“Then it must be Mrs Fortisquince, must it not?” I said.
She said nothing.
Suddenly the bell in the tower beside us began to strike the hour. It seemed to me an innocent enough sound, but my mother looked up with an expression of horror and then glanced wildly around.
“St. Sepulchre!” she cried, and started to her feet.
She hurried through the gate at the other end of the narrow yard and in bewilderment I followed her into Giltspur-street. Almost opposite us stood the grim edifice of Newgate but, as if not noticing it, my mother hastened towards Holborn past the church in whose shadow we had rested.
After a few yards she stopped suddenly and I caught up with her. She was staring at an inn-sign hanging above us and depicting the face of a ferocious Moor carrying a cruelly curved scimitar. (It was the famous Saracen’s-head which denoted the inn of that name.)
She turned away muttering to herself and appearing not to see me: “The sword and the crescent moon. And the blood.”
She seemed to me to be remembering one of my stories from the Arabian Tales. But before I could remonstrate with her she set off at a run into the maze of stinking lanes and back-ways around Smithfield. I hurried after her and it was long before she slowed and halted.
She looked at me as if in a stupor.
I took her hand and said: “Come. We must go to Mrs Fortisquince.”
Wearily she nodded and we set off.
We walked and walked as the sky grew darker and darker, and after a few minutes the rain began pouring down and soaked through our clothes. My mother’s steps grew slower and feebler, and I had to keep urging her on. Neither of us knew this part of the metropolis — we were in Clerkenwell — and yet as it grew dark we became increasingly reluctant to ask the way of strangers, and therefore it happened many times that we missed our way and found that we had laboured the length of a long street only to have to turn back and retrace our steps. Now for the first time I was tempted to beg, but I knew the danger of being taken up by a constable for this offence, especially in the better streets that we were at last approaching. However, I looked in the face the few well-dressed foot-passengers whom we encountered with what I hoped was an expression of proud importunity — forced to this expedient not for myself but on behalf of my mother, — and once I was rewarded when a poorly-dressed woman gave me a penny. I used it to buy a small piece of bread and we shared it between us on one of the frequent stops to rest that my mother’s state of exhaustion necessitated.
CHAPTER 43
The nearer we drew to Mrs Fortisquince’s house the more worried I became about the way she would receive us. If she had been so unfriendly when we were far from absolute penury, how would she behave now that we were penniless and almost in rags? Yet surely she could not refuse to help us?
It was past midnight when we reached the house in Golden-square and no lights were visible. I wondered if it would be better to walk the streets for the night and apply at the house early the following morning, but the sight of my mother, her hair and clothes drenched and her teeth chattering, emboldened me. I rang the bell and as it clanged on the other side of the street-door it seemed a fearful violation of the night’s silence.
In a few moments lights appeared at the upper windows, we heard sounds upon the stair, and then Mrs Fortisquince’s anxious voice came through the door: “Who is it?”
I hesitated and then answered: “John Mellamphy and his mother.”
There was a pause before we heard bolts being slid back, and then the door opened the few inches permitted by its chain. A candle was held towards us and then the chain was released and the door swung back to reveal Mrs Fortisquince and her maid-servant, both in night-attire, staring at us in obvious surprise.
“It really is you,” Mrs Fortisquince exclaimed, and to my relief she smiled in the most welcoming manner. “Come in, come in,” she urged.
We entered and, while the servant secured the door again, Mrs Fortisquince led us into the parlour and bustled about lighting candles.
“My dears, I’m so glad to see you. I’ve thought about both of you so much and wondered why you did not ever return here.”
At these words my mother threw herself into her arms and embraced her.
“My poor Mary,” Mrs Fortisquince said, stroking her shoulder, “I can’t begin to tell you how often I have asked myself where you were and what you were doing. I sent to the Golden-cross to find you but they had no record of your ever having stayed there. So mysterious!”
My mother blushed and glanced at me reproachfully.
“It was so kind of you to bring me a gift at Christmas,” Mrs Fortisquince went on; “but that foolish girl I had then, Dorcas, did not remember to ask you for your address. You must tell me everything. Why did you not come back to me?”
“Johnnie would not let me!” my mother cried.
“Indeed? Whyever not?”
“He didn’t trust you,” she said. “He’s so suspicious and mean-minded now that he quite frightens me.”
Mrs Fortisquince stared at me with the strangest expression. “Only fancy,” she said. Then suddenly it was as if only now she realized how exhausted and how ill-clad we both were. “Why, you’re both soaked to the skin! What am I thinking of! Checkland will make up beds for you and light fires upstairs, while I warm up some broth. Your story will keep till the morning.”
My mother was almost asleep on her feet but recovered enough to take a small amount of nourishment before we were led upstairs to a room in which a blazing fire had been lighted and the two beds warmed for us. Mrs Fortisquince helped my mother off with her wet dress and noticed that she clutched the package she wore in a pocket under her top petticoat.
“Come, let me take that from you,” she said, holding out her hand for it.
“No,” said my mother abruptly.
“Come, my dear, don’t be silly.”
But my mother moved away with a look of fear on her face.
“Please leave it, Mrs Fortisquince,” I said. “She always sleeps with it.”
“Of course, of course,” she said, and left us a few minutes later.
What a pleasure it was to sleep between sweet-smelling linen sheets again in a bed that was free of vermin! My mother was quickly asleep but I lay awake for some time reproaching myself for my earlier mistrust of Mrs Fortisquince and wondering how many of our sufferings over the previous two years might have been avoided if my mother had not followed my advice.
When, very late the next morning, we went downstairs to breakfast, our hostess showed herself again so solicitous and concerned that I would have decided for certain that I had misjudged her before, had it not been that I still felt a shadow of unease in her presence. I could see that my mother now trusted her completely, however, for when Mrs Fortisquince insisted on hearing what had happened since we last saw her, she told her everything: How she tried to find a post as governess. How we became poorer and poorer because, instead of receiving some money from the sale of our furniture, we had been cheated and betrayed by our old servant. And how, as a consequence, we had been pursued by bailiffs.
At this point Mrs Fortisquince cried: “Bailiffs! So you are in danger of being arrested?”
My mother confirmed this and I watched Mrs Fortisquince anxiously, fearing that we were putting a perilous weapon into her hands if she were not well-disposed towards us.
“How much is the sum involved?” she asked.
“A hundred and fifteen pounds.”
“But my dear, you must not worry about so small a sum as that! I will stand surety for you and pay that debt so that the warrant is quashed.”
While my mother thanked her I told myself that if she kept her word, I had certainly misjudged her. And clearly her financial circumstances had improved since our last meeting.
“But I have no means of paying you back,” my mother said. “And only a very uncertain prospect of gaining money.”
“Indeed?” Mrs Fortisquince said.
“And what is that?”
And so my mother told her about Miss Quilliam and how she had appeared for so long to be well-disposed towards us. “Then she betrayed us,” my mother said.
“Mamma, we cannot be certain of that,” I pointed out.
“My dears, how odious!” Mrs Fortisquince exclaimed. “Whatever happened?”
“Well,” said my mother, glancing at me nervously while I frowned at her, “I have a document which … which could be worth a great deal of money.”
“Indeed? That must be the object that you were so very unwilling to part with last night. You were most odd about it, my dear.”
“I have a fear of losing it, for it could be very dangerous to Johnnie and me if I did. What happened was that I resolved to sell it …”
“To sell it?” Mrs Fortisquince interrupted. “To whom?”
Before I could intervene, my mother said: “To Sir Perceval Mompesson.”
“Really?” Mrs Fortisquince said abruptly. After a moment, she went on: “And what part did this Miss Quilliam play?”
“I asked her to go to Sir Perceval with a letter from me. But instead she went to … to the agents of that party who wishes nothing but harm to myself and Johnnie. So we were forced to flee our lodgings and had nowhere to go but here.”
“I see,” Mrs Fortisquince said slowly, her eyes cast down. Then she looked up, smiled at both of us and said briskly: “And thank heavens you did come here! Now the first thing is to pay off the horrid bailiffs. Where can we find them?”
I gave her the address of the magistrate’s office at which the warrant had been backed, and she sent her maid there immediately in a hackney-coach. She was back within the hour and we learned that the full amount due now came to one hundred and thirty pounds with costs included. Mrs Fortisquince sent Checkland back with a bank-draft for that figure, and by the time we had eaten a late luncheon my mother had in her possession a quittance for the full amount. She embraced Mrs Fortisquince and the two women clung to each other weeping.
When tears had been dried and dresses tidied, they got down to business.
“Now I must sell the codicil,” said my mother. “But how shall I approach Sir Perceval?”
Although she paused as if for Mrs Fortisquince to make an offer, that lady said nothing and at that I felt that my suspicions about her interest in the codicil must be ill-founded.
My mother went on: “It seems unjust to trespass further on your kindness, but I wonder if you would undertake this?”
Mrs Fortisquince hesitated and then said: “I see no reason why not.”
“Thank you,” said my mother. “And since I want to be able to repay you, could it be as soon as possible?”
“I can go this very afternoon if you wish it.”
This was wonderful news! So my mother wrote another letter to Sir Perceval to the same effect as the first, a coach was summoned and Mrs Fortisquince set off. While we waited we began to make plans. When we had paid back Mrs Fortisquince, I calculated that we would have enough, even if we invested in something as safe as the three per-cent Consols, to live comfortably.
“We will go to Salisbury,” my mother declared. “It’s so pretty, Johnnie. We’ll take a little house in the Close and you shall go to day-school and we shall be able to keep a servant.”
When Mrs Fortisquince arrived back a couple of hours later she was in high spirits. “Success!” she cried as she entered the house.
“How did Sir Perceval receive you?” my mother anxiously enquired. “Was Lady Mompesson present?”
“I will tell you everything, only let me get my breath back. You have met Sir Perceval, of course?”
“Yes, once,” said my mother.
“But you do not know the house?”
“No, I was there once as a child, but I hardly remember it.”
“Let me tell you then. Sir Perceval received me very warmly.”
“Lady Mompesson was not there?” I asked in surprise.
Mrs Fortisquince turned to me smiling brightly: “No, indeed she was not. As I say, Sir Perceval received me very warmly — the effect of your little note, my dear. He was delighted that you now wished to sell the codicil and expressed himself perfectly satisfied with the terms proposed. I assure you, nothing so indelicate as a precise figure was mentioned. May I know what is the sum that you previously turned down?”
“Seventeen hundred pounds,” my mother replied.
Mrs Fortisquince’s eyes widened with astonishment. “Only imagine,” she murmured, “how much he must want it.” Then she went on: “Sir Perceval undertook that his man of business, a gentleman called Mr Steplight, would call upon you tomorrow to effect the transaction.”
Though I was slightly worried as to whether Sir Perceval had the authority to transact business of this importance in the absence of his wife, it really seemed that at last the tide of our misfortunes had turned. After passing the happiest evening that my mother and I had known for a long time, we went to bed looking forward — for once — to the following day.
We seated ourselves at the window after breakfast the next day to wait for Sir Perceval’s representative. At last, late in the morning, a magnificent carriage drew up outside the house, and to our delight we recognised the gleaming coat-of-arms painted on the door: for there were the crab and the roses which I recalled from the occasion when I had seen Sir Perceval coming out of the park at the top of Gallow-tree-hill. Two footmen in the chocolate and red livery that I remembered so well jumped down, released the steps, and opened the door.
Mrs Fortisquince came to the window just as a figure emerged from within the carriage.
“What a strange little man,” my mother remarked. “That must be Mr Steplight.”
“Oh, do you find him so?” said Mrs Fortisquince. “I think him rather distinguished. I suppose it must be he.”
Mr Steplight had a very large head for his small body, with a high-domed forehead, sharp features and slightly protuberant eyes. He was aged between forty and forty-five, and his toilet and dress were extremely elegant without being ostentatious.
As the door-bell rang Mrs Fortisquince started smoothing down her dress, preparing herself just as nervously, it seemed, as we to greet her guest. When the servant announced him he came in and looked round with a promiscuous smile as if, not knowing who was who, he intended to leave no-one unsmiled at. When Mrs Fortisquince introduced herself and then presented my mother and myself to him, he bowed courteously to each of us, professed himself charmed to make our acquaintance, and then shook hands. I noticed that when he stopped speaking he dropped his gaze and lowered his eye-lids, revealing his rather sparse eyelashes, then slowly raised them. Mrs Fortisquince asked him to sit and signed to the servant to pass round biscuits and wine.
While Checkland was present Mr Steplight maintained, with a little assistance from Mrs Fortisquince, a smooth flow of courteous trifles — the weather (its delightful unreliability), that part of Town (so convenient!), the lock of vehicles coming from May-fair (so provoking), etc. etc. As soon as the servant withdrew, he modulated charmingly into the matter at hand: “I have come directly from Sir Perceval from whom I have received instructions, and I have a letter for you, Mrs Mellamphy, from that gentleman.”
He handed it to her, she broke the seal, and I read it over her shoulder:
“No. 48, Brook-street,
“The 19th. of July.
“Madam:
“The bearer of this letter, Mr Steplight, is my trusted agent and confidential man of business. He is empowered by me to give you 200£ in return for the codicil. When its authenticity has been verified the balance of 1,500£ will be paid to you.
“Perceval Mompesson, Bart.”
The baronet must have dictated it for the hand was very different from the illegible scrawl that I remembered we had received at Melthorpe. My mother and I looked at each other and read on each other’s faces our bitter disappointment that only a part of the purchase-money was to be paid immediately
. Yet it was understandable, for I well remembered how Sir Perceval and his wife had insisted, on the occasion of our interview with them at Mompesson-park, on the possibility of the codicil’s being a forgery.
“What does this mean?” my mother asked.
“A mere formality, I assure you, Mrs Mellamphy,” Mr Steplight said. “The balance will be paid within a day or two.”
“We must have all of it before we part with the codicil,” I said.
Mr Steplight smiled at me: “What a very precocious young gentleman. Most charming.”
“Hush, Johnnie,” said my mother. “But I am dismayed, Mr Steplight, not to receive all of it now.”
“Notice that the precise sum outstanding is specified,” Mr Steplight said. “In consequence, that letter itself is as good as a promissory-note. I am sure you cannot believe that a gentleman of Sir Perceval’s standing would default on an undertaking to which he had engaged himself?”
My mother hesitated.
“The idea is preposterous,” said Mrs Fortisquince.
My mother looked from one to another of us in perplexity.
“Don’t give it up, Mamma,” I cried.
Mr Steplight and Mrs Fortisquince both smiled at me — the former with manifest benevolence, the latter with a slightly forced demeanour.
“Most engaging,” the man of business murmured. “What delightful errors little people fall into.”
“Don’t be silly, Johnnie,” said my mother, and took the codicil from her pocket and unwrapped it.
Mr Steplight produced from his pocket-book a bundle of purple and white Bank of England notes for twenty pounds which he carefully counted. Then he held them out for my mother to take and she handed him the document. Mr Steplight glanced at it briefly as if it were of little interest and then secured it in his pocket-book.
He now rose to his feet and took elaborate leave of us, assuring us that we would see him again in a day or two. I watched from the window as he got back into the carriage and was driven away.