“You’ve come too late.”
He did not know what she meant, and did not enquire. She was suffering and exhausted, and that was all that mattered. He held out his arms and she went, like a child to a father.
It was an odd comfort, never before known and quite unplanned. No evening magic, working to its climax. He led her downstairs to Mrs. Andrews’ parlor and they sat by the open window, hand in hand. In the garden leading to the heath, Isobel chased a truant Edward. May Taylor picked flowers with Ellen, the baby George tripped on his pinafore.
“I thought you might need help. I came provided.”
“My brother-in-law, the curate, gave me money.”
“It may not be enough.”
Enough for what? For sickness, death, disaster, for all troubles unforeseen, for future trials?
Suddenly he said, “Have you left your husband?”
“Yes.”
“I mean, forever?”
She did not answer, for she didn’t know. If she said “No,” then sitting there meant nothing. He’d rise, and go, and travel back to town. If she said “Yes,” the child in the room upstairs would become a hostage.
How, if she made a pact with God, could she be sure He would keep faith and not confuse the issue. Fear was the driving force, and guilt the master.
“If my Mary Anne gets well…”
She did not finish the sentence. He understood. His fate depended on the child’s, and hers as well. Measles, to her mind, was now a symbol, a signpost with two pointers, right and left. If the child recovered, duty, gratitude and stern resolve would take her back to Craven Place and Joseph. This was the moment’s mood, harrowed by sickness. Besides, fear blunted inclination.
Fear worked the other way with him, and sharpened longing. To see her anxious and distraught doubled the craving. Prudence had made him wary up to now, the husband, a shadowed figure, blocking the path. The curate’s roof had helped to keep instinct dormant, but here the ground was neutral, killing convention. It was strange that the teasing flirt who mocked him at Vauxhall, pressing his knee and fluttering a fan, should pale in beauty to this woman with set eyes, unhappy and fearful, thinking of her child.
“You’ll stay the night, then? Please, you’re such a comfort. I know Mrs. Andrews has a room to spare.”
She did not even say goodnight to him but went at once, drawn like a magnet to the sick child’s room.
“How is she, Martha?”
“Better, I think, ma’am. Not so restless. You get some sleep. I’ll watch by her tonight.”
“If anything should happen, wake me instantly.”
To bed, then, and to sleep. To total darkness. No thoughts, no dreams, nothing till morning came—and then the sharp swift torture of waking life. She seized a wrap and ran, barefoot, to Martha, and instead of the black vault, a curtain pulled aside, found a smiling Martha and a small head raised on the pillow, with large, bright, conscious eyes.
“The fever’s all gone. She’s almost herself again.”
“Oh, thank God!”
But why the wave of feeling, the flood of emotion, the instant longing, so that she must run, hair flowing, straight to his room, the pact with God forgotten, nothing remembered, only this surging need to be shared and fostered?
“I love you dearly. I have wanted this so long.”
To whom the gratitude? To God in heaven? It made no sense to her, nor to Bill Dowler. What had been, was no more; this was the present. Isobel went home, so did May Taylor. The lovers had the cottage to themselves. The children caught the infection, but what did it matter? A few spots on the face, a cough for a night, with Martha and Mrs. Andrews willing nurses.
“You’ll not go back to your husband?”
“Never… never.”
But Edward caught the measles last, and died.
10
She did not reason deeply. The mood of the moment caught her, made its mark, seemed like the answer to the heart within, but the mind came up in conflict, splitting emotion. Joseph was to blame for death and tragedy. She had followed heart and instinct, and he had failed her. Had he been successful, like his master Burnell or like James Burton, disaster would never have overtaken them. They would now be affluent, happy, with Edward living.
She could not separate success from peace of mind. The two must go together; her observation pointed to this truth. Failure meant poverty, poverty meant squalor, squalor led, in the final stages, to the smells and stagnation of Bowling Inn Alley.
A woman old before her time, dragging, fretful, with unruly children—this was the picture she had of herself in the years to come, and all through a husband who had failed. The man provided. The man held the purse. Therefore go for the man foolish enough to yield it, and acceptance would be revenge for what had been.
Striving, bearing children, making do, keeping face, had brought no ultimate thanksgiving, no reward—a husband in the charge of a keeper, a dead son. So go for everything denied her hitherto, and then fight, if failure threatened.
The Hampstead idyll had been a panacea to pain, the body’s purge. Dependence and desire went when the too-small coffin, hiding a waxen boy whose smile, whose laugh, whose touch must now be projected into the baby George, was lowered, covered with a spray of lilies, into a yawning grave.
Bill Dowler, lover, answer to all yearning, merged to Bill Dowler, provider and friend, though lover still, as and when mood proposed. His status was stamped, accepted without question; no longer Mr. Dowler, but uncle Bill. She made no bones about his future role. As long as money lasted, he sufficed. If love should falter, and his purse as well, she’d look elsewhere. There was no chance of marriage, with a husband living, but marriage was not all, in a man-made world. The shoemaker of Bond Street—uncle Tom—loomed like a shadow in a dark recess that might, or might not, promise treasure.
He called on her at Hampstead, with his niece and nephew. She knew why he had come; she saw his eyes. The excuse, of course, was conventional and trivial. Sympathy, condolence, a fatherly pat on the arm. But, the two of them alone for the space of a moment, she sensed his appraising glance, thoughtful, cold-blooded, and she wondered if he looked thus choosing leather, balancing weight and texture, before purchase.
“I gather,” he said, not meeting her eyes direct but staring at some point above her head, “from some chance remark of my young niece on our way to Hampstead, that you don’t return to Craven Place?”
“Correct.”
“And that you are, if I may venture to say so, for the moment suited?”
“I’m no longer dependent on my husband’s annuity or on his relations, if that’s what you mean.”
“Quite so—quite so. A temporary measure. The assistance of a friend.” His murmur, courteous but scathing, cast doubt upon the future. Old bird, she thought, calculating, wise, he knows his world.
“Stock Exchange,” he muttered. “Risky, of course, with this country in its present anxious state. Fortunes easily won, but more easily lost. Unless you’re an expert in the game, it’s one best left untouched.”
No name was mentioned, but she knew he referred to Bill. Boldly she said, “Well, what would you suggest?”
“A settlement, of course,” he said. “There are no loopholes then. Young women like yourself must have protection. A fixture in the bank and you’re independent… Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“The lease of a house might be better,” he murmured; “in your name, naturally. Money can quickly go, but property remains. In your circumstances that might be wiser.”
She pictured him with strings of dancing dolls. Do this, my pretty, twirl, and show a leg. Easy, now, gently, here’s the way to catch them. She looked across the room and saw Bill in conversation with May Taylor. Steady, reliable, and yet… John Clarke had risked his all in speculation, then blown his brains out in the chaise in Pentonville.
Not that, perhaps, for Bill, cautious and prudent, but quiet withdrawal to his doting parents. A
safe life in the country. And how, with churchgoing, law-abiding parents, could there be place for Mrs. Clarke and children? The boats were burned, once a woman left her husband. All right, then, let them blaze. To hell with subterfuge.
“Tell me,” she said, “what is my market value?”
This time he looked at her direct and did not waver: the middleman, controller of the trade, who knows his business.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Might pass for twenty, but they like them younger. That is, for general taste. Doesn’t always follow. Married how long?”
“Nine years this summer.”
“That’s a subject to avoid. The premium drops. Married two years, and suddenly a widow. It can be a magnet, with the bloom scarce bruised—depends upon the client, and the passing fashion.”
“What is the fashion now?”
“Anything lively. Quick and smart as paint. Dumb innocence has been out for a number of years. The Prince set the tone, of course, with Mrs. Fitz. The sheep all follow. Heard of Lord Barrymore?”
“I’ve seen his name in print.”
And seen it smirched, she thought, in the muddied pamphlets. Or was that Richard, the seventh Earl, who ran off to Gretna Green with a sedan chairman’s daughter, then tripped up over his own musket in the Berks militia and that was the end of him? “Surely he’s dead?” she added.
“One of them is, the Prince’s particular friend. There are three brothers, all as wild as hawks. He gave them nicknames—Hellgate, Cripplegate, and Newgate. The sister’s Billingsgate. His Royal Highness told me once she outswore her brothers. I’m thinking of the present Earl. He’d do your work.”
Her work. Was she then a field to plow, and Taylor, the farmer, picking his team of horses?
“Married an Irish girl in ’95,” he said, “but she’s always skitting back to Waterford, leaving his Lordship loose. He’s got a gammy leg, but that don’t worry him. One of my top clients, in point of fact. Just say the word—I’ll fix the introduction.”
She saw Bill Dowler’s eye wander towards her, the fond eye of a lover, happy, possessive. The question was, how long did emotion last?
“You said something about a lease,” she murmured softly, “a house in town. I see it would be an advantage. I have friends in the building trade who might be useful.”
James Burton, old acquaintance, might help with that. He was building houses every day, mapping the whole of Bloomsbury with his products.
The trouble was, could Bill produce the money?
The shoemaker must have read her thoughts, for he paused an instant, flicking an eye to Dowler, measuring, then back to her, patting her on the knee. “No business there,” he said, “merely affection.”
“You mean a friend in need, but not in deed?”
“Exactly. If you fancy him at the moment, go to it, by all means, and have your fun. I don’t see him signing on the dotted line, that’s all. I tell you what…”
“Yes?”
“We understand each other well enough. See your building friends and choose your house. I can advance you money.”
“On what security? Isn’t it a gamble?”
He laughed, and tapped his nose.
“You’re not a gamble, you’re a certainty,” he said. “Don’t fear, I’ll get my money back, with dividends. Have you got a mother?”
“Yes, and a sister too, and one young brother.”
“Mother’s the card to play, and younger sister. Have them installed, it gives a certain cachet. Young widow, living under mother’s wing. It sounds good and proper, whips the appetite. Now, that’s enough. You know where to find me when the moment comes.”
He fumbled in a capacious pocket and dragged out a sugar stick, two sugarplums. He waved them, smiling, at her solemn children.
“Who wants a sweetmeat from old uncle Tom?”
Walk up… walk up… She saw him at a fairground, thumping a loud tattoo upon a drum. Curtains tightly closed, a crimson color. What lies behind? Pay cash, and you’ll discover. The children, lured by the sugarplums, pressed closer to him. George, with sticky lips, danced on his knee. Old ogre, baiting babies… Angry suddenly, she went to Dowler.
“Take me away,” she said. “I can’t endure it.”
He stared at her, perplexed. What, now? This minute? These people were here for the day, it was a sort of party. A moment ago he had seen her intent and laughing, chatting ten to the dozen with that garrulous old chap Taylor. Tears for her dead boy were long since spent—she never mentioned him, nor cried at night upon a shared pillow. Why then this look of anguish, as if ghosts pursued her?
“Of course I’ll take you away, whenever you want,” he answered. “Tonight, or tomorrow, or the day after. What’s the matter?”
She might have said, “The spinning globe’s the matter. You may walk out and leave me flat. No, not on purpose, but through circumstances. Those parents down at Uxbridge, in their dotage. They have first claim upon you, haven’t they? Or else you’ll marry with some squire’s daughter, and fall to breeding sons with pudding faces. Well, if you do, I’ll come under the hammer, wielded by that old toad in the corner there. What price a shop-soiled mother of three children? Anxious to serve. Full value guaranteed.”
Instead, she smiled at him and said, “I’m bored.”
So that was all. She hid it most successfully. No shrugs or yawns. And yet… the way she said it was a challenge. “Make up to me for what I’ve lost,” she implied. He’d done his level best, what more was wanted? Always at her beck and call, instantly granting her whims, her children amused and Mrs. Andrews paid. Had she been free to marry… No, there’d be trouble. Much as he loved her, would continue loving, there was something about the old home down at Uxbridge, his father’s face—however, she wasn’t free, therefore the argument couldn’t arise. Perhaps, though, later on, there might be a cottage; a decent small-sized house on a friend’s estate, handy for visits. And when his parents died everything might be solved and no hearts broken.
Meanwhile, he’d take her out of all this jumble, sister and friends and convalescing children, and get her to himself.
“I know a village,” he suggested. “Chalfont St. Peter’s, not twenty miles out of town. A little inn, few people. Fields, and woods, and quiet, deserted lanes.” The blank look on her face showed him his error.
“St. Peter’s what?” she asked. “I’m not a pilgrim. For heaven’s sake, let’s see a bit of life. We’ll go to Brighton.”
Lucky, he thought, if that’s what’s in her mind, that I had the windfall on the Stock Exchange. Brighton’s expensive, whereas St. Peter’s…
She had it planned before five minutes had passed. Her mother would come to Hampstead and take her place. She’d make a jaunt to town tomorrow to buy a gown. She was not fit to be seen, her hats all out of date. Isobel could go with her, and May. It was the end of the season, with everything going cheap.
“And shoes?” asked uncle Tom Taylor.
Bill Dowler wondered at the look she flashed him. The old fellow spoke politely, meant no harm; and seeing it was his trade, and May his niece, perhaps he hoped to help and save her pocket?
“I’ll get myself shod at Brighton,” said Mary Anne. There was no need to speak so sharply. She turned her back. The old man smiled and handed out more sweetmeats. He’d offended her in some way perhaps, thought Dowler. Women could be so tricky, unaccountable.
Love was returned that night as never before. Why, then, the trek to Brighton? Whence the boredom? Better to ask no questions but stay mute. Carry the parcels, write and engage the rooms, be uncle Bill and shoulder a child to its breakfast, turn a deaf ear while sisters talked of fashion—were feathers out or in, were bosoms covered? One final puzzle—was the to-do for him? He thought so, when they found themselves at Brighton, strolling the promenade with the Upper Ten. Her smile was all his own, her eyes, her laughter, despite the many stares in her direction.
Jove, he wa
s proud of her. Hair in a mass of curls, the latest fashion, a stylish gown (not paid for? let it pass), the hat, covered with feathers, stuck at an angle. No cares in the world, her sorrow forgotten. Poor child, she deserved this treat after what she had suffered. That brute of a husband, spoiling her finest years.
“Happy?” he asked, as he looked at her dancing eyes.
She squeezed his arm and nodded, but did not reply.
“The air is doing you good, you’ve got more color.”
Color—rubbish! she thought, but did not say so. This was the sort of crowd she’d always wanted. It had nothing to do with ozone or the fresh sea breezes. This was the world of the pamphlets, the world of fashion, the higher stratum read about since childhood, the world of the halfpenny scandal sheets, the men and women she’d joked at, with nobody knowing. Here they were in the flesh just as she’d pictured them—flashy, affected, futile, and ripe for the plucking.
There went the drivers of the Four-in-Hand brigade, spanking along the front with a call and a flourish. Bill Dowler pointed out the famous figures. Lords Sefton, Worcester, Fitzhardinge, Sir Bellingham Graham, and wasn’t that “Teapot” Craufurd and “Poodle” Byng?
“The best whip of the bunch is Barrymore,” he told her. “I met him once at Almack’s. Not my sort—the devil of a rip. That’s the fellow there.”
The coach-and-four passed them at a smacking pace. The driver, with a dahlia in his buttonhole the size of a cabbage, turned his head and stared, then muttered a remark to his companion.
So that was Cripplegate, old Taylor’s client. Did he whip his women as he whipped his horses, forcing the pace, hating his women slow? “All right, my friend,” she thought, “not at this moment. I’ll meet you at number 9 Bond Street one of these days. But leave your buttonhole behind. I can’t stick cabbage. Nor am I partial to a whip with thongs.”
Aloud she said, “Let’s walk a little further. We might see the Prince of Wales.” Instead, by a stroke of fate, they met James Burton.