A Red Sun Also Rises Page 2

  I didn’t know how to offer her the opportunity to wash without sounding indelicate, so I opted for blatancy and hurriedly said, “When a couple more pans have boiled, you’ll be able to—to—to bathe. I’ve placed clean clothing beside the tub. Please take whatever you need.”

  I felt my face glowing red.

  “You are very kind,” she responded softly.

  I topped up her glass and decided also to indulge. As I sat back down, she took a sip and muttered, “Bordeaux. From the Pomerol vineyards, I should say.”

  “Great heavens!” I blurted.

  She chuckled. “It’s not a claret I’d expect to find in the vicarage of a sleepy little Hampshire town. Are you a connoisseur?”

  “It’s a hobby of mine,” I admitted. “How is it that you possess a knowledge of wines?”

  “Reverend Fleischer, I’m happy to tell you my story in its entirety, and you must reveal to me how you know of the inventor Étienne Lenoir, but would you mind if we wait until after I’ve bathed? It is surely bad enough that I’ve intruded upon your day, but to do so with the odour of the road upon me, and to then remain and enjoy your hospitality without first correcting the problem, would be nothing short of uncivilised.”

  I acceded her point, and an hour later we reconvened in my sitting room, which, as she observed, more resembled an overstocked and chaotic library.

  Much to my surprise and confusion, Miss Stark not only appeared considerably younger—perhaps a couple of years my junior—now the grime was scrubbed from her, but had also dressed herself as a man, in trousers and white shirt, waistcoat and a light jacket. I’d heard of “bloomerism,” of course—it was much discussed in newspaper articles about female suffrage—but I’d never witnessed it “in the flesh,” so to speak.

  “The bloomerists wear trousers as a protest against the inconveniences of women’s attire,” my guest explained as she painfully manoeuvred her twisted form into an armchair by the fireplace. “For if a lady fails to hold up her skirts while out walking, the hems are soon soaked in all manner of foul substances. Yet they are made from such heavy linen that, after hoisting them up for half an hour, one’s wrist cramps and aches abominably. But this is beside the point. I’m no bloomerist. I chose this attire simply because it better suits the life I have been forced to lead.”

  I also sat. “Let us begin again, Miss Stark. You were telling me about it—your life—and that you came by your education in relation to a thing called an autocarriage.”

  “Yes, a conveyance invented by the late Lord Hufferton—Sir Philip—and, as you correctly supposed, similar to Étienne Lenoir’s Hippomobile.”

  “Powered by a combustion engine, then?”

  “No. The Lenoir engine consumes fuel inefficiently, is exceedingly noisy, and is forever overheating and seizing up. Sir Philip employed a steam engine instead. Have you heard of Thomas Rickett?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Of Buckingham. He invented a steam plough some twenty years ago, which inspired the Marquess of Stafford to commission a steam carriage from him. The machine Rickett constructed was a three-wheeler, with a rear-mounted coal-fired boiler and a two-cylinder engine. Power was transmitted via a chain connected to the right-hand rear wheel. Sir Philip employed a very similar design, but introduced into it a horizontal double-acting steam-powered beam engine, gave the vehicle four wheels, and connected the chain to the middle of the rear axle. The front seat could hold three passengers, the one in the middle steering with a tiller, accelerating by means of a regulator lever, and braking via a foot pedal.”

  “Fascinating! My goodness, Miss Stark, you appear to have a firm grasp of mechanical design, though I suppose that’s to be expected of anyone brought up in Hufferton’s orbit. But, I say, while I knew he collected such wonders for his museum, I had no idea he’d designed one himself. So this is the carriage his son took?”

  I’d supplied my guest with a fresh glass of wine. She imbibed a little, nodded, and said, “Rupert was a dreadfully disobedient child, forever getting into trouble. In 1870, he was thirteen and I was five. My parents and I lived in a tiny cottage on the estate. I used to stay with my mother in the manor’s kitchen until it was too dark for my father to be working outside. He’d then come to fetch me home. One evening, as he and I were crossing the grounds, the autocarriage came careening toward us, out of control, with Rupert at the tiller. It hit us square on, killing my father outright and breaking my back and legs.”

  I pondered this disaster for a few moments, then murmured,

  “‘When he shall die,

  Take him and cut him out in little stars

  And he will make the face of heav’n so fine

  That all the world will be in love with night

  And pay no worship to the garish sun.’”

  After a further pause, Miss Stark said, “I loved my father dearly. That is a very appropriate quote.”

  “It’s from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.”

  “I know. And I’m much impressed that you chose to reflect upon my loss rather than the calamity of my injuries. You accurately detected how I was most wounded that horrible day. Such power of insight must make you a very good priest, though I’m intrigued that you chose to recite Shakespeare rather than the Bible.”

  I shifted uneasily in my chair. “As a matter of fact, I don’t think I’m a very good priest at all. When I quote from the Bible, I rarely feel that it’s truly coming from my heart. But let’s not talk about me. Please continue with your story; I’m thoroughly captivated by it.”

  She looked into the fireplace, and the light of the flames momentarily turned her eye lenses a glaring red.

  “Lord Hufferton commissioned Edinburgh’s famous surgeon, Joseph Lister, to attend to me and ensure my survival. My convalescence was long and agonising, and despite that my internal injuries healed and my bones knitted together, over the ensuing years, as I grew, my body warped out of shape, causing me incessant pain. Six months after my father’s passing, my mother died—I think of a broken heart—and Sir Philip made himself my legal guardian. He transferred his affections to me, leaving Rupert, with whom he’d always had a difficult relationship, out in the cold. Tutors were hired, my education began, and I immediately found that the process of acquiring knowledge distracted from my pain. I was thus extremely attentive and diligent in my studies, and made rapid progress in a great many subjects. Most of all—due, no doubt, to the environment in which I lived—I developed a love for engineering. Sir Philip was very supportive of this, despite my gender. He allowed me free use of his extensive library, and of the museum and workshops, and took care to involve me in every one of his projects. We constructed traction engines together. We invented a steam-powered cable car system. We drew up blueprints for armoured war machines that could travel over the land or through the air—machines so huge they will never be built. We even perfected the autocarriage by returning to, and improving upon, Thomas Rickett’s original three-wheeled design.”

  “Lord Hufferton was obviously a very good man,” I observed.

  “Yes, he was. His generosity extended to my social education as well. He allowed me to attend his famous annual bals masqués, and told the guests that treating me with respect was a condition of their attendance. Inevitably, there were examples of the vacuous variety of young aristocrat at the soirées, and when one such suggested that I should have costumed myself as Quasimodo from Victor Hugo’s Hunchback of Notre-Dame, Sir Philip flew into an uncharacteristic rage and threw the fellow out by the seat of his pants. That, however, was an exception. The majority of guests were very generous to me. Can you imagine it? Me, sitting discussing philosophy and politics and science with men whose faces were hidden behind Viennese masks? Men who were the luminaries of High Society? They were the people who’ve shaped this land and its culture, and I, a mere slip of a girl, spent many an engaging evening in their company. I learned a great deal from them—predominantly, how to think.”

  “A
nd from the vacuous ones, how not to,” I ventured.

  “Precisely. I don’t mean to suggest that it was exclusively cerebral, though. The balls were marvellous fun, and Sir Philip always laid on a variety of entertainments, such as singers and acrobats and magicians. Such wonders! They were the happiest days of my life, Reverend.”

  “What an extraordinary young woman you are, Miss Stark! I feel positively embarrassed that I offered you shirts to darn!”

  She tut-tutted. “I can sew and look after a home just as well as the next woman. We made an agreement, Reverend Fleischer. You fed me. I will mend your clothes. I insist upon it.”

  “It really isn’t necessary, but thank you. How came you, then, to such dire straits?”

  “It’s very simple. Two years ago, Sir Philip suffered a seizure and died. Rupert became the new Lord Hufferton, inherited the estate, closed the museum, and threw me out onto the streets.”

  “What? How could he do such a thing when it was he who caused your injuries? Has he no conscience?”

  “What little guilt he may have harboured quickly turned to hatred. Perhaps he felt that he lost his father to me. Certainly, he always treated me with disdain and constantly mocked my appearance. Once, he encountered me in the grounds and snatched the goggles from my face, leaving me blinded and agonised by the sunlight.”

  I shook my head despairingly. “‘The Lord is known by his justice; the wicked are ensnared by the work of their hands.’”

  “From Psalm Nine, if I remember rightly,” she responded. “But judging by your earlier statement, should I take it that the sentiment comes not from your heart but from your head?”

  “My intellect tells me it’s appropriate to suggest that Our Lord will cause your tormentor to learn the error of his ways, but, frankly, my heart doubts the truth of it.”

  “Rupert is rich, influential, and living a very comfortable life, despite his bad reputation,” she responded. “While I’ve spent two years as a vagabond, spurned and isolated everywhere I go because of my appearance. It is, indeed, difficult to see any justice in it, or to have faith that justice will eventually come, whether by the hand of God or through the mechanism of karma.”

  I was moved by a sudden impulse. “Perhaps I can do a small thing to at least weigh the balance a little more in your favour. I need a sexton—someone to maintain the church, which is old and in disrepair, and the cemetery, which is overgrown. I would benefit from a housekeeper, too, just to keep the place tidy and free of dust, for I’m useless at such things. Would you be willing to fulfil such a role? There’s an outbuilding that could be converted into modest living quarters if you’re disposed to tackle it, and the Church would provide a small stipend for your services.”

  She said nothing, then leaned forward, and a quiet sob escaped her. It was an entirely unexpected response, and I felt horribly awkward that I’d been the cause of it, but I fully realised in that instant how dreadful the past two years had been for her, and was struck by a powerful sense of kinship. In truth, she and I couldn’t be more different, for she seemed a thoroughly authentic character—if you understand my meaning—for whom the world denied a place, while I, by contrast, felt rather a fake, though my position was secure. Nevertheless, a bond had formed.

  “You have my sincere gratitude,” she whispered.

  In this manner, my long association with the remarkably practical, resourceful, and inventive Clarissa Stark began. Many weeks passed before I could even begin to accurately gauge the extent of her abilities, but I can tell you now that she excels in engineering and chemistry, knows a great deal about medicine, is an artisan of unparalleled talent in metals and wood, and performs miracles as a cook, gardener, housekeeper, and bookkeeper. Much to my delight, I also discovered that she is well read in Latin, French, Spanish, Portuguese, and Dutch. For a man who studies in many languages, what could be more welcome than a companion with whom to discuss the merits of José de Cadalso y Vázquez, or the Comtesse de La Fayette, or João de Barros, or, of course, our own William Shakespeare?

  Occasionally, we even debated the Good Book.

  In intellect, we tended to come at things from opposing directions. I was always looking for evidence of God’s plan in man’s many innovations and accomplishments, whereas Miss Stark sought only to thoroughly understand and improve upon them, without reference to any possible divine influence. Her technical knowledge appeared inexhaustible. By contrast, I soon began to comprehend that my grasp of “things eternal” lacked equivalent depth, making of whatever wisdom I possessed a fairly useless commodity. Miss Stark one day advised that I could best address this problem by travelling.

  “It is not healthy that your engagement with the world is conducted through books alone. If you believe in the divine, then you must seek to witness it in action.”

  I considered this an unrealistic proposition. “Do you not think it more efficient to learn from what other men have written? Surely it would take me a lifetime to gain through direct means even a scrap of the knowledge that I can read on a single page.”

  “But it is experience that promotes insight and personal growth, Reverend. You must grasp life by the scruff of the neck and struggle with the challenges it presents, otherwise how can you progress as a human being? And if you do not progress as a human being, how can you contribute to the furtherance of our species, whether our advancement follows a divine design or not?”

  I shrugged this off, little suspecting that my naivety was about to propel the two of us along a path that would involve the dramatic furtherance not of mankind, but of a completely different order of being.

  Our opinions were also divided on the subject of evil. Miss Stark insisted that Rupert Hufferton was wicked by nature, but when she revealed to me that his mother had died during his birth, I was quick to observe that, just as I’d been mistaken in suggesting the poor were a “class” rather than the product of unfortunate circumstances, so she might be wrong in her assessment of her former tormentor.

  “Evil must be caused,” I insisted. “Is it not obvious that Sir Philip was prejudiced against his son as a consequence of his wife’s death? Rupert was a badly behaved child—and is now a dissolute adult—because he felt unloved, and perhaps even guilty. His misbehaviour was a cry for help.”

  “Tosh and piffle!” Miss Stark exclaimed. “The same misfortune was visited upon your family, yet your father doted on you, and you are kind and generous. Why different results from an almost identical circumstance?”

  “The source must be farther back,” I responded. “Sir Philip’s reaction was shaped, perhaps, by some ill that was done to him by his own parents.”

  My companion snorted dismissively and said, “Back and back and back until, no doubt, you arrive at Cain! But why stop there? Cain’s murder of Abel was prompted by a jealous rage, and that a response to God’s cruel preference for a blood sacrifice over a gift of fruit and grain. Must we then consider God as the source of evil?”

  “God is the epitome of good!” I objected.

  “So your argument falls down. Cause and effect are an insufficient explanation.”

  “Do you have an alternative?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe there’s no origin, and no point to evil at all. Perhaps it’s simply a component of some personalities, in the same way that gregariousness is, or shyness, or boldness, or timidity, or any other characteristic.”

  °

  In 1887, two years after Clarissa Stark joined me in Theaston Vale, the Tanner family arrived in the town, having moved from Southampton, and in them I saw demonstrated a wickedness that appeared to support my sexton’s assertion, for there was neither rhyme nor reason to it. The Tanners were simply bad.

  They were a large clan, headed by a brute of a man named Oliver who came to set up shop as the town’s new blacksmith. On their first Sunday in the parish, they attended my morning service, descending upon the church in an unseemly manner, with much shouting and boisterousness. Despite it being an early hour of
Our Lord’s day, the head of the family was obviously drunk and slurred his words as he introduced his pinch-faced wife, his three burly and sneering sons, and his two daughters, the youngest of whom was a mousy, runny-nosed girl of about ten years.

  The other was Alice.

  Alice—who promised Heaven and sent me to Hell.

  She was curly-haired, tall, and shapely, with dark direct eyes that glittered and flashed like those of an angry cat. Her beauty was mesmeric—and she used it with ruthless efficiency. When she stepped forward that morning, I, who had no defence, was conquered in an instant. I stammered like a fool and turned red as a beetroot. She giggled, fluttered her lashes, smiled coquettishly, and entered the church. Her father slapped my shoulder and emitted a bellow of laughter before following her in.

  The service that day was the worst of my life. Again and again, my gaze found its way to where Alice sat watching me with her lips curved into a slight smile, and each time I lost my train of thought and stumbled dreadfully in my speech. Meanwhile, the three Tanner boys disregarded me and talked to one another loudly throughout my liturgy, while their father sprawled with his head back and snored with the volume of a passing locomotive.

  The crudeness of her family notwithstanding, over the course of the next few weeks, I found myself thinking obsessively about the girl and the way she’d looked at me—with a challenge and an invitation—and when I discovered that her father had purchased a small allotment on the outskirts of town, and that she worked there each afternoon, I began to take daily postprandial strolls so I might walk by it and stop to exchange a few words with her. She was always polite but distant, regarding me with pursed lips and hooded eyes, as if she knew something about me of which I was not myself aware. Our conversations were short and restricted to meaningless observations about the weather or the progress of her vegetables. What few attempts I made at greater depth were met with a giggle and a dismissive wave of the hand. It was obvious she was sorely lacking in education, but like an idiot, and contrary to all the signs, I interpreted this as a sort of purity, seeing in her a wholesome naturalness through which the divine spirit might be expressed in an unadulterated manner.