‘Which seems to suit you perfectly, madam,’ Sir Jocelyn remarked, and I blushed in an unseemly fashion for I knew he was teasing me.
‘Will you show me around, Mrs Damage?’ Sir Jocelyn said. He had started to stroll around the workshop, so I stood up quickly, and laid the doll gently on the bench, as if rough handling might hurt her.
‘I’ll leave here for you, if ever you feel like it,’ I whispered, and indeed, as I turned to follow his roaming frame, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, that Lucinda had stealthily taken the thing off the bench and was investigating it at closer quarters.
I barely reached his shoulders, for he was a big man, yet he moved around the benches with perfect balance and agility, and I knew from the flashing and glittering of his eyes that he was taking in every detail, down to the absence of my Peter.
‘I congratulate you on the cleanliness of the place, Mrs Damage. I imagine that is not as easy task in Lambeth. Sometimes I loathe city life and yearn for the open veld. Or if it must be a city, make it Paris. I was born there; my father was French, did you not know?’
‘No, I did not. Is Knightley a French name?’
‘His name was Chevalier. I was orphaned young, and brought up in Worcestershire by my aunt, who decided to anglicise it. So, Knightley. But Sir Jocelyn Chevalier has a ring to it, does it not? You have been to Paris, Mrs Damage?’
I shook my head.
‘The air affords wondrous clarity; the city rings pure. It is to the hideous opacity of London as heaven is to hell. I resent the return to London. I notice its stench most when I do.’
It was as if I mattered to him, and I knew I was succumbing to his derring-do and dash.
He picked up one of the books on the table, and ran his finger over the ivy-leaf wreath. ‘Hedera helix. Not the gentlest of plants. A hostile assailant, with quick, hardy runners; it deprives its host of sunlight, with a resultant loss of vigour, and eventual demise. I should recommend it to the Foreign Office as an emblem for the construction of Her Majesty’s Empire.’
‘You are too harsh on the plant, Sir Jocelyn,’ I said. ‘Pray tell me, what does not injure that to which it clings?’
‘A very good question, Mrs Damage. I see you are no stranger to the philosophies of love.’ He pretended to ponder, as we shared the joke. ‘Woodbine,’ he finally answered, with mock triumph, and returned to the ivy wreath. ‘Your tooling is excellent,’ he said. ‘Strange to think we find such beauty in the posthumous scarification and gilding of an animal’s hide. Like a tattoo, on dead skin.’ Then he ceased his musing, seized one of my hands, and turned it over to stroke the palm, like a fortune-teller at a fair. ‘Do these delicate hands really do all this hard work?’
I nodded, and he started to chuckle.
‘Why are you laughing?’ I asked, slightly indignant.
‘Why, Mistress Binder? I will tell you why. Because you make me happy. And why do you make me happy? Because of your ingenuity, and your creativity, and your bravery.’ He waited before delivering each attribute to me, like a gift on platter. ‘Ah, Mrs Damage. You delight me. You are the fresh air we need in this stale old business. These are sumptuous, supple bindings, for men like me, who do not wish simply to read and shelve our books.’ Then he added casually, ‘Did you enjoy the Decameron?’
‘Yes, thank you, sir.’
‘Translated by John Florio, 1620. It’s about time someone did a more modern version. With all one hundred stories. I pity poor Alibech, whose tale of putting the devil back into hell gets left out every time. Possibly I should . . . why, there’s a capital idea! You see, Mrs Damage, what purpose science without its application to human existence? On my travels through the Orient I have gained wisdom of the sensual side of human nature, which has informed and transformed my scientific study, such that my purpose is now the liberation of our oh-so-corseted society from the restraints of decency and prudery as an urgent matter of health and well-being. Is this not a far greater, and more necessary, import to this country than tea or sugar or pineapples? The sacred texts of the East, along with, of course, the buried classics of Greece and Rome – buried by priggish translations and expurgated editions, I mean – and more recent works such as the Decameron: these are works which captivate, and which liberate, and no, that is not a semantic impossibility, and it is what England needs. Our literature is chaste and ailing, because we as a society are chaste, and ailing.’ Here he leaned conspiratorially towards me, and said in a stage whisper, ‘And were not your husband’s bindings terribly chaste, Mrs Damage, and is not he ailing?’