Then I looked again at the smears of ink on her fingers.
'How can you bear it?'
She did not answer.
'To think of him,' I said, 'that sod! Oh, stinking was too good for him!' I wrung my hands. 'And now, to look at you and see you here, still here, with his books about you— !'
I gazed across the shelves; and wanted to smash them. I went to her, and reached to draw her close. But she held me off. She moved her head, in a way that at any other time I should have called proud.
'Don't pity me,' she said, 'because of him. He's dead. But I am still what he made me. I shall always be that. Half of the books are spoiled, or sold. But I am here. And look.
You must know everything. Look how I get my living.'
She picked up a paper from the desk— the paper that I had seen her write on. The ink 351
was still damp. 'I asked a friend of my uncle's, once,' she said, 'if I might write for him.
He sent me to a home for distressed gentlewomen.' She smiled, unhappily. 'They say that ladies don't write such things. But, I am not a lady
I looked at her, not understanding. I looked at the paper in her hand. Then my heart missed its beat.
'You are writing books, like his!' I said. She nodded, not speaking. Her face was grave.
I don't know how my face seemed. I think it was burning. 'Books, like that!' I said. 'I can't believe it. Of all the ways I thought I'd find you— And then, to find you here, all on your own in this great house— '
'I am not alone,' she said. 'I have told you: I have William Inker and his wife to care for me.'
'To find you here, all on your own, writing books like that?-V
Again, she looked almost proud. 'Why shouldn't I?' she said.
I did not know. 'It just don't seem right,' I said. 'A girl, like you— '
'Like me? There are no girls like me.'
I did not answer for a moment. I looked again at the paper in her hand. Then I said quietly,
'Is there money in it?'
She blushed. A little,' she said. 'Enough, if I write swiftly.'
And you— You like it?'
She blushed still harder. 'I find I am good at it. . .' She bit her lip. She was still watching my face. 'Do you hate me for it?' she said.
'Hate you!' I said. 'When I have fifty proper reasons for hating you, already; and only— '
Only love you, I wanted to say. I didn't say it, though. What can I tell you? If she could still be proud, then so, for now, could I ... I didn't need to say it, anyway: she could read the words in my face. Her colour changed, her gaze grew clearer. She put a hand across her eyes. Her fingers left more smudges of black there. I still couldn't bear it. I quickly reached and stopped her wrist; then wet my thumb and began to rub at the flesh of her brow. I did it, thinking only of the ink, and her white skin; but she felt my hand and grew very still. My thumb moved slower. It moved to her cheek.
Then I found I had cupped her face in my hand. She closed her eyes. Her cheek was smooth— not like a pearl, warmer than pearls. She turned her head and put her mouth against my palm. Her lips were soft. The smudge stayed black upon her brow; and after all, I thought, was only ink.
When I kissed her, she shook. I remembered what it was, then, to make her shake by kissing her; and began to shake, too. I had been ill. I thought I might faint! We moved apart. She put her hand against her heart. She had still held the paper. Now it fluttered to the floor. I stooped and caught it up and smoothed the creases from it.
'What does it say?' I said, when I had.
She said, 'It is filled with all the words for how I want you . . . Look.'
She took up the lamp. The room had got darker, the rain still beat against the glass.
But she led me to the fire and made me sit, and sat beside me. Her silk skirts rose in a rush, then sank. She put the lamp upon the floor, spread the paper flat; and began to 352
show me the words she had written, one by one.
Notes
Many books provided historical detail and inspiration. I'm particularly indebted to V.A.C. Gatrell's The Hanging Tree: Execution and the English People, 1770-1868
(Oxford, 1994) and Marcia Hamilcar's Legally Dead: Experiences During Seven Weeks' Detention in a Private Asylum (London, 1910).
The index upon which Christopher Lilly is at work is based on the three annotated bibliographies published by Henry Spencer Ashbee under the pseudonym Pisanus Fraxi: Index Librorum Prohibitorum: being Notes Bio- Biblio- Icono- graphical and Critical, on Curious and Uncommon Books (London, 1877); Centuria Librorum Absconditorum: being Notes Bio- Biblio- Icono- graphical and Critical, on Curious and Uncommon Books (London, 1879); and Catena Librorum Tacendorum: being Notes Bio- Biblio- Icono- graphical and critical, on Curious and Uncommon Books (London, 1885). Mr Lilly's statements on book-collecting echo those of Ashbee, but in all other respects he is entirely fictitious.
All of the texts cited by Maud are real. They include: The Festival of the Passions, Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, The Curtain Drawn Up, The Bagnio Miscellany, The Birchen Bouquet, and The Lustful Turk. For publishing details of these see Ashbee, above.
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