‘A widower,’ Angelica says.
‘Oho! Hear that, Jenny?’ Mrs Crawford nudges her sister-in-law. ‘A widower! That is something for you to think on. For all the men you missed out on the first time round will be in want of a new wife before too long.’ She chuckles and pats her hands together. ‘A widower, Mrs Hancock, a fine choice. A good steady sort of a husband, less inflamed by romantic passions, which mark my words can be more troublesome than enjoyable. His character revealed and his fortune already made, which bypasses many of the trials one comes upon in the early years of marriage.’
‘And less need of a bridal portion, which is so troublesome in broadcasting a lady’s value to the world,’ adds Mrs Flowerday.
‘Yes, a very practical choice,’ says her mother. ‘I always think second wives are more of a practical necessity; the first is the true partner.’
‘But this is the importance of a dowry,’ says Mrs Flowerday. ‘’Tis what yokes man and wife equally. When my Edward has one of his foolish ideas, I tell him, sir, do you recall through whose beneficence this will be paid for? That gives him pause.’ The child is flopping in her arms like a drunk. She passes him back to her aunt to be winded, and tucks her breast back into her gown. Thus straightened, she smiles at Angelica. ‘Of course, when a gentleman is as wealthy as your Mr Hancock, there is nothing to stop him from taking any bride he chooses, however obscure or poorly thought of.’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘Nothing but propriety.’
‘I hope you do not mind my saying so,’ says Angelica kindly, ‘for I am sure you mean nothing by it, but, Mrs Flowerday, your choice of conversation gives the impression of small-mindedness. Spiteful, some might read you. Perhaps even vulgar. Which I am sure cannot be the effect you intended.’ She squeezes Mrs Flowerday’s hand. ‘I tell you this as a friend,’ she says, ‘and as a woman just a little older than you.’
Mrs Crawford shuffles contentedly in her seat, pleased that a lady so metropolitan would condescend with her insights. Jane Crawford, mopping a milky rime from her charge’s lips, says nothing still, but for the first time a great smile springs across her lips, until she buries her face in the child’s soft neck and it is hidden again.
‘And now,’ says Angelica, ‘has Baby run through his entire repertoire or is there more? I’ll gladly sit and watch him for another hour – his performance is quite equal to anything I saw Garrick do – but if there is to be a song or a tragic piece next, I may need a short interlude in which to compose myself.’
‘And what would you have me do?’ she asks Sukie after their guests have departed, at speed and with many lamentations. ‘There is no point in my trying to be what I am not; I am a fraud and all can see it. Why would I not conduct myself as I know how?’
‘You were very rude,’ says Sukie.
‘Pish posh! They would have me stare at a baby for two hours. What was there to be done?’
‘Think of your husband, the impression that this gives …’
‘Oh, my husband!’ She curls her lovely lip, the most Angelica Neal expression she has shewn for a year. ‘Why am I always to think of him when he never thinks of me? Miss Sukie, if he did not intend to give a certain impression, he ought not to have married me in the first place.’
‘I’ve no argument to that,’ says Sukie. ‘You never got him under false pretences.’ She feels rather excited at the prospect of real glamour residing in this house; the meek Mrs Hancock who arrived in Deptford at last restored to her splendour. ‘I will look over the books,’ she says, ‘and find the wages for a proper hairdresser. ’Tis criminal that you are attended by nobody, and do not look as you ought.’
‘Oh, Sukie, Sukie, dear heart.’ Angelica kisses her face. ‘You understand me. I never felt so much myself as I did this afternoon.’
EIGHTEEN
By night-time, with her face wiped clean and her hair sheathed in its muslin cap, she feels less certain. The afternoon was as a masquerade ball: the words spoke from behind a mask may be bolder than those uttered barefaced, but this need not mean they are more honest. She stews in the bed, small and lost. By the time Mr Hancock enters it is the very dead of night, and no light whatever intrudes the room, but he has memorised his steps well. Angelica listens to him moving about; by this sound she judges he is putting his wig on its stand; by this he is removing his jacket, and then his breeches. When he comes to the bed this time, she does not pretend to be asleep. Her bravery persists; she sits up from her pillow and pins her eyes upon his shadow.
‘You are awake,’ he says.
‘Yes.’
He nods, but says no more. His silhouetted profile shows clearly his downturned mouth, his cheeks with the grim slackness one observes in a death mask. What has happened to him, that he has grown so grave and thin? He raises his arms, and the movement of his fingers tells her he is unpinning the jabot at his throat. She bides in quiet agony at how changed he is, how all his affection seems evaporated, and when he puts on his nightcap she resolves to pursue the matter.
‘Sir,’ she says.
‘Hmm?’
‘Would it be different?’ She waits. She does not like this question – she does not care to hear its answer; already the weight of truth is heavy and tight in her stomach. She is glad she cannot see him. ‘If I had had the child, would things here be different?’
He pulls back in perplexion, or surprise. ‘Why. Of course. Everything would be different.’
And then he gets into the bed beside her and they say no more.
Later in the night, as dawn approaches, he stirs. Angelica’s slow breathing fills the room, in and out pacific as tides. Poor child, he thinks, but nonetheless he cannot stop thinking of the mermaid, her great voluptuous sorrow rolling over in the vat. And although his wife’s tears lie heavy still on his heart, he cannot help but go from the bed.
Why do I do this? he asks himself as he makes his way through the silent house, the air of the vast staircase dancing with secrets of its own.
Why not stay with her? Because the call to leave is so beguiling. This is how a man feels at the top of a great tower; he is afraid of the abyss beneath him, but still he must look upon it, and still step towards the parapet. He passes through the dining room and out of the glass doors onto the steps. The garden is a-rustle, the lawn a dark triangle stretching down to the white smudge of the summer house, and he strides out towards it.
He pauses a moment behind the columns of the folly to let the silence settle. Satisfied, he unlocks the little rough door that leads down to the grotto, but when it creaks open he hears most distinctly a sound that makes his ears prick up, and the bristles on his neck quiver.
A door, slammed.
It comes from inside the house. He steps backwards into the shadows, but even so he sees one window become illuminated. The glow of light travels from one first-floor window to the next, and then vanishes again.
My wife, he thinks. Perhaps she is hungry, and goes to the kitchen to find an apple or a lump of cheese. She will not come out here. He hunches like a gravestone. He can hear his own breathing fearful loud, and the trembling and ringing of the vat. Do not come out here, he orders Angelica. Do not, do not.
The air is so still he hears the front door of the house open and close as if it were at his ear, and her feet moving over the gravel.
She will look at the front of the house only; she will look at the stables to see if a horse is gone. She will not come back here.
But he hears her voice, ‘Mr Hancock?’ and then she comes glimmering around the side of the house. She holds a lantern close to her bosom, her hand cupped about its frail flame. ‘Sir?’