Soul

‘You taught me language; and my profit on’t

Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you,

For learning me your language!’

Was this what was meant by ‘the noble savage’? Lavinia wondered, thinking on the Bakairi and what complexity her husband might have inadvertently brought to their pristine world.

Lavinia was distracted by a rustling from the box next to them, which had been empty at the beginning of the play —conspicuously so, as this was the opening night at the Strand Theatre and the famous thespian Charles Kean was playing Caliban. Peering into the semi-darkness, Lavinia recognised the box’s recent arrival as Lord Arthur Clinton—Hamish Campbell had pointed him out to her at the ball so many weeks before. But who was the young woman sitting on his far side? She wore a dark blue velvet gown with an elaborate collar of diamonds and pearls, one languid

hand draped over the edge of the balcony. As the woman leaned forward to gain a better view of Kean, Lavinia recognised her: Polly Kirkshore.

Lavinia glanced sideways at her husband watching the performance through opera glasses.

‘Don’t you know her?’ she whispered, indicating the couple.

A startled expression crossed the Colonel’s face for a moment, before he collected himself.

‘Don’t be absurd. I barely know Lord Clinton.’

Lifting the opera glasses, he turned back to the stage.

The foyer was crowded. Its walls were hung with red velvet and large gold chandeliers dripped candle wax onto the milling spectators below. The Huntingtons stood pressed against the gilded banister, the Colonel searching the faces for the possibility of advantageous commercial encounters.

Staring down into the throng, Lavinia caught sight of Polly Kirkshore as he pushed his way towards the ladies’ parlour. His coiffure and shoulders stood out among the surrounding women. Lavinia observed that the transvestite’s great deceit lay in the confidence with which he moved, completely at ease in the social milieu. He looked like any wealthy debutante, perhaps a little tall, perhaps slightly ungainly in the feet and hands, but if one had any doubts they would surely be dismissed by the natural arrogance of his carriage.

‘I must reacquaint myself with a friend,’ Lavinia told her husband.

‘Be quick.’ The Colonel turned back to the crowd.

The ladies’ parlour was a large low-ceilinged chamber, its walls lined with mirrors. Uniformed maids stood beside a rack of steaming face towels, while a seamstress, kneeling, mended a tear in a woman’s skirt. Several women reclined on chaises longues, fanning themselves furiously. Polly Kirkshore sat at a dressing table, fastidiously reapplying rouge to his cheeks and lips. The youthfulness of his skin and his impeccable grooming made him a personification of feminine beauty—something many of those present, all ignorant of his true sex, aspired to.

Lavinia sat on a stool behind him and caught his eye in the mirror.

‘I suspected it was you in the next box. How is the Colonel?’ Polly Kirkshore lowered his rouge.

‘He doesn’t know you.’

A very slight vulnerability ran across the transvestite’s face.

‘They never do. I suppose he will not know me in the foyer either.’

‘Do you think my husband could love me or any of my sex as a man should love a woman?’ Lavinia’s voice was barely a whisper.

‘I believe we are not fixed beings but creatures whose affections lie beyond the dictates of Society. Besides, my friend, there are many loves, therefore he must love you in his own particular manner. But you haven’t sought me out for this question alone?’

He applied paint to a beauty mole just below his eye. His green irises and painted eyelids reminded Lavinia of an Egyptian goddess, his beauty amplified by the studied ruse.

‘You asked me whether I had an elder sister or a mother in London,’ she replied softly.

‘It was nothing, merely a remarkable resemblance.’

‘But if I did…have a mother…’

‘If you did, I am not convinced you would want to claim this woman.’

Lavinia leaned closer to avoid being overheard. Some intuition told her to trust the youth. ‘I have a whispering box—a simple ornament they gave me after they told me she had died. For years I have spoken into this box, to a mother I imagined would embody all of the qualities one would want in a parent. Now I have discovered that I have lived my life in imagined projections. I no longer wish to be so credulous.’

Without turning from the mirror, Polly Kirkshore reached into his jewelled purse and pulled out a small pencil. Turning his theatre program over, he scribbled down a name and an address.