Stoker cocked his head, thinking. “Five years.”
“Does he bring you the spoils of his hunting?”
“Too often. Only last week, he dropped half an enormous rat into my bath. He was so proud, I hadn’t the heart to scold him.”
“Has he been a faithful dog?”
“None better,” Stoker said, reaching to fondle Huxley’s ears. One had a slightly moth-eaten look where Betony had taken to gently chewing it, and he snored so loudly he had, upon more than one occasion, driven me from Stoker’s arms and into the quiet repose of my own bed. But there was no doubting his loyalty to his master.
Eliza nodded. “And yet, you must expect someday he will grow old and grizzled, perhaps a little lame. His eyes will rheum and his steps will slow, and the time will come when you will go on without him. Such is the nature of the relationship between dogs and masters. And such was the nature of the relationship between Julius and AmbroseDespard. Julius wanted someone to sit up and take notice of him, to bring him tasty morsels, to lay at his feet and stare in admiration. Ambrose did all of those. He lauded his genius and opened his pockets and poured rivers of gold into Julius’ work. Some men are born to genius. Some have a talent for sniffing it out. Ambrose is definitely the latter.”
“Did he mind?” I asked. “The disparity in their abilities?”
“No. He was content to play the midwife to Julius’ schemes. I think he believed standing in Julius’ shadow at least meant he felt the effects of the sun. But shadows are cold things, Miss Speedwell. And nothing grows well in darkness.”
It seemed churlish to point out that any number of things thrive perfectly well in darkness—bats, opossums, most species of fungi, several intriguing moths—so I said nothing and let her enjoy her metaphor, however inapt. I looked to where Miss Trevelyan sat, motionless, hands folded in her lap. She had put her teacup aside and taken no further refreshment, her gaze fixed upon Eliza’s face, her own expression somehow tortured, like Moses glimpsing the Promised Land he knows he will never live to enjoy.
I turned my attention back to Eliza Elyot as she continued her tale. “We lived comfortably enough, in an unfashionable quarter of the city where no one knew us and we could afford a large warehouse to serve as the laboratory. The work was hard, but I did not mind. We saw no one, we met no one. But, again, I did not mind. I had pennies to call my own, and yet I counted myself lucky. I did not have to dress to please anyone but myself. I did not have to tat lace or découpage fire screens or learn to play the piano. I did not have to make stilted conversation with awkward young suitors as they steered me around a ballroom with sweaty hands. I was very nearly independent, at least I believed I was. It felt like freedom, Mr. Templeton-Vane, but I have come to understand it was anything but. I was as captive to my brother’s demands as Ambrose. His obsession did not afflict him—it afflicted all of us, and like somany afflictions, it came on gradually. So gradually, we hardly noticed. When it all began, he was content to carry out his experiments on squirrels and cats. Then dogs and a small cow once. It was ridiculous, in a way. Almost impossible to take seriously. Until the day he brought her home.”
“Her?” Stoker asked softly.
“The girl,” she answered. I felt a thrill of excitement torch my veins, and it took every bit of my discipline to hold my cup steady in my hands as her small, reedy voice went on.
“What girl?” Stoker pressed.
“The one pulled from Regent’s Canal, fifteen years ago,” she replied. “The drowning girl he carried home and experimented upon. The one he meant to bring back to life,” she finished, covering her face with her hands.
CHAPTER
20
After a moment, Eliza Elyot composed herself and lifted her face. Her eyes were rimmed in red, but no tears had fallen and her nerve seemed steady. Perhaps she had wept enough over her tortured genius of a brother.
“Tell us,” Stoker urged.
She nodded. “You wanted to speak of Julius in connection with a young woman who may have met with misadventure. You can only meanher. The girl from the canal. It has been fifteen years, but I have forgot nothing of those days. The memories are my most constant companions. I haven’t really spoken of it to anyone, not even Undine,” she said with a glance at her friend.
The greatest painter would have struggled to capture the warring emotions in Undine’s face. Pity and horror mingled there; a touch of resignation even as she so obviously resented what was happening. And above all, a hopeless sort of love. It was as if Julius Elyot’s grave secrets lay between them, poisoning all that might have been good and pure.
Eliza swallowed hard and went on. “She drowned in February of 1873, at least that is when she was found in the canal, and she had notbeen dead long. She was floating there, they said. Like Ophelia, drifting amidst the water weeds.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to inquire about the particulars—how she was dressed, was there anything significant about the spot she was found—but Stoker, with his exquisite perception of my thoughts, waved me off with the single flick of his forefinger. His eyes never left Eliza’s face, and she seemed thoroughly oblivious to the gesture, wrapped as she was in her reminiscences.
“The police had more pressing business than identifying one anonymous girl, so they sent her to a mortuary. Julius knew the proprietor and the old fellow—Plumtree, his name was—suggested Julius sculpt a death mask of her. Julius had taken a few such commissions before, always for grieving relations who wanted a memento. They paid well, and it was a way to keep the wolf from the door when Ambrose’s allowance was cut off. His father, the old marquess, was the capricious sort, never entirely comfortable with Julius, and there were times when the marquess would put his foot down and the money would be held back, and Ambrose would return to the bosom of his family. Those were the lean days, when Julius did whatever he could to earn enough to feed us both until Ambrose could find a way to return to us. And he always did return. The marquess was forever getting distracted by something or other, and Ambrose would turn up, apologetic and brimming with brass, ready to fund the next great project.”
She paused, taking a little sip of her cooling tea. “This was one such time. Ambrose had been absent for some weeks and had only just returned to us. Julius was a little behind on the bills, so he agreed to look at the girl, to sculpt the death mask so she might be identified. Any artist with a modicum of talent could have done it, but we were short of money, and he was fond of old Plumtree. So he went to have a look.”
She stopped again, as if to drink once more, but suddenly she seemed to think better of it and set the cup down absently. “I do notknow how to describe it except to say it was a coup de foudre. The strike of the lightning bolt. I had never seen him so affected. It wasn’t simply admiration for a pretty face—that I could have understood. This was some sort of dark enchantment, a bedevilment I will never comprehend. It was as though, once having seen her, he could not do without her. He returned from Plumtree’s speaking like a madman, feverish and agitated. He said all of the experiments that had come before, all of the electrifying of frogs and resuscitating of bullock’s hearts had been like a child playing at the thing. But he was certain he could do it properly now that he had a purpose.”
“What did Ambrose say to this?” Stoker asked.
She spread her hands. “He thought it was impossible, a lunatic’s dream. But he loved Julius like a brother. He believed in him, utterly. He thought it best to humour him, to give him the time and support he required to attempt the experiment. Ambrose thought it would fail, as did I. But...” She hesitated.
“Miss Elyot?” Stoker sat forwards in his chair just a little, his voice low and coaxing. There was an irresistible warmth to his gaze, a promise of understanding and safety that would have overpowered a stronger woman than Eliza Elyot.
“I think there was a part of Ambrose that believed he could do it. That he would do it. And I think it excited him.”
“What of you?” Stoker inquired.