Something stirs in the deepest part of her, from where all of her fears rise, from where all her sorrows are stored. She has not been – what? – strong enough, clever enough – to admit it. Even when he is overtaken with the terrifying long deep slumber and she waits for him to wake, she is so relieved when he does that she cannot bear to question the mystery. It is grotesque and too horrific to imagine.
Owen still has a full head of hair unlike most his age. Granted, it is bristly, but it is there, thick and plentiful, absent of the slightest grey. She glances at her mirror again. She has been experimenting with hair dye to hide her own grey strands that multiply daily. Whatever does this mean? Fear grabs her. He comes up the stairs now. She folds the mirror, turns the lamp down a notch and climbs into bed.
‘Owen, do take your clothes off, I want you naked.’
‘You only have to ask once.’ He throbs at her suggestion.
When he is in bed, she throws the bedding off him and raises the lamp.
‘I want to look at you.’
It is the only occasion in their marriage when Nora begins a night’s lovemaking with dishonesty. She strokes him with one hand, the other holds a lamp while she conducts her survey. He is amused and flattered that her eyes appear to travel lustily down his body. It takes only a few minutes to discover what she needs to know. Now that she seeks it, it stares her in the face so blatantly, so obviously. He has not aged at all these last few years. She kisses his face, noting only two slim wrinkles resting near the corners of his eyes and nowhere else. He is fifty-four for God’s sake!
There is an urgency in the way she takes him tonight. With her hands and her mouth, she does everything she can think of to him without allowing him that sweet release, and when he is almost in agony she finally places him in her. She changes positions to surprise him so that he holds on longer than he ever has before.
Nora Mockett abandons all her fear for one blessed moment until she is shuddering, and she screams out into the wicked, wicked night.
It took a year of diligence. A year of cajoling, planning, and explaining to Owen Mockett and the storm-faced boy how important it was to conduct tests. To warm the ten-year-old to the inevitable, Clovis mimicked family with Rafe. Once more she called upon her time in north Iceland, when her aunt’s large family sat by the fire and pots hung from chains full of moss porridge and meat. When their vigorous storytelling set against the blasted, howling wind whittled away at the bleak sunless hours. Her interpretation of that setting reborn in east London was startlingly diminished when it became apparent that the only storytelling talent she possessed was that of lying. Surprisingly however, Finn, somewhat shyly at first, filled the boy’s imagination with tales of his former seafaring life, and the summer of his astronomy-filled nights in Iceland. And once, upon the turn of the autumn into winter, the boy smiled at Finn’s account of waking to the tongue of a sheep licking at his face.
In the meantime, Clovis filled Owen Mockett’s thoughts with glory. Seduced by the possible results of replicating Rafe’s magical essence, which included acknowledgement from royalty and making scientific history, he braced himself for the first day of experiments with those riches in mind.
So it was, that late at night while Nora Mockett slept upstairs, the first session began in the back room of the apothecary. It was the taking of skin that hurt most. Rafe shrank from the lancet. Mockett looked at Clovis and questioned her with his raised brow: Is this necessary? Her answer was given when she held the boy down.
CHAPTER FORTY
‘I cannot find her anywhere. She is not at the market, nor on Park Street. The stanhope is here. The servants have not seen hide or hair of her. Where could she be?’
Constance paces in front of Percy, who has come directly from Holborn.
‘She is always home before dark.’ She realizes she repeats herself. ‘She could have fallen into one of the train pits. Oh the damnable railways! They ruin us! Or, she has been accosted. Oh Percy, what if those awful foreign men have her? For God’s sake. What shall we do?’
‘Constance, calm yourself,’ Percy entreats her. ‘I will send for a constable immediately.’
‘I have done it. God Almighty, Percy. Do you think me an idiot?’
‘Of course not. Perhaps she is at St Mary’s.’
‘It was the first place I sent Thomas. It is that cruel woman who has twisted the knife. I offered her money and I could not believe it when she refused. She would not bend. We have been to Limehouse many times to see him. How humiliating it was, too. To stand on the street and be refused entry! She sent her husband out to tell us it was no good. We could not see Rafe, not even for a moment.’
‘I am sorry. I am so sorry, dear Constance.’
‘Weeks ago, I forget how many, he stood at the window crying. Crying, Percy! He revealed a world of unhappiness on his face in just those few moments. Then she pulled him away and it was our last glimpse of our poor boy.’
‘You must keep trying. Persistence in all things, Constance.’
The drawing room is in disarray. Cushions are piled in one corner of the sofa; a few tumble to the floor. A tea tray with remnants of late night crumbs clutters the occasional table. The fireplace needs scrubbing.
‘I have not let the maids in here since last week when we returned from Limehouse. It was a distressing journey home.’
‘Do you think Verity is in Limehouse?’
‘Well, Percy, I shall tell you now. The Fowlers are no
