romanticizes his precious angel in his precious house. As for the celebrated Mr. Browning… need I even comment?”
“Leave Browning out of this… and as for Patmore… you gave me that book. Besides, it’s poetry.”
“Aha!” McDougal pounced on his wife’s last statement. “So what we are saying is that we may romanticize poetic women but not historical women, is that it… is that what we are saying?”
“Well, it seems the proper thing to do, if you must romanticize your women at all… the Lovely Elaine, the Lady of Shallot.”
“Yes, but supposing those ladies are historical as well as poetic… then the historical would have to come first. Though, I must say, I do have trouble believing that Patmore’s wife ever existed… that she was anything more than a figment of his imagination. Didn’t she conveniently die?”
“Yes, but you can hardly blame Patmore for that.”
“Oh, I don’t know, it must be uphill work being an angel, especially in a poet’s house. Maybe she died of ennui.” Fleda scowled at him. He eyed her closely. “Who would you rather be, if you had a choice, Patmore’s wife or Laura Secord?”
“Since it seems very unlikely that I shall have the opportunity to be either, I find that question impossible to answer. The Americans are quite well-behaved these days, there is absolutely no point reporting their activities to the military hereabouts.”
McDougal interjected at this point. This was a subject on which he had very definite and serious opinions. “Don’t be so sure,” he muttered darkly. “Don’t be so bloody sure.”
“As for Patmore’s wife,” Fleda gestured to the canvas walls around her, “I have no house to be an angel in.”
“You’ll have your house, but you still haven’t told me which you’d rather be, if you had the choice.”
“Patmore’s wife, I suppose, even if she is dead. I would love to have my portrait painted by Rossetti. And the book, imagine having your husband write a book for you.”
“I will write a book on Laura Secord and pattern her character on yours.”
“Really, David, I doubt that she and I would have a single thing in common.” Fleda left her chair and moved over to the bed, willing now to take part to a certain extent in the game. “Supposing she wasn’t like me at all, not a single bit?”
“Well, I imagine her looking exactly like you, but wilder and in greater disarray, of course, after her valorous trek through the woods.” McDougal pulled his wife down beside him on the bed and said, “Then I imagine that Fitzgibbon would be strangely moved by her appearance.”
Major McDougal was beginning to undress.
“David…”
“Then I imagine,” he said, leaving his clothes in an untidy pile on the floor and climbing under the blankets, “that Fitzgibbon would dismiss
his
colleagues so that he could speak to Laura alone… confidential military information and all that. Then I imagine…” he began to undo the small buttons on the front of her dress. “Then I imagine….”
“David… just a moment.”
“Mmmm?” he said, biting her ear.
“You are overlooking a very important fact.”
“What’s that?” he asked, reaching up under her long skirt and pressing his face against her neck.
“Laura Secord was a married woman.”
“So are you,” he replied, leaning outwards from the bed in order to extinguish the coal-oil lamp.
He made love, for all his kindness, like a man fighting a short, intense battle, a battle that he always won. She lay passively beneath him like a town surprised by an invasion of enemytroops. Afterwards, he fell asleep almost immediately, like a man overcome by battle fatigue.
She crept across the tent, after, to find her long white nightgown with its high neck and lace cuffs. Then she walked outside, barefoot in the cold, wet grass, down the path to the bank. She could see the whirlpool from there and, further away, the rapids in the moonlight. She knew that she had lied.
“Leave Browning out of this… and as for Patmore… you gave me that book. Besides, it’s poetry.”
“Aha!” McDougal pounced on his wife’s last statement. “So what we are saying is that we may romanticize poetic women but not historical women, is that it… is that what we are saying?”
“Well, it seems the proper thing to do, if you must romanticize your women at all… the Lovely Elaine, the Lady of Shallot.”
“Yes, but supposing those ladies are historical as well as poetic… then the historical would have to come first. Though, I must say, I do have trouble believing that Patmore’s wife ever existed… that she was anything more than a figment of his imagination. Didn’t she conveniently die?”
“Yes, but you can hardly blame Patmore for that.”
“Oh, I don’t know, it must be uphill work being an angel, especially in a poet’s house. Maybe she died of ennui.” Fleda scowled at him. He eyed her closely. “Who would you rather be, if you had a choice, Patmore’s wife or Laura Secord?”
“Since it seems very unlikely that I shall have the opportunity to be either, I find that question impossible to answer. The Americans are quite well-behaved these days, there is absolutely no point reporting their activities to the military hereabouts.”
McDougal interjected at this point. This was a subject on which he had very definite and serious opinions. “Don’t be so sure,” he muttered darkly. “Don’t be so bloody sure.”
“As for Patmore’s wife,” Fleda gestured to the canvas walls around her, “I have no house to be an angel in.”
“You’ll have your house, but you still haven’t told me which you’d rather be, if you had the choice.”
“Patmore’s wife, I suppose, even if she is dead. I would love to have my portrait painted by Rossetti. And the book, imagine having your husband write a book for you.”
“I will write a book on Laura Secord and pattern her character on yours.”
“Really, David, I doubt that she and I would have a single thing in common.” Fleda left her chair and moved over to the bed, willing now to take part to a certain extent in the game. “Supposing she wasn’t like me at all, not a single bit?”
“Well, I imagine her looking exactly like you, but wilder and in greater disarray, of course, after her valorous trek through the woods.” McDougal pulled his wife down beside him on the bed and said, “Then I imagine that Fitzgibbon would be strangely moved by her appearance.”
Major McDougal was beginning to undress.
“David…”
“Then I imagine,” he said, leaving his clothes in an untidy pile on the floor and climbing under the blankets, “that Fitzgibbon would dismiss
his
colleagues so that he could speak to Laura alone… confidential military information and all that. Then I imagine…” he began to undo the small buttons on the front of her dress. “Then I imagine….”
“David… just a moment.”
“Mmmm?” he said, biting her ear.
“You are overlooking a very important fact.”
“What’s that?” he asked, reaching up under her long skirt and pressing his face against her neck.
“Laura Secord was a married woman.”
“So are you,” he replied, leaning outwards from the bed in order to extinguish the coal-oil lamp.
He made love, for all his kindness, like a man fighting a short, intense battle, a battle that he always won. She lay passively beneath him like a town surprised by an invasion of enemytroops. Afterwards, he fell asleep almost immediately, like a man overcome by battle fatigue.
She crept across the tent, after, to find her long white nightgown with its high neck and lace cuffs. Then she walked outside, barefoot in the cold, wet grass, down the path to the bank. She could see the whirlpool from there and, further away, the rapids in the moonlight. She knew that she had lied.
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