sign, a message saying this is the spirit at work. Bianca has begun to suspect –
and in this she is correct – that Innes is a revolutionary. Merely thinking of this word sends chills running down her spine. It evokes torture, chains, prisons, heads rolling in pools of
blood. His frequent visits to the city surely serve a duplicitous purpose. And the role of tutor in a noble and respectable family is a wonderful cover.
Bianca senses that even the master of the house is involved. Their partnership in these matters explains many things: Don Titta’s secrecy and his frequent trips to the city residence
(which she imagines as being dusty and decaying, in ruins, given the fact that none of the women ever want to go) with the excuse of researching the novel he has been writing for the past ten
years. The risk of course is even greater for Don Titta than for Innes. He is the poet, loved and pampered by all for the person he appears to be: an elegant, charming seeker of words. Bianca, who
is familiar with his work, finds his poems pleasing but wan. She doesn’t see great passion in his verses but rather delicate sentiment, idylls, still-life depictions of an illuminated life, a
life which does not truly exist.
Perhaps at heart he is a collector – that would explain why he is driven to commission portraits of his flowers and plants as though they are people. But what if, under that Arcimboldo of
petals, strange herbs, exotic fruits and foliage, there is a different man, a man filled with strong ideas, waiting for the right moment to reveal his true identity to the rest of the world?
His novel. The revolution. Perhaps he is writing a novel
about
the revolution. Bianca feels only a detached curiosity about these matters. She is aware that they are important, that it
is an issue of rights being denied, and that the insurgents operate through contempt, secrecy and violence. Apparently, there is no other way to protest and change the direction of things. There
will be blood. It is inevitable.
Bianca, though, feels engaged in her own transformation. It has turned her world upside down and set her apart from everyone else. She tries to imagine the new and daring map of the world to
come. She feels like a seamstress working on a corner of an enormous tablecloth: she has her portion to bring to completion and she simply fills it with stitches and then unstitches them, little
understanding how that same motif will multiply and echo across the cloth.
The book that Innes lends her takes her breath away. It keeps her awake at night; it steals away her common sense, and creates a confused knot of sensations inside her. It is entitled
Ponden
Kirk
and focuses on a desperate and impossible love story, on injustice, and on ghosts that inhabit a desolate moor near the sea. She can imagine Tamsin’s small hand, white against the
black of night, scratching at the windowpane. Or perhaps it is only a branch. That hand, the description of those curls and amber eyes, eyes that are common here but rare in the north, takes hold
of Bianca’s heart. She feels the darkness that surrounds the beloved character of Aidan and feels for him with her innermost soul. It is completely different from
Udolpho
; Emily is a
silly goose in comparison and not worthy of holding Tamsin’s umbrella. Tamsin would hate umbrellas, anyway. Bianca is certain of this. If she ever did own one, she would have snapped it in
two in a burst of rage or forgotten it under a hedge, torn it with carelessness or allowed it to be swept away by the wind. All of a sudden, everything Bianca has read that year is discarded in
favour of this novel.
Innes smiles and tries to answer Bianca’s insistent questions about the writer.
‘The author’s name is D. Lyly, with a “y”. That’s all I know.’
‘No first name?’
‘No first name. I think it must be a pseudonym. It has to be a woman.’
‘Another Ann Radcliffe?’
‘Why not, my dear?’
‘I tremble for
and in this she is correct – that Innes is a revolutionary. Merely thinking of this word sends chills running down her spine. It evokes torture, chains, prisons, heads rolling in pools of
blood. His frequent visits to the city surely serve a duplicitous purpose. And the role of tutor in a noble and respectable family is a wonderful cover.
Bianca senses that even the master of the house is involved. Their partnership in these matters explains many things: Don Titta’s secrecy and his frequent trips to the city residence
(which she imagines as being dusty and decaying, in ruins, given the fact that none of the women ever want to go) with the excuse of researching the novel he has been writing for the past ten
years. The risk of course is even greater for Don Titta than for Innes. He is the poet, loved and pampered by all for the person he appears to be: an elegant, charming seeker of words. Bianca, who
is familiar with his work, finds his poems pleasing but wan. She doesn’t see great passion in his verses but rather delicate sentiment, idylls, still-life depictions of an illuminated life, a
life which does not truly exist.
Perhaps at heart he is a collector – that would explain why he is driven to commission portraits of his flowers and plants as though they are people. But what if, under that Arcimboldo of
petals, strange herbs, exotic fruits and foliage, there is a different man, a man filled with strong ideas, waiting for the right moment to reveal his true identity to the rest of the world?
His novel. The revolution. Perhaps he is writing a novel
about
the revolution. Bianca feels only a detached curiosity about these matters. She is aware that they are important, that it
is an issue of rights being denied, and that the insurgents operate through contempt, secrecy and violence. Apparently, there is no other way to protest and change the direction of things. There
will be blood. It is inevitable.
Bianca, though, feels engaged in her own transformation. It has turned her world upside down and set her apart from everyone else. She tries to imagine the new and daring map of the world to
come. She feels like a seamstress working on a corner of an enormous tablecloth: she has her portion to bring to completion and she simply fills it with stitches and then unstitches them, little
understanding how that same motif will multiply and echo across the cloth.
The book that Innes lends her takes her breath away. It keeps her awake at night; it steals away her common sense, and creates a confused knot of sensations inside her. It is entitled
Ponden
Kirk
and focuses on a desperate and impossible love story, on injustice, and on ghosts that inhabit a desolate moor near the sea. She can imagine Tamsin’s small hand, white against the
black of night, scratching at the windowpane. Or perhaps it is only a branch. That hand, the description of those curls and amber eyes, eyes that are common here but rare in the north, takes hold
of Bianca’s heart. She feels the darkness that surrounds the beloved character of Aidan and feels for him with her innermost soul. It is completely different from
Udolpho
; Emily is a
silly goose in comparison and not worthy of holding Tamsin’s umbrella. Tamsin would hate umbrellas, anyway. Bianca is certain of this. If she ever did own one, she would have snapped it in
two in a burst of rage or forgotten it under a hedge, torn it with carelessness or allowed it to be swept away by the wind. All of a sudden, everything Bianca has read that year is discarded in
favour of this novel.
Innes smiles and tries to answer Bianca’s insistent questions about the writer.
‘The author’s name is D. Lyly, with a “y”. That’s all I know.’
‘No first name?’
‘No first name. I think it must be a pseudonym. It has to be a woman.’
‘Another Ann Radcliffe?’
‘Why not, my dear?’
‘I tremble for
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