Only now, leaning on the Codrington tomb around the corner from his childhood home, does it strike Harry as disturbing that he stepped into a dead boy's shoes. On what arbitrary pivots our lives turn.
The bells, calling the congregation: Harry goes into the narrow church and finds a verger to pay for a pew. The hangings are more faded and dustier than he remembers. The liturgy's familiar, and mildly comforting; he can shut his eyes and pretend he's a boy again. But the sermon text, by some perverse chance, is from Proverbs:
Strength and honour are her clothing ... She looketh well to the ways of her household; and eateth not the bread of idleness. Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her.
Harry tries not to listen, but the vicar's insipid pieties on the subject of marriage creep into his head. He finds himself picturing the wide-eyed, petrified face of his drowning brother. All at once Harry fears he's going to vomit, here and now in the pew.
He pushes his way out, making his excuses in a strained whisper. How coldly the parishioners of Eaton Square stare.
On the street, he's shivering; the late September breeze infiltrates his summer coat at the neck and wrists. Sweat going clammy on his forehead, and under his black beard. What have I become? A creeping, plotting, spy-hiring man. A skeletal puppet of a husband. And what if he's wrong, after all, it occurs to Harry like a knife between the ribs: what if Helen really did get that telegram the other night, but decided out of misguided politeness to stay for dessert? What if all her crimes are his diseased inventions? What if she's never been any worse than an artless, restless young woman who likes a little flattery? What kind of monster would set a deadly trap for the mother of his children?
He keeps on walking. His stomach is feeling somewhat settled by the time he turns the corner onto Eccleston Square; the pain in his head has eased.
But there's a hansom parked outside his house. The driver's leaning down to the little hatch in the roof, collecting his coins. And then the door folds back, and a blond head emerges. Unmistakable. A man who should be in Malta but somehow is here instead, on the path outside Harry's house, tucking his watch back into his pocket with easy grace. Colonel David Anderson.
I have her.
Or rather, I've lost her.
Harry's knees give; his cane scrapes across the stone. Pull yourself together, Codrington. A quick glance across the road: no Crocker painting the glossy green railings. Damn the man. Of course, it's Sunday; the painting alibi would look very suspicious, and scandalize Mrs. Hartley's neighbours. Harry's shaking so much he has to lean against the garden wall of the corner house.
As the horse moves off, Anderson stands looking up at the Codringtons' house. Harry mustn't take a single step forward. Bird's warnings ring in his ears: his only chance of doing anything useful is to do nothing. He edges back around the wall, but it only comes up to his chest. He crouches down, then realizes that makes him look like a housebreaker, so he straightens up again. Let Anderson not look my way. It's a sort of terror.
In Sir Edward Codrington's day, a gentleman in this predicament knew exactly what to do: call the cur out. It was the age of heroes, and what did it matter if a little more blood got spilled? But nowadays a duel brings the parties nothing but reproach and ridicule. Harry was born too late: this is the age of correct form and due process. This is what comes of the long peace Harry's toiled to preserve.
He'll have to stand here like some tailor's dummy while Anderson goes into the house—then wait till he comes out again, some time later. The thought of this man with Helen chokes Harry. Behind closed doors, no witnesses. Crocker, where in the devil's name have you got to? Could the spy possibly be watching from some other nook? Or has he gone off for a bag of shrimp? It occurs to Harry to grab the nearest pedestrian and demand, "Will you testify on oath that you saw that person there going into and coming out of my house?" Calm yourself, man, the servants can do that much.
A dreadful plan occurs to Harry. He'll give Anderson five minutes. Ten, let's say. How long do these things take? (Harry has never had an intrigue. His few premarital experiences were strictly commercial.) Then he'll let himself into the hall with his key, very softly, and find a maid. No, the footman; a man will be more credible in court. "Be so good as to come with me to my wife's room," he'll say, "as quietly as possible."
All this shoots through his mind like a train, in the few moments Anderson is looking up at the house. But then the golden silhouette turns, and the handsome mouth opens in a very wide smile. Or a rictus of shock?
A hearty roar: "Codrington, the very man!"
Harry jerks as if he's been shot. Anderson's walking towards the corner with his hand out; Harry lurches towards him. "Good morning to you," he manages. "I was just about to ring your bell."
"Oh yes?" Like a ventriloquist's doll. "What are you doing on these shores?"
"Ah, well, that's the nub of it. I got some leave for a rather particular purpose. This is a farewell call, I'm afraid."
Harry sucks the soft inside of his lip. "But you've only just arrived."
"Farewell to single life, I meant," says Anderson with a gulping sort of laugh.
Harry's mouth goes slack.
"Yes, I'm just down from Scotland, and dropping cards all round town to announce that my cousin Gwen's consented to make an honest man of me at last."
Could Harry have misread the whole story? Has he been so bored and dull, in the purgatory of half-pay, that he's made up nightmares to scare himself? "Well! Congratulations, old fellow," he says in a strangled voice.
"Thanks, thanks. My ship's come in, that's a fact," beams Anderson. "She's a very dear girl, and quite a beauty. She's heard all my tales, over the years; she'll be thrilled to meet you, when we come to town."
"I very much look forward to it." Harry struggles to find some harmless truism. "Marriage..." he begins.
"Nothing like it, so all the chaps tell me," supplies Anderson after a second.
"Quite so."
"Well," with a stretch and a grin, "mustn't dally. I've still got most of Belgravia to cover, and all of Mayfair."
Harry's heart starts pounding, worse than ever it did during a bombardment at sea. Liars always say too much. What gave it away was the cab: Anderson sent the cab away before walking up to the house on Eccleston Square. Who ever heard of delivering a sheaf of cards on foot, all over Belgravia and Mayfair? And on a Sunday morning too? Now Harry knows for sure. It may not count as hard proof, but it's enough to still the nagging doubts in his mind. "Oh," he says mechanically, "won't you come up for a moment?"
"No, no, I don't think so. Time's winged chariot, and all. Give my respects to Mrs. C.?" The colonel pronounces this without a quaver.
"Indeed. Dine with us this week, won't you?"
"Ah, a shame, I'll be back in Scotland."
"Of course." Harry starts up the steps to his front door. Then an idea shoots through his head like an electric shock. He turns, fumbling in one of his pockets. "I say, have a copy of my latest photograph."
"Awfully kind of you, Codrington. Now I can prepare the future Mrs. A. for your fearsome beard!"
"Have you got one on you?"
The man blinks at him. "I—yes, I believe so," he says, leafing through his pocketbook, "though it's not kind to the old Anderson chin. Here you go."
"Well done, again." Harry waves, and watches the officer walk round the corner.
Now he has a picture to give to Crocker: This is the man. The other party; paramour; co-respondent. He looks down at the matt image, grips it so hard that the serene face buckles under his thumbnail.
Actus Reus
(Latin, "guilty act": the legal maxim,
Actus non facit reum, nisi mens sit rea,
means "The guilty mind and guilty act are
both needed to constitute a crime")
Women are greater dissemblers than men when they wish to
conceal their own emotions. By habit, moral training, and
modern education, they are obliged to do so.
Jane Vaughan Pinkney,
Tacita Tacit (1860)
Sunday, September 23
It has taken me two days to compose this letter.
Surely, before you formed an engagement you were bound in all honour to tell me of the changed state of your heart. What, in heaven's name, could have led you to take such a sudden and terrible step? I cannot believe that in a matter of days the tender recollection of the past two years can be obliterated so utterly, leading you to spurn one who up to that time (you'e claimed) has been constantly in your thoughts day and night. But I will say no more of my own pain; there are certain crushing sorrows wherein the heart alone knows its own bitterness.
Believe me, I am writing today not in reproachful or jealous wrath, but out of the most tender concern for your welfare. You gave our friend no explanation for your extraordinary decision except your cousin's affection for you. Let me beg of you solemnly, think well before you bind yourself for life. Self-sacri. ce may be all very well under certain circumstances, but not when the happiness of two souls (say rather, three) is at stake. Unless you can feel for this cousin what a husband ought to feel, it were far better that you should give her the immediate pain of breaking off, than that you should leave her to . nd it out after the wedding. As I know all too well, it takes a profound devotion to stand the wear and tear of married life.
I wish to see you once more; there are certain documents and mementos that I must return to you with my own hands. I believe you were intending to return to London yesterday; if this note reaches you at your lodgings this morning (Sunday), I ask that you come to me at home at eleven. (H. never returns from church before noon.) Don't dread the meeting; rest assured that if it truly must be, I will let the past be forever past and never more think of what we have been to each other. You who know me well can tell what it costs me to beg this last favour.
I need hardly remind you to burn this.
Ever yours
faithfully—
***
Ten past eleven, already, by the ormolu clock in Helen's drawing-room. Almost a quarter past. Her ears strain for the sound of the doorbell. This morning Helen put on her loveliest dress, the emerald and magenta satin, then ripped it off again in case Harry asked what the occasion was. She's in plain lilac now; she regrets its insipidity. Her eyes in the mirror over the mantelpiece are red-rimmed, and the skin beneath is faintly brown. Discarded, she mouths in the glass. Cast-off.
"What has an eye but can't see?" asks Nan.
"That's easy. A needle," croaks Nell, still wrapped up in flannel on the sofa.
"A face, but no mouth?"
"Ask Mama."
"What's that?" says Helen.
"It's a riddle, Mama," says Nan. "What has a face but no mouth?"
Helen grimaces. "What monstrous images you conjure up."
Almost a quarter past. Her ears crave the bell. There's a risk, of course, that one of the servants might mention Anderson's visit to their master—but Helen's beyond such petty calculations. She can't think of anywhere else to ask him to meet her on a Sunday morning, now that Taviton Street is out of bounds. (Fido, having almost pushed Helen out of the cab Friday afternoon, is evidently still in a fury. She won't even answer Helen's notes, let alone be of any practical assistance.)
"Guess, do."
"Guess, Mama," Nell orders in her ragged voice.
When the maid comes to announce Anderson, should Helen let the girls stay for a few minutes, to greet their old playmate from Malta? That might fill him with nostalgia for summer days on the hills above Valetta. Or, of course, remind him that his Mrs. C. is a mother and a wife, past her prime. (My marriage didn't stand in our way, she argues in her head, why should yours? Husbands take mistresses every day.) But then the girls are sure to mention Anderson to their papa. Besides, there's not enough time; he must at all costs be gone by the time Harry gets home from church. "A face but no mouth," mutters Helen. "A mouthless face. Sewn shut?"
"It's a clock, of course," crows Nan, and Nell giggles. "Another?"
"Really, I—"
"Another for Mama!"
Twenty past. If Anderson comes now, they'll barely have half an hour. Was there a line in her letter that scared him off? Helen made it as high-minded and persuasive as she possibly could; she tried to write it in the voice of another kind of woman altogether. Damn him, he owes her a meeting; he owes her one more chance.
Fido would no doubt advise Helen not to lower herself any further. She'd urge self-respect. But she's not here, is she? So much for loyalty. So much for the friendship of women.
"What has hands, but no fingers?"
Helen makes a small exasperated sound. "Are all your riddles on the theme of mutilation?"
"You're prevaricating," sings Nan, proud of the new word.
The man's not coming at all. Behind that shining, bluff face, what cruelty.
"Guess! Guess!"
"You'd never treat your father like this," says Helen. "Let me see, no fingers. Has it thumbs?"
"No fingers, no thumbs, only hands," says Nell, holding up clenched fists.
"May I have a clue?"
Her daughters exchange serious looks. "You've already had one," says Nan.
"Hands with no fingers or thumbs..."
"She'll never get it. The clock, again," squeals Nell, and Helen, horrified, looks where her daughter's pointing. "A clock has hands, just as it has a face."
"You're rather stupid today, Mama," observes Nan.
"Yes, I am," says Helen, and her voice comes out tragic.
"Mama, I didn't mean it!"
"It's just that we've had more practice at riddles than you," Nell assures her. "Let's try a different game."
"I'm tired of riddles, anyway," says Nan. She picks up a pack of cards. "Shall we play All Fall Down?"
"I rather think I'm still too shaky," says Nell, holding out her hand and watching it tremble.
"Oh, I'll build the house," says Nan, already forming cards into precarious triangles on the table. "You and Mama may shout when it falls."
Speechless, Helen's turned her face to the window. The streets are quiet on Sundays. No sound for several minutes but the faint contact of card on card. Then a flutter, and Nell yelps, "All Fall Down!"
But Helen's heard the scrape of the front door opening, and she whirls around. "I believe we may have a visitor," she cries, too excited. "Whoever could it be? Come, let's tidy these games away."
Nan shakes her head at her. "Nobody rang or knocked, silly Mama. That means it's only Papa, home from church."
"Let's play Old Maid," suggests Nell.
"Happy Families," Nan countermands.
When Harry comes into the drawing-room, Helen's sitting quite still, beside her daughters, like some tableau of domesticity. "You're early," she murmurs without looking up. "Nell, I'm looking for ... Mrs. Bones the butcher's wife."
"Not at home!"
"Who's winning?" he asks.
"I am," crows Nan. "Mama keeps forgetting the rules."
***
The following day, late in the afternoon, Helen walks out the door of her house, to a waiting cab.
Rattling along, she takes out one of the large buff cards that say Mrs. Henry J. Codrington. She stares at the four corners—Felicitation, Visite, Condolence, Conge—but none of them seems appropriate to fold down, and she can't think of anything to write on it. Blank will have to do.
She's never been to Anderson's lodgings before; she's never let herself risk it. Today she gets the driver to stop outside Number 28 Pall Mall—as a measure of discretion—but asks him to take her card in to Number 24.
"Twenty-four, you said?" He glances up at the house number.
"That's right," she says coldly.
It's nearly six; her stomach rumbles. If she's not there for dinner at seven, will Harry have a fit? Heartburn, at least. At best, a choking, fatal apoplexy on the hearthrug.
After a f
ew endless minutes, Anderson comes out the front door, and looks where the driver's pointing, to the cab parked outside Number 28. Helen takes a long breath.
He's unsmiling. He gets into the cab and pulls the door shut; he sits beside her, rather than opposite.
That means he wants to be near me. Or, of course, that he can't look me in the eye.
"I did call at Eccleston Square yesterday morning," he starts abruptly, "but of all the confounded luck, I ran into Harry on the doorstep."
"I knew something must have happened!" No response from Anderson. "Yes, he left church early; he wasn't well. Was he—did he seem surprised to learn that you were in London?"
Anderson shrugs.
"Was he ... unfriendly?"
"No. We exchanged photographs."
Photographs? Men are bizarre creatures. Helen examines her small pink nails. Don't go on the attack, she reminds herself. "Have you nothing more to say to me," she asks quietly, "after I poured out my very soul in that letter?"
Anderson clears his throat. "You shouldn't have come here." A silence grows between them; she waits. "You look very lovely today," he adds glumly.
Her mouth twists. Does he think she's a girl, to be fobbed off with compliments? And yet it does gladden her to hear.
"I know I've wounded you," he says.
"Do you, though?"
Anderson takes a small packet out of his pocket, and sets it in her lap.
"What's this?" she asks.
"Some remembrances."
She doesn't need to open it to know what's there. A fob chain she worked herself, rather amateurishly, the Christmas before last; also, cufflinks in the form of stars; also, a coppery coil of her hair.
"The letters are burned already."
"Then burn these too." She shifts her leg, letting the packet drop to the floor of the cab. She thinks of the smell of singed hair.
Anderson bends to pick it up as if humouring a child. "Did you bring the items you wanted to return to me?"