Fell the Angels Read online

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cecilia, accepting an envelope. Tearing it open, she read her father’s neat cursive. Your mother and I, he wrote, have endeavoured to conform to your stated desire that we accept your decision to separate from Capt. Castello, but are unable to do so. She felt little emotion as she quickly finished the letter, in which her father, above all a man of business, advised that her marital allowance could not be continued under the circumstances yet acknowledged that she was free to accept the protection and generosity offered by the estimable Dr Gully and to remain under his care at the sanatorium, as her return to Buscot Park would be unacceptable. Refolding the letter in the envelope, Cecilia reflected with a sigh that the loss of her father’s support was the price of her permanent separation from her husband. Exiting the library to return to her room, she observed Dr Gully as he emerged from the Bridge of Sighs and entered the lobby. Hurrying to him, she said, ‘James … is there any news?’

  ‘In point of fact there is,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ve just returned from an interview with my solicitor, who informs me that your husband has declined to file an objection to the guardianship.’

  With a quick glance to make sure they were alone, Cecilia said, ‘Thank heavens.’

  ‘What’s more,’ said Gully cheerfully, ‘he’s indicated his willingness to negotiate an alimony settlement. It appears that he wishes to put the matter behind him.’

  ‘Oh, James,’ said Cecilia, clutching his arm. ‘How can I ever thank you?’

  ‘There is something that would please me very much.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘As tomorrow is Sunday,’ said Gully, placing his hand on her arm, pressing the cotton cloth against her, ‘I intend to take my customary long walk in the hills. You could accompany me.’

  A month had passed since Cecilia’s arrival at the hydro, it was early summer, warm and verdant, and the quotidian customs of English country life in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of Victoria remained comfortingly traditional, circumspect, and solidly middle class. Never more so than on the Sabbath, with obligatory attendance of services at the parish church followed by a hearty repast, a nap, and, for those so inclined, an outing in the Malvern Hills. As it was generally understood among the staff and other female guests that Dr Gully had taken a ‘special interest’ in the young Mrs Castello – though his legal guardianship was a carefully kept secret – their departure together on the footpath attracted little notice from the women reclining on chaises or sitting in wicker on the porch overlooking the garden. The doctor was attired in an alpine hat and jacket, with tweed plus-fours, woollen socks, and laced-up boots. Cecilia wore her long cotton smock, belted at her slender waist, sturdy walking shoes and a wide-brimmed straw hat tied with a ribbon under her chin. Both carried alpenstocks and Gräfenberg flasks, and a rucksack was slung on the doctor’s shoulders. ‘A perfect afternoon,’ he commented, as they started down the grassy path. Cecilia nodded as she walked in his footsteps, glancing up the bright blue sky and cottony clouds that cast irregular shadows across the valley in the warm June sunshine.

  Feeling utterly at ease as she strolled alongside him, Cecilia said, ‘I never thought to ask, James, but is this your birthplace?’

  ‘What, Worcestershire?’ he said with a smile. ‘Heavens no. I was born and brought up in Jamaica.’ When she responded with a surprised look, he said, ‘I grew up on a large coffee plantation owned by my father, rather like your experience growing up in Australia, I suppose.’ Halting at a fork in the path, he briefly studied the signpost and said, ‘To the left, toward Sugarloaf Hill.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Willow Crescent,’ said Gully. ‘My favourite destination, with a view of the entire Malvern valley.’ Leaning on his staff as they began a gentle ascent, he said, ‘Yes, I fondly remember my early years in Jamaica. A life of luxury, in a large colonial villa on Blue Mountain, native servants attending to one’s every need….’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was sent to Britain, to study medicine at Edinburgh. It was while I was there, in 1833, that the Emancipation Act was passed, freeing the slaves in the West Indies. My father, of course, was ruined and, as a consequence, I learned my first truly important life lesson.’ He stopped at a bend in the path and surveyed the hill above them on their left.

  ‘Which was…?’

  ‘To make my own way in life, relying on my own resources and ingenuity.’

  Cecilia nodded and smiled, thinking, no man has ever spoken to me like this, as he might speak to his fellow man, even to his equal. ‘Would you say,’ she asked, ‘that this lesson should be applied to a female?’

  ‘I would indeed,’ he said, starting off again. After the lapse of a quarter hour, walking in silence except for the doctor’s occasional comments on the local flora and geologic conditions, the path turned steeply upward, a series of switchbacks in the final ascent to the shoulder of Sugarloaf Hill. Their exertions were rewarded with an exceptional vista: the whole of the broad Malvern valley ringed by pale-blue hills lay before them in bright sunshine. Willow Crescent was a treeless, rounded summit, with a smooth, lichen-covered outcropping of limestone that served as a natural resting place to picnic or merely take in the panoramic view. ‘Magnificent,’ said Gully, as he shrugged off his rucksack and patted his brow with his handkerchief.

  Cecilia, breathing hard, uncorked her flask and took a long swallow of cold spring water. She stretched out beside Gully on the limestone ledge and rested on an elbow, the fabric of her wonderfully simple dress tucked about her ankles. ‘I’m certain I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.’ Shading her eyes with a hand, she said, ‘Is that the hydro?’

  Gully nodded, gazing at the turrets of the Tudor mansion on the distant ridgeline, and said, ‘It is indeed.’ He turned to Cecilia, smiled, and said, ‘I’ve brought us a treat.’ He carefully unpacked the contents of the rucksack: a tin of wheat biscuits, round of cheese, a ripe pear, and two small cups. ‘A good, aged Stilton,’ he said, ‘and, what’s more,’ – he paused to uncork his leather flask and pour each of them a cup of straw-coloured wine – ‘a decent Moselle.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Cecilia, taking a sip and enjoying the warmth of the sun on her face. ‘The first wine I’ve tasted since leaving home.’

  ‘Well,’ said Gully with a chuckle, ‘as we’re outside the jurisdiction of the clinic …’ Taking a penknife from his pocket, he sliced the pear and spread cheese on several biscuits.

  After sampling the fruit and cheese and taking another sip of wine, Cecilia said, ‘James, I’ve been reading your publications on, ah, homeopathic medicine….’

  ‘Excellent,’ he said encouragingly.

  ‘I was hoping you might elaborate.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Sitting up and crossing her legs beneath her skirt, Cecilia listened with rapt attention, moving her ankles a bit and occasionally helping herself to more wine and cheese, as Dr Gully propounded his controversial views on the importance of diet, certain foods in particular, fresh air and exercise, and cold water therapy in the treatment of a host of chronic ailments. ‘And,’ he concluded, ‘in the prevention of any number of maladies that so often are the consequence of the propensity of our race to indulge in the consumption of rich food, animal fats, tobacco, and’ – he paused to take a sip of wine – ‘alcohol in excess.’

  Cecilia, feeling the unaccustomed, pleasurable effects of the wine, stared into Gully’s lively, intelligent eyes, restraining the impulse to reach out and touch him, possibly just to run the tip of her fingers along the side of his face. ‘James,’ she said after a moment, ‘I’m quite sure I’ve never been happier … than when we’re together.’

  Chapter Three

  CECILIA SAT IN a high-back upholstered chair, wearing pale-blue organdie with matching shoes and off-white stockings with the perfect shade of baby blue clocking, in place of the dowdy cotton smocks she’d been forced to wear at the hydro. She studied the handwriting on the cr
eam-coloured envelope in her lap. Glancing around the snug parlour, with its floral carpet and striped wallpaper, she was beginning to feel at home in the small brick house in town which Dr Gully had arranged for her to let once the settlement with the Castello family had been agreed upon. With two small upstairs bedrooms, a parlour, dining-room, and kitchen, it was certainly modest in comparison to the elegant townhouse she’d shared with Richard in Knightsbridge or her family’s estate at Buscot Park. But she’d happily traded luxury for independence and, more importantly, for proximity to the clinic – and to James Gully. Through the parlour window she glimpsed a passing coach drawn by a white mare and then lowered her eyes to the envelope. She recognized her husband’s handwriting, though the script was uneven, as if penned with a trembling hand, and the stamp and postmark were from the German state of Westphalia.

  Carefully opening the letter, she removed several sheets of bond and read:

  1 August 1870

  Cologne, Germany

  My dear Cecilia

  I am at present ensconced in a musty old hotel overlooking the Rhine with the avowed purpose of restoring my health. In truth, in my abject self-pity after you fled from me and refused my entreaties to reconcile, I was determined to get as far away as possible from memories of our life together in London. There are a number of former military men here, Germans, of course, with their absurd duelling scars, whose company I find tolerable over endless games of backgammon or whist.

  Cecilia gazed at the penmanship, certain that it was deteriorating with each written word.

  I am truly sorry for the pain I’ve caused you and hold you blameless for the dissolution of our marriage (though legally it remains intact). I trust that you are well, that the financial arrangements are satisfactory, and that perhaps, someday, in happier times I should see you again. I remain

  Your devoted husband,

  Richard

  Tossing the letter aside with a sigh, Cecilia reflected that it was truly a miracle she’d met Dr Gully and, thanks entirely to his intervention, escaped the horrors of her marriage, certain that Richard was drinking himself to oblivion or even to death. Lightly touching the wedding band on her finger, she thought back to their whirlwind courtship; the tall, handsome officer in his guards uniform with the exotic Iberian name and lineage – it was little wonder women threw themselves at him. And she, a spoiled, headstrong girl from an upper class family, had assumed that married life would simply be an endless succession of teas, balls, and dinner parties … It had never occurred to her, nor had her mother warned her, that once married she might be treated as an object of desire – what a shock that had been – or of scorn, or drink-induced violence. Cecilia rose and walked to the window, gazing absently at the row of identical brick houses on the opposite side of the street. Dr Gully had not only rescued her; he had taught her that the modern married woman need not submit to an abusive husband, that she was entitled to be free and to be happy.

  But was James married? She’d assumed that he had no wife, as he was always unaccompanied and never spoke of a Mrs Gully. Surely, at his age and living alone, he must be a widower. Well, she insisted, she would have to get to the bottom of that. Hearing the chime of the clock on the mantel, she decided to go upstairs and change for a quick trip to the hydro, on the pretext of enjoying an afternoon bath but in the hopes of a chance encounter.

  Unlike the early morning cold-water treatments, in which the women were herded like sheep and subjected to the humiliating ordeal of communal nudity, the hot baths were designed for soothing immersions in the restorative Malvern waters, in the privacy of large, individual tubs separated by canvas screens. Dressing in her simple smock following an indolent soak – the unadorned dresses were de rigueur even though she was no longer a guest at the hydro – she decided to take a turn in the promenade garden where she imagined she might find the good doctor. Instead, the neat brick pathways were trodden by various other female guests, primarily women in late middle-age, well-to-do, judging from their plump figures and the few articles of jewellery they were wearing, whom Cecilia condescendingly regarded as mere parvenus. After a while she sat down on a wrought iron bench, tilting back her head and closing her eyes in the warmth of the afternoon sun.

  ‘Hallo, Mrs Castello.’

  Cecilia glanced up at the imposing figure of Mrs Pembroke, standing over her with an expression of disapprobation. ‘Hallo,’ she said. ‘Lovely day.’

  Ignoring the comment, Mrs Pembroke said, ‘As you’ve chosen to continue to patronize the hydro, it would be preferable if you adhered to our regimens.’

  ‘Oh, the water treatments and diet, I suppose you mean. I’m no longer a guest here, madam, and I shall do as I please. I don’t suppose Dr Gully is in the grounds?’

  ‘I understand he’s away on business. But he’s delivering a lecture in town this evening.’

  ‘Oh, really? And where …’

  ‘At the public library.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Mrs Pembroke.’ Rising from the bench, Cecilia said, ‘May I ask you about a personal matter? Concerning Dr Gully?’ Hearing no objection, she said, ‘Is his wife with him here at the hydro?’

  ‘His wife?’

  ‘I presume he’s married.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Castello,’ said Mrs Pembroke with a frown. ‘The doctor is married. To a much older woman who, frankly, is confined to an asylum for the mentally insane.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ said Cecilia, raising a hand to her mouth.

  ‘The doctor hasn’t spoken to her for some thirty years. Good day,’ she concluded, turning to walk briskly down the garden path.

  Cecilia sat in the high-ceilinged reading-room of the Malvern public library, intending to make eye contact with Dr Gully as he addressed the crowd of some forty or fifty townspeople, preponderantly middle-aged women, curious to hear the famous physician expound his controversial views on homeopathic medicine. She had chosen a black, décolletége silk gown with elaborate ruffles and a strand of South Seas pearls, having arranged for the trunk with her jewellery and gowns to be sent from Buscot Park. At the appointed hour the buzz of conversation abruptly died away as the short, rotund doctor with the wreath of white hair around his bald pate strode briskly to the lectern, donned his spectacles, and gazed out on his audience with a pleasant smile. Cecilia, returning the smile, would have wagered he looked briefly, knowingly, into her eyes.

  ‘Good evening,’ he began, adopting the stance of a lecturer with his hands on his hips. ‘Tonight I intend to address not only the salutary effects of the water-cure as it is practised at the hydro, but more broadly the homeopathic approach to medicine. It was as a medical student in the late twenties, an externe at the École de Médecine in Paris, that I was first introduced to these principles.’ So articulate, so self-assured in his knowledge of the subject, thought Cecilia, as she eagerly followed his words, delivered in a relaxed, conversational manner. ‘Modern medicine,’ continued Gully, ‘concerns itself with surgery, the knife, and the apothecary. Pills, devised by chemists with as little understanding of their effects as alchemists purported to understand the transformation of lead to gold.’ Gully paused to survey the audience, acknowledging Cecilia’s presence with a momentary smile. ‘In point of fact,’ he declared, wagging an index finger, ‘we have known since the days of the ancients, that human health is strongly influenced by the air we breathe, the food we ingest, liquids we drink, and the use to which we put our bodies.

  ‘Would you administer poison to your child?’ enquired Gully, searching the audience.

  ‘Heavens no,’ said an elderly woman in drab, faded bengaline who was perched in her many petticoats on the edge of a chair in the first row.

  ‘Well, then,’ said Gully, ‘would you poison yourself, madam, or see your husband poison himself, with tobacco or alcohol?’ This elicited grumbles from several of the men in the audience. ‘I assure you,’ said Gully reprovingly, ‘these are poisons.’

  Listening to Gully’s strong, mellifluous voi
ce, observing his genial countenance, Cecilia was conscious of a quickening of her pulse, the feel of her silks against her bosom and a mild flush on the soft skin of her neck. Yes, she thought with a nod, poisons … she understood all too well what alcohol could do to a man.

  ‘Not that I’m a teetotaller, mind you,’ continued Gully, raising a placating hand. ‘I’m an advocate of temperance, not abstinence. In fact, it is well known that wine, consumed in moderation with the right foods, exerts a salubrious effect on the digestive system.’ Gully paused to study the faces before him, clasping his hands on the lectern. ‘The first principle of the water-cure,’ he continued, ‘is purification of the body. Elimination of the social vices, as we call them – tea, coffee, sugar, salt. In conjunction with the cold water treatments, administered daily, before partaking of food …’ This, naturally, was what the audience had come for, paying rapt attention to the doctor’s comprehensive description of the strict regimen practised at the hydro and its remarkable efficacy in the treatment of a host of chronic maladies, a tour de force performance that culminated in a standing ovation. Cecilia stood clapping with perhaps more vigour than anyone, fearing she might pop the buttons of her gown so great was the adulation she felt for the man she now regarded as her special, her secret, friend.

  The following morning, after sleeping late and a breakfast of scones, jam, and sweetened tea, she penned a brief note and folded it in an envelope, which she addressed to Dr J. M. Gully. Determined to avoid another unpleasant encounter with the hydro staff, she selected green taffeta with a bustle and matching feathered hat and made the fifteen-minute walk to the clinic under the shade of a parasol. ‘Morning, ma’am,’ said the coachman, standing by the entrance to the ladies’ wing.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Percy,’ said Cecilia, as she snapped shut her parasol. ‘I wonder if you might do me a favour,’ she said in a lowered voice.