are chemists— we must know metals and ores, temperatures and binding elements, weights and measures. We are artists—we must be able to be exact and flourishing together, with a brush or a cutting tool. We are like the alchemists of old—we employ fire, smoke, crucibles, gold, silver, even blood and bone, to make our vessels, our simulacrae, our fantasies and those containers necessary for daily functions, food and drink—which can be lovely, however plain, graceful, however simple …”
He went on. Everyone listened. He called on his assistant to demonstrate the mystery of the craft, and Philip silently, and skilfully, taking lumps of clay from baths and bins ranged beside him, made airless blocks, or rising coils, or, towards the end, a turning bowl, wavering up against gravity between his strong fingers.
There was much applause. Tea and sandwiches were served and Fludd made his way to his own family group. Prosper Cain told him the lecture was both earthy and fiery. He accepted the compliment. He moved step by sideways step to where Imogen stood, talking to Elsie in a self-consciously absorbed way.
“You came,” he said. “You have come back to us. We are fellow workers, fellow members of the crafts. My dear.”
He put his arms around her. Imogen stiffened. When he released her, she brushed down her dress, as though slivers of clay were on it. She said
“You spoke wonderfully. As always.”
Fludd was bustling and smiling. Members of the audience crowded him, all complimentary. Philip, on the platform, was packing the exhibits into crates. Geraint joined him. He said, “That went well.” Philip frowned.
“He’s excited. When he’s this full of himself, there’s always a reaction. You know that. I’m bothered. He has set so much on—”
“On?”
“On her coming back. But it won’t be for long. And then—”
When everyone else had gone, the Fludds remained. Benedict said to Imogen
“Come now. Everything is ready, Elsie has seen to it.”
“I’m staying—with Florence,” whispered Imogen. “Bring Florence. Come.”
“I’m going back to Rye.”
Her father caught her wrist. He gripped and ground it.
“You are coming home. I’m here because you agreed to come home.”
He stared, or glared, at her.
Florence took two or three little steps back, out of the group. Imogen said, inaudibly, “You know I can’t.” Prosper said
“Benedict, you are hurting her. Let her go. Let her come back to the Mermaid, and we’ll talk things over—” Benedict turned on Prosper Cain.
“All this is your doing. You seduced her. You are keeping her from me—”
“Be careful what you say,” said Prosper. “Be very careful.”
Benedict hit him. Not with a clenched fist, with a flat hand, very heavily, across the cheek, leaving fingermarks that looked flayed, and clay on the tips of the moustache.
Prosper ducked the second blow.
Imogen began to shake.
Prosper said, very formally, to Seraphita, “You must see, madam, that she is a woman grown, and may choose where she sleeps. I shall take her back to the inn until we are all calmer.”
“Philip—” said Seraphita. “Fetch Philip—”
Prosper Cain swept his ladies away. He had to support Imogen. Florence trailed behind them, treading with little stamps of her heels. Geraint, annoyed by the failure of his well-planned day, and anxious in some other dark place he did not wish to acknowledge, went back to Philip, and helped him to help Benedict, who appeared to be choking, into a pony-trap.
The Cain party had its own small breakfast room. Imogen did not appear the next morning. Florence and her father ate largely in silence. He said, once,
“We might go to Italy later this summer.”
“Never mind Italy,” said Florence, repressively, chewing toast. “What are you going to do now?”
“Do?”
“About Imogen Fludd.”
Prosper Cain took a long time to answer. Florence observed
“They are all
“Should you like to go for a drive this morning, perhaps.”
Florence said she was going out to walk with Griselda Wellwood, who was also in Rye. She said her father would be expected at the crafts camp. She went out.
After a time, Imogen appeared in the doorway, dressed in travelling clothes, carrying a small portmanteau. Prosper asked her to sit down and drink some tea, and eat some toast at least. She did sit down, rather heavily. He poured tea for her. There was a silence. “Where are you going?” asked Major Cain.
“I thought, to Geraint. He will have to help me. He is my brother, he is the right person.”
“He is a very young man, and he works long hours in a difficult place, and lives in a lodging-house. Much better stay here, and we will think about what is best, together, sensibly.”
Imogen sipped her tea. The tension in her usually calm face made it, Prosper thought, wild and beautiful.
