35

My Love and I—a Mystery

THERE’S NOT A GIRL MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN HIS GIRL THE night of the dance at Sydenham Hill Manor.

Perhaps none more beautiful in all of England.

Perhaps none more beautiful in all the world.

They have spent an intoxicating week hiding their drunkenness from the adults, like two kids who have discovered beer and are giggling each time they steal one from the fridge. And they keep stealing and stealing, even though the adults have cottoned on and have started keeping the liquor in locked cabinets. Well, Mirabelle has discovered the taste of beer. Roused to something she had not fully imagined or understood, she has been crawling into his bed every night and keeping him awake until break of dawn. Julian, are you asleep? Julian … Ju-li-an … are you asleep?

During the day, she was right, it has become impossible for them to get a minute alone together. Filippa and Prunella trail them everywhere. In the carriage, in the parks, in the stacks, even getting ice cream at Astley’s Circus, the two Pye women loiter at their side. It’s excruciating. He and Mirabelle cannot glance at each other without Filippa glaring at them, without Prunella interrupting them, distracting them. They are reduced to speaking to each other through the words of Spurgeon’s complex, elaborate sermon, “My Love and I—a Mystery,” which they’re almost finished transcribing.

“How do we overcome the venom and vitality of the evil that rages upon us?” Julian reads aloud to Mirabelle, and she writes it down, sentence by sentence, phrase by phrase, word by word. “My love—tell me, how do we overcome it?”

“We overcome it by patience.

“We overcome it by faith.

“We overcome it by hope.

“We overcome it by perseverance.”

“Hang on, Mr. Cruz,” Mirabelle says, “slow down. Don’t be so hasty. Let me get the last of your words down. You said perseverance?” Beat. “Not drive?”

“Yes, Miss Taylor. Not drive.”

“All right, I am ready for more. Please resume. Mr. Cruz, did you hear me? I am ready for more.”

“Yes, Miss Taylor, I lost my place for a second. Here we go. We resolve to love.

“We will not be irritated into unkindness.

“We will not be perverted from generous, all-forgiving affection.”

“Wait, Mr. Cruz, slow down, let me catch up … all-forgiving … affection, got it.”

“We set our helm toward the port of love, and toward it we steer—come what may.”

“Come … what … may … very well, Mr. Cruz. Should we say helm, or rudder?”

“Rudder is a fine word. Use it if you wish, Miss Taylor.”

“I think I shall. I think I shall use rudder.”

She doesn’t lift her eyes from the parchment. And he doesn’t lift his gaze from her head.

But at night, after everyone is asleep, Mirabelle, silent like a tigress, crawls into his bed and falls into his arms, charging him with her happiness, exhorting him to keep her quiet, two commands as mutually exclusive as can be.

I can’t take my eyes off you, Mirabelle. Even in darkness.

Shh. Match my silence. Don’t do anything to me that will make me exhale too loudly—like that, don’t do that!

Yes, Mirabelle.

Caress me softly, don’t stop, but don’t caress me anywhere that will make me cry out—like there. Oh, God, Julian, or there. Or especially there …

Yes, Mirabelle.

Kiss me but do not kiss me with exultation. No exultation, I said!

Yes, Mirabelle.

Love me but without exultation, Julian.

Yes, Mirabelle.

I said without!

Oh. I thought you said with.

Now you’ve done it. Put your hand over my mouth. Throw the blankets over us. You’re impossible, you’re not following any of my instructions. Wait, wait! Let me turn over and press my face into the pillows, so no one can hear how flagrantly you’re disobeying me.

Yes, Mirabelle.

And slow down.

Yes, Mirabelle.

At the ball, her shiny hair is half-up, half-down, partly braided and loosely curled, and her mulberry dress is not so appallingly large as to prevent him from standing close to her. She wears a sparkling headband that looks like a diadem, a crown for royalty. She smells of violets and wine. Her lips are the color of violets and wine. Her dress is fluted gathered silk and satin with gold embroidery. The puff sleeves are off her shoulders. The neckline is low. Her skin is alabaster, from her forehead to her white breasts.

The unworthy Julian stands next to her, barely able to breathe.

All around them are twinkling lights and clinking crystal. Everyone’s face is dressed up with a smile. (Everyone’s but John Snow’s, who looks as if he’s come into contact with some awful, hateful thing.)

The ballroom and the adjacent, equally loud dining hall are decorated with white roses and pink peonies. There’s china on the tables, long tapered candles, sparkling chandeliers, and in the corner a band. A piano, a cello, two violins, a bassoon. The evening is warm and the wall of French doors to the stone patio are flung open. A breeze cools the guests in their splendid frocks as the butlers pass around hot canapes and stemmed crystal glasses of Veuve Clicquot rosé champagne.

“The French, God bless them, are still trying to find a way to rid the champagne of its delicate bubbles,” a chuckling Mirabelle tells Julian, clinking glasses with him. “But we British adore the bubbles.” She smiles.

“Stop smiling at me,” Julian says, unable not to smile in return.

“You don’t want me to smile at you?”

“I’m begging you, behave yourself.”

“Tell me, my love,” she says, leaning decorously to his ear, “do you think the rosé champagne will be more delicious or less delicious if you poured it over my body and kissed it off me?” Chortling, she glides away.

Because he is technically not Mirabelle’s guest but Filippa’s, Julian must leave Mirabelle’s side. With Filippa dragging him hither and yon, he is introduced to the other patrons, as if he is her escort. As if he belongs to her.

Julian is well received in his black trousers, gray tail coat and white cravat. He has shaved his whole face, though most of the other men sprout thick, bushy sideburns. Mirabelle prefers him clean-shaven, so that’s that. His longish dark hair is brushed back and left down his neck, while other men’s hair is short (or in the case of John Snow, non-existent). Because of the contrast, he stands out, he commands attention.

The waitstaff uses Baker’s Peels—trays with long handles—to bring the ladies their food and drink, because they cannot reach them otherwise over the eight-foot-in-diameter petticoats.

Before the dancing can begin, several people dressed for a lecture give wordy speeches on the importance of Florence Nightingale’s nursing work abroad while the genteel women stand and chafe in their enormous crinolines, and the men drink and check their pocket watches.

Julian has a few minutes with John Snow. The man does not look well. Snow’s shiny bald head conveys his anxiety. He is constantly wiping it with his handkerchief. The hand that holds the wine glass is unsteady.

“I haven’t seen you since our evening at the Taylors’, doctor,” Julian says. “How’s it going? Any luck?”

“By luck, do you mean are people dying?” The man is in a mood. “You think you had a hard time convincing me?” Snow continues. “The Board of Health minister has refused to shut down the water pump on Broad Street I told him was responsible for the most recent outbreak of cholera—600 new cases just last month! He says my evidence is circumstantial. I told him you have 500 men in the city prison living in vile conditions and none of them is sick, yet here on your streets, 600 people contracted one disease, and that is circumstantial? He says, what would you have me do, Doctor Snow? Perhaps pump all the water out of the Thames and replace it with new water?” Snow tuts in disgust. “We’re doomed. Do yourself a favor, Julian, drink only wine or boiled water.”

“On it, believe me,” Julian says.

“I told the minister that death is coming into his home, death in the form of dirty water. Did he listen?”

“Because it’s impossible to comprehend,” Julian says. “To fix it will require replumbing the largest city in the world.”

“How about if we start small, I told him,” Snow says, “start with closing off the one blasted pump in Soho that’s causing most of the contamination.”

“You’ll get there,” Julian says. “Be grateful cholera is not spread by body-to-body contact.”

“What do you mean? How do you know? Is this from your dysentery study?”

“It’s all about the water, John,” Julian says, touching his finger to his temple in a hat-tip. “Let’s go, the dancing is about to begin.”

Wiping his bald dome, John Snow crawls to the dancing line as if dancing is cholera itself.

Julian hopes he won’t make a fool of himself on the floor. What does he know of this kind of dancing? The men gather on one side, the ladies on the other, like the boys and girls at a wedding before “Paradise by the Dashboard Light.” The first man in the line steps forward, extends his hand to the lady, and they waltz, at a tempo too allegro for Julian’s inexperience. Up and down the ballroom, while the rest stand and applaud. The next pair steps forward. They dance, and then switch partners. And so on. Julian is around seventeenth. On the other side, his dazzling wine-colored bride awaits.

Before he can dance with her, Julian must dance with Filippa. “Are you enjoying yourself, Mr. Cruz?”

“Very much, Filippa. Thank you for inviting me.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure entirely!”

Julian glimpses John Snow dancing with Mirabelle. She’s patting him consolingly. He must be telling her about the contaminated pump.

Soon it’s Julian’s turn.

Finally, finally! he has her in his arms. His left hand slides around her waist. Her right hand rests on his chest. Her shoulders are rounded, white, bare. He wants to lean forward and kiss them. He threads his fingers through hers as they dance.

“You can’t look at me like that, Mr. Cruz.” She pants slightly.

“Like what, Miss Taylor?” He’s panting, too.

Round and round they glide, swaying to the sound of violins.

“Like you’re about to kiss me …”

“Maybe you should try being less beautiful.”

“Wait, you didn’t let me finish.” She lowers her voice to the barest whisper. “Like you’re about to kiss me—and not for the first time.”

“Please—stop speaking, Miss Taylor, or I shall dishonor us both.”

She giggles rapturously. “Do you know what Charles just told me?”

“No,” Julian says. “What did he tell you, my love?”

“He said that in order to find a good father for her children, a woman first must know good from evil. And that is no small feat.”

“Well, he’s right about that.”

“He told me I chose well.”

“The pastor is very wise.”

“He doesn’t even know how well.”

“Mirabelle, shh!”

Julian has two minutes with her on the dance floor. His face must show the torture of living under time flying, because Mirabelle pats him consolingly, too, and says, “Don’t worry so much. It’s all still ahead of us.”

He stares at her as if he wants to drink her.

They waltz the rest of their eternal minute in silence, their hearts overflowing.

Perspiring and hot, Julian steps outside to get some air. Spurgeon follows him out.

“I see you’ve been dancing quite a lot with a certain ribbon-maker’s daughter, Charles.” Julian is teasing.

“And you’ve been dancing quite a lot with a certain piano teacher’s daughter, Julian.”

“I’m being polite.”

“Me too.”

The men smile. Behind them the music blares.

“Julian, is it true?” Charles asks. “Aubrey told me that Mirabelle might not be going with Florence to Paris after all?”

Julian stays composed. “Officially she’s made no decision yet.”

“I don’t have to tell you that Aubrey and John are ecstatic. You have no idea how desperately they didn’t want her to go.”

“Oh, I had some idea.”

“They credit you with helping her to change her mind.”

Perhaps Julian has helped her slightly, by using some of his powers of persuasion. “It’s her decision, Charles. She’s a strong, independent woman. She’s got her own mind, as you know.”

Charles hesitates. “Have you made your decision yet?”

“Not officially.”

“Why haven’t you asked for her hand, Julian? What are you waiting for? The Taylors will throw you a party that will make this one look like sedate afternoon tea at teetotaling Prunella’s. Half of London will come.”

“I’m not making any plans.” Until September 21.

Spurgeon studies Julian’s flushed, impenetrable face.

“Does it feel right,” Charles asks, “to keep away from her?”

Julian admits it does not. It has felt ugly and wrong. And he hasn’t kept away from her. If only.

“I can see you’re still struggling with something,” Spurgeon says. “But how can the struggle for love mean you are kept apart? It flies in the face of everything we know about love. Love is a bond. A bond unites human beings, binds them together. In the ultimate bond, they’re bound together so utterly, they become as one. One flesh, one heart, one soul, one love. How can the opposite of that also be love? It’s almost as if you’re serving two masters. As if your house is divided.”

Julian tilts his head in assent. “Indeed, my house may be divided,” he says.

“Love is light,” Spurgeon says. “The rest is darkness. You fight against the darkness, that’s the answer. Isn’t that what you’ve been doing your whole life? It’s what I preach from dawn to dusk. You don’t give in to it. You fill the day with what joy you can, with what light you can. Look, I must go inside. I, for one, firmly believe we shouldn’t keep our girls waiting.” A smiling Spurgeon pumps Julian’s hand. “Live as if you have infinite time, Julian. The way our Lord lived, though He knew the Cross was drawing near. Live as if both gardens dwell inside you, side by side, Eden and Gethsemane.”

After Spurgeon leaves, Julian stands by the railing, gulping the night air, still slightly out of breath. He glances back inside the ballroom. A purple whirl of Mirabelle floats by in a fluid loop.

Down below him, in the depth of the garden, he hears quickening hissing voices. Julian recognizes them. It’s Filippa and her mother. Julian’s attention is diverted from the gauzy lights to the acrid darkness where the young woman stands and speaks.

She is complaining stridently to Prunella.

“Why does she always get her way, Mummy? You know she’s doing it on purpose, she doesn’t even care about him! She doesn’t even want him. She just wants me not to have him. It’s so unfair! Sometimes I hate her, I really do. I know it’s not ladylike to say, but what she is doing is so unkind!”

“Darling, please don’t be cross, you’ll get wrinkles in your lovely cheeks, don’t make that face, the frown won’t leave your forehead. I know you’re upset, have you tried telling her how you feel?”

“Of course I’ve told her! You don’t even want him, I keep saying.”

“And what does she say?”

“She says she can’t help it if a man is interested in her.”

“Did you ask her to put in a good word for you?”

“Yes, and do you think she has done so? The other night, when he left the room, and I complained about her forward behavior, she actually had the gall to say to me that nothing she could say to a man could make him stop loving one woman and love another. She actually used the word love, Mummy! Now do you see why I’m so cross? And she was so infuriatingly calm about it, too.”

“And what did you say in reply?”

“I accused her of enticing him.”

“And what did she say?”

“She said, well, Pippa, dahrrrling”—Filippa affects a posh breathy tone to mock Mirabelle—“I can hardly help whom he’s interested in, can I? And then, listen to this—then! she said, Pips, have you tried being more interesting? The cheek!”

“Peanut, she’s teasing you. She’s not doing anything to entice him. Come now. All you have to do is wait her out. You know that. Just a few weeks to go, and she’s gone! Gone! To the Crimea. With any luck, she’ll get some horrible disease and come back all wasted and disfigured.” Even as she says it, Prunella coughs uncomfortably. “Look at the things you’re making me say. I would never forgive myself if something were to happen to that poor girl in Turkey.”

“Mummy, you understand nothing, you see nothing, you’re blind! Blind! Listen to me! Don’t you see what’s happening here? I greatly fear that Mirabelle may go back on her vaunted word and not go with Florence to Scutari.”

“That’s impossible! I know Mirabelle. That girl will not change her mind over some man.”

“Not some man, Mummy. The man.”

“No, no, no.”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t seen how all of them have been working day and night, those industrious damned little dervishes, to prevent her from leaving England! All of them, Mrs. Taylor, Mr. Taylor, Charles Spurgeon, Coventry Patmore, his histrionic wife, who keeps throwing them her stupid infant to coddle, and even Mr. Airy, who’s so enamored of him, he’s practically ready to wed him himself!”

“Oh, Pippa, what are you saying! You’re imagining things. For years they’ve been trying to get Mirabelle to marry John Snow, and after that, even Charles, and none of it has worked. And Doctor Snow is a wonderful man. If she turns her nose up at him, she will turn her nose up at anybody.”

“Mummy, that’s because John Snow is a scientist! Don’t you know anything? They’re not interested in women.”

“But a professor and a seminarian like Julian is?”

Filippa scoffs. “Some seminarian. Do you see the way he looks at her? Did you see the way he held her as they danced? Mummy, he placed his entire hand on her back and drew her to him, flush to him, with his palm flat and all his fingers spread out! Mummy, no man of God lays his hand against a woman’s back like that. He drew her to him like she belonged to him and he to her! He was intimate with her on the dance floor. And she let him! She was flushed, and her lips were parted. She stared right into his mouth as they talked. They were kindling in the middle of the ballroom, about to go up in flames, please don’t tell me you didn’t see it! Everyone saw it. I’m humiliated, mortified. He came here to dance with me, not her. Mummy, I’m dreading that he is going to ask her to marry him! And she is going to say yes and stay in this bloody country and have his babies, and all our plans will be ruined, and I’ll never get married!” Filippa whimpers.

“No, he isn’t! No, they won’t!” Prunella starts to hyperventilate herself.

“She is in love with him, Mummy. This awful night has proved it to me beyond any doubt. It’s the worst day of my life. How I regret inviting him. There will be no Florence, no Paris, no front, no war. There will be a wedding, though! Hers. Five minutes ago, she insisted she never wanted to get married, and now she’s going to be a bride, and I’m going to die an old maid!”

Both women wail.

“Darling, please calm down, someone will hear you! Shh, darling. No, I don’t believe it. It’s your imagination. You’re driving yourself mad. That’s not our Mirabelle. She’s too serious a girl.”

“She wanted to be an actress, Mummy! In her heart of hearts, she’s a courtesan, a dilettante, she wants all the fake stars to shine on her, she wants all the grand gestures, the operatic proclamations! While all I want is a husband!”

“He hasn’t swayed her,” Prunella says. “She’s not interested in marriage, I promise you. For a while there, Pippa, I suspected she wasn’t interested in men. Otherwise she would’ve married John Snow. Don’t worry, darling.”

“You have to do something, Mummy! You simply must.”

“What would you like Mummy to do? Would you like me to speak to Mr. Cruz?”

“Dear Lord, yes, humiliate me further.”

“So what would you like me to do? Filippa … what is that look on your face? Ouch, don’t yank on me!”

Filippa lowers her voice to an inaudible whisper.

A raptly listening Julian strains to hear, strains to see. What is that look on Filippa’s face? What is she saying to her mother? The two women are on the lawn below his balcony near the landscaped bushes. He can’t see their expressions in the night. He can barely make out the tail ends of their words.

Filippa’s voice rises. “… And in three weeks, rejected and heartbroken, she will leave for the front as planned, and we will pick up the pieces.”

“You are mad, darling! You’ve gone mad! We can’t!”

“Do you have a better solution, Mummy? My way everybody gets what they want. Your way, I die barren and alone.”

Aubrey Taylor takes Julian’s arm. He flinches.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, my dear boy, I didn’t mean to startle you.” She embraces him. “Come inside. It’s about to rain. What are you doing here all by yourself? Mirabelle’s waiting for you. Come, my dearest.” Aubrey smiles.

Julian peers one last time into the darkness. What was on Filippa’s face? What suggestion did she make that even her own mother recoiled?