The Journal of Dora Damage(126)

‘Can I help you?’ I asked.

She approached me with reserve. Although I was wearing Jack’s grubby apron, she did not look at me with anything like disdain or reproach. She seemed, possibly, somewhat shy.

‘I have brought you a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘I wanted to apologise to you, actually, Dora. You must think me a frightful pig. I have been here well over a month now, and all I have done is dwell in my own misfortune.’

‘You have been rather preoccupied, Sylvia,’ I said consolingly. ‘It does not matter.’

‘But I haven’t once asked after you, or your work. Your husband passed away, your apprentice gone, you must be struggling so.’

‘I keep going,’ I said, ‘for Lucinda’s sake.’

‘Tell me about the slave; tell me about Dun.’

‘His name is Din.’

‘Silly me! I must have got confused with his colour! Oh, Dora, I do feel awful about it. We knew we were stretching decorum when we asked you to take him on, but I had no idea of the proximity it would involve. Are you frightened at times? You seem so brave.’

‘He is a nice man. He is quiet, and well behaved.’

‘Yes, but one never knows what they are thinking. You will be careful. You must make sure you never have to be alone with him. I should not like to encounter him.’

‘Encounter him? You saw him, here, just the other day.’

‘I did? I have been very distracted, Dora. I forget these things.’

‘You have also met him before. Or do you not remember that either?’

‘Excuse me? When have I met him?’

‘He told me you went all the way to Limehouse to find him, at the address he gave to Lady Grenville’s maid.’

‘Not I! What a ridiculous notion!’ We looked at each other as if to await comprehension. And then suddenly, she said, ‘Ah! I sent Buncie! With a chaperone, of course. I would not make such a perilous journey. Buncie did it. She’s a good girl like that. Goodness, did he think Buncie was me?’

‘He did,’ I said, and bit my lip. Should I say I knew about the evenings at Berkeley-square?

‘Is he of solid build, or is he slight?’

Goodness, I thought, maybe they had a rota of slaves, and she was trying to ascertain his identity through his physique.

‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘I will have words with the Society to get him moved from here.’

‘Really, Sylvia, he’s no trouble.’

‘Oh, Dora, you may think that you are safe, with your inelegant features, your drab clothes, but to such a one as he, it will not matter if you are suffering from the pox and have lost your nose to the syphilis!’ She burst into tears, and covered her eyes with her hands. ‘My dear, dear husband. What can he have been thinking of? As if I would betray him – and betray nature – like that. As if I would do that a . . . a . . . man of colour.’

‘Excuse me? I do not follow you, Sylvia.’

‘He said I had had an affair! That I must have had! With a – with a – with a man of – colour! That, goodness knows, I had opportunity enough under the auspices of what he called my Dreadful Society. His son, his baby Nathaniel, is a – a –’ here Lady Knightley’s voice was reaching a strained high pitch. ‘A half-caste!’

‘He is?’

‘He is! Or at least, Jossie says he is. He said he is . . . he is . . . an unusual hue. To which I protested that he merely bears the sun-flushed cheeks of his father! His colleagues said it was jaundice. But no, Jocelyn was not happy with that. He said the baby’s skull sutured closed much more quickly than a white skull should have done, and that this is a feature of the Negroid race, which has a retarded forebrain, and is therefore less intelligent. And he said other things too, which I can’t remember. Only he couldn’t prove them, and he was driven sick with lack of proof, and locked himself up in his study to find the answer amongst his books and notes, until he threw me out!’ Her chest heaved, and she burst into sobs. ‘I protested my innocence. I have only been faithful and true to my darling husband. My soul, I said to him, is lily-white,’ here her voice rose to a shout, ‘and so is the child’s!’

‘Calm yourself, Sylvia. Don’t take on so, dear. It is not the first of Sir Jocelyn’s monstrous theories I have heard. You have more sense than that; you know your own heart, your own actions.’ I tried to remember if I had ever noticed anything unusual about Nathaniel’s colouring. He was a lovely colour, I thought, like a freshly baked pie-crust. Nothing out of the ordinary.

A suspicion tried to cross my mind, but I dismissed it before it had taken so much as a step. Din would have told me, wouldn’t he? The thought attempted to re-enter my head despite my dismissal, but I wilfully restrained it at the edges of my reason.