Above, he heard Katherine’s footsteps, and paused, ready to slip the papers back into their envelope. The steps stopped at the top of the stairs.
“Edgar, it’s nearly ten,” she called.
“Really! I must go!” He blew out the lamp and stuffed the papers back into the envelope, surprised at his own precaution. At the top of the stairs, Katherine met him with his coat and his toolbag.
“I will be on time tonight, I promise,” he said, slipping his arms into the sleeves. He kissed her on her cheek and stepped out into the cold.
He spent the remainder of the morning tuning the Broadwood grand of the member of Parliament, who thundered in the next room about the building of a new Hospital for the Genteel Insane. He finished early, he could have spent more time fine-tuning, but he had a feeling that it was rarely played. Besides, the acoustics in the drawing room were poor, and the politics of the MP distasteful.
It was early afternoon when he left. The streets were full of people. Heavy clouds hung low in the sky, threatening rain. He elbowed his way through the crowds and crossed the street to skirt a team of laborers who tore at the cobblestones with picks, stalling traffic. Around the waiting carriages, newspaper hawkers and petty merchants clamored, and a pair of boys kicked a ball back and forth through the crowds, scattering when it hit the side of a carriage. It began to drizzle.
Edgar walked for several minutes, hoping to see an omnibus, but the drizzle turned to heavier rain. He took shelter in the doorway of a public house, its name etched in frosted glass, the backs of suited gentlemen and pink-powdered women pressing up against its windows, wiping silhouettes in the condensation. He tucked his collar higher around his neck and stared out at the rain. A pair of drivers left their carts across the street, half running with their jackets raised above their heads. Edgar stepped aside to let them pass, and as they entered the public house, the door swung open with the steaming smell of perfume and sweat and spilled gin. He could hear drunken singing. The door swung shut and he waited and watched the street. And thought again of the briefing.
In school, he had never been very interested in history or politics, preferring the arts and, of course, music. If he had any, his political leanings tended to be toward Gladstone and the Liberals’ support for Home Rule, although this was hardly a conviction born out of serious contemplation. His distrust of military men was more visceral; he disliked the arrogance they carried forth to the colonies and back again. Moreover, he was uncomfortable with the popular portrayal of the Oriental as lazy and ineffectual. One only had to know the history of pianos, he would tell Katherine, to know this wasn’t true. The mathematics of equal temperament tuning had engaged thinkers from Galileo Galilei to Father Marin Mersenne, the author of the classic Harmonie universelle. And yet Edgar had learned that the correct figures were actually first published by a Chinese prince named Tsaiyu, a puzzling fact, as, from what he knew about Eastern music, the music of China, with its lack of harmonic emphasis, technically had no need for temperament. Of course, he rarely mentioned this in public. He didn’t like arguments, and he had enough experience to know that few could appreciate the technical beauty of such an innovation.
The rain relented slightly and he left the shelter of the doorway. Soon he reached a larger road, where buses and cabs passed. It is still early, he thought, Katherine will be pleased.
He boards an omnibus, wedging himself between a portly gentleman in a thick coat and a young, ashen-faced woman who coughs incessantly. The bus lurches forward. He looks for the window but the bus is crowded, he cannot see the streets pass.
This moment will remain.
He is home. He opens the door, and she is sitting on the sofa, in the corner, at the edge of a half circle of damask that falls over the cushions. Just as yesterday, but the lamp is not burning, its wick is black, it should be trimmed, but the servant is in Whitechapel. The only light slants through curtains of Nottingham lace and catches itself on particles of suspended dust. She is sitting and staring at the window, she must have seen his silhouette pass in the street. She holds a handkerchief, her cheeks have been hastily wiped. Edgar can see tears, their tracks cut short by the kerchief.
A pile of papers are scattered across the mahogany table, and an opened brown wrapping, still in the form of the papers it once held, still tied with twine, carefully unfolded at one end, as if its contents have been examined surreptitiously. Or were intended to be, for the strewn papers are anything but surreptitious. Nor are the tears, the swollen eyes.
Neither of them moves or says anything. His jacket is still in his hand, she sits on the edge of the sofa, her fingers nervously entwined in her handkerchief. He immediately knows why she is crying, he knows that she knows, that even if she doesn’t, this is how it would be, the news needs to be shared. Perhaps he should have told her last night, he should have known that they would come to his house, now he remembers that before he left the War Office the Colonel even told him so. Had he not been so lost in the magnitude of his decision, he wouldn’t have forgotten. He should have planned this, the news could have been broken more delicately. Edgar keeps so few secrets that those he does become lies.
His hands tremble as he hangs up the jacket. He turns. Katherine, he says. What is wrong, he wants to ask, a question of habit, but he knows the answer. He looks at her, there are questions whose answers he doesn’t yet know, Who brought the papers, When did they come, What do they say, Are you angry.
You were crying, he says.
She is quiet, now she begins to sob softly. Her hair is loose over her shoulders.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t know whether to go to her, this is different from before, this is not a time for embraces, Katherine, I meant to tell you, I tried to last night, only I didn’t think it was right then—
He crosses the room now, he slides between the sofa and the table, he sits next to her.
Dear—He touches her arm, gently, trying to turn her toward him, Katherine, dear, I wanted to tell you, please look at me, and she turns slowly, looks at him, her eyes are red, she has been crying for a long time. He waits for her to speak, he doesn’t know how much she knows. What happened? She doesn’t reply. Please, Katherine. Edgar, you know what happened. I know and I don’t know. Who brought these? Is it important? Katherine dear, don’t be angry with me, I wanted to talk to you about this, Please, Katherine—
I am not angry, Edgar, she says.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief, Look at me. He touches the handkerchief to her cheek.
I was angry this morning, when he came. Who? A soldier, from the War Office, He came asking for you, with these. She motioned to the papers. And what did he say? Very little, only that these papers were for your preparation, that I should be proud, that you are doing something very important, and when he said that, I still didn’t know what he was talking about. What do you mean? That is all he said, Mrs. Drake, do you know that your husband is a brave man, and I had to ask him Why, I felt like a fool, Edgar, He seemed surprised when I asked, he laughed and said only that Burma is far away, I almost asked what that meant, I almost told him that he had the wrong house, the wrong husband, but I only thanked him and he left. And you read them. Some, only some, Enough. She was silent. When did he come? This morning, I know I shouldn’t read your mail, I left the package on the table, it wasn’t mine, I went upstairs to try to finish the needlework for our bedcover, I was distracted, I kept poking myself with the needle, I was thinking about what he said, and I went downstairs, I sat here for almost an hour, wondering if I should open it, telling myself it was nothing, but I knew it wasn’t, and I thought about last night. Last night. Last night you were different. You knew. Not then, but this morning I knew, I think I know you too well.