WILLIAM DAVEY
Eliza’s narrative was evocative: I was almost able to see the ice on Rescobie Loch. I had been there myself and remembered the beautiful view she had described. When she was finished, we sat quietly for a time while Eliza collected herself. I did not wish to disturb her contemplations, so I consulted my notebook for other questions I might ask.
“What did David tell you about the death of his father?” she asked at last.
“His story differs only slightly from yours, Eliza, and only incidentally. He showed me a letter that his father had sent to your husband concerning his intentions. The elder James Esdaile fully expected to confront your captor that night, and James was aware of it.”
“I had not known that. I wonder if Fi would have acted differently, had she known.”
“I daresay she would not.”
“You are probably correct. They are capricious—and cruel. It would have only angered her further.”
“But you should realize, Eliza, that David Esdaile has long since forgiven you. He knows that you were not responsible”—she attempted to interrupt; I hastily continued—“primarily responsible—for the actions of the chthonic spirit that inhabited you. He came to realize that you were within.”
“Reverend James didn’t know. He assumed I was a manifestation.”
“But I think your husband did.”
Eliza did not respond. She stood and walked to the window and settled herself onto a bench seat. She invited me to join her. The late-morning sun streamed through the window, clear and bright, highlighting her neat, straight hair and picking out a small piece of polished amber in the clasp that held it in place.
“Recounting this story to you is uncomfortable, Reverend Davey—not only for the recollection, which is painful enough, but also because of what it says about my present situation. I am not like some poor Dickensian waif who has endured penury and privation and now at last is free and well-situated, the novel over and the enemy vanquished and the adventures all complete.
“Look at this house, sir: I have a maid and a cook, a generous inheritance and a comfortable pension from James, a successful doctor and author. I am not wealthy, but I am not in want.
“But then I compare myself to my sister-in-law, Mary. She is far happier than I; she has five beautiful children and is married to her dearest heart, while I am childless and my dearest heart—whom, despite all, I came to love—lies here in the churchyard far from his native soil. He is infinitely further from me. I wonder whether anything else matters.”
“You are still a young woman.”
“Thirty-seven is not young, Reverend.”
“Among the lacemakers in Honiton in Devon, Eliza, thirty-seven is quite old: their eyes are weak and their fingers are rheumatic. But you are beautiful and intelligent, strong-willed and of independent means. You cannot be without suitors.”
“Suitors?” she laughed, not quite merrily—I think it was more rueful than anything else. “I have rebuffed all such petitions. I do not wish to have any sort of captivity, not after my former experience. And that is what it would be—I should surrender my goods and my status as the head of my own household, and for what? The companionship of a man who—of all the attributes you assign to me—would be most interested in my independent means. My beauty—such as it is—will continue to fade. As for intelligence and strong will—men do not prize that.
“Which leaves only what I have, Reverend. I simply do not care to give that away.”
“Your argument is compelling,” I said, unsure what else I could possibly say. In the mesmeric world, there had been only a few women, scattered here and there—Ann Braid, of course; Lydia Fowler and Harriet Martineau; Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Ada Lovelace. None had been truly independent, and even Ann Braid would soon be married—and was not, in any case, a free agent any longer.
“You concede what I already know.”
“Your intelligence and strong will leave me no choice, madam. And as for your beauty—while I am not bewitched by it, because fifty-two is much older than thirty-seven, it is undeniable.”
“If you say so. I am no judge of that. I do not preen or strut, and what vanity I do possess is an unseemly vice. But I thank you for your compliments. I have made clear my opinion of you, so I know that your compliment is genuine, rather than flattery meant to curry my favor.”
Again, I was without a response. If Eliza had been trained as a mesmerist, I knew that she could be the equal of any member of the Committee—save perhaps myself. She would be more than a match for Ann Braid, who might have crippled herself to exercise her vindictive revenge. But it was not a career I expected Eliza to pursue.
Still, it occurred to me that if she were perceived to have skills, it might be sufficient to deter any but the most determined among the Committee. I concluded that I should have to put it about that she had acquired some skill during her captivity, or that I had imparted the same to her. I determined also that it was unnecessary for me to consult with her on this strategy.
“I tire of discussing myself, Reverend Davey,” she said. “It would be my preference that we moved on to some other subject.”
I nodded. “As you wish.”
“Tell me. What else would you like to know?”
“I would like to know about your time in Sydenham.”
ELIZA ESDAILE
I do not know what my brother-in-law has told you about our move away from Perth, Reverend Davey. Let me clarify on behalf of my late husband.
His brother’s demand that we leave was not our only motivation: a plan was already underway at the time Reverend James died. We had been expecting to move for some time. James had already bought this house and engaged the inestimable Mrs. Yells to serve as cook. He had intended to establish our household here in the spring of 1854. The sudden loss of Reverend James merely brought the plan to fruition.
It was a difficult passage for both brothers. James and I scarcely spoke at all to David and Mary at the funeral; we were all polite to a fault, jointly hosting the small gathering that followed the interment, and when we parted it was without any real exchange. It pained James very much; for a time, he scarcely spoke to me, though it was clear to me that he understood that the conflict between the chthonic spirit and his father was inevitable on both sides.
On the day that James died, Reverend, the reason for Sydenham was finally revealed. At the time we first established ourselves here, I did not know and Fi did not suspect—but she did ask many questions, which I tried my best to answer.
James had obtained a favorable situation through some old friends. I was happy to be back in England and was excited to have an opportunity to tour the great Crystal Palace, a wonder I had not seen when it was situated in Hyde Park. This new location was far more extensive, and covered many more areas and periods than the original one had done.
Did Fi sense the effects of the Palace? Not completely, I assume. I was as shocked as she when James revealed the fact as he died. Since you were coming in person, I assumed that you might be her equal, and that if James died, I would be subjected to the final horror of observing my captor consuming the body and soul of the man I loved. Whatever the case, I concluded that it would be unpleasant.
Still, I can tell you that Fi did not like the place. I loved it, as did James; he bought me Phillips’s guide to the Palace—it sits on that bookcase over there—and I encouraged Fi to read it, so that I could read it as well. Still, the Crystal Palace bothered Fi; she felt almost seasick there at times, she told me, and she thought it affected her ability to protect James. I pointed out to her that it would likely be the case that any enemy seeking to do harm to James would be discomfited as well. As our time in Sydenham lengthened, she became more complacent about it, and we visited often. After a time, she did not even complain about it anymore; instead, she told me of her race’s relations with some of the many cultures depicted there.
She was particularly intrigued by the Egyptian Court. She told me that stoicheia of all elements had had dealings with that culture, particularly the photic and chthonic types; but that most of the artifacts were from later periods. But I should mention that she had difficulty with the place at first—the main arched doorway and the interior ones seemed to have invisible barriers erected across them, stretching between the winged globes atop the door columns. We broke through each time—but after no more than a few minutes, they reestablished themselves. Fi found it quite tiring, but still was compelled by the scene—I particularly remember that she would stand and look at the hieroglyphics and trace the palm-leaf indents on the wall friezes, almost as if she were trying to recapture something she had lost.
There were other parts of the Palace that compelled her—the medieval church, the Alhambra, the Assyrian Court with its great palace—and James and I visited them so frequently that we were recognized and somewhat well-known to the staff and other regular patrons. The only other puzzlement for Fi was why the culture of the ancient Indus Valley was not presented. I assured her that it was unknown to current archaeology. She found this quite amusing.
Yes, I imagine that the final confrontation within the Crystal Palace was part of James’s plan all along—though it is a mark of his skill at circumspection that he kept it a secret from Fi for nearly five years. I am sure he was aware of the peculiar geometric properties of the Palace, but accustoming Fi to visiting certainly made it easier to spring his trap.
I do not know why he waited so long—it would certainly have been less painful for me had he not postponed his death until 1859. I have always assumed that he intended merely to assure himself that Fi could not obtain her satisfaction when his life came to an end; he was never completely healthy, though our time in Scotland seemed to energize him. He clearly did know that mesmeric arts could not be practiced there, but …
No, I do remember. It was in the summer of 1857; we had been in Sydenham for more than three years. James had been in ill health during some of the previous winter and spring, and Fi was reassuring me that I should soon be free: it was little consolation, for I knew that she was implying that James would soon die.
We had talked about this subject again and again: Fi was devoid of compassion, but devoted to the idea of protecting James—and then consuming him as her reward. She had grown tired of the former, and eager for the latter, but the terms of her employment forbade any meddling. She was forbidden from causing injury or illness to her charge—but I wonder now if she would have let him die if he had some sort of apoplexy or attack, or intervened to save him.
I digress from my point. In July of that year, we began to hear about the unpleasant events in India. It began in Calcutta—the rebellion of a regiment in the Bengal Army—and spread all over the subcontinent. It was like a great wind that spread everywhere, causing small sparks to erupt into fires. There were many injustices and many troubles: India is not a simple place, Reverend Davey, as most Englishmen seem to believe. But the coming of the Mutiny, and the terrible events that took place, made James angry.
Why? It is very simple. He believed that he had caused it—by leaving the statue behind. He felt that it had incited the young Bengali at Barrackpore to rebel—and things simply began to unfold from there. It made him so despondent that for a time I thought he might do what Mr. Heath had done—take his own life in despair. He would not even speak to me—to Fi—for a few days, remaining distant even when we were together. He retreated to his study and read his books and wrote letters.
It lasted—well, the worst of his despondency was over in a week or so. He received a letter. Fi tried to keep informed about the post that came into the house, but throughout our marriage James had gone to considerable pains to keep prying eyes away from that which he considered to be his private business.
No, I do not have the letter: I do not know its contents or its import—but James began preparing for your visit not long afterward.
WILLIAM DAVEY
Eliza completed her narrative and again turned her attention to looking out of the window. I remained silent out of courtesy.
At last I stood and offered Eliza a slight bow. “Madam, your information has been of great help. I promise that I shall do as I have done, keeping our practitioners away from your home. My need to understand the world beyond the Glass Door will help protect you from them, as well, I trust.”
“Though I should like to say that I am indifferent to the knowledge, Reverend,” Eliza said, “I am moved to ask what you plan to do.”
“I am not certain,” I answered, though I had already fixed upon a course of action. “I believe that at some point I shall have to place my feet upon foreign soil. Even if you do not wish for me to possess it, for certain others to have the statue would be even worse. It is not here, it is not in Scotland—and I believe that leaves only one place.”
“India,” she said, with resignation in her voice.
“Yes,” I answered. “India.”