Falling Angel
By Tracy ChevalierHighBridge Audio
Copyright © 2001 Tracy Chevalier
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9781565115088
Chapter One
Kitty Coleman
I woke this morning with a stranger in my bed. The head of blondhair beside me was decidedly not my husband's. I did not knowwhether to be shocked or amused.
Well, I thought, here's a novel way to begin the new century.
Then I remembered the evening before and felt rather sick. I wonderedwhere Richard was in this huge house and how we were meantto swap back. Everyone else here?the man beside me included?wasfar more experienced in the mechanics of these matters than I.Than we. Much as Richard bluffed last night, he was just as much inthe dark as me, though he was more keen. Much more keen. It mademe wonder.
I nudged the sleeper with my elbow, gently at first and thenharder until at last he woke with a snort.
"Out you go," I said. And he did, without a murmur. Thankfullyhe didn't try to kiss me. How I stood that beard last night I'll neverremember?the claret helped, I suppose. My cheeks are red withscratches.
When Richard came in a few minutes later, clutching his clothesin a bundle, I could barely look at him. I was embarrassed, and angrytoo?angry that I should feel embarrassed and yet not expect him tofeel so as well. It was all the more infuriating that he simply kissedme, said, "Hello, darling," and began to dress, I could smell her perfumeon his neck.
Yet I could say nothing. As I myself have so often said, I am openminded?I pride myself on it. Those words bite now.
I lay watching Richard dress, and found myself thinking of mybrother. Harry always used to tease me for thinking too much?thoughhe refused to concede that he was at all responsible for encouragingme. But all those evenings spent reviewing with me whathis tutors had taught him in the morning?he said it was to help himremember it?what did that do but teach me to think and speak mymind? Perhaps he regretted it later. I shall never know now. I am onlyjust out of mourning for him, but some days it feels as if I am stillclutching that telegram.
Harry would be mortified to see where his teaching has led. Notthat one has to be clever for this sort of thing?most of them downstairsare stupid as buckets of coal, my blond beard among them. Notone could I have a proper conversation with?I had to resort to thewine.
Frankly I'm relieved not to be of this set?to paddle in its shallowsoccasionally is quite enough for me. Richard I suspect feels differently,but he has married the wrong wife if he wanted that sort of life.Or perhaps it is I who chose badly?though I would never havethought so once, back when we were mad for each other.
I think Richard has made me do this to show me he is not as conventionalas I feared. But it has had the opposite effect on me. He hasbecome everything I had not thought he would be when we married.He has become ordinary.
I feel so flat this morning. Daddy and Harry would have laughedat me, but I secretly hoped that the change in the century wouldbring a change in us all; that England would miraculously slough offher shabby black coat to reveal something glittering and new. It isonly eleven hours into the twentieth century, yet I know very wellthat nothing has changed but a number.
Enough. They are to ride today, which is not for me?I shall escapewith my coffee to the library. It will undoubtedly be empty.
Richard Coleman
I thought being with another woman would bring Kitty back, thatjealousy would open her bedroom door to me again. Yet two weekslater she has not let me in any more than before.
I do not like to think that I am a desperate man, but I do not understandwhy my wife is being so difficult. I have provided a decentlife for her and yet she is still unhappy, though she cannot?or willnot?say why.
It is enough to drive any man to change wives, if only for a night.
Maude Coleman
When Daddy saw the angel on the grave next to ours he cried,"What the devil?"
Mummy just laughed.
I looked and looked until my neck ached. It hung above us, onefoot forward, a hand pointing toward heaven. It was wearing a longrobe with a square neck, and it had loose hair that flowed onto itswings. It was looking down toward me, but no matter how hard Istared it did not seem to see me.
Mummy and Daddy began to argue. Daddy does not like theangel. I don't know if Mummy likes it or not?she didn't say. I thinkthe urn Daddy has had put on our own grave bothers her more.
I wanted to sit down but didn't dare. It was very cold, too cold tosit on stone, and besides, the Queen is dead, which I think means noone can sit down, or play, or do anything comfortable.
I heard the bells ringing last night when I was in bed, and whenNanny came in this morning she told me the Queen died yesterdayevening. I ate my porridge very slowly, to see if it tasted differentfrom yesterday's, now that the Queen is gone. But it tasted just thesame?too salty. Mrs. Baker always makes it that way.
Everyone we saw on our way to the cemetery was dressed inblack. I wore a gray wool dress and a white pinafore, which I mighthave worn anyway but which Nanny said was fine for a girl to wearwhen someone died. Girls don't have to wear black. Nanny helpedme to dress. She let me wear my black-and-white plaid coat andmatching hat, but she wasn't sure about my rabbit's-fur muff, and Ihad to ask Mummy, who said it didn't matter what I wore. Mummywore a blue silk dress and wrap, which did not please Daddy.
While they were arguing about the angel I buried my face in mymuff. The fur is very soft. Then I heard a noise, like stone beingtapped, and when I raised my head I saw a pair of blue eyes lookingat me from over the headstone next to ours. I stared at them, andthen the face of a boy appeared from behind the stone. His hair wasfull of mud, and his cheeks were dirty with it too. He winked at me,then disappeared behind the headstone.
I looked at Mummy and Daddy, who had walked a little way upthe path to view the angel from another place. They had not seen theboy. I walked backward between the graves, my eyes on them. WhenI was sure they were not looking I ducked behind the stone.
The boy was leaning against it, sitting on his heels.
"Why do you have mud in your hair?" I asked.
"Been down a grave," he said.
I looked at him closely. There was mud on him everywhere?onhis jacket, on his knees, on his shoes. There were even bits of it in hiseyelashes.
"Can I touch the fur?" he asked.
"It's a muff," I said. "My muff."
"Can I touch it?"
"No." Then I felt bad saying that, so I held out the muff.
The boy spit on his fingers and wiped them on his jacket, thenreached out and stroked the fur.
"What were you doing down a grave?" I asked.
"Helping our pa."
"What does your father do?"
"He digs the graves, of course. I helps him."
Then we heard a sound, like a kitten mewing. We peeked over theheadstone and a girl standing in the path looked straight into myeyes, just as I had with the boy. She was dressed all in black, and wasvery pretty, with bright brown eyes and long lashes and creamy skin.Her brown hair was long and curly and so much nicer than mine,which hangs flat like laundry and isn't one color or another. Grandmothercalls mine ditch-water blond, which may be true but isn'tvery kind. Grandmother always speaks her mind.
The girl reminded me of my favorite chocolates, whipped hazelnutcreams, and I knew just from looking at her that I wanted her formy best friend. I don't have a best friend, and have been praying forone. I have often wondered, as I sit in St. Anne's getting colder andcolder (why are churches always cold?), if prayers really work, but itseems this time God has answered them.
"Use your handkerchief, Livy dear, there's a darling." The girl'smother was coming up the path, holding the hand of a younger girl.A tall man with a ginger beard followed them. The younger girl wasnot so pretty. Though she looked like the other girl, her chin was notso pointed, her hair not so curly, her lips not so big. Her eyes werehazel rather than brown, and she looked at everything as if nothingsurprised her. She spotted the boy and me immediately.
"Lavinia," the older girl said, shrugging her shoulders and tossingher head so that her curls bounced. "Mama, I want you and Papa tocall me Lavinia, not Livy."
I decided then and there that I would never call her Livy.
"Don't be rude to your mother, Livy," the man said. "You're Livyto us and that's that. Livy is a fine name. When you're older we'll callyou Lavinia."
Lavinia frowned at the ground.
"Now stop all this crying," he continued. "She was a good queenand she lived a long life, but there's no need for a girl of five to weepquite so much. Besides, you'll frighten Ivy May." He nodded at thesister.
I looked at Lavinia again. As far as I could see she was not cryingat all, though she was twisting a handkerchief around her fingers. Iwaved at her to come.
Lavinia smiled. When her parents turned their backs she steppedoff the path and behind the headstone.
"I'm five as well," I said when she was standing next to us."Though I'll be six in March."
"Is that so?" Lavinia said. "I'll be six in February."
"Why do you call your parents Mama and Papa? I call mineMummy and Daddy."
"Mama and Papa is much more elegant." Lavinia stared at the boy,who was kneeling by the headstone. "What is your name, please?"
"Maude," I answered before I realized she was speaking to the boy.
"Simon."
"You are a very dirty boy."
"Stop," I said.
Lavinia looked at me. "Stop what?"
"He's a gravedigger, that's why he's muddy."
Lavinia took a step backward.
"An apprentice gravedigger," Simon said. "I was a mute for the undertakersfirst, but our pa took me on once I could use a spade."
"There were three mutes at my grandmother's funeral," Laviniasaid. "One of them was whipped for laughing."
"My mother says there are not so many funerals like that anymore,"I said. "She says they are too dear and the money should bespent on the living."
"Our family always has mutes at its funerals. I shall have mutes atmine."
"Are you dying, then?" Simon asked.
"Of course not!"
"Did you leave your nanny at home as well?" I asked, thinking weshould talk about something else before Lavinia got upset and left.
She flushed. "We don't have a nanny. Mama is perfectly able tolook after us herself."
I didn't know any children who didn't have a nanny.
Lavinia was looking at my muff. "Do you like my angel, then?" sheasked. "My father let me choose it."
"My father doesn't like it," I declared, though I knew I shouldn'trepeat what Daddy had said. "He called it sentimental nonsense."
Lavinia frowned. "Well, Papa hates your urn. Anyway, what'swrong with my angel?"
"I like it," the boy said.
"So do I," I lied.
"I think it's lovely." Lavinia sighed. "When I go to heaven I wantto be taken up by an angel just like that."
"It's the nicest angel in the cemetery," the boy said. "And I know'em all. There's thirty-one of 'em. D'you want me to show 'em toyou?"
"Thirty-one is a prime number," I said. "It isn't divisible by anythingexcept one and itself." Daddy had just explained to me aboutprime numbers, though I hadn't understood it all.
Simon took a piece of coal from his pocket and began to draw onthe back of the headstone. Soon he had drawn a skull and crossbones?roundeye-sockets, a black triangle for a nose, rows of squareteeth, and a shadow scratched on one side of the face.
"Don't do that," I said. He ignored me. "You can't do that."
"I have. Lots. Look at the stones all round us."
I looked at our family grave. At the very bottom of the plinth thatheld the urn, a tiny skull and crossbones had been scratched. Daddywould be furious if he knew it was there. I saw then that every stonearound us had a skull and crossbones on it. I had never seen them before.
"I'm going to draw one on every grave in the cemetery," he continued.
"Why do you draw them?" I asked. "Why a skull and crossbones?"
"Reminds you what's underneath, don't it? It's all bones downthere, whatever you may put on the grave."
"Naughty boy," Lavinia said.
Simon stood up. "I'll draw one for you," he said. "I'll draw one onthe back of your angel."
"Don't you dare," Lavinia said.
Simon immediately dropped the piece of coal.
Lavinia looked around as if she were about to leave.
"I know a poem," Simon said suddenly.
"What poem? Tennyson?"
"Dunno whose son. It's like this:
There was a young man at Nunhead
Who awoke in his coffin of lead;
`It is cosy enough,'
He remarked in a huff,
`But I wasn't aware I was dead.'"
"Ugh! That's disgusting!" Lavinia cried. Simon and I laughed.
"Our pa says lots of people've been buried alive," Simon said. "Hesays he's heard 'em, scrabbling inside their coffins as he's tossing dirton 'em."
"Really? Mummy's afraid of being buried alive," I said.
"I can't bear to hear this," Lavinia cried, covering her ears. "I'mgoing back." She went through the graves toward her parents. Iwanted to follow her but Simon began talking again.
"Our granpa's buried here in the meadow."
"He never was."
"He is."
"Show me his grave."
Simon pointed at a row of wooden crosses over the path from us.Paupers' graves?Mummy had told me about them, explaining thatland had been set aside for people who had no money to pay for aproper plot.
"Which cross is his?" I asked.
"He don't have one. Cross don't last. We planted a rosebush there,so we always know where he is. Stole it from one of the gardensdown the bottom of the hill."
I could see a stump of a bush, cut right back for the winter. Welive at the bottom of the hill, and we have lots of roses at the front.Perhaps that rosebush was ours.
"He worked here too," Simon said. "Same as our pa and me. Saidit's the nicest cemetery in London. Wouldn't have wanted to beburied in any of t'others. He had stories to tell about t'others. Piles ofbones everywhere. Bodies buried with just a sack of soil over 'em.Phew, the smell!" Simon waved his hand in front of his nose. "Andmen snatching bodies in the night. Here he were at least safe andsound, with the boundary wall being so high, and the spikes on top."
"I have to go now," I said. I didn't want to look scared like Lavinia,but I didn't like hearing about the smell of bodies.
Simon shrugged. "I could show you things."
"Maybe another time." I ran to catch up with our families, whowere walking along together. Lavinia took my hand and squeezed itand I was so pleased I kissed her.
As we walked hand-in-hand up the hill I could see out of the cornerof my eye a figure like a ghost jumping from stone to stone, followingus and then running ahead. I wished we had not left him.
I nudged Lavinia. "He's a funny boy, isn't he?" I said, nodding athis shadow as he went behind an obelisk.
"I like him," Lavinia said, "even if he talks about awful things."
"Don't you wish we could run off the way he does?"
Lavinia smiled at me. "Shall we follow him?"
I hadn't expected her to say that. I glanced at the others?onlyLavinia's sister was looking at us. "Let's," I whispered.
She squeezed my hand as we ran off to find him.
Kitty Coleman
I don't dare tell anyone or I will be accused of treason, but I wasterribly excited to hear the Queen is dead. The dullness I have feltsince New Year's vanished, and I had to work very hard to appear appropriatelysober. The turning of the century was merely a change innumbers, but now we shall have a true change in leadership, and Ican't help but think Edward is more truly representative of us than hismother.
For now, though, nothing has changed?we were expected totroop up to the cemetery and make a show of mourning, even thoughnone of the Royal Family is buried there, nor is the Queen to be.Death is there, and that is enough, I suppose.
That blasted cemetery. I have never liked it.
To be fair, it is not the fault of the place itself, which has a lugubriouscharm, with its banks of graves stacked on top of one another?graniteheadstones, Egyptian obelisks, Gothic spires, plinths toppedwith columns, weeping ladies, angels, and of course, urns?windingup the hill to the glorious Lebanon cedar at the top. I am even willingto overlook some of the more preposterous monuments?ostentatiousrepresentations of a family's status. But the sentiments that theplace encourages in mourners are too overblown for my taste. Moreover,it is the Colemans' cemetery, not my family's. I miss the littlechurchyard in Lincolnshire where Mummy and Daddy are buriedand where there is now a stone for Harry, even if his body lies somewherein southern Africa.
The excess of it all?which our own ridiculous urn now contributesto?is too much. How utterly out of scale it is to its surroundings!If only Richard had consulted me first. It was unlikehim?for all his faults he is a rational man, and must have seen thatthe urn was too big. I suspect the hand of his mother in the choosing.Her taste has always been formidable.
It was amusing today to watch him splutter over the angel thathas been erected on the grave next to the urn. (Far too close to it, asit happens?they look as if they may bash each other at any moment.)It was all I could do to keep a straight face.
"How dare they inflict their taste on us!" he said. "The thought ofhaving to look at this sentimental nonsense every time we visit turnsmy stomach."
"It is sentimental, but harmless," I replied "At least the marble'sItalian."
"I don't give a hang about the marble! I don't want that angel nextto our grave."
"Have you thought that perhaps they're saying the same aboutthe urn?"
"There's nothing wrong with our urn!"
"And they would say that there's nothing wrong with their angel."
"The angel looks ridiculous next to the urn. It's far too close, forone thing."
"Exactly," I said. "You didn't leave them room for anything."
"Of course I did. Another urn would have looked fine. Perhaps aslightly smaller one."
I raised my eyebrows the way I do when Maude has said somethingfoolish. "Or even the same size," Richard conceded. "Yes, thatcould have looked quite impressive, a pair of urns. Instead we havethis nonsense."
And on and on we went. While I don't think much of the blank-facedangels dotted around the cemetery, they bother me less thanthe urns, which seem a peculiar thing to put on a grave when onethinks that they were used by the Romans as receptacles for humanashes. A pagan symbol for a Christian society. But then, so is all theEgyptian symbolism one sees here as well. When I pointed this outto Richard he huffed and puffed but had no response other than tosay, "That urn adds dignity and grace to the Coleman grave."
I don't know about that. Utter banality and misplaced symbolismare rather more like it. I had the sense not to say so.
He was still going on about the angel when who should appearbut its owners, dressed in full mourning. Albert and Gertrude Waterhouse?norelation to the painter, they admitted. (Just as well?Iwant to scream when I see his overripe paintings at the Tate. TheLady of Shalott in her boat looks as if she has just taken opium.) Wehad never met them before, though they have owned their grave forseveral years. They are rather nondescript?he a ginger-bearded,smiling type, she one of those short women whose waists have beenruined by children so that their dresses never fit properly. Her hair iscrinkly rather than curly, and escapes its pins.
Her elder daughter, Lavinia, who looks to be Maude's age, haslovely hair, glossy brown and curly. She's a bossy, spoiled littlething?apparently her father bought the angel at her insistence.Richard nearly choked where he heard this. And she was wearing ablack dress trimmed with crape?rather vulgar and unnecessary for achild that young.
Of course Maude has taken an instant liking to the girl. When weall took a turn around the cemetery together Lavinia kept dabbing ather eyes with a black-edged handkerchief, weeping as we passed thegrave of a little boy dead fifty years, I just hope Maude doesn't begincopying her. I can't bear such nonsense. Maude is very sensible but Icould see how attracted she was to the girl's behavior. They disappearedoff together?Lord knows what they got up to. They cameback the best of friends.
I think it highly unlikely Gertrude Waterhouse and I would everbe the best of friends. When she said yet again how sad it was aboutthe Queen, I couldn't help but comment that Lavinia seemed to beenjoying her mourning tremendously.
Gertrude Waterhouse said nothing for a moment, then remarked,"That's a lovely dress. Such an unusual shade of blue."
Richard snorted. We'd had a fierce argument about my dress. Intruth I was now rather embarrassed about my choice?not oneadult I'd seen since leaving the house was wearing anything butblack. My dress was dark blue, but still I stood out far more than I'dintended.
Continues...
Excerpted from Falling Angelby Tracy Chevalier Copyright © 2001 by Tracy Chevalier. Excerpted by permission.
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