The Shape of Darkness Page 5

  Agnes pauses as she repositions her scissors and begins to tackle the chin. ‘Well, your grandmother is correct,’ she says proudly. ‘The shade is the purest of all portraits. Beside it, a photograph would appear too …’

  ‘Too alive?’ he supplies. ‘Too real, perhaps. I don’t know why, but when I see her wall of silhouettes … To me, it looks like a display of death masks.’

  ‘Oh, no, surely not?’ This judgement dismays her. She has always managed to find beauty and purpose in the clear lines of a silhouette, no matter what else is going on in her life.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid they look that way to me. Like shells of things with the souls snuffed out.’

  The blade slips. Only a little way, a quarter of an inch at most, but with this nick under the chin, she will struggle to cut the throat and shoulders. Damn these second-rate scissors.

  ‘A good profile exposes the soul of the sitter,’ she explains, frowning at her work.

  ‘Well, a photograph is a good deal quicker. I thought you had machines to do this silhouette business?’

  It stings, but he is correct. At the height of her powers, she had been able to cut a shade freehand in – what – two minutes? Sometimes less. The memory is like a small death. Skill is forsaking her, too, contrary as any lover.

  ‘There are machines, but I favour the personal touch …’ Outside the window, the magpies beat their wings, squabbling. Agnes sighs and lays down her scissors. Here is a way out of her present difficulty with the nick, at least. ‘I would be happy to show you my physiognotrace, if you prefer?’

  Ned turns again, his brown eyes sparkling. ‘Really? Could I see it? I wouldn’t want to be a bother.’

  Despite herself, Agnes smiles. His enthusiasm is infectious. In a few years, Cedric will be like this: fancying himself an engineer and championing progress. An odd turn of events, considering the workers of Mamma’s generation did all they could to smash the machines that stole their livelihood. But such is humankind: hopelessly fickle.

  ‘It is no trouble at all. I will clean the contraption and we will use it to take your profile. You will enjoy the experience. It’s very clever, in its way.’

  Bustling to the corner, she moves various pads and paint palettes off the machine. It is so webbed in dust that she coughs.

  ‘Here,’ says Ned, rising to his feet. ‘Let me help.’

  Piece by piece, they reveal a chipped wooden box with a hatch on the side. Agnes is startled to think how long it’s been since she last used the instrument. What appeared then as the cutting edge of innovation now looks poor and dejected, its quaintness the only virtue left.

  Without asking for permission, Ned reaches and opens the hatch. A small brass cylinder, topped with a metal hoop, protrudes from the bottom of the box. Opposite it, on the far ‘wall’ a piece of yellow paper is tacked.

  ‘Smells a bit musty!’ he laughs. ‘Well, how does it work?’

  ‘Let me change the paper first, and then we will fit the pole.’

  The holders are a little corroded, but Agnes manages to work the old paper free. It is powdery in her hands, as insubstantial as the past. Casting it aside, she reloads the machine with something crisp and white. She is quite looking forward to trying this again.

  The other lengthy pole belonging to the machine is propped in the corner beside a bookcase. One end still holds a pencil, miraculously hard and sharp after all this time, while the other tapers into a rod.

  Ned guffaws. ‘Bless me! You could take someone’s eye out with that pole.’

  He means it innocently. He is not to know that his words bring Mr Boyle bobbing to the surface of her mind. Smashed, broken …

  But she must put that behind her.

  ‘I promise to be careful. If you would fetch the chair and position it … yes, that will suffice.’ She threads the pole through the metal hoop.

  Ned sits, keen as a puppy. ‘And what – the rod passes over my face, does it?’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiles at him. His zest seems to be infusing into her. ‘You must remain very still, even if it tickles.’

  ‘And the pencil on the other end draws it there, in the little box?’

  ‘Indeed. The image will be small, and upside down. That is of no matter. I will use a pantograph to make it larger, and we will turn it into an artwork worthy of your grandmother.’

  ‘Well, fancy that! Let’s get underway, shall we?’

  She starts the rod at the nape of his neck. Feels the heat of his body rise to her trembling hands. He smells of bergamot pomade.

  It is all rather enchanting. She cannot remember the last time she stood this close to a man. Other than Simon. And there is nothing thrilling about Simon’s clammy fingers at her wrist, feeling her pulse.

  She holds the rod steady with both hands and softly traces the top of Ned’s crown. His greased locks ruffle out of place. One or two strands cling to the pole with static. She senses him tense, trying not to laugh.

  He closes his eyes as the rod comes sweeping over his forehead and down his nose. It kisses his lips, dipping between them and departing with the slightest gleam of moisture.

  She is disappointed when it ends.

  ‘Is it done? Can I see?’

  ‘Just a moment.’ She opens the contraption and reveals his double, inverted and ever so faint.

  ‘How clever! That is me, isn’t it? You can see, even though it’s so small. It’s unmistakably me.’

  Agnes glances from the drawing to Ned and back again. It hardly does him justice.

  ‘Remarkable accuracy,’ he enthuses. ‘Just from a rod! The things they invent. So you’ll make it bigger and then it’s done?’

  She can imagine him presenting this paltry shade to his grandmother with aplomb, singing the praises of the blasted physiognotrace. See, Grandmamma, you don’t even need a person to draw these now! Is she really going to let a machine best her?

  ‘The head is too wide and flat,’ she decrees. ‘It needs an artist’s touch.’

  Taking a piece of black foolscap, she makes a single vertical incision and begins to cut Ned’s profile as a hole in the centre of it. A hollow-cut – she has not used the technique in years.

  For a moment she worries she has outstretched herself. The twists and turns of his face are tight. Slivers of paper peel away as she works on the detail of his cravat, her tongue clamped between her teeth in concentration.

  But at last it emerges. Stunning. Her best piece in a long time.

  She mounts it on white stock card. A shade reversed. Ned’s profile is a light in the darkness, glowing with the purity of fresh snow.

  ‘Do you call that soulless, Ned?’

  He snatches it up, delight written all over his face. ‘Why, that’s remarkable! You did it in white, just for me?’

  She glows with pride. ‘Now you can cut a figure on your grandmother’s wall. It is enough like the others to fit in her collection, but you have your own flair.’

  He shakes her hand. Does not notice that she retains his a little longer than necessary.

  ‘I’m so pleased,’ Ned rattles on as he gathers his coat. ‘I hadn’t planned to do this today. I was just passing and saw your display. Isn’t it lucky I knocked?’

  So he has not seen the Gazette.

  ‘It is very fortunate for me.’

  Coins exchange hands. Although she is glad of the money, she is sorry they must part. Soon the shilling will be spent and she will have precious little to remember him by, this sunny boy who has brightened her day.

  He is too young for her, of course, but there is something about him that reminds her of Montague. That easy manner, the ability to make her smile.

  ‘Good day,’ says Ned.

  ‘I hope we will see you here again.’

  He grins but does not reply.

  It was a silly thing for her to say. Ned has no reason to come back to this forlorn house: he is young and free. But there is comfort in the thought that she will go with him. Her name, signed in pencil, wi
ll never part from his profile.

  In some small way, she has claimed him.

  CHAPTER 6

  The gas lamps are up. Not high, but enough to taunt her. By their light, the parlour looks shabbier: the wallpaper a weak and faded lilac chintz that depresses the spirits. Pearl’s spirits, that is. She doesn’t know about the ghosts. They haven’t complained about the decoration as yet.

  Myrtle’s been buzzing around like a honeybee all day. It’s tiring just to watch her buffing the chipped wooden furniture, arranging the doilies in a thousand different positions before settling on the right ones. She’s managed to get a tea service, good stuff but not matching. The seedcake she baked earlier still flavours the air.

  Pearl can only watch her sister in admiration, wondering if they’re really related. It’s not just Myrtle’s energy that amazes her, it’s her dogged patience.

  That hairstyle alone must have taken hours. Fat, sausage ringlets fall over one shoulder. Pomade makes them look like meadow hay. It’s a big improvement on their usual dirty blonde colour. Myrtle can’t afford to dress in a crinoline, but the deep maroon gown – which she sewed herself – has enough pleats in the skirt to swing full and fashionable.

  Pearl has been decked out in dove grey, but she doesn’t care what she looks like. The whole point of girls like her is to not be there; to subtract herself from the room.

  ‘I’ll introduce you to Mr Stadler and Mr Collins – he’s the chap who takes the photographs,’ Myrtle calls over her shoulder as she plumps cushions. ‘Just a few of them tonight.’ She smiles artificially and adopts her posh accent. ‘A private gathering. Can’t have them thinking we’re putting on a show.’

  ‘But you said the other day—’

  ‘I know, but you can’t have them think it, Pearl. The minute they see you actually want to get paid for your work, they’ll call you vulgar. Who else? Oh, Mrs Lynch—’

  ‘I’ve already met them,’ Pearl points out. ‘You don’t need to introduce me to Mr Stadler. I’ve sat on his lap as Florence King.’

  Myrtle releases a sound of exasperation. For a minute, Pearl fears she’ll throw the cushion at her. ‘For God’s sake, don’t act like it! Don’t let on. You’ve been an invalid, confined to your bed, remember?’

  Pearl shuffles in her seat. She’s going to say something bad. It tickles in her chest, then bubbles in her mouth. Usually good sense would press it down again, but the gas lights make her peevish.

  ‘Don’t you feel guilty, lying to them?’

  Myrtle’s cheeks turn the colour of her gown. ‘I never lied. I did hear a spirit called Florence King. I just got you to play her. There had to be some use in you being pale as a ghost.’

  Pearl shrinks back into her seat. Why does she say things like that to Myrtle? It’s always a mistake. Each time she questions her sister she’s filled with this painful, searing shame.

  There’s a rap at the door.

  In a second Myrtle’s over, straightening Pearl’s posture in the chair, wiping a smear of jam away from her cheek with spit and a threadbare handkerchief.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ she whispers. ‘Just dandy.’

  Pearl thinks she might be sick.

  She remains frozen in place while Myrtle goes to the hallway and opens the door. The voices of the Society enter before their bodies do. A full bass, another with cut-glass vowels and one at a higher, chirpier octave.

  For people intent on peering into the grave, they sound unusually jolly.

  ‘A dusting of snow,’ Mrs Lynch announces from the hallway. ‘It caught me quite by surprise. Look at my cloak!’

  ‘Do permit me to brush down your shoulders.’ Pearl is not surprised to hear it’s Mr Stadler saying these words. When she acted the part of Myrtle’s spirit guide, she was forced to endure this man’s caresses. Having summoned a ghost, all he wanted to do was dandle it upon his lap. She remembers him displaying her to Mr Collins for the first time. ‘She is quite real, Walter. Just feel these hipbones …’

  Pearl can’t blame the spirits for wanting to talk through her, rather than showing up themselves and letting people manhandle them. The indignity of it all is breathtaking.

  There’s a thump as Mr Collins struggles inside with what must be his photographic equipment. ‘Is she here?’ he demands. ‘Is she ready for our experiments?’

  Myrtle laughs gaily. ‘You’re very eager, Mr Collins. Won’t you let us drink some tea first?’

  Pearl sighs inwardly, knowing the version of Myrtle that comes back into the parlour won’t be the sister who raised her, but the theatrical counterfeit. And she’s right. Myrtle marches at the head of the pack, her eyes sparkling. She waves her hand with a flourish and says, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Miss Pearl Meers? Or, as those who have seen her powers have come to call her, the White Sylph.’

  The four visitors, two men and two women, stare. Pearl opens her mouth and closes it. Ought she to stand? She’s left it too late.

  ‘Hello,’ she offers.

  No one says a word.

  The clock ticks. It makes the visitors’ silence seem even more profound. Pearl registers their blank, shocked expressions, and feels a stab of foreboding. Do they recognise her as Florence King? Myrtle took so much care to make her look different tonight, and they both presumed that no one had seen her face clearly behind Florence King’s long veil. It would destroy Myrtle if the Society found out …

  But at last, Mrs Lynch finds her voice. ‘How extraordinary! You did not tell me, my dear Miss West, that she was an albino child.’

  A blush stings Pearl’s cheeks.

  ‘Didn’t I? I must have forgotten,’ shrugs Myrtle, who forgets nothing. ‘But I did tell you she was always upstairs, ill, when we performed our previous séances here.’ She flicks a curl over her shoulder and raises Pearl to her feet. ‘Pearl’s been delicate since birth. I thought it was because her body’s different, but—’

  ‘But now we know better,’ Mrs Lynch finishes sagely. ‘How often it has been remarked that the Gift manifests itself after a period of severe illness!’

  ‘Indeed, indeed,’ Mr Collins cuts in. ‘The Power always follows sickness and frequently comes to the gentler sex. The lower in status they are, the stronger they seem to grow. Deprivation, frustration and discontent: these are the grounds in which mediumship breeds.’

  Pearl sees the rictus set into Myrtle’s cheeks. This prig insults them openly, in their own home. If she was braver, she would spark back. But she’s saving her strength for more important things.

  At the last séance, she knew the name of the person she was summoning: Mr Boyle. This time, any ghost might come through. She shivers, feeling like the skin is shrinking on her bones.

  The other woman, who looks like a facsimile of Mrs Lynch, pushes forward and lifts a lock of Pearl’s hair from the shoulder of her gown. ‘Look! Pure white! Even paler than Florence’s. She might have come from the spirit realm itself, Mamma.’

  ‘Well,’ Myrtle considers, ‘maybe she did. She was born with the cord wrapped around her neck, you know. Not a whiff of breath in her. It were me what brought her back to life.’

  They all gasp.

  Myrtle’s eagerness to share the tale breaks through her false voice. No one seems to care.

  She tells them the story, but there’s one part she leaves out: she doesn’t mention how their mother slipped away while Myrtle was busy reviving Pearl. None of the Society will know that it was all Pearl’s fault; that if she hadn’t been a distraction, someone might have saved Mother.

  But Pearl remembers. She’s heard it enough times.

  Myrtle pats her on the shoulder. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Let’s sit down and have some tea.’

  She guides Pearl to the table, her hand in the small of her back. When they sit down, she’s careful to perform the introductions again, more thoroughly, giving Pearl the names of Mr Stadler, Mr Collins, Mrs Lynch and Miss Lynch.

  Although they’ve all come to consult Pearl, they don�
��t seem to want her. Myrtle pulls their gaze like a giant magnet.

  ‘Such a pity, Miss West, that Florence King had to leave us,’ Mrs Lynch laments. ‘I cannot step foot inside this house without recalling your dear spirit guide. That farewell séance! I will never forget how tenderly she clasped me. But my loss is nothing compared to yours. You must miss her most of all.’

  Myrtle concentrates on pouring the tea, avoiding Mrs Lynch’s eye. ‘Of course I regret that dear Florence had to go,’ she sighs. ‘But I knew her guidance would only be given to me for a short time. She’s happy in Summerland now, and I’m living out her message here on Earth. It was Florence, you recall, who told me what would happen to my sister, and that I should study Mesmerism.’

  ‘I myself possess a great interest in the mesmeric force,’ Mr Collins announces pompously. ‘A magnetic fluid that flows through all creatures, ready to be manipulated and controlled, it is like a chemical, dear ladies. As a photographer, I have a vast knowledge of chemicals, and it is my opinion that spirit matter is just another such substance. I have high hopes of being able to photograph its fumes tonight.’

  ‘Do you consider the mesmeric force to be like spirit matter?’ Mr Stadler asks Myrtle, pointedly turning away from Mr Collins. ‘Is it composed of the same material?’

  ‘That’s what I’m going to find out,’ says Myrtle, flashing a confident smile.

  Pearl listens with bemused interest. She only knows bits and bobs about this. All her knowledge comes from the parts of Missives from Summerland that Myrtle decides to read out loud to her.

  Myrtle learnt to read when she worked at the match factory with Father, but she hasn’t taught Pearl.

  ‘I have heard the drollest anecdotes about Mesmerism,’ Mr Stadler says. ‘Accounts of nice young ladies suddenly swearing and kicking up their skirts whilst in a trance! One mesmerist even made his patient think that the water she drank was sherry instead. They willed it with the power of their mind, and she actually tasted sherry!’ He tips a wink. ‘Makes you think twice about the Miracle at Cana, eh?’

  Pearl doesn’t like to hear him talk that way. The contributors to Missives from Summerland sound like good-hearted people, committed to the cause of truth, who want to use their supernatural learning to make the world a better place. They’re as devout in their faith as any Jew or Methodist. But the Society of Bath Spiritual Adventurers seek phenomena, and nothing more. All Mr Stadler wants the sisters to do with their precious gifts is to make ladies dance!