Dear Reader,
Some things never change. Over time, in different cultures, and different situations, humans will always be what we are—Human.
Together, about a year ago, we decided to try to write the 'same' story, one in Victorian North & South (written by SHBirds) and one in Modern North & South (written by philipaholt). We hope you enjoy our little creative experiment. We had great fun writing it for you. And who knows? If you like it, and comment, (and ask nicely) we might do something like it again.
Enjoy,
S.H. and Philipa
—
Demon, Thy Name is Othello | A Classic Tale of Jealousy
by SHBirds
—
He could not fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, which had laid the foundation. He was in the middle before he knew that he had begun.
Not love, but its altogether darker sibling...
Jealousy.
In hindsight, there had been signs of it, early on, almost immediately after her return from London. Although, perhaps, the foundation—the onset of this wretched course of events—had been laid long before.
Blame it on those drawing lessons!
She, who had never shown any interest in portraiture before, had suddenly asked—nay, insisted on!—taking drawing lessons. A Milton drawing master, an elderly man of impeccable reputation, had soon been engaged; and he, her husband, happy that she had found a new pursuit now that their youngest was out of leading strings, had encouraged her. She had applied herself to her work; and she was good, albeit not brilliant.
Although her brisk pencil strokes were not quite the fashion of the day, her sketches were of a vividness that uncannily managed to depict the essence of the sitter... and, at first, her sitter had mostly been him.
Had he been flattered by her attention, as her pencil captured his likeness? Yes, undoubtedly; but mixed into it were indulgence and, sometimes, impatience when he felt obliged to sit still long past the point where his body and mind craved action.
Had he been quietly relieved when she had eventually found other subjects besides himself? He reluctantly had to admit that this had been the case.
Soon, there was very little Milton could teach her—and so she had begged for an extended visit in town, to have the advantage of a London drawing master and in order to see the exhibits at the newly founded National Portrait Gallery at Great George Street. Her cousin Edith had been happy to accommodate both her and the children—and off they went, while he stayed behind, sorting out the latest trouble at the mill...
... and wasn't there always something to sort out? Those times when he sedately stood on the platform above the weaving shed, overlooking a production that was running smoothly like clockwork, were rare and far in between—although they never failed to imbue him with a sense of elation. But reality was mostly quite a different beast. There was the wear and tear on machinery, accidents, delays in delivery of raw materials, or plain and simple incompetence; all asking for the master's keen eye and deft decisions.
An eye that may have become blind to what was going on outside his mill.
Yet his actual suspicions weren't awakened until the letters arrived, turning a vague feeling of discomfiture—a feeling that had been with him for quite some time (he thought in retrospect)—into one of unease. How well did he remember the very first letter that had caught his attention! How she had been in a fluster when he had asked about it and how, rather than leave it on top of her escritoire together with the rest of her correspondence, as was her wont, she had hastily stuffed it into the pocket of her skirt.
It was then that he first felt the monster feed off his flesh.
She knew that the correspondence meant crossing a line. Perhaps, she simply shouldn't have opened the first letter when it arrived. Sending it to her would have been solely his impropriety; but, in opening it, she became complicit in his misdemeanour... Above all, she should never, ever have done his bidding and replied!
Watching her, looking out for those telltale little signs, became an obsession with him. Was she aware of his scrutiny? Cognisant of his growing mistrust?
If so, she didn't let it show. She wasn't at ease, however; that much was clear.
Their hitherto pleasant evenings, spent quietly in the study reading or talking or—as had been her habit of late—drawing, became strained. She resumed her sketching of him, and yet it was different. Whereas before she had drawn his entire portrait or figure, more recently she was only sketching isolated bits and pieces; an eye, his hands, the whorls of his ear, even his brow!
He felt examined, yet no longer seen; fractured into particles and put under a microscope. A mere specimen.
"What are you doing?" he asked one such evening after a prolonged silence, quickly leaning over to see what she had committed to paper. He was aiming for an amused tone of voice, and in his own ears he sounded sincere enough; yet his expression must have hardened the moment he saw her draw back and quickly cover the paper with her hand.
"Oh, it is nothing," she laughed, but didn't look up to meet his eyes. From self-consciousness?—or did she feel caught? And caught doing what?
"May I see?" he asked, still ostensibly good-humoured, and held out his hand.
In former times she might have playfully swatted at his hand, but she would have held up the sheet to give him a quick peek from afar, if she thought her efforts not worth sharing. Not so this time, though; after the briefest of hesitations her lips compressed as she wordlessly passed him the sheet.
It was his mouth, again and again; stern with lips pressed firmly together, others showing a smidgeon of a smile, or a hint of teeth behind slightly parted lips... None of it badly done, quite on the contrary; but detached from the rest of his face, his mouth looked grotesque.
"Why this?" he asked.
"I want to become proficient—and in order to get better at drawing, I need to pay attention to the fine details."
"Whatever for?—you seldom fail to capture the personality of your sitters even in your quickest studies. It's a rare talent. What about this could be improved by more detail?"
"And yet I shall try!"
"Does it please and satisfy you?"
"Why wouldn't it?" she said stubbornly, her face inviting no further discussion.
Looking at her husband in such a way—staring at his mouth, his nose, his ears—felt like she was dispossessing him of tiny parts of himself. She knew that he didn't like what she had lately been doing; not in the way he had been a participant in her early drawings of him: Not always patient, but always compliant; always willing to let her see him.
This much had changed—and as he was no longer giving, she had to take... and the worst of it was, that she was passing on her spoils.
Another letter arrived; and within the day she announced her plan to travel to London.
When he asked her about the purpose of her hasty journey, her face turned scarlet, and she stammered about a picture, a painting, that she just—absolutely—had to have a look at; and if she didn't see it now, she might never have another chance!
He exclaimed at the extravagance.
"I shall stay at Harley Street again," she told him. "Two days, perhaps three at most. I am sure that you and the children will hardly notice my absence."
"How can this be of so much importance to you?" he asked, incredulous.
"And yet it is," she said quietly, and that was that.
Should he have forbidden her to go? As her husband he would have been well within his rights; but he had never intended to set himself up as his wife's custodian, dictating her every move. A domineering partner had no place in a meeting of true hearts and minds, or so he had always told himself.
Besides, she wouldn't have suffered such interference on his part gladly; and, when it came right down to it, wasn't it she, her inheritance, that had afforded them such extravagance in the first place?
So, he held his peace—all the while doubt gnawed at his bones.
She had left her departure for London till late. All those instructions for cook and the nursery maid regarding the care of their children—left behind in Milton while their mamma hurried into town—, all those kisses and promises almost made her lose track of the hour. Then she was gone in a flurry of skirts and shawls, only accompanied by her trusty ladies' maid. The moment her hackney coach left the mill yard and speedily turned the corner, he rushed back into the house.
He broke into her writing desk; forced its flimsy lock with a letter opener.
Something at the back of his mind told him that this was all wrong, that he didn't recognise himself in such an action—but he had to know! Know if the letter that had arrived on the day before was indeed another missive sent from London, and by a man.
There it was, lying squarely on top of her household accounts ledger.
Her name and address were written in a scrawl, barely legible; and the sender was almost indecipherable. He didn't bother to make the effort, but ripped the single sheet from its envelope and unfolded it. The writing was as spidery and carelessly executed as the address.
'Madam—
'—I implore you; it will not do! It is unworthy of me, but I call myself defeated. You must come, come and exonerate me from this...
I cannot continue in such a manner; I am devastated and yet I see no way forward. If only you came and saw for yourself!'
No date, no closing words, no name; no professions of love and admiration—yet, possibly, something worse: Passion.
She had met him through an acquaintance of her London cousin's. First impressions had not been favourable, and it had been an awkward meeting in every respect. It hadn't been until later, when she actually saw what he was doing and how, that she came to see in him the perfect collaborator in her tomfool scheme; and from that point on she had been determined to see it through.
She could be headstrong to the point of obstinacy; and in the past that trait had frequently served her ill. She had thought that she had learnt her lessons long since; yet, as the train picked up speed, taking her away from her home, she saw with uncommon clarity that she was in danger of falling into the same trap again.
However, she felt that she had gone too far already in order to abandon her plan. She just hoped that, in due course, the end would justify the means.
In a blind, helpless frenzy he followed her to the station—to confront her.
By the time he arrived at the platform, she was gone; he saw the tail-end of her train disappear in the distance—leaving him to restlessly pace the length of the platform for an hour and a half until the next southbound train was due to depart. He sent a missive back home with an errand boy, telling them that he would be absent for the night, so as not to worry them—but wonder they must, regardless.
He spent a solid ten and a half hours on that train taking him south to London. Not only was it a slow service, but their journey was disrupted twice, first by a herd of cattle on the tracks and then by a broken set of points. Ten and a half hours trapped in a train compartment, all the while his agitated brain provided him with images, one more devastating than the other; and whenever he dozed off in exhaustion, his dreams added another layer of garishness to them.
In his waking hours he pondered that his nightmares had finally come true; the one thing that he had feared ever since she had become his lover and wife: That, one day, she might turn her back on the life they had built together, walk out of their—oh so!—provincial home, and return to the bright city lights; to its society, its art and sophistication.
In his darkest moments he told himself that this was where she had always belonged...
Mentally and physically exhausted he arrived at Euston station at a quarter to five in the morning, the sharp edge of his pain momentarily dulled by despondency.
Off the main hall he found a stall selling coffee. It was black as tar and bitter as gall; it might have been simmering on a small flame all night. He pulled a face, but drank it anyway, then asked for a second helping. At least it made him more alert, if only by overlaying his exhaustion with a jittery restlessness that made it impossible for him to stand still.
He rushed out of the station and made his way to Harley Street on foot. He cursed his sense of direction when he lost his way, eventually having to resolve to asking directions from one of the early tradesmen out in the streets. Is wasn't for a while until he became aware of the curious looks he attracted. Only when he distractedly brushed his hand across his chin, he felt the growth of stubble that no shave had taken care of that morning; add to that his rumpled appearance after a night spent on the train and his bloodshot eyes... In the eyes of an industrious early-morning London he must be looking like a laggard on his way home after a boozy night.
Not that it was any of their business! He scowled back at them, and it gave him a grim kind of satisfaction when they quickly averted their eyes.
Finally he stood in front of 96 Harley Street. All was quiet about the house, with not even a servant showing up by the front door. In the upstairs quarters the owners would still be asleep, as would be their guest—if she was there at all.
He was at the door, knocker already in hand, when a residue of common sense made him hesitate. What if there was a rational explanation for all of this?—unlikely as it might seem. There would be no going back, if he were to barge in like that, in the early hours of the morning, drag everyone from their beds, and cause a scandal. It would not just be a matter of censure and ridicule; barging in he would burn all his bridges behind him.
So, he decided to stake her out and, if she were to leave the house, to follow.
He took up his post a few doors down the street where a stall selling newspapers gave him some cover; he bought a copy of The Times—to hide behind. He was not a regular visitor at 96 Harley Street, but the house servants might still recognise him; his height and appearance did not exactly blend in with the street scenery.
He waited. The jitteriness of overwrought nerves became the shiver of cold, yet his eyes didn't stray from the front door—for hours.
Eventually, it was still early in the morning, a man approaching the front door with a quick step caught his attention; it was a youngish man carrying a large, flat wooden box under one arm. He might have dismissed him for a delivery man, if the man hadn't knocked at the front door. Within moments, it was opened, not by a footman but by—her! As if she had been pacing the hall waiting for him.
The man spoke, his mobile face working; he was gesticulating wildly with his free hand. And she? She looked at him with rapt attention as he spoke, answering in no more than a nod or a shake of her head until, suddenly, she took his arm with both her hands—such an intimate gesture it was!—and, with gentle force, bid him come inside. He seemed to resist for another moment, and then he followed. The door shut behind them.
Who was that man? And why did she receive him at such an ungodly hour?—and at her cousin's house, no less! Was all the family in on the secret?
If so—if he was the only one left in the dark—he might as well confront her now!
He rushed to the door and banged the knocker. Again, and again, then pounded the sturdy door with his fist, until the footman finally answered it. The servant's expression of stern disapproval turned to utter perplexity when he perceived their visitor.
"S-sir!" the footman exclaimed.
"My wife? Where is she, man?" He deftly sidestepped the servant and, within moments, stood in the hall, his eyes scanning the array of closed doors.
"In the back parlour, sir. But," the footman called after him, "she has a visitor."
He flung the door open with such force that it rebounded from the wainscoting, then he stopped dead in the doorway, trying to read the scene before him.
He wasn't sure what he had expected; but this was not it.
"John!" Margaret cried, staring at him in utter disbelief.
Her companion took longer to face him. He was first looking at Margaret and then, following her gaze, he slowly turned. His wide mouth broke into a smile.
"The man himself," the stranger exclaimed. If anything, he sounded relieved.
Margaret's visitor was indeed young, but neither handsome nor a gentleman. His expressive face contorted as he spoke; he was over-enunciating, yet his speech sounded slurred as if drunk. He didn't look drunk, however.
"What is the meaning of this?" Thornton growled, scowling at them both.
"What are you doing here?" Margaret gasped. "Just look at the state of you!—have you been travelling through the night?"
Ignoring his wife he stepped in front of the stranger, thus looming over the much slighter man. "Who are you?" he snapped. "Why are you here with my wife?" The stranger's smile faltered, and he took a careful step back. "Answer me, or—"
"John! Stop it immediately!—Mr Chiswick cannot hear you. He is deaf!"
"What is this?" Thornton said, taken aback.
He looked around dazedly. When finally more of his surroundings registered with him, he realised that Margaret and the stranger had been standing next to an easel when he had charged into the room; there was a large painting mounted on it. As far as he could make out, the subject was a half length portrait of two persons; a woman and man.
Observing Thornton carefully, the stranger gave him a nervous smile. "Look," he said in his strange slurred voice, first gesturing towards the easel and then to a folding table next to it.
"This is Mr William Chiswick," Margaret said with forced calm. "He is a painter... I commissioned him with painting our portraits... It was meant to be a surprise for our wedding anniversary—"
"But... but how?" Then Thornton recognised the multitude of sketches laid out on the table next to the easel as Margaret's; the sketches she had done of him.
"It wasn't just that the painting was to be a surprise," Margaret explained, "I also knew that you would never agree to sit for an actual painting—that you would refuse on grounds of finding the hours of sitting quite still impossible to bear." She smiled at him contritely. "But I knew that you would sit for me, at least a for a little while... When my sketches didn't turn out too badly, I thought that I might find a painter to work after them. But none of the Milton artists would agree to give it a try. Although they knew you by sight—"
"So you came to London," Thornton said, understanding dawning—and along with it an overwhelming sense of shame.
"Yes. I asked Edith, and she asked her friends—and, eventually, someone..."
"Sit," Chiswick interrupted Margaret, stepping between her and her husband and tugging the latter at the sleeve to make him follow. The painter led Thornton to a straight-backed chair in the light of a window and pressed him to sit, then he resumed his place by the easel, opening his box and starting to fiddle with paints and brushes. The smell of turpentine filled the air.
"Does he want to paint me?" Thornton asked, incredulous. "Now?—after the scene I made?"
"It appears so," Margaret said, fetching a stool for herself and placing it next to the easel. She sat and glanced towards the canvas. "He'll be working on your face."
"Do I need to stay silent as well as immobile?"
"I don't think so; if so, he'll let you know—"
"You sat for him already." It was an observation rather than a question.
"When I was here the last time, just after I commissioned him with this painting. As I said, Mr Chiswick was the only painter willing to embark on this enterprise; and after I saw some of his paintings and drawings, I was determined that we should succeed." She cast a quick glance at the drawing. "My portrait was almost complete by the time I returned to Milton—"
"May I see it?" Thornton said, already rising from his seat.
"Maybe not just now, John. Wouldn't you think you owed Mr Chiswick the courtesy of sitting still for a little longer?... Anyway, by the time I returned to Milton, Mr Chiswick had started on your portrait based on my drawings of you. Initially he was quite pleased; but I was hardly returned when he sent me a letter and told me that it wouldn't do; that he needed more detailed sketches. I tried, but you never sat still for long enough; so I couldn't do your entire face. That's when I started with the piecemeal drawings."
She regarded her husband with a blunt look. "It didn't feel right any longer by then; and it occurred to me that the whole scheme might not be such a good idea, after all. However, I don't quit readily on things I've sent my heart on." She was quiet for a moment, turning again to watch the painter's progress. "The other day I received a letter from Mr Chiswick, leaving me in no doubt that he was about to give up on our venture. He's been known to destroy his paintings before; this is why I came here in such a hurry... Sadly, he was right, your portrait isn't very good. Oh, it's fine technically, and well advanced, but it doesn't come alive."
"You could have told me all of this before—"
"It would have spoilt the surprise; and I wasn't quite prepared to do that... I also wouldn't have dreamt that you'd draw such conclusions." As if, all of a sudden, the enormity of his assumptions was catching up with her, hurt crept into her eyes and voice. "How could you, John?"
"I saw the letter," he said in a low voice.
"You did what?"
"I forced the lock of your desk drawer and read the letter... It sounded so... so—"
"Passionate? Of course, it did; he's an artist, for goodness sake!" Margaret cried. Then, more quietly, sadly, "Do you really have so little faith in me?"
"I should have known better—"
"Indeed you should have!" Her voice was turning hard. "Especially, after Frederick, you should have known better than to draw any hasty conclusions. Where does this come from, time and again?"
"I was jealous then—and I've been jealous now. It seems to be my prevailing sin when it comes to you."
"I can see where this came from then; but now I don't... What is behind all this?"
"I think—" He stopped dead, looking away.
"Tell me, John. Please," she said softly.
"I think, it has very little to do with you, and everything to do with myself; with the way I see myself when it comes to you—"
"How so?"
"In my darker moments I come up against the question: How could someone like you fall in love with someone like me? I knew that you loved me when you offered me every last pound, shilling, and penny of your inheritance to save me; when you came with me to Milton. But... how did you even begin?—when I could offer you so little in return. I knew that you loved me, and yet I feared that, one day, you might come to regret it." He leant forward in his chair, staring at her with pain in his eyes. "I came here believing that today would be that day—"
"Oh," she said in a small voice. "Is that it? That you thought yourself unworthy of me?" She gave a sad little chuckle. "When it was, in fact, I who felt unworthy in the face of your steadfast devotion!—steadfast despite the insults I hurled at you when you first proposed, despite the lies I upheld in front of the police and the lack of trust I showed in you at the time." She rose and, in a few quick steps was by his side, where she sank to the floor, resting her head in his lap. "You unworthy of me?"
"Don't kneel before me," he whispered, slipping from his seat to kneel with her. He raised her head with both his hands and leant his brow against hers. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, my love."
They didn't know for how long they knelt in such a manner, enveloped in each other's embrace and in a flurry of whispered avowals, until—
"It's finished," the painter's voice declared from behind the easel, and moments later the man's expressive face peered around the canvas with a huge smile. "Come and look."
Thornton slowly rose to his feet, blinking dazedly and taking his time to adjust to the here and now, and then helped Margaret to get up. He wouldn't let go of her as, a little self-consciously, they approached and joined Mr Chiswick behind the easel.
They looked at it for a long time, quite oblivious of the artist who was studying their reactions.
"Perfect," Margaret eventually breathed.
The composition had remained the same, of course. She, Margaret was seated with her hands demurely placed in her lap, one on top of the other. But her forthright gaze, looking straight at the viewer, was quite extraordinary—and a little disconcerting. He, Thornton, stood slightly behind her, his hands on the backrest of her chair and his posture somewhat less stationary than hers. The latest alterations were small, but they made all the difference. There was a warmth and reassurance in her expression that had been missing before. The changes in Thornton's portrait were rather more profound. The turn of his head had been changed ever so slightly; he was now regarding her rather than any outside viewer. There was a tiny smile playing in the corner of his mouth, and as for his expression...
"This is uncanny! Does he lip-read?" Thornton asked Margaret behind Chiswick's back.
"He does; a little," Margaret admitted. "But most of all he simply paints what he sees. He once told me that, ever so often, words just distract from what's really in front of you."
"And yet it is all there, words and all—"
They praised and thanked the artist profusely, carefully enunciating so that he might read their words from their lips, and with firm handshakes. Chiswick in turn promised to see the portrait safely delivered to Milton as soon as the paint was dry.
"Drawing room or attic?" Margaret asked, once the painter had packed up and left. "Where shall we put it?"
"The attic?" Thornton said, startled. "Whatever for?"
"I wondered if, despite it being a beautiful painting, it might also be an unwelcome reminder—and therefore best left out of sight."
"I won't hide from my demons, henceforth. If I've learnt anything from today, it is that, the more I try to bury them inside of me, the sooner they'll catch up with me. I can't promise you this won't happen ever again; but I shall try to confront them in the future, soon as they'll rear their ugly heads. For both our sakes—"
"So, the drawing room?"
"N-no," he said, slowly. "Regardless of the fact that we're formally attired in it, this picture is strangely intimate. I won't share that look on your face with the world." He drew closer to her face, yet hesitated to claim her lips.
"Perhaps the bedroom?" Margaret asked, slowly bridging the final small gap between his mouth and hers.
"The bedroom it is," John murmured, just as she kissed him.