Christina had told him that ghosts weren’t supposed to last nearly that long, and she had described her nighttime river-side encounter in 1862 with their father’s ghost; and William had said, “I’d like to see that spot sometime.”
Intrigued by the idea herself, she had got up and fetched her overcoat and shawl and bonnet, and within minutes they had been in a cab bound for the Victoria Embankment.
And in the end she had been able to show him only expanses of frozen dirt where the river shore had once been. Feeling antique and irrelevant now, she let him lead her back to the cab rank by Gatti’s Restaurant on Villiers Street.
“I wish your friend Trelawny had more bits of Shelley to give away,” she said as a sedate old hackney coach bore them back up Tottenham Court Road toward the house Christina now shared with her mother and two aunts. The streetlamps were already lit and made passing halos on the coach’s window glass. “I believe that to some extent our terrible uncle is punishing Gabriel and I for our renunciation of him.”
Six years earlier, Christina had nearly died of some ailment that had swelled her throat and made her eyes protrude and permanently darkened her skin; it was tentatively diagnosed as Graves’ disease, and she had somewhat recovered since, though her hands shook almost too badly to write, and she still had little energy. The following year Gabriel had tried to kill himself with an overdose of laudanum, perhaps in mimic expiation of his guilt at Lizzie’s death; and though he had not died, he now believed that enemies were perpetually spying on him, and he had built partitions in his studio to keep them from peering in at him while he worked. And he took ever-increasing doses of chloral hydrate in brandy in a vain attempt to be able to sleep more than a couple of hours a night.
William was still as responsible and competent at forty-seven as he had ever been, and he was a devoted husband and father — but Christina sometimes sensed a wistful sadness in him, as if he too had chosen to make some never-referred-to but profound sacrifice for the sake of his family.
“I’ll ask Trelawny,” said William now with a gentle smile. “He always speaks highly of you. He calls you ‘Diamonds.’”
The coach had turned in to Torrington Place, and lights glowed in the windows of most of the houses in the row; Christina and her mother and aunts had moved here six months ago, but Christina still sometimes had trouble identifying which of the similar steps and doors were hers.
This evening she was able to tell immediately. “I think you can ask him right now,” she said, suddenly very tired.
Four people stood in the lamplight on her doorstep. Though they were shapeless bulks of winter clothing, the white-bearded one was clearly Trelawny himself, and she was pretty sure that two of the others were Adelaide McKee and her husband.
The cab slithered to a stop on icy cobblestones, and William climbed out and helped Christina step down; and he kept hold of her elbow as they nodded to the visitors and made their way carefully up to the lamplit door.
After unlocking it, Christina turned to McKee and said, “I’m afraid I’m not up to guests at the moment, Adelaide. If you would write to me tomorrow—”
“Actually, Miss Rossetti,” interrupted Trelawny, “it’s William we came to see.”
William glanced at his sister, and she sighed and nodded. “Do come in. William can be your host.”
“Just for a couple of minutes,” said William. “I’ve got to be getting home myself.”
They all trooped up the steps and into the entry hall, where there was another little snowstorm as everyone unwound scarves and took off hats and shrugged out of overcoats, and then William had fetched in another chair from the dining room so that they could all sit in the parlor. Trelawny made quick introductions.
“I’ll just join you all in a cup of tea,” said Christina, “and then I’ll have to ask you all to excuse me.” She smiled at Johanna, who now looked very much like her mother did when Christina had first met her at the Magdalen Penitentiary, nineteen years ago. “It’s so good to see you again, Johanna!” she said. “You were still a child when I saw you last.”
Johanna, sitting between her mother and father on a sofa by the fireplace, nodded and returned the smile. “I remember that you fired two shots from a revolver in my father’s surgery.”
William, sitting closer to the fire, had clearly been about to ask Trelawny what his business was, but at this he turned to stare at Christina.
She shrugged. “It was a stressful afternoon. And the second shot was just because I dropped the pistol.”
Trelawny stood up. “We’ve come,” he said bluntly to William, “to ask you for that piece of Shelley’s jawbone that I gave you three years ago.”
William blinked up at him, his mouth open. “But — but Edward, surely you know why I can’t give it back!”
“We were just talking about it,” exclaimed Christina. “Did you know William’s wife gave birth to a son two days ago?”
Trelawny bared his teeth in a pained grimace, but he went on, “It was a loan. I’m calling it back now.”
William’s eyes were wide, and his beard was shaking along with his chin. “I’d be killing my children — and my wife — if I gave it up! Just as I killed our first child, and my wife’s brother, when I refused it at first, foolishly!”
“You’ve had benefit of it,” said Trelawny. “Now my grandchild has been taken by your uncle! — the uncle you,” he said, turning on Christina, “quickened!”
Christina’s face was hot, and she took a breath but then couldn’t think of anything to say.
McKee and her husband were looking away, but Johanna — who must be twenty now! — was listening avidly, her blue eyes bright in the glow of the gas-jet chandelier overhead.
“I thought,” began Christina. William and Trelawny both swung to face her, so she went on weakly, “I thought we had reached a working truce. William had the fragment of jawbone to protect his family; you,” she said, nodding at Trelawny, “were in a favored position; and Adelaide, I thought you three had fled overseas!”
“My idiot daughter moved back to England,” said Trelawny, “and now her daughter is a captive of your damnable relative.”
“As I was,” murmured Johanna.
“As you’re likely to be again,” snapped McKee, “if we don’t get you into a foreign-bound boat damn quick!”
“I can’t leave,” said Johanna, “while a fourteen-year-old girl is in the trap I was in.” She gave Christina a look that was almost merry. “You’re the one who saved me, with your mirror trick.”
To Trelawny, Christina said in a whisper, “She’s fourteen?”
The old man nodded grimly.
“I was fourteen too,” Christina said softly, “when I fell into his trap.”
“My son is two days old,” said William, standing up.
“We’ve been friends, William,” said Trelawny, “but I will have that bit of bone.” He drew a revolver from under his coat, hesitated, then stepped to Christina’s chair and pointed it diagonally down, straight at her face.
She found herself looking up the barrel, which was only inches in front of her nose — she noticed spiral grooves in the bore, and in that tense moment the only thing in her mind was remote curiosity about whether all guns had that feature.