A Beggar's Kingdom Page 35

  “Is he ordained?”

  “Am I ordained?” Spurgeon’s warm demeanor cools slightly. “Come now, ladies. We have entered into the second half of the nineteenth century. A revolution is coming. A revolution in science, in dress, in the arts—and in thought. Let’s rise to the modern times, shall we?”

  “All the more important, then, to behave impeccably during a revolution,” Prunella says, “with no stain on one’s honor.”

  Mirabelle stands up and faces the older woman. “Whose honor is stained, dear Mrs. Pye?” She pauses. “Because my honor is entirely intact.”

  Prunella turns red, becomes agitated. “I have no idea what you could possibly be alluding to…”

  “Now, now, ladies.” Spurgeon makes a peacemaking motion with his hands, and begins to usher them out. “Why don’t we continue this delightful conversation tonight over supper at Vine Cottage with Mirabelle’s parents?”

  As everyone’s leaving, Julian asks for a word with Spurgeon in private and when they’re alone, he turns to the pastor and says, “Charles, I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  “Julian, no, please don’t disappoint us.”

  “Who is us?”

  “I’ve vouched for you to Madame Pye.”

  “You don’t want me to disappoint Prunella?”

  “Listen,” Spurgeon says, “that Pye woman has friends all over London, high places—and low. Many of them come to my church. I’m still establishing myself in this city. I have much at stake.”

  “That’s exactly my point—why invite trouble?”

  “Am I inviting trouble?”

  “I mean trouble with Prunella. Why provoke her?”

  “Julian, forget about her for a moment. I will tell you the truth, we could really use the help.” He pauses. “With Mirabelle.”

  Julian and Spurgeon exchange a wordless moment. “Miss Taylor needs help?”

  “Very much, dear sir.”

  Julian sighs.

  “Our Mirabelle is a precious flower,” Charles says. “No harm can come to her. That is paramount. That is the only imperative that is guiding her parents, her uncle, all her friends—and me.”

  And me. “No harm can come to her.” Julian agrees as he shakes the reverend’s bearlike hand. What he doesn’t say is no harm will come to her. “Let me think about it, all right?”

  “Don’t overthink it, good man,” Spurgeon says. “It’s only temporary.”

  “Everything is temporary,” says Julian.

  Spurgeon slaps him on the back. “You’re a man after my own heart, Julian. That is precisely what I preach. Everything is temporary. No one listens. Our sorrows are like ourselves—mortal. There are no immortal sorrows for immortal souls.”

  “Sometimes there are, pastor,” Julian says, still damp from crossing the Acheron, the half-empty river of grief. “Sometimes there are.”

  “The sorrows come, but they also go. They cannot make an abode in our souls.”

  “Sometimes, they can.” Julian lowers his head. They have.

  “I thought we were in agreement? You just said…”

  “I can’t promise anything. I must resolve certain things…”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place to resolve dilemmas of being and of conscience. How can I help?”

  Julian stares into Spurgeon’s kind, firmly-convinced-of-his-own-righteousness expression. If only the pastor knew what Julian knows. How narrow the path is. How there are no options, no twists, no widening of the way. The path is as straight as a ruler can make it.

  One way is her death. In 49 days.

  And he has yet to find another way.

  He wants to ask a question of the reverend, yet can’t. What if you knew, knew, with as near certainty as you knew anything, that the woman you loved most in the world was going to die, and even worse, that unlike the parable of the oil and the lamp, indeed you knew the day and the hour? What would you do?

  “My sermon tomorrow will be about the things we’re speaking about now.”

  Julian doubts that very much. “What things are those?”

  “Wayward children, grieving parents. How to combat the bitterness of the soul with love,” Spurgeon replies. “God is too good to be unkind and too wise to be mistaken. When we cannot trace his hand, Julian, we must trust his heart.”

  ∞

  Outside, the three women are waiting for him. Filippa resumes her babble, but Julian is distracted by a dozen things, not least of which is the utter absence of the Globe Theatre. So goes the glory of the earth. It should be visible from the chapel, but instead there’s nothing but tenements near the river. Julian nods, pretending to listen. It had burned down centuries ago, hadn’t it, and was never rebuilt. Oh my God. Filippa is inviting him to her house for afternoon tea when he’s done with his errands. Theirs is a teetotaling house, she tells him, but she’s sure her mother will find him something to imbibe if he wishes, and there’s definitely going to be drink at the ball, but it’s a black tie affair, does he have dress tails, because if he doesn’t, there’s a very good tailor at John Piggot on Milk Street they could recommend, they can even take him there…

  The hole in the earth where the Globe once proudly stood hollows out Bankside in the distance behind Mirabelle. She is framed against the swiftly flowing Thames, a graceful, quiet princess against the immense phantom theatre where she once cried loudly and he consoled her. Maybe we can stay and see All’s Well That Ends Well. I’ll take us another way into the city. Just wear your girl clothes next time. Julian can barely remain upright. In a gust, his heartache squalls from his eyes to hers. A perplexed Mirabelle blinks, frowns. Julian doesn’t know what to do. Oh, that he would have his request, that God would grant him the impossible thing he longs for. Mumbling something unintelligible to the women, Julian turns and hurries away from them down the empty street, wild eyes to the ground.

  30

  Sovereign Election

  JULIAN’S HEART AND SOUL ARE IN A CIVIL WAR. HE NEEDS TO be with her, yet he wants to save her. Are they one and the same? Are they in violent opposition?

  In his other life, he had vowed to Devi that this time would be different. He was going to be different, and maybe then, with his own change, he would effect a change in her. Yet now that he’s here, all he wants is what he has always wanted. Damn his plans, his careful strategies for salvation. Will it kill her if he’s near her, or will it save her? Is the cat alive or dead, the box open or closed, is she real or a dream, Mia or Josephine, a particle or a wave, and if she is dead either way, what is he?

  What is he with her?

  What is he without her?

  Is love the organizing force?

  Or is it death?

  Can he vanish into Victorian London, stay away from her for a month and a half? With trepidation, Julian counts the days. September 20, 1854, is the eyeless 49th day. A shiver runs through his body. September 20 is the day of the autumnal equinox. Cleon told him that a foot tunnel under the Thames can open on September 20. Is it a coincidence that her uncle, George Airy, the inventor of time, saw a flare at his observatory the precise moment that Julian appeared at the telescope? Julian no longer believes in coincidence.

  First time, coincidence; second time, happenstance; third time, enemy action.

  And this is the fourth.

  Firmly Julian resolves that he will write Mirabelle a letter, explaining that he was called back to Bangor and will return promptly on September 21. And then, slowly, he reconsiders.

  What if he stays away and she dies anyway?

  Julian will have wasted everything. His hope, his chance, his miracle, his life, her life. Wasted his manhood, and her womanhood. All of it squandered, because he chose to do nothing. Why even cross the meridian? He could’ve stayed home and done nothing.

  As Ashton would say, good fucking point.

  The diffuse layer of coal ashes covers all, even the particles of air. Julian stumbles alone through London, in dim black fog, struggling with the direction of hi
s own existence. He buys some masonry supplies, finds the newly renovated St. Giles by Cripplegate, carves out his leather satchel from the crumbling London wall. Why oh why does he locate the marked gray stone in five seconds in 1854 but after a million minutes of searching still can’t find it in modern-day London? He retrieves two shiny coins from the dusty pouch, leaving 41 behind, and exchanges one of them for more money than he knows what to do with—three hundred pounds.

  He’s worried about carrying that much cash on his person. He’s worried about carrying one shilling on his person. The teeming Victorian streets are dirty with swindlers and thieves. The wayward mob presses him on all sides while he carries three hundred pounds, plus one extra Fabian coin, plus two—golden—rings! hanging on a leather rope down from his neck next to her crystal.

  London is recognizable, yet new. Its ranks have swelled to millions. It has bloomed with stone and glass. Horatio Nelson has fought Napoleon and died in battle, and his statue now stands in its rightful place atop his column in Trafalgar Square. Piccadilly has been remade into a proper square and renamed a Circus; London Bridge has been demolished and rebuilt in a new spot. New bridges have popped up as if by magic all across the Thames. A blink ago with Miri, there were three. Now there are a dozen more, most notably Waterloo, the best bridge in London, with the best views.

  The Strand has been widened, dirt alleys have nearly disappeared, buildings have been refaced, everything’s paved. Horse-drawn carriages and omnibuses abound in the tens of thousands. So does manure, by the tons of thousands. Gas streetlights stand every thirty feet. The profuse stink of horse dung mixes with the tepid vapor rising from the Thames, the air reeking of dead fish, black coal, and sweat from the unwashed pickpockets looking for Julian’s gold. As ever, London remains a magnificent pungent brew of great and small human endeavor and all its by-products. Julian walks but is lost, looks but can’t see, listens but can’t hear.

  More restaurants, more pubs, more parks, more shops, more, more, more. There is Harrods and Fortnum and Mason, beautiful stores even in 1854. F&M is only a block away from Jermyn Street, where Julian heads to acquire some respectable clothing. In his new frock coat, he rides where nostalgia carries him, to Grosvenor Square. The war with America lost, the American ambassadors now live on Grosvenor Square, in the white marble house where he once lived with Miri.

  A block away on Brook Street, there is construction and renovation at Mivart’s Hotel, but Virginia Claridge, the hotel’s new owner, assures Julian that she and her husband are still open for business. He rents a comfortable suite on the top floor, and Virginia promises that if he should ever return, the expanded hotel will be worth the trip. “For the moment, we’re calling our place ‘Claridge’s, late Mivart’s,’” Virginia tells Julian, “because Mivart’s is still so well-known, but it’s a little cumbersome to pronounce.”

  “You might consider changing it to plain Claridge’s,” Julian says.

  An excited Virginia agrees that sounds much better.

  Julian celebrates his first night in Victorian London by marking the middle of his forearm—above Mia, above Mary, above Mallory, above Miri—injecting his skin with a new dot of ink and pain. Dante is right. It’s only dot 1 and already his desire and his will are being turned like a wheel by the love which moves the sun and the other stars.

  Julian wishes he could stay away from her.

  He just can’t.

  ∞

  On Friday morning Julian lets the hotel’s livery driver take him back to New Park Church. The ostensible reason is to return Spurgeon’s money and Sweeney’s cloak. But a part of him hopes to run into her. He’s dressed and groomed like a gentleman, in a tailored gray coat, contrasting black trousers and a top hat. She might not even recognize him. He has pulled back his unruly hair and shaved, leaving the sideburns untouched to grow with the times.

  At New Park, Spurgeon is preaching, and the crowds spill into the street and down the sidewalks as they hang on to his words. All the doors to the chapel are open. Still outside, Julian can hear the pastor’s booming loquacious voice. He catches part of Spurgeon’s homily as he makes his way to the vestry, glancing around for Mirabelle. “The way to do a great deal is to keep on doing a little,” he hears Spurgeon say. “The way to do nothing at all is to be continually resolving that you will do everything.”

  Julian likes that. He must remember that. In the corridor he stops and listens in earnest, swayed by the force and common sense of Spurgeon’s oratory.

  “If I had never joined a Church until I had found one that was perfect, I should never have joined one at all. And the moment I did join it, if I had found one, I should have spoiled it, for it would not have been a perfect Church after I had become a member of it. Still, imperfect as it is, it is the dearest place on earth to us.” Without a microphone, the man manages to amplify his voice into every crevice of the chapel and holds bound the breast of every person who hears him, including the uneasy Julian.

  “Do I need to say more about the difficulties of true love, the truest love there is?”

  Julian doesn’t think Spurgeon does.

  “Every person here knows that the hardships require supreme Grace to master them.”

  Does Julian know this?

  “And where does that Grace come from, brothers and sisters? Oh, we all know from where. We have seen it with our eyes, and with our faith. Love’s is not an easy road and Love’s shall not be a tinsel crown.”

  Julian leans against the wall, lowering his head.

  When he looks up, whom should he lock gazes with but Mirabelle, who is standing in the door of Spurgeon’s study. Has she stood there the entire time watching Julian wilt and bend under the weight of the great task before him, has she seen how unfortified he feels, how lacking in that very strength beyond his own that Spurgeon is extolling? How even a tinsel crown seems too much to ask for these days.

  The pastor just told him: Love covers all wounds by keeping silent. Love is mute under injury. To acknowledge the pervasive sense of being wronged feels shameful to Julian, as if he fears offending not only God, but Mirabelle, too. How dare he feel wronged when his love stands across from him in all her glory? With extreme effort, an effort that feels bestowed to him by Grace, for he did not have the strength even a moment earlier, Julian masters himself and locates his game face. He forces out a smile. There’s a life on the line. It’s no time to be weak.

  God on high, hear my prayer. Don’t give me an easier life. Julian takes a tentative step toward Mirabelle. Make me a stronger man.

  He clears his throat, takes off his hat, and bows his head. “Hello, Miss Taylor.”

  “Hello, Mr. Cruz.” Approvingly she regards his new attire, but good manners dictate that she say nothing.

  “I’ve come to repay Mr. Spurgeon. And to return Mr. Sweeney’s coat.” He hands her the cloak.

  “That’s very kind of you. Right this way. You will have to wait a little longer to see Charles,” she says. “He is merely getting his breath back before the next sermon.”

  “He preaches twice on Fridays?”

  “Yes, and herein lie our publishing difficulties.” Smiling, Mirabelle leads him inside the library, where she takes out the money box into which Julian places five pounds. “That’s more than…”

  “Alms to the church.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You were saying?”

  “I was? Oh, yes. He’s only supposed to preach once a week, but some weeks, we hear from him as often as five times.”

  “And you edit and prepare every sermon?” Julian asks, his breath catching in his throat. Mirabelle is especially beautiful today. She’s more decorated than yesterday. There is blue velvet trim around her sleeves and hem, a white lace collar, and silk ribbons in her intricately braided brown hair. Love blooms like late spring in Mirabelle. Julian can’t look directly at her, afraid she will see how beguiled he is by her lucent shine, by the loving details of her Painter, by the softness of her mouth, an
d the burning gleam in her half-lidded eyes, which she tries not to raise, as if concealing from Julian her own fire within. There they stand, Julian staring at a spot near her neck, and Mirabelle staring at the lapels on his frock coat.

  “Yes, I edit them, with Mr. Patmore and Mr. Newington—who, as you are aware, is ill.”

  “With vein insomnia, I presume?”

  Delicately Mirabelle chuckles. “I don’t know what that is, but…” She assesses him. “I like the sound of it. Did you make that up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah.” There is a twinkle in her eye. “And what would the symptoms of this vein insomnia be, pray tell?”

  Julian keeps a straight face. “Well, there would be delusions accompanied by knee knocking, and occasionally some temporary blindness.”

  Thoughtfully she nods. “I see. And the cause?”

  “Too much ale.”

  “And the cure—or is that obvious?”

  They smile. Julian relaxes. Mirabelle, too. In their newfound amity, he is able to look at her when she speaks to him. “We waited for you last night,” she says. “Prunella and Pippa were disappointed by your absence. Even my uncle dropped by for a visit, hoping to catch you, and he never leaves the Observatory before the work is done.”

  “I assume the work is never done?”

  “Correct,” Mirabelle says. “By the way, I told him about your interest in sun flares. He was pleased by your curiosity. He wishes to discuss the flares with you. He said you are welcome to visit the Observatory any time you like and analyze the data in his notebooks. You have made quite an impression on my uncle, and he is not an easy man to impress.”

  “Thank him for me,” Julian stammers. “I do apologize for not appearing last night…my business—um—took longer than I expected.” He trips over his lies. He lowers his gaze, steps back. “In fact, I must return to it. But I’m glad I ran into you, Miss Taylor, I wanted to let you know…”

  “I’m glad you ran into me, too, Mr. Cruz.”

  “What I meant to say,” Julian continues hastily, “is I will have to—perhaps—I have been called away, you see—back to Bangor—I’m not—another time—but thank you…” He retreats from the room, hat in hand, bowing, not wanting to turn his back on her—and bumps into Charles Spurgeon.