The Journal of Dora Damage(35)
‘If he is that taken with my work, what matters a woman’s input? Dora is only my hands while mine do not function. She has no head for the work.’
‘Sir Jocelyn is a scientist, Mr Damage.’ Mr Diprose sounded exasperated. ‘He needs a binder for his life’s works. His area of speciality is ethnography. Primitive peoples, Mr Diprose. His mastery in the fields of phrenology, physiognomy, and, ah, the baser urges of mankind, have led him to a far greater understanding of the savage nations than anyone has heretofore achieved. He is feted in the Scientific Society. But, really, must I impress upon you the dire consequences of exposing literature of that ilk to women? La donna è mobile. It will addle their brains and disturb their constitutions.’
‘I am in complete accord . . . I had not appreciated . . . My dear wife . . . But, Mr Diprose, there is no reason why we could not continue with more Bibles, and journals, and the like?’ Peter had started to plead. It did not make pleasant listening. ‘Bland stuff? Women’s stuff? And when my hands are healed, I can satisfy the wishes of this eminent Lord Knightley. Please. Mr Diprose? I should be most . . . most grateful.’
Diprose gave pause; the pleading no doubt swelled his philanthropic nature. I heard the click of his briefcase, and a rustle of papers.
‘It troubles me to see the vine of talent and dedication withering in the stony soil of tribulation. I like to reach out to those in desperate circumstances.’ I wondered to myself if Mr Diprose might be a bachelor, or a widower, for he would have made a fine match with Mrs Eeles, neither of them being able to resist the whiff of desperation. ‘I have here a small prayer-book. It is in the same type as the Bible, and again, first in Latin, then hand-scribed, but it is to be folded smaller: it is, as you will see, vigesimo-quarto, instead of sextodecimo. It must form part of the same set.’ There was another rustle of papers, and the sound of an envelope being ripped open, followed by a chinking of coins. ‘An advance for the commission,’ he said. ‘It was to be two manuscripts, unfortunately, but the second is of the sensitive nature I have previously described, and I deem it inappropriate to leave with you.’ He counted out some coins, then poured the rest into his coat pocket.
‘And you – you won’t breathe a word of this to the union , will you?’ Peter begged, as Mr Diprose got up to leave.
‘So, you are asking me to keep your secret. Good day, Mr Damage. And bon chance.’
Peter tumbled into the kitchen, sucked of strength, and lay on the cold floorboards. I went into the workshop, counted the coins, and ran to the pharmacy.
Chapter Six
Old Boniface he loved good cheer,
And took his glass of Burton,
And when the nights grew sultry hot
He slept without a shirt on.
'You are most fortunate to be married to a modern man like myself,’ Peter announced between bouts of vomiting. The ipecacuanha was taking effect, and his guts were retaliating. ‘Most members of the weaker sex are never permitted to be seen beyond the confines of their houses. If they have to go to market, they go straight there, then return home directly. If they do not have to go to market, the tradesmen come to their doors.’ But he was wrong. A woman’s life could never truly lack visibility, no matter how low or high her rank: women who went to market were exhibits; women who never went to market were exhibited at balls and parties instead. Still, I nodded politely, and held his hair back from his head as he suffered a particularly violent retch that would have come from his very bowels, had they not recently been purged with calomel. ‘You are blessed indeed to have a husband with my nature,’ he said again, spitting strings of bitter gastric juices from his mouth. I agreed with him.
The emetic exhausted him quickly, and he took to his bed, with strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed. But I was anxious without his guiding eyes. The prayer-book might have been smaller than the Bible, but the expanses of red morocco that required regulation diaper tooling taunted me, despite my relative success with the Bible. I feared I would make a mistake on the first row of pineapples, or the last, which could not feasibly take a vellum insert. Jack was still teasing me about Moive Bibble, which did nothing for my confidence, and I knew Lucinda was suffering from my absence. She was more than capable of amusing herself, of course, but a child needs her mother in ways far greater than a workshop needs its binder, a house its cleaner, or even a husband his wife. Not to mention that the river ran in both directions: I was suffering from Lucinda’s absence no less.
I fretted over the binding all day as I went about my chores; I did not trust myself to start work without Peter. But the following day he refused to assist me again, so I determined to settle on a design that played to my strengths and the materials available to me. It was to be a half-binding of red morocco, using the remaining soft yellow silk for the front and back, embroidered in the same colours as the watercolour on the front of the Bible. Then I planned to paint a biblical scene on a piece of Dutch paper, which I would use as a doublure. I was bending the brief so far that it was likely to snap, but I had to trust that by remaining true to its spirit, the books would still qualify as ‘matching’.