was that, when Burnes was announced, a full week after Lady Woodcourt’s famous party, and shown into the drawing room where Bella was sitting, alone with her work, she stared at him as if she had never seen a man in her life.
The Garraways lived in Hanover Square, in a house so exactly what one would have expected that, Bella thought, none of her family or her family’s friends could ever be said to have set eyes upon it. It had precisely the right amount of old furniture to be respectable; it had precisely the right number of new objects to be fashionable. There was a pianoforte and a harp; there were sofas and curtains and a wilderness of walnut, just as other people had; there were portraits by Lely of dear great-great-grandmama, stout in a blue silk gown with her hand resting on a silver globe and pointing to the heavens. There was an ugly one, too, of poor Harry which he had ordered the week after arriving in India, in which his head was inexplicably round as a football (‘A native artist,’ Colonel Garraway was apt to say in mitigation, showing the curious visitor the label, ‘Executed in the Year 1826 by the Humble Servant of the Brush T. S. Lal, Student and Pupil of the great English Master, Sir Tilly Kettle’). All quite as everyone else had things; all so perfectly appropriate to the Garraways’ station in life that one could have predicted the house’s exact appearance, and certainly had no need to look at it. It was true that the Garraways, in their dining room, had what, through the gloom, could be perceived to be a lamentable mythology by Hogarth where others might have had a doubtful Claude, but what of that? The Garraways were so completely respectable that they could pass off a small lapse like that as an interesting curiosity, and nobody doubted, since they said so, that an interesting curiosity is what it was. They were respectable to the point of dullness.
It was four in the afternoon, and Colonel Garraway was in his study, taking his second dose of opium of the day. He had unlocked the miniature walnut tantalus, and carefully measured out the drops into a glass. After twenty years establishing a good understanding with the ruby witch, each of his three daily doses was large enough to kill a neophyte. He mixed it with water from the decanter, raised it to the light and gazed at it sternly. This moment of calm contemplation, which never varied or altered, was an essential part of the Colonel’s thrice-daily renewing of his acquaintance with opium; it was his idea of a necessary self-restraint. Presently the world returned to normal. The room deliciously sagged around him, the armchair softened, rose up in an embrace, and all was well again. He never recalled, or noticed, the moment of swallowing; it passed. The Colonel smiled to himself. No, not to himself; to his books. There they were, all his little books. There they were; now, which was his favourite? There, the one with nice gold lettering, there on the spine; Dryden Dramatic Works Vol. III. That was his favourite, wasn’t it, because the I, I, I on the spine was so like three nice gold pillars. Perhaps the green stock, for this evening’s tenue, for Lady Woodcourt’s. The Regent would surely approve. But then he remembered, as a dull double knock sounded through the house and the armchair softened under him like warm toffy, that Lady Woodcourt’s had taken place a week before, he had no green stock to wear, and the Regent, now, was King – no – was dead. He settled back. The ruby witch! he thought. The ruby witch!
Elizabeth Garraway was in her room, attempting to ignore the clink and knock from her father’s study next door. It was the familiar sound of him unlocking the tantalus, taking out the miniature decanter, and settling into oblivion. She was not sure, but she rather thought what she most disapproved of in her father’s opium habit was his having had made these appurtenances, acknowledging that there was no hope or desire in him to abandon the habit. Her hair was as smooth as if it had been lacquered onto her head; her velvet dress was as rich and dark as the heart of a poppy. She continued writing her letter.
‘… I feel, however, that the weaker sex, so justly named at present, only occupies so subservient a position due to the manifest inadequacies of feminine education.’
She sighed, and thought for a moment. She was writing to her correspondent in Germany. She had had great hopes of Goethe until he died, but Herr R—, although no more effusive in his replies than one would expect of the greatest and most famous novelist in Europe, had been most encouraging. She continued.
‘If the conventional female “accomplishments” stretched to trigonometry and Greek at the expense of the watercolour sketch and the covering of screens, what changes in the helpless position of the sex in society could we hope to see!’
She looked at her sentence, quite satisfied. She wondered for a moment whether Herr R—would know what was meant by screen-covering, if that were not a usual practice of German virgins, but decided to leave it. What an honour to educate the great R—, even in so small a matter! She was brought from her thoughts by the sound of the double knock. Bella, however, was in the drawing room, she thought, and could best be left. She, turning back to her elevated correspondence, was decidedly not at home.
2.
Bella, indeed, was downstairs in the drawing room, her mind quite empty. When the double knock came at the door of the house, she was staring abstractedly at a house fly working its way across the walnut table. Her work was in her lap. The fly seemed lost, cautious, bewildered. Its huge jewelled eyes blank, it seemed to be finding its way over the polished table by touch. It leant on its feelers like an old man on a pair of sticks, as if exhausted; then, suddenly, it reached back and swiftly groomed its wings, back, head with three sleek gestures, and with a single snap, flew off on its own purposes. Bella blinked. In front of her was a young man, pink and ginger as a cake. His hat was apologetically in his hand. She did not recognize him.
‘Miss Garraway?’ the young man said. ‘I startled you. I—’
‘Mr Burnes,’ she said crisply, smiling; and, indeed, Emily had a standing instruction to admit Burnes without question, when she was not at home to all others. She had expected, however, some announcement. ‘How pleasant. Do sit down.’
‘I did call,’ he said. ‘I was unable directly to call after the evening at – at—’
‘At Lady Woodcourt’s,’ Bella said, smiling. There were, it was true, an appalling gaggle of hostesses in London, all rather like Fanny Woodcourt; Bella had spent the previous week accompanying her father to a selection of them, in the unfulfilled hope of seeing Burnes. ‘A memorable evening for you, was it, Mr Burnes?’
‘Much resembling a great many other evenings it has been my pleasure to attend in the last few months,’ Burnes said. ‘Indeed, I think I could hardly distinguish it at this distance from a dozen others this last month.’
‘What uninterrupted bliss your life must be,’ Bella said. ‘For a poor female like me, there could be no higher pleasure than a succession of evenings identical to Lady Woodcourt’s. Or perhaps you are weary of them, Mr Burnes? Surely not. Do not disappoint my youthful hopes.’
‘I confess,’ Burnes said, leaning forward in his chair as if she had a lapel to seize, ‘if I thought my life likely to consist of such evenings, I should return to Kabul and never leave again.’
‘No pleasures, then?’ Bella said. ‘None, sir?’
‘One,’ Burnes said, and the drop in his manner into a feeling seriousness was as marked as if he had fixed his gaze with hers. She leant forward, unaccountably disconcerted, and rang for tea.
‘Have you seen your friend, Mr Stokes?’ Bella said, smoothing her dress down as she settled back.
‘Mr Stokes?’ Burnes said, perplexed. He picked up a gold snuffbox, and examined it. ‘Was that the gentleman’s name?’
‘You seemed to be holding an energetic conversation with him at Lady Woodcourt’s,’ she said. ‘A bald gentleman. A writer, I believe. No – I remember now – he is the editor of a periodical. Great things were expected of him, and he wrote a novel – or did he merely promise to write a novel? It is so difficult to remember. Do you plan to write a novel, now, Mr Burnes? You are certainly promising enough to threaten one.’
Burnes took this well. ‘I fear I shall be too occupied with weightier matters shortly. My time is not entirely my own, Miss Garraway – I return to India