Fingersmith

  ‘You like it, Rivers?’ asks my uncle as he does so. ‘You know it is very rare?’

  ‘I should say it must be, sir.’

  ‘And you think I mean by that, that there are few other copies?’

  ‘I had supposed that, yes.’

  ‘So you might. But we collectors, we gauge rarity by other means. You think a unique item rare, if no-one wants it? We call that a dead book. But, say a score of identical copies are sought by a thousand men: each of those single books is rarer than the unique one. You understand me?’

  Mr Rivers nods. ‘I do. The rareness of the article is relative to the desire of the heart which seeks it.’ He glances at me. ‘That is very quaint. And how many men seek this book, that we have just heard?’

  My uncle grows coy. ‘How many indeed, sir? I’ll answer you like this: put it up for auction, and see! Ha?’

  Mr Rivers laughs. ‘To be sure, yes . . .’

  But beyond the film of his politeness, he looks thoughtful. He bites his lip—his teeth showing yellow, wolfish, against the dark of his beard, but his mouth a soft and surprising pink. He says nothing while my uncle sips at his drink and Mr Hawtrey fusses with the fire. Then he speaks again.

  ‘And what of a pair of books, Mr Lilly,’ he says, ‘sought by a single buyer? How are they to be valued?’

  ‘A pair?’ My uncle puts down his glass. ‘A set, of two volumes?’

  ‘A pair of complementary titles. A man has one, and seeks to secure the other. The second will greatly add to the value of the first?’

  ‘Of course, sir!’

  ‘I thought it.’

  ‘Men pay absurdly for such things,’ says Mr Huss.

  ‘They do,’ says my uncle. ‘They do. You will find a reference to such matters, of course, in my Index . . .’

  ‘The Index,’ says Mr Rivers softly; and the others talk on. We sit and listen—or pretend to—and soon he turns and studies my face. ‘May I ask you something, Miss Lilly?’ he says. And then, when I nod: ‘What do you see, for yourself, after the completion of your uncle’s work?—Now, why do you do that?’

  I have given him what I suppose must be a bitter sort of smile. I say, ‘Your question means nothing, I can hardly answer it. My uncle’s work will never be finished. There are too many new books written that must be added to the old; too many lost books to be rediscovered; too much uncertainty. He and Mr Hawtrey will debate it for ever. Look at them now. Should he publish the Index as he intends, he will only at once begin its supplements.’

  ‘You mean to keep beside him, then, for all that time?’—I will not answer. —‘You are as dedicated as he?’

  ‘I have no choice,’ I say at last. ‘My skills are few and, as you have already noted, quite uncommon.’

  ‘You are a lady,’ he says softly, ‘and young, and handsome.—I don’t speak from gallantry now, you know that. I say only what is true. You might do anything. ’

  ‘You are a man,’ I answer. ‘Men’s truths are different from ladies’. I may do nothing, I assure you.’

  He hesitates—perhaps, catches his breath. Then: ‘You might—marry,’ he says. ‘That is something.’

  He says it, with his eyes upon the book that I have read from; and I hear him, and laugh aloud. My uncle supposing I have laughed at some parched joke of his, looks over and nods. ‘You think so, Maud? You see, Huss, even my niece believes it so . . .’

  I wait until his face is turned from me again, his attention captured. Then I reach for the book on its stand and gently lift its cover. ‘Look here, Mr Rivers,’ I say. ‘This is my uncle’s plate, that is attached to all his books. Do you see the device of it?’

  The plate bears his emblem, a clever thing of his own design—a lily, drawn strangely, to resemble a phallus; and wound about with a stem of briar at the root. Mr Rivers tilts his head to study it, and nods. I let the cover close.

  ‘Sometimes,’ I say, not looking up, ‘I suppose such a plate must be pasted upon my own flesh—that I have been ticketed, and noted and shelved—so nearly do I resemble one of my uncle’s books.’ I raise my eyes to his. My face is warm, but I am speaking coolly, still. ‘You said, two nights ago, that you have studied the ways of this house. Surely, then, you have understood. We are not meant for common usage, my fellow books and I. My uncle keeps us separate from the world. He will call us poisons; he says we will hurt unguarded eyes. Then again, he names us his children, his foundlings, that have come to him, from every corner of the world—some rich and handsomely provided for, some shabby, some injured, some broken about the spine, some gaudy, some gross. For all that he speaks against them, I believe he likes the gross ones best; for they are the ones that other parents—other bookmen and collectors, I mean—cast out. I was like them, and had a home, and lost it—’

  Now I do not speak coolly. I have been overtaken by my own words. Mr Rivers watches, then leans to take my uncle’s book very gently from its stand.

  ‘Your home,’ he murmurs, as his face comes close to mine. ‘The madhouse. Do you think very often of your time there? Do you think of your mother, and feel her madness in you?—Mr Lilly, your book.’ My uncle has looked over. ‘Do you mind my handling it? Won’t you show me, sir, the features that mark it as rare . . . ?’

  He has spoken very swiftly; and has startled me, horribly. I don’t like to be startled. I don’t like to lose my place. But now, as he rises and returns, with the book, to the fire, a second or two passes that I cannot account for. I discover at last that I have put my hand to my breast. That I am breathing quickly. That the shadows in which I sit are all at once denser than before—so dense, my skirt seems bleeding into the fabric of the sofa and my hand, rising and falling above my heart, is pale as a leaf upon a swelling pool of darkness.

  I will not swoon. Only girls in books do that, for the convenience of gentlemen. But I suppose I whiten and look strange, for when Mr Hawtrey gazes my way, smiling, his smile quite falls. ‘Miss Lilly!’ he says. He comes and takes my hand.

  Mr Huss comes also. ‘Dear child, what is it?’ He holds me close, about the armpit.

  Mr Rivers hangs back. My uncle looks peevish. ‘Well, well,’ he says. ‘What now?’ He shuts his book, but keeps his finger, carefully, between the pages.

  They ring for Agnes. She comes, blinking at the gentlemen, curtseying at my uncle, a look of terror on her face. It is not yet ten o’clock. ‘I am perfectly well,’ I say. ‘You must not trouble. I am only tired, suddenly. I am sorry.’

  ‘Sorry? Pooh!’ says Mr Hawtrey. ‘It is we who should be sorry. Mr Lilly, you are a tyrant, and overtask your niece most miserably. I always said it, and here is the proof. Agnes, take your mistress’s arm. Go steadily, now.’

  ‘Shall you manage the stairs?’ Mr Huss asks anxiously. He stands in the hall as we prepare to mount them. Behind him I see Mr Rivers; but I do not catch his eye.

  When the drawing-room door is closed I push Agnes away, and in my own room I look about me for some cool thing to put upon my face. I finally go to the mantel, and lean my cheek against the looking-glass.

  ‘Your skirts, miss!’ says Agnes. She draws them from the fire.

  I feel queer, dislocated. The house clock has not chimed. When it sounds, I will feel better. I will not think of Mr Rivers—of what he must know of me, how he might know it, what he means by seeking me out. Agnes stands awkwardly, half-crouched, my skirts still gathered in her hands.

  The clock strikes. I step back, then let her undress me. My heart beats a little smoother. She puts me in my bed, unlooses the curtains—now the night might be any night, any at all. I hear her in her own room, unfastening her gown: if I lift my head and look through the gap in my curtains I will see her upon her knees with her eyes hard shut, her hands pressed together like a child’s, her lips moving. She prays every night to be taken home; and for safety as she slumbers.

  While she does it, I unlock my little wooden box and whisper cruel words to my mother’s portrait. I close my eyes. I think, I shall
not study your face!— but, once having thought it, I know I must do it or lie sleepless and grow ill. I look hard into her pale eyes. Do you think of your mother, he said, and feel her madness in you?

  Do I?

  I put the portrait away, and call for Agnes to bring me a tumbler of water. I take a drop of my old medicine—then, unsure that that will calm me, I take another. Then I lie still, my hair put back. My hands, inside their gloves, begin to tingle. Agnes stands and waits. Her own hair is let down—coarse hair, red hair, coarser and redder than ever against the fine white stuff of her night-dress. One slender collar-bone is marked a delicate blue with what is perhaps only a shadow, but might—I cannot remember—be a bruise.

  I feel the drops at last, sour in my stomach.

  ‘That’s all,’ I say. ‘Go on.’

  I hear her climb into her bed, draw up her blankets. There is a silence. After a little time there comes a creak, a whisper, the faint groan of machinery: my uncle’s clock, shifting its gears. I lie and wait for sleep. It does not come. Instead, my limbs grow restless and begin to twitch. I feel, too hard, my blood—I feel the bafflement of it, at the dead points of my fingers and my toes. I raise my head, call softly: ‘Agnes!’ She does not hear; or hears, but fears to answer. ‘Agnes!’—At last, the sound of my own voice unnerves me. I give it up, lie still. The clock groans again, then strikes. Then come other sounds, far-off. My uncle keeps early hours. Closing doors, lowered voices, shoes upon the stairs: the gentlemen are leaving the drawing-room and going each to their separate chambers.

  Perhaps I sleep, then—but if I do, it is only for a moment. For suddenly I give a start, and am wide awake; and I know that what has roused me is not sound, but movement. Movement, and light. Beyond the bed-curtain the rush-lamp’s wick has flared suddenly bright, and the doors and the window-glasses are straining against their frames.

  The house has opened its mouth, and is breathing.

  Then I know that, after all, this night is not like any other. As if summoned to it by a calling voice, I rise. I stand at the doorway to Agnes’s room until I am sure, from the evenness of her breaths, that she is sleeping; then I take up my lamp and go, on naked feet, to my drawing-room. I go to the window and stand at the glass, cup my hands against their own feeble reflection, peer through the darkness at the sweep of gravel, the edge of lawn, that I know lie below. For a time I see nothing. Then I hear the soft fall of a shoe, and then another, still softer. Then comes the single noiseless flaring of a match between slender fingers; and a face, made hollow-eyed and garish as it tilts towards the flame.

  Richard Rivers keeps restless as I; and walks upon the lawns of Briar, perhaps hoping for sleep.

  Cold weather for walking. About the tip of his cigarette, his breath shows whiter than the smoke of his tobacco. He gathers his collar about his throat. Then he looks up. He seems to know what he will see. He does not nod, or make any gesture; only holds my gaze. The cigarette fades, glows bright, fades again. His stance grows more deliberate.

  He moves his head; and all at once I understand what he is doing. He is surveying the face of the house. He is counting the windows.

  He is calculating his way to my room!—and when he is certain of his route he lets his cigarette fall and crushes the glowing point of it beneath his heel. He comes back across the gravel-walk and someone—Mr Way, I suppose—admits him. I cannot see that. I only hear the front door open, feel the movement of the air. Again my lamp flares, and the window-glass bulges. This time, however, the house seems holding its breath.

  I step back with my hands before my mouth, my eyes on my own soft face: it has started back into the darkness beyond the glass, and seems to swim, or hang, in space. I think, He won’t do it! He dare not do it! Then I think: He will. I go to the door and put my ear against the wood. I hear a voice, and then a tread. The tread grows soft, another door closes—of course, he will wait for Mr Way to go to his bed. He will wait for that.

  I take up my lamp and go quickly, quickly: the shade throws crescents of light upon the walls. I have not time to dress—cannot dress, without Agnes to help me—but know I must not see him in my nightgown. I find stockings, garters, slippers, a cloak. My hair, that is loose, I try to fasten; but I am clumsy with the pins, and my gloves—and the medicine I have swallowed—make me clumsier. I grow afraid. My heart beats quick again, but now it beats against the drops, it is like a vessel beating hard against the pull of a sluggish river. I put my hand to it, and feel the yielding of my breast—unlaced, it feels; unguarded, unsafe.

  But the tug of the drops is greater than the resistance of my fear. That is the point of them, after all. For restlessness. When at length he comes, tapping at my door with his fingernail, I think I seem calm to him. I say at once, ‘You know my maid is very close—asleep, but close. One cry will wake her.’ He bows and says nothing.

  Do I suppose he will try to kiss me? He does not do that. He only comes very stealthily into the room and gazes about him in the same cool, thoughtful way in which I saw him take his measure of the house. He says, ‘Let us keep from the window, the light shows plainly from the lawn.’ Then, nodding to the inner door: ‘Is that where she lies? She won’t hear us? You are sure?’

  Do I think he will embrace me? He never once steps close. But I feel the cool of the night, still clinging to his coat. I smell the tobacco on his hair, his whiskers, his mouth. I do not remember him so tall. I move to one side of the sofa and stand tensely, gripping the back of it. He keeps at the other, leans into the space between us, and speaks in whispers.

  He says, ‘Forgive me, Miss Lilly. This is not how I would have met you. But I have come to Briar, after so much careful labour; and tomorrow I may be obliged to leave without seeing you. You understand me. I make no judgement on your receiving me like this. If your girl stirs, you are to say that you were wakeful; that I found out your room and came, without invitation. I’ve been guilty of as much, in other men’s houses.—It’s as well you know at once, what manner of fellow I am. But here, Miss Lilly, tonight, I mean you no sort of harm. I think you do understand me? I think you did wish me to come?’

  I say, ‘I understand that you have found out something you think perhaps a secret: that my mother was a lunatic; that my uncle had me from a ward of the place she died in. But that is no secret, anyone might know it; the very servants here know it. I am forbidden to forget it. I am sorry for you, if you meant to profit by it.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ he says, ‘to have been obliged to remind you of it again. It means nothing to me, except as it has led to your coming to Briar and being kept by your uncle in such a curious way. It is he, I think, who has profited from your mother’s misfortune.—You’ll forgive my speaking plainly. I am a sort of villain, and know other villains best. Your uncle is the worst kind, for he keeps to his own house, where his villainy passes as an old man’s quirk. Don’t tell me you love him,’ he adds quickly, seeing my face, ‘for manners’ sake. I know you are above them. That is why I have come like this. We make our own manners, you and I; or take the ones that suit us. But for now, will you sit and let me speak with you, as a gentleman to a lady?’

  He gestures and, after a second—as if we might be awaiting the maid and the tea-tray—we take our places on the sofa. My dark cloak gapes and shows my nightgown. He turns his eyes while I draw close the folds.

  ‘Now, to tell you what I know,’ he says.

  ‘I know you gain nothing unless you marry. I first had it from Hawtrey. They speak about you—perhaps you know—in the shady bookshops and publishers’ houses of London and Paris. They speak about you, as of some fabulous creature: the handsome girl at Briar, whom Lilly has trained, like a chattering monkey, to recite voluptuous texts for gentlemen—perhaps to do worse. I needn’t tell you all they say, I suppose you can guess it. That’s nothing to me.’ He holds my gaze, then looks away. ‘Hawtrey, at least, is a little kinder; and thinks me honest, which is more to our point. He told me, in a pitying sort of way, a little of your l
ife—your unfortunate mother—your expectations, the conditions attached. Well, one hears of such girls, when one is a bachelor; perhaps not one in a hundred is worth the pursuit . . . But Hawtrey was right. I have made enquiries into your mother’s fortune, and you are worth—well, do you know what you are worth, Miss Lilly?’

  I hesitate, then shake my head. He names the figure. It is several hundred times the value of the costliest book upon my uncle’s shelves; and many thousand times the price of the cheapest. This is the only measure of value I know.

  ‘It is a great sum,’ says Mr Rivers, watching my face.

  I nod.

  ‘It shall be ours,’ he says, ‘if we marry.’

  I say nothing.

  ‘Let me be honest,’ he goes on. ‘I came to Briar, meaning to get you in the ordinary way—I mean, seduce you from your uncle’s house, secure your fortune, perhaps dispose of you after. I saw in ten minutes what your life has made of you, and knew I should never achieve it. More, I understood that to seduce you would be to insult you—to make you only a different kind of captive. I don’t wish to do that. I wish rather to free you.’

  ‘You are very gallant,’ I say. ‘Suppose I don’t care to be freed?’

  He answers simply: ‘I think you long for it.’

  Then I turn my face—afraid that the beating of blood, across my cheek, will betray me to him. My voice I make steady. I say, ‘You forget, my longings count for nothing here. As well might my uncle’s books long to leap from their presses. He has made me like them—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he says, in impatience. ‘You have said as much to me already. I think perhaps you say it often. But, what can such a phrase mean? You are seventeen. I am twenty-eight, and believed for many years I should be rich now, and idle. Instead I am what you see me: a scoundrel, not too poor in pocket, but nor too easy in it that I shan’t be scrambling to line it for a little time to come. Do you think yourself weary? Think how weary am I! I have done many gross deeds, and thought each one the last. Believe me: I have some knowledge of the time that may be misspent, clinging to fictions and supposing them truths.’