heavy.

Sophie takes time to do her hair, backcombing it into a high bouffant and letting Mary set it with pins that pinch and scrape at her scalp. Dark circles puff under her eyes, and she applies powder to them with little result. The powder catches in her dark eyelashes and in the natural light that falls through the window. Her blue eyes are magnets in her face. Such a contrast, the long dark lashes against her blonde hair. She can scarcely admit this to herself, but she is aware that she is taking more care than usual, as if today is a special day. And it is — she will take Thomas out into public; not for the first time, but for the first time into a circle of acquaintances. Perhaps if she is immaculately and fashionably dressed, she can draw attention away from him. She wishes she had thought to borrow one of Agatha’s elaborate hats, which seem to get bigger and fruitier every week.

With a last look in the mirror, and a pinch of her pale cheeks, she satisfies herself that she is ready.

Due to the direction of Thomas’s window, the sun has not penetrated the edges of his thick curtains, and the room is as dark as dusk. She pushes open the door silently and listens for a moment to his rasping breath as he sleeps. There was a time when this served only as Thomas’s dressing room and they spent every night together in her bed —
their
bed, really, though she now thinks of it as only hers. In the gloom, she makes out his arm, covered with his soft cotton nightshirt, flung over his head. Up closer, he seems feverish — sweat darkens the curls that frame his face and she can feel a heat emanating from his body as she sits on the bed beside him. In his sleep, he shakes his head and grunts. Her stomach flutters — this is the first sound she has heard from him. If she sits very still, will he stay asleep and utter some words — the sounds of the bad dream he is having?

Instead, Thomas gasps and opens his eyes.

‘I’m here,’ she says quickly, not wanting to startle him. ‘Shh. You were having a bad dream.’

He blinks at her before closing his eyes as relief passes over his face. He wipes at his brow with his sleeve, then pushes the covers down, letting the cool air touch his body. She lets him lie for a moment, getting his bearings, before she rises and opens the curtains. A dull wash illuminates the room.

‘I thought we might go to church,’ she says. ‘The service starts in an hour. Enough time for you to bathe and get dressed. Mary will have breakfast ready for you soon.’

Thomas doesn’t nod as she expects him to, or make a move to get out of bed. Instead, he pulls the covers up again and turns over, pushing his back to her.

‘Thomas?’ She lays a hand on his shoulder, then pulls it away as if she has been burned. She has touched a handful of sharp bones. ‘Darling, please. You must get back into society. You’ve hardly left the house.’

She says nothing about it, but she knows he leaves the house when she is not there. She came home from church yesterday to find him in bed, but she tripped over his boots and fresh mud brushed onto her skirts. When she questioned Mary about it, the girl said she assumed that the master had spent the morning in bed; that she had taken him a cup of tea just after Sophie had left and had seen nothing more of him as she went about her chores.

But now he is refusing to come to church with her. She draws herself up and, without another word, leaves him to his mood.

The church is unbearably hot — the first sign that summer might be on its way. All around Sophie, people fan themselves with hats and Bibles, which create an ineffectual whisper of a breeze. She feels sweat building up between her thighs and under her arms, and her stays are suddenly tighter than they have ever been before. The vicar holds on to his pulpit with both hands. He stands on a box behind it, giving him the illusion of unnatural height. His voice is soporific as he drones on about this or that virtue and sin, and for the first time she can remember, Sophie has stopped listening. A blowfly butts against the window closest to her and in her head the sermon and the insect’s buzzing mingle and become one.

Agatha is starting to nod off beside her; Sophie manages to nudge her just before a snore — which she has heard building — is released into the thick atmosphere. If only Sophie hadn’t worn the woollen suit, but had chosen a light muslin dress instead. But all her summer dresses are in a trunk, carefully folded away until the weather is more promising.

She is aware of somebody’s face turned towards her. Captain Fale is looking at her from across the aisle. He nods at her before averting his eyes.

After the service, during which the rousing hymns woke everybody up, the congregation files sluggishly outside and a collective sigh ripples through the crowd at the cool breeze. It is as if they have been let out from some prison, the tall church doors thrown open like gates. The jailer stands at the bottom of the steps and shakes everybody’s hand as they leave. He grasps Sophie’s and looks up earnestly into her eyes while his little nose twitches.

‘You didn’t bring your husband today, Mrs Edgar?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘He was very feverish this morning. I think he may be really ill.’ More lies, falling on top of one another like dead leaves.

‘Ah, that is a shame. Be sure to have the doctor look at him, won’t you? We look forward to seeing him next time.’

And then she is moving past him and he is shaking Agatha’s hand with a smile, but the two have nothing to say to each other, and Mrs Cotton, behind Agatha, is eager to grab him and twinkle at him about how delighted she was, just
delighted
, with the sermon.

Agatha takes the opportunity of the vicar’s distraction to grasp Sophie’s arm and pull her aside. ‘What is all that about? I haven’t had a chance to ask you. Invite me for tea.’

Sophie smiles at her. ‘Yes, of course.’ She welcomes the confidence she can bestow on her friend. Agatha understands her better than anyone.

‘Mrs Edgar.’ Sophie turns as Captain Fale approaches her. He wears his uniform today, which accentuates his strong frame. ‘So nice to see you on this fine day. I thought the whole congregation was going to faint from the heat.’

Sophie touches her cheek and feels the warmth through her gloves. ‘Yes, it certainly is hot. A nice breeze out here, though.’ How shadowed his face is always, she thinks. Even at church, for which he must have freshly shaved, his beard is visible beneath the surface of his skin. It gives him a bear-like appearance, although he is never gruff with her. His body is a dark mass compared to her husband’s.

She glances at Agatha, who has been sequestered by Robert Chapman. They stand a respectable distance apart, she is relieved to see, and appear to be exchanging polite pleasantries.

‘I meant to ask you,’ says Fale, ‘how are things with Mr Edgar? The last time I saw you he was not so … well. He is too ill to come to church?’

‘It’s not that,’ she blurts, then stops herself.
Damn
. She puts her hand to her mouth in case her thought escapes her mouth and she swears in public. Captain Fale has that effect on her, though. He seems to be able to draw out the things she most wants to keep to herself. But she can trust him, can’t she? He always gives her good advice. He is looking at her, waiting, so she goes on. ‘I tried to get him up for the service, but he refused.’ Her nose begins to tingle, a sign that she might start crying. She puts her hand on it and squashes it into her face, covering her mouth as she does so.

‘Why, do you think?’ he asks.

‘Oh, it will undoubtedly be the crowds. He seems to value quiet, and in his present condition I’m sure he won’t want to face people with their questions and their well-meaning chit-chat. You know …’ She goes to lay a hand on his arm but stops herself. ‘Nobody really knows about this, Samuel. I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone.’

Captain Fale’s shadowed cheeks begin to flush. He opens his mouth as if to say something. No doubt she has disarmed him with her use of his Christian name. She doesn’t know what possessed her, but at the same time it felt right.

‘Of course not, Mrs
Edgar
,’ he says at last, with an emphasis on her married name. ‘But … are you sure it is your husband’s worry about the crowds that has prevented him coming to church?’

‘Yes, I’m sure. I will bring him here again later, when there is nobody about. Why? Do you have another idea?’

‘Only that …’ He shifts on his cane. ‘Do you think perhaps that he has … how can I put this? Perhaps he has compromised … that is, maybe in the jungle he had his faith … challenged.’

Sophie is horrified. ‘Whatever do you mean, sir?’

‘Please, madam,’ he says quickly. ‘I mean you no offence. Please forgive me. I just meant that perhaps he has fallen away from some of his … duties.’

‘Are you suggesting that my husband is now some kind of
pagan
?’ This she says too loudly, and Agatha and Mr Chapman stop speaking to look her way. Several groups continue to mill about, and she sees gloved hands go to mouths, words whispered behind them and nods in her direction. They know, she thinks. They all know. It is no wonder nobody spoke to her when she arrived; she didn’t notice at the time, but now she recalls Mrs Cotton turning her slightly humped back to her, Mr and Mrs Deighton stepping quickly out of her way.

‘Please, forgive me,’ Captain Fale says again. ‘I meant nothing of the sort. Please forget I said anything.’

Sophie finds she is trembling, and to hide it she turns her back to him. ‘We must be going,’ she murmurs. ‘Good day.’

Agatha, frowning, disengages herself immediately and takes Sophie’s arm. Together they turn up the hill towards home.

Stupid, stupid. How could he be so stupid? The captain’s walk home is a painful one. His leg always seems to give him gip when he is upset. Normally he gives in to it and takes a hansom cab, but today he wants to punish himself. His admonishments come in time with his shuffling gait and the tapping of his cane.

Idiot.
Tap
. Cad.
Tap
.