'No, but,' she hesitated, clearly struggling for tact, 'how do you know you will have another child?'
Mr. Jones beamed down at her. The port was singing in his veins. 'My wife is young yet. God will provide.' He leaned his elbows on the table until his face was a foot from hers. 'He owes me,' he whispered, too loudly.
Mary Saunders leaned back a little.
'Don't you see?' Mr. Jones had never explained his conviction to anyone. He'd tried to tell his wife once, but she covered her ears and called it sacrilegious talk. 'It's a sort of... bargain.'
The girl watched him warily.
'The way I see it, Mary,' he went on, slurring just a little, 'the Maker owes me the price of a leg.'
His grin elicited a tiny one from her.
'It'll be worth it in the end.' He glanced down at the sharp fold of his velvet breeches. 'Every time it aches where there's no flesh to ache, I've reminded myself of that. I shall have a son who'll live to make me proud, with an income to support him in style. He'll grow up to be a lawyer, maybe, or a physician,' he said, his voice booming in the little parlour. 'He'll drive a coach and six, and his footmen will wear livery. He'll write Esquire after his name!' Mr. Jones was laughing helplessly, but he'd never been more serious. 'He shall, Mary, I tell you he shall. Was not the celebrated versifier a plain linen-draper's son?'
Her forehead wrinkled up.
'You know the man. Pott. Post. Mr. Pond? The poet.' His brains were getting fuzzy.
'Pope?'
'That's it, good girl. A little frayed scrap of a man with a hump, no taller than Hetta.'
'Was he?' she asked doubtfully.
'He was,' said Mr. Jones. 'And has that diminished his fame? Not at all.' A vast yawn cracked his face now. 'What about you, my girl, on this festive day of yours?' he asked benevolently, tilting his cup to get the last few drops of liquor.
'Me?'
'What are your own ... aspirations, if you have any?' He bent forward now to look more closely into Mary's pale face. She'd be quite a beauty, it occurred to him, if only she'd smile more often. 'Sixteen is still young, but in time you may hope to marry, raise a family.' He leaned closer. 'Will you set your cap at some strapping Welshman, eh?'
'No.' Her answer was chilly.
He'd already decided he must have been mistaken about her and Daffy; certainly, the way they were skulking from room to room these days suggested that they couldn't stand the sight of each other. 'Still, you never know what might happen,' he said pleasantly. 'I'll tell you a strange story, now, about a gentleman of my acquaintance. On his travels in Africa a few years ago he captured this black, you see, and brought him home to the village of Dolgellau. Didn't he teach the fellow English and Welsh, and call him John Ystunllyn, and the black is said to be able to pronounce his own name as perfect as a Welshman! The fellow's both gardener and steward there now, on a good wage, and courting one of the maids, last I heard.'
The girl looked blankly back at him.
'So you see, Mary, you might think at first that your lot here is a lowly one, but if you bear patiently and do your best, you might rise a degree in the end.'
She shook her head. 'I'll go back to London,' she said flatly.
'In whose service?' he asked.
Mary looked away, and nibbled on her thumb. 'I could be an actress, maybe.'
'An actress?' His mouth began to curl in shock and amusement.
'Or a rich man's wife. Something that lets me wear silk all day. Something to lift me above the mob.'
Her master found that his good humour had evaporated all at once. He sat up straight; his head was vibrating and there was a sour taste in his mouth. 'Girl, your words grieve me.'
Her eyes were as dark as pebbles on the road.
'Did that mother of yours never teach you to mind your station?'
Mary stared back at him. She looked half-witted sometimes.
'All that embroidery has gone to your head, or perhaps this port is too rich for your blood. You make your future sound like a game of dress-up.'
'It won't be a game.'
He tried to infuse kindness into his words. 'You are in service, now, my dear girl. And in some kind of service you will remain, in all likelihood, married or not, one way or another, for the length of your days.'
'Have you not read the letters of Pamela Andrews, then?' Mary asked shrilly. 'She was nothing but a maid, and she got a lord in the end.'
Mr. Jones let out a little puff of laughter. 'Mary, Mary, that was only a story.'
She turned her face away, as if she didn't believe him. Was the girl crying? His voice softened and he reached out and took hold of her sleeve. The warmth of her skin came through the thin cloth. 'My dear, it's like ... a great river.'
When her face came round to meet him it was dry. 'What is?'
'Society.' Mr. Jones tried to catch hold of his train of thought. He'd heard it in a sermon once, from Joe Cadwaladyr most likely. He wished he was sober enough to be sure of getting it right. 'Some float along on the surface, you see. Catching the sunlight, I mean, and spreading themselves, as it were. Others, like my own family, the middle sort,' he went on more fluently, 'begin down in the dark—'
'On Back Lane, you mean?'
He winced. 'Yes, for instance. But through the Divine Plan,' he went on more confidently, 'we move up through the water, towards the light, if no obstacle blocks our way.'
'And where am I, then?' Her voice was dangerous.
'On the riverbed, I suppose,' he said, disconcerted. Was that right? Was there no kinder way to put it? 'You and your kind form the rock our whole society rests on,' he went on.
One thick eyebrow went up slightly.
'But consider the comforts of your lot, Mary,' he said cheeringly. 'You've no family of your own to provide for, no name to maintain; you're free from all the anxieties of your betters.'
'Are you better than me, then, Mr. Jones?'
Her eyes didn't turn away. He could have slapped her for such cheek, but he wouldn't. Besides, it was a fair question. 'Probably not, Mary,' he admitted, his tongue cleaning the rim of his cup, 'but I have been placed over you.' After a long minute, he added, 'I've no wish to quarrel, especially on your birthday.'
'Nor I, sir.'
'I know you're a good girl, really.'
The smile she gave him was most peculiar.
His head was spinning. He hauled himself up, then. 'Shall I leave the lantern?'
'No need.'
He took it, then, and hopped off to bed, the circles of light lapping the walls. The last he saw of Mary Saunders, she was still by the parlour window, looking out at the waning moon.
The next evening, after supper, Mrs. Jones looked very faint and queasy. She pressed her apron to her mouth.
'Is the beer disagreeing with you again, my dear?' her husband asked.
Mary saw her chance and stood up so fast the table shook. 'I could fetch you some fresh cider, madam,' she said.
Mrs. Jones blinked at her. 'Would you mind, Mary? I do believe it would settle my stomach.'
Halfway down Grinder Street, Mary slowed her pace. It wouldn't do to call attention to herself. She was a respectable maid going on a respectable errand on a fine summer evening. Her chemise was wet with sweat under her arms.
Feet thudded behind her. When she saw who it was she turned her face away and walked faster.
'For mercy's sake,' said Daffy, 'why won't you speak to me?'
'There's nothing to say.'
'Is it because of what we did, in the wood?' His voice was strangled. 'I never meant to take advantage. When I look at Mrs. Jones, and think how disappointed in me she'd be—'
'She knows nothing,' said Mary coldly.
Daffy nodded, very stiff, as if his neck was made of wood. 'Then what is it? Is it London?' His tone turned desperate. 'I might—I would consider coming to the city, you know, but only for a year or two. Only till the first child.'
'Forget it,' she said through closed teeth. 'Forget me.'
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'How can I?' he almost roared. 'We sleep in the same house.'
'We wouldn't suit,' she told him, turning to show him her stony face. She would have liked to speak softly to him, but it would only have prolonged his pain. 'I'm not like Gwyn, you know.'
'Is that it?' Daffy asked, his voice harsh with hope. 'Do you not like to take another woman's leavings? Because if that's your fear—'
She shook her head and almost smiled. 'I'm not what you need.'
He opened his mouth to protest.
'Trust me on this,' Mary told him, dead serious. 'You wouldn't want me if you knew me better.' Then she turned on her heel and set off towards the Crow's Nest as fast as she could. She kept one ear out for Daffy's steps behind her, but heard nothing.
Her mind was made up. Mr. Jones's drunken lecture on society had convinced her of something that she'd long suspected. She was never going to get where she wanted by being nothing but a maid. As fast as she might climb that ladder, it would sink into the mud, or somebody one rung up would stamp on her hands. Nor would she be able to make enough money to go back to London in style, except by resuming her old trade. After all, what was the sense in signing yourself over to one master for life, when you could rent yourself out to many? She'd thought she could escape her former self, but she'd been daydreaming. When in doubt, said Doll in her head, stick to what you know.
Cadwaladyr drew the pint of cider himself, tonight. He waited for Mary to speak. There were two boys within earshot, playing shove ha'penny. 'Have you any, ah, fresh cod in tonight?' she asked softly, her eyes flicking to the drinkers in the corner.
A long pause. She half-expected him to laugh in her face. 'Might have,' he murmured at last.
'Is it still a shilling each?'
Cadwaladyr nodded, his face blank under his tufted eyebrows.
All round Mary rose the wet stench of the dung heaps. No stars out tonight, and the moon wasn't up over the Meadow yet, thank the Maker. She set the tankard of cider down on a brick and moved farther into the dark shadows along the back wall of the inn. She reached the rickety staircase and laid her hand on it. Her stomach growled.
Here he lurched at last round the side of the building, the traveller, his inflamed face hanging like an udder. His coats swayed open, lined with curling lengths of colour. A ribbon peddler; Mary felt the sourness in her mouth, and almost laughed.
She stood and faced him for a moment. Here was her old life coming to suck her in again. Time was a loop, not a line. She was fourteen again, walking up to the St. Giles ribbon man, and there was no way out.
Mary turned and climbed the thin wooden stairs; they were slick with moss. The peddler hiccuped delightedly and followed her. All the room held was a straw mattress and some packing-crates. Everything stank of beer; the walls seemed to sweat it out. She wasted no time; she bunched up her skirts around her waist and lay face-down on the mattress. That way she wouldn't have to look at him.
After some fumbling the man was up to the hilt. Her ribs jerked against the rough mattress. Her insides tightened automatically. Like dancing a jig, Doll said behind her eyes; the body never forgets. The cully panted tiredly but ploughed on. How the beast in a man kept him going! Mary thought of the staked birds she'd seen in Market Square on Shrove Tuesday, staggering about in their own blood till the laughing cocksquailers clubbed them down. 'Why do the men do that?' asked Hetta, and all Mary could tell her was 'Because they like to.'
This was going to take a while; the peddler was past his prime. Mary's thighs were aching. She began to squeeze with all her force, though her back hurt from hours of smoothing Mrs. Harding's new petticoats with the charcoal iron. To encourage the fellow, she made a sound in the back of her throat; not a cry of pleasure, which she knew from experience could put some men off their stride, but a mild grunt of pain.
She was appalled to hear the church bell strike ten. Even Mrs. Jones would never believe it took this long to fetch a cup of cider. Panic began to rise in Mary's throat. Oh, merciful providence, let them not send Daffy back down to look for her...
She was tempted to buck the peddler off into the straw and make a run for it, but then she'd never see her shilling, though he'd had the use of her for a quarter of an hour. Hands pressed against the bristling straw, Mary took the weight of the man's desperate thrusts. What was that rhyme they'd taught her at school?
As the worms that work the soil,
Man was made for constant toil.
Finally she remembered a line she used to save for such occasions, when an aging cully seemed to be taking all night. 'Why you hurt me,' she complained, turning her head so she could feel the peddler's hot wheezing in her ear. 'You're too big.' He thrust harder. After another minute, Mary added a whimper: 'You'll tear me in two!' She could almost feel the words crowding together in the man's head, quickening his pulse, stiffening his guilty resolve.
A moment later it was all over, and his foam soaked the tops of her stockings.
Scurrying up Inch Lane with a small clink-clink in her pocket, Mary rehearsed her lines. Shame pulled on her sticky legs like a ball and chain.
In the parlour, the fire was almost out and Mrs. Jones snoozed alone over her darning. 'A peddler jostled me in the lane, madam,' Mary said breathlessly, 'and your cider spilled. I had to go all the way back for more.'
'Never mind, Mary,' yawned Mrs. Jones, taking a sip. 'You're a good girl to go out so late. Oh, that's very tasty. That's very settling stuff.'
The bald moon had slid through the shutters of the attic room. Abi's shape was a long shadow in the bed. A great weight bore down on Mary's shoulders as she bent to prise her shoes off.
She was a greasy harlot, that's what she was. Had always been and ever would be and had been a cretin to ever imagine otherwise. Had Mary been marked as a whore by the midwife who pulled her out, head first into the draughty world? Did she bear some tiny invisible brand? To think she'd come all that way across the country, only to find herself face-down under a dirty cully again. Like Doll's old joke: A yard's the same length anywhere.
Sticky in her palm, twelve pennies, her half share of the fee. Not enough, not half enough for a bandy-legged peddler. Then again, when was it ever enough? When had Mary ever walked away from a cully and felt fairly rewarded?
She peered through the moon-striped dark. The maid-of-all-work was flat in the bed like a tomb sculpture; light caught her glossy brown cheekbone. 'Abi?' whispered Mary warily.
No answer. Silence covered the sleeper like a blanket.
Mary's bag was under the bed; she pulled it out, slowly, making only a faint scrape on the boards. She knew the contents of her stocking without looking inside. She added the pennies, one by one.
You couldn't call it a plan. It was more like a hunger, starting up inside her sour stomach. Cadwaladyr was doing her a favour, really. The ten pounds a year the Joneses allowed her was only the beginning of what she needed. If she stayed here in Monmouth, where she never had to spend a shilling, she could build up a little stock against poverty by making the same trade she'd made all her grown life. That way when she went back to London—as early as next spring, maybe—it wouldn't be the same way she left it. She could drive back with unpatched linen, some fine new dresses, and a fat weight of coins in her pocket, heavy against her leg, to ward off all danger.
Lying still in bed, she spared a thought for Daffy. Was he asleep, or lying awake cursing her? How her life might have changed all at once with the slip of a syllable, a simple yes. To be a wife and a mother in a small country town was the life millions led and other millions prayed for. What gave Mary the right to resent the dull round of domestic duties, to demand a life of silks and gold? What was the tapeworm in her stomach that always made her hunger for more?
Mrs. Partridge hadn't yet made her toilette, Mrs. Jones and her maid were told when they called at Monnow House. The building rebuked them; three storys high, it drew its skirts back from the muddy thoroughfare. Mary stared up at the glinting windows and s
avoured the thought of being so rich you could sleep in till half past eleven. Mrs. Jones dipped her knee to the liveried footman and asked permission to call again at noon.
To Mary it seemed strangely illicit to dawdle under the churchyard yews in the middle of the day; it was the first time she'd ever seen her mistress wander without work in her hands. The May air was light and the trees smelt sharply green.
Mrs. Jones led the way across the north side of the churchyard. There were no stones marking the bumpy green turf. 'Why is no one buried here?' Mary asked.
'Oh, they are, my dear. Unbaptised babies, don't you know, and paupers from another parish.' Round the corner of the church, Mrs. Jones passed two truant boys who were playing leap-frog over the soft-edged tombstones. She didn't say a word to them, only smiled. On the worn white wall of St. Mary's was a carving. Are they soldiers, fighting?' asked Mary.
Her mistress peered at it. 'I think it's Adam and Eve. It was clearer in my grandmother's day.' Then she stepped back and pointed upwards. 'Look at that, now. Our great spire is said to be two hundred feet high.'
Mary nodded as if impressed. How could she explain the grandeur of St. Paul's to this woman who'd never been beyond Cheltenham? And then the breeze turned and the golden bird at the top wheeled round, just like the one on St. Giles, the morning she'd run away. The tail glinted, taunting her.
For distraction she turned to the nearest headstone.
From earth my body first arose,
But here to earth again it goes,
I never desire to have it more
To plague me as it did before.
She thought of her body: the rubbery dampness of it. How it served her. How it wearied her.
'Very true, that one,' said Mrs. Jones enjoyably. 'Read me some more; my eyes are tired this morning.'
Mary recited the epitaphs of various Lucases, Prossers, Lloyds, and Adamses. 'In Memory of his Wife who Bore Him 2 Sons and 1 Daughter and Died in Childbed June 1713 Aged 38.'