The Ingenious Edgar Jones - Couverture rigide

Garner, Elizabeth

Couverture rigide

ISBN 10 : 030740899X ISBN 13 : 9780307408990

Editeur : Crown Pub, 2009

Synopsis

Book by Garner Elizabeth

A propos du livre

Extrait

9780307408990|excerpt

Gardner: THE INGENIOUS EDGAR JONES

1

Close to the Spine

Oxford, 1847

The night that William Jones’s world changed began like any other.

At six o’clock he rose from his bed, made his prayers and his ablutions. At quarter past six he took tea and toast with his wife, Eleanor, in their front parlor. And at half past six, to the beat of the bell of the grandfather clock, he buttoned up his coat, pulled his hat down upon his head, kissed his wife, and lifted the latch of his front door. The steady pace of his footsteps marked out the half-hour walk across Oxford. It was a cold February night. The sky was clear and pinpricked with stars. The moon was nothing but a splinter, the curl of a stray feather stuck to the velvet dark of the sky. William pulled up his collar and watched the mists of his breath rope through the air before him.

He always loved the turning from the lanes of Jericho village out onto St Giles—the road that took him into the heart of the city. It was an invisible boundary between the quiet domestic world where he was a loving husband, and the University, where he was a watchman at the college gates. Every time he trod this path he would reflect how the change in the streets echoed the differences between his worlds. The roads of Jericho twisted in upon themselves, and a man could get easily lost. It was sometimes thus when he was sitting by the fireside with his wife. The conversation would ebb and flow between them, full of affection, and talk of the daughter that was blossoming in her belly. But there were times when there were shadowed corners in their speech, when a thing might not mean to Eleanor what it meant to him, and he would feel that he had taken a wrong turn down a dark alley, and was sitting in a room that seemed in outward appearance to be his home, but was not. Whereas when he emerged on the University streets, there stood the broad walls of the colleges, set shoulder to shoulder, their domes, spires, and battlements pointing magnificently toward the heavens. And here William knew exactly who he was: he was Porter Jones, warden of the nights, the man who watched over great minds as they slumbered. Here William had a place and a function, and no one could shift him from it.

But on this particular evening, the University was retreating from him as he walked through it. It was often thus when the moon waned. The college walls were swallowed by the night; the lamps that hung over the entrances illuminated them in piecemeal: the mouth of a doorway, say, or the curve of a window. As the scholars slept, it was as if the University simply dissolved itself, brick by brick, stone by stone, and drifted off into the night, leaving only a cornice here, a buttress there, and a few curious gargoyles peering down at the shattered world below.

But if William Jones understood one thing in life it was the ways of Oxford. He had been at the college his whole life. He had worked his way up from kitchen boy to scout to watchman. He had walked the streets at dawn, dusk, and all the hours in between. He knew every whim of the city, and nothing could break his stride. He marched past the expanse of shadow that was St John’s College and turned left down Broad Street. There was Balliol at his shoulder, and its companion, Trinity, with its vaulted roof and gated garden. And huddled next to Trinity, the White Horse tavern, with its belly of a window pushing out upon the street. Every night it framed the same tableau: roaring men, jostling against one another, their backs bent by the beams. It was still remarkable to William that it was here, two years previously, that he had found the woman who had made him a husband. But that was the truth, and all he could really conclude from it was that there was opportunity in any corner of this world if only one had the wits and the will to look for it.

William was by the crossroads at the bottom of Broad Street when the sky split open. He did not register the start of it. A single star fell from its fixture, flared through the sky, and was gone, leaving a trail of gold, as if the velvet damask of the heavens had been sliced open. No sooner had it passed than another fell in its wake, and another, and another. William was striding up Hollywell Street when he finally noticed the change in the elements. The road before him had a golden sheen about it, turning the cobbles into a river of scattered sovereigns. He looked up. The stars were falling so quick on the heels of one another that they could not be separated. The sky was a smelting pot of liquid light, picking out the ridges of the rooftops. And as the sky spat and hissed, William saw that the college he was set to guard had come alive. It was a creature with a bristled back. The bell tower was the neck of the beast, flame snouted, snarling into the night. The door that William sat by was a black gaping wound in its flank. He shook his head, as if to shake the fancy from his mind. The college was a thing of brick and stone, and well he knew it. A porter got his position for his watchfulness, not for his dreaming. He set his shoulder to the door. He walked across the threshold and took his place under the stone-vaulted roof.

After her husband left for his nightwatch, Eleanor Jones sat restless by the fire. The quietness of her life was still so very new to her; often she found herself at a loss about what to do with it. As the daughter of an innkeeper, she had known every evening to be measured out by the beating of fists upon the table and the clashing of glasses. The roaring noise of the tavern was something that she had spent her life waiting to run from, and yet now sometimes she would find herself walking through her house at night, pulling books from the shelves to hear the hammering of them upon the floor, or racing up and down the stairs, for the echo of footsteps. As a young girl she would kneel upon the window seat at the front of the tavern and watch the passage of the gentlemen striding down Broad Street, willing them to turn and notice her. These men who seemed to have a purpose out there, in the world beyond the beer barrels. So when William arrived she was ready for him. When he courted her with words of love borrowed from poets, and flowers borrowed from the college gardens, she was quickly won. He was a clever man, and kind and gentle with it. He would take her down to where the parkland roamed wild at the edge of the city. They would embrace in the shadow of the beech trees and he would tell her that together they would have a happy life and he would love her till the end of his days—how could he do otherwise?

She spent the few months of their courtship dreaming of the transformation that awaited her. No longer would she stand at the pumps, watching beer froth about the tap like foaming spittle around the mouth of a madman. No longer would she end every evening pitching her father up the stairs. She had found a better kind of man who loved her, and she would set her future alongside his. What matter if his hair was graying and there were lines gathering across his face? Better that than any of the young men who pulled at her across the bar night after night, calling out her name as if they were calling in cattle.

But as they embarked upon the great adventure of their marriage, Eleanor soon realized that what her husband meant by a better life did not quite match her own imaginings. When the college gifted them the cottage, Eleanor was immediately struck by the difference between this shrunken dwelling and the other homes of Jericho. Town houses with tall windows and fancy porches lined the street that curved down to the meadow, but the cottage was set apart from them on a spur of land by the canal. It seemed to Eleanor that the grander dwellings were standing aloof and apart from her home, as if ashamed at the association. William did not notice. Nor did he see the mold on the walls or the tangled mass of briars and weeds that ranged across the garden. Neither did he see that when they took their tea together, the china would slide slowly but surely across the parlor table, toward the western wall of the house. No, for William the cottage was a symbol of progress, and that was all that mattered. Eleanor loved William for his convictions, but privately, as she passed so quickly from the tavern to the altar, to the marriage bed, to her seat by the fireside with the unborn child turning somersaults against her skin, she suspected that there were things in this world that could neither be foreseen nor forewarned against. As her belly swelled and she could feel the pressure of fists and feet inside her, Eleanor thought about how life had an urgency all its own, and no fact, theory, or plan of advancement could contain it.

When they had first arrived at the cottage there was talk of hanging new wallpaper, fresh paint upon the window frames, the tiny kitchen and scullery being scrubbed from top to tail, even talk of the wilderness of the garden being razed to the ground and replanted. But, in truth, the only aspect that changed at all was the front parlor. The shelves became filled with William’s books. He copied out scriptures and set them in picture frames to cover the peeling wallpaper. The Lord Bless Thee and Keep Thee. Beside them, he placed a map of the Empire and a map of the heavens. William’s telescope was put upon the mantelpiece and, when not at his nightwatch, he would often be found kneeling by the window with the brass barrel to his eye, sweeping the curve of the sky. William, always half in another world.

But still Eleanor knew that having only half of William was a much better arrangement than the whole of her old life. It was worth the damp, the sideways slant of her house, William’s absence at night and his long days of sleeping, for the trade of the beer barrels with the books. All for the lazy embrace of William’s arm across her back when he came to bed at dawn. All for the promise of a daughter.

The child would be a girl, Eleanor was ce...

Présentation de l'éditeur

The skies of Oxford are aflame with meteors the night Edgar Jones comes into the world–clearly this porter’s son, born in a small cottage in 1847, is no ordinary boy. While his mother is apprehensive about her restless, inquisitive child, Edgar’s father believes without a doubt that his son is destined for greatness. As the years pass, it becomes apparent that Edgar has a unique talent: He is a born inventor, and his gift for making is matched by a fierce will.

Edgar turns his back on the scholarly life his father had intended for him and apprentices himself to a blacksmith. It is not long before his ingenuity and metalworking skills bring him to the attention of a maverick professor at Oxford University, a bone collector with plans for a museum of natural history. Finally, Edgar has the opportunity to showcase the singular gifts he’s learned in the hazardous soot and heat of the forge. But his great ability also becomes a curse, and his prominence is fraught with danger–both for him and for his family.

Set at the dramatic midpoint of the nineteenth century, in a world on the cusp of change, The Ingenious Edgar Jones is an unforgettable coming-of-age story about the complexities of family life and the journey of one young man as he finds his place in a rapidly shifting world.

Détails de l'édition

• Éditeur: Crown Pub
• Date d'édition: 2009
• Langue: anglais
• ISBN 10: 030740899X
• ISBN 13: 9780307408990
• Reliure: Relié
• Nombre de pages: 323
• Coordonnées du fabricant: non disponible
• Personne responsable: MUSIC STORE professional GmbH; 22188841282; Lars.Mueller@musicstore.de; ; Istanbulstr. 22-26; Köln; 51103; Allemagne