Authors: Maria McCann
He wakes with a start: the church bell is tolling, a dreary, insistent sound. Fortunate rubs his eyes and stares up into the sky overhead: it is a pale grey, lit but not warmed by the pallid sunshine of this country. He creeps up the stairs until he can just see over the top. Tugging a child by the hand, a woman hurries through the tombstones. Beyond her, men are carrying a coffin along the churchyard path followed by a procession of men and women holding cloths to their eyes.
Hoping nobody chooses to walk near these steps, Fortunate waits until everyone has gone inside the church before rising and rapidly circling the graveyard. He finds the pit on the same side of the church as his flight of steps, but some way off: the mourners will not come near his hiding place. He wonders that in his cold, cramped sleep he did not hear it being dug.
He returns to the door at the bottom of the steps and after what seems a long time, hears people coming out from the building. A man is speaking near the grave. Then they begin to come away. Footsteps pass, more closely than he expected, and he stiffens with fear. At last there is no more sound, only the usual overflow from the street.
He allows himself to sleep.
When he next wakes, the sun has gone behind the church tower. Fortunate puts up his head, an animal sniffing the air. He climbs stiffly out of his burrow and goes over to the place where the hole was. It has grown upwards into a mound of thin brown earth, with flowers laid across it and to one side, almost hidden by leaves, a thing he has never seen before: a kind of metal tooth.
He does not like the look of this tooth. He goes to one of the prickly shrubs planted there and breaks off a branch; then, standing well back from the mound, he uses the branch to brush away the earth around the metal. He then goes to the other side of the mound and tries there, and so works his way round. At last he can see what the thing is: a grinning steel mouth stretches over the grave, as if to eat the corpse.
A trap has been set.
Perhaps the person in this grave was especially wicked, and this was done to prevent him coming out. But what if he should climb halfway and be cut in pieces? He hugs himself, shivering with disgust. In the distance, cheerful and insolent, comes the opening skirl of the tavern fiddle.
46
Palpable genius! Can anything be so entrancing? Sophia deals again and again, aspiring to the practised motion which deceives the eye and, from a swift river of passing images, hooks out the critical card. One must learn to
love
the cards: not merely in their ideal aspect, their suits and significations – anyone who can play understands that much – but physically. It is a marriage: hand in hand, will wooing inconstancy. One must allow for youth and inexperience in a fresh pack, search out the slackening and dissolution, the give, in an old one. She slides her thumb down the edge of the pack and finds, as expected, His Majesty the King of Diamonds.
‘It tickles me, Madam,’ says Betsy-Ann Blore, ‘how you’ve taken to the books.’
Sophia fans out the cards into a circle, then snaps them shut. ‘I shall at least have the means of supporting myself.’
‘No word from Ned, then.’
‘No. Papa’s been talking with Mr Scrope.’
‘And what’ll Mr Scrope do?’
‘He has yet to decide.’
‘Lord, what a time he takes,’ grumbles Miss Blore.
Does she suspect she is being deceived? If nothing else, the events of the past few months have tutored Sophia in prudence. She no longer doubts that Betsy-Ann Blore hates Edmund
now
, but reconciliation must always remain a possibility. Such things have happened before.
In fact Mr Scrope’s plans are already drawn up, and despite his not being
au fait
with all the facts of the case, demonstrate a certain force of mind. No letter to ‘Ned Hartry’ will be despatched to Mrs Hartry’s bawdy-house or any other address. For fear of Papa’s rushing and bungling, Sophia chose not to reveal Edmund’s alias. Instead, she told Mr Scrope that private papers, now unfortunately destroyed, linked Edmund with the house of one Kitty Hartry, a woman of bad reputation, and asked was it worth writing to him there. Mr Scrope’s opinion (though not in so many words) was that such a letter (far from restraining Edmund, as was Betsy-Ann’s notion) might spur him to bolt – if indeed he should be there at all. Then Papa was very much in favour of advertisements, and it was with great difficulty that Mr Scrope persuaded him against them, arguing that such measures tend to produce fraudulent sightings. The end of all this sound and fury is that a letter has been despatched to Mr Fielding at Bow Street with a view to obtaining the services of a discreet and courageous officer. Only when Sophia has met with this man and found him satisfactory will she reveal the identity of her husband, if husband he is.
Nor has Titus been advertised for: Sophia has not time, energy or inclination to pursue him. Since he has proved so unsatisfactory and ungrateful, let him try his fortunes elsewhere.
*
‘Do say you’ll come,’ urges Hetty. ‘Letcher is as fretted about it as I am. He says a woman ought not to be left alone at such a time.’
‘You’re too kind,’ says Sophia, ‘but I really think it unnecessary. There’s nowhere I’m less likely to be troubled by Edmund than here.’
‘And to think I fancied you biddable.’ Hetty rolls her eyes. ‘Really, Sophy, you might give in this once. I promised your mama we should take you in.’
‘Then tell her you’ve done so.’
‘Lie to her?’
‘Not in so many words, then. Say nothing to bring her here.’
Hetty looks pained. ‘But Sophy – your
mama
―’
‘When I begged her help I got none. I don’t want her here now, telling everyone what a tender mother she’s been and how she never would’ve thought it of Edmund.’
‘Well – no. But what of that brute of a fellow – suppose he should return?’
‘The maids open to nobody without first looking out of the window.’
‘They’ll forget.’
‘I think not. Fan found him very disagreeable.’ She can only hope Fan has sufficiently impressed his disagreeableness upon stupid Eliza.
The sight of Hetty seated, her hands folded in her lap, recalls to Sophia her own visits to the sick around Buller. A measureless chasm divides Mrs Edmund Zedland from the girl she then was: so very sure of herself! The people she visited said little except, ‘Yes, Miss,’ and she was satisfied. It never occurred to her that they might have private opinions.
‘Sophy? Can you be quite sure, Sophy,’ Hetty touches her arm, recalling her to the present, ‘that Mr Zedland has absconded?’
‘He isn’t hiding in the cellar, Hetty, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Indeed I don’t. He kept bad company – he may have come to harm.’
Despite her bluntness, Hetty’s expression reveals such kind concern that Sophia rises and kisses her on the brow. ‘I believe he meant to go. Beyond that, how should I know? He told me nothing of his life.’
Her voice trembles on the last few words; Hetty’s touch becomes a squeeze.
‘O my dear, don’t give way.’
‘I shan’t. But you, Hetty, with your kind husband – you can scarcely imagine my feelings. So little thought of, that I’m not to know whether he’s alive or dead!’
‘We shall find him out.’
‘Perhaps.’
Sophia’s gaze wanders over the Blue Room. Hetty evidently longs to rescue her from this shabby lodging which, strangely, no longer gives her the least pain. The coming struggle with Edmund absorbs most of her mental energy: as long as she can eat and sleep, papers and hangings seem of little importance.
Hetty clears her throat. ‘If you’re determined not to come to us, will you accept another kind of help? I imagine your affairs are left in some disorder. Letcher says you are to have whatever you ask for.’ She smiles. ‘I mean
money
, Sophy.’
‘He’s too good – you both are. Some money of my own, just for a while, would be of the utmost assistance.’
Hetty says, ‘Then name the sum, my dear.’
‘Perhaps a hundred.’
‘Take more. Don’t fear to pinch him, he’s too well padded for that.’
‘Then two hundred, if you would be so kind. We may owe something to Mr Moore.’
‘Mr Moore?’
‘The landlord. It seems this house is rented.’
‘Not yours? – no matter, no matter,’ Hetty says, failing to conceal her shock. ‘As long as we’re here, you shan’t sink. But I should sleep more soundly if you came to us.’
‘There’s no need, my dear. I know I’m welcome.’
‘Indeed you are!’ cries Hetty, embracing her. Sophia breathes Cotterstone face cream: scents of iris and of vanilla. Edmund must have smelt something similar on her own skin when first they bedded together. She wonders if he took pleasure in it. The odours of his bodily life once they came to London, of tobacco and liquor and the perspiration of – of Betsy-Ann Blore, she supposes – were harsh and insistent, repugnant to her nostrils.
Sophia perfectly understands that Hetty would like to bind her and carry her away, a captive under guard. Today’s call, for instance, is typical, in that her cousin’s carriage drew up without warning: Hetty visits frequently these days and at the oddest hours. She pushes to the limit the relative’s privilege of informality and has taken to speaking on the slightest pretext of
encroaching persons
,
unhealthy fascinations
and the bosom of one’s own family as the surest protection against
insinuation
. At first Sophia understood all these hints as referring to Edmund, until a chance remark from Hetty enlightened her. It can only be that one of the servants has dropped a hint: Sophia suspects Fan, whose features have developed an oblique, closed-off cast. Should Sophia ring the bell while Betsy-Ann is on the premises, the servant to answer is invariably Eliza.
She
arrives eagerly enough, with popping eyes, as if hoping to find her mistress and the whore tearing at one another, her disappointment so ill concealed at the calm of the Blue Room that Sophia can hardly restrain a giggle as she despatches the girl for refreshments. The tea is brought with a knowing look, and since Betsy-Ann is now openly received by the mistress, a jug of ‘French Cream’ placed beside the milk.
Fan may, of course, be distracted by her new responsibilities. In the absence of Mrs Launey – Mr Moore has not yet engaged a substitute – she contrives to produce simple dishes, such as she and Eliza might make for themselves: fried beef and cabbage, a bread pudding. Yet this, in itself, cannot explain her awkward manner. Evidently she is pained at recent developments, either at the lack of propriety or because she perceives in Betsy-Ann a dangerous intruder. How can Sophia blame her for sentiments so eminently proper? She does not insist upon Fan’s bringing refreshments to Betsy-Ann, making do instead with the irritating Eliza.
Though she would willingly wound neither Hetty’s feelings nor Fan’s, they must not be permitted to meddle. Betsy-Ann Blore may have encroached upon her, but Sophia tolerates her visits for good reason. Miss Blore’s knowledge renders her a uniquely valuable witness, one it would be folly not to attach. She has not yet given evidence, but has promised it: should she perform that promise and make a statement to Mr Scrope, she may turn the key of Sophia’s marital prison. For (Sophia actually cried out aloud when first this thought burst upon her) it would appear she is married to a non-existent personage, that is, not married at all: possibly Ned Hartry has no rights upon her person or her property. In order to unmask him she requires the help of Betsy-Ann Blore, whom she is very far from trusting entirely, and whom Hetty must not be allowed to drive away before the delicate negotiations can be concluded. Papa would go crashing in likewise, so for the moment she has told neither of these people of Betsy-Ann’s existence, or that of Mr Ned Hartry. To them the gentleman remains Edmund Zedland, Sophia’s lawful if wilful spouse.
She starts at finding Hetty speaking to her, asking, ‘Have you thought what you’ll do?’
‘Do?’
‘If he fails to return. I mean, what will Uncle do? Has he taken advice?’
‘I believe the plan is to write to Mr Fielding at Westminster.’
‘In your place I should try for a separation.’
‘I shall. I shall have to endure Mama’s hysterics, of course. The scandal and so on
. She
doesn’t have to live with him.’
Hetty says sadly, ‘Either way, the wife comes off worse.’
It is galling to realise that even should the marriage be declared void and her fortune wrested from Edmund’s grasp (a circumstance unlikely in itself) he has irrevocably blighted her life. No silly wench seduced on a sofa, no society matron taken
in flagrante
with the footman has worse marital prospects. Possibly there is a certain justice in that, she thinks with a pang. In the eyes of the world she entered discreetly and soberly into matrimony, but the world’s eyes were deceived: she fell headlong. To break this melancholy train of thought she rises and proposes a replenishment of the tea-table.
‘He must be brought to terms,’ Hetty says as Sophia rings for the maid. ‘Everything watertight, or you can never rebuild your establishment. He’ll return, whenever he chooses, and take every stick.’
‘That’s what Scrope says. One can be reduced to rags.’
‘Well,
you
shan’t be. Here, Sophy, Letcher and I agree on this absolutely.’ From her purse she counts out banknotes to the value of two hundred pounds and passes them over to Sophia.
‘God bless you, Hetty! You and Mr Letcher both.’
‘Thank us by keeping it secret, Sophy, or you won’t have it long.’
But is it legally Edmund’s? This is the Great Question. Sophia supposes he would have preferred to marry under his real name, to make all sure, but having introduced himself as Mr Zedland, he was obliged to go through with the sham. If it now appears that he has no claim upon her fortune, he will surely
wish
to be rid of her. Should he demand money in return for supporting an annulment, she will gladly compound for whatever she can afford.