The Daughter of Doctor Moreau(13)

“No lion tamers around?” Montgomery quipped.

“I don’t know if I like you yet, Mr. Laughton,” Moreau said calmly, the half-consumed cigar dangling from his fingers. “I’m not sure you’re the correct man for the job.”

“Frankly, I’m not sure I’d take the job.”

“There’s no need to make decisions now, is there?” Lizalde replied. “We all ought to have a nap before supper. Tomorrow morning we can discuss business.”

Montgomery agreed, mostly because he wanted to take a sip from the pewter flask nestled in his jacket’s pocket, and he did exactly that as soon as he reached the room he’d been assigned. He removed his jacket and his shirt and took a sip, then another.

The room was large, and the furniture was old and heavy and made of precious mahogany. The bed was wrapped with mosquito curtains, which pleased him after having spent many nights in ratty hammocks. A massive chest lay at the foot of the bed. The chest’s lock plate was decorated with delicate birds. There was also a type of traveling desk he’d seen before in these parts, a vargue?o. Its panel of marquetry was overlaid with silver, showcasing an abstract pattern that pointed to a certain Moorish influence inherited from the Spaniards, like the azulejos. A friar’s chair, with its distinctive brass nails, had been set by the window.

There was also a large mirror. He had not been staying in nice enough places that they’d ever own such a thing, and Montgomery saw himself as he hadn’t in a long time. His body was wiry, unhealthily thin. Fanny had found him somewhat handsome, or at least sufficiently pleasing, once upon a time. He doubted she’d think so now. But perhaps that had been a lie. Money was what she found most beautiful. Money he didn’t have. He’d known Fanny liked the finer things in life, but he had not begrudged her extravagances during their courtship, and he’d thought her happy when they wed.

But when Montgomery’s uncle died, Fanny had been livid that he’d received no inheritance.

“He has children, back in England,” he’d explained.

“But he didn’t love them. And you said he thought of you as his son.”

“What does it matter?” he’d asked.

It had mattered quite a bit. Fanny wanted a decent life, she said. Although Montgomery didn’t think their living was indecent, he, too, began to observe the deficiencies in their household, and he admitted that Fanny was too charming to be living a drab, dry existence. She must sparkle as the jewel that she was. She must be happy. He examined the ugly curtains and the cheap rug and felt it was all a reflection of him. He knew himself inferior and foolish, and worried about the frown on his wife’s face and the way other men looked at her.

Montgomery purchased a new, large house, imported fabrics from London and Paris, sought rare perfumes, bought golden bracelets and a pair of diamond earrings for Fanny, as though he were a wealthy man. He borrowed vast quantities of money, then borrowed more to pay that back. But wasn’t it worth it to see Fanny happy? Wasn’t it worth it to feel her arms around his neck, to see the flash of that perfect smile?

Eventually Montgomery packed their bags. He told Fanny there would be more opportunities for them in British Honduras. But she didn’t like it there. She’d never liked the Caribbean, and this, she said, was worse. Their arguments multiplied. She cried often. She was distraught: this was not the kind of life he had promised her. She accused him of lying to her about the extent of his means.

Montgomery didn’t know how to talk to Fanny. He grew quiet, retreated, focused on work.

He went to a logging camp for a two-month assignment. By the time he returned, his wife had left. Their money woes had intensified, and Fanny, made aware of their precarious financial situation, had decamped.

He couldn’t blame her. He was not rich enough, not enough of a gentleman, too taciturn, too haunted even before he regularly reached for the bottle and wrapped himself in self-pity. Too moody, too damn much. She couldn’t understand him. He’d loved her because she was different from him, but in the end that was what broke them.

He ran his fingers down the scars on his arm and looked at himself in the mirror, smirking. If he stayed at Yaxaktun perhaps he’d have a chance to improve his diet and put on weight. His work in British Honduras hunting animal specimens was haphazard. It paid better than his work as a maquinista, but he undertook it when the money ran out and to keep his debtors off his back. He saved nothing. The little profit he had, he drank and played away, and once in a while he hired a prostitute to share his bed. Blond and blue-eyed, if it could be had. Like Fanny Owen.

Yet he wasn’t certain he wanted the safety of this roof over his head, of Lizalde’s money. The comforts he could have here were considerable. The inviting bed, the nice furniture, they made a change from being bitten by fleas and having to check his hair for lice. But the price tag…

He stretched out on the bed but did not nap. A knock came later, and Ramona walked in with a porcelain pitcher and a washbasin for him. He thanked her and tidied himself for dinner.

They ate a light meal, and Montgomery made liberal use of the wine. They didn’t speak of business, and Montgomery mostly listened to the others rather than conversing.

After dinner they went to the sitting room once more, and Moreau’s daughter played the piano for them. She wasn’t terribly good at it. He supposed Moreau did what he could when it came to his daughter’s education, but without a governess, miracles could not be expected. Fanny had played beautifully. She possessed all the fine qualities a well-bred young woman should have.