Fingersmith

  And, as I do, one of the customers closes his album and catches my eye. ‘Don’t mind him,’ he says softly, meaning the youth. ‘He supposes you gay, that’s all. Anyone can see though, that you’re a lady . . .’ He looks me over, then nods to the shelves of books. ‘You like them, hmm?’ he says, in a different tone. ‘Of course you do. Why shouldn’t you?’

  I say nothing, do nothing. The youth steps back.

  ‘We’re seeing,’ he says, ‘if he’s in.’

  There are pictures behind his head, pinned to the wall in wax-paper wrappers: a girl on a swing, showing her legs; a girl in a boat, about to slip; a girl falling, falling from the breaking branch of a tree . . . I close my eyes. He calls to one of the men: ‘Do you wish to buy that book, sir—?’

  Presently, however, there come more footsteps, and the door is opened again.

  It is Mr Hawtrey.

  He looks shorter, and slighter, than I remember him. His coat and trousers are creased. He stands in the passage in some agitation, does not come into the shop—meets my gaze, but does not smile—looks about me, as if to be sure I am alone; then beckons me to him. The youth steps back to let me pass. ‘Mr Hawtrey—’ I say. He shakes his head, however; waits until the door is closed behind me before he will speak. What he says then—in a whisper so fierce it is almost a hiss—is:

  ‘Good God! Is it you? Have you really come here, to me?’

  I say nothing, only stand with my eyes on his. He puts his hand, in distraction, to his head. Then he takes my arm. ‘This way,’ he says, leading me to a set of stairs. The steps have boxes upon them. ‘Be careful. Be careful,’ he says, as we climb them. And then, at the top: ‘In here.’

  There are three rooms, set up for the printing and binding of books. In one, two men work, loading type; another, I think, is Mr Hawtrey’s own office. The third is small, and smells strongly of glue. It’s in there that he shows me. The tables are piled with papers—loose papers, ragged at the edges: the leaves of unfinished books. The floor is bare and dusty. One wall—the wall to the typesetters’ room—has frosted glass panels in it. The men are just visible, bending over their work.

  There is a single chair, but he does not ask me to sit. He closes the door and stands before it. He takes out a handkerchief and wipes his face. His face is yellowish-white.

  ‘Good God,’ he says again. And then: ‘Forgive me. Forgive me. It’s only the surprise of the thing.’

  He says it, more kindly; and I hear him and half turn away.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. My voice is not steady. ‘I’m afraid I will weep. I have not come to you to weep.’

  ‘You may weep, if you like!’ he says, with a glance at the frosted glass.

  But I will not weep. He watches me struggling against my tears for a moment, then shakes his head.

  ‘My dear,’ he says gently at last. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Don’t ask me.’

  ‘You have run away.’

  ‘From my uncle, yes.’

  ‘From your husband, I think.’

  ‘My husband?’ I swallow. ‘Do you know, then, of that?’

  He shrugs, colours, looks away.

  I say, ‘You think me wrong. You do not know what I have been made to suffer! Don’t worry’—for he has lifted his eyes to glance, again, at the panels of glass—‘don’t worry, I shan’t grow wild. You may think what you like of me, I don’t care. But you must help me. Will you?’

  ‘My dear—’

  ‘You will. You must. I have nothing. I need money, a house to stay in. You used to like to say you would make me welcome—’

  Despite myself, my voice is rising.

  ‘Be calmer,’ he says—lifting his hands as if to soothe me; but not moving from his place at the door. ‘Be calmer. You know how queer this will look? Do you? What are my staff to think? A girl comes asking for me urgently, sending up a riddling name . . .’ He laughs, not happily. ‘What would my daughters say, my wife?’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  Again he wipes his face. He lets out his breath. ‘I wish you would tell me,’ he says, ‘why you have come, to me. You mustn’t think I will take your part against your uncle. I never liked to see him keep you so meanly, but he mustn’t know you’ve come here. Nor must you think—is it what you are hoping?—that I’ll help you back into his favours. He has quite cast you off, you know. Besides that, he is ill—seriously ill—over this business. Did you know that?’

  I shake my head. ‘My uncle is nothing to me, now.’

  ‘But he is something to me, you understand. If he should hear of your coming—’

  ‘He will not.’

  ‘Well.’ He sighs. Then his face grows troubled again. ‘But to come to me! To come here!’ And he looks me over, takes in my gaudy dress and gloves—which are filthy; my hair—which I think is tangled; my face—which must be dusty, lustreless, white. ‘I should hardly have known you,’ he says, still frowning, ‘you seem so changed. Where is your coat, and your hat?’

  ‘There was not time—’

  He looks appalled. ‘Did you come, like this?’ He squints at the hem of my skirt; then he sees my feet, and starts. ‘Why, look at your slippers! Your feet are bleeding! Did you leave, without shoes?’

  ‘I must. I have nothing!’

  ‘Not shoes?’

  ‘No. Not so much as that.’

  ‘Rivers keeps you without shoes?’

  He does not believe it. ‘If I might only,’ I say, ‘make you know—’ But he is not listening. He is looking about him, as if seeing for the first time the tables, the piles of paper. He takes up a few blank sheets, begins hurriedly to cover up the naked print.

  ‘You oughtn’t to have come here,’ he says, as he does it. ‘Look at this! Look at this!’

  I catch sight of a line of print. ‘—you shall have enough, I warrant you, and I shall whip, whip—’ ‘Do you try and hide it,’ I say, ‘from me? I have seen worse at Briar. Have you forgotten?’

  ‘This is not Briar. You don’t understand. How could you? You were among gentlemen, there. It is Rivers I blame for this. He ought—having taken you—at least to have kept you closer. He saw what you were.’

  ‘You don’t know,’ I say. ‘You don’t know how he’s used me!’

  ‘I don’t want to know! It is not my place to know! Don’t tell me.—Oh, only look at yourself! Do you know how you will have seemed, upon the streets? You can’t have come unnoticed, surely?’

  I gaze down at my skirt, my slippers. ‘There was a man,’ I say, ‘upon the bridge. I thought he meant to help me. But he meant only—’ My voice begins to shake.

  ‘You see?’ he says then. ‘You see? Suppose a policeman should have seen you, and followed you here? Do you know what would happen to me—to my staff, to my stock—if the police were to come down heavily upon us? They might, for such a matter as this.—Oh, God, only look at your feet! Are they bleeding, truly?’

  He helps me into the chair, then gazes about him. ‘There’s a sink,’ he says, ‘next door. Wait here, will you?’ He goes off, to the room with the typesetters in it. I see them lift their heads, hear his voice.—I don’t know what he must tell them. I don’t care. In sitting, I have grown tired; and the soles of my feet, which until now have been almost numb, have begun to smart. The room has no window of its own, and no chimney, and the smell of glue seems stronger. I have come close to one of the tables: I lean upon it, and gaze across it—at the piles of pages, untrimmed, unsewn, some of them disturbed or concealed by Mr Hawtrey. ‘—and I shall whip, whip, whip, your backside till the blood runs down your heels—’ The print is new, and black; but the paper is poor, the ink has feathered. What is the fount? I know it, but—it troubles me—I cannot name it.

  ‘—so, so, so, so, so, you like the birch, do you?’

  Mr Hawtrey returns. He has a cloth, and a bowl, half-filled with water; also a glass, with water for me to drink.

  ‘Here you are,’ he says, putting the bowl before me, wetting
the cloth and handing it to me; then glancing nervously away. ‘Can you do it? Just enough to take the blood away, for now . . .’

  The water is cold. When I have wiped my feet I wet the cloth again and, for a second, sit and hold it to my face. Mr Hawtrey looks round and sees me do it. ‘You’re not feverish?’ he says. ‘You’re not ill?’—‘I am only warm,’ I say. He nods, and comes and takes the bowl. Then he gives me the glass, and I drink a little of it. ‘Very good,’ he says.

  I look again at the leaves of print upon the table; but the name of the fount escapes me, still. Mr Hawtrey checks his watch. Then he puts his hand to his mouth and bites at the skin of his thumb, and frowns.

  I say, ‘You are good, to help me. I think other men would blame me.’

  ‘No, no. Haven’t I said? It is Rivers I blame. Never mind. Tell me, now. Be honest with me. What money have you, upon you now?’

  ‘I have none.’

  ‘No money at all?’

  ‘I have only this gown. But we might sell it, I think? I should sooner take a plainer one, anyway.’

  ‘Sell your gown?’ His frown grows deeper. ‘Don’t speak so oddly, will you? When you go back—’

  ‘Go back? To Briar?’

  ‘To Briar? I mean, to your husband.’

  ‘To him?’ I look at him in amazement. ‘I cannot go back to him! It has taken me two months to escape him!’

  He shakes his head. ‘Mrs Rivers—’ he says. I shudder.

  ‘Don’t call me that,’ I say, ‘I beg you.’

  ‘Again, so odd! What ought I to call you, if not that?’

  ‘Call me Maud. You asked me, just now, what I have that is mine. I have that name; that, and nothing else.’

  He makes some movement with his hand. ‘Don’t be foolish,’ he says. ‘Listen to me, now. I am sorry for you. You have had some quarrel, haven’t you—?’

  I laugh—so sharply, he starts; and the two typesetters look up. He sees them do it, then turns back to me.

  ‘Will you be reasonable?’ he says quietly, warningly.

  But how can I be that?

  ‘A quarrel,’ I say. ‘You think it a quarrel. You think I have run on bleeding feet, half-way across London, for that? You know nothing. You cannot guess what danger I am in, what coils—! But, I can’t tell you. It’s too great a thing.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘A secret thing. A scheme. I cannot say. I cannot—Oh!’ I have lowered my gaze, and it has fallen again upon the pages of print. ‘—you like the birch, do you?’ ‘What is this type?’ I say. ‘Will you tell me?’

  He swallows. ‘This type?’ he says, his voice quite changed.

  ‘This fount.’

  For a second he does not answer. Then: ‘Clarendon,’ he says, quietly.

  Clarendon. Clarendon. I knew it, after all. I continue to gaze at the paper—I think I put my fingers to the print—until Mr Hawtrey comes and places a blank sheet upon it, as he did with the others.

  ‘Don’t look there,’ he says. ‘Don’t stare so! What is the matter with you? I think you must be ill.’

  ‘I am not ill,’ I answer. ‘I am only tired.’ I close my eyes. ‘I wish I might stay here, and sleep.’

  ‘Stay here?’ he says. ‘Stay here, in my shop? Are you mad?’

  At sound of that word I open my eyes, and meet his gaze; he colours, looks quickly away. I say again, more steadily, ‘I am only tired.’ But he does not answer. He puts his hand to his mouth and begins to bite, again, at the skin of his thumb; and he watches me, carefully, cautiously, from the side of his eye. ‘Mr Hawtrey—’ I say.

  ‘I wish,’ he says suddenly then, ‘I just wish you would tell me what it is you mean to do. How am I even to get you from the shop? I must bring a cab, I suppose, to the back of the building.’

  ‘Will you do that?’

  ‘You have somewhere to go, to sleep? To eat?’

  ‘I have nowhere!’

  ‘You must go home, then.’

  ‘I cannot do that. I have no home! I need only a little money, a little time. There is a person I mean to find, to save—’

  ‘To save?’

  ‘To find. To find. And, having found her, then I may need help again. Only a little help. I have been cheated, Mr Hawtrey. I have been wronged. I think, with a lawyer—if we might find an honest man—You know I am rich?—or, ought to be.’ Again, he watches but does not speak. I say, ‘You know I am rich. If you’ll only help me, now. If you’ll only keep me—’

  ‘Keep you! Do you know what you are saying? Keep you, where?’

  ‘Not in your own house?’

  ‘My house?’

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘My house? With my wife and daughters? No, no.’ He has begun to pace.

  ‘But at Briar you said, many times—’

  ‘Haven’t I told you? This is not Briar. The world is not like Briar. You must find that out. How old are you? You are a child. You cannot leave a husband, as you may leave an uncle. You cannot live, in London, on nothing. How do you think you will live?’

  ‘I do not know. I supposed—’ I supposed you would give me money, I want to say. I look about me. Then I am struck with an idea. ‘Might I not,’ I say, ‘work for you?’

  He stands still. ‘For me?’

  ‘Might I not work here? In the putting together of books?—the writing, even? I know that work. You know how well I know it! You may pay me a wage. I shall take a room—I need only one room, one quiet room!—I shall take it secretly, Richard shall never know, you shall keep my secret for me. I shall work, and earn a little money—enough to find out my friend, to find out an honest lawyer; and then—What is it?’

  He has kept still, all this time; but his look has changed, is odd.

  ‘Nothing,’ he says, moving. ‘I—Nothing. Drink your water.’

  I suppose I am flushed. I have spoken rapidly, and grown warm: I swallow, and feel the chill descent of the water inside my breast, like a sword. He moves to the table and leans upon it, not looking at me, but thinking, thinking. When I set down the glass he turns back. He does not catch my eye.

  ‘Listen to me,’ he says. He speaks quietly. ‘You cannot stay here, you know that. I must send for a cab, to take you. I—I must send for some woman, also. I will pay for a woman to go with you.’

  ‘Go with me, where?’

  ‘To some—hotel.’ Now he has turned again, has taken up a pen—looks in a book, begins to set down a direction upon a slip of paper. ‘Some house,’ he says, as he does it, ‘where you may rest and take a supper.’

  ‘Where I may rest?’ I say. ‘I don’t think I shall rest, ever again! But a room! A room!—And will you come to me there? Tonight?’ He does not answer. ‘Mr Hawtrey?’

  ‘Not tonight,’ he says, still writing. ‘Tonight I cannot.’

  ‘Tomorrow, then.’

  He waves the paper, to dry it; then folds it. ‘Tomorrow,’ he says. ‘If I can.’

  ‘You must!’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘And the work—my working for you. You’ll consider that? Say you will!’

  ‘Hush. Yes, I’ll consider it. Yes.’

  ‘Thank God!’

  I put my hand before my eyes. ‘Stay here,’ he says. ‘Will you? Don’t go from here.’

  I hear him step, then, to the room next door; and when I look, I see him speaking quietly to one of the typesetters—see the man draw on his jacket, then go. Mr Hawtrey comes back. He nods to my feet.

  ‘Put your shoes on, now,’ he says, turning away. ‘We must be ready.’

  ‘You are kind, Mr Hawtrey,’ I say, as I lean to tug on my broken slippers. ‘God knows, no-one has been so kind to me, since—’ My voice is lost.

  ‘There, there,’ he says, distractedly. ‘Don’t think of it, now . . .’

  Then I sit in silence. He waits, takes out his watch, goes now and then to the top of the stairs, to stand and listen. At last he goes and comes quickly back.

  ‘They are here,’ he says
. ‘Now, have you everything? Come this way, carefully. ’

  He takes me down. He takes me through a set of rooms, piled high with crates and boxes, and then through a sort of scullery, to a door. The door leads to a little grey area: there are steps from this, to an alley. A cab waits there with, beside it, a woman. She sees us and nods.

  ‘You know what to do?’ Mr Hawtrey says to her. She nods again. He gives her money, wrapped in the paper on which he has written. ‘Here is the lady, look. Her name is Mrs Rivers. You are to be kind to her. Have you some shawl?’

  She has a plaid wool wrap, which she puts about me, to cover up my head. The wool is hot against my cheek. The day is still warm, though it is almost twilight. The sun has gone from the sky. I have been three hours from Lant Street.

  At the door to the cab, I turn. I take Mr Hawtrey’s hand.

  ‘You will come,’ I say, ‘tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You won’t talk of this, to anyone? You’ll remember the danger I spoke of?’

  He nods. ‘Go on,’ he says quietly. ‘This woman will care for you now, better than I.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Hawtrey!’

  He hands me into the cab—hesitates, before lifting my fingers to his mouth. The woman comes next. He closes the door at her back, then moves off, out of the path of the turning wheel. I lean to the glass and see him take out his handkerchief, wipe his face and neck; then we turn, pull out of the alley, and he is gone. We drive away from Holywell Street—northwards, so far as I can tell; for I know—I am almost certain—that we do not cross the river.

  We go very fitfully, however. The traffic is thick. I keep with my face at the window at first, watching the crowds upon the streets, the shops. Then I think, Suppose I see Richard?—and I fall back against the leather seat and study the streets from there.

  Only after some time of this do I look again at the woman. She has her hands in her lap: they are gloveless, and coarse. She catches my eye.

  ‘All right, dearie?’ she says, not smiling. Her voice is rough as her fingers.

  Do I begin, then, to feel wary? I am not sure. I think, After all, Mr Hawtrey had not the time to be careful, in his finding of a woman. What matter if she’s not kind, so long as she’s honest? I look more closely at her. Her skirt is a rusty black. Her shoes are the colour and texture of roasted meat. She sits placidly, not speaking, while the cab shudders and jolts.