Soul

m further.

‘It is a stereograph, Aloysius; the images are made more vivid through the two photographs.’

‘A wonder. I can see a small bird suspended above the soldiers, its wings beating the air.’

‘The series is on the Crimea War. The Colonel keeps them as a memento—the point of which escapes me, as every night he dreams he is back there and wishes it were otherwise.’

Aloysius stared through the two lenses. It was as if he could smell the rotting flesh of the dead cart horse that lay just beyond the trench, could feel the mud caking on his skin as it had on the young soldiers. A terrible shame came over him as he realised that the two infantrymen had quite likely been killed and he was looking upon the faces of the dead. He did not care for the sensation. Placing the machine firmly back onto the table, he took a large gulp of the sherry only to break into a coughing fit.

‘Tell me about the friendships of men, Aloysius.’

Startled by the question, he carefully placed the glass down again.

‘I shall try, madam, but I am not a social creature myself. In truth, I prefer horses to men.’

Lavinia smiled despite her growing apprehension. ‘You drive my husband some nights, do you not?’

Aloysius, now seeing the stratagem she had embarked upon, deliberately emptied his face of any judgement.

‘Aye, madam.’

‘Is he often with Mr Campbell?’

‘They visit the clubs and sometimes other houses.’

‘What manner of houses?’

‘I am not at liberty to say, but you should take comfort in that they are the same houses frequented by most of Mayfair’s married men.’

‘Cold comfort. I have lost him, I fear.’ At which her whole demeanour collapsed. Near tears, she looked down, painfully aware of her trembling hands.

Aloysius, flabbergasted at her sudden loss of composure, spontaneously reached across to take her hands. Then he remembered his place and instead leaned over her with a clumsy grace.

‘Ná bídh ag caoineadh anois, ná bídh ag caoineadh (Don’t cry, please don’t cry),’ he whispered in Gaelic, not knowing whether she would understand him or not. To his amazement, she looked up at him and replied in the same tongue.

‘Nach mé an t-óinseach cáillte. (What a fool I’ve been.)’

‘The man still loves you,’ he replied, as directly as if she had been a weeping serving girl and he her brother.

‘You think?’

‘I am sure,’ he answered, as unconvinced as the young woman before him.

Mama, I no longer know if you are alive or dead, but my imaginings have made a habit of you, rendering you as substantial as the walls of this bedroom, sitting there listening to me patiently, and now this habit has become an addiction. Ridiculous, really, to be comforted by whispering into a plain wooden box, but perhaps that is the very nature of faith.

It is almost day, and I have had the most fearful night. James quite abandoned me after the theatre, claiming he was to join a game of commerce at his club. He has not returned. The whole night I have tortured myself by imagining him engaged in all manner of debauchery. Now my anger has become resignation. I still love him, but I do not want to live in a marriage without affection. Can I win him back? Could I ever forgive him? I know I cannot live without him—without his love or approval. Tell me, Mama, what does a wife do in such circumstances?

Lavinia crouched at the window, the whispering box open on the sill. Every one of her muscles had become gnarled wood; exhaustion gripped her as the house seemed to inhale and exhale with the growing dawn.

The sound of approaching wheels on the street below brought her to her feet. A hansom cab pulled up to the kerb and a coachman leapt down and opened the door. The Colonel stepped out. Even from this height, Lavinia could see his face looked worn and haggard, as if he had not slept.

Stamping the ground, the coachman turned his back on the cab, hugging himself in an effort to keep the cold from his bones. There was something deliberate about his movement that caught Lavinia’s attention.

Hamish Campbell emerged from the coach, coatless, his shirt rumpled, his collar collapsed, his colour as high as if he were intoxicated—a dishevelment that gave him a reckless beauty. Grabbing the Colonel’s lapels with both hands, he pulled the older man towards him. At first, Lavinia thought Campbell might strike him, so rough and fast was the gesture. But instead he embraced him, full and passionately.

Lavinia watched transfixed, her face a small white oval in the high window. Her husband responded, his hand resting for a moment on the younger man’s waist before pulling away. Without any further exchange, Campbell climbed back into the hansom cab as the Colonel slipped a coin into the waiting coachman’s hand before disappearing under the portico.

‘You waited up, I warned you not to.’ James stood at the door, shoes in hand. His eyes were bloodshot, his speech slurred. A sweetish smell emanated from his clothes. Lavinia recognised it as the odour she had noticed before in his study—opium.