Free The Virgin in the Garden by A.S. Byatt

itself another reason why they were so equable about sharing their passion. He stood for things they had not got, desired, and feared they would not have: art, as opposed to criticism of it, male mobility as opposed to female provincial rootedness, savoir-faire, the possibility of metropolitan glamour to come. He spent holidays, long ones, abroad: he had friends who were actors and dons in London and Oxford: unlike the other masters, he took flight for civilisation at the end of each term. Marriage was observably bad for masters, and worse for masters’ wives. If they loved him, they feared the awful effect on him of loving them, or anyone. The talk was an intensified version of earlier talk.
    “He looked lovely tonight.”
    “He dealt with the shouting so gracefully. He always does.”
    “He won’t have to much longer. He’ll go. He’ll go, Steph, and leave us darkling.”
    “I suppose so. I suppose he stayed so long, to be quiet, and finish the writing.”
    “He talks to you about the writing. He doesn’t to me. I annoy him. I don’t mean to. I wish I didn’t.”
    “Perhaps his play is
really
good.”
    “Can you imagine what it might feel like, to be
really
good, and know it?”
    “No. No, I can’t. Terrifying.”
    “I mean, Steph, Shakespeare must have
known
he was different from other men …”
    “He isn’t Shakespeare.”
    “You don’t know.”
    “I was only offering an opinion. Perhaps Shakespeare didn’t know.”
    “He must’ve.” Privately, Frederica thought it a terrible strain to live with the knowledge that you were possessed of the force and scope of Frederica Potter, especially before you’d decided exactly where to apply this force. Alexander’s undoubted superiority didn’t seem to be essentially one of force. On the other hand …
    “Your curate was very fierce, Steph.”
    “Not my curate. But frighteningly fierce, yes. You should see him
work
.”
    “I can’t see why most people just sit about so. I shan’t.”
    “No, you won’t.”
    “Why don’t you go away from here, Steph?
You
could.”
    “I suppose I will. I’m just taking a little time to think.”
    She bent her head over the kittens again, unwilling to contemplate that question.
    “Go to bed, Frederica. I’ve got to be up all night, I need to doze a bit, go to bed, do.”

5. Daniel
    When Daniel let himself into the Vicarage, it was dark outside, and there were no lights in the body of the house. It was not late, but the Vicar’s wife was sparing with heat and light, and the square Victorian stairwell was a mounting column of chill shadow. Daniel, who knew where he was, silently padded between the hazards of the coat-stand and the black oak chest, avoided the uncertainties of threadbare and fraying islands of Turkish runners, and made for the Vicar’s study.
    Here were the ghosts of riches. A very heavy leather-topped desk, a pair of cut-glass, silver-lidded inkwells, a dark leather wing chair, walls of hide-bound books, behind glass. The Afghan carpet was threadbare in places, its black and gold shimmer worn away, where people trod, to an unreflecting sackcloth. The room was passionately cleaned, but there was a pervasive smell of narcissi, the lightly rich scent of freesia. In a shallow black china dish, with a faint silver sheen on the glaze, floated palely an artistic arrangement of cropped flower heads: cups of crimson and purple anemones, green-tipped snowdrops, as well as the papery narcissi and pale gold freesia, shadows of colour mirrored on the water.
    They were put there by Miss Wells, daily, the Vicar’s devoted lodger, Stephanie’s senior colleague. Daniel disturbed her offering, reaching for the desk-light. He remembered that his mother had said it was dangerous to have flowers in a room at night. When his father had been lying dead she had shifted all the flower vases nightly into the scullery, packed them into the chipped, blood-red earthenware sink. They breathed out some poisonous gas,