Стефани Баррон - The White Garden - A Novel of Virginia Woolf

“Given that you work there,” she said with deadly calm.

“Now, what is that supposed to mean?”

“Peter, are you getting some sort of commission for all this?”

“I’m probably losing my job,” he retorted acidly.

“What did that woman want? At two o’clock in the morning?”

“To hear my voice,” he said distinctly. “She was… lonely.”

There was a tense silence. The Triumph left Rodmell behind and picked up Swanborough Hollow — the road north, toward Lewes.

“You never asked about the Ark,” Jo said. “What she found yesterday, or what she did with it — ”

Peter cleared his throat uncomfortably. “To be honest, I completely forgot about the thing. It was a shock, actually — her calling like that. In the middle of the bloody night.”

“So much of a shock, in fact, that you wasted the sole opportunity you had to grill the woman! Jesus, Peter — she’s ripped us off twice, and all you do is scold her like a wayward child!”

“Haven’t I just explained that she never meant to steal the damn notebook?”

“If that were true,” Jo retorted, “she wouldn’t have run off to Cambridge. I’m not that stupid, even if you want to be.”

“All right — all right.” Peter lifted his hands from the wheel in exasperation. “Maybe she lied. It’s a habit of Margaux’s. But she’s not all bad, you know. She tried to deal with the notebook honorably by turning it over to my boss. And she’d like to make amends. She’s tumbled to the fact that we’re searching for the rest of the manuscript — and she offered to help.”

Jo grasped the twine securing the oilskin package and pulled.

“We’re not searching anymore, Peter,” she said.

PETER PULLED THE TRIUMPH ONTO THE LEFT-HAND verge of the road and killed the engine. He snapped on his penlight.

“What have we got?” he asked quietly.

The book — for it was a slim bound volume, not a letter or notebook or even torn pages, as they’d expected — had no title stamped on its pale blue cloth cover. But there was a yellowed envelope resting on top of it, with an inky smear of handwritten words.

To the Grave Robbers , it read.

“Do we open it?”

Peter glanced at her. “Well — it is addressed to us. I suspect that’s Leonard’s writing.”

Feeling decidedly guilty, Jo tried to pry up the flap. It parted damply in her hands, not so much torn as disintegrating.

There was a single piece of folded paper inside.

If offered the choice of betraying my friends or betraying my wife, I hope I should have the courage to do neither.

Or perhaps both.

How does one keep faith with anyone in such wretched times? Much less keep faith with all?

I have tried. I have done what Maynard asked, and destroyed the pages of Virginia’s book that caused him such anxiety.

But to honour her whom this writing almost certainly killed, I typeset those pages before I burned them.

And so I have kept both my promises: to bury the truth, and to publish it to the world.

Do with this book what seems best to you.

But know that the unquiet mind of the author lives in it still, and will haunt you.

As she has always haunted me.

Leonard Woolf,

Monk’s House,

30 April 1941

Peter reached for the book — he was, Jo remembered suddenly, an expert in exactly this object, in the typeface and the cloth bindings and the nature of paper.

“Leonard must have hand-set this on a small press they kept at Rodmell,” he said. “The actual Hogarth Press — the company the Woolfs founded in 1917 — was moved out of London in 1940 to protect it from being bombed. No jacket — they often got Vanessa to design those, but apparently she wasn’t in on the secret of this. Here’s the colophon, however — the symbol of the Hogarth Press. Vanessa designed that, too.”

He showed Jo the book’s spine; stamped on it in gold was the head of a wolf, in profile. “The text is printed in a serif font, probably some form of Baskerville. Quite common. Leonard loved composing forms — beds of type — but they were only practical for short print runs. Too labor-intensive otherwise. The first thing Hogarth ever hand-published was a pamphlet of two short stories — the Woolfs each wrote one. Virginia’s became quite famous — it’s called ‘A Mark on the Wall.’ They put together the covers themselves, gluing cloth on boards and assembling the books on the dining room table. He must have done this one alone.”

Jo had a sudden vision of a silver head, a narrow profile, an oil lamp behind a blackout shade. The middle of the night. The silence of an abandoned house. The smell of lead on his fingers…

“We’ve got to read this.”

Peter looked at her searchingly. “Aren’t you exhausted?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“It’s a polite way of asking whether you trust me enough — despite Margaux.”

“Ah.” She looked down at her hands. “I guess I trust you… enough . Let’s stop driving for what’s left of the night. Read Leonard’s book. And I’ll turn it over to Sotheby’s as quietly as a lamb in the morning.”

Peter smiled at her faintly. “A lamb. Bollocks . Jo, you don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“I’ve ordered it for dinner numerous times,” she said with dignity.

“All right. But no cheating.” He flicked off the penlight. “No reading until I’ve found us a room.”

IT WAS NEARLY TWO-THIRTY BY THE TIME THEY ROUSED A night clerk at the White Hart in Lewes, an old coaching inn transformed into a modern hotel, with potted palms near its indoor swimming pool. Jo was tired enough to accept this as merely one part of a hallucinatory night. She was, after all, holding a Peek Freans tin dug up from Virginia Woolf’s grave and yet again she was out of clean underwear; all of this was of a piece, part of the surreal world she’d inhabited since leaving Sissinghurst three days ago.

She decided not to correct the clerk when he referred to them as “Mr. and Mrs. Llewellyn,” although it took her an instant to digest that he had only one room to offer them. She didn’t care. She’d be reading for what remained of the night.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Peter suggested when they’d closed the door behind them. For all the hotel’s half-timbered charm the room was rather claustrophobic, with a sloping roof and a worn bedspread.

“Whatever,” she said. “I’ll make coffee.”

She found a pouch of Breakfast Brew near the minibar and filled the carafe. Peter tossed his jacket on a chair and began to roll up his sleeves. Why did the sight of him in a loosened dress shirt, even a wrinkled one he’d been wearing for days, affect her so powerfully? The word for Peter, she decided, was debonair . He looked as though he’d been born to hold a glass of gin on the sidelines of a cricket pitch.

He propped the bed pillows against the headboard and stretched out on the mattress. “It’s considered bad form on the Continent to use a bed for anything other than sleeping, did you know? Only Americans sit on them to read. Or hold an intimate conversation. Mention this to a confirmed European and they’ll explain that’s why we invented chairs . But I’ve always thought a bed was the best place to get to know another person. The English have so many defenses, Jo — all we can’t or won’t say. But not when we’re lying down.”

He looked at her then, and she realized he’d taken off his glasses — so she’d be safely out of focus? His eyes were pale green, not gray as she’d thought.