Chapter Text
TWICE or thrice had I loved thee,
Before I knew thy face or name ;
So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame
Angels affect us oft, and worshipp'd be.
Still when, to where thou wert, I came,
Some lovely glorious nothing did I see.
But since my soul, whose child love is,
Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do,
More subtle than the parent is
Love must not be, but take a body too ;
And therefore what thou wert, and who,
I bid Love ask, and now
That it assume thy body, I allow,
And fix itself in thy lip, eye, and brow.
—John Donne, “Air and Angels”
Prologue: The Passing of William Pratt, A Brief Narrative on the Life and Death of a Poet
Extraordinary natures are bound to find themselves, rather too often indeed, encumbered by layers of mediocrity. How many ears, straining after the ephemeral sounds of eternity, will lose that graceful melody in the dull hum of machinery or the simpering chatter of dinner guests? Lucky are they who catch even a fleeting glimpse, the barest arrested note—enraptured, they carry this secret treasure in their hearts until the day cold soil wrests it from them. Lifetime after lifetime, always grasping after a secret symphony, they spill their ink to capture something that inevitably melts into nothing but air.
But what of those who cheat their earthy mistress? That mute inglorious Milton, who sells his soul for a glimpse of Eden. Having beheld its divine effulgence, will he turn his art to death? Or, having caught the spark, will he shelter it within the cave of his unbeating heart in expectation of the day when love’s sweet breath might fan it into a raging flame?
William Pratt had all his life been acutely aware of his painful mediocrity. He was a gentleman as far as anyone was concerned, and a respectable one at that, having finished with highest honors his education at Oxford and being presently the manager of his father’s considerable estate. If not strictly of the old order, the Pratts were well enough connected to command a proper sort of approval in most social circles. And it is a commonly acknowledged truth that the life of such a gentleman must be easy and luxurious and, above all, remarkably dull.
He read indiscriminately. The great Bard was his chief adviser and Lord Byron his most intimate confidant. His boyhood had been spent in rapturous wonder, all streaming banners floating in the wind and glinting steel that resounded clear as it met its mark against shimmering armor. There was glory to be won and honor to be upheld. Later, there were maidens to be defended in the name of love so pure it made the heart sing out. Later still, there were silent meditations on beauty and grace found in the slope of a rolling knoll or the curve of a snow-white brow.
Young William gave his days to the dutiful recitation of paradigms and his nights to quenching the ardent thirst of his imagination. He devoured comedy, tragedy, and history alike. He raged against nature’s fury on the pale cliffs of Dover even as he sat in contemplation under the dark sycamore above Tintern Abbey. The romantic ideals of his early manhood proved a forgiving lens; he lived each day in the tremulous hope that these most earnest longings of his heart might find their gratification, if not through the advent of some wondrous adventure, then perhaps in the clear countenance of some beautiful creature upon whom he would bestow his fervent worship.
Yet the years passed, and the world’s heavy monotony weighed upon him. Perhaps, had he been granted a harsher lot in life, he might have found satisfaction in the urgency of daily labor. But, being such as he was, the ease of his existence grated at his restless mind with dull-edged instruments. It began to occur to him that the splendid ecstasies of spirit he had so long dreamt of may not have been meant for him, after all. For there was nothing extraordinary about this world and, by logical extension, there was certainly nothing extraordinary about him. The quotidian bustle of business and polite society that surrounded him only served to reinforce this gnawing suspicion: he was abhorrently unexceptional.
William wrote. Painstakingly applying pen to paper, he struggled to capture that elusive splendor that somehow loomed ever beyond the grasp of his rude faculties. In the quiet cavern of his study, his mind strained after the subtle vibrations of a luminescent harmony he so intensely longed to perceive. Even as his labors yielded failure after failure, the impenetrable depths of his heart housed a hope that the faded thread of his destiny might yet hold some hidden luster.
Then, one morning, William awoke with the most curious sensation that he was forgetting something extremely important. He woke, just as was his typical habit, no more than a quarter of an hour after the day’s first light. But as he did so, he was embarrassed to find himself in a rather scandalous state of dishabille—whatever had happened to his bedclothes? Having battled his way through an uncharacteristically rumpled set of sheets and bedcoverings, he finally rose to discover his regular clothes discarded on the hearthrug next to the long-extinguished fire. The garments were damp, but he had no memory as to how they might have attained such a state. He did not feel as though he’d been drinking—though, come to think of it, his muscles did ache ever so slightly. Finally giving up memories of the previous night as a lost cause, he set about preparing for the day. His fingers slipped inattentively as he buttoned his jacket, his mind occupied with things rather more abstract than the intricacies of coat fastenings.
He walked through the house quietly, as if in a daze—the cook was making an awful lot of noise with what he only imagined must have been the tea kettle down in the servants’ quarters and Hutchins, his mother’s lady’s maid, was flitting about, witlessly rearranging vases and dusting off trinkets. This wasn’t her job, strictly speaking, but she had been charged with a fair share of the housekeeping duties since they’d dismissed a couple of their other maids. Mrs Pratt therefore made a daily practice of reminding her that the downstairs rooms must be kept especially tidy for the benefit of any unexpected visitors. One never knew who might choose to drop in on a whim, after all. William held the secret opinion that unexpected visitors posed no alarming threat—hardly anyone came to visit them anymore, unexpected or otherwise—but one had to keep up appearances.
He graced Hutchins with one final glance over his shoulder, as she almost succeeded in toppling one of his mother’s favorite porcelain figurines with a particularly enthusiastic flutter of her feather duster, and opened the door to the garden.
Having settled on his customary bench just beside the rosebush, which was now in the full glory of wilting, William took out his journal and opened it to a blank page. He’d felt himself simply brimming with words upon waking, but now they seemed to have all evanesced into cloudy strains of half-formed syllables, as words were wont to do. He struggled to recall what it was that had called forth his sudden rush of inspiration—perhaps it had been a dream—yes, it seemed that he remembered having a dream, insomuch as one ever remembered such things.
There had been a lady—William chuckled inwardly—of course, there was always a lady. Indeed, his fool mind seemed capable of dreaming of nothing but this strain of sentimental absurdity. And ladies were all manners of spectacular, of course, but a man was obliged to be practical. He knew perfectly well that his mother wanted him to marry—truth be spoken, he was not at all averse to the prospect himself—but William’s idea of connubial bliss seemed to differ quite drastically from the numerous examples he observed being paraded quite shamelessly at the most fashionable social gatherings.
In his entire circle of acquaintances, there was but one lady whom he considered to be above the meanness of the rest. There was something extraordinary about young Miss Cecily Underwood—something that separated her considerable charms from the petty imitations of the rest. Though one could observe her for hours and not know it, William perceived that there was something unique and mysterious about her.
But, all that was of no matter. He dared not presume to approach her, choosing instead to admire her radiant beauty from a distance, and then, he had his mother to think of. Anne Pratt had all her life taken care of him, and he would be deserving of the worst kind of damnation if he did not repay that kindness by taking care of her through these last few remaining years. And she was a remarkable woman, his mother. She’d doted on him like no other and it was only in her eyes that he ever felt himself to resemble that which he had always longed so earnestly to be: someone exceptional.
Expelling a heavy sigh, William propped the journal up on his knee and mindfully lowered the tip of his pen to the smooth surface of the page. The words, like stubborn children, refused to form a tidy queue so as to properly be set to paper. There was something he was missing—a thing he appeared to have lost somewhere along the outer reaches of his half-waking mind—but try as he might, he could neither capture nor fully relinquish the odd sensation. He simply had no choice at this moment but to write.
He strained himself, but the words still declined to appear of their own accord, so, assiduously, he began to scribble: My soul is wrapped in harsh repose…
***
The remainder day had passed by rather uneventfully, which was hardly out of the ordinary. William had left the garden no more than an hour later to see to some business, offering his mother a warm good morning on his way through the parlor and out of the house. He’d not be returning home for dinner that night, he told her, as there was a gathering of sorts held by the Dawsons. It was hardly his preferred mode of entertainment, but he knew it would give her some small measure of satisfaction to imagine him socializing with his peers; and besides, Cecily would likely be there.
William arrived at the Dawson residence rather late—the clerks never could be trusted to put all matters into good order without his oversight—he exited the cab, casting a cursory glance over the street before heading for the entrance. These parties were often rowdy affairs, continuing well into the long hours of the night. This night, especially, had been advertised as an event of particular magnificence. It was the fall equinox and, with Mrs Dawson having recently gotten herself embroiled in a number of fashionable esoteric societies, anyone who was anyone had been invited to celebrate the ancient festival of Mabon with proper pagan decadence.
The Dawsons resided in an appropriately posh part of town and, though the hour was getting on, the street was still littered with people; couples, mostly, likely on their way home from theater, and young ladies with their escorts heading to this party or that could be seen along the main promenade. There was only one figure that seemed out of place—an odd-looking boy was watching him intently from an alley across the way—William instinctively placed his hand over his pocket, but the child didn’t appear to be interested in his money. He’d been eyeing William in the strangest way but, having apparently become privy to the fact that he’d been detected, the boy slid back into the shadows.
William shook his head, attempting to rid himself of the uneasy feeling that this peculiar figure’s appearance had stirred within him, then turned to enter the grand residence. Once inside, he made his customary rounds—one was bound by decorum to a certain measure of small talk, after all—and, having littered the room with a proper smattering of how-do-you-do’s and lovely-evening-isn’t-it’s, he settled into a quiet corner, where he pulled out his journal once more.
There had been a sort of irksome itch around his mind all the day through, like the words were trying to scratch their way out from the recesses of his brain. The poem, however, wasn’t shaping up nearly as well as he might have liked. William was not sure how long he had spent ruminating in that corner—surely it was well past midnight now. But the verse stubbornly refused to yield.
He reached for a fitting word. “Luminous... oh, no, no, no. Irradiant's better,” he mumbled to himself, absentmindedly.
A footman went gliding by, stopping to approach him with a tray. “Care for an hors d'oeuvre, sir?” he droned.
Hors d’oeuvres were decidedly the last thing on William’s mind at the given moment. “Oh, quickly!” he found himself muttering, rather despite his better judgment. “I'm the very spirit of vexation. What's another word for ‘gleaming’?” The man gave him blank look bespeaking an impressive combination of silent mockery and polite incomprehension. William continued, undaunted, striving to clarify. “It's a perfectly perfect word, as many words go, but the bother is nothing rhymes, you see.”
The footman donned a patronizing smile before moving off into the crowd and William silently reprimanded himself. One knew one’s standing to be falling to shambles when even the servants failed to take one seriously. But that hardly seemed to matter because in the next moment his eyes traveled well past the insolent footman’s retreating back to settle on the fine figure of a young woman who had just entered the room.
“Cecily—” William breathed quietly, and suddenly all was right in the world once more. She was a glorious vision of perfection, Miss Cecily Underwood, with her luminous eyes, her dainty smiles, and her soft curls.
A funny sort of flutter palpitated through his chest—surely, this was what he’d been waiting for—it all seemed to come so effortlessly now. He returned to his poem with sudden fervor, jotting several lines without so much as ever seeing the words themselves, then rose, the open book still clasped in his hands, all but forgotten.
Cecily had joined Richard, the youngest Dawson son, who stood in a small circle of acquaintances, apparently engaged in lively conversation. No one could fault the Dawsons on much of anything; they were an old family and very well connected. Very comme il faut. Their sons always attended the best colleges and their daughters always married into the most well-to-do families.
Richard Dawson had been at Oxford with William. They hadn’t been friends, exactly, but Dawson had always been civil enough, at least when it suited him to be thus. For his part, William was rather sure that their relationship was one of convenience—Dawson was not unknown to come to him for advice on all sorts of matters that he was either too slothful, or, as William often suspected, simply too dull-witted to work through himself—and, all this besides, he had apparently discovered quite early in their acquaintance that William made for a spectacular punching-bag when the mood was proper. William tolerated the above, largely because he had neither the patience nor the force of character to overturn the dynamic, and partially because having the likes of Richard Dawson on one’s side, whatever the circumstances, was hardly something one scoffed at.
William approached the group cautiously, hovering in the background as he caught the line of their conversation. “I merely point out that it's something of a mystery and the police should keep an open mind,” Abigail Vincy pronounced dramatically, looking quite pleased with herself on account of having made such an obviously astute assertion.
“Ah, William!” exclaimed Dawson in greeting, having perceived William’s form over Miss Vincy’s shoulder. “Favor us with your opinion. What do you make of this rash of disappearances sweeping through our town? Animals or thieves?”
William made his way around Miss Vincy to join the circle and found himself directly across from Cecily’s uncertain countenance. His shirt collar felt suddenly all too tight.
“I prefer not to think of such dark, ugly business at all,” he commented lightly. “That's what the police are for.” He hazarded a tentative glance over at Cecily, noting, to his vexation, the disapproving tilt of her delicate eyebrows. “I prefer placing my energies into creating things of beauty,” he hastened to add, giving her a meaningful look as he raised the open pages of his journal demonstratively.
Dawson, unlike Cecily, appeared rather amused by this turn of conversation. “I see,” he said snappily, stepping forward to snatch the top page out of William’s hands. “Well, don't withhold, William.”
“Rescue us from a dreary topic,” Abigail Vincy contributed haughtily.
“Careful,” William exclaimed, reaching for the page. The withering look Dawson shot him, however, ruled out any likely chance he’d had of retrieving his composition without an unnecessary scene. It was a look he’d come to recognize over the years, and one that said, quite plainly, that Richard Dawson’s present desires were not to be interfered with. He tried again, more softly this time, still reaching for the sheet. “The inks are still wet. Please, it's not finished.”
But Dawson had detected weakness; he was not to be deterred, now. “Don't be shy,” he assured William ironically, turning his eyes to the page. “My heart expands, 'tis grown a bulge in it, inspired by your beauty, effulgent… Effulgent?” He turned to William questioningly, as if genuinely disappointed to the brink of offense by his poor use of poetic lexicon.
If asked to objectively evaluate his own work, William might have judged that “effulgent” was hardly the more criminal member of that particular rhyme, but his mind was no longer on the poem. Cecily had dropped her gaze in embarrassment as soon as Dawson had begun to read, and presently, rather than joining the rest of the group in an outburst of uproarious laughter, she had turned and walked off, her head hung low in shame.
William’s heart might have stopped. He shot Dawson an angry glance before snatching his poem out of the man’s fingers and turning to follow Cecily.
“And that's actually one of his better compositions,” he heard Daniel Hornby, who had until now stood silently at Abigail Vincy’s side, occasionally shooting appreciative glances at the neckline of her dress, exclaim through another burst of laughter. He glared scathingly at the back of Hornby’s head, but, as could have been expected, to little effect.
“Have you heard?” Miss Vincy positively squealed in amused excitement. “They call him William the Bloody because of his bloody awful poetry!”
William could hear Dawson’s voice responding, even as he had made his way almost to the other side of the parlor. “It suits him. I'd rather have a railroad spike through my head than listen to that awful stuff!”
Rather despite himself, William briefly hypothesized that it might not be altogether terrible, should a railroad spike somehow come to find itself in close proximity to Richard Dawson’s head. But, before he could follow that unsavory train of thought any further, his eyes fell upon poor Cecily, who was perched gracefully on the sofa, away from the bustle of the party and gazing through the window as if wishing she were somewhere else entirely.
“Cecily?” he called to her gently.
She turned towards him, eyes widening as her mouth formed a quiet “Oh!” of surprise. “Leave me alone,” she said bitterly, fanning herself in an agitated fashion as she turned away once more.
“Oh,” he chuckled nervously and lowered himself to sit across from her, waving a dismissive hand at that particular spot in the crowd from which he could still detect the emanation of Dawson’s mocking laughter. “They're vulgarians. They're not like you and I.”
Cecily lowered her fan abruptly, eyes glinting in a way he was not at all accustomed to. She seemed wholly unfamiliar to him, somehow—as though some strange new mask had fallen into place—or, perhaps, it was more as though some old mask had suddenly slipped away.
“You and I?” she asked, her tone unexpectedly confident, almost lofty. “I'm going to ask you a very personal question and I demand an honest answer. Do you understand?
William nodded eagerly. It appeared that whatever it was he had thought he’d detected in Cecily’s tone was gone now—she seemed soft and delicate as ever, her face an open scape of wide eyes and charmingly pretty blushes—and it occurred to him that perhaps something good might come to emerge out of this horrid debacle after all.
“Your poetry, it's—they're—not written about me, are they?” she asked anxiously.
“They're about how I feel,” said William. It was an honest answer, after all, and he did not wish to shock her by being overly bold, but Cecily did not appear to be satisfied.
“Yes, but are they about me?” she insisted.
He hadn’t planned on declaring himself to her tonight, and certainly not in a manner such as this, but it seemed, now, that there would be no helping it. William took a quick breath and prayed for courage.
“Every syllable,” he uttered resolutely.
“Oh, God!” exclaimed Cecily, her hand coming up to cover her face.
William had to admit that this was not entirely the reaction he’d been hoping for, but perhaps it was to be expected. All in all, it must be quite unsettling for a young lady to be approached in so abrupt a manner.
“Oh, I know,” he replied soothingly, even as her expression seemed to become more tortured with every word. “It's sudden and—please, if they're no good, they're only words but—the feeling behind them—I love you, Cecily.”
He gazed at her hopefully, willing her to understand the depth of his feelings—if only she knew, she couldn’t possibly—
“Please stop!” Cecily exclaimed, turning away from him.
William’s heart was breaking, as he’d never imagined was possible, and he could think of nothing but that he must try to make her understand, for if only she could condescend to understand, she would see past his many defects into the great and profound depths of his affection. “I—I know I'm a bad poet,” he stammered, “but I'm a good man and all I ask is that—that you try to see me—”
“I do see you,” she interrupted, turning to face him once more. “That's the problem. You're nothing to me, William.” She rose then, towering over him as she pinned him with those hatefully beautiful eyes, and uttered the one phrase that would remain etched into his mind like a fiery brand to the very end of his existence. “You're beneath me.”
And so, with a swish of her skirts, she had gone, leaving him staring after her with the acute feeling that the world was crumbling down around him into a spectacular myriad of crystalline fragments, each of them as sharp and painful as the last. Thus, his gaze aloof and unfixed as his vision dissolved into an indistinguishable array of form and color—it was perhaps, the tears that were responsible for this particular phenomenon, and yet, his eyes felt excruciatingly dry—William also rose and made his way through the crowd out into the cool night air.
***
He was vaguely aware of the surprising fact that his feet were moving—how odd that was, since he seemed to be exerting no conscious effort to such an end—and he was transported down the street, past the lights and the horses and the people, still milling around, blissfully unaware as they were of the reality that the world had just come to an abrupt end. William staggered down the street, his shaking fingers mauling the hateful leaf of paper that had brought down his entire world. Another figure loomed before him, this one considerably larger and more solid, and he reeled at the impact, the shredded fragments of his life tumbling to the ground.
“Watch where you're going!” cried William to the offending man, kneeling to gather the torn pages.
The stranger passed him by without taking any note, his female companions sidestepping William as their swaying skirts brushed his shoulders, their carefree laughter ringing through the street. William pushed himself off the ground and headed for an alley across the way, in hopes that perhaps he might find some quiet there, away from the late-night bustle of the city.
He sank down onto some neatly stacked bales of hay—most likely they had been deposited there in wait of being taken into the stables of the considerably large residence alongside which he’d found himself—and continued to ineffectually tear the mangled papers still clutched in his hands. He fixed his eyes on the tattered remains—across the topmost scrap he could just barely make out what must have once read as “effulgent,” written out in his neat slanting script—William clenched his jaw to prevent more tears from falling. He was a man, after all, and a downright fool to have allowed himself such a disgraceful display of emotion.
“And I wonder,” a languid voice sounded from just a few feet away. “What possible catastrophe came crashing down from heaven and brought this dashing stranger to tears?”
William turned his head in the direction of the voice and came face to face with the second arresting vision of his night. A beautiful woman with lush dark curls stood serenely before him—he halfheartedly noted that her features had something of Cecily’s in them—her dark liquid eyes gazed at him enchantingly.
But he’d had quite enough of that for the evening. “Nothing,” replied William curtly. “I wish to be alone.”
“Oh, I see you,” she continued, unabashed. “A man surrounded by fools who cannot see his strength, his vision, his glory.” William followed her graceful movements, quite despite himself, unable to untangle his attention from amongst her enthralling words. “That and burning baby fish swimming all around your head,” she finished, her body beginning to sway to some bizarre rhythm as she approached him.
Those final words effectively succeeded in pulling William from his trance. “That's quite close enough,” he cautioned, rising to back away anxiously. There was indeed something out of the ordinary about this lady, and at the moment he was not at all confident that he liked it. “I've heard tales of London pickpockets. You'll not be getting my purse, I tell you,” he informed her defiantly.
She curtsied gracefully, the light falling across her finely sculpted features, illuminating those dark eyes—William noted, with trepidation, that, rather aside from the resemblance they bore to Cecily’s, something of the demon appeared to dance in their depths—if Cecily had so often struck him as an angel then, surely, this finely adorned lady must have been a devil.
“Don't need a purse,” she smiled beguilingly, approaching to touch her gloved hand to his heart. “Your wealth lies here… and here,” she reached up to stroke her fingers along his brow, before sliding her hand down his body in a manner that William vaguely realized would not be considered at all appropriate, even as his eyes fluttered closed. “In the spirit and… imagination,” she continued in her low tone, drawing him in. Long, thin fingers curled into the wool of his trousers. “You walk in worlds the others can't begin to imagine.”
“Oh, yes!” William suddenly found himself gasping, then abruptly came to his senses. “I mean, no. I mean—mother's expecting me.”
The woman seemed not to hear him. Her eyes were riveted to his neck as she pulled at his shirt collar. “I see what you want,” she intoned. “Something glowing and glistening. Something… effulgent. “
Her eyes returned to his, that odd devilish gleam more apparent than ever, but that hardly seemed to matter anymore. “Effulgent,” echoed William quietly.
“Do you want it?” she asked.
William realized, just then, that it was quite probable he had never wanted anything so badly in his entire life. This dark temptress was holding out an apple and he desired nothing more than to take a hungry bite and feel the juices pooling on his lips. She was his Eve, his siren, his muse, and he was nothing but a starving man—who was he to refuse?
“Oh, yes!” he gasped, reaching for her. “God, yes.”
She dropped her gaze to his hand momentarily, and when she raised it once more, her face seemed to have changed—or perhaps it was just his vision playing tricks—the demon’s shadow had sharpened her features, making them more terribly beautiful than he could have imagined possible.
It seemed like an aeon might have passed while her sweet lips descended on his neck, then he felt a sharp pain and cried out, surprise overwhelming propriety, as the moment threatened to shatter. The pain didn’t last long, however, and a glorious sensation overtook him—this was, maybe, what eternity felt like—he found himself slipping away into the abyss, his mind reeling and full of visions of pale maidens with red lips and brandished steel that smoked with bloody execution.
He was just ready to slide into blissful darkness when he saw her. A lady—not the dark beauty who had stolen his life—but a heavenly apparition. She was oddly attired in overlarge men’s clothing that reminded him, suddenly, of the boy he had seen what felt like ages ago now. But this figure was decidedly female, her golden hair cascading down her shoulders in disarrayed strands, just barely concealing a bloom of fresh blood that decorated her brow. She might have been a true angel in disguise, sent to carry him away from the barren wasteland of his existence. Her clear eyes widened as she gazed at him; they were exquisite eyes that carried something of his mother’s warmth, and they were shining with reflected sorrow and something that seemed so very much like love. Probably, she could see directly into his soul with some unearthly vision—and so, just then, something within him reached out to her, longing to ascend to her eternal sphere, which was surely filled with beauty and light and all else that made the world worthwhile.
It was becoming difficult to breathe now. How odd, he thought, as his head rolled back onto the cold stone. Somewhere above him, he caught sight of a faint green shimmer. There was a roaring somewhere deep in his skull—and the rest was silence.
The next evening, William awoke with the most curious sensation. He was intensely hungry.