The unusual absence of the breeze from the riverbank sends a shiver up Averil’s spine, which feels wrong in the heat. Never has there been such placidity in these gardens. It seems that no one strolls along the gravel pathways until, suddenly, out of the haze, men robed in black silk appear, floating past, like deflated, grim angels without gusts to enhance their flight. The view of the river appears and disappears with slices of brown vapour that stream by. An unwanted guest imprisons the Thames.
Like a great swan with her cygnets, Averil leads the girls to the appointed meeting place by the black mulberry tree. The stone bench is empty today and the girls seize it and collapse on its rough seat.
Mr George Fitzgerald arrives with a young man who appears to be a complete model of him, a younger, trim and meticulously groomed version. But what is this? Behind the mirror image of the second Mr Fitzgerald is a third version, noticeably similar, and noticeably different.
Constance and Verity rise to their feet in the company of what appears to be an overwhelming quantity of Fitzgeraldness. Striking forms with straight backs and rising chests are presented in a physically perfect descending order: Mr George Fitzgerald, forty years of age, a long-standing family friend with whom they are of course already acquainted, William Fitzgerald, son of George, aged sixteen, and his brother Sterling Fitzgerald, fourteen; all of whom are most devotedly at their service.
Mrs Lawless and the young ladies are informed that there are more, indeed several more male Fitzgeralds from whence they came, and all with an enthusiastic regard for the law. Each Fitzgerald is taking private tuition, for in all truth, not much instruction in the area of the law is on offer to young men of the Inns of Court, most of whom are called to the Bar by way of their charm and privilege.
Constance and Verity find it difficult to be at ease in their presence, as if a military stance might be required of them as well. They look to their mother for a clue to this gathering, but Averil makes no effort to enlighten them and stands perfectly at ease, waiting – only her eyes betray her, they dance from one Fitzgerald to another, yet always return to the sheaf of papers George Fitzgerald carries under his arms in addition to a small leather box. Then the toe of her shoe begins an almost unperceivable tap, tap, tap.
Gently, Fitzgerald the elder speaks. ‘It is dastardly warm out today and you must be eager to conclude our business.’
‘Well, yes, George, exactly that,’ she says.
‘Perhaps the young gentlemen might entertain your daughters for a moment. There’s a fascinating rookery just down the path, well within our sight, even in this ghastly fog.’
Sterling Fitzgerald has taken it upon himself to become somewhat of an expert on the rook and its behaviour. With his arms folded in an instructional stance, he leads the way.
‘The Temple Gardens rookery is quiet today, but their cawing can be deafening. There must be at least thirty nests in this tree.’
‘I am not sure that the young ladies are interested …’ William is apologetic, particularly to Constance, who smiles queerly.
‘Oh, but we are, aren’t we Constance? I am interested in all sorts of birds.’ Verity encourages Sterling Fitzgerald, whose forelock falls forward at the attention of such a fascinating person, a female, no less, who has him thinking that blue-shaded spectacles must be the most interesting outlook from which to view the world.
Constance glances back at their mother just as George Fitzgerald produces a quill from his compact writing nécessaire. Her mother looks terribly intense as she holds sheets of paper close to her face, and for this, too, the fog can be blamed. The attorney seems to have created a makeshift office in which their mother now positions the quill and writes upon the sheets of paper, the feather crossing the page like a slender young ghost.
William Fitzgerald notices that Constance’s attention has swayed from the business of rooks to the business of her mother’s mysterious legal matters.
‘A poet once stated …’ William clears his throat. ‘“It is apt that the rook should be associated with the law courts, it being a grave, legal bird, both in its coats and habits. They are renowned for their intelligence and cunning.”’
When Constance turns back to William and smiles at his attempt to entertain her, he feels a foreign, but not unpleasant sensation, something new that demands to be fed again.
The girls observe Averil as she makes her way towards them. For a moment they gaze upon her not as their mother, but as a woman of the world. Her whole being emits a brighter mood after her meeting with George Fitzgerald. Constance takes in a sharp breath at how regal she looks, her red, silk taffeta gown shimmers in the dull light. Her hair survived the brutality of the wigs she once wore and is still as black as jet and piled high in the latest fashion, her elegant hat sits at exactly the right angle. The shadow of tension present on her face this morning is erased. Her face seems somehow wider, her eyes more relaxed, and a contentment that she cannot contain brings a sparkle to her laughter. Constance has spent hours studying her mother’s face – she notices every nuance.
Verity hopes that one day she will resemble her mother. They share the same blue eyes and aquiline nose, but Verity doubts her own carriage will be as elegant, or her stride as confident, as the woman gliding towards her now. She doubts, too, whether she will ever be as clever as her mother, because even their father drones on about ‘their mammy’s infinite wisdom’ and she has never before heard any man speak so highly of a female.
It is the sisters’ last image of Averil Lawless before the rooks fly.
Torches
