Ace, King, Knave (38 page)

It would appear that the landlord has dropped a word in Mr Letcher’s ear, for the erring spouse reappears directly, flushed and smiling.

‘I trust you entertained yourselves while I was away?’

Hetty raises her eyebrows. ‘We can always entertain ourselves. But you did wrong, Letcher, to leave us. Only fancy if some of those clubmen had come in and found us alone! They might have mistaken us for quite another kind of female.’

‘I am sure nobody could make such a mistake,’ says Mr Letcher, seating himself at the table. ‘Your air, your manner must surely prevent it.’

‘Even if they were drunk? No, Sir, you should have remained to protect us.’

‘Some of those unhappy creatures are so elegantly turned out,’ Sophia puts in, ‘that they are taken for ladies.’

The other two stare at her. ‘Well!’ says Hetty. ‘It seems you are
au fait
with some London ways, at least.’

‘I read the newspapers like anyone else. And I have seen women in carriages, very grand carriages, who did not appear respectable.’

‘Some of the highest in the land are not respectable in your sense of the word,’ observes Mr Letcher, spearing a juicy morsel of pigeon. ‘I could name a duchess or two.’

‘Of whom we do not choose to speak,’ retorts his wife. ‘What of your clubmen? Are they as jolly as you hoped when you abandoned our society for theirs?’

‘They are indeed, but not everybody present is a clubman. There is yet another room within that one, with a bank, and tables.’

‘Gaming?’

‘Aye, and deadly serious.’

‘Did you stake anything?’

‘My love, I merely looked over the company. I hope that is permitted.’

‘Of course. I only question whether it is agreeable.’

‘What should offend me? The stock in trade of the professional gamester, Mrs Zedland, is to pass for a gentleman. Most of the time, he’s ignorant as a savage – engage him in a discussion of politics or law, and he’s lost. Look no further than dress and manner, however, and he’s the most charming creature in the world.’

Hetty snorts. ‘Like certain duchesses.’

‘Of whom we do not choose to speak.’

Sophia could scold them for bickering. They were so affectionate earlier; can they not conduct themselves better, and permit her to order her thoughts in peace? Their talk of gamesters is exquisitely distressing to her. She would gladly leave the inn as soon as manners permit and, in order to achieve this end, attacks her pigeon with an appetite she is very far from feeling.

‘Uncle Buller says the age is corrupt,’ Hetty says, pushing bone and gristle to the side of her plate, ‘but I wonder, were our forefathers always so very virtuous? What do you think, Sophy?’

‘I don’t know, I’m sure,’ she says, hoping that by closing down the conversation, she will induce them to eat. Mr Letcher turns towards her, an earnest light in his eye.

‘For myself, I believe our time to be peculiarly adapted to deceptions.’

‘Your proof?’ says Hetty.

‘I speak merely of opinion. I have a notion, Mrs Zedland, that our society is more promiscuous than formerly. You need only consider the easy, natural air which is so admired. Such an air can be acquired by any man of capacity, not irredeemably vulgar, if he will only take pains over it. Everywhere one goes, one sees men of the middling kind conversing with gentlemen.’

‘But surely not on equal terms,’ Sophia objects.

‘Some of the wealthier ones come very near it. It’s not unknown for the heiress to a city fortune, or perhaps a coal mine, to marry into an old family.’

‘Birth isn’t forgotten, Sophy, but the differences are less marked,’ Hetty agrees. ‘You must have seen for yourself at Bath, such a mingling ―’

Mr Letcher nods. ‘Quite so, my love. I don’t wish to be misunderstood – men of low birth who raise themselves by honest means are an asset to the nation – but what enables them to flourish also gives an opening to countless clever humbugs.’

‘Those we’ve always had,’ says Sophia. ‘Do you remember, Hetty, what Mama told us? About the woman who gave birth to rabbits?’

‘Lord, yes! Mary somebody.’

There is a little silence. Sophia imagines that all three of them must surely have the same picture in mind: that of a man-midwife groping under a woman’s skirts, pulling out torn gobbets of fur and flesh. It is an image unspeakably disgusting, especially if one cannot help, as Sophia cannot, speculating as to how the dead rabbits came to be where they were found. She is annoyed with herself for having mentioned the business at all: it has only served to distract them, once more, from the meal. Though perhaps, with such a picture in mind, it is as well not to study one’s plate too closely.

Mr Letcher says, ‘Such a crude sham as that, exhibiting a supposed monstrosity, might’ve happened in Shakespeare’s day. For an instance of modern charlatanry, look no further than Psalmanazar – have you read Psalmanazar’s memoirs, Mrs Zedland?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Meretricious. He crawls along the ground, lickspittle, repenting on every page, and at the same time takes care to show himself a prodigy and throw blame upon his schoolteachers. If everyone who suffered at school took it into his head to peddle such inventions, well ― !’ Mr Letcher shrugs, as if to say the result would be beyond even the invention of Psalmanazar himself.

‘He must’ve been clever, to gull so many people,’ Hetty remarks. ‘Had he not confessed, I wonder how long it would’ve continued?’

‘He had the makings of a scholar, or perhaps, with his fertile fancy, a poet. Such brilliant unscrupulous fellows are dangerous. Is the meat tender enough for you, Mrs Zedland?’

‘O, yes, excellent.’

‘And yours, my love?’

‘Tough,’ is Hetty’s opinion.

‘Mine also,’ remarks Mr Letcher, as Sophia wills him to cease chattering and address himself to his food. ‘Mrs Zedland has perhaps a younger bird.’

‘I miss our cook. Since we came away from home we’ve never had meat done half so well, have we, Letcher?’

‘Hardly surprising, when you think about it. Domestics have every opportunity to study the foibles of their employers, whereas it’s ten to one if we ever come here again. There are so many places of public resort in London.’

Let us eat the things and be done
, Sophia prays. Hetty, who was never much interested in the topic under discussion despite having started it, imperfectly conceals a yawn.

A woman enters from the flagged passageway and settles at a bench about halfway down the room, her back to the company. Hetty purses her lips.

‘We should have gone to the Great Room. One can eat there.’

‘It was further to walk in the cold,’ says Mr Letcher. ‘And we are perhaps too late for refreshments.’

‘I’m sure the company would have been more respectable. No, Letcher, don’t stare.’

The stranger folds down her hood. Mr Letcher, already studying the newcomer in defiance of his wife’s instructions, turns back towards Hetty and Sophia. ‘Virtuous ladies have this one fault, that in their spotless chastity they are inclined to judge the rest of the Sex too harshly. May she not be waiting for her companions – as you yourselves waited for me?’

His wife raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re fond of teasing, Sir.’

‘Quite serious, I assure you.’

‘No, you’re not. You can’t possibly think so. What’s your opinion, Sophy? Can that person be respectable?’

Sophia strains for a better view of the woman’s features. The stranger has dark hair and a brownish complexion. As she shifts about on the bench, arranging her gown, something gleams along the side of her neck: some bauble dangling there.

‘I would say . . . not.’ Her voice is clear and controlled, yet there is a roaring in her ears. When she looks back at the Letchers they seem pale and far away, as if seen through a pane of green glass.

The landlord enters and approaches the woman. He bends down, insinuating himself towards her so as to speak without being overheard. Even so, the woman is offended. She turns to call him back and thus displays her full profile, including a large earring of black pearls.

It
is
that creature: Edmund’s creature. Her face is again obscured, this time by the landlord’s coat as he closes with her, and Sophia catches the words, ‘Aye, to be sure, but my money’s sound.’ The voice comes as a shock to Sophia: not the clipped city speech she anticipated but a soft burr.
Surrrre.
The whore is, or was, a countrywoman.

The landlord glances round at Sophia and Hetty, whose eyelids lower at once. Something more is said
sotto voce.

‘What is it?’ hisses Mr Letcher. ‘I can’t hear as well as you.’

Sophia raises her eyes in time to see Hetty pinch him. The landlord seems to be expostulating with the woman. He takes her by the arm, attempting to raise her from the bench, only to have his hand violently flung off. From where Sophia sits the woman’s protest can be heard without difficulty: ‘Damn you, Robert, a few minutes!’

The landlord again glances towards Sophia’s party, evidently weighing which will be more troublesome, forcing this woman out of the door or letting her remain. At last he says in something like a normal voice, ‘Then what will you take?’

‘Lightning, hot.’ She fumbles for a coin. ‘And strong. The last was like drinking from the pump. And tell him Betsy’s here.’ The last word sounds like
yur.
In just that way do the village people speak in the hamlets around Buller Hall.

‘Charming company,’ murmurs Hetty. ‘Let us have our cheesecake and be gone.’

Sophia nods, blessing Hetty and at the same time repressing a fierce desire to reproach her:
You assured me the place was respectable.
Mr Letcher has adopted that benevolent masculine smile by which gentlemen hint that they are inclined to find the Sex too timid and prudish.

‘With all due respect, my love, she need not trouble us. One must mix a little in gardens of resort.’

‘Mix!’

‘I take back the word. We are not mixing at all, merely sitting some yards away. Did you know,’ he grins at them both, ‘that a lady strolling on the green here was once seized and embraced by a stranger? When she protested, the fellow said to her,
You may now boast you have been kissed by Dick Turpin
.’

‘I shouldn’t think she boasted of it,’ sniffs Hetty.

‘Oh come! It’s a distinction among such people.’

‘I thought you spoke of a lady.’

‘Mr Letcher,’ says Sophia, ‘will you be so kind as to go and enquire after the cheesecake?’ It is as much as she can do not to abandon her place and flee. As it is, and since Hetty and Mr Letcher have invited her, she sits, the prisoner of politeness.

Mr Letcher springs up. ‘I shall indeed.’

‘You seem not quite yourself,’ observes Hetty as soon as her husband is out of earshot. ‘Do you have your flowers, is that it?’

Sophia shakes her head. ‘O dear, Hetty, am I so very dull?’

‘Or perhaps
we
have unsettled you. Pay no attention to Letcher and me. We’re like two old pug dogs, we enjoy snapping at one another.’ Sophia sees Mr Letcher take up a bell from the counter: a brisk ringing summons the landlord. ‘What’s the use of being married if one mayn’t growl a little?’ Hetty continues. ‘Mama and Papa certainly made the most of it and I see no reason not to follow suit.’

‘And your mother-in-law? Is she also of the pug-dog persuasion?’

‘Only in appearance. But beware, Sophy, of mentioning her before Mr Letcher,’ Hetty lowers her voice to a thrilling dramatic hiss, ‘or we shall hear more of
Tichborne’s cardoons
.’

Despite everything, Sophia begins to giggle and then stops, as if slapped, as the door at the far end opens. The landlord brings through a steaming jug and tumbler to the solitary woman, then crosses to the counter to inform Mr Letcher that cheesecake will be served up directly.

‘As soon as you may,’ says that gentleman.

The landlord nods. ‘I beg your pardon, Sir. I was not aware of your being hurried.’

Sophia feels she could expound, as a Biblical text, the meaning of being ‘beside oneself’. She could start from the bench, leap out of her skin, yet she continues to sit, fists gripped beneath the table, forcing herself to keep still. She has at least the advantage of observing without being observed, but suppose the woman should turn, and look at her? In a minute or so, she surely will; if not before he enters, then after. She cannot imagine what else might follow upon his entrance: her mind refuses to contemplate the possibilities, except for the terrible certainty that the Letchers will be witness to all. Pug dogs! Now, Hetty, here is the Marital Quarrel Proper. What beast can you find, actual or mythical, that can reduce its clawing combats to a witty figure of speech?

The cheesecakes are at last brought to the table. Sophia partakes mechanically, unable to taste hers. Still the wretched woman sits there, sipping what looks like a glass of water. She commences twisting her fingers in her hair, evidently as impatient for the arrival of her friend as Sophia is filled with dread. Possibly (now comes a choking sensation in her throat and chest: is this hysteria?) the woman is not accustomed, any more than Hetty, to being kept waiting.

The door shudders as if about to open. Without her volition, a faint cry escapes Sophia’s lips. She endeavours to mask it by staring ahead of her, but Hetty is too observant.

‘What is it, my love?’

Sophia, transfixed by the still-opening door, can neither speak nor look at her.

‘My cousin isn’t herself, Letcher. We should take her home.’

Mr Letcher, impeccably bred, at once pushes away his plate. ‘My dear Mrs Zedland, I’m at your service. Shall I ask the landlord to send for a chair, or would a walk be of more benefit to you?’

It is too late for either. Disaster is upon them: Edmund stands poised in the doorway, smiling towards the woman who now rises to greet him.

‘One of your
gentry
, Letcher,’ Hetty whispers, causing her husband to glance round.

‘Well, and has he not a genteel air ―? Now, my dear Mrs Zedland, do you feel that some fresh air might revive you? We can come in again directly.’