Falling Angels
Will friendship overcome the social boundaries of Edwardian London in this bestselling historical tale from the author of Girl with a Pearl Earring.One cold January morning, in the wake of Queen Victoria’s death, two young sets of eyes meet across the graves at Highgate Cemetery. One pair belongs to smartly dressed Lavinia Waterhouse, whose mother clings to the traditional values she sees slipping away; the other to Maude Coleman,whose mother longs to escape the stifling grip of Victorian society. Thrust together by the girls’ friendship, these two very different families embark on a new century that promises electricity, emancipation and other changes that will shake the very foundations of their lives.
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The Borough Press
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
77–85 Fulham Palace Road
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2001
Copyright © Tracy Chevalier 2001
Chapter head motifs © Neil Gower
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014. Cover illustrations © Neil Gower
Tracy Chevalier asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780007217236
Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780007324354
Version: 2014-07-10
For Jonathan, again
Table of Contents
I woke this morning with a stranger in my bed. The head of blond hair beside me was decidedly not my husband’s. I did not know whether to be shocked or amused.
Well, I thought, here’s a novel way to begin the new century.
Then I remembered the evening before and felt rather sick. I wondered where Richard was in this huge house and how we were meant to swap back. Everyone else here – the man beside me included – was far more experienced in the mechanics of these matters than I. Than we. Much as Richard bluffed last night, he was just as much in the dark as me, though he was more keen. Much more keen. It made me wonder.
I nudged the sleeper with my elbow, gently at first and then harder until at last he woke with a snort.
‘Out you go,’ I said. And he did, without a murmur. Thankfully he didn’t try to kiss me. How I stood that beard last night I’ll never remember – the claret helped, I suppose. My cheeks are red with scratches.
When Richard came in a few minutes later, clutching his clothes in a bundle, I could barely look at him. I was embarrassed, and angry too – angry that I should feel embarrassed and yet not expect him to feel so as well. It was all the more infuriating that he simply kissed me, said, ‘Hello, darling,’ and began to dress. I could smell her perfume on his neck.
Yet I could say nothing. As I myself have so often said, I am open-minded – I pride myself on it. Those words bite now.
I lay watching Richard dress, and found myself thinking of my brother. Harry always used to tease me for thinking too much – though he refused to concede that he was at all responsible for encouraging me. But all those evenings spent reviewing with me what his tutors had taught him in the morning – he said it was to help him remember it – what did that do but teach me to think and speak my mind? Perhaps he regretted it later. I shall never know now. I am only just out of mourning for him, but some days it feels as if I am still clutching that telegram.
