Falling Angels by Tracy Chevalier Read Free Book Online Page A

careful and not to let him get cheeky. And to keep an eye on the little girl, Ivy May. She's of the habit of getting left behind, it seems--though I bet she likes it that way. I made 'em all hold hands. So they run off one way, and I t'other.

NOVEMBER 1903

Kitty Coleman
    Tonight we went with the Waterhouses to a bonfire on the heath. The girls wanted to, and the men get on well enough (though Richard privately mocks Albert Waterhouse as a buffoon), and it's left to Gertrude Waterhouse and me to smile and bear each other's company as best we can. We stood around an enormous bonfire on Parliament Hill, clutching our sausages and roast potatoes, and marveling that we were gathered on the very hill where Guy Fawkes waited to see Parliament burn. I watched as people moved closer to or farther away from the heat of the flames, trying to find a spot where they were comfortable. But even if our faces were hot, our backs were cold--like the potatoes, charred on the outside, raw inside.
    My threshold to heat is much higher than Richard's or Maude's--or most people's, for that matter. I stepped closer and closer until my cheeks flamed. When I looked around, the ring of people was far behind me--I stood alone by the edge of the fire.
    Richard wasn't even looking at the fire, but up at the clear sky. That is just like him--his love is not heat, but the cold distance of the universe. When we were first courting he would take me, with Harry as chaperon, to observation parties to look at the stars. I thought it most romantic then. Tonight, though, when I followed his gaze up to the starry sky all I felt was the blank space between those pinpricks and me, and it was like a heavy blanket waiting to drop on me. It was almost as suffocating as my fear of being buried alive.
    I cannot see what he sees in the stars--he and now Maude, for he has begun taking her with him when he goes out to the heath at night with his telescope. I haven't said anything, because there is nothing I can truly complain of, and Maude clearly thrives on his attention. But it brings me low, for I can see him fostering in her the same cold rationality that I discovered in him once we were married.
    I am being ridiculous, of course. I, too, was brought up by my father to be logical, and I despise the sentimentality of the age, as embodied to perfection by the Waterhouses. But I'm secretly glad Maude and Lavinia are friends. Irritating and melodramatic as Lavinia is, she is not cold, and she counterbalances the icy hand of astronomy.
    I stood by the fire, everyone around me so cheerful, and thought what an odd creature I am--even I know that. Too much space and I'm frightened, too little and I'm frightened. There is indeed no comfortable place for me--I am too near the fire or too far away.
    Behind me, Gertrude Waterhouse stood with an arm around each daughter. Maude stood next to Lavinia, and they were all laughing about something--Maude a little shyly, as if she was not sure she should be sharing the laughter with them. I felt a pang for her.
    At times it is painful to be with the Waterhouses. Lavinia may be bossy with her mother, but there is clearly an affection between them that I cannot muster with Maude. After a few hours with them I come away resolved to link my arm with Maude's when we walk, as Gertrude does with Lavinia. And to be with her more--read to her, help her with her sewing, bring her into the garden with me, take her into town.
    It has never been like that with her. Maude's birth was a shock from which I have not recovered. When I came to from the ether and first held her in my arms I felt as if I were nailed to the bed, trapped by her mouth at my breast. Of course I loved her--love her--but my life as I had imagined it ended on that day. It fed a low feeling in me that resurfaces with increasing frequency.
    At least I was lucky in my doctor. When he came to see me a few days after the birth I sent the nurse from the room and told him I wanted no more