Cold in Alabaster

A strange tale of seventeenth-century Derbyshire.

I here reproduce the words of Matthew Aldridge, a forgotten funerary sculptor of the Jacobean age.

Of my subject – Lady Matlowe – I know little other than that she is but three-and-twenty, and to all appearances the very paragon of fairness and grace. But to me the truth of her character remains as yet unknown. From my brief observation, I have seen her temper wax by turns both sweet and hot, and I do not doubt that thereby she shall always have her way. Thus far I have seen her only the once, but I shall see her again, a matter that both pleases me, and yet makes me afraid. Sight of her is enough to kindle desire in any man, but my station is such that I dare not affront her with the insolence of my gaze. Short shrift would she give to the owner of any eye that met her own unbidden.

But it is not the character of my present subject that troubles me. It is, rather, her age. As to why that should be a matter for what conscience I have, that will become clear enough, although you may not wish to hear what I have to say by way of explanation. You shall doubtless find it distasteful, and curse me for my base and wicked ways. But are we not all sinners, each and every one?

This evening, as on the eve of commencing every such commission, I shall offer up my prayers in the hope that my hand will be steady and my chisel inspired, in the knowledge that hitherto they have always been answered. That it is not to Almighty God that they have been made, but to some other, may occasion at best a sense of disbelief, at worst one of horror and disgust at the admission of so vile a blasphemer. That is my secret, and that is the root of my success; it is also my regret. And thus am I so compelled as to debase my spirit, and let some other genius enter in. How this came to be, I may in time divulge, but the story would give me no pleasure in its telling.