Read Online Angelmonster by Veronica Bennett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Veronica Bennett
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insane, like the unfortunate alchemist
.
The very thought was enough to bring delirium, but I could not retreat from the idea now it had taken hold of me. If the scientist toiled for many, many years, what, in the end, would he produce? A man, or … something else? A being more hideous than the human brain can fathom, and more powerful than human ingenuity can contain? In short, a monster?
There were shadows in the room I had not seen before. My heart pumped fast. I felt perspiration on my face. Was this the delirium I feared, or fear itself?
The early morning river sounds were beginning. I listened to the swishing and sucking of the water against the bows, and the boatmen calling to one other, and Shelley’s voice wishing them good morning in German
.
Not a monster; an angel
.
My angel. My own, perfect angel. And soon, his perfect child
.
STREETWALKER OR PRINCESS
W hat had started out as a glorious adventure ended in poverty and low spirits. Our Channel crossing was stormy. We were all sick. My body convulsed so violently I feared for the precious cargo in my belly. Shelley wrapped me in a blanket and comforted me, though he was unwell himself. Jane lay on our pile of baggage and groaned.
“I wish I had never agreed to come with you!” she cried accusingly. “You have used me ill, both of you. I have suffered fatigue and hunger. Why did you not tell me how little money you had, Shelley? And you,
you
…” Her miserable glance pierced me. “You always hated me.”
I had not the energy to argue. And I, too, was miserable. I feared what would greet us when we arrived in England. My infamous elopement would by now be all over London, to the shame of Fanny and Mama and the despair of my poor father. As the ship rolled I lay in the blanket, with Shelley’s arms around me, silent, pale and sick. In my imagination I saw Papa’s distress. But I was helpless against his hardened heart.
Two days later, when Jane and I rang the doorbell of our parents’ house, Mama’s face appeared between the lace curtains of the upstairs drawing-room. We heard her shriek. Then the curtains closed.
Nothing happened for a few minutes. Jane looked away from me, tapping her foot on the boot-scraper. I stared at the familiar black door with its brass lion’s head knocker.
“They will not let us in,” declared Jane. Her impatience had become nervousness. She spun her parasol this way and that. “They will never speak to us again.”
Back in this well-known place I resumed my role of bolder, more worldly sister. I gave an exaggerated sigh. “You and I are girls of sixteen, Jane. We have caused our parents pain, but we are still their daughters. They love us, and will forgive us.”
“My mama may forgive
me
,” retorted Jane, “but your papa will never forgive
you
.”
I was perfectly ready to believe these cruel words, but I could not betray this to Jane. “Your fatuousness astonishes me,” I told her mercilessly. “My papa’s love for my poor mama was as strong as Shelley’s for me, and their situation was equally unorthodox. How can he not forgive me?”
“Those facts made no difference at all to Papa’s banishment of Shelley from this house, and his fury when we ran away,” she reminded me. She stopped spinning her parasol. I felt her hand on my elbow, and turned to meet the look I knew she would be bestowing on me. There it was: arch, triumphant. “It is not
I
, my dear Mary, who holds a fatuous belief!”
The door opened. The housemaid, Anne, bobbed a bashful curtsy. “Master says Miss Jane is to come up.”
“Alone?” enquired Jane, shutting her parasol.
“Yes, Miss.”
Jane did not look at me again. She swept past Anne into the hallway and began to climb the stairs.
“Am I not to go upstairs too?” I asked the maid.
She raised troubled eyes to my face. “No, Miss Mary, I believe not.”
“Thank you, Anne.”
When she had shut the door I pressed my face against the shop window. The shop was
.
The very thought was enough to bring delirium, but I could not retreat from the idea now it had taken hold of me. If the scientist toiled for many, many years, what, in the end, would he produce? A man, or … something else? A being more hideous than the human brain can fathom, and more powerful than human ingenuity can contain? In short, a monster?
There were shadows in the room I had not seen before. My heart pumped fast. I felt perspiration on my face. Was this the delirium I feared, or fear itself?
The early morning river sounds were beginning. I listened to the swishing and sucking of the water against the bows, and the boatmen calling to one other, and Shelley’s voice wishing them good morning in German
.
Not a monster; an angel
.
My angel. My own, perfect angel. And soon, his perfect child
.
STREETWALKER OR PRINCESS
W hat had started out as a glorious adventure ended in poverty and low spirits. Our Channel crossing was stormy. We were all sick. My body convulsed so violently I feared for the precious cargo in my belly. Shelley wrapped me in a blanket and comforted me, though he was unwell himself. Jane lay on our pile of baggage and groaned.
“I wish I had never agreed to come with you!” she cried accusingly. “You have used me ill, both of you. I have suffered fatigue and hunger. Why did you not tell me how little money you had, Shelley? And you,
you
…” Her miserable glance pierced me. “You always hated me.”
I had not the energy to argue. And I, too, was miserable. I feared what would greet us when we arrived in England. My infamous elopement would by now be all over London, to the shame of Fanny and Mama and the despair of my poor father. As the ship rolled I lay in the blanket, with Shelley’s arms around me, silent, pale and sick. In my imagination I saw Papa’s distress. But I was helpless against his hardened heart.
Two days later, when Jane and I rang the doorbell of our parents’ house, Mama’s face appeared between the lace curtains of the upstairs drawing-room. We heard her shriek. Then the curtains closed.
Nothing happened for a few minutes. Jane looked away from me, tapping her foot on the boot-scraper. I stared at the familiar black door with its brass lion’s head knocker.
“They will not let us in,” declared Jane. Her impatience had become nervousness. She spun her parasol this way and that. “They will never speak to us again.”
Back in this well-known place I resumed my role of bolder, more worldly sister. I gave an exaggerated sigh. “You and I are girls of sixteen, Jane. We have caused our parents pain, but we are still their daughters. They love us, and will forgive us.”
“My mama may forgive
me
,” retorted Jane, “but your papa will never forgive
you
.”
I was perfectly ready to believe these cruel words, but I could not betray this to Jane. “Your fatuousness astonishes me,” I told her mercilessly. “My papa’s love for my poor mama was as strong as Shelley’s for me, and their situation was equally unorthodox. How can he not forgive me?”
“Those facts made no difference at all to Papa’s banishment of Shelley from this house, and his fury when we ran away,” she reminded me. She stopped spinning her parasol. I felt her hand on my elbow, and turned to meet the look I knew she would be bestowing on me. There it was: arch, triumphant. “It is not
I
, my dear Mary, who holds a fatuous belief!”
The door opened. The housemaid, Anne, bobbed a bashful curtsy. “Master says Miss Jane is to come up.”
“Alone?” enquired Jane, shutting her parasol.
“Yes, Miss.”
Jane did not look at me again. She swept past Anne into the hallway and began to climb the stairs.
“Am I not to go upstairs too?” I asked the maid.
She raised troubled eyes to my face. “No, Miss Mary, I believe not.”
“Thank you, Anne.”
When she had shut the door I pressed my face against the shop window. The shop was
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