Life Mask

  His wife gave him a glare.

  'Fidelle,' said Anne into the silence. 'She was of a highly ornamental and useful nature,' she added as lightly as she could, 'but I'm afraid she died in Lisbon.'

  'Oh, terribly sorry, of course, my dear,' mumbled her father, 'I don't know how it slipped my mind.'

  'Question nineteen,' said Walpole, wiping one eye. 'Is the thing hot or cold?'

  'Sometimes the one, sometimes the other,' she told him.

  'Oh, you equivocating chop-logical female!'

  She grinned at him. 'Last question, anyone?'

  'Does it beat?' asked Eliza.

  Anne looked her in the eye. She laughed softly and started clapping.

  'What?'

  'Has Miss Farren hit it?'

  'What's the answer?'

  'Oh. Poor show. We should have guessed,' said Derby ruefully.

  'What?'

  'I don't understand,' wailed Mrs Farren.

  'It's her heart,' her daughter told her.

  'What?'

  'Mrs Darner's heart.'

  'Oh, I call that a very hard one,' said Lady Ailesbury reproachfully.

  'I'm fairly vanquished,' said Anne, giving the actress a little bow. Philip came in just then and whispered in his master's ear. It was probably time for Anne to lead the ladies off to the drawing room so the gentlemen could get on with the serious drinking. She was about to suggest this, but then she noticed Walpole's stricken face. 'What? What is it?' she asked him.

  His fingers were pressed to his shaking lips.

  'Bad news, Horry?' asked the Field Marshal.

  Walpole cleared his throat. 'The worst.'

  'France?' asked Derby.

  Their host shook his head. 'John.'

  For one ridiculous second Anne thought of her husband. Don't be absurd. Which John could Walpole mean?

  'My footman,' he said brokenly. 'The poor creature's hanged himself. One of the gardener's men just found him in a tree near the chapel.'

  There was a terrible silence. 'He'd stolen some silver,' Anne told the company. She meant it as an explanation but it sounded like a judgement. She wished she could take the words back.

  'I suppose he feared he'd hang for it anyway,' said Walpole, 'but I never would have sent him to the magistrate for the sake of a spoon! I have more spoons than I'll ever need. I meant to pardon him as soon as he confessed to the theft; I'm not a harsh master.'

  'Of course you aren't,' Lady Ailesbury told him.

  'Oh, but I should have called him in and forgiven him; I should have set the boy's mind at rest. Why did I wait? He couldn't have been more than eighteen,' sobbed their host.

  The company were looking at each other uncomfortably.

  'He's already half putrid—oh, excuse me, ladies!—which means he's been hanging there since Friday!'

  Anne thought she might be sick.

  'Don't blame yourself, Horry, my dear,' said Conway hoarsely. 'Felo de se is getting shockingly common these days; there's always one or two in the papers.'

  'That's true,' said Richmond, glancing at Anne despite himself. She knew they were thinking of her husband. 'It's said that the English temperament, by its tendency to melancholy, is more prone to it. When The Sorrows of Young Werther came out there was a rash of imitations.'

  'Perhaps people don't fear God as they used to,' suggested Lady Ailesbury.

  'Or they're lonely,' said Eliza.

  A tear fell on Walpole's dessert plate.

  Bunbury spoke up suddenly. 'Too much sitting around and dwelling on things, that's the problem. More hunting and horse riding would clear out the cobwebs.'

  Anne looked at the Baronet coldly.

  'But Hume—the philosopher, you know, he was my secretary once,' said the Field Marshal. 'Hume had a theory that every rational man is free to kill himself if he wants to.'

  The party broke up fast after that.

  JUNE 1791

  Eliza chattered over the tea table. 'So Lord Derby and I mean to go to see the wreckers start next week. His theory is that if we observe the destruction of Old Drury as a grand spectacle we won't find it upsetting. Audiences are all for spectacle, these days, you know.'

  'Miss Farren—' said Anne Damer.

  'Why, just last week some workers at the Albion Mills Company, across Blackfriars Bridge, they'd been laid off because of new machinery, so they went in a mob and burnt the place down—and a huge crowd gathered to watch the fun!'

  The visitor set down her cup. 'Shall we speak frankly?'

  Eliza's pulse was pounding in her throat. She nodded.

  'I must confess I was surprised when you asked me to call here at Green Street.'

  She couldn't speak. A sort of paralysis gripped her. She hoped her mother wouldn't come back early from shopping for lace.

  'You and I were once on close terms,' said the sculptor, almost businesslike, 'till something happened to alienate us. Forgive me for venturing on this mortifying subject, but am I right in thinking that you'd heard something—were told something—which reflected on my reputation?'

  Eliza nodded again, like a scolded child.

  'May I simply ask, was it in the form of ... a verse?'

  'It was.' Oh, the relief; she didn't need to spell it out.

  This time it was Anne Damer who nodded. 'The very same bit of filthy doggerel was sent anonymously to me, before I left for Lisbon.'

  She doesn't know it was I who sent it, thought Eliza. She has no idea.

  'I don't mean to dwell on this ridiculous calumny, but may I just say ... might I just clarify—' The older woman spoke almost sternly, but with hesitation. 'I've been puzzling over what to say to you since I got your note.'

  'No need,' said Eliza, frantic. It was enough that they understood each other. She'd been right to give way to the overwhelming temptation to meet. 'No need to speak of it. I simply—'

  'But I must tell you, Miss Farren—since you've given me this unexpected opportunity—I want to assure you, to give you my word, that there's no truth in the slander. No truth at all.' She spoke so plainly that no one could have disbelieved her.

  It was a curious thing, Eliza thought, that the sculptor had never looked handsomer. 'No, I never thought so,' she answered, her throat raw.

  'That vice is unknown to me. I've never committed—'

  Eliza rushed in. 'It wasn't that I believed it, I assure you.'

  A nod. 'In the case of our sex, private virtue is almost irrelevant.' The words came out bitterly. 'Shame doesn't depend on guilt. Why else did Richardson's Clarissa have to die after the rape, though her soul was still pristine?'

  Eliza stared at her. 'I'm so very sorry.'

  'Some might say that you had no choice but to cut off our connection,' said Anne Damer.

  Eliza's eyes were wet. Some might say. But of course she'd had a choice. A choice, at least, to speak or stay mute; to be a friend or an enemy.

  'In your position—dependent as you are on the continued approval of the public...' The older woman trailed off. 'Do you think I don't know how fortunate I am,' she added vehemently, 'to be able to dedicate myself to art without having to sell my work? To keep my skirts lifted above the mud of the market place? We both enjoy fame, Miss Farren, but in your case it exacts a higher price. While I was abroad, I realised how free I am: I can come and go from England, sculpt what I like, live as I choose, no matter what some pamphlet readers may think of me. Whereas you are the public's servant.'

  Eliza screwed up her courage and seized one of those thin, strong hands. 'Your words bring me such relief.'

  The other woman squeezed back. 'Tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner!

  'I should have confided in you, when I first heard those dreadful rumours. I should have trusted you more. I can't explain what a terror gripped me—the dread of being suspected, of being associated, with...'

  '...a Sapphist.'

  Once the dreadful syllables were out, the air in the parlour seemed lighter. Eliza nodded; it was only a word, a
fter all. How she'd missed this woman's frank rigour. She picked up her cup and half drained it before realising it was cold. 'My situation's so peculiar, you see. Not just in regard to my profession, but ... Lord Derby as well. Some would say I've kept him at arm's length for so many years I must be cold. Unnatural.'

  'Just what they said of me when my husband killed himself,' said Anne Damer. 'How quick they are to blame us for behaving with dignity in situations that are none of our making! We are women who have some power'—with a graceful shrug—'and so the favourite prey of the many-headed hydra.'

  Eliza blinked at her.

  'Scandal.'

  'Of course,' said Eliza, pretending she'd caught the allusion.

  'I found myself arguing with Fox about this recently at a picnic in Richmond,' said Anne Damer. 'In the debates on his Libel Bill he spoke so eloquently in defence of the freedom of the press—despite the fact that his character has been subjected to constant flaying at the hands of the printers.'

  'How admirable.'

  'Yes, it is—but my point is that only a man can afford to take that attitude when portrayed as a grossly debauched sot and Jacobin traitor. No woman who'd been so abused could show her face in public.'

  Eliza nodded miserably.

  'Now, as I say,' Anne Damer went on, 'I bear no grudge against you. I've not been lonely,' she added, 'especially since I've been honoured by the close friendship of Miss Berry.'

  Eliza felt a surge of something absurdly like jealousy. Had she been so easily replaced, and by a nobody from Yorkshire? 'I've not had the pleasure of making her acquaintance, but I hear great things of her.'

  'All deserved, I assure you. But I feel it only fair to myself to tell you that the danger seems to have passed.'

  'The danger?'

  'Of further scandal,' explained Anne Damer. 'None of my friends has mentioned seeing anything in print. Whoever penned that nasty epigram seems to have held his peace since—or her peace, I suppose,' with a small shudder.

  She doesn't know it was Siddons's husband. And she must never learn it was I who sent it to her.

  'Really, I think libels erected on a foundation of complete fantasy do tend to crumble away.'

  That was exactly what Derby had said; he'd laughed at Eliza's fears. Had she panicked because she was only a parvenue, lacking the inborn confidence of birthright members of the World? 'You and I could be friends again,' she said, her head suddenly clear.

  The older woman's smile was wary. 'If you were willing to take that risk.'

  Eliza swallowed her fear. She held out her hand to seal the bargain. 'Anne.'

  The angular face seemed to tremble. 'Eliza.' And their hands came together like magnets.

  I TOOK tea with Thalia—you know who I mean, Anne wrote to Mary in Italy. This will surprise you. But we had a very frank discussion & have cleared up our difficulties—or our difficulty, for there was only ever one. I'm rather pleased that the friendship seems to be reviving.

  The pen paused in mid-air. Rather pleased had a pallid ring to it. Very pleased, she added conscientiously, tho' it's still provisional & I'll find, it hard to trust again where my trust was betrayed before—for which I don't blame the party in question now, she added confusedly. How hard it was to explain this resurrection of a dead friendship. Anne feared she sounded both petty and naive. I must hope that Scandal has turned her pestilent tongue away from me for good, not only for my own sake but for the sake of those whose affection for me has been unwavering. That sounded too vague and plural. You'll recognise your portrait here, she added awkwardly. She couldn't get the tone of this letter right. Of course, there should be no monopoly in affection, but still she couldn't help thinking that Mary would be less than delighted by Anne's reconciliation with the actress.

  On Fordyce's instructions I've spent the last week at Felpham, sea bathing, walking & sitting solitary like King Canute while the waves plash my feet. It seems to be improving my circulation & easing the cough brought on by my return to England. The sun was so sparkling & the water so smooth, I couldn't help wishing some good spirit would gently transport you to me, per aerum, for one half-hour.

  By the way, I smiled at your excuses for the two-page letter that cost me double to receive. Do you imagine I'd grudge paying twelve pence to hear more of you & your proceedings than a single sheet can contain?

  Anne was about to scatter sand on the letter to dry the ink when Sam came into the library to ask if she was at home to Mr Walpole and General O'Hara.

  'O'Hara!' Anne gave him her hand to kiss in the Continental manner. He was looking as ruddy and black-haired as ever. 'Cousin, you couldn't have brought me a more welcome visitor.'

  Walpole smirked. 'The General's only just out of quarantine and his leave is almost up, you know.'

  'I asked if I might be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of you before heading back to Gibraltar,' said O'Hara. 'It was such a great pleasure to drink a glass of wine with you in Lisbon.'

  His eyes flashed, almost flirtatiously, Anne thought. A glass? I think you finished the bottle. Will you take some now?'

  Once Walpole was ensconced with his swollen foot on a cushioned stool, he asked had she heard the news from Paris.

  'The entire royal family of France have disappeared,' O'Hara explained. 'It seems they've made a dash for the border to escape into Austria.'

  'Oh, but this is dreadful,' cried Anne. 'For Louis to conspire with the Queen's relatives and flee—after he wore the tricolour—after all those vows to stand by his people and the Revolution! That's the worst kind of perjury.'

  Walpole snorted. 'I wouldn't term it a flight but an escape from captivity. Vows to gaolers don't count.'

  'I didn't know Louis had so much courage in him,' said O'Hara.

  'You call it courage to betray his country?' Anne protested.

  'On the contrary, my dear,' said Walpole, 'I'm sure he means to save it by returning from Austria with an army of liberation. The rebels may cry Vive la Nation as loud as they please, but they've lost their puppet. Now we may see the Revolution put down at last.'

  Anne was too upset to carry on the argument.

  Pretty soon, Walpole made his excuses; he really had to get home to Berkeley Square and take to his bed. But the General settled back comfortably into the red silk armchair.

  'Have you been feted on all sides during your stay?' she teased as she passed him a tray of cinnamon biscuits. 'Breakfast parties, routs, balls, boating excursions...'

  'That sort of thing,' he said with a grin.

  'War heroes must tire of such treatment.'

  O'Hara snorted with laughter and opened a button on his waistcoat. Anne stared, startled. He pulled his shirt a little to one side and showed her a red pockmark, almost hidden in black fur. 'My American scar's ten years old now. I'll need some fresh wounds if I'm to pose as a hero. And of course England will have to go to war again first.'

  As he buttoned himself up again Anne thought, What's happening here? No man had ever unbuttoned his shirt in her library before. 'It's a shame you haven't been able to renew your acquaintance with the Misses Berry,' she said distractedly, 'but we don't expect them till the autumn.'

  'You must give them my warmest respects.'

  'I will,' she said, still seeing in her mind's eye that hairy inch of muscular chest. 'Do you look forward to Gibraltar with pleasure?'

  'Oh, the Rock's a handsome sight, rearing up out of the ocean. You'd love the place,' he told her, leaning forward suddenly. 'That dry Spanish climate, the light—wonderful for sketching or carving—'

  It couldn't be, Anne thought. I must be imagining this. She was forty-two. But then, O'Hara's past fifty. She decided to pretend she'd no idea what he was hinting. 'Oh, London suits me well enough.'

  The General was shaking his big piratical head. 'Your father says you suffer with your lungs.'

  'I can still out-walk him on every hill in Oxfordshire,' she said with a small laugh.

  'I'll bet. You always did have more tha
n your share of vigour,' he told her, lounging back in his chair and fixing his eyes on her. 'You're made of stronger stuff than the mass of your sex.'

  'I'll take that as a compliment, though an odd one,' said Anne.

  'Oh, do. You know I've never met a woman I liked so well.'

  O'Hara, O'Hara, what are you doing? What absurd scene are we playing out, here in the soft candlelight of my library, in our middle age?

  You know that, don't you, my dear Mrs D.?'

  What am I supposed to say now? Anne opened her mouth and covered it with her hand. I am no one's Mrs D. 'Your glass is empty.' She got to her feet in one movement. 'What a churlish hostess—'

  'No, I'm the boorish guest who forgets to make his exit,' said O'Hara, on his feet.

  'Well, I'm afraid I am expected at my sister's,' she improvised.

  'You've been very kind.'

  'I'm ... I'm truly sorry I couldn't ask you to stay longer. I wish you every success in Gibraltar,' she said, forcing herself to look into his black eyes.

  'You could wish for another war, with another wound to make me famous!'

  'Never that,' she said, shivering. 'Don't even joke about it.'

  'Till next time, whenever or wherever that may be.'

  'Till then,' she told him.

  She slept wretchedly that night. She dreamed of the old Moorish town of Gibraltar, with its clogged streets; she was chasing a woman who turned out to be Marie Antoinette. Not the creamy-skinned Dauphine whom Anne had known in the '60s, but an old hag with cynical eyes.

  She woke and stared at the ceiling. O'Hara's hinted proposal had been bizarrely sudden; whatever was happening to courtship in this hasty modern age? Should she have asked him for a little time to consider the offer he'd been about to make? Several of her friends and relations would think it a marvellous prospect for her to spend the rest of her days in a hot climate with a cheerful, handsome general, even if it would mean a step down in rank from the Honourable Mrs Damer to a mere Mrs O'Hara. But no, Anne didn't want to leave her native land. On the other hand he was an old friend of the family; she knew him better than she'd known John Damer on the day she'd married him. At least O'Hara was sturdy; Anne couldn't see him shooting himself in the head over money.