Ace, King, Knave

  Not so Betsy-Ann Blore.

  With a mean little smile, Sam says, ‘Harry’ll settle it, never fear.’

  Thinks himself top dog now, doesn’t he just! She keeps her eyes lowered to hide the hatred in them, gazing down at her feet where the wipers are already blotched with blood.

  40

  The Nuns

  There live some nuns in Romeville town And they are wondrous merry, There’s one cries Up and one cries Down And one cries Kiss me Jerry.

  Darkmans they work, O, O, O, O, Darkmans they work and do not shirk.

  They kiss the rod and ply the birch They’re full of burning fire, To give their love to all mankind It is their one desire.

  Darkmans they work &c.

  There’s Tabitha and sulky Jane And dimber little Kessie, And tallest of them all, them all, O that is black-eyed Bessy.

  Darkmans she works, &c.

  Now Bessy had a lover true A man of noble fame,

  That plied the tables night and day And never lost a game.

  Darkmans he works, &c.

  One day the Abbess comes to her Says, ‘Where’s your own flash kiddey?’

  Says Bessy, ‘Why?’ The bawd replies, ‘You must not be so giddy.’

  Darkmans you’ll work, &c.

  Says Bessy, ‘I’m no slave to you And never shall I be.

  Although for blunt I sell my c—t My heart I hope is free.’

  Darkmans I work, &c.

  But pride it comes before a fall The bawd was good and ready For Ned was sold, without his gold His hand was not so steady.

  Darkmans she works &c.

  I’ve twenty pretty roses

  All planted in my beds,

  Leave Bessy and they shall be yours To pluck their maidenheads.

  Darkmans they work, &c.

  And so Black Bessy’s lost her cull And Ned has lost his doe.

  The moral of my story

  Is one you all do know:

  Old Harry works, &c.

  41

  Breeding can compensate for much, Sophia reflects as she and her party are returning home. In a gesture of mutual friendship and esteem, each gentleman offers an arm to the other’s wife, Hetty exchanging small talk with Edmund as if she believed him the most virtuous of men. Mr Letcher, likewise, has the air of one who suspects little and questions less. Though he was seated facing the fire and some elements of the scene played out in the Rose of Normandy presumably eluded him, he must have felt surprise, to say the least, on discovering his absent host gaming in another part of the inn.

  Did Hetty understand the look that passed between Edmund and the creature? At the time, Sophia thought it impossible, but she had no opportunity to observe. Whatever Hetty concludes, she will of course make known to Mr Letcher as soon as they find themselves alone. Sophia can already fancy her anxious hiss: About to accost him in our sight! Plainly acquainted – poor Sophy – no use her denying – intolerable!

  Nothing can be said in present company, for which Sophia is thankful. She could not endure to be questioned by Hetty as to what she intends to do, whether Papa should speak to Mr Zedland or what might be the nature of the settlements signed before marriage. As to advice on wifely submission and resignation, Sophia has served it up to herself by the plateful during these last weeks and found it lacking in sustenance, damn thin tack as Radley would put it. Indeed, the wife of Edmund Zedland subsists on such thin tack that her very soul is emaciated.

  That another’s neglect of duty does not absolve one of one’s own is a tenet she absorbed long ago. No Christian could think otherwise. Sophia hopes she is a good Christian, yet this shrunken soul of hers affords not a drop of generous sentiment, no longing either to forgive Edmund or to reclaim him. She shrivels at the prospect of explanations, dreading to hear more lies. She has stumbled into an assignation between her husband and that woman whose shadow made an unbidden third at their table, in their walks and conversations and in their bed. What, in these circumstances, can he find to say?

  Little wonder, she broods, that he has behaved with such unkindness, depriving her of visits and outings, the lawful pleasures of the newly married lady. Spinning his webs under cover of darkness, he takes good care to remain concealed. It has served his purposes to cut her off, not only from his secret life but also from people of birth, education and respectability. In a city famed for its parks, walks, routs, ridottos, gardens, balls, theatres, she lives half-stifled, in a district so disagreeable that she fears even to walk the pavements for fear of being misunderstood.

  Her train of thought moves more rapidly, a train of fireworks laid by a master artificer, each taking life from its predecessor until illumination stands in the sky like day. She has married a libertine addicted to self-indulgence who has taken her fortune and – ah, the illumination fades – what? Wasted it? She cannot be sure even of that much: Edmund may well retain the money in his possession. He has certainly wrested the purse-strings from his wife’s grasp – barely a crown has he laid out upon her since they fled Bath – and upended the purse into another woman’s lap.

  Even that is not the worst. Wives have undergone such horrors before, and have battled them with clear-eyed integrity and dignity. Sophia is robbed even of these weapons: her enemy has fastened upon her person, her sentiments and her intellect. No sooner does she glimpse his true nature than she is plunged into a sea of conflicting impulses: loving him, hating, indignant, shamed and, after all the insults he has inflicted, willing to come to his defence. She is compromised, contaminated, crazed as a soap bubble; in the very moment of grasping all this, she wonders how long she can hold fast to the knowledge. Sophy is rational! O, Mama!

  ‘You are quiet, Mrs Zedland.’ She starts at being addressed by Josiah Letcher, who is gesturing towards a comfortless-looking arbour with a rustic seat beneath. ‘Should you like to rest?’

  ‘Thank you, I am stronger than before.’

  ‘Your colour is improved. A little more exercise may restore you entirely.’

  How kind he is, with his mild, brown-eyed smile. Though Hetty did right to rebuke him in the inn, he is devoid of malice. With such a man there could be no headlong dive into love, but there would be security in one’s husband and one’s household. As the wife of this benign and upright gentleman, Hetty is supported by him and surrounded by friends. She commands respect; she contemplates with pleasure the prospect of returning home.

  What could have possessed Sophia, earlier, to put herself above Hetty, even for an instant? Passion ennobles only if its object is itself noble. At fourteen she knew this, having studied a sermon upon the subject which laid out the different heads of the topic with all the clarity of the passionless. Since then she has sunk: she is one of those who fall by the wayside, departing from what they know to be good and right. She pictures herself as in a Bible engraving: a broken, black-and-white figure left tumbled in the dust, ignored even by the Good Samaritan.

  ‘Shall we meet again tomorrow?’ asks Letcher. ‘We’re entirely at your disposal. Mrs Letcher thought you might wish to attend the opera.’

  Should she go? That creature will not be there, she imagines, but who knows what domestic misery will have descended by then? ‘My health may not permit it. I should be sorry if you purchased tickets and I was then too unwell to accompany you.’

  He waves a hand, dismissing such cares. ‘A trifle. Never give it another thought. Perhaps Mr Zedland would care to ―’

  ‘No,’ she cries before recollecting herself. ‘That is, I believe he’s engaged upon business concerning the estate.’

  ‘Men of business must be beaten from their quarters sometimes. All work and no play, you know.’ Mr Letcher’s eyes are twinkling. It is impossible to know whether he intends a general pleasantry at the expense of the over-industrious, or a stab at a man whose work turns out to be play.

  Hetty and Edmund have paused some way ahead and are waiting for them to catch up. Mr Letcher calls to his wife: ‘What do you say, my dear, to the opera tomorr
ow evening? If Mr and Mrs Zedland are free to accompany us?’

  ‘Pray excuse me,’ Edmund calls back before Hetty can respond. Mr Letcher, seeming not to notice his rudenesss, continues: ‘Or should Mrs Zedland care to attend a ridotto? I can introduce you to Mrs Cornelys, should it be necessary, and her entertainments are always delightful. You have heard of the celebrated Mrs Cornelys?’

  ‘O, yes, indeed,’ is all Sophia can say, overwhelmed by the mere suggestion. Mrs Cornelys! This is stepping from the chimney corner up into the fashionable world, with a vengeance.

  ‘All the world knows Mrs Cornelys, Sir,’ Edmund replies. ‘We are much obliged to you, but I have a great many papers to look over at that time.’

  ‘Mr Zedland is quite a martyr to his papers,’ says Sophia as the four of them move off together. ‘His correspondence isn’t hastily dashed off before bedtime, but the product of consummate art.’

  Hetty bursts out laughing at such praise and Edmund, his eyes needle-sharp, joins in the laughter. ‘Lord, Sophy! One would think my letters the work of Samuel Richardson.’

  ‘I think their contents might impress even him,’ Sophia replies. ‘Your style certainly cannot be described as plain.’

  ‘Prettily said, by God!’ Mr Letcher makes her an exaggerated bow. ‘The good opinion of a lady is always worth having.’

  ‘Even when undeserved?’ Hetty rallies.

  ‘Then most especially. We men are a sorry lot, eh, Zedland? We appear to best advantage when reflected in the candid eyes of the Sex.’

  ‘You never spoke a truer word,’ agrees his wife. ‘Suppose, Mr Zedland, we were to return directly afterwards? Would you then have time for your papers?’

  ‘Mrs Letcher can command me to anything she wishes, except neglect of business. I leave my wife entirely at liberty. She shall tell me all about it.’

  ‘There, Sophy! You can’t refuse us now.’

  Sophia smiles, too distracted to reply. A late firework has burst, showering sparks throughout her mind. The study table floats suspended in the air before her, its drawer crammed with incriminating documents.

  Why should Edmund forge correspondence? In marriage, the wife’s property passes to the husband. Why, therefore, should he swivel and contrive in order to obtain what according to law is already his? Quite unable to supply an answer, she trots along on Mr Letcher’s arm towards her shabby, disappointing home which, as she draws closer, begins to cast a shade over her spirits sufficient to distract her. O, to walk past instead of going in – to walk past and never return!

  Careful not to tire her, Mr Letcher has set a moderate pace. Sophia is therefore surprised to realise, as they turn the corner into her street, that Edmund, with Hetty on his arm, is falling behind. Mr Letcher turns to enquire if his spouse is fatigued and Hetty replies, in a voice seasoned with a dash of irritation, that she is quite well. If you wish to know why we are taking such an eternity, says that tone, delicately sharpened to a pitch where only ladies can catch its acerbity, you must ask Mr Zedland.

  Sophia is about to remark that they will soon be there, when her attention is arrested by the scene outside her house. Lounging against the railings, as if he owned the place, is a ruffianly-looking individual, evidently a ‘follower’.

  So this is what the maids get up to if she so much as goes for a walk. Sophia, who has forbidden ‘followers’, eyes the fellow with indignation. His features are singularly disagreeable, but Mother Nature has compensated by endowing him with exceptional stature and a powerful physique. His coat might once have belonged to a gentleman, but nothing else about him suggests breeding. Approaching more closely, she perceives that he has his foot inside the door and that Fan, who stands within, is so far from flirting with him that she is trying, in vain, to force him out. Just as Sophia realises this, the intruder looks round, recognises the Zedlands (for Edmund, too, has now rounded the corner) and steps back in order to face them. Fan, watching her chance and unaware of the approaching party, slams the door to. The stranger waits, arms folded, quite at his ease.

  ‘Are you acquainted with this visitor, Mrs Zedland?’ asks Josiah Letcher in a low voice.

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Your maidservant was having some difficulty with him, I thought.’

  ‘Fan has a head on her shoulders,’ Edmund cuts in, for all the world as if he were eavesdropping. ‘Go into the house, love, and take our guests with you. I’ll find out the person’s business and send him on his way.’

  ‘Let the ladies enter by all means,’ says Mr Letcher. ‘For myself, I should feel easier if I remained with you.’

  ‘You are too kind, but it won’t be necessary.’

  ‘Do accept Mr Letcher’s offer, Edmund. One never knows with these people.’

  ‘Kindly refrain from interfering, Sophia, and go inside.’

  His voice is so harsh that Sophia turns in surprise. Her husband’s features are drained of blood and covered over with a sickly sheen of perspiration. She represses the exclamation that rises to her lips, saying only, ‘For God’s sake, Edmund, be prudent.’

  ‘Your faith in me is touching. I believe I’m equal to speaking to a fellow on a doorstep.’

  They are now almost at the house and Edmund steps up to the ferocious-looking individual. ‘If your business is with Edmund Zedland, I’m afraid you must come another time.’

  The visitor shows open amusement at this. ‘Mr Zedland, is it?’

  Sophia hears Hetty whisper, ‘Stick to him, Letcher.’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to speak with you, Sir. If you would be so kind as to come back ―’

  The huge head shakes. Sophia thinks of a beast, a bear perhaps, tormented by a fly. With the rudeness typical of the low-bred, he replies, ‘Another time ain’t convenient.’

  Edmund sighs. ‘You must at least wait while my friends go in.’

  ‘Then they’d best look sharp.’ The man turns his eyes – hooded, dissolute – on Sophia and spits fatly onto the pavement.

  ‘Manners, Sir,’ says Mr Letcher. The man only laughs. Sophia dodges behind Edmund, takes out her key and lets herself and Hetty into the entrance hall. Mr Letcher remains outside.

  ‘Did you smell him?’ cries Hetty as they stand in the darkness. ‘Thank God Letcher is there.’

  Sophia shudders. ‘I’m utterly at a loss.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt you are, my sweet.’ Hetty places a finger on her cousin’s lips. ‘Now keep quiet, and we may ―’

  ‘No!’ Sophia pulls away from her. ‘No, Hetty, on no account.’ She drags the unwilling Hetty along the passageway, calling to the maid meanwhile. ‘Fan! Fa–a–an!’

  Fan emerges from the kitchen, her ironical eye disquieted for once. ‘O, Madam! Don’t be angry with me, Madam, he pushed so, I couldn’t close the door. Sir, says I, the master’s away, I can’t bring him where he isn’t. If you hadn’t come along, I do believe he’d have forced his way in. He said he’d ―’

  ‘That will do, Fan. Bring tea to the Blue Room.’

  The girl stares, drops a curtsey and disappears again down the corridor.

  ‘Go and listen, you little goose,’ Hetty urges, gesturing towards the entrance.

  Sophia at once begins to walk in the opposite direction. ‘Listen to what? Coarse language?’

  ‘You know full well what I mean. What’s the matter with you, Sophy? You seem determined to go around blind and deaf.’

  ‘I refuse to listen behind doors. Only servants do that.’

  ‘Sometimes I could shake you. “Only servants listen behind doors” – I never heard such poppycock!’

  ‘What need to spy, when your husband’s out there?’

  ‘Letcher isn’t spying!’ Hetty’s face darkens with temper. ‘He stayed through pure kindness!’

  ‘I never said ―’ She stops and puts a hand to her forehead, recollecting herself. ‘Forgive me, Hetty. I meant only that he’ll naturally witness – what occurs, and can tell you all, should you so wish.’

  ‘Do
n’t you wish?’

  Sophia opens the door of the Blue Room and stands back, giving Hetty the precedence. Her cousin no sooner enters than she whirls round, evidently exasperated at receiving no reply.

  ‘Sophy!’

  ‘You needn’t shout,’ says Sophia, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Is that all you care about, my shouting?’

  ‘No, of course not. Only don’t be angry with me.’

  Hetty’s eyes are ‘snapping sparks’, as Mama used to say, but she holds herself motionless, as if to win the trust of some wild, shy creature. ‘To think there was always such trust between us, Sophy. We never kept secrets from one another.’

  We had none to keep, thinks Sophia. She watches Hetty’s bosom rise and fall, the only part of her cousin to betray emotion until suddenly Hetty’s fingers curl themselves up into fists.

  ‘For God’s sake, Sophy!’

  ‘It’s no use, Hetty, I can’t.’

  ‘You mean he won’t let you.’ Without waiting to be asked, Hetty flings herself into a chair on one side of the fireplace. Sophia seats herself opposite. The silence that follows is one of the most uncomfortable of Sophia’s life, her early disagreements with Edmund not excluded.

  Hetty’s lip has begun to quiver.

  ‘If you but knew what a comfort you are,’ Sophia cries, only to be interrupted by Fan bearing a tray. She shoos the girl out and makes tea for Hetty, the saucer rattling as she passes it over. The front door slams. Footsteps are heard mounting the stairs; just as Sophia reaches the Blue Room door and opens it, Mr Letcher falls in from the other side, almost knocking her headlong.

  ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs Zedland!’ A flush overspreads his face at the boorish entrance he has made.

  ‘Your haste does you credit,’ she reassures him. ‘Where’s my husband?’

  Mr Letcher recollects himself sufficiently to hear the question. ‘Upstairs. He’s upstairs.’

  ‘Isn’t he joining us?’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s taken a knock or two.’

  ‘What!’ cries Hetty. ‘Did that person attack him – strike him?’