Sound of Butterflies, The (32 page)

Clara was there, too, and George. Behind them loomed two large dark figures, conversing in Portuguese: Antonio and Santos.
Santos is back.
The room tilted on its axis and a wave of nausea crashed over Thomas. It was Santos, it had to be. He had followed him to the butterfly valley. He had waited until he fell asleep, then he had played his cruel trick on him. He was punishing him for his relations with Clara.

‘I had it,’ he wheezed. ‘He took it.’

Muttering erupted around him.
What’s he on about?
…
He’s delirious
…
Get him to drink some water
…

Thomas caught Santos’s marble eyes looking at him. Then all went black.

Richmond, May 1904

Sophie pauses outside Thomas’s study to listen for any sounds. Nothing. She knocks gently, then opens the door.

‘I brought you tea,’ she says, as if she needs an excuse to enter; besides, it’s obvious from the cup she holds in her hand.

He looks up from his work and nods, before resuming bending over a specimen with a magnifying glass. Sophie puts the cup down beside him and hovers about. She has been crying and she doesn’t care if he sees her puffy eyes. Let him know how he upsets her. There is no doubt he is changing: the colour is coming back into his cheeks; his abrasions are healing and he seems to walk more upright. His brittle frame has become more robust.

But still he will not speak to her.

After the agent’s visit on Thursday — two days ago — Sophie tried again to find his journals; when she couldn’t, she thought about asking him for them. Another day, though. It was not the right time. Mr Ridewell spoke of secrets, and hindrances to his work, a fever. But when she studied her husband as he ate his dinner, his eyes downcast, taking the food in neat bites, he was unreadable.

He glances over his shoulder at her, as if to say,
Are you still here?
She folds her arms and moves closer.

‘I found the blue butterfly, Thomas.’ He freezes. He goes on looking at the specimen in front of him, but every muscle has gone rigid. ‘I meant to say thank you. It’s beautiful.’

He nods, and his body relaxes once more.

‘Did you ever find your
papilio
, my love?’

He lays his magnifying glass to one side, brings a fist to his mouth and coughs. His throat sounds full of tiny stones. It’s the first real sound she has heard from him, and it fills the room and swirls around her. Then he shrugs.

How can he not know whether he found it or not? She’s irritated suddenly at his evasiveness, the way he always has his back to her or his eyes down. At least when he was catatonic she could tell herself how sick he was, but now he seems to be wilfully keeping silent. Now that he spends all day in his study, unpacking, ordering, cataloguing, and writing, she can’t make excuses for him. If only he showed as much attention to her as he does for his stupid butterflies. For the woman in Brazil, even. Perhaps a spell in hospital would do him good after all.

What is she thinking? She shakes the thought away and removes an old teacup from beside him. No, the next step is to continue life as normal, as if nothing has happened.
Take him to do the things he loves
. Tonight they will go to the theatre. She will make him notice her again.

It has been a long time since Sophie has dressed up properly for an evening out and she takes her time getting ready. She selects the dress Thomas bought her before he left and has never seen on her. The copper-shot lavender chiffon falls in soft folds about her body. She worried at first that it was too daring — the neckline is cut low and her shoulders are exposed through peepholes — but now it doesn’t seem to matter. She knows that Agatha must have helped Thomas choose the design, because it is something she can imagine Agatha wearing — the height of fashion — and the sort of thing her friend is always trying to persuade her to buy. She doesn’t dare think how much it must have cost: the details are exquisite, with a blouse waist, a plaited belt of Liberty satin and the sleeves formed from draped pieces of gauze held with satin. She shimmers as she walks and the spangled material and fringe catch the light.

She pins her hair in a high pompadour and fixes a silk flower to the front of it. A matching lavender fan and a diamanté necklace complete the outfit.

Earlier in the day she laid Thomas’s evening suit out for him while he sat in his study. She had found it when she unpacked his trunk of clothes. Everything else had been worn thin and filthy. When she sniffed at the rags of his collecting clothes she fancied they smelled of the jungle, and his old boots were muddy, with grit and dead leaves embedded in the soles. He had inadvertently brought back more of the forest than he had intended. In the middle of all that tattered and dirty clothing — which she later threw away — was a glossy black suit, with shirt and tie and even spats. When could he have worn it? She brought it to her nose and inhaled. It smelled faintly of cigar smoke.

He will need protection tonight, that is certain: from the gaping stares of people, from those who try to engage him in conversation, and those who will be scrutinising him for signs of madness. She has scarcely been able to admit it to herself — has in fact pushed the thought from her head for her own sanity — but it is these signs that worry her the most: his dogged silence; the way he can barely look at her when she enters the room; the way he jumped up, quivering, when a butterfly touched the window that day. His secret disappearances. What if Thomas behaves strangely tonight and somebody reports it to her father? He would have Thomas committed to an institution in a heartbeat, would take Sophie back to live out her life in his care with an ‘I told you so’ look every day.

Dr Dixon might also be at the theatre tonight. He is an avid fan of comedies — he told her so himself. If he sees Thomas is not getting better … she stops herself. No, Thomas has definitely improved since the doctor examined him. She will put it all out of her mind and concentrate on enjoying herself — and making sure her husband does too. And if
that woman
is still on his mind, she will make him forget.

When she calls into his room, he sits dressed on his bed. He jumps to his feet when he sees her and his mouth opens so she thinks he might speak, but he closes it again. The look he gives her says it all. Hope spreads through her like warm milk.

The crowd is gathered in the warm evening at the entrance to the theatre. A rumble of conversation and bright laughter meet them as they move in tight formation, the three of them. It is as if she and Agatha are chaperoning Thomas instead of the other way around. Sophie clasps his left arm and on the other side of him Agatha is so close Sophie can smell her scent: lilacs. It is overpowering. The crowd parts for them as they move through it. She expects people to avoid her gaze, to turn their backs as they did at church. Instead, they give her and Thomas sympathetic smiles. Did she imagine it at church that day?

She is glad she told Mrs Sykes now. At first she regretted it, wanted to keep their private life private, but now nobody moves to speak to them and they are all saved from excruciating awkwardness. She couldn’t stand to cause a scene.

Robert Chapman, however, immediately approaches Agatha, who moves away from Thomas and turns her body towards her lover. Her gaze sweeps approvingly over his evening suit, and it is returned with as much admiration. Honestly, the two of them just can’t seem to hide their feelings, even though Robert overcompensates by greeting Sophie, not Agatha.

‘Mrs Edgar,’ he says, taking her hand. ‘And Mr Edgar. So nice to see you back from your travels.’ Agatha must have told him, because he doesn’t address any questions to Thomas, whose rigid arm softens in hers.

‘I say, there’s Captain Fale,’ says Robert. He waves and beckons to him. Samuel looks desperate for a moment, but he soon composes himself and waves back, without making a move towards them. Sophie tightens her grip on Thomas’s arm, steadying them both. She must make everything as normal as possible, to help Thomas. To help herself.

‘I was just talking to Mr Slater, from the council,’ Robert is telling Agatha. ‘They’re building another almshouse, if you can believe it.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ says Agatha. ‘Don’t you think, Sophie?’

‘Mm.’ Sophie wonders where this conversation is leading. Thomas is rigid again beside her, staring at the ground as if in a trance.

‘Well, I’m sorry, ladies,’ says Robert, ‘but I disagree. Richmond is being overrun with the unfortunate.’

‘What exactly do you mean by “the unfortunate”?’ asks Sophie.

‘Those who cannot look after themselves or their families.’

Like us, she thinks. He means us. Is this what people think of them? She stares at him defiantly. ‘Aren’t you more at rest, knowing that if for some reason — God forbid — you found yourself in a position to need an almshouse, it would be there for you?’

‘That will never happen. Besides, having five almshouses in one town may also have the effect of attracting all those who are doomed to fail, therefore making Richmond a town of failed businesses. Soon there will be no business and the whole of Richmond will be living in almshouses. Then they’ll need to open up many more!’

‘You’re being contrary, Robert, and look, you’re making Sophie angry. Stop it at once.’

He laughs and throws up his hands in surrender. ‘All right, ladies. You can be happy in the knowledge that the almshouses are sprouting like mushrooms and we gentlemen will have to see that you never end up in one! Isn’t that right, Edgar?’ He winks at Thomas, who gives him a blank look, as if he is deaf and doesn’t know he is being addressed. Robert’s smirk vanishes, and he looks away quickly, embarrassed. He murmurs something in Agatha’s ear. She giggles softly and a blush forms on her cheeks. She really should be more careful, thinks Sophie. And is Robert laughing at them now, and making Agatha laugh too?

But it makes her think. If Thomas continues as he is, will they end up relying on the charity of others? Certainly her father would never let them starve, and Thomas’s allowance is enough to keep them, but what good will that be if someone decides he belongs in an institution? They will live out their days apart, Thomas rotting and silent, while she visits him on Saturdays and special occasions.

She shouldn’t have come, and she shouldn’t have brought Thomas. She is opening them both up for scrutiny and judgement.

As they move towards the stairs to take them to their seats, Agatha leans in close to Sophie.

‘Ask Mr Chapman to join us,’ she whispers.

‘Oh, Agatha.’ Sophie doesn’t even want to stay herself, but how can she leave and let Agatha down, and, more important, leave her alone with a man so recently widowed? Her friend cannot afford to behave scandalously.

‘
Please
, Bear. For me?’

Reluctantly, Sophie turns to Mr Chapman. ‘Won’t you join us? That is, unless you have other companions waiting.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Edgar. I would be delighted.’

They settle into their box and she surveys the crowds below and across on the other side. Eyes flicker up at them. Fans beat the warm air. As the lamps dim, Sophie glances at Thomas. He sits staring at his hands, seemingly oblivious to the world around him.

The performance is a comedy, a very modern play about manners. The audience laughs frequently, but Sophie misses the joke each time; the players speak quickly, firing back and forth, and she cannot concentrate on their words. At times the content of the play scandalises some of the ladies below — gloved hands cover their mouths, but there are giggles beneath them. Thomas appears to have fallen asleep beside her. So much for taking him to do the things he loves — he seems to have regressed rather than improved.

She finds herself thinking about what Mr Ridewell said about Thomas’s letters. He wrote something about keeping secrets for others. What had he seen? And the journals. She should have kept reading that day instead of throwing the book at the wall and giving up. But what she had found had disturbed her so much, she couldn’t bear to think there might be more. She had walked around in a trance those days after, fretting and mulling and making herself feel ill. She doesn’t know if she can ever forgive him. The hurt he has caused her twists into her belly like a screwdriver. But what she can do is try and see past it to their future together.

Last night she dreamed that Thomas was wrapped in a sticky film. She could see him beneath it, sleeping, and realised with a shudder that he was a chrysalis. He woke then, in the dream, and began to stretch and shudder in the cocoon, which started to tear …

Agatha shrieks with laughter and Sophie realises she has missed a particularly funny moment. She glances over at her friend, but looks away again quickly when she sees that her fingers are entwined in Mr Chapman’s. Silly girl. She thinks she is being discreet, but if she carries on like this, the whole world will know. Still, Agatha can rely on her to keep it quiet. Sophie moves closer to her husband. Perhaps she and Thomas are not so different after all.

When the show is over, the four of them join the audience as it flows down the stairs to the foyer. Halfway down, the crowd stops. People build up behind them like a storm.

‘What’s the hold-up?’ shouts a man’s voice close to Sophie’s ear. She flinches and rubs exaggeratedly at her ear with her gloved fingers. They come away damp; the man, in his enthusiasm, has drenched her with spittle.

‘It’s raining,’ comes a voice from below them. ‘They’ve all stopped at the door.’

‘Well, tell them to get a move on,’ the man bellows.

There is surge behind them and the man falls roughly against Sophie, but does not apologise. She loses her footing and slips painfully down to the next step, twisting her ankle slightly. Thomas catches her arm and holds her steady. She turns to him, ready to smile; despite her discomfort, it is a startling gesture and his hand is strong on her arm. But Thomas is not looking at her. As the crowd boils around him and people shift indignantly on the stairs, he glares at the man who spat on her, looking as if he might murder him.