names before I send it to a publisher.”
“In other words, you’ve no imagination. You’ve come here to plunder my story, and Arabella’s, and palm it off as your own idea. Why, I shouldn’t be surprised to see you hammer on a happy ending. By God, that would be the ultimate irony.” His arms flayed the air angrily. “If that’s all you’re good for, I shan’t help you anymore.”
“Arabella is helping me,” I said airily. My fingers went to the locket, fingering it as a talisman.
As his dark eyes followed the movement of my fingers, his little burst of anger faded. I sensed that he was the volatile sort who flared up like a fire rocket and soon settled back down. For a fleeting moment, a small, vulnerable boy peered out from his eyes. “I see you got hold of the locket. Are our locks of hair still in it?”
So the hair was his! “Yes.”
“I’d like to see them.”
I removed it and held it out. He reached, as if he would like to hold it, then glanced unhappily at his hands. I held it out to him. “It’s your hair, then? I thought it might be William’s, but his hair looked lighter in the picture.”
“William’s! Why would she keep that mawworm’s hair in the locket I gave her?” His voice was rough with anger, or perhaps with regret. It was hard to say. “Light and dark—we used to joke it was a symbol of our natures.” It was regret, and infinite longing. His sad eyes would draw pity from a rock. “I, it hardly needs saying, was the dark one, Arabella the light. Vain creature.”
“Tell me about her death,” I said. The words came unbidden. I hadn’t meant to ask him, not while he was in such an uncertain mood at least.
His regret hardened to a sneer. “You ask all the wrong questions, ma’am. Ask, rather, what she did with her life. What other hearts did she break, besides mine? Look in your own heart, if you have one, and see who was truly wronged in this piece of ‘fiction’ you are plagiarizing from my life.”
“Tell me,” I repeated, untouched by his anger.
“Who cares how she died? We all must die. How we live is the important matter, and she lived badly. I’ll tell you this, there never would have been a Vanejul if Arabella had not—” He stopped in frustration. “No, I shan’t say it. I shan’t accuse her of such a wicked piece of perfidy until I know for sure what happened.”
“You mean you don’t know! But you are the one who—" I stopped short of accusing him of murder, because I was afraid. “No one can harm you now. It’s all done and over with. You must tell me.” My voice was brusque with eagerness.
“You think I hastened her demise?” Again he cocked his head to one side in a playful manner. “Doesn’t everyone kill the thing he loves, one way or another? If not an actual physical death, then spiritually. I know she stopped loving me,” he said, in a voice schooled to indifference, but his pain showed through the mask, like old paint on a cracked painting, with a darker picture behind it. “That was the beginning of Vanejul. But for that, I might have been a real poet. I only wrote that claptrap to punish her, to show her how little I cared. I frittered away whatever talent I had on those puerile pieces.”
“They’re not that bad,” I said softly, to ease his pain.
“I am ashamed to admit authorship of them. I chose her name for those angry works, so that she alone would know the author. I could not like to sully my family name with such literary sludge. ‘Vain jewel’ was a pet name I used to call her. Hazlitt, that louse on the locks of literature—I am indebted to Lord Tennyson for the delightful phrase—invented the notion that I was rearranging the spelling of Juvenal, perhaps because he, too, was a satirist and a poet.”
“And a woman-hater.”
He looked astonished. “I never was that! Au contraire. I enjoyed women only too well.”
“A telling phrase. I expect you enjoy beefsteak, too, and horses
“In other words, you’ve no imagination. You’ve come here to plunder my story, and Arabella’s, and palm it off as your own idea. Why, I shouldn’t be surprised to see you hammer on a happy ending. By God, that would be the ultimate irony.” His arms flayed the air angrily. “If that’s all you’re good for, I shan’t help you anymore.”
“Arabella is helping me,” I said airily. My fingers went to the locket, fingering it as a talisman.
As his dark eyes followed the movement of my fingers, his little burst of anger faded. I sensed that he was the volatile sort who flared up like a fire rocket and soon settled back down. For a fleeting moment, a small, vulnerable boy peered out from his eyes. “I see you got hold of the locket. Are our locks of hair still in it?”
So the hair was his! “Yes.”
“I’d like to see them.”
I removed it and held it out. He reached, as if he would like to hold it, then glanced unhappily at his hands. I held it out to him. “It’s your hair, then? I thought it might be William’s, but his hair looked lighter in the picture.”
“William’s! Why would she keep that mawworm’s hair in the locket I gave her?” His voice was rough with anger, or perhaps with regret. It was hard to say. “Light and dark—we used to joke it was a symbol of our natures.” It was regret, and infinite longing. His sad eyes would draw pity from a rock. “I, it hardly needs saying, was the dark one, Arabella the light. Vain creature.”
“Tell me about her death,” I said. The words came unbidden. I hadn’t meant to ask him, not while he was in such an uncertain mood at least.
His regret hardened to a sneer. “You ask all the wrong questions, ma’am. Ask, rather, what she did with her life. What other hearts did she break, besides mine? Look in your own heart, if you have one, and see who was truly wronged in this piece of ‘fiction’ you are plagiarizing from my life.”
“Tell me,” I repeated, untouched by his anger.
“Who cares how she died? We all must die. How we live is the important matter, and she lived badly. I’ll tell you this, there never would have been a Vanejul if Arabella had not—” He stopped in frustration. “No, I shan’t say it. I shan’t accuse her of such a wicked piece of perfidy until I know for sure what happened.”
“You mean you don’t know! But you are the one who—" I stopped short of accusing him of murder, because I was afraid. “No one can harm you now. It’s all done and over with. You must tell me.” My voice was brusque with eagerness.
“You think I hastened her demise?” Again he cocked his head to one side in a playful manner. “Doesn’t everyone kill the thing he loves, one way or another? If not an actual physical death, then spiritually. I know she stopped loving me,” he said, in a voice schooled to indifference, but his pain showed through the mask, like old paint on a cracked painting, with a darker picture behind it. “That was the beginning of Vanejul. But for that, I might have been a real poet. I only wrote that claptrap to punish her, to show her how little I cared. I frittered away whatever talent I had on those puerile pieces.”
“They’re not that bad,” I said softly, to ease his pain.
“I am ashamed to admit authorship of them. I chose her name for those angry works, so that she alone would know the author. I could not like to sully my family name with such literary sludge. ‘Vain jewel’ was a pet name I used to call her. Hazlitt, that louse on the locks of literature—I am indebted to Lord Tennyson for the delightful phrase—invented the notion that I was rearranging the spelling of Juvenal, perhaps because he, too, was a satirist and a poet.”
“And a woman-hater.”
He looked astonished. “I never was that! Au contraire. I enjoyed women only too well.”
“A telling phrase. I expect you enjoy beefsteak, too, and horses
Similar Books
