Quincunx

  “What will you do?” that lady asked. “I suppose you will have to accept a situation as a governess?”

  “If I must,” my mother answered.

  “Well, just fancy!” Mrs Fortisquince exclaimed with a bright smile. “Isn’t it strange how things turn out? To think that I was once a governess when you were the adored child of a wealthy gentleman.” When my mother did not return her smile, she moved slightly as if preparing to stand and said: “But how kind of you to think of coming to see me so soon after your arrival. Especially when you have had so many other things to think about.”

  Presumably hearing the note of dismissal in her voice, my mother said: “I think we should go now, Johnnie.”

  “My dears, must you?” said Mrs Fortisquince as she rose and rang the bell. As we stood she asked with languid curiosity: “Where are you staying?”

  Before my mother could answer I replied: “The Golden-cross, Piccadilly.”

  My mother looked at me in astonishment and horror. I frowned slightly to indicate that she should not contradict me.

  Since the young servant came in at that moment, Mrs Fortisquince did not notice this exchange. She kissed my mother farewell at the door of the room. “Mind you come and see me again, soon,” she said, and the way she paused before that final word strangely conveyed the exactly contrary effect.

  We descended the stairs and the maid accompanied us to the street-door. As soon as it slammed shut behind us my mother exclaimed: “Johnnie, whyever did you tell such an untruth?”

  “I didn’t like her,” I said.

  “What can you mean?”

  “Why did she want us to trust Mr Sancious so much?”

  “Oh do stop that, Johnnie. You’re quite unreasonable about Mr Sancious. Why did you lie to her?”

  “Mamma, don’t you think she could be connected with whoever it is who is looking for us, and that is why she wanted to know how to find us?”

  “No, Johnnie, of course not.” Then she hesitated: “Well, I suppose it is just possible.”

  “Anyway, there’s nothing to be gained by having anything more to do with her, is there?”

  “I suppose you are right.”

  “Then, Mamma, tell me what Mrs Fortisquince meant by ‘that night’? And who were you talking about?”

  She clutched my arm: “Not now, Johnnie. Please. I promise you that one day you will learn everything. Only don’t force me to tell you anything now. I should not have taken you there, only I thought she …”

  “Thought she what, Mamma?”

  “I thought she would help you if not me. For the sake of others.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Though this whetted my curiosity further, she would say no more and we were both silent as we walked back. I went over the conversation I had heard, trying to find an explanation that would fit what I knew, almost as if I were trying out different keys to turn a lock. What could have happened on that night so long ago when my mother and Mrs Fortisquince had last met? And who was the mysterious person whose “melancholy circumstances” she had referred to? Above all, what was the mystery about my father? And what were Mrs Fortisquince’s feelings towards my mother — and even myself?

  When we got back to the hotel it was time for a light supper and then we retired. (When I commented on how dirty our clothes were, my mother explained that it was caused by the London blacks from the coal burning in the many chimneys.) Lying on the sopha in our sitting-room, I slept badly on my first night in Town for the noises were so different from those I was used to: the rattle and rumble of carriages, the clatter of hooves on the cobbles, the shouts of the watchmen calling the hours and then at first light the cries of hawkers and the crash of church bells. Waking before dawn, I lay listening for sounds within the hotel and wondering what was happening back at Melthorpe. Was Bissett rising as early as usual in the empty house? Were the cattle going down the lane on their way to their grazing? And Mr Passant opening up the shop? It was strange to think of life continuing in the village just as always when I was there no longer.

  After breakfast my mother made enquiries of the hotel-proprietor and learned of a person called “Marrables” in a nearby street who kept lodgings and was believed to have rooms free. We went there immediately and found No. 37 Conduit-street to be clean and respectable-looking and the landlady the same. The only accommodations available, however, comprised the two bed-chambers and a sitting-room on the first pair back; and the rent, including the services of the maid, was four pounds a month.

  I tugged at my mother’s arm and whispered: “That is far too much.”

  “We have to live somewhere,” she whispered back. And so she insisted on engaging the rooms and, despite my protests, handed over the first month’s rent.

  On the way back to the hotel I remonstrated with her for her extravagance.

  “You can’t expect me to do without a servant-girl,” she protested. “And anyway, Bissett will soon be sending us some money.”

  “We don’t know how much, Mamma. We should work everything out and see how much we can afford.”

  “Sometimes you talk as if you didn’t trust me,” she said bitterly, and we quarrelled fiercely.

  However, when we had returned to the hotel, ordered the reckoning to be made up, and begun to pack our belongings, she consented to sit down at the table and help me to work things out. We found that at that moment we had 24£ — less the 8s. or so that we anticipated for the reckoning. We expected that Bissett would send us about 40£, and I argued that even taking that into account, we could not afford to live at so high a rate.

  “But you have left out of consideration the money that I will make from the sale of my petit point. I am a fine needlewoman, you know, and people will pay a great deal of money for good work.”

  “Are you sure of that, Mamma?”

  “You are unkind, Johnnie,” she said. “You don’t want to think well of your mamma. But I know about clothes and I remember how much I used to pay when I was a girl, and I’m sure prices have gone up since then. And besides, if it came to it, I could always accept a situation as a governess.”

  I recognised the phrase with its implications of gracious acquiescence.

  “You’d hate it,” I protested. “You don’t know what a hard life it is.”

  “Why, what do you know about it?” my mother exclaimed with an angry smile.

  “I do know about it. That time we went to Mompesson-park, I saw how Lady Mompesson treated the governess. And the day I escaped from the garden — you remember? — I went to see the little girl I met there, and …”

  “Oh Johnnie,” she interrupted. “That was very naughty of you.”

  “Nobody knew I was there except Henrietta,” I said indignantly. “Anyway, I was going to say that she told me how much her governess, Miss Quilliam, had had to endure and that finally she was dismissed very suddenly and unfairly.”

  My mother remained unconvinced, however, and I raised another objection: “But even supposing you could endure it, where would I live?”

  “You should have to board at a school. We should find one nearby.”

  “I should hate that. And if you are going to work, then so am I.”

  “Don’t be silly. You’re much too young.”

  “Many boys and girls as young as I work — and younger too. Sukey’s little brothers and sisters do.”

  “That’s different, that’s the country. That’s just minding the cattle and that kind of thing. That’s not real work. It’s not the same in London.”

  “Yes it is. Joey works.”

  “Who is Joey?”

  “Joey Digweed, the boy who came to our house with his mother at Christmas!” I said indignantly.

  “Oh yes, but that’s quite different. And anyway, you would earn too little. It’s much better that you go to school now so that you may enter a profession and can earn your living as a gentleman. But anyway I’m sure it won’t be necessary.”

  “But if you were to accept a
post as a governess, how much do you suppose your salary would be?”

  “I should think at least 30£ for I paid Mrs Belflower 25£ and I am sure that a lady — who, you know, lives on terms of equality with the family — must be paid more than a cook.”

  “Very well. Then how much would be needed for my school?”

  “Well, since you will be boarding during the vacations, your fees and expenses must be about 15£. Then there will be additional expenses — clothes for both of us, physicians’ bills and medicines, holidays and occasional treats — and for this we should allow 10£. That means we could save 5£ a year and so in five years — by the time you’re of age to be articled or apprenticed — we will have, adding the money due from the furniture, a total of about 60£ which should be more than enough for the premium.”

  “I wonder if a governess would receive so much,” I said. “I have an idea: why don’t you register for such a post and find out what the salary would be, and then we may ask to be sent details of offers and may accept one that is really desirable?”

  My mother reluctantly agreed. We went downstairs and while she was settling the reckoning, I went into the coffee-room where, out of idle curiosity, I picked up a newspaper. My eye was taken by advertisements for schools on the front page, most of which said something like: “Boarding establishment for the education of the sons of gentlemen. Excellent tuition. Fees 60 guineas p.a. and extras.” The lowest figure I could find for any school in London — or, indeed, within a hundred miles of it — was 25 guineas. However, the advertisements for some of them, all of which were far away in the North, said things like: “Children disposed of on the most reasonable terms. Twelve guineas a year or thirty guineas for final disposition.” I also noticed advertisements for governesses and their wages were all between 15 and 30 pounds.

  When my mother came to find me I hastily put the newspaper down. She looked grave and I soon found out why:

  “The reckoning was fourteen shillings, Johnnie. London seems to be much more expensive than I’d expected. You know, I think we should try to live in a provincial town instead.”

  “But we came here to escape being found, Mamma!” I protested, loath to surrender the prospect of becoming a Londoner so soon.

  “But we have done that now, Johnnie. Nobody will be able to pursue us beyond the Golden-cross-inn. So perhaps we could find a way to settle in a nice town. I’m sure we’d love Salisbury. I passed through it once many years ago and it was so pretty with its cathedral and the old Close around it, I thought I should love to live there one day.”

  “Or Hertford,” I suggested watching her face closely. “That looked nice, I thought.”

  She flinched and turned away: “No, not there.”

  We now left the hotel and were soon at Mrs Marrables’ house. When we were installed in our rooms we arranged our few possessions and then, as parlour-boarders, took our dinner downstairs.

  Afterwards, when we had returned to our rooms and my mother had made herself a hot toddy, she said: “I feel a lot more cheerful now. I should write to Bissett now that we have an address to tell her.”

  I had reasons for thinking this was not a good idea but I was loath to make them explicit: “Mamma,” I said; “I think you should delay writing because we may decide we will have to move soon. And you shouldn’t want her to send a bank-note here if we had left, should you?”

  “Oh Johnnie, you are tiresome. Of course we won’t move from here for a while. But very well. I won’t write yet. Anyway, she won’t have had time to sell everything.”

  I suggested we should go to a registry-office tomorrow and also start to look for a school for myself: “And when we are at the office, shall we ask if we can learn Miss Quilliam’s address?”

  My mother laughed: “Really, Johnnie, you can’t claim acquaintance after meeting her just once.”

  “But we know no-one else in London, do we?” She said nothing so I repeated: “Well, we don’t, do we?”

  “Very well, we will ask for her.”

  She fell silent but a few minutes later she spoke gravely: “After we have been there, there is somewhere I must go.”

  “Where?” I asked in surprise. “Is it far? Must we take a coach?”

  “I must go alone. And you must not ask me about it now and must promise that you will not ask me any questions when I return.”

  I was much perplexed: “But you told me you know no-one in London apart from Mrs Fortisquince and Mr Sancious!”

  “I said I had no friends. But I asked you not to question me!” she exclaimed and seeing that she was upset I turned the subject: “But we do have friends in London, for you are forgetting Mrs Digweed and Joey.”

  “Oh yes,” she began to laugh. “But I don’t imagine we will claim acquaintance of them.”

  We were tired after our busy and successful day and once I was in bed I soon drifted into sleep.

  So early the next morning we set out for the largest of the registry-offices which was not very far away in Wigmore-street.

  On the way my mother stopped at a shop-window and pointed out some embroidery-work: “Look at that. It’s the kind of work I could do. Let’s just go in and ask how much it is.”

  We did so and, discovering that it was enormously expensive, emerged feeling much encouraged.

  With the aid of my map we made our way into a very grand district where many of the streets and squares were closed off by posts and chains at one end and had gates at the other with liveried porters and watch-keeper’s boxes. After we had been walking for some time we realized that we had lost our way and, seeing our obvious perplexity, a well-dressed gentleman of middle years came up to us and asked where we were looking for.

  “Wigmore-street?” he repeated. “It is the first on the left. Is it the London General Office that you seek?”

  When my mother confirmed that this was so, he glanced at her kindly and said: “Then I compassionate you from the depths of my heart.”

  “Is it so very terrible a life?” my mother faltered.

  He looked at her keenly: “I have known governesses who were among the most miserable of creatures, despised by their charges and humiliated by their employers. Yet it need not be so. Perhaps I could be of service in finding you a position with a good family.”

  My mother seemed taken aback at this. She murmured: “You are very kind, sir.”

  “Come,” he said, “permit me to accompany you in the direction of Wigmore-street, and perhaps I can persuade you not to throw yourself upon its mercies.”

  Obviously surprised, my mother allowed him to walk along with us.

  After a few steps he said: “I am Mr Parminter of Cavendish-square. Allow me to give you my card. And please come to me if I can be of any assistance.”

  He reached into his pocket but my mother suddenly halted and said: “Pray do not give yourself the trouble.”

  “But I should be very glad to help you,” he said pleasantly.

  At this my mother drew back and said as if trying to speak very haughtily: “Thank you for your assistance, sir, but we can find our way from here and I wish to trouble you no further.”

  Without giving him time to reply she bowed very slightly and walked on. As I hurried after her I glanced back and saw the gentleman watching us with an expression which I took to be one of mild amusement.

  “But Mamma,” I said when I caught her up, “why did you not accept his offer when the gentleman seemed so kind?”

  She merely shook her head and hurried on.

  We reached Wigmore-street a moment later, found the Office on the second floor and entered. A notice indicated that there were two rooms, one for the employers and one for the governesses. In the appropriate one we found a long wooden counter running the length of the great chamber, behind which a clerk stood talking to a seated lady and consulting at intervals the large books stacked around him and on shelves behind him. A number of ladies were seated in our half of the room waiting their turn. We gave our name to a b
oy who sat behind a desk near the door and told him what we wanted. He wrote our name down, indicated seats and passed the slip of paper to the man behind the counter who merely glanced at it and put it on one side.

  We sat down and had to wait a long time, but when at last the name of “Offland” was called the clerk cried out: “Hurry along there. I ain’t got all day.”

  He was a slight man with a lugubrious but sharp-featured countenance and thinning hair visible beneath a small wig. When we were before him he asked, without raising his eyes from the ledger he was writing in: “Where ’ave you been in sarvice, Mrs Offland?”

  “In service?”

  “Yes, that’s what I said.”

  “I have never been.”

  At this he looked up for the first time: “That’s bad.” Then he noticed me: “This your young ’un?”

  “Yes,” my mother admitted.

  “Widder?”

  My mother reddened and nodded.

  The man gazed at her searchingly.

  “He would board at a school,” she said.

  “In course,” he said. “But even so, famblies don’t like a governess to have a child. Governesses is single, as a rule. In course, you couldn’t see him ’cept by arrangement?”

  “I did not know that.”

  “Well, now you know,” he said. “Or, though I never ought to say this, you could leave him out of question.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh my, ain’t you green. Well, I ain’t going to say no more. Anyways, let’s see what you have got to offer. Can you speak French?”

  “Yes,” said my mother.

  “Straight-up Parigian like you was born to it?”

  She shook her head: “Not so well as that.”

  “What about Italian?” he asked severely.

  “No,” she almost whispered.

  He closed his mouth as if in resignation: “Well, can you sing and play the pianny-forty?”

  “Yes, fairly well.”

  “Famblies don’t want fairly well, they want bang-up.” He sighed heavily and fiddled with his shirt-cuffs: “Drorin’?” he suddenly demanded.