Nautilus Knight

Brenda Clough

Description

For years publisher Theophilus Camlet has been discreetly distributing a pamphlet with some of the most incendiary information in Victorian England: birth control. When he is arrested for distributing pornography Marian's worst enemy seizes his chance to destroy her most valuable possession: her marriage. To save her husband's sanity Marian agrees to a false death certificate. But how long can she live as an impoverished widow and mother, when her man has fled to America?

Sujets

• Historical fiction
• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Book View Cafe
• Date de parution: 20 juillet 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781611389678
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Nautilus Knight
Brenda W. Clough

www.bookviewcafe.com
Book View Café edition July 20, 2021 978-1-61138-967-8 Copyright © 2021 Brenda W. Clough
Table of Contents
Foreword by Walter Hartright
Book 1
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marion Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Book 2
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Later
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
(on sheets of foolscap inserted into the journal volume)
Later
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Book 3
From the papers of Marian Halcombe Camlet
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
From the papers of Marian Halcombe Camlet
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Book 4
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
From the papers of Walter Hartright, M.P.
Read a sample from The Compass of Truth
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Acknowledgments
Also by Brenda Clough
Copyrights & Credits
About Book View Café
Foreword by Walter Hartright
My dearest wife Laura paused at the turn of the broadmarble stair to look for me. The great gallery at Cranmorden was thronged, murmuringwith happy anticipation. It was February, the Winter Ball, but the light of athousand candles made the ladies’ gowns into spring blossoms. Every delicatehue showed bright against the background of the gentlemen’s black formal dress.In the ballroom, the musicians’ twiddles and plinks resolved into melody asthey finished tuning their instruments. Soon the dancing would begin.
Laura’s ball gown was of the palest blue moiré,unadorned by lace or trim. It struck me, not for the first time, that her dressis too simple for her station in life. But pinned in the drape of the lowbodice was her sole ornament, a massive floral brooch. At this a princess wouldglance twice, for its central flower bud is an emerald the size of an unhulledwalnut. She flaunts it because I won the stone for her from a cenote in theHonduras. Like many emeralds, the gem is flawed. Hold the brooch up to the light,and the weakness is plain to be seen: a dark fissure in the jewel's green core.Set incautiously or struck by an unskilled hand, a magnificent gem will fallinto worthless fragments.
I raised a hand, and when she caught sight of meshe floated down the stair to put her satin-gloved hand into mine. “Howwonderfully fine we both look, my love,” she said with a shy smile. “I am soglad Marian insisted we come.”
But I was silent. I recognised the metaphor. Theemerald is the human heart. A thousand blows may rain down upon a man, and hewill laugh. But let the sole weak spot be struck, and he shatters, fallingforever into the abyss.
Book 1
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
London, 24 April 1868
The Varnishing Days at the Royal Academy's SummerExhibition are open only to the artists. But my brother-in-law Walter Hartrightslipped my husband and me into the gallery towards the end of the day. “Addressno one, if you would,” he warned as we mounted the broad shallow stair. “Evenif you recognise the artist. Their minds will be taken up with the final touches,and conversation is unwelcome.”
“Really, Walter,” I replied. “I cannot speak forTheo, but I myself am entirely civilised.”
“A wanton and unprovoked insult.” My dearesthusband squeezed my hand so that I did not dare to glance at him.
The galleries at Somerset House were indeedthronged, and far too small for the number of works. Everywhere painters dartedabout in a fever of anxiety, work smocks buttoned over their decent frockcoats, clutching paint-boxes and palettes and touching up their works even atthis final moment. I am not sure where the varnish comes into it! On the marblestair some exalted artist was quarrelling with a committee member about wherehis work had been hung.
Walter shepherded us past. “Laura shall not beable to bear the crowds, but once the work is returned to Limmeridge she looksto enjoy it daily.”
Theo peered at him through his round steelspectacles. “You are certain your painting will not sell.”
Walter’s smile was sheepish. “I set what I feltwas a fair price on the work: a hundred pounds. And then Laura trebled it.”
“Good girl,” I declared. “I’m proud of her.” Laurais transparent as glass, but in Walter’s cause she can be as cunning as – well,as me! “It must be the most expensive painting here.”
“It’s sharp dealing. Millais only got threehundred guineas for Ophelia , and that was unquestionably a masterpiece.”
“It’s fruitless to argue with a wife on such matters,”Theo advised. “Simply nod and move on.” He demonstrated this before an enormousdramatic canvas of Andromeda being rescued by Perseus. It was done in themodern highly-detailed style, so that one could discern every strand of theprincess’s long red hair and note from her bunions that she favoured overly-pointedshoes when she was not barefoot, nude, and chained to a rock. “To sit down to amuffin and behold a young woman wearing so very little would depress appetite.”
The smile under the swooningly-barbered moustache,which dipped down to join with the side whiskers, told me exactly what myhusband was thinking. He’s unutterably depraved! I was hard put to smother mylaughter, and Walter quelled me with a glance.
Even when Walter was a professional artist he hadnot aspired to these levels. This painting is the most ambitious work he hasever executed. He is not an Academian, and although outsiders may submit worksfor consideration, nine out of ten are rejected by either the Selection or theHanging Committees. To have Brunhilde Discovered accepted for the Exhibitionfulfilled a dream that I doubt Walter dared to articulate even in his inmostheart.
We approached it with reverence, as we would anicon in a church. The walls of the galleries are hung cheek by jowl with theselected paintings, and many works are so high they can barely be viewed. Themost desirable position, at eye level ‘on the line’ is reserved for membersonly. Walter's was above some grand RA member's seascape which occupied theprime spot, but this piece was smaller and so the more largely proportioned Brunhilde was not too high to be easily examined.
The work had its inspiration in a sketch he hadtaken of me, without my permission, as I lay in Theo's big bed at SandettHouse. Admittedly I was unconscious at the time! It did make for a dramaticpose, myself in bed under the covers but with my loosened hair pouring down topool on the floor. But to title the work Sleeping Beauty was a blatantfalsehood. I may have some minor comeliness, but I am emphatically no beauty. Myprotests forced poor Walter to begin the work afresh.
When I consider the mountainous obstacles thatsurrounded even acquiring the canvas, it’s a triumph that the work is at longlast complete. The bed canopy is gone and the heavy red bed curtains havebecome sheer, orange and yellow hues added to transform them into waveringwalls of flame. Over in the corner what had been a mahogany chifforobe is nowdistant snow-capped mountains, clearly inspired by our visit to the ItalianAlps a few years ago. Another yard or so of length has been added to theabundant black hair of the heroine, increasing its resemblance to an ebonywaterfall pouring into a rippling black pool, and her flannel nightgown sleeve isnow chain mail. And her sleeping face has been subtly prettified. Closed, theeyes are no longer so protuberant, and I am certain that British art loversshall prefer a Germanic roses and snow to my own rather swarthy complexion.
The hero Siegfried, on the further side of thebed, is an entirely new addition to the composition. He has just hauled herhelm off and is holding it to one side with his mouth agape, leaning back in amelodramatic attitude of startlement. Walter coerced one of the gardeners atLimmeridge to pose in this uncomfortable attitude hefting a flower pot. Butbetween his sweeping blue cloak and his upraised arm the hero's face is notterribly prominent.
The eye is instead drawn to the gleaming armour,glittering with gems, heaped beside the bed. The lady clasps to her breast agreat sword in a golden sheath that weighs down the covers, which have beenchanged from the homely coverlet to a very Nordic polar bear’s fur, head andall. Imaginative! No one I know possesses such a rug. Walter must have spenthours outside the polar bears’ cage at the zoological garden, studying the fallof light on its shaggy pelt.
“Did you take sketches at the British Museum?” Istood on tiptoe to see better. “Surely a German warrior maiden is not going towear a Roman corselet.”
“This isn’t history,” Theo reproached me. “It’sart, and of the most romantic. You handle surfaces well, Hartright. I candistinguish gold, brass, and silver inlay with ease. And one may almost feelthe bear’s pelt and the velvet of the hero’s cloak.” He examined the plaque atthe bottom of the massive frame. “And this blue label. Is it significant?”
“Label?” Walter looked, and started. “There mustbe some mistake.”
“You aren’t alone,” I said. “See, that one overthere has one.” I nodded at a portrait of three girls by Millais, an artist sofamed even I can recognise his work.
“It’s a 'sold' label,” he said, in strangledtones. “There’s an error. Excuse me, Marian, Camlet.” He pushed through the crowdand vanished.
Theo went on musing with his usual practicality. “Howbeautifu