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Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [171]

By Root 1411 0
and with it the announcement of their betrothal; and it seemed to Erasmus that the changes in the seasons and all the sights and sounds around him were merely portents of this stupendous event. It was there in the usual din of the streets, in the smells of raw cotton and hemp that surrounded him in the warehouse, as it was in the silver skies of the March evenings, the bright drifts and linings burrowed out by the sun in the banks of cloud over the Mersey and the ruffling breezes over the water. There later in the new crop of dock and nettle in the waste ground and the songs of larks above the fields outside the city, the air full of climbing, singing birds, rending and repairing the sky with song. And the time from that freezing day when he had looked at the map with his father to this joyous stitching of the larks was for Erasmus all one indeterminate period of waiting.

Three days before the event, in the early afternoon, he rode over to the Wolpert house, having asked leave beforehand. Afterwards he could not remember any of the words he had exchanged with his father in parting – commonplace words in any case. But he remembered that his father had evaded his eyes.

It was around the time of year he had first ridden over to the house on the pretext of visiting Charles. He remembered his feelings of humiliation, his failure to understand the ancient footman – still in service there, more doddery than ever now – the clear, unearthly singing that had come to him through the trees and brought him stumbling into the open to be enrolled as Ferdinand …

Things were very different now. On the day of Sarah’s birthday she would be his by tide, by consent, by public acknowledgement. He would never again be required to go against the grain of his nature in order to please her. She would love and respect him too much ever to require it.

In the light of these triumphant feelings familiar sights seemed new this afternoon. The beeches bordering the avenue, in full leaf now, were a fresher green than he could remember, the singing of hidden warblers more deliberately sweet. In the parkland the chestnut trees were candled with blossom and the terraces below the house were vivid with geraniums.

He was early, which meant he could take his tea alone with Sarah and her mother, old Wolpert and Charles being out at business still and the younger brother, Andrew, in the schoolroom under the eye of his tutor. Afternoon sunshine filled the room, entering through the tall French windows. In this radiant light Erasmus looked round him and felt the same triumph, the same sense of newness in familiar things. The water-colours on the walls, the needlework over the chimneypiece embroidered by Sarah’s maternal grandmother, now dead, Mrs Wolpert’s beaded work-box on the low table beside her, the fine set of moulded beakers on their glass shelf, all possessed a special effulgence on this day. It was in this room, he remembered suddenly, that he and Sarah had once come face to face, during rehearsal of the play. He had been looking for his book … He had failed in address that day, failed miserably, but she had known – he remembered the wave of colour that had come to her face. Afterwards she had seemed to disregard everything in her eagerness to play Miranda. How he had hated that transformation, all that posturing and make-believe. And the nonsense of an enchanted island where divisions could be healed and enemies reconciled … He would never allow such a thing to happen again. He caught Sarah’s eye and saw that she was happy.

Most of the time they spent discussing the arrangements. Flowers had been ordered – carnations, red and white. Invitations had been sent out long ago – there were more than a hundred on the list of guests. There was to be a ball, with an orchestra of five. If the weather stayed fine supper would be served out of doors on the terrace.

‘We can dance out of doors, too,’ Sarah said. ‘We can dance on the lawns.’ Her face wore its usual delicate composure, in which there was always something impervious, or perhaps obstinate; but her

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