Nell J: 'The Light of Dawn'

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My first read-through of 'The Light of Dawn' left me intrigued; my second had me mystified. Nell J's historical fiction romance reads like I have been dropped in the middle of a deep-rooted secret, and I am exploring it one diary entry at a time. It has no end, yet promises an expedition through religious trauma and the queer yearning for freedom, through precise words and sharp drops of lore. Dear reader, if you are fascinated by the occult, by theatre, love, and 1890s London, 'The Light of Dawn' will not disappoint.

17th July 1889

Adeline,

I did not think I would be writing this letter, but the rumours have quieted, and there is much to be done here. In the years you have been gone, I have watched London fall at the feet of heretics. They sing their praises of a Golden Dawn, spreading lies and deceit, boasting of alchemy and magic. And with their song, their ranks are growing.

The Lord has given unto me a mission, to fight back against these pagans, and at last, he has shown me how. It is time to return to us, and earn your forgiveness.

The letter lay on the desk, dark ink stark against the blanched white paper. A paintbrush teetered on the edge of the wood, abandoned in favour of the words swimming across her vision. No letter had arrived at Aunt Catherine's house in three years, no one asking after Adeline's health, her happiness. One would not be remiss to think that nothing existed beyond the courtyard of Hyacinth Hall. But here was the bell, tolling for her, marking her return.

“Miss Thompson?” A meek voice called from beyond the heavy oak door. It was Sofia, with tea and confirmation that a carriage was prepared to take her to the station at dawn. Sofia placed the tea on a small table by the window with one hand, and with the other set aside a half-painted canvas, a lazy blue river, its banks dotted with pinks, whites, and purples, laid carefully upon it like a mirror of the world outside.

“Will you finish it before you leave, Miss Thompson? I think it would look lovely hanging in the hall.” Sofia's fingers hovered over the wet paint, careful not to smudge it.

“I shall have to see what can be made of it when I return from London.” Adeline forced the corners of her lips up and placed a hand on Sofia’s shoulder. “For now, keep it safe for me.”

Adeline sent the girl off with a promise to return once the paint was dry, and raised a steaming cup of tea to her lips. The bitter taste coated her tongue, and she imagined spitting that bitterness onto the canvas, letting it soak into the colours and turn them into a muddy, jumbled mess. She swallowed it down instead, set down the teacup, and went to fetch the dusty case from her wardrobe. 

Bid farewell to your aunt, and arrange to leave at first light. You will not be returning to the country again.

William Thompson

***

18th October 1889

It has been some time since I have written to you, old friend. I thought I would never have to return to your embrace, but I must make peace with myself if I am to earn forgiveness.

London's sky was as grey as its streets. It was as though the city was captured in its own little bubble, where no colour could pass between it and the lush country beyond the walls. Through holes in the moth-eaten curtains of the carriage, indistinguishable lumps of slate and mud greeted her, interrupted only by smudges of people. This watching and waiting seemed the only way to pass the time. Adeline’s sketchbook and charcoal lay discarded on the opposite seat, creased and covered in jagged lines, victims of the bumpy cobbles. Her sleeves, too, were beginning to take on the grey of the streets, stained by the charcoal.

It was a small fortune, then, that her father’s home was far from Charing Cross, enough to smooth down the strands of hair that had gotten loose in the journey and tuck away the dirtied ends of her sleeves. Tired, restless, and a little too colourful for London’s embrace, but respectable. That’s all she needed.

There was a jolt as the carriage drew to a stop; the sign on the wall read ‘Victoria Street’. 

“Pardon.” Calling out to the driver proved difficult over the din of the city. “My father lives further West, nearer to Hyde Park.”

“My instructions were to bring you here, Miss Thompson, to the residence of Mr Hugh Carter.”

Her brother-in-law’s home was slightly smaller than her countryside residence, confined by countless other houses stretching in nothingness on either side, but the tall, narrow windows and rich, red brick were extravagant nonetheless. Here, finally, a smidge of colour. London’s blush, her embarrassment of riches. Hugh was a banker, and the house certainly matched her brother-in-law’s ego, with a polished golden lion set on the door, proud as any person.

Through one of those tall windows and drawn lace curtains, Hugh himself appeared, cradling a porcelain teacup. His shadow moved past the glass, revealing the stiff-backed forms of her family, eyes locked firmly on their tea as if they wanted to avoid her gaze. 

“Welcome home, Miss Thompson.”

When I was a child, my father often spoke of a Holy War. Not one fought by great armies and generals on a battlefield, but simmering below London’s streets. There were heretics hiding in the shadows, waiting to pounce on those who held a sliver of doubt, who did not hold fast against the Devil’s whispers. I oft imagined the heretics with gnarled horns and red, leathery skin, holding no rifle or blade, but a searing pitchfork. I wondered when I would be next, who would snatch me in their clawed hands and drag me away. I imagined my father, bathed in golden light, the Sword of the Spirit aimed high.

But in my dreams, it was not aimed at the Heretic. It was aimed at me.

***

25th October 1889

My parents could not afford to spare any time for a warm embrace. I was welcomed instead with a name: Samuel Liddell Mathers, a Freemason now leading an Order by the name of the Golden Dawn. My father’s words were bitter as he spoke of this man, filled with jealousy and something stronger, sharper. He spoke of heresy, of downfall, and I understand why I am in London once again. He called upon his eldest, a useful puppet, with no sons to take up this mantle, unless Hugh’s courage grew to match his pride.

I wonder if I will come to despise Mathers as much, with his shadow cast over me: my father claims they will allow a woman to join their Order, as foolish as it is, as long as I am given an invitation. And from among their ranks, I will bring their deeds to Holy light, so that the Lord may cast his judgement.

For now, I will stay with my sister and her husband, for they will be able to make the proper introductions, though I hope Hugh does not tire of my presence as I tire of him. He is not a charitable man, despite what he claims, but he seems to love my sister, and I know Beatrice will keep me close. I think, deep down, she has missed me.

Adeline set down her pen. Beyond the window, threads of people wove in and out of the bustling thoroughfare. Many were marching towards St James’ Park, likely to avoid the blanket of thick, grey smog that choked much of the city. Victoria Street may have housed a great deal of wealth, but nothing could fight the smell of the Thames or the smears of horse dung that were tracked through the streets.

Miles away, in a house by the riverside, her aunt would be taking afternoon tea, surrounded by the orchids they had cultivated together, perhaps painting or playing the piano. To pass the time here, Beatrice would be gracing one of the many boutiques in the city with her presence, along with the flock of hens that clucked after her – or rather, the women clawing their way up in society, hoping they would be carried upwards if they clung onto her sister’s skirts. 

Adeline’s time was spent confined in her new bedroom. It was some solace that her easel had found a place nestled in the corner, but she could hardly find anything to paint. The crowd outside beckoned her to join, but Beatrice would have to make excuses for Adeline’s presence first, so that she could walk about unfettered by whispers and stares. For now, the easel would remain empty, and she would continue to write.

***

5th May 1890

Despite my father’s reservations, and my own, my sister’s hard work has been fruitful. I was, for the first time in many months, invited to tea, and it was pleasant in my parents’ view. I found it tiresome, instructed not to speak and only to smile, as though I were a child’s doll. And soon, the moment I have come to fear will be upon us. The moment I have to make my father proud.

Beatrice gloated, as I expected. However, she seemed to take a little pity on me, and invited me to the theatre to see John Todhunter’s ‘A Sicilian Idyll’. The moon was full that night, and the stars glittered like diamonds. A perfect night, as though lifted from a storybook.

That was where I saw her for the first time. 

Florence Farr was handsome, certainly, even more so than Beatrice. It seemed my sister felt much the same: her lip was curled each time Miss Farr took to the stage! It brought me a small moment of joy, and though I should not indulge in such petty feelings, I allowed it for as long as my sister’s face was painted with such envy. 

The show came to a close with raucous applause, as performers strode once more to the stage and bowed to the patrons, smiling at those who cheered. Adeline watched the most enthused as they whistled and kept their heads turned from those like Beatrice and Hugh, whose backs were stiff as they gently tapped their hands together. She kept her own appreciation quiet, rising carefully on her toes to see above the front row. 

Among the performers bathed in a mixture of moonlight and flame was Miss Farr, clad in a simple gown, hair piled carefully atop her head by a band of fabric. Plain and chaste as the goddess Selene, her eyes climbed over the hill of people until finally a smile crept onto her face. Adeline craned her neck to follow her gaze to a small group sitting further from the stage, who were ardently chatting, and who waved towards the stage just as her eyes landed on them. Adeline turned back, wondering who they could be. One clutched a book and pencil like a bird holds onto its prey, perhaps working for the local paper. She herself would surely write much about the show when they returned to Victoria Street. 

Adeline glanced at the stage once more and found Miss Farr’s eyes now on her. Her breath caught, and though there was a slight chill in the air, her cheeks were warm. It was as though her thoughts had spilt from her mind; she rushed to collect them all, scolding herself for prying into a stranger’s life. But as she tucked her startled expression behind a polite smile, the corners of Miss Farr’s lips curled upwards, and she pressed her fingers to them, extending her hand out in silent greeting, a kiss flying through the air. Adeline’s own hand swept up as though to catch that small recognition.

Beatrice tugged her arm then, and the curtains fell.

When finally the curtains fell, I must admit, I had a selfish desire to see Miss Farr perform once more. She was a true artist; perhaps I can find a friend, a kernel of contentment in a city choked in smog, someone who sees the world as I do. Now, as the moon sinks below the horizon, and the first smudges of marigold turn to fire in the sky, I think I will put my paintbrush to work.

***

15th May 1890

I begged Hugh and Beatrice to take me to the theatre once more. They were hesitant at first, only agreeing to quiet me, I imagine, but they soon made peace with their decision: my father sent word of those he knew to be involved with the Golden Dawn, and Miss Farr’s name was among those mentioned. Rather selfishly, I thought this would not be so difficult after all: my father had given his blessing for us to meet, despite the circumstances.

This time, when Adeline heard the applause, she leapt from her seat and scurried through the crowd, ducking from Beatrice’s view. Somewhere behind the stage, there would be a small, private space, one that was calling her name. She followed that call to a room decorated in swathes of fabric and a bouquet of red roses, the only other life here for the moment. 

Adeline waited as the noise slipped into the gentle hum of mindless chatter, and footsteps thudded distantly against the wooden floorboards she had crept across in the hall. Peeking through the door revealed Miss Farr and her fellows, with a flock of patrons on all sides, clucking their admiration as though they stood in a henhouse. Adeline stepped out of the shadows, forcing her way closer, but the people ahead of her locked in tightly, and she became trapped in a sea of warmth and droning voices.

“You were quite exquisite, Miss Farr.”

“I believe your eloquence to be unrivalled, Mr Paget.”

“If you would do me the honour, sir, I would request a word for the paper.”

The one they called Mr Paget began some artful speech about Todhunter’s poetry, the music in the words. A haze fell over them all, and they disentangled themselves with hushed breaths, enough for Adeline to push her way in, to speak to Miss Farr, to see her.

Their eyes met over the crowd. 

Closer now, Adeline could almost see the strokes of a paintbrush in Miss Farr’s eyes. They were like the shifting turquoise hues of a river in the country, ever-changing with the light and flow of the water. As Mr Paget’s speech droned on and on, she parted her followers like Moses at the Red Sea, and took Adeline’s hand.

“Was the play to your liking, Miss-?” Her words were low and smooth, and Adeline’s mouth turned to sand as a sweet scent bloomed in the air around them. 

“Thompson. Indeed it was, Miss Farr.” Her gaze dipped to the hand that was still held in a cool embrace, then back to the ring of sunlight that seemed trapped around the actresses’ pupils.

“Please, call me Florence.”

“Then I ask you to call me Adeline.” Adeline shook her head, and the heat rose up her neck. “I must beg your forgiveness: your verse has left me in awe, and I hope to speak of it more once I recover my senses.”

Florence laughed then, a rich, golden sound. “Let us leave these gentlemen behind us. I rather think they will distract your thoughts, and I do wish to hear them, Adeline.”

Rather miraculously, I found my words. Indeed, I hardly found an end to them. When our parlance turned from the theatre to other interests, she admitted her involvement in this group, this Golden Dawn. The name brought a bitter taste to my mouth; I do not know if I will be forgiven for deceiving one that I wish to befriend, for I expressed a curiosity for the occult. I could see it on her face: in some small manner, she now regarded me as an equal, one with a mind equally as broadened. 

And then it came. A question, an offering, an introduction to a Mr William Yeats, who not only knew of the Order, but who had recently joined their ranks.

There was a certain… strength I gained from a woman of her beauty, with such proficiency in her craft and command of her words, gazing upon me with something akin to respect; it was something I had seen between Hugh and my father, and even on rare occasions between Beatrice and Hugh. 

It was a strength that silenced my father’s lectures in my mind, if only for one night. 

***

1st June 1890

The meeting will be soon, and with it, my father hopes, an initiation. When Florence first spoke of it, I felt as though my heart would leap from my chest. With all her fanciful notions, her determination and spirit, I knew she would not run from this. She does not see it as blasphemy. In her eyes, she has been granted these strange abilities for a reason, and it is her duty to seek more knowledge. She will take on an Expression, as all Order members do, I learned. Like a north star guides a sailor, an Expression will guide a true believer. She has chosen hers: ‘Sapientia Sapienti Dona Data’, meaning ‘Wisdom is a gift given to the wise’. If I am to have an Expression, it will be the one Florence chose for me: ‘Fides Et Veritas Debent Manus Iungere’. ‘Faith and Truth must join hands’. Perhaps she knows of my hesitance. Or perhaps she trusts me.  

***

21st June 1890

It is done. Yeats was beside himself with joy. The induction of two new members, one of whom he confessed reverence for several times, rendered him almost incapable of speech by the time dusk fell. I must admit, I had anticipated a far more ungodly ritual to take place. Instead, he gave both myself and Florence an invitation and a key. To unlock the mind, he said, as well as the door of the institute at which the Order conducts its business. A more formal induction will take place once we have proven ourselves, but for now, we should consider ourselves welcome.

Yeats applauded Florence’s creativity when he learned of her Expression. He is as bad as Mathers himself, prancing about, singing praises of the Golden Dawn, seeking to corrupt any who meet him. I fear I will be next, but my father is not so afraid. I passed my worries on to Hugh, who delivered them with a sniff and a raise of his brow. In his eyes, I am improper, but I do not care for his judgments. My father smiled at me today. He says that if my Faith is strong, I will outlast this trial and complete the Lord’s work. I hope he is right. I will need Faith as I wander into Mathers’ pagan dream.

***

28th July 1890

The Order is not yet as I imagined it to be. Much of the time I have spent is with Yeats and Florence; I am fruitless in my father’s quest. It is akin to the dinner parties Beatrice holds, though if Yeats is as exemplary of a member as he claims, the Order holds philosophy in a much higher regard. But I am not without hope: it may be months more before I am trusted with secrets worthy of my endeavour, before I will even meet those worthy of my time. 

With each passing day, Florence is only more eager to learn, and I follow her pursuit, though she has become distracted of late. I know she has begun an affair with one of her critics. She leaves our meetings often, with straight shoulders and a mischievous smile, and I know. In my letters to father, I lay the words to rest on the page, and I cannot help the bite of disapproval, though perhaps a sliver of my own guilt has turned outward.

The biting wind did not deter Adeline’s determination to meet with Florence: a visit to her home in Bedford Park was a prize Adeline had not yet won – though the rules of the game were a mystery to her – so it was a teahouse that kept their conversation alive. 

The warmth inside was bliss, and the steam from the Ceylon tea kissed Adeline’s skin as she peered across at Florence, whose words tumbled from her mouth. Adeline had never found her friend’s thoughts to be scattered – varied and countless, yes – but never disordered. This then, was a new eagerness, perhaps after so long spent talking of the metaphysical in the Order, or days spent by the side of a man who wanted nothing more than… an improper thought, and speculation, of course.

“It is the work of Ibsen.” Florence’s words ran together, each one begging to be heard, louder than the last. “Rosmersholm, in English for the first time.” 

“I have never heard of it.” A twinge in her stomach. “Or of this… Ibsen.”

“Oh, Adeline.” Florence laughed, hands gripped around a blue-patterned china teacup. “I admit, it is a tale of woe, perhaps not suited for such a place as this, but Ibsen is a most proficient writer.”

Adeline’s eyes darted to the next table as Florence whispered, “Do not fault me for saying such a thing, but I believe he is far greater than any of the English playwrights I have read.”

“In what manner?”

Three words, and from Florence’s lips came a flood. Ibsen had written a tale of tragic love, a woman driving another to death for power and the love of a man before they, too, succumbed to darkness. A perfect rendition of loss, guilt, and ambition. A painting of life, captured in so short a moment, like the Mona Lisa herself. 

Her hands clasped together as she leaned towards Adeline, that sweet fragrance blotting out the world. “Do you see what I see?”

And I could. There, in the pale clouds floating aimlessly past, was a dead woman, looking down upon two lovers, casting her shadow so they could never forget their betrayal. In the rouge of Florence’s cheeks, I saw the flushed face of a woman in love, ready to leap into the darkness with her lover, to face judgement armed with devotion and the burden of all their sins. And in those exquisite eyes was sunlight over cresting waves, and all thoughts of Ibsen or that critic were forgotten for a moment.

The End.