The Essex Serpent(63)

‘She says you are a genius,’ said Will: ‘Are you?’

‘I expect so,’ said Luke, and bared his teeth in a grin. ‘Your glass is empty – let me help – tell me: do you have any interest in medical science, or does your collar preclude it?’ And in the minutes that followed Will could do nothing but admire a man whose ambition burned so vividly: ‘Impossible to operate on the heart itself, of course: even if we could work out how to suspend the blood’s flow – to isolate it, if you like – the brain would be starved of oxygen and the patient would die on the table – Martha, get us some wine, would you? – there: are you squeamish? – let me show you …’ The Imp took out the notebook he always carried, and Will saw a drawing of a baby with the skin of its breast flayed from the bone while a cord linked the infant to its sleeping mother. ‘You look appalled – don’t be: it is the future! – if the mother’s circulation is connected to her child’s, so that her heart pumps for them both, and her breath supplies the oxygen, I could close up the hole in the heart so many babies are born with, but they won’t let me attempt it, you know. You look faint.’ And Will did look faint, but it was not the pipes and fluids of the body that troubled him, but the matter-of-factness of the surgeon, who spoke as if all God’s creatures were to be plucked and gutted like hens. ‘I forget you are a man of the cloth,’ said Luke, with a delivery that made the words an insult.

Under the table Francis peeled an orange brought down from Harrods in a paper bag. He saw Charles Ambrose sit beside Stella and give her a glass of cold water; he heard them speak of Cora, and how well she looked, and how lovely she’d made the room, as if she’d summoned the garden inside. Then Stella wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and said, ‘We should dance the summer in – can’t someone play?’

‘I can do a waltz,’ said Joanna. ‘Nothing else.’

‘One two three one two three,’ said Charles Ambrose, treading on his wife’s toes: ‘Shall we roll back the carpet?’

‘Come out of there,’ said Martha, seeing Francis in his hiding-place, tugging the carpet from under him, revealing the black boards beneath. At the piano Joanna, straight-backed, played a run that took in every key, wincing and saying, ‘It’s horrible! It’ll sound horrible – it’s been left to get old and damp!’ Then she played a melody that was too fast, and then too slow; every several note rang so dull as to not be heard, but no-one was troubled. Outside the moon was full and low (‘The Corn-Planting Moon,’ said Francis to himself), and the estuary lapped at its banks, and for all they knew something was even now crawling up onto the marsh, but they cared nothing for any of it. I think it could knock three times on the door and no-one would hear, he thought, and found himself listening for it on the threshold, and imagining the blaze of its hooded eye.

Luke Garrett, leafing through handwritten pages in a dim corner of the room, set his notebook down and went to stand beside Cora’s chair. He bowed like a courtier and said: ‘Come on – you are almost as bad as me – a fine pair we’d make.’ But Stella by the open window had other ideas: ‘Since I’m too tired to dance with my husband, will my friend take my place? Will!’ – imperious, laughing, she summoned him: ‘Show Cora you’re no ordinary parson, only ever at home with his books!’

Reluctantly, Will came forward (‘Stella! You give them false hope …’) and stood alone in the centre of the room. Without pulpit or Bible he looked all at a loss, and held out his hands a little shyly. ‘Cora,’ he said, ‘it’s not use denying her. I’ve tried.’

‘The Imp is right,’ said Cora, going to meet him, fastening a button at her cuff. ‘If I dance, it will be badly. I’ve got no music in me.’ She stood before Will, seeming somehow diminished, as if she’d gone some distance away: not since they’d left Foulis Street had she looked so unsure of her footing.

‘She’s right, you know,’ said Martha, sighing and shaking out her green dress. ‘She’ll break your foot – she’s heavy – won’t you have me instead?’

But Stella stood, and came forward: like a dancing-master she placed Cora’s hand upon her husband’s shoulder. ‘See how well-matched you are!’ She surveyed them a while, then returned, satisfied, to sit below the open window. ‘There, now,’ – she stroked the blue silk cushion in her lap – ‘eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow it rains.’

Then William Ransome put his hand on Cora’s waist where her blouse was tucked, and Francis heard his mother sigh. She looked up – they stood quite still together – there was a quiet moment, and no-one spoke. Francis, watching, burst a piece of orange on his tongue: he saw how his mother smiled at Will, and how the smile was met with a steady, stern look – how then her head moved as though drawn back by the weight of her hair, and how his hand flexed at her waist, tugging at the fabric of her skirt.

I don’t understand any of this, thought Francis, seeing Martha withdraw, and stand beside Luke, and seeing how perfectly her face mirrored his: they looked almost a little afraid.

‘I can’t keep playing it over and over,’ said Joanna at the piano, rolling her eyes at Francis.

‘I don’t know the tune!’ said Will, ‘I never heard it before –’