Fingersmith

  ‘Please let me go,’ I say.

  Mrs Sucksby shakes her head. ‘Dear girl,’ she says, ‘go where?’

  She waits and, when I do not answer, leaves me. Richard closes his door and goes back to his bed. I hear him humming.

  I think of taking up the plate, hurling it against the ceiling, the window, the wall. Then I think: You must be strong. You must be strong and ready to run. And so I sit and eat—slowly, wretchedly, carefully picking out the bones from the amber flesh. My gloves grow damp and stained; and I have none with which to replace them.

  After an hour, Mrs Sucksby comes back, to take the empty plate. Another hour, and she brings me coffee. While she is gone I stand, again, at the window, or press my ear to the door. I pace, and sit, and pace again. I pass from fury to maudlin grief, to stupor. But then Richard comes. ‘Well, Maud—’ is all he says. I see him, and am filled with a blistering rage. I make a run at him, meaning to strike his face: he wards off the blows and knocks me down, and I lie upon the floor and kick, and kick—

  Then they dose me again with medicine and brandy; and a day or two passes in darkness.

  When I wake next, it is again unnaturally early. There has appeared in the room a little basket chair, painted gold, with a scarlet cushion on it. I take it to the window and sit with the dressing-gown about me, until Mrs Sucksby yawns and opens her eyes.

  ‘Dear girl, all right?’ she says, as she will say every day, every day; and the idiocy or perversity of the question—when all is so far from being right, as to be so wrong I would almost rather die than endure it—prompts me to grind my teeth or pull at my hair, and gaze at her in loathing. ‘Good girl,’ she says then, and, ‘Like your chair, do you, dear? I supposed you would.’ She yawns again, and looks about her. ‘Got the po?’ she says. I am used in my modesty to taking the chamber-pot behind the horse-hair screen. ‘Pass it over, will you, sweetheart? I’m ready to bust.’

  I do not move. After a second she rises and fetches it herself. It is a thing of white china, dark inside with what, when I saw it first, in the half-light of morning, I queasily took to be clumps of hair; but which proved to be decoration merely—a great eye with lashes, and about it, in a plain black fount, a motto:USE ME WELL AND KEEP ME CLEAN AND I’LL NOT TELL OF WHAT I’VE SEEN!

  A PRESENT FROM WALES

  The eye gives me, always, a moment or two of uneasiness; but Mrs Sucksby sets the pot down and carelessly lifts her skirt, and stoops. When I shudder, she makes a face.

  ‘Not nice, is it, dear? Never mind. We shall have you a closet, in our grand house.’

  She straightens, pushes her petticoat between her legs. Then she rubs her hands.

  ‘Now, then,’ she says. She is looking me over, and her eyes are gleaming. ‘What do you say to this? How about we dress you up today, make you look handsome? There’s your own gown in the box. But, it’s a dull old thing, ain’t it? And queer and old-fashioned? How about we try you in something nicer. I got dresses saved for you—got ’em wrapped in silver-paper—that fine, you won’t believe it. What say we bring Dainty in and get ’em fitted up? Dainty’s clever with a needle, though she seems so rough—don’t she? That’s just her way. She was what you would say, not brought up, but dragged up. But she is kind at her heart.’

  She has my attention, now. Dresses, I think. Once I am dressed, I might escape.

  She sees the change in me, and is pleased. She brings me another breakfast of fish, and again I eat it. She brings me coffee, sweet as syrup: it makes my heart beat hard. Then she brings me a can of hot water. She wets a towel and tries to wash me. I will not let her, but take the towel from her, press it against my face, under my arms, between my legs.—The first time, in all my life, that I washed myself.

  Then she goes off—locks the door, of course, behind her—comes back with Dainty. They are carrying paper boxes. They set them down upon the bed, untie their strings and draw out gowns. Dainty sees them, and screams. The gowns are all of silk: one of violet, with yellow ribbon trimming it, another of green with a silver stripe, and a third of crimson. Dainty takes up an edge of cloth and strokes it.

  ‘Pongee?’ she says, as if in wonder.

  ‘Pongee, with a foulard rouche,’ says Mrs Sucksby—the words coming awkwardly, fleshily out of her mouth, like cherry stones. She lifts the crimson skirt, her chin and cheeks as red in the reflected light of the silk as if stained with cochineal.

  She catches my eye. ‘What do you say, my dear, to these?’

  I have not known such colours, such fabrics, such gowns, exist. I imagine myself in them, upon the streets of London. My heart has sunk. I say, ‘They are hideous, hideous.’

  She blinks, then recovers. ‘You say that now. But you been kept too long in that dreary great house of your uncle’s. Is it to be wondered at if you’ve no more idea of fashion, than a bat? When you makes your début, dear girl, upon the town, you shall have a set of dresses so gay, you shall look back on these and laugh your head off to think you ever supposed ’em bright.’ She rubs her hands. ‘Now, which best takes your fancy? The arsenic green and the silver?’

  ‘Haven’t you a grey,’ I say, ‘or a brown, or a black?’

  Dainty looks at me in disgust.

  ‘Grey, brown or black?’ says Mrs Sucksby. ‘When there’s silver here, and violet?’

  ‘Make it the violet, then,’ I say at last. I think the stripe will blind me, the crimson make me sick; though I am sick, anyway. Mrs Sucksby goes to the chest of drawers and opens it up. She brings out stockings, and stays, and coloured petticoats. The petticoats astonish me: for I have always supposed that linen must be white—just as, when I was a child, I thought that all black books must turn out Bibles.

  But I must be coloured now, or go naked. They dress me, like two girls dressing a doll.

  ‘Now, where must we nip it?’ says Mrs Sucksby, studying the gown. ‘Hold still, my dear, while Dainty takes her measure. Lord, look at your waist.—Hold steady! A person don’t want to wriggle while Dainty’s by with a pin in her hand, I can tell you.—That’s better. Too loose, is it? Well, we can’t be particular about the size—ha, ha!—the way we gets ’em.’

  They take away my gloves; but bring me new ones. On my feet they put white silk slippers. ‘May I not wear shoes?’ I say, and Mrs Sucksby answers: ‘Shoes? Dear girl, shoes are for walking in. Where’ve you got to walk to . . . ?’

  She says it distractedly. She has opened up the great wooden box and brought out my leather bag. Now, as I look on, and while Dainty stitches, she goes with it to the light of the window, makes herself comfortable in the creaking basket chair, and begins to sort through the items inside. I watch as she fingers slippers, playing-cards, combs. It’s my jewels she wants, however. She finds in time the little linen packet, unwraps it and tips the contents into her lap.

  ‘Now, what’s here? A ring. A bangle. A lady’s picture.’ She gazes at this in an assessing way; then all at once her expression changes. I know whose features she is seeing there, upon the face where once I looked for mine. She puts it quickly aside. ‘A bracelet of emeralds,’ she says next, ‘in fashion at the time of King George; but with handsome stones. We shall find you a nice price for those. A pearl on a chain. A ruby necklace—that’s too heavy, that is, for a girl with your looks. I got you a nice set of beads—glass beads, but with such a shine, you’d swear they was sapphires!—suit you much better. And—Oh! What’s this? Ain’t that a beauty? Look Dainty, look at the stunning great stones in that!’

  Dainty looks. ‘What a spanker!’ she says.

  It is the brooch of brilliants I once imagined Sue breathing upon, and polishing, and gazing at with a squinting eye. Now Mrs Sucksby holds it up and studies it with her own eye narrowed. It sparkles. It sparkles, even here.

  ‘I know the place for this,’ she says. ‘Dear girl, you won’t mind—?’ She opens its clasp and pins it to the bosom of her gown. Dainty lets fall her needle and thread, to watch her.

  ‘Oh, Mrs S!’ she say
s. ‘You looks like a regular queen.’

  My heart beats hard again. ‘The Queen of Diamonds,’ I say.

  She eyes me uncertainly—not knowing if I mean to compliment or mock. I do not know, myself.

  For a time, then, we say nothing. Dainty finishes her work, then combs my hair and twists and pins it into a knot. Then they make me stand, so they might survey me. They look expectant, tilt their heads; but their faces fall. Dainty rubs her nose. Mrs Sucksby drums her fingers across her lips, and frowns.

  There is a square of glass upon the chimney-piece, with plaster hearts about it: I turn, and see what I can of my face and figure, in that. I barely recognise myself. My mouth is white. My eyes are swollen and red, my cheeks the texture and colour of yellowing flannel. My unwashed hair is dark with grease at the scalp. The neck of the gown is low, and shows the lines and points of the bones about my throat.

  ‘Perhaps violet, after all,’ says Mrs Sucksby, ‘ain’t the colour for you, dear girl. Brings out the shadows under your eyes and makes ’em seem rather too like bruises. And as for your cheek—what say you give it a bit of a pinch, put the roses back in it? No? Let Dainty try for you then. She’s got a grip like thunder, she has.’

  Dainty comes and seizes my cheek, and I cry out and twist from her grasp.

  ‘All right, you cat!’ she says, tossing her head and stamping. ‘I’m sure, you can keep your yellow face!’

  ‘Hi! Hi!’ says Mrs Sucksby. ‘Miss Lilly is a lady! I want her spoke to like one. You put that lip in.’ Dainty has begun to pout. ‘That’s better. Miss Lilly, how about we take the gown off and try the green and silver? Only a touch of arsenic in that green—won’t harm you at all, so long as you keep from sweating too hard in the bodice.’

  But I cannot bear to be handled again, and will not let her unfasten the violet dress. ‘You like it, dear girl?’ she says then, her face and voice grown softer. ‘There! I knew the silks would bring you round at last. Now, what say we go down and stun the gents? Miss Lilly?—Dainty, you go on first. Them stairs are tricky, I should hate for Miss Lilly to take a tumble.’

  She has unlocked the door. Dainty passes before me and, after a second, I follow. I still wish I had shoes, a hat, a cloak; but I will run, bare-headed, in silken slippers, if I must. I will run, all the way to Briar. Which was the door, at the foot of the stairs, that I ought to take? I am not sure. I cannot see. Dainty walks ahead of me, and Mrs Sucksby follows anxiously behind. ‘Find your step, dear girl?’ she says. I do not answer. For there has come, from some room close by, an extraordinary sound—a sound, like the cry of a pea-hen, rising, then trembling, then fading to silence. I start, and turn. Mrs Sucksby has also turned. ‘Go on, you old bird!’ she cries, shaking her fist. And then, to me, more sweetly: ‘Not frightened, dear? Why, that’s only Mr Ibbs’s aged sister, that is kept to her bed, poor thing, and prone to the horrors.’

  She smiles. The cry comes again, I hear it and hasten down the shadowy stairs—my limbs aching and cracking as I do it, and my breath coming quick. Dainty waits at the bottom. The hall is small, she seems to fill it. ‘In here,’ she says. She has opened the door to the kitchen. There is a street-door behind her, I think, with bolts across it. I slow my step. But then Mrs Sucksby comes and touches my shoulder. ‘That’s right, dear girl. This way.’ I step again, and almost stumble.

  The kitchen is warmer than I recall, and darker. Richard and the boy, John Vroom, are sitting at the table playing at dice. They both look up when I appear, and both laugh. John says, ‘Look at the face on that! Who bruised the eyes, then? Dainty, say it was you and I’ll kiss you.’

  ‘I’ll bruise your eyes, get my hands on you,’ says Mrs Sucksby. ‘Miss Lilly is only tired. Get out of that chair, you little waster, and let her sit down.’

  She says this, locking the door at her back, pocketing the key, then crossing the kitchen and trying the other two doors, making sure they are fast.—‘Keep the draughts out,’ she says, when she sees me watching her.

  John throws the dice again, and reckons up his score, before he rises. Richard pats the empty seat. ‘Come, Maud,’ he says. ‘Come, sit beside me. And if you will only promise not to fly at my eyes—as you did, you know, on Wednesday—then I shall swear, on Johnny’s life! not to knock you down again.’

  John scowls. ‘Don’t you make so free with my life,’ he says; ‘else, I might make free with yours—you hear me?’

  Richard does not answer. He holds my gaze, and smiles. ‘Come, let us be friends again, hmm?’

  He puts his hand to me, and I dodge it, drawing my skirts away. The fastening of the doors, the closeness of the kitchen, has filled me with a kind of bleak bravado. ‘I don’t care,’ I say, ‘to be thought a friend of yours. I don’t care to be thought a friend to any of you. I come among you because I must; because Mrs Sucksby wills it, and I haven’t life left in me to thwart her. For the rest, remember this: I loathe you all.’

  And I sit, not in the empty place beside him, but in the great rocking-chair, at the head of the table. I sit in it and it creaks. John and Dainty gaze quickly at Mrs Sucksby, who blinks at me, two or three times.

  ‘And why not?’ she says at last, forcing a laugh. ‘You make yourself comfy, my dear. I’ll take this hard old chair here, do me good.’ She sits and wipes her mouth. ‘Mr Ibbs not about?’

  ‘Gone off on a job,’ says John. ‘Took Charley Wag.’

  She nods. ‘And all my infants sleeping?’

  ‘Gentleman give ’em a dose, half an hour ago.’

  ‘Good boy, good boy. Keep it nice and quiet.’ She gazes at me. ‘All right, Miss Lilly? Like a spot of tea, perhaps?’ I do not answer, but rock in my chair, very slowly. ‘Or, coffee?’ She wets her lips. ‘Make it coffee, then. Dainty, hot up some water.—Like a cake, dear girl, to chase it down with? Shall John slip out and fetch one? Don’t care for cakes?’

  ‘There’s nothing,’ I say slowly, ‘that could be served to me here, that wouldn’t be to me as ashes.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Why, what a mouth you’ve got, for poetry! As for the cake, now—?’ I look away.

  Dainty sets about making the coffee. A gaudy clock ticks, and strikes the hour. Richard rolls a cigarette. Tobacco smoke, and smoke from the lamps and spitting candles, already drifts from wall to wall. The walls are brown, and faintly gleam, as if painted with gravy; they are pinned, here and there, with coloured pictures—of cherubs, of roses, of girls on swings—and with curling paper clippings, engravings of sportsmen, horses, dogs and thieves. Beside Mr Ibbs’s brazier three portraits—of MR CHUBB, MR YALE and MR BRAMAH—have been pasted to a board of cork; and are much marked by dart-holes.

  If I had a dart, I think, I might threaten them with it, make Mrs Sucksby give up her keys. If I had a broken bottle. If I had a knife.

  Richard lights his cigarette, narrows his eyes against the smoke and looks me over. ‘Pretty dress,’ he says. ‘Just the colour for you.’ He reaches for one of the yellow ribbon trimmings, and I hit his hand away. ‘Tut, tut,’ he says then. ‘Temper not much improved, I fear. We were in hopes that you would sweeten up in confinement. As apples do. And veal-calves.’

  ‘Go to hell, will you?’ I say.

  He smiles. Mrs Sucksby colours, then laughs. ‘Hark at that,’ she says. ‘Common girl says that, sounds awfully vulgar. Lady says it, sounds almost sweet. Still, dear’—here she leans across the table, drops her voice—‘I wish you mightn’t speak so nasty.’

  I hold her gaze. ‘And you think,’ I answer levelly, ‘your wishes are something to me, do you?’

  She flinches, and colours harder; her eyelids flutter and she looks away.

  I drink my coffee, then, and don’t speak again. Mrs Sucksby sits, softly beating her hands upon the table-top, her brows drawn together into a frown. John and Richard play again at dice, and quarrel over the game. Dainty washes napkins in a bowl of brown water, then sets them before the fire to steam and stink. I close my eyes. My stomach aches and aches. If I had a kni
fe, I think again. Or an axe . . .

  But the room is so stiflingly hot, and I am so weary and sick, my head falls back and I sleep. When I wake, it is five o’clock. The dice are put away. Mr Ibbs is returned. Mrs Sucksby is feeding babies, and Dainty is cooking a supper. Bacon, cabbage, crumbling potatoes and bread: they give me a plate and, miserably picking free the strips of fat from the bacon, the crusts from the bread, as I pick bones from my breakfasts of fish, I eat it. Then they put out glasses. ‘Care for some tipple, Miss Lilly?’ Mrs Sucksby says. ‘A stout, or a sherry?’

  ‘A gin?’ says Richard, some look of mischief in his eye.

  I take a gin. The taste of it is bitter to me, but the sound of the silver spoon, striking the glass as it stirs, brings a vague and nameless comfort.

  So that day passes. So pass the days that follow. I go early to bed—am undressed, every time, by Mrs Sucksby, who takes my gown and petticoats and locks them up, then locks up me. I sleep poorly, and wake, each morning, sick and clear-headed and afraid; and I sit in the little gold chair, running over the details of my confinement, working out my plan of escape. For I must escape. I will escape. I’ll escape, and go to Sue. What are the names of the men who took her? I cannot remember. Where is their house? I do not know. Never mind, never mind, I shall find it out. First, though, I will go to Briar, beg money from my uncle—he’ll still believe himself my uncle, of course—and if he’ll give me none, I’ll beg from the servants! I’ll beg from Mrs Stiles! Or, I’ll steal! I’ll steal a book from the library, the rarest book, and sell it—!

  Or, no, I won’t do that.—For the thought of returning to Briar makes me shudder, even now; and it occurs to me in time that I have friends in London, after all. I have Mr Huss and Mr Hawtrey. Mr Huss—who liked to see me climb a staircase. Could I go to him, put myself in his power? I think I could, I am desperate enough . . . Mr Hawtrey, however, was kinder; and invited me to his house, to his shop on Holywell Street.—I think he’ll help me. I am sure he will. And I think Holywell Street cannot be far—can it? I do not know, and there are no maps here. But I shall find out the way. Mr Hawtrey will help me, then. Mr Hawtrey will help me find Sue . . .