‘He was the vicar of St Michael’s in Beauclerk Place. I think this was the first draft.’ She looked up at us, at our eager faces, then slowly closed the book. ‘According to this journal, it was a command performance.’
Vanessa raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t understand.’
Lady Youlgreave drew the book towards her and clasped it on her lap. ‘He wrote the first half of the first draft in a frenzy of inspiration in the early hours of the morning. He had just had an angelic visitation. He believed that the angel had told him to write the poem.’ Once more her lips curled and she looked from me to Vanessa. ‘He was intoxicated at the time, of course. He had been smoking opium earlier that evening. He used to patronize an establishment in Leicester Square.’ Her head swayed on her neck. ‘An establishment which seems to have catered for a variety of tastes.’
‘Are there many of his journals?’ asked Vanessa. ‘Or manuscripts of his poems? Or letters?’
‘Quite a few. I’ve not had time to go through everything yet.’
‘As you know, I’m a publisher. I can’t help wondering if you might have the material for a biography of Francis Youlgreave there.’
‘Very likely. For example, his journal gives a very different view of the Rosington scandal. From the horse’s mouth, as it were.’ Her lips twisted and she made a hissing sound. ‘The trouble is, this particular horse isn’t always a reliable witness. George’s father used to say – but I mustn’t keep you waiting like this. You haven’t had any sherry yet. I’m sure we’ve got some somewhere.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said.
‘The girl will know. She’s late. She should be bringing me my lunch.’
The heavy eyelids, like dough-coloured rubber, drooped over the eyes. The fingers twitched, but did not relax their hold of Francis Youlgreave’s journal.
‘I think perhaps we’d better be going,’ I said. ‘Leave you to your lunch.’
‘You can give me my medicine first.’ The eyes were fully open again and suddenly alert. ‘It’s the bottle on the mantelpiece.’
I hesitated. ‘Are you sure it’s the right time?’
‘I always have it before lunch,’ she snapped. ‘That’s what Dr Vintner said. It’s before lunch, isn’t it? And the girl’s late. She’s supposed to be bringing me my lunch.’
There was a clean glass and a spoon beside the bottle on the mantelpiece. I measured out a dose and gave her the glass. She clasped it in both hands and drank it at once. She sat back, still cradling the glass. A dribble of liquid ran down her chin.
‘I’ll leave a note,’ I said. ‘Just to say that you’ve had your medicine.’
‘But there’s no need to write a note. I’ll tell Doris myself.’
‘It won’t be Doris,’ I said. ‘It’s the weekend, so it’s the nurse who’ll come in.’
‘Silly woman. Thinks I’m deaf. Thinks I’m senile. Anyway, I told you: I’ll tell her myself.’
I could be obstinate, too. I scribbled a few words in pencil on a page torn from my diary and left it under the bottle for the nurse. Lady Youlgreave barely acknowledged us when we said goodbye. But when we were almost at the door, she stirred.
‘Come and see me again soon,’ she commanded. ‘Both of you. Perhaps you’d like to look at some of Uncle Francis’s things. He was very interested in sex, you know.’ She made a hissing noise again, her way of expressing mirth. ‘Just like you, David.’
Vanessa and I were married on a rainy Saturday in April. Henry Appleyard was my best man. Michael gave us a present, a battered but beautiful seventeenth-century French edition of Ecclesiasticus; according to the bookplate it had once been part of the library of Rosington Theological College.
‘It was his own idea,’ his mother whispered to me. ‘His own money, too. Quite a coincidence – Rosington, I mean.’
‘I hope it wasn’t expensive.’
‘Five shillings. He found it in a junk shop.’
‘We’ve been very lucky with presents,’ Vanessa said. ‘Rosemary gave us a gorgeous coffee pot. Denbigh ware.’
It was only then that I realized Rosemary was listening intently to the conversation. Later I noticed her examining the book, flicking through the pages as if they irritated her.
Vanessa and I flew to Italy the same afternoon. She had arranged it all, including the pensione in Florence where we were to stay. I had assumed that if we had a honeymoon at all it would be in England. But Florence had been Vanessa’s idea, and she was so excited about it that I did not have the heart to try to change her mind. Her plan had support from an unexpected quarter: when I told Peter Hudson, he said, ‘She’s right. Get right away from everything. You owe it to each other.’
It was raining in Florence, too. Not that it mattered. I wouldn’t have cared if the city had been buried beneath a pall of snow.
We had dinner in a little restaurant. Vanessa was looking alluring in a dark dress which set off her hair. We talked more about Rosemary than ourselves. I found myself glancing surreptitiously at my watch. I did not eat much, though I drank more than my fair share of the wine.
While we talked, I allowed my imagination to run free for the first time in ten years. I felt like a schoolboy at the end of term, or a convict coming to the end of his sentence.
As the meal progressed, we talked less. An awkwardness settled between us. My thoughts scurried to and fro as though I were running a fever. Once or twice, Vanessa looked at me and seemed about to say something.
The waiter asked if we would like coffee. I wanted to go back to our room, but Vanessa ordered coffee, with brandies to go with it. When the drinks came, she drank half her brandy in a few seconds.
‘David, I have to admit I feel a bit nervous.’
I leaned forward to light her cigarette. ‘Why?’
‘About tonight.’
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
‘We’ll get used to it,’ I said. ‘I dare say we’ll both find it strange.’ The urgency was building up inside me. I touched Vanessa’s hand. ‘Dearest – you know, there’s no reason why it needn’t be enjoyable as well.’
She ran her finger around the rim of her glass. ‘Charles didn’t seem – he didn’t want it very much. I don’t know why. Of course, it happened quite a lot when we were first married, but then it tailed off.’
‘You don’t have to tell me this.’
‘I want to explain. Charles used to stay up reading until all hours and often I was asleep when he came to bed. There just never seemed to be much opportunity.’
‘Darling,’
