Ace, King, Knave (30 page)

‘One-and-sixpence,’ says the front man. ‘In advance.’ An old hand, he can tell your rising courtesan from the commoner who might find it worth her while to bilk him and he’s put her down as the second kind. All this Betsy-Ann, as shrewd as he, reads in his rapid, calculating glance. Ned has provided, however, so she produces the fee with a flourish and settles herself inside the chair. She has no desire to trudge through the city, keeping a wary eye out; she wants to mull things over.

She set off yesterday to Haddock’s for pleasure and pastime. Pleasure and pastime there was, and still is, if she includes the parting indulgence of this chair-ride. Why, there is scarcely a jolt: trained to hold steady, the men take each cobble in their stride, imparting a wonderful smoothness to the motion of the whole. It comes to her that the chair-men are her brothers, sweating for the gratification of others. From the look they bestowed on her, however, she doubts they would acknowledge the relationship.

But enough of the chair-men; this is a time to think of Ned, with whom nothing is ever simple. Does he truly wish to set her up again? Or is his smiling free-handedness nothing but a rig to get the Spanish trick and make it his own? Suppose he had it, and could thumb his nose at Kitty, would he then cast off Betsy-Ann? ‘Once bitten, twice shy’ – there’s wisdom in that. And Ned’s a known biter – only look at his autem mort! The poor thing’s bitten to pieces!

She told the men to set her down some way from home. For a second she’s tempted to call out to them and ask, instead, to be taken to where Ned lives – it’s about the same distance – but that’s the sort of thing a lovesick child would do, a sure sign, should he catch her at it, that he could count the trick his own.

Was there ever a time when, for such a sweet rendezvous as last night’s, she would have surrendered it? Perhaps, at the very beginning. Since then, the game’s moved on. She knows now what it is to be put aside, left to shake down with another man: damned if she’ll be caught that way again. Dimber Ned must show a bit more spirit: he must join hands with her, pull her free, take her once more into his keeping.

After the spotless elegance of Haddock’s, the casual filth of her street leaps to her eyes like spilt blood. She sees it all afresh, even the scar on the front door where there was once a brass knocker, long since twisted off. In the passage Liz-the-Moan has found herself a chair from somewhere and sits with it pushed up against the wall since the chair is missing a back leg. For a miracle she contrives to get up without oversetting the thing, but despite her eagerness to pour out the usual medley of tittle-tattle and complaint, Betsy-Ann won’t be held back and gives her a bare good-day before hurrying upstairs, eager to get a fire going.

Unlocking her door, she finds the main room unoccupied but disarranged: a gown that she laid over a chair now lies crumpled upon the floor. With a tut of irritation she hurries to it and shakes it out. Here’s a nuisance! The bodice is blotched with dirty finger-marks as if fumbled by a coal-heaver – that won’t come off in a hurry. A faint sugary perfume hangs in the air. Turning to see what else has been soiled, she observes a heel of bread on the table next to a plate of cold beef, and on the other side of the plate, a jug. Ah, yes. She knows the smell now for spiced nantz and also perceives, lurking beneath it but growing stronger as she approaches, the sickening stink of
that coat
, which she at last spies thrown down between the table and the wall, seemingly flung off and left there. All this is the doing of Sam Shiner, once so particular that he would run his fingers along the shelves for dust.

But why leave the meal untouched? Has he dropped into bed drunk? No: from where she stands she can see the bed. The bedchamber itself is scarcely more than a cupboard, its contents a bedstead and a box of clothing. Nevertheless, she cannot rest until she’s stepped inside and looked all round. He’s been home, but when? He’s been away so long, surely – her heart misgives her – he didn’t pick last night?

The bedchamber, having gapped floorboards and no hearth of its own, is always cold. She closes the door to it. Still a draught from somewhere. Not the window frame; that was stuffed with rags long since. It’s blowing from the far corner – and now, for the first time since entering, she notices a faint line of shadow around the cupboard door where the Eye lies concealed.

He’s been in there.

She runs to it, fearing the worst, and with clumsy fingers searches through her baskets and boxes. She’s forgotten how many she had of each – this is what comes of neglect – but it seems to her he hasn’t taken anything. Or if he has, he’s been fly about it.

At last she comes to the box containing the satin shoes. They lie snug within, white and innocent as butterbeans, her black pearl earrings pushed down into the toes. She’s about to replace the box lid when she sees something is wrong. Her shoes are lying the same way round, one treading on the other. Betsy-Ann always packs them the same way, soles outwards, so as not to soil the satin.

So he took them out. For what? It comes to her that he might have started poking about the Eye long ago, or . . . more recently. Betsy-Ann shivers. Suppose he saw the coral fawney in this box, before she took to wearing it? Seeing a trinket in a box proves nothing, to be sure, but she recalls how curious he was. He seemed to have an inkling, even then. She pictures it: Sam comes in, finds her gone. He knows what’s in the boxes, and he remembers the fawney, so he looks to see if she’s taken the shoes with her. He turns them up in their usual place.

Well, that’s all right. He could make nothing of that. And he’s no notion what they are to her. Has he? But when was he in here? Last night?

Was he home last night?

She closes the Eye, then stands listening a few seconds before turning her attention to the floorboard by the hearth. Snatching the knife from the table, she levers up one corner until she can distinguish a faint gleam beneath, then pushes the board down flush with the floor surrounding it. She wipes the knife and returns it to its place.

What more? She’ll have to wait until Sam reappears, hear what he’s got to say for himself. In the meantime, she may as well make up the fire. Let’s warm ourselves at least. A quick stir with the poker reveals rubies among the ashes. When was that lit? She hurriedly criss-crosses pieces of kindling and tips a glistening mound of coal over them. The usual greyish-yellow fog bubbles up and blows off into the chimney and Betsy-Ann realises how cold she is. She can hardly wait for the brisk flames of the mature fire in place of this sulky, smoky beast.

All at once her sleepless night comes over her. It’s too much trouble to get up again and go about her business; she sits back on her heels for a blessed minute or two, closing her eyes, and allows herself to doze. It is thus that Sam Shiner finds her kneeling before the hearth, her chin dropping on her chest.

‘Why, Betsy-Ann,’ he says, and she is at once awake and on her guard: something different in his voice.

‘I dozed off,’ she says, struggling upright. ‘Lucky I didn’t fall in the fire.’

Sam’s hands are scrubbed and he’s steady on his feet. Is it possible that he’s sober? ‘I’ve been talking with Mrs Ward,’ he says. ‘She’ll give us the rooms another year, same rent. But you, where’d you get to? You had me worried.’

He
is
sober.

‘I can’t be forever shut up in here, Sammy.’

‘No more you can,’ he says, studying her. ‘By the look of you, you’re fairly worn out.’

‘I’ve been with Lina. The poor mort’s nothing but one big ache.’

She’s expecting more questions but instead Sam crosses the room and embraces her. A flash of terror goes through Betsy-Ann: she’s breathing ratafia, she’s been smoked with beeswax, basted in Ned’s juice and sweat. And now she remembers the toilet table with its rose-scented cologne which she, stupid bitch, must go splashing in her hair. Her only hope is the dullness of Sam’s nose: were it any sharper, he’d hardly have lasted a week in resurrection.

He says nothing, at any rate, but releases her and sits down opposite the meat and bread.

‘You’ve come at the right time,’ he says. ‘Fancy a morsel of beef?’

Betsy-Ann seats herself beside him, catching an evil whiff from the nearby coat. Sam rises again to fetch the mustard pot from a shelf.

‘I don’t care for this bread. You have it.’

‘How finicky we’re getting,’ Betsy-Ann says. She takes a bite from the bread, which tastes no different from any other, and puts it down.

‘And a drop of nantz. You won’t see it again. I’m packing it in.’

‘Are you, Sammy? What’ll you drink?’

‘Beer.’ He shoves the plate towards her. ‘Here. There’s enough for two.’

Does he suspect she’s been feeding elsewhere? She takes a mouthful of bread and beef and makes a show of enjoying it.

‘Your Englishman’s natural food, is beef,’ Sam observes between chews. ‘Unless he’s one with peculiar tastes.’

She giggles. ‘You mean like buggerantoes?’

‘That’s peculiar, all right. But I was speaking of food.’ He takes another bite, munches it. ‘Females, they’re worse. I’ve known females eat the strangest victuals.’

‘In the family way.’

Sam shakes his head. ‘
I
knew one never had a kinchin in her life, and you’ll never guess what she was
most particularly
fond of.’

‘Raw onion? I heard of ―’

‘Haddocks.’

He opens those blue eyes as wide as they will go, mimicking astonishment, and it’s as if she’s glimpsed a dagger under the table. She shrugs and says, ‘Nothing so strange there. Though I can’t say I care for ’em.’

‘No?’ says Sam. ‘I expect you’re more for oysters, or sparrowgrass, are you? Spice you up?’

‘Why would ―’

‘I heard all Mother Hartry’s chickens were fed provocatives. Regular feeding, to keep ’em in a state of heat.’

She can’t tell whether he’s backing off or merely circling round to come at her another way. Her mouth dry, she offers: ‘That’s all play-acting, provocatives.’

He guffaws. ‘Why have ’em, then?’

‘The culls believe in it. And they like to see.’ She takes a little nantz to help her parched tongue. ‘We had one fellow paid a guinea just to watch a girl eat sparrowgrass.’

‘Good eating, boiled and buttered.’ He clicks his tongue in appreciation.

‘Practically raw, it was, so it didn’t fall apart. You had to suck and suck till you was fair put off your supper.’

Sam smiles slyly. Betsy-Ann could wish she had a plate of sparrowgrass in front of her now, not the beef which has turned to pap in her mouth. The more she chews on it, the stringier it becomes.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me?’ Sam says.

She forces a swallow, the compressed wad of meat scraping her gullet all the way down.

‘Ask you what?’

‘Oh, nothing in particular. If you can’t notice a thing, you can’t.’

She tries to look pleased. ‘Course I noticed. You didn’t go boozing, then?’

‘No.’ He never takes his eyes off her face. ‘We got word the traps were out, so Harry passed the night here for once. Left this morning.’

She says, ‘Least you got a night’s kip, eh? I didn’t hardly get a wink, what with Lina coughing. Like a broken-winded nag, she is.’

‘Harry was vexed not to see his sis. I wonder where she can be, he said. How is it she’s roaming when you’ve got this snug little ken, he said. And I had to say to him, I don’t know, my friend, I don’t know indeed.’

‘He wants to visit more often,’ Betsy-Ann observes tartly, even though Harry’s visits fill her with dread.

‘We was both vexed,’ persists Sam. ‘And I thought to myself, where
would
she be?’

‘Well, now you know,’ says Betsy-Ann, wondering how much truth is in those words, and which of the two purposely spoiled her gown. Sam’s got more cause, all said and done; but it’s more in Harry’s line.

32

Turning over the pages of her letter, Sophia paces the bedchamber. This morning she went so far as to risk the journey to the Receiving House unaccompanied, lest Titus take notice, and was rewarded by the sight of Mama’s familiar hand. As she broke the seal, her pulse quickened, but as she peruses the contents, it seems her excitement was premature.

You must not let your fancy run away with you,
Mama scolds.

I confess I did not expect such a message, and am distressed not because I am inclined to regard Edmund as a monster, but because I find my daughter so lacking in judgement.

Let me speak frankly, as one married lady to another. No husband is perfect and yours has his faults like the rest: he is careless in conducting his affairs. I am puzzled why, if Edmund does not like to take things into his own hands, he should not follow the usual course and employ some trusted person.

Quite.

He has now, however, sent a receipt to Papa so you may cease to fret about that, at least.

He sent the receipt only because he opened Papa’s letter, thinks Sophia, and saw the thing would not do.

You may also set your mind at rest as regards Ranelagh. Papa got into a muddle, that is all. One of his correspondents mentioned a visit there and he thought he had heard it from you – quite the usual thing with him, so we need not suppose any villainy. My love, you will never be happily married if you are given to fanciful imaginings, and in particular to suspicion. Do you remember when you and Hetty read
Othello
together? There are lessons in that play which might benefit any young person recently wed.

As for your reading
his
letters, for it is clear that you have done so: my dear Sophy, what can I say? If Edmund is guilty of meddling in your private affairs, are not you equally to blame? I believe I impressed upon you before your nuptials that men and women are differently constituted. I take it your spying has turned up some keepsake or
billet-doux
of a warmer nature than you anticipated. You must remember that it was never Edmund’s intention that you should be thus offended. You are to blame – you are, Sophy! – for officiously seeking it out.