And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be:
And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars, my joys & desires.
“Give me that,” Milton barked, snatching the book right from under her gaze.
She retreated at once, confused by his censure. “I did not mean to spy, sir. I am a fan of William Blake, both his painting and his poetry. Have you seen his artwork inUrizen?” She desperately wished to return to their ease of conversation, to what had felt like budding friendship. What had upset him so?
“I’ve work to do, Elizabeth. Poetry, like fiction, is an indulgence.”
Perhaps she’d chosen poorly by handing himEthelinde. “Surely poems are a balm to the soul, sir, not luxury alone.”
“Poetry is for romantics.” Already he made to leave. “If you enjoy that sort of rot, you’ll find Lord Byron’s claptrap all over these shelves; I’ll not touch his shite.”
“And Blake?” she called after him, wishing he’d turn back. She yearned to know what words, fair or foul, moved his heart. For a heart existed in her husband’s breast. It must, to own a library like this.
Had she not heard it beating loudly just last night?
Milton paused, his back still turned. “At least Blake, unlike Byron, knows experience corrupts.”
***
He left her in his library, to do whatever she damn well pleased. He needed to escape his blasted wife, for she’d nearly put a spell on him, handing him that Smith book, precisely the sort of wild, fantastic fiction that sucked him in and did his brain no drop of good. Nothing useful to be gleaned from a book like that.Hmph.
Milton marched to his office to clear his head and pour himself a drink. He gazed out the window to the empty streetbelow, the echo of hooves on cobblestone clattering as a lone hansom rumbled by. Nothing like the streets he’d grown up in. His children would never know the stench, nor weight, of poverty. His wealth would spare them that. He’d show his rotten sire that a bastard firstborn could not only achieve a ridiculous level of wealth, but form a dynasty all his own, a new bloodline to inherit the title and lands he’d amassed in Scotland, just like a bloody goddamned duke.
Milton’s thoughts turned to the future mother of his children. Would Elizabeth read them stories at bedtime? Shower them with kisses while she did? She knew Blake, but did she read the poet’s verse as Milton did? He doubted it. Magic lay in the alchemy between reader and book. He’d discovered this as soon as he had taught himself to read. It wasn’t the author’s words that mattered so much as the reader’s mind feasting on them. Inside his head, his breast, his gut, words lived and breathed meaning—hismeaning, and his alone—no longer the blasted author’s.
The soul of any man was built upon his word.
He recalled the poem he’d read just last night in Blake’sProverbs of Hell:
Prisons are built with stones of Law,
Brothels with bricks of Religion.
The pride of the peacock is the glory of God.
The lust of the goat is the bounty of God.
The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God.
The nakedness of woman is the work of God.
God yes, woman’s nakedness…Milton closed his eyes and pictured his wife in all her God-given glory. There was poetry in a woman’s flesh. Art in sex.
This much, he knew.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Must we truly unwrap each blasted gift?” Milton tossed another useless parcel aside as his wife jotted another name to her list. “Murdoch is perfectly capable of?—”
“It is not your housekeeper’s duty to catalog wedding gifts, sir. It is ourduty, as recipients, to thank our guests for their generosity.”
“Such the proper wife, Lizzie. You’ve taken nicely to your role.”
