The Unseen (34 page)

Hester leads the way into the drawing room and then turns to
stand with her hands clasped in front of her. She has been rehearsing the wording of a reprimand for the past three hours of the blazing afternoon, never having had to give one before – not a proper one. But now it comes to it, it hardly seems appropriate. Cat sways slightly on her feet, her face slack, utterly expressionless. Hester notices blood around several of her fingernails, where they have been torn off too close to the quick, and a purple-grey bruise spreading along one collarbone where it juts through the open collar of her blouse. Two buttons are missing from the blouse.

‘Heavens, child! What happened to you?’ she exclaims, filling with concern rather than ire. ‘Were you set upon?’

Cat blinks, and takes a long, deep breath. Hester fancies she sees thoughts flickering fast behind those dark eyes, as if the girl is phrasing her response quite carefully.

‘In a way, madam. I am most sorry to be so late back, and not to have got the meat for dinner tonight—’

‘Never mind the meat. Mrs Bell will think of something, I’m sure. Just tell me what kept you?’

‘There was a woman in town … she was giving a speech. Mrs Hever, she was called. Only the crowd was most discourteous, and wouldn’t let her have her say. They called her all sorts of names, and they threw rotting food at her, and … and a dead animal, madam, which made her faint. I stood up for her.’

‘You stood up for her? How do you mean?’

‘I … stood next to her, and I … told them to let her speak. But they would not. The police came, and I was made to wait in the police house until … Mrs Hever had come to speak up for me. Then they said I could go. But I could not have got away sooner, madam, or I would have,’ Cat says, and sounds sincere enough. For the first time since her arrival, Hester sees some definite, unambiguous expression on her face – anxiety. The girl is deeply troubled by something.

‘I see. And, tell me, what was it the woman was speaking about in the first place? Or trying to?’

‘It was … she was … from the Newbury WSPU. Come to talk about the vote,’ Cat answers, reluctantly.

‘I see. Cat,’ Hester sighs, ‘it will not do. That is all behind you, and there it must stay. No, no – I dare say you were indeed acting honourably towards this Mrs Hever, and it sounds as though the good people of Thatcham were behaving far from honourably in return. But though my husband and I were quite willing to hire a maid with a troubled past, I am not sure we would be able to keep one with a troubled present. Do you understand? Here, you are our maid of all work, and as such you
cannot
also be a suffragette. Cat? I must stress this. Put it out of your mind. It will not do …’

‘I cannot change the way I think, madam,’ Cat replies, her voice low but strung tight with emotion. ‘Though I may not take part in the campaign, I must be allowed to think as I see fit!’

‘Well! Your thoughts are your own, indeed; though I might find them unnatural …’

‘It’s not unnatural for women to want control of their own lives, their own destinies, madam … it is not unnatural for them to want to better things for themselves, and their daughters after them …’

‘They may by all means want those things. But these militant tactics … this unwomanly behaviour only goes to show that the gentler sex is not fitted for government, nor politics. Women would do better to make sound marriages, and encourage their menfolk to fight to improve the country for everybody. We are angels of the hearth, Cat; not warriors of the battlefield. God ordained it thus, and thus it should ever be. I am quite sure that by improving her husband, by soothing him and imparting a feminine softness to some of his masculine fire, a woman would make far greater gains than she might by … smashing windows and behaving like a common thug …’ Hester takes a deep breath, and glances at Cat to find the girl’s face registering something like pity, or perhaps contempt. Either way, she wipes it quickly, and reverts to her customary glassy stare. ‘Anyway. Go and get yourself cleaned up. I can see you’re very worn out. I would say to rest this evening, but
Mr Durrant is due back in time for dinner so I fear we will need your help. Take half an hour now to wash and rest, and let us hear no more about this. Or again in the future. It’s fortunate that my husband has been addressing his pastoral duties all afternoon, and was not around to learn about any of this.’

‘Robin’s – Mr Durrant is coming back again, this evening?’ Cat asks. Hester glances at her sharply, and though the neutral look is there, something else that she cannot read is written in the maid’s eyes.

‘He is,’ she replies, and cannot keep her own discomfort quiet. It makes her voice higher than normal and pinches the words uncomfortably, makes the phrase slightly shorter than she means it to sound.

‘You must be so pleased,’ Cat says, and an expression passes swiftly over her face, just for a fraction of a second – a twitch of the brows, and one corner of her mouth – that loads her statement with irony.

Hester’s cheeks colour slightly, and she is not sure how to answer. ‘Indeed,’ she says.

With Cat gone from the room, Hester crosses to the window. At least, she thinks, she has dealt with the little crisis calmly and sensibly, and all can now return to harmony. Keeping the house running smoothly, and keeping the servants cheerful and discreet about their work is very much a part of being a wife. It does not do to allow your husband to witness housework half done, laundry half dry, or the servants bickering or being reprimanded. She is glad Albert stayed away, so she could deal with the matter efficiently, away from the tin-tack gaze of Sophie Bell. She looks out at the parched garden, where her crimson roses are dropping petals like waxy tears onto the lawn.

It is no good. She can’t convince herself, even with this piece of wisdom, that she is glad Albert has been out all afternoon. Since she woke him with her unwelcome caress … since she set eyes
upon that one part of his anatomy that until then had been such a mystery, he has been more out of the house than in it, and his early mornings have begun again. So early that she woke that morning to find it still dark outside but her husband already up and gone. She has no idea where he has gone, or why, since he no longer talks to her about his day. She watches a blackbird dash a snail to death on the flagstones of the path. The sharp
crack crack crack
of its last moments feel like fine fractures shooting through her thoughts, splintering them until none make any sense. Something has gone very, very wrong, and is driving a wedge between Albert and herself, but she can’t tell exactly what it is, nor see a way to make things right.

Cat deliberately doesn’t look at Robin Durrant as she serves them their dinner. The vicar is all animation. He has burnt the skin across his nose and cheeks, giving him a look of constant excitement. He asks question after question about who the theosophist has spoken to, and what they have said, and what is to be done next about the grand design to bring truth to the masses, and whether Robin would review the pamphlet he has been working on regarding their discoveries. Robin’s answers seem somewhat subdued in comparison to the vicar’s urgent questions, and it is only with great force of will that Cat can keep herself from studying him, from trying to find the truth of things in his face when she knows it’s not to be found in his words. She knows where to meet him, and later, when she goes out to the courtyard, she sees him waiting in the far corner, smoking, pacing; his shoulders hunched.

‘Well? How well did they swallow your lie?’ Cat asks him, smiling mirthlessly. Robin shoots her a censorious look, flicks open his packet of cigarettes and offers her one. She takes it, holds it between her lips as he lights it, cupping his hand to shelter the match from a lively breeze that comes curling through the courtyard, blessedly cool.

‘You make it sound awful,’ he says, distractedly. He shifts from
foot to foot, as if at any second he might be called upon to run, or fight.

‘Isn’t it?’

‘No! All I have manufactured is a representation of the truth. A
tangible
proof, for those that struggle to accept the more intangible ones …’

‘Manufactured. Everything that needs saying about this sorry matter is in that one word. And you know it,’ Cat says, blandly. She takes a long pull on the cigarette, exhales blue smoke into the streaming air. Robin smiles, and then laughs shortly.

‘Do you know, it’s almost a relief to hear you speak of it? Such decisive dismissal, when all I’ve heard for days has been prevarication and dithering and uncertainty,’ he says.

‘They didn’t go for it?’

‘Some did, but not altogether; some wanted to, but weren’t quite able; some didn’t, but thought it was possible …’ He shakes his head. ‘It did not go quite as I had hoped, no. I think more is required.’

‘More?’ Cat asks, instantly on her guard.

‘I might need you again, Cat. Some members of The Society hinted that … perhaps the image of the elemental had been painted onto the film before development. Though I am no artist, as I tried to explain. Maybe they think I have an accomplice. They might send somebody to witness the production of another set of pictures, if I succeed in meeting and photographing the elemental again …’ he says, letting the implication of this linger.

‘That could be interesting. It might be hard to explain me away, in my wig and chiffon gown.’

‘No, no. Nobody can be present for the actual capturing of the image, obviously. But I can argue that case easily. A stranger would upset the equilibrium, and cause the spirit to remain hidden. Their expert could then come with me into the dark room … yes. I may have need of you again, Cat.’

‘Why do you fight so hard for this?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Men. Why do you fight so hard to carve your names into history? To … leave some mark of yourselves for after you’ve gone?’

‘Is that what you think I’m doing?’

‘Isn’t it? You tried poetry, you tried politics … now you will try theosophy, and you will perjure yourself to succeed at it. Why not just live, and let it be? You will die and be forgotten, just like the rest of us,’ she says, shrugging one shoulder and regarding him through lowered eyelashes. Robin blinks, seems taken aback by her words.

‘I don’t want to be forgotten. I …’ He raises his hands, at a loss. ‘Is that the difference between men and women then? Is that why men excel, while women just exist? Why it’s the names of men that last for ever in history?’

‘Nothing lasts for ever. Haven’t you read
Ozymandias?’

‘Keats?’ he asks, and Cat shakes her head.

‘Shelley. But the joke’s on you. On men. Women
are
immortal. We leave traces of ourselves in our children, and our children’s children;while men are out trying to be the first to claim a mountain.’

‘Oh? And aren’t there traces of the fathers in these children as well?’

‘Yes, if the man troubles himself to imprint upon them. If he’s not too busy trying to claim a mountain. Or discover fairies. Perhaps you might consider this as a better way to immortality than posing a housemaid in a costume, and lying to the world?’

‘Settle down and take a wife and spawn a few brats? I think not. But I will be immortal, Cat. I will make my name, and a name that will always be remembered. Even when the world turns and my brothers’ heroics seems commonplace, this will be remembered.’

‘You would do all this for sibling rivalry?’ Cat asks incredulously. ‘How sad.’

‘Who are you to pass judgement on me, Cat Morley? Perhaps
nobody will ever remember who you were, but with me you have the chance to be part of something truly world-changing,’ Robin says, still pacing restlessly, a few steps one way and then the other.

‘Well.’ Cat takes another long pull on her cigarette, thinks for a moment. She tips back her head to exhale, watching clouds pour overhead, caught by the wind. It’s not yet wholly dark, and faint slivers of the palest blue show here and there through plumes of indigo. ‘I might have something to say about that,’ she says.

Robin stops pacing and watches her closely, his expression hardening. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It seems to me that I am acting as your model. That I am the only person who can act as your model.’

‘And?’

‘And I believe it is customary for models – be they working for artists or photographers – to receive remuneration,’ she says, meeting his gaze and not wavering.

‘And pay you I do, with my silence; with my collaboration in your wanton behaviour,’ he says, his smile twisting to one side, and cold.

‘Well, I believe that … my silence is every bit as important as yours, now. Even more important, perhaps. I have the option to leave here, you see. I have a proposal of marriage. There is little you can do to punish me, should I choose to speak out about your photographs; and yet I think it would cost you dear if I did.’

‘A proposal of marriage? But where is your ring?’ Robin snaps, his face thunderous.

‘Being fetched down from his mother’s place,’ she lies quickly.

‘Tsk tsk, a badly prepared proposal indeed,’ Robin says. He turns away from her on his heel, thrusts his hands into his pockets and throws back his head. He stays this way for some moments as Cat waits, heart bumping painfully against her ribs, bending all her will to an outward show of resolute calm.

Finally, Robin Durrant turns back to her, so suddenly that she jumps. Snaps his head around like a bird of prey.

‘Very well. I can see you have me backed against the wall on this occasion. What is the going rate for a photographer’s model, do you think?’ he asks, his voice flat with anger.

‘For a model who must hold her tongue for ever more … twenty pounds.’

‘
Twenty p
— You’ve lost your mind!’ Robin exclaims, his voice falling sharply from a shout to a furious whisper. ‘If I had that kind of money to throw at serving girls I wouldn’t be back here lodging with the bloody Cannings, I can tell you!’

‘The rest of my life is a long time to keep silent. I am the very linchpin of this career you wish to build, I am the key to your lasting fame—’