A Quiet Tide E-Book

Marianne Lee

• Herausgeber: New Island
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Unmarried, childless and sickly, Ellen Hutchins was considered an 'unsuccessful' woman, dutifully bound to her family's once grand and isolated estate, Ballylickey House in County Cork. And yet, by the time of her death in 1815, Ireland's first female botanist, self-taught and determined to make her mark, had catalogued over a thousand species of seaweed and plants from her native Bantry Bay. In Marianne Lee's remarkable debut novel, Ellen's rich but tormented inner life is reclaimed from the repression by gender, class and politics of her time, stealing glimpses of the happiness and autonomy she could never quite articulate. As she reaches for meaning and expression through her work, the eruption of a long-simmering family feud and the rise of Ellen's own darkness – her 'quiet tide' – threaten to destroy her already fragile future. A Quiet Tide is a life examined, a heart-breaking, haunting story that at last captures the essence and humanity of a long forgotten Irishwoman.

Leseprobe

‘A Quiet Tide marks the début of Irish writer Marianne Lee. Set in the early 1800s … Ellen Hutchins … is brought to life, exquisitely formed … Lee’s detailed research, with a plethora of Latin names, never takes from Ellen. This is a gem of a book, exquisitely written with an Austen delicacy of prose.’

Books Ireland

‘A triumph.’

Irish Examiner

‘Early in life, Ellen’s headmistress gives her some advice on her restless spirit. “You must strive to curb it. Accept what is around you. Do not fight.” Lee’s novel beautifully captures the quiet resistance by one noteworthy Irish woman against this damning advice.’

The Irish Times

‘A beautiful, elegantly written novel about the tangled roots of family and the pursuit of singular passions. Marianne Lee is a new literary star.’

Nuala O’Connor, author of Nora

‘A beautifully layered novel, so fluidly written, shining a light on one formidable woman’s journey; quiet and contemplative yet determined and passionate, tied to family yet full of desire, and a yearning to soar.’

The Resting Willow Blog

‘[A]bsorbing and deftly written … an exemplary act of reclamation and literary ventriloquism … assured, haunting … [A] writer of substance and intelligence, declining the embellishments of linguist pyrotechnics, unafraid to let her tale unfold at its own pace. She is canny in what she puts in and wise in what she leaves out, so that Ellen’s fate haunts the reader who must fill in the missing jigsaw pieces.’

Sunday Business Post

‘Though A Quiet Tide depicts an antiquated epoch now largely alien to us, Lee’s deft portrayal of the human struggle at its centre lends it an uncanny relevance.’

Totally Dublin

A QUIET TIDE

First published in 2020 by

New Island Books

10 Richview Office Park

Clonskeagh

Dublin 14

D14 V8C4

Republic of Ireland

www.newisland.ie

This edition published 2022

Copyright © Marianne Lee, 2020, 2022

The right of Marianne Lee to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright and Related Rights Act, 2000.

Print ISBN: 978-1-84840-858-6

eBook ISBN: 978-1-84840-755-8

All rights reserved. The material in this publication is protected by copyright law. Except as may be permitted by law, no part of the material may be reproduced (including by storage in a retrieval system) or transmitted in any form or by any means; adapted; rented or lent without the written permission of the copyright owners.

This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters, with the exception of some historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Set in 10.5 on 14.5pt Adobe Caslon Pro.

Cover design by Karen Vaughan, kvaughan.com

Cover image: detail of oil painting, 'Josephine Kronprinzessin von Schweden' by Karl Joseph

Stieler (1823); source: Kunsthandlung Neumeister & Gräf, München.

New Island received financial assistance from The Arts Council (An Chomhairle Ealaíon), Dublin, Ireland

Novel Fair: an Irish Writers Centre initiative

New Island Books is a member of Publishing Ireland

For J & J

Author’s Note

In Ireland in the early 1800s (as in the rest of the United Kingdom) the recipient, not the sender, paid the price of postage. Officers of the state, and others, were permitted to frank and receive an amount of postage duty free.

The binomial system of naming plants that was developed by Carl Linnaeus – the Linnaean system – was introduced in the late 1700s and continues to be used today. However, though the binomial system remains unchanged, the classification of plants has been updated, resulting in name changes for species.

In South-West Ireland in the early 1800s, much of the local population spoke the Irish language, particularly in more remote, rural areas. Many would have had little or no English.

Contents

Prologue: Bantry, Co. CorkFebruary 1807

DUBLIN, IRELAND MAY 1803

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

BALLYLICKEY, CO. CORK MARCH 1805

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

YARMOUTH, ENGLAND JULY 1806

Chapter Eight

BALLYLICKEY, CO. CORK JANUARY 1807

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

YARMOUTH, ENGLAND JANUARY 1808

Chapter Thirteen

BALLYLICKEY, CO. CORK APRIL 1808

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

LONDON AND YARMOUTH, ENGLAND MAY 1809

Chapter Seventeen

BALLYLICKEY, CO. CORK AND DUBLIN JUNE 1809

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

YARMOUTH, ENGLAND JULY 1811

Chapter Twenty-Four

BALLYLICKEY, CO. CORK AUGUST 1811

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

YARMOUTH, ENGLAND AUGUST 1813

Chapter Thirty-One

BANDON, CO. CORK OCTOBER 1813

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

YARMOUTH, ENGLAND MAY 1816

Chapter Thirty-Four

Epilogue

Afterword

Sources and Acknowledgements

About the Author

Prologue

Bantry, Co. CorkFebruary 1807

The fisherman sidled up to her on the quay. ‘You’re Miss Hutchins, the plant lady from Ballylickey.’

‘I am.’

‘They said you might be interested in a curious tree I’ve seen growing.’ His English was fluent, if careful. He had steady, intelligent eyes, sand-coloured hair.

‘Yes?’

‘I know the trees here around, yet I’ve not seen this type before or since. A rare sight, brave and green, in that barren place.’

‘Where?’

He waved a hand out to sea. ‘An island, not much more than a big rock, set in rough waters off Bere Island. You’ll not get near it except in good conditions, no wind or swell …’

‘Could you take me?’

‘Too dangerous for a lady.’

‘I’m used to boats and climbing to out-of-the-way places.’

‘I’d not do it, Miss.’ He shook his head, his mouth a hard line. ‘But if I get near it again in the summer, I’ll dig the roots out for you.’

‘Don’t put yourself at risk, not for the sake of a plant.’

‘I know those waters since I was a boy, Miss, could sail them blind.’

‘Well … I’ve never encountered anything like you describe. If you get the roots, send them to Ballylickey House.’

She often thought of him, on calm, clear days; she looked for him amongst fishermen unloading mackerel and herring, mending nets, boiling cans of water over small fires. Eventually she approached a group of men congregated on the quays in Bantry. ‘Have you seen James O’Sullivan of Berehaven lately?’

They spoke amongst themselves in Irish, gesturing, shaking their heads. Their wind-burnt faces shone like mahogany.

‘What is it? What happened?’

One man stepped forward. ‘He drowned, Miss. A month back.’

‘My God. How terrible. Where?’

They shifted their feet. A low murmur came from within them, like a rushing wave.

‘Somewhere off Crow Head. They were only an hour out. A storm came up.’ His eyes met hers, a flicker; she saw there all the horror of those few words.

‘Had he a family?’

‘A wife. Two boys and a girl. He was a good man. They got the body, buried him decent.’

‘I’m sorry.’

The men looked at the ground, shrinking within themselves, casting her out. She backed away, shaken, ashamed. Why? She was not responsible. The breeze stung her face, tart with the briny whiff of fish.

James O’Sullivan lay now in Glebe graveyard, under the shifting sky and the whisper of elder saplings.

She searched for the tree, had the crew position the boat as close as possible to every lonely outcrop they came across. She clambered over rock, tearing her skirts. Once she slipped and almost toppled backwards into the sea; she saved herself by grabbing onto some scrubby vegetation. Her hands bore long red scratches, her toe a deep bruise from where she’d pawed for a foothold. A full year for the blackened nail to grow out, sheared away by a gelding knife.

You’re Miss Hutchins, the plant lady from Ballylickey.

I am.

DUBLIN, IRELANDMAY 1803

ONE

Though four storeys of solid brick, Dr Stokes’s townhouse gave the impression of lightness.

Wide steps led to the front door. Pillars either side of the door supported a soaring glass arch above. Tall windows reflected scudding cloud. The window rails were of wrought iron, scalloped to look like lace. Standing on the street and tilting back her head, Ellen’s eyes flowed upwards into the sky.

Inside the rooms were ordered, the furniture polished and shining. Each room had been decorated with a predominant colour – the hallway red, the drawing room light blue, the dining room green. The large windows and many mirrors threw dazzling light around the upper floors. The ground level was darker and damp but she would have no reason to go there. Unlike at her boarding school – where the few servants scurried non-stop from basement to first floor to second floor, and where the pupils did much of the household chores, dusting, sweeping, making beds – in Dr Stokes’s house a different servant appeared for every required task, moving as if oiled, their eyes lowered. A stout manservant opened the front door; a young footman shouldered away her trunk; a thin, pock-faced girl took her bonnet and travelling coat.

Mrs Stokes – Louise – showed her to the room where she was to sleep. The single window faced west and would let in the evening sun. Leaf-green striped wallpaper, a small bed of dark wood, white counterpane and pillows. A rug beside the bed in dark blue and gold; Louise tapped on it with her foot, showing her leather slipper. ‘Persian,’ she said.

‘Very pretty, ma’am.’ Ellen said, blinking at its dazzling pattern.

‘Come have tea.’

In the drawing room, Dr Stokes stood by the mantelpiece. The manservant was setting out a silver teapot and china cups.

‘Alas, I cannot stay, Miss Hutchins. I must leave you in my wife’s hands.’ His voice held a practised kindness, gentle authority. Despite his long, rather morose countenance, he was fresh-faced, his eyes bright behind heavy lids like a woman’s. His hair receded over a high forehead. He wore a coat of black-brown, sober cloth, with plain, silver buttons.

When as a little girl she’d met him, years before, she’d marvelled at his boots, how long and shiny they’d been. And his hand: sinewy and smooth, depositing in her own little paw a thumb-sized piece of sugar. She saved the nugget for days, licking it furtively until it disappeared, to her confusion and sorrow. She’d thought him old. In fact, he must have been in his prime, for he now looked to be in the forties.

He glanced at his wife, as though asking her permission to go.

‘We will be quite all right, husband,’ Louise said. She sat down on a pale yellow sofa. ‘Miss Hutchins and I will become acquainted.’

He closed the door behind him as though afraid of breaking something.

Louise handed a teacup across. ‘Do you hear from your brother Emanuel regularly?’ She had a serene expression, as though she eked out the movements of her face. Younger than Dr Stokes; red hair under her white cap, blue-green eyes like chinks of glass. So far she had been attentive, gracious, rigidly polite, if unsmiling. She was dressed in dark blue silk; a muslin shawl covered her bosom.

Ellen perched on the edge of a chair, her back straight. ‘He’s busy in London, practising law.’

‘When did you see him last?’

She feared her clumsy fingers might snap off the teacup’s pretty, fine handle. ‘Some years ago,’ she said. He’d visited her in school. She’d been completely overawed by his gruff manner and hadn’t managed more than a few stuttered words. He patted her head, called her by her childhood pet name, Ellie.

‘How many siblings do you have? My husband couldn’t recall …’

‘Four brothers: Emanuel, Arthur, Samuel, Jack.’

‘Which one lives with your mother in Cork?’

‘Jack,’ she said. ‘He’s … incapacitated. Due to an accident.’

‘You have no sister, then?’

‘Katherine died when I was four.’

‘Oh. She was what age?’

‘Twenty-four.’

‘In her prime. A shame.’ Louise busied herself with the teapot. She held the spout over Ellen’s cup, though Ellen had hardly yet taken a sip.

‘You don’t like tea?’

It would be rude to say she found it bitter. ‘I’m not used to it. We didn’t get tea in school. Only milk, or whey. Chocolate, at Christmas.’

‘Social life in Dublin, as elsewhere, revolves around tea. It’s an essential luxury.’ Duly rebuked, Ellen obediently drank. Louise held out a plate. ‘Have a sweet biscuit, Miss Hutchins. You’re too thin.’ Ellen blushed, startled. Louise watched until she’d taken one and nibbled at its edge. ‘What was the food like in your school?’

She swallowed. ‘Good, ma’am.’

Louise’s eyes narrowed to a glint. ‘I doubt it. You look half-starved.’

‘I’ve been ill …’

A colourless woman in a grey dress and long apron entered the room, shepherding three children. Louise gestured: ‘Harriet, Minnie, Charles – come closer and meet our guest.’ Charles, the baby, fair and red-cheeked, tottered towards his mother. The nursemaid seized Harriet and Minnie’s shoulders and steered them forward.

Harriet had Dr Stokes’s round chin and protruding lower lip. The hair peeping from under her cap was the same red as her mother’s. Ellen guessed her around five years old. Minnie, a year or two younger, stood behind her sister.

‘Harriet,’ Louise said. ‘Take your thumb out of your mouth, you’re too old for such behaviour. We will dip your thumb in vinegar, would you like that?’

‘No, Mama.’ A shining thread of drool had settled on the child’s chin.

‘Dunne, see to it she stops.’ The nursemaid jerked Harriet’s arm down. ‘Well, then. Miss Hutchins might teach you French if you are good.’

‘Certainly I will,’ Ellen said.

‘Soon a tutor must be arranged. But not yet.’ Moments passed. Somewhere in the large room, a clock ticked against the silence. The little girls stared at her with bright, round eyes. Ellen realised she was expected to say something.

‘Do you like to draw?’ she asked. ‘Have you paper, pencils?’

‘Of course,’ Harriet said, in a clear voice. ‘Our papa gives us whatever we ask.’

‘Well, then. We can draw together.’

‘You are kind, Miss Hutchins,’ Louise said. ‘But remember, you are here to recover.’ The nurse led the children away. Harriet looked back over her shoulder, her fingers already creeping to her mouth. Ellen determined to make friends with all three. Surviving a large household depended on finding allies, from the lowliest members to the highest.

Left alone to rest, she explored the room of striped wallpaper. She couldn’t think of it as hers. Not yet.

Pegs on the wall, where her dresses had already been hung, a washstand and basin of white china painted with yellow roses. A chest of drawers, ample, sturdy, with dark oak knobs, smooth to the touch, and – wonder of wonders – a small looking glass. There had been no looking glass at school. Madame Praval said that contemplating your own image led to vanity, and discontent. With something like shock Ellen now regarded herself. The combination of pale skin and fair hair made her look bleached, bloodless; fortunately her blue-grey eyes – the colour of the sea on a cloudy day – had depth, the possibility of sparkle, as when sun breaks on water. She felt along the sharp bones of her cheeks, lifted her chin to study the line of her jaw, fascinated. Then she started and caught herself, moved guiltily away.

The mirror winked light, unblinking as a silver eye.

Her trunk had been unpacked, her petticoats, shawl; the parcel Madame Praval had given her placed neatly in the drawers. ‘These are the things you brought with you as a child,’ she had said as Ellen stood waiting for Dr Stokes’s carriage. ‘Take them now. You’ve outgrown the clothes, of course. They can be sold, or cut up for some useful purpose.’

Now Ellen untied the string and flattened out the paper, revealing two stained and tattered child-sized dresses and a pair of worn sheets wrapped around solid, awkwardly shaped objects. A pewter fork, knife, drinking mug and a silver spoon, that she’d used at every meal for the last thirteen years. She could hardly bring them to table here, in this elegant house where there was surely an abundance of everything. She lifted the spoon, fondled it in her palm.

It came from Ballylickey. Leonora, her mother, had taken it from the dresser, a monumental block of furniture that had occupied Ellen’s imagination like a magic mountain. Leonora held the spoon to the fire, her eyes reflecting its shine. Then she muffled it away in a piece of old fabric. ‘Leave your other things packed in the bottom of your trunk,’ she said. ‘But keep this spoon inside your clothes, even when you sleep, until you arrive at school. It’s of the best quality.’

The servant Annie spoke from a dark corner. ‘The people you’d meet on the road would take the eye out your head.’

‘That’s enough,’ Leonora said. Her fingers plucked at the neck of her dress. ‘Stay close to Annie, Ellen, and don’t speak to strangers. I wish I could go with you, but I’m not fit for the journey.’ She bowed her head for a moment, then grabbed Ellen by the shoulders. ‘You know why we’re sending you to school?’

‘To learn how to be a lady.’

‘We advertised for a governess, asked all your father’s old friends … But it seems we’re too wild and lonely here for an educated French or English woman to want to live amongst us.’ She passed her hand over Ellen’s hair. ‘Anyway, you should be with girls of your own class.’ She lowered her eyes, light sparkling under her pale lashes. ‘And there’s too much sadness here, for a five-year old child.’

‘I understand, Mother.’

She didn’t. Why could she not continue to run wild in the fields, around the yard, in and out of the sheds? Always something to discover – puppies tumbling in a basket, a new horse whinnying in the stable. Chirping sounds in the cool, sour-smelling scullery, calling her to a box of flustery yellow chicks. The sea, its shifting colours, how the mountains floated in Bantry Bay like syllabub in sweet wine. On rainy days she climbed into the cupboard in the back hall and hid amongst the mildew-stained cloaks, shut out the rough voices, the slamming doors and stamping boots, the dead pheasants and ducks strung up in the scullery, glassy-eyed, blood crusted on their beaks. When they were home from school and university, Emanuel and Arthur – close enough in age to fight and conspire like twins – swore, knocked her aside, pinched and bruised her with careless fingers. Leonora didn’t stand in their way. She stayed mostly in her room with the shutters closed and the curtains drawn. Birthing twenty-one babies – most of whom didn’t survive beyond infancy – and early widowhood, had left her wrung out, hollow as a burst seedpod.

Of the journey from Cork to school in Dublin, Ellen remembered little. Annie, muttering – ‘Lord save us, Lord save us’ – fingering her funny wooden beads, clutching at Ellen for all two hundred miles. The coach hit a rock in the road and she was thrown to the floor, where she lay on her back amidst the shuffling boots of the other travellers, like a flipped over beetle unable to right itself. During a stop along the way she looked out the window and saw a gentleman relieve himself in the hedge, heard a gush of water and grunts of relief. He turned around, shaking drops of water from a fat, pale worm that protruded from his breeches, and smiled at her.

‘Poor creature!’ her friend Caroline said when she heard these stories. She had never been farther than Clontarf on the coast, and then in her father’s jaunting car on a summer’s day.

Ellen gathered the old clothes, the sheets and towels, into a bundle. When the servant came she would tell her to take them away. She hid the spoon at the back of a drawer, inside a petticoat. Then she pulled off her slippers and lay on the white counterpane. A new ceiling, with its pattern of fine cracks in the whitewash, little rivers carved across a barren landscape.

It seemed impossible that it had only been the night before that Caroline had entwined her fingers in her own, as they sat on the edge of Ellen’s bed in the school dormitory. ‘Your last night,’ she said. Her voice was bleak. ‘So? Are you going home to Cork?’

‘No,’ Ellen said. ‘I’m to live with Dr Whitley Stokes, a friend of my brother Emanuel.’

‘Why?’

‘My brother cannot come for me.’

Caroline frowned. ‘Has Dr Stokes a house in town?’

‘Number 16, Harcourt Street.’

Her eyes lit up. ‘Close to St. Stephen’s Green … When I get home to Henrietta Street, I can visit you. Or you can come to me, if I’m not too unfashionable now you’re to live at such an elegant address.’

‘I don’t care about elegance.’

‘Of course, my father might drag me back to his estate in Kildare.’ Caroline chewed her lip, thinking. ‘Your brother must hope you’ll meet a husband in Dr Stokes’s house.’

‘Who knows? I can’t think beyond tomorrow.’

Caroline leaned her temple against Ellen’s. ‘Will you tell me what happened?’

‘When?’

‘This morning.’

‘Dr Stokes came to visit me. You know I’ve been unwell.’

‘Yes, but why had you to lie down afterwards? Madame warned us not to disturb you, to stay out of the dormitory.’ She leaned closer. ‘Is it true he went upstairs with you?’

‘Madame was there also,’ Ellen said.

‘Yes, but … did he examine you?’

‘I can’t remember.’ She shook her head. ‘I fainted, they said.’

‘You fainted.’ Caroline sounded breathless.

‘Yes, in Madame’s study. When I woke I had been carried upstairs.’

‘By whom?’

‘I don’t know. Does it matter?’

‘It was Dr Stokes, surely. Madame wouldn’t let any of the male servants do it. What happened, after you woke up?’

Madame Praval had stood by the bedside, holding a basin. Ellen stared at the ceiling. A sharp sting, as Dr Stokes drew the blade across her arm. The harsh clatter of drops hitting tin. She heard Madame breathe, ‘Mon Dieu, Doctor.’

‘Beneficial, I assure you, Madame.’ Ellen focused her gaze on the creases around his eyes, the whorls of hair in his ears. Afterwards he bound the wound with boiled rags. It throbbed still, under her sleeve.

‘Nothing happened,’ she said. ‘He asked me some questions, laid a cold cloth on my forehead.’

‘Oh.’ The light leaked out of Caroline’s eyes. As always, she burned for the out-of-ordinary, the potential for drama, however slight, her defiance against the mundane. She shrugged, squeezed Ellen’s fingers. ‘Well. We must make the best of our lot, I suppose, I without a mother and you without a father. At least it’s almost over.’

‘What is?’

‘This waiting, for life to begin.’

In the strange room of striped walls, Ellen rubbed away the beginnings of tears. Weak. Ungrateful. Imagine Caroline, instead: here, with her as she had almost always been. Describe for her Louise Stokes, her blue dress, red hair and precise, cool speech. The perfect, pale yellow of the sofa, like sun on a frosty morning.



‘Miss Hutchins.’ Dr Stokes’s voice. ‘Are you awake?’ She crossed to the door and opened it. He stepped back, cleared his throat. ‘Ah, you’re up.’

‘I was resting, sir.’

His eyes flicked over her shoulder to the rumpled bedclothes. ‘Very good. You need rest, and quiet, until you feel stronger.’ He peered at her. ‘It also occurred to me that you might need amusement.’

‘I’m content, sir, thank you.’

‘Nevertheless, distraction is good. Do you like to read?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Come with me.’ She followed him downstairs, down the corridor, past the drawing room. He stopped at a closed door and produced a key from his pocket, which he wagged at her. ‘To keep the children out. You may ask for it whenever you please.’

Behind the door, a large, dim room. A desk covered in papers, two easy chairs. She squinted upwards. The shelves were packed with books, the titles blurring as they rose higher.

‘Had you access to books in school?’ Dr Stokes asked.

‘Much of the library was falling to dust, eaten by moths and silverfish. Old French literature and poetry, mostly.’

He had taken a book down from the shelf and caressed the binding. ‘I take precautions against such damage,’ he said. ‘It’s essential to have the room aired and dusted, lay arsenic if necessary.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Now, literature, this side – poetry farther down, by author, of course – science over here – consult with me first, that subject is so broad … have you any interest in science?’

‘I cannot say.’

His face creased, surprised and amused. Had she been impertinent? ‘What did you study, all those years at school?’

‘French, of course. Drawing, sewing, dancing, literature. Some geography …’

‘Latin? Mathematics?’

‘No, sir.’

‘None of the natural sciences? Biology? Botany?’

‘No, sir.’ She looked at the floor. ‘Madame Praval said young ladies should to be taught to be useful.’

He grunted. ‘Whatever that means. I suppose half an education is better than none.’

‘I like to draw flowers,’ she said. How limp, how girlish, that sounded.

‘Well, that’s a start. Drawing is a most suitable pursuit for a lady. Are you proficient?’

‘Tolerably, sir.’ Bolder, ‘It was my best subject.’

‘You’ll find illustrations here worthy of study.’ He ran his finger along the row. ‘And I have some fine volumes on antiquities. Ah!’ He found what he was looking for, plucked it from the shelf, tapped the cover. ‘Here it is. Rousseau’s Letters on the Elements of Botany, Addressed to a Lady. I purchased this translation for Harriet to read later on. But why preserve it until then? You are his precise intended audience. Have you read him before?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Of course, you’ll have read all the great writers in French … but not Rousseau’s treatise on botany? Well, let us speak when you’ve read it.’ He paused. ‘You’ve no objection to my recommending books to you?’

She blushed. ‘I’m obliged to you, sir.’

He waved this away. ‘If you’re interested, there’s much here for you to discover. Unless you’re content to sit and stitch all day like my wife …’ He stopped, frowned. ‘Like other ladies.’

‘My needlework is so poor, sir, I fear there would be no benefit to anyone if I did. I never acquired the skill, no matter how many hours I cramped my neck over it.’

‘No one will force you to sew anything here.’ He pulled out another volume. ‘Mrs Wakefield’s An Introduction to Botany. Interesting to read a female perspective. But start with Rousseau, I say. If nothing else, his expression is elegant, his theme diverting and eminently suitable.’

That word again. Always a judgement. Or its opposite, unsuitable, a condemnation. Look away, Miss. Danger here. ‘It’s a wonderful library, sir.’

He shrugged. ‘Of course, it’s not always possible to get the latest publications in Dublin, but I have a seller in London who can source particular volumes if needs be.’ He placed the key on the desk. ‘I’ll leave you to make your own discoveries. There are subjects other than botany, after all. My own particular passion: I’m inclined to proselytise. Forgive me.’ He peered at her. ‘Your colour is suddenly high, Miss Hutchins. Are you tired? Overly excited?’

‘No, sir.’ Not tired. A strange, not unpleasant feeling of blood bubbling through her veins and rushing in her ears.

‘I want to take your pulse, Miss Hutchins,’ he said. ‘Do you remember when I did so, yesterday?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Give me your arm.’ He pulled a watch from the fob in his breeches and clasped her wrist between his thumb and third finger. His head bent towards hers. Like a sudden ringing noise, she became aware of his smell, a peppery tang of soap and wool. Warmth and a numbing tingle spread along her arm. He stared at the watch, increased the pressure of his fingers.

‘What is it, sir?’

He let go of her wrist. ‘Sit, my dear. I’ll ring for water. You’re still weak.’

Later, helped back to her room and once again lying down, she opened the book he’d given her: The principal misfortune of Botany is, that from its very birth it has been looked upon merely as a part of medicine. This was the reason why every body was employed in finding or supposing virtues in plants, whilst the knowledge of plants themselves was totally neglected: for how could the same man make such long and repeated excursions as so extensive a study demands; and at the same time apply himself to the sedentary labours both of the laboratory, and attendance upon the sick …

She tossed all night on the cushioned mattress, under cotton sheets; she had become used to thin bedding, rough blankets. Her mind played over the last moments of her schooldays.

They had filled the front hall, a huddle of pale-faced girls: tall, thin, small, dimpled, standing straight as rushlights, hands neatly clasped. When they heard the sound of wheels crunching on gravel, the younger girls began to sniffle. Caroline made no effort to wipe her eyes, catching the tears on her tongue as they dribbled past her mouth. The tightness in Ellen’s throat made it difficult to swallow. She blinked furiously, looking upwards.

‘Stand up straight, Mademoiselle Hutchins,’ Madame Praval said. ‘You will not make your height any less, only appear as if you are hunchbacked.’ With her sharp nose, tightly wound hair and dark dress she resembled a watchful crow. That morning she’d called Ellen to her study. ‘I never asked you to leave.’

‘No, Madame. But my fees have not been paid this quarter. Twenty pounds, you said.’

‘Dr Stokes has promised to settle them.’

‘I’ve lived on your goodwill long enough. It seems I must now live on someone else’s.’

‘You’re content with this arrangement?’

‘Content to do as I am bid, Madame,’ she said. ‘I will try and make myself agreeable.’

‘You have always been that. Agreeable, if unremarkable, without a defined personality. I say this to your credit.’ Madame’s eyes, dry, black as coal, fixed her like an insect under a glass. ‘You know, I have tended you as if you were my own child. No mother could have done more.’

‘I know, Madame.’

‘I hope you will think on that, and speak well of us when you’ve gone.’

‘Yes, Madame.’

The lines at the corner of her mouth flexed and softened. ‘Bien.’ She stood from her desk, came close to Ellen and stretched to rap softly against her forehead with her knuckles. ‘Somewhere in here, there is confusion. I see it.’ Ellen said nothing. Madame nodded. ‘You know what I mean. You must strive to curb it. Accept what is around you. Do not fight.’ Her breath smelled of coffee and warm decay. ‘You will wear yourself out, you will fade to nothing, Mademoiselle. Quietly, politely. And no one will notice.’ Ellen’s eyes misted; Madame’s face blurred to a pale cloud. Outside in the garden, a blackbird sang. ‘So, you won’t speak. But I know you understand me. With those searching eyes, you see all.’

In 16 Harcourt Street, Ellen turned over once more on the fat mattress, listening in vain for the sound of familiar breathing in the dark. With no one to witness, she put her thumb in her mouth and held it there, wondering if it might bring comfort.

TWO

‘She barely eats,’ Louise said, frowning as she tugged a thread through the silk.

‘Who?’ Dr Stokes held a book in one hand and absentmindedly toyed with the paper knife with the other.

‘Miss Hutchins, of course.’ Louise used her voice as a musician might an instrument, accelerating, pausing, cutting from legato to staccato; she played the pianoforte in the evenings – hymns, sentimental ballads remembered from her girlhood. ‘She crumples a bit of bread, sips at a cup of whey. Her hands shake, her teacup rattles in the saucer. Her wrists are mere twigs.’ The needle flashed in, out, in, out. ‘I know it’s in fashion for young ladies to pick at their food …’ Dr Stokes raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s true, I heard it from Mrs Langley, she despairs of her own daughters. But Miss Hutchins seems so modest. There’s nothing in the least fashionable about her.’

‘She’s not been nourished properly. I suspect an underlying ailment.’

‘Something serious?’

‘A weakness of the nervous system, maybe. She’s highly strung, like many young women. She may grow out of it.’ He closed the book. ‘I think she should stay with us a while longer.’

Louise’s brow puckered. ‘Is that necessary? Would she not fare better with her own family? Her mother?’

‘I don’t think she would survive the journey to Cork.’

She stared at him. ‘As ill as that?’

‘I fear so. The roads, even now with the fine weather – the pestilent inns, the ill-cooked food … she isn’t strong enough to endure it.’

‘This household is full as it is. I don’t have time to nurse an invalid.’ Her face remained calm, but he recognised the rigid set of her shoulders.

‘I couldn’t leave her in that place, in that condition,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t require nursing, simply rest and comfort. We can offer her regular family life. She hasn’t known much of it. The headmistress at the French school – a strange woman called Praval – says she’s quiet and respectful.’ Still she frowned. His final effort: ‘She’s used to children and could help with the little ones. Didn’t you say she’s offered to draw with the girls?’

She pursed her lips, her mind ticking over. Finally, primly, she said, ‘God has directed her, through your intercession, to our care.’

‘Her mother will be grateful.’

‘And her brother?’

‘Of course.’ She said nothing, smoothed her hand over the taut fabric. Louise thought ill of Emanuel Hutchins. Dr Stokes had not shown her Hutchins’s letter.

… I have not yet decided what my sister Ellen’s immediate future is to be. As you know, our father died when she was two years old; thus the responsibility falls to me. Though my mother is desirous of her company, I wonder as to the wisdom of dispatching her to our lands in Cork so soon. She is more likely to form advantageous connections in Dublin. Besides, I am told she is delicate. Could I presume upon both your medical expertise and your judgement by asking you to visit her on my behalf? I can’t leave London at present and my mother could not possibly make so long and arduous a journey. I will take your advice on the matter. She could, perhaps, make a useful companion to some lady of your acquaintance … As for me, I go along here tolerably well. As disenchanted as I was with Ireland at the end, now that I am away I am torn between despair and affection for the place. I am destined to never feel completely at ease wherever I go. When I was in Dublin, I longed for Cork and our estates. Do you ever see any of our old friends – those that survived the madness? Your obliging friend, Emanuel Hutchins.

Acknowledging his responsibilities as the head of the family, at least. Yet also a touch of the old brooding introspection. Five years before, Dr Stokes had feared for Emanuel Hutchins’s sanity. When last they’d met he’d been seeking comfort at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. Now he appeared to have settled: a man of the law, of all things. How long would it last?

He sighed. ‘I thought the girl might have recovered some of her appetite by now. The food here is surely preferable to what she got before.’

Louise clicked her tongue. ‘Molloy is offended, she’s taken great pains. She ordered chicken particularly. You must tell the girl to eat, sir.’

He leaned his head back. The curtains hadn’t yet been shut; he could see into part of the drawing room opposite. An elegantly dressed woman stood near the window. Her lips moved, she laughed and shook her head at someone out of view. A play performance, without words.

‘If one is queasy, or unwell, an abundance of food is overwhelming,’ he said. ‘She’s not used to jellied pigeon and sweetbreads. Have some morsels placed in her room. Not a tray, but a choice dish of something light, appetising. Tell the servant not to speak of it, but to take it away if uneaten. And tell her she may breakfast and dine in her own room, if she prefers. Let her choose to come to table.’

‘You think that will make her eat? I won’t have it said that a young woman starves in my house.’ Her voice had a hard, silvery edge. ‘We may have to send her back to the Frenchwoman.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘She just needs time to adjust to her new surroundings. We must lead her, as a bird is led by a trail of crumbs into a garden.’

Louise’s lips twitched. ‘If you can get the bird to eat the crumbs, that is.’

The rumple of curtains being drawn, a soft voice. ‘Will I open the shutters too, Miss?’

Ellen murmured ‘yes’. Clanging wood and metal, a flood of harsh light. She put her arm across her eyes.

‘There’s fresh water in the bowl,’ the servant said. ‘I’ll come back in a minute.’ The door closed.

Ellen got up and pulled the chamber pot from under the bed, squatted over it to pass water. Afterwards she washed her hands. The water was warm and the soap had a faint floral smell – not roses, less sweet, woodier. She unbuttoned her nightdress, pulled on her drawers, fastened her stays under her breastbone.

There was a small bowl on the table that had not been there before.

The servant must have brought it. She padded across the room, the floorboards cool and pleasantly rough against the soles of her feet. She lifted the bowl to her face: cream, and a handful of red berries. She looked at the door. Her stomach grumbled. She dipped her finger in the cream, sucked, tasted sugar. Her tongue curled and saliva flooded her mouth. She used the berries to scoop up the cream, the pips cracking against her molars. When she’d finished, she wiped her mouth and hands. Then she took down her Sunday dress, her least shabby. She’d half pulled it on, folds of material pooling around her legs, when the servant knocked again.

It was the young, pock-faced girl, drab and tidy in a brown dress and cap. ‘Let me, Miss.’ At school they had helped each other dress, turning to offer their backs, raising their arms as if in a well-rehearsed dance.

The servant’s fingers tugged at the buttons: a pleasing sensation. ‘The tall trees I see from the drawing room window,’ Ellen said. ‘Are they part of a park?’

‘That’s Clonmell Lawns, Miss, that belong to the Earl.’

‘Can I walk there?’

‘Well, no, Miss. The gardens are for the Earl’s private use. There’s an underground passage from his house.’

‘I see.’

‘There’s a garden at the back here, Miss.’ She’d seen it from her window: cramped, covered in shadow most of the day. ‘St. Stephen’s Green down the road,’ the girl went on, her breath on Ellen’s neck. ‘And the master often goes on trips to the country, from dawn ‘til last light. Sometimes he brings Mrs Stokes and the children with him for an afternoon. Collecting plants, he is.’

‘What for?’

The fingers paused. ‘I don’t know exactly, Miss. He keeps them, I think, in a great book. Very interested in plants, is the master.’ Now the fingers continued, down to the base of Ellen’s spine. ‘There, that’s done. Will there be anything else, Miss?’

‘No, thank you. Janey, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Miss.’ She showed a glimpse of jagged teeth and lifted the bowl from the table with a questioning look.

‘I’ve finished,’ Ellen said. ‘Wherever did they get those berries?’

‘Raspberries, they’re called, Miss. Fresh from Lord Clonmell’s garden, especially for you.’ She reddened, bobbed and fled.

The next morning she left a dish of custard, dusted with a heady, rust-coloured powder she said was called cinnamon. Later in the day, coming back to the room to rest, Ellen found two potato cakes on the table – still warm, wrapped in a napkin – and a thimble-sized glass of sweet wine. She ate the cakes with her fingers, licking the warm fat – butter? – that trickled down her wrist. They had been given lard in school. Somewhere within her the taste of the butter resonated, like the ringing of a distant bell.

She ventured later into the drawing room, sat by the window watching the passersby on the pavement opposite. Louise came in.

‘Ah! You’ve joined us.’ She seemed surprised, but pleased.

Ellen stood up. ‘I wanted to thank you, ma’am. For the delicacies you had brought to my room.’

‘Dr Stokes thought it best. I must say, we racked our brains to think of something suitable.’

‘They were delicious. You’re very kind.’ She lowered her eyes, away from Louise’s razor-sharp glance, endeavoured to keep her voice humble and grateful.

‘Well. No doubt you’re an obedient young woman. Do as the doctor tells you and you’ll soon have roses instead of ashes in your cheeks.’

The children moved about the upstairs rooms like ghosts, tiptoed on the stairs, suppressed their shrieking laughter. Whispered outside her door, daring each other to call her name – ‘Miss Hutchins? Are you there, Miss Hutchins?’ Then soft giggles, scuffling, the sound of slippers brushing the wooden floor as they fled. She turned her head and dozed, or sat at her window drawing faces from memory, the cloud shapes passing over. She grew used to the idea of ownership, of privacy, the privilege of her own door, a key turned in the lock.

She gained strength. With Louise’s agreement she coaxed the children from their sneaking games, gathered them in the nursery for an hour one morning. She placed an apple in the centre of a high table. The nursemaid, Dunne, watched; as soon as Ellen came into the room she’d taken a chair, placed it in the corner and arranged herself on it neatly, hands folded in her lap. She had a pale, pasty face and a sulky mouth; she might have appeared dull-witted if not for her staring, pale-blue eyes. Ellen turned so that she might not see her.

‘Observe the apple,’ Ellen said. The little girls looked at her blankly. She raised her voice. ‘Is it absolutely round? How shall we suggest the curve of its surface? How shall we give it weight? Watch how I do it.’ She quickly sketched the fruit while they watched, Harriet attentively, Minnie fidgeting, eyes roving the room for escape.

‘It looks real,’ Harriet said. In fact, the drawing was clumsily, hastily executed; children were easily impressed.

‘And we haven’t yet added colour. Now, your turn.’ She helped each of them mount paper on a drawing board. ‘Begin.’ Silence, except for the scratching of their pencils and small sighs from Minnie. ‘Come, you may enjoy it,’ Ellen said. She leaned over Minnie’s small shoulder, catching her child’s smell of powdery scalp. ‘I would like to tell your Mama that you made an effort.’

‘I can’t do it.’

‘How can you tell, if you give up so easily?’ She pressed the pencil into her hand. Minnie pushed out her lower lip, allowed Ellen’s hand to lead her initial strokes. ‘See? You’ve made a start.’ She walked between them, correcting, encouraging. ‘You must follow the line, Harriet.’

‘I am.’

‘It must be as it is, not what you imagine it should be.’

‘I’m trying.’ Harriet frowned with concentration, her tongue curling from the corner of her mouth.

After fifteen minutes Ellen said, ‘Now, we start again.’ They looked at her, open-mouthed, as she unpinned their crude efforts and turned the sheets over. ‘Begin.’

Twice more, she made them restart, ignoring their complaints. ‘Better,’ she said. ‘You begin to see.’ She paused in front of Minnie’s latest attempt. ‘You have a natural hand, Minnie. Well done.’

The door opened and Louise came in with a swish of skirts. Harriet sat straighter, set her face to amiable sweetness. Minnie put her pencil down.

‘Well?’ Louise asked. ‘How have they behaved, Miss Hutchins?’

‘Admirably.’

‘Good. May I see the results?’ She walked from one to the other, made approving sounds. ‘Minnie, your drawing shows promise.’

‘I agree,’ Ellen said. ‘She has talent, if she perseveres.’

‘And Harriet?’ The child lowered her eyes.

‘Harriet works hard,’ Ellen said. ‘And will also improve, over time.’

‘It seems for once you have done less well than your younger sister,’ Louise said. ‘It can only encourage you to try harder. Well, that’s enough for one day, I think. Time for a walk with Dunne.’ Minnie jumped up immediately and ran to the nursemaid, who began levering herself from her chair. ‘Come, Harriet,’ Louise said, ‘Put your drawing things away.’

She reluctantly laid down the pencil, pushed back her chair. Ellen caught her eye, smiled. The little girl’s returning stare was shockingly adult in its cold dislike.



September: a last blast of warm weather. A sand-like dust from the street infiltrated the front rooms, even with the windows closed, and was carried on slipper soles and hands to the rest of the house. Louise scolded the servants, despairing over her wallpaper and upholsteries. The children complained of ticklish throats, stinging eyes.

For respite, Dr Stokes promised a Sunday outing.

After early service in St. Andrew’s, they prepared to head away. First a fuss over who would sit where – who would take the baby, the picnic; at last Dr Stokes, Minnie and Harriet climbed into the first carriage, Louise, Ellen, Charles, Dunne and a young manservant, Peter, into the second. From the church, they turned for College Green. Ellen had a new bonnet of straw that blocked her view to the left and right like the blinkers of a horse. She strained her neck as far as she could. Fine buildings lined the wide streets. Well-dressed gentlemen and ladies, some garish in bright colours, strolled the paths. As soon as the carriages slowed, ragged men, women and children materialised from the alleys, holding out dirt-caked, pleading hands. ‘Please, young Miss, we’re starving …’

‘Get away!’ Peter raised a stick. The driver urged the horse on. The last thing Ellen saw as they lurched forward was a tiny infant, no more than a scrap, clinging to its mother’s ragged bosom. She shrank back, glad for once of the curved wings that shielded her face.

From the centre to the outskirts. The fine buildings thinned out, replaced by desolate spaces, cobbled or covered with patchy grass. Dogs and pigs roamed, urinating and defecating freely. Dunghills steamed in the sun. Louise held the end of her shawl over her face, and Ellen did the same, the stench overwhelming. Now they passed a row of cottages with well-tended front gardens and lines of washing flapping in the breeze. Barefoot children scampered about. Soon the straggling outskirts merged into countryside and thick hedgerows lined the road, high with grasses and poppies, Queen Anne’s lace, oxeye daisies. The horses clipped on at a steady pace through clouds of midges and horseflies.

‘They’re drawn by the horses’ sweat, ma’am,’ Peter said. ‘Sweet as sugar it is to them.’ His voice was respectful, his quick glance at Louise furtive and sly. She seemed not to hear him, waving her hand in front of her face. Moisture coated her upper lip. Damp patches had spread under Ellen’s armpits; her thighs itched against the leather seat.

‘The sea!’ Harriet stood in the leading carriage, gawking for a better view and holding on to her straw hat, almost falling out as the carriage rocked over a rut in the road. Dr Stokes pulled her back down. ‘The sea, the sea!’ Minnie echoed. The road now clung to the coast and the great curve of Dublin Bay came into view. In the distance, low hazy hills covered in yellow and purple vegetation fell towards the sea. Across the bay, tall ships streamed into Dublin harbour, white sails stark against the blue, while fishing boats bobbed about closer to shore. The sea churned with breakers in the stiff breeze. At the village of Clontarf, no more than a shambling cluster of cottages, bathing machines had been pushed into the tide, though they didn’t appear to be in use. An old man sucking on a pipe waved from his seat on the sea wall.

‘Lovely, is it not?’ Louise sounded half asleep.

‘I was born beside the sea,’ Ellen said.

‘Yes. But you’re more used to city ways now.’

‘I know nothing of “city ways”.’

‘We must take you out more. You’re young, and should meet other young people.’

Ellen had a sudden vision of being delivered from salon to salon to drink tea and gossip. She would stutter hopelessly; she had none of Caroline’s talent for chatter. And her clothes: plain, without lace, ribbons, beading, or embroidery … ‘I prefer quiet occupations,’ she said.

‘Too quiet,’ Louise said. ‘Dr Stokes is impressed with how you’re working your way through his library. But think, when I was your age, I enjoyed going out in society. Where else would I have met Dr Stokes?’ She fanned herself with the edge of her shawl. ‘Though I little thought then that I’d have to compete with plants for a husband’s attention.’

‘How long has Dr Stokes been interested in botany?’

‘Since he was a boy. But I would not refer to it as an interest, rather an obsession, such as men frequently have. Horses, music, Italian poetry, naval battles … They apply their fervent minds to something other than the everyday business of living and dying, which is all women have to occupy them.’

‘Perhaps because of his profession Dr Stokes takes comfort in all that’s green and alive,’ Ellen said.

Louise gave her one of her looks, not quite affronted, alert to the possibility of affront. ‘He plucks plants from the fields and forests where God placed them, crushes them into dry scraps. Stares at them for hours under his microscope as if they held the meaning of life itself.’

‘Rousseau says that nature …’ Louise’s nostrils flared, a warning. Too late to stop: ‘He says that nature abates the taste for frivolous amusements, prevents the tumult of the passions, and provides the mind with a nourishment which is salutary, by filling it with an object most worthy of its contemplations.’ She blushed. ‘Or words to that effect.’

‘My mind is already full of objects “worthy of my contemplations”,’ Louise said. ‘The dinner menu. Charles’s rash. The need for a new butcher.’

‘Of course, ma’am. It must be difficult.’

‘I suppose you can’t be blamed for being young and naïve. You’ll soon learn that books will not help you escape life. Mine has been hard but I don’t complain. What’s the use? What cannot be changed must be borne, with grace.’

Ellen thought: life, with nothing beyond domestic cares, would soon prove intolerably dull, for man or woman. Louise at least had her cosseted children. She said none of this, however, only nodded in sympathy.