Soul Page 28

  Lavinia sat on a chair in front of the fireplace, her hair loosened around her, her maid hovering nervously with a pair of scissors in hand.

  ‘But my hair, James! The indignity of it! And how, pray, am I to present myself in public?’

  ‘We shall purchase a wig, a beautiful wig. Please, my dear, I shall tolerate no argument.’

  Lavinia, a bruise still visible under hastily applied pearl dust, touched the ends of her long mane. Could she endure the humiliation? And would she be able to conceal such an outrage?

  The Colonel gestured to the maid, who moved forward and tentatively lifted a lock of hair. She paused, scissors open. ‘But madam has such beautiful hair.’

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake!’

  The Colonel grabbed the scissors from the maid and began hacking at the great length of his wife’s hair. Mute with horror, Lavinia watched the locks fall and curl about her feet like the abandoned fur of some extinct animal.

  Minutes later, Colonel Huntington stepped back from his handiwork. Lavinia, shorn, had the appearance of a beautiful youth: her large eyes, incandescent with rage; the wide cheekbones, exaggerated by the lack of framing; her small lips disappearing into the pallor of her face. Without cosmetics, the only hint of femininity was the delicate cast to her features, but this too suggested a youthful masculinity. To his great and secret shame, the Colonel found the transformation to be of sensual fascination.

  ‘Mama!’

  Both the Colonel and Lavinia swung around to the door. The nursemaid holding Aidan in her arms stood shocked by the fragility of the young woman’s face. The boy stared at his mother then burst into loud sobbing, hiding his face in the nursemaid’s shoulder.

  ‘Come now, come, it is still your dear mama.’ Lavinia held out her arms.

  The nursemaid, avoiding the Colonel’s disapproving gaze, carried the child over and placed him in his mother’s embrace, where, after some coaxing, he fell into an awed silence as he reached up to touch the shorn head in wonder.

  Later that day, well concealed under a wig that her husband had promptly purchased, and over that a large straw bonnet, Lavinia climbed into the carriage.

  Aloysius, assisting her, took the opportunity to glance into her face. There was no doubt the young woman had been struck. For one insane moment the waiting coachman considered confronting his employer, but then reminded himself that what was between husband and wife should remain there, whether they be royalty or beggars. Let their quarrel stay their quarrel, he warned himself, but his fists tightened under his riding gloves nevertheless.

  The Huntingtons sat before a large, heavy-legged Jacobean oak desk that was covered in piles of documents. Dr Jefferies was an unprepossessing individual of five foot or so, with copious amounts of hair springing from both his nostrils and ears, and two thick black eyebrows that bristled like outraged caterpillars above small deep-set eyes, all contrasting with a smooth low brow and bald pate.

  The physician’s head was disproportionately large and wobbled atop a thin scrawny neck from which hung flaps of wrinkled skin. He resembled a turkey, Lavinia thought; one of those absurd, childlike observations that occurred in moments of great distress. A short benevolent turkey. It was a strangely comforting notion: a short benevolent turkey could not condemn her as insane, surely? Petrified as she was, he may indeed discover an inherent trait she had no control over.

  The dimensions of Dr Jefferies’s head were particularly conspicuous when set against the gallery that lined the wall behind him. The room was crammed with models of heads—some, plaster casts of living beings; others, bone-white craniums. At least a dozen, each mapped with the different areas common to emotional organs, stood about the room. Here, one labelled The Negro; there, another labelled The Jew, The Slav, The Indian.

  Lavinia couldn’t help but be mesmerised. A large skull with deep-set eye sockets that appeared to stare at one had the title Aryan (Germanic) written beneath its pronounced jawbone. Beside it sat a smaller skull marked The Anglo Saxon. A whole row rested below these: The Schizophrenic, The Megalomaniac, The Melancholic and The Nymphomaniac. Suddenly horrified, Lavinia wondered what she would be labelled: The Celtic Madwoman? Did these categories really exist or were they just prototypes?

  To distract herself from her growing dread, Lavinia concentrated on the phrenologist. Had he been drawn to the science by the gigantism of his own brain? Wouldn’t such an ambition be described as a form of narcissism? The laudanum, which she had been taking since the night before last, had leaded her mind but had also infused her imagination with an eccentric logic.

  A small coal fire glowed in an oversized hearth, a bamboo screen discreetly masked one corner of the room, and three of the bookshelves covering the walls spilled forth all manner of tomes and documents. The fourth wall was hung with a plethora of charts: phrenological graphs, acupuncture charts, and ancient anatomical diagrams inscribed in Sanskrit.

  Dr Jefferies stood up and came around from behind his desk, revealing the rest of his worn green velvet topcoat, tweed trousers, and a pair of purple Turkish slippers upon his large feet.

  ‘Open your eyes wide, please,’ he requested in the manner of a friendly family physician.

  Lavinia obeyed, and he bent to look into her dilated pupils, enveloping her in a miasma of unwashed clothes and stale tobacco laced with a faint trace of old beef stew.

  ‘Laudanum, Colonel Huntington?’ he asked.

  The Colonel was seated beside his wife, and had not bothered to remove his Macfarlane overcoat, which still glistened with that afternoon’s rain. ‘I had no choice. She has developed hysteria, Dr Jefferies.’

  ‘Quite!’ An exclamation that left the Colonel wondering whether the good doctor approved of such medication or not.

  The physician straightened and walked vigorously over to the window to pull the thick faded velvet drapes closed. The room immediately took on a covert atmosphere. With surprising gentleness, Dr Jefferies took Lavinia’s hand and stroked it paternally.

  ‘And now, my dear, could you please remove your bonnet and wig…behind the screen.’

  After a nod from the Colonel, Lavinia stepped behind the bamboo screen. On the other side were a rococo mirror and a mannequin’s head—the kind you might find in a hat shop—on a small console. She untied the ribbons of her hat and slipped it off, followed by the wig, which she placed on the mannequin’s head. She glanced into the oval mirror. It was the first time she had looked at herself since James had cut her hair. The face that stared back from the glass appeared startlingly young. In a moment of bewilderment, Lavinia looked behind her, not recognising herself. Then she touched the glass.

  What have I become, she wondered. Is this some creature who has lived under my skin all these years only to emerge now? Where is the young Irish girl who stood at the mirror in her father’s house all those months ago thrilling at the adventure before her? Where is my happiness? My spirit? All that had defined me?

  Eyes gleaming, the phrenologist ran his fingers across the bumps and slight indentations that made up the landscape of Lavinia’s skull. Revolted by his touch, Lavinia clutched the arms of her chair to stop herself bolting from the surgery.

  ‘Fascinating.’ His breath was a noxious wind that forced Lavinia to hold her own.

  Taking a pair of callipers that hung on a hook on the wall above the desk, he measured both the length and width of her skull as delicately as if he were handling an ostrich egg, then scribbled a few figures into a small notebook.

  Reaching back to the desk, Dr Jefferies picked up a soft wax crayon, which he used to mark and divide areas on Lavinia’s skull as dispassionately as a surveyor might draw up a plan for a railway. It was a curious sensation. She felt like an anatomical display, a novelty.

  She glanced over at James. His expression disturbed her; she had never seen him look at her so coldly.

  ‘As you know, the human brain is divided into twenty-seven organs, nineteen of which are shared by both beast and man.’ The phrenol
ogist pointed to a section at the top of the head. ‘One, the reproductive instinct; two, the love of one’s offspring; three, the ability to be affectionate, to have friends. Four, self-defence, courage and aggression. Five, the tendency to murder—in animals this would be the carnivorous instinct. Six, guile; seven, covetousness, the tendency to steal; eight, arrogance, a love of authority, pride. Nine, vainglory—’

  ‘Quite, quite, Dr Jefferies,’ the Colonel interjected. ‘But you forget that I myself have been a student of phrenology. With respect, we are here for a diagnosis not a lecture.’

  ‘In that case, I shall curb my loquaciousness, Colonel Huntington, and continue my examination.’

  The crayon circled a bump on the left side of Lavinia’s head. Dr Jefferies tsked in disapproval, then sent his pen scratching even more vigorously across the notebook.

  ‘That protuberance is the result of an injury as a small child,’ Lavinia said. ‘I remember it vividly.’

  ‘There is no such thing as accident when it comes to the skull. Each indentation or bump is a clear indication, a clear pathway to an emotion. Therefore, I would appreciate it if the subject refrained from expressing an opinion during the examination.’

  He continued his inspection, making a two-dimensional map of Lavinia’s cranium until a whole topography was spread out before him, with small labels and arrows describing each characteristic. Finally, he looked meaningfully at the Colonel, who, taking the hint, turned to his wife.

  ‘My dear, I think it more fitting if you now adjourned to the waiting room while we discuss the diagnosis.’

  ‘But it is my skull, therefore I believe it is my right to hear the diagnosis also.’

  ‘To the waiting room, please. There will be no argument.’

  Reluctantly, Lavinia slipped on her wig and bonnet then left the room.

  Dr Jefferies flicked up his coat tails ceremoniously before sitting. After placing his thick spectacles upon the pinched bridge of his nose, he indicated that the Colonel should join him.

  The Colonel peered across the desk at the sketch of his wife’s skull. His practised eye immediately discerned areas of character development; observations he could not argue with.

  ‘As you can see for yourself, your wife’s skull is small, suggesting a limited intelligence. She has a definite leaning towards hysteria, seen here in the distinctive dent in the organ of moral sense or sensitivity.’

  The Colonel winced, a facial tic Dr Jefferies noted immediately.

  ‘I assume, as one man of science to another, I can speak frankly?’

  ‘It has to be done. But I’m afraid I don’t subscribe to the notion that a small skull indicates limited intelligence. If anything, I suspect my wife suffers from a surfeit of intelligence, which sits uncomfortably with her gender. However, I have noticed that since the birth of our son, and particularly in the last few months, she has become increasingly distraught.’

  ‘Precisely. Any hormonal disturbance in the womb will contribute to this type of hysteria.’ Dr Jefferies pointed to another shaded area on the sketch. ‘Do you know anything about your wife’s mother, her history? Often these abnormalities run in families.’

  ‘Lavinia’s mother died when she was a baby. The Reverend Kane did not like to speak of her, except to say she was high-spirited and of extremely attractive appearance.’

  ‘I see. Ah, the dangers of marrying below one’s class.’ Here the phrenologist sighed most ominously. ‘This structural irregularity is developed to the point where she may tend towards irrational outbursts that manifest physically. Has this been the case?’

  ‘Only a few times.’

  ‘There is also negative development in the guile organ located just above the ear. Is her menstrual cycle regular?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘But she suffers from emotional polarity, irritability, skin rashes?’

  ‘On occasion.’

  ‘This would be the heat radiating from the guile organ. Other noticeable irregularities are the organ of the memory of facts—this appears to be misshapen, suggesting a tendency to distort facts and all remembered events; her sense of spatial sensibility is malformed, and there is a considerable indentation on the organ of the connectiveness between numbers.’ He looked up from his notes. ‘She is no mathematician.’

  ‘What woman is?’ the Colonel retorted, increasingly dismayed.

  ‘More positively, she has a very well-developed organ related to poetic talent, and also for religion—shown here in this particular protrusion. Both of which could serve to rein in her other traits.’

  ‘Overall?’

  ‘Overall, I would say we are dealing with a hysteric who suffers delusions of an imaginative kind. This particular hysteria is almost always inherited from the mother. Of whom we apparently know nothing?’

  He looked up from his notes and fixed the Colonel with a sceptical stare.

  ‘I have told you what I know. But her father is a close associate. Although somewhat poetic and a romantic by nature, he is a rationalist of the staunchest kind. He will be most upset to hear about his daughter’s condition.’

  ‘It would be prudent not to tell him, Colonel Huntington. Rest assured, I do not believe your wife is of any danger to either yourself or your child. However, there was a case I read about in The Phrenological Journal. I believe the year was 1843…’

  Dr Jefferies reached into his desk to pull out a yellowed leaflet. He opened it to an article illustrated by a diagram of a woman’s head.

  ‘Mary McDougal, convicted of murder in 1842.’ Excited, Dr Jefferies looked up. ‘Dr Combe had the good fortune to purchase her skull after execution. It showed some similarities with that of your dear wife—except, of course, in the organs of poetry and religion.’

  The good doctor smiled, exposing a row of stained and blackened teeth. Colonel Huntington detected an element of Schadenfreude, and decided there and then that he disliked the man regardless of his accuracy.

  ‘But we are agreed that she is merely a hysteric?’

  ‘We are.’ With a hint of regret, Dr Jefferies closed the leaflet.

  ‘And what would you prescribe to contain such a condition?’

  ‘Difficult to say, Colonel, given that these are innate traits that will only increase as the subject matures. Stimulation will only encourage them. More laudanum, perhaps. Music is a wonderful tonic, but play her only the more frivolous composers—Mozart, Vivaldi and the like. Avoid Beethoven and Bach to prevent over- encouragement of the nervous system.’

  ‘Lavinia has a hungry intellect. In this she is more like a man.’

  ‘My dear fellow, do not make the fatal error of mistaking pathologically unnatural appetites for genuine need. To encourage her in this will only worsen her condition.’

  ‘I understand.’

  The phrenologist, now humming triumphantly, rolled up a copy of Lavinia’s chart and pressed it into the Colonel’s reluctant hands.

  49

  LAVINIA GAZED OUT OF THE barred side window that looked out over Harley Street. The reception hall, with a stained glass window set above the front door, was little more than a converted hallway. A tall sallow-skinned nurse, her starched uniform folded like cardboard upon her bony chest, glanced over contemptuously.

  I could leave now, Lavinia thought, escape into the anonymity of the working classes. She remembered a scandal that had swept the parlours of Dublin some two years before, when eighteen-year-old Lady Milhurst had eloped with a valet. When news of the notorious couple had emerged a year later, the valet was found languishing in the debtors’ prison, while the young aristocrat was incarcerated in the Bedlam madhouse, deranged. It was a sobering morality tale.

  What skills do I have to survive, Lavinia asked herself. Could she become a governess, a companion? She would have to escape to the continent. Calculating all possibilities, she opened the purse that hung at her belt. It was empty. Lavinia was completely dependent on her husband for both shelter and food. Panicked, she glan
ced down at her dress. If she pawned it, it would only bring in enough funds to live frugally for a month. The gold earrings she wore perhaps another month, and then where would she go? She knew that her father would not welcome her penniless and scandalous return. Not only would it compromise his friendship with James, it would be the end of his parish and his social standing in the community.

  And what of her son? She would not dare to take him from his father. Despite all, James was a loving and attentive parent. What right did she have to deprive him of his child?

  Outside a lame beggar woman, no older than thirty years, hobbled past the window pushing a barrow filled with all her earthly possessions. An ancient terrier rode atop the pile like a king, with a Union Jack tied around his neck. Everyone feared the workhouse, Lavinia thought; even the rich.

  Nevertheless, that night, in the privacy of her own bedroom, before the lassitude of the laudanum hijacked her senses, she began to compose a letter to the Reverend Kane.

  My dearest Papa,

  I am writing to you out of desperation for I fear my marriage is no longer a safe haven for either myself or my child. I respect the long and intimate acquaintance you have enjoyed over the years with my husband, but I have found him not to be the man I thought he was. He is possessed of a dissolute and decadent nature, which he cannot help.

  Father, please allow me and my child to return to Anascaul. Without your support, I am penniless and entirely dependent on the shelter of my husband’s house. I know the implications of my request, but if you are a true Christian you will grant me this.

  In hope,

  Your loving daughter.

  50

  Los Angeles, 2002

  ‘FROM WHAT YOU DESCRIBE, it sounds like Tom Donohue. He was Delta Force—one of the best until last year. Then he went AWOL suddenly after a special op.’

  ‘Was there any particular reason?’ Clutching the phone, Julia stood at the back door and stared out at the yard. Gabriel had left half an hour before and it was still early morning in California—afternoon in Washington. Colonel Smith-Royston sounded like he was in the middle of his day, while exhaustion and the previous night’s tussles permeated Julia’s whole body. Leaning against the doorframe, she decided not to dwell on the morality of her actions.