Ace, King, Knave

‘More fool you.’

  ‘And Mam, what can we do with her? You have to help, she’s your mam same as ours.’

  ‘Never mind her. She’s not eating anything. Your business is how you’re going to feed.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Betsy-Ann said. ‘How will we?’

  Harry rolled his eyes as if he couldn’t believe she needed telling. ‘Strapping wench like you, Betsy, and new in town? Sovereign a time.’

  ‘Gold!’ Keshlie breathed.

  Betsy-Ann pictured her sister, whose frail limbs and pale, heart-shaped face made her seem younger than her twelve years, standing in line with the whores. The ones in Harry’s street looked ready to do it for a shilling.

  ‘No, no,’ she said to Keshlie. ‘It’s very bad work.’

  Harry sniffed. ‘Wish I could make my way as easy. If you don’t like it, go and dig turnips.’

  ‘Wait,’ Betsy-Ann pleaded. ‘I was thinking. I can be your second, can’t I? John Mucklow’s sister does for him in the ring, I’ll do the same.’

  ‘I don’t want any second. I’m sick of pugilism. Finished with it.’

  She stared at him. ‘How are you living, then?’

  He began to close the door on them. Betsy-Ann flung her weight against the boards, wailing, ‘What about Mam? I don’t know anybody,’ but she was no match for Harry. She heard him drive home the bolt on the other side.

  Some friends of his came, when it was dark, and loaded the corpse onto a cart. Keshlie lay face down on the bed, refusing to speak, as Mam was wheeled away.

  The night was terrible. Betsy-Ann dreamed she was buried alive, yet at the same time floating in the air, watching from above: she saw Keshlie and Harry stamping down the earth over her. She woke sweating and whimpering with relief, until she remembered they had lost Mam.

  ‘Get up,’ she said to Keshlie as soon as it was light. ‘Let me comb your hair.’

  They put on their best duds, ancient and flittered by the standards of the women prowling the pavements, and went to a street of respectable-looking houses. To face after face she told the story of coming to Romeville and of her mother dying, leaving them to earn their keep.

  Again Betsy sees the servants turning them away, the ones who did it kindly (one woman pressed a coin into her hand) and the ones who tossed their heads and said things like, ‘That’s my eye, Betty Martin!’ before clapping the door to.

  They came to a house where a pretty young maid opened to them. She looked at each and said yes, her mistress might care to take them on: would they wait?

  The maid went inside to enquire. Betsy-Ann winked at Keshlie, who looked as if she might cry. In a few minutes they were taken to a room where a lady, very genteelly dressed, was standing before a fire and gazing down her nose as if she suffered from melancholy. Betsy-Ann never discovered who this lady was; she never saw her again. The lady said she had no need of more servants, but it so happened she had a visitor in the house who might be able to use them. She sent the maid out and in a short time the visitor came into the room. Betsy-Ann could have cried out at the sight of her: she was clad in soft white stuff as if her robe had been cut from a cloud, with sparkling little stars embroidered on it. Pearls dangled from her ears, spilled over her bosom and twined in ropes around her wrists, but the lady herself was not inferior to what she wore: her soft, golden skin had a delicate surface that shamed the pearls. Betsy-Ann had once been taken inside a big house and she thought the lady’s face, with its liquid eyes, was like a face she had seen in a painting there. Keshlie put her hand into Betsy-Ann’s and the two girls stood dumb with admiration. Seeing this, the lady smiled.

  ‘You did well to consider me,’ she told her friend, in a voice even softer than her robe. She turned to the sisters. ‘I hear you’re seeking places.’

  ‘If you please, Ma’am, maids.’ Betsy-Ann curtseyed, pulling down Keshlie’s hand to make sure she did likewise.

  ‘And where’s your mother?’

  ‘She’s dead, Ma’am.’

  Keshlie’s face puckered. Betsy-Ann squeezed her sister’s fingers more tightly.

  ‘No father?’

  ‘He’s long gone,’ Betsy-Ann said. This seemed to be the right answer since the lady bent down to study the pair of them. She was even more beautiful, close to: Betsy-Ann stared fascinated at the tiny curls nestling against her neck.

  ‘Are you good morts?’

  Betsy-Ann hesitated.

  ‘Girls,’ put in the other lady. ‘Are you good girls – obedient?’

  Betsy-Ann nodded.

  ‘Speak up. How old is the little one?’

  ‘She’s twelve. Older than she looks.’

  ‘A brace of roses,’ said the beauty to her friend, with a flick of the eyebrows that Betsy-Ann would only understand when it was too late. She turned from one lady to the other, afraid that in her ignorance she might lose their chance.

  ‘What can you do?’

  ‘Fruit-picking, Madam. Farm work.’ The vision in white smiled. ‘And the books.’

  ‘You can read?’

  ‘No. I tell fortunes and – do tricks.’

  ‘Novelty is always in demand,’ said the lovely one, looking them up and down. ‘It takes a stout wench to be a maid. Your sister could never do it.’

  ‘But I could, Madam,’ pleaded Betsy-Ann.

  ‘You’re a fine big piece,’ said the lady. ‘But what a pity, my child, to dim your bright eyes with weariness! What say I look after you, and bring you up to be useful and industrious? Should you like that?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ they chorused, Betsy-Ann adding, ‘If you please, Madam.’

  ‘Then it’s a bargain,’ said the lady, spitting in her hand like a man and holding it out for them to shake. ‘Mind, you’ve promised now,’ she said when both Betsy-Ann and Keshlie had done so. The other lady rang a bell and the maid reappeared. ‘Wait in the kitchen with Nelly here,’ said Kitty Hartry, ‘until I’m ready to go home.’

  She took them in her private carriage to a large, solid house. At the back of it lay the alleyway, and the brick arch with the stinking flagstones beneath, but they were not to know that when they arrived.

  13

  To the tune of The Sweeper Boy

  My sister’s gone to walk the roads The roads of London Town, Sir, And there she’s met a wicked man And he has brought her down, Sir.

  She was not gone but half a day But half a day in town, Sir, He took her pure white shift away And sold it for a pound, Sir.

  And now my sister’s lying sick She’s lying sick to die, Sir, The only one that pays her mind And gives her bread is I, Sir.

  Could I but go to London roads And find him in his bed, Sir, Then up and at him I would go And leave him there for dead, Sir.

  And they could hang me high as high Until my life was gone, Sir, I’d never drop a single tear Nor grieve for what I’d done, Sir.

  14

  Only this morning Sophia made the acquaintance of a sociable lady who stood fair to replace the treacherous Mrs Chase, and was invited to call on her tomorrow. Mama’s last letter, too, hinted that she might make the journey and pay a visit to her precious lamb. Now all this budding happiness is to be roughly stripped from the vine.

  ‘I thought you wanted to leave the place,’ Edmund protests, pacing back and forth through the drawing room.

  ‘I did, but don’t you see how intolerable this is? You don’t tell me anything!’

  ‘What is there to tell, my love? Surely the maid can pack up your things before midnight?’

  ‘Yes, if I supervise her, but why such haste? We can pack at leisure, leave in a couple of days, and not have the discomfort of sleeping in the coach. And Mrs Mallory will think me so rude if I don’t take leave ―’

  ‘What’s Mrs Mallory to you?’ Edmund rolls his eyes. ‘Two days ago you’d never heard of her. Christ, is there a woman in England who knows her own mind?’

  ‘Please don’t blaspheme, Edmund.’

  ‘Well, is there? Only yesterday you were w
hining to go to London.’

  ‘Because I’m always alone here,’ Sophia protests. ‘If you talked more to me, told me things ―’

  ‘But I am telling you.’

  ‘I mean ask me. Converse with me. It’s not right, Edmund. Papa wouldn’t behave like this to Mama. He’d never be so – so peremptory.’

  ‘Peremptory, Papa?’ he mocks. ‘He wouldn’t dare. A guinea on it, he only rogered her once and that was the night they got you!’

  Few things are more shocking to a woman than the revelation of contempt where she thought to find only love. Sophia covers her hand with her mouth so as not to be sick on the sitting-room floor: as a child she sometimes vomited when frightened, and frightened she certainly is. She breathes deeply, striving for control, and by the time she has recovered herself Edmund’s face is wiped clear of disdain. In its place has come not repentance, but something like wariness.

  ‘You really mustn’t keep comparing me with Papa.’ His voice has softened but to Sophia, still quivering from his gibe at her parents, his manner conveys only frigidity. ‘No husband would like it.’

  ‘Then don’t speak of him so disrespectfully. No daughter would like it.’

  She has never before answered back in this spiteful, mocking manner to him or anyone else. What has rendered her capable, where has it come from? She can only suppose that indignation conquered fear.

  ‘You mistake me,’ says Edmund, calm and poisonous. ‘I meant only that your father isn’t the pattern for all men.’

  ‘No. Only for gentlemen.’

  He groans. ‘Very well, I spoke hastily, but you can be so trying, my sweet! After weeks of wanting to leave ― ! As for Papa, he’s an excellent fellow, that I’ll admit. That he’s a trifle countrified, not quite the thing, I think even you might admit.’

  ‘As a young man, he made the Grand Tour,’ she retorts.

  He laughs. ‘Then the public deserves to be better informed of his adventures, for nobody would ever guess.’

  Sophia spends the next few minutes crying, recovering and crying again, quite unable to turn her mind to the business of packing. By the time she is fit to instruct the maid, Edmund has shut himself away in his closet, from which headquarters Titus occasionally issues, returning with brandy and other comforts. The message is clear: since my wife declines to take care of me, I shall take good care of myself.

  His wife lets him have his head; she has no desire to speak with him and a great deal to order and put away. The maid is hunted out of her room upstairs and pressed into service. Together they pack up Sophia’s honeymoon: her trousseau, her books and knick-knacks, her visiting cards and invitations and letters from home.

  ‘Madam,’ the maid says as she folds Sophia’s best lawn nightgown, the embroidering of which took a month, ‘may I speak?’

  ‘Yes?’ She waits, but the maid appears to be having second thoughts. ‘Well?’

  ‘ I hope you won’t be angry, Madam.’

  So far Sophia has paid little attention to this girl: an underdeveloped, mousy creature, competent enough but not a servant one would seek to promote. Now she detects agitation, even distress, and concludes, ‘You’ve broken something.’

  ‘No, Madam, indeed. It concerns Mr Zedland.’

  For the second time that day Sophia is struck dumb, seeing the maid on her back, her gown rucked up and, plunging between her knees, Edmund. His hair falls forward as he . . . Sophia can see the thing as if she were present, or rather, she can see it from every angle. Feel the extent of my powers. She shakes her head to fling off the disgusting picture and stares at the girl. How fresh and pretty she is. Not mousy at all, now that one comes to look. Why did Sophia never observe this before? Amorousness drugged her, that is why: she breathed Edmund, dreamed Edmund. Other females may have been drugged likewise.

  The maid says, ‘I couldn’t sleep at night if I didn’t – only I was afraid you’d be angry ―’

  Edmund himself would be hard put to it to find words so irresistible.

  ‘You must tell me.’ Her voice is brittle. She would prefer to show herself calm and strong, but brittle must suffice.

  ‘You know where the Master goes each morning,’ the maid begins. Though phrased as a statement, it is also a question. A mistress, thinks Sophia. Not this girl. Some other woman – one who has been smiling in Sophia’s face all week? Mrs Mallory? She is aware of each wincing beat of her shrivelled, crippled heart as she says, ‘He’s dunning for debts.’ A voice from a past existence murmurs that these are their private concerns, hers and her beloved Mr Zedland’s. She is exposing them to a hired hand. But then, what does it matter? They won’t see the maid again, any more than Mrs Mallory, or the Chases, or anyone in Bath if Sophia can help it.

  The girl’s face clouds over as if she anticipated some other answer.

  ‘He duns in person,’ Sophia adds. ‘I often scold him for what I consider an ill-bred eccentricity.’

  A stab of pain follows as she realises that out of pure habit, she is smiling. Never again will she enjoy that privilege, the smug confidence of the indulged darling: Edmund adores me and, great fierce thing that he is, submits tamely to my scolding. She has shrunk, since this morning, to a wretched imitation of her former self.

  ‘I suppose, then, Madam, he goes from that to the tables.’

  ‘Mr Zedland doesn’t game.’

  The maid bites her lip. Sophia’s stomach lurches but she rallies, feeling herself on solid ground as she says, ‘I assure you, my husband can barely deal.’

  ‘O, Madam,’ says the maid, the two words full and trembling with disaster.

  ‘Sit down.’ Sophia pushes the girl onto the bed. ‘Has he had a loss? Gambled, gambled away my . . .’ Her numb, drying tongue will not frame the word fortune.

  ‘No, not a loss, Madam.’ Sophia half sobs, half gasps with relief. ‘But he’s bankrupted an heir. Everybody’s talking of it but I thought, from your, your disagreement with Mr Zedland, that you hadn’t heard.’

  ‘Everybody ― ? What heir?’ Look at me, thinks Sophia, look at me: the whole of Bath talking, and I’m reduced to pumping the maid for gossip! Her cheeks blaze as it dawns on her that the girl must have heard their quarrel through the ceiling. The quarrels and tendresses of her honeymoon have been not private but public.

  ‘A young gent, only just come to Bath. I don’t know his name. Mr Zedland’s made a bubble of him.’

  ‘A bubble?’

  ‘Ruined him, Madam.’

  The girl is sparing her. It means more than that, she realises: it means cheated. Sophia feels like a man who, riding up to his castle, sees it suddenly crumble and slide into the sea. There is nothing to be said. The two women stand gazing on one another, each with her hand to her mouth, but again Sophia rallies.

  ‘This is some foolish rumour,’ she says. ‘More likely Mr Zedland himself has had a loss, if indeed he made one of the party. He has neither time nor taste for sitting at card tables.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know anything of that, Madam. Only I’ve heard he – is sometimes there.’

  ‘But from whom, child?’

  The maid looks pleadingly into her eyes. ‘I can’t tell you, Madam, unless you promise not to speak to his master or mistress about it.’

  ‘Whose master or mistress?’

  ‘Will you promise, Madam? Otherwise, he’d lose his place, and that would be a poor return for his kindness.’

  And mine, says her face. Sophia wants to tell this officious girl that servants do not extract promises from their superiors. But what does it matter now? If what she says is true, their disgrace so dwarfs this irregularity as to render it invisible.

  ‘Very well, I promise.’

  ‘Then it’s Mr Southern, Madam, the manservant next door. He guessed you didn’t know, and he asked if there was some way I could warn you.’

  Sophia has now sunk almost as far as she conceives it possible to sink. Strange servants, not even part of her establishment, pity her and manage her affairs
among themselves. Worse, the humiliation must be swallowed down if she wishes to learn more.

  ‘But how does he know?’

  ‘They had a great many callers today. He says it was constantly spoken of.’

  ‘Is he trustworthy, this Southern? An honest man?’

  ‘O yes, Madam, known for it.’

  He is superior in that, it seems, to Sophia’s husband. Probably everybody in the street, down to the very chimney-sweepers, knows what Edmund did not see fit to tell his wife. She sinks down onto the bed and crams the coverlet into her mouth.

  15

  Trussed in a sackcloth apron, his sleeves rolled up, Fortunate is learning how to wash silver. The maid drops soft soap into a basin of water, stirring with her fingers until the soap vanishes. Then she shows him how to wet the cloth, wring it out and wipe it inside the rim of the bowl, always following the edge: round and round and round.

  ‘Don’t go across, like this,’ she says, moving the cloth from side to side. ‘Tell me when you’ve done that one and I’ll have a look.’

  It is slow work. The bowl has blackened: from sitting in the air, the maid says. He has to wipe many times before its edges begin to gleam.

  Why do they care so much for a metal that grows foul, just from being in the air? Perhaps because it is pale and sickly, like themselves. Gold is more glorious. They have a coin here they call a guinea, after the land of gold.

  Some of the pieces – the ones she has kept away from him – rise like the smooth heads of waves, breaking not into foam but into flowers and birds and knots of polished metal. Though he knows how costly they are, he finds no beauty in them: neither in the silver itself nor in the twirling, scooping shapes these people love to bend it into. Once or twice, seeing it highly polished, set with jewels and gleaming in candlelight, he has glimpsed something of silver’s ghostly power over them. But gold rivals the sun.

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ says the maid behind him. She takes the bowl and holds it close to her eyes. ‘Not bad. Not too much tarnish on these. Do the rest of the bowls, but mind you go round.’