Ace, King, Knave (54 page)

‘My word, you’re free with it!’

‘O, blackbirds are luck,’ murmurs the other.

‘The gentleman is kind,’ Fortunate cries. ‘May I thank him?’

‘He’s heard your thanks,’ says the man, waving him away. ‘Tufts, take us along the lane and ask at the inn.’

Fortunate stands as if in submission, watching the carriage pull round so that the unseen man is now on the near side. As the vehicle approaches he springs forward and runs along next to it, panting through the window, ‘Don’t leave me – take me with you ―’

The man has moved back from the window and is trying to close the blind, his long fingers groping for the tassel. Fortunate reaches upwards but the hand is snatched away.

‘I beg of you!’ Fortunate wails.

The coachman’s whip comes down on his arm and he flinches away. The blind snaps shut. He is left hugging himself where the lash caught him as the carriage rolls on towards the inn.

In tears, he collapses onto the verge. The penny, worn so thin as to be almost invisible between the blades of grass, lies near his ankle.
That
is a beggar’s portion. No man in his wits ever gave so much as a guinea to an unknown beggar. The man who did, knew him: that man was Dog Eye.

Having settled it in his mind, he at once begins to doubt. A gentleman may do anything for a frolic, may give a beggar his estate, should he choose. This man spoke like his master, had hands something like his. That is all.

Yet this man, though not willing to bring him into the carriage, evidently wished to be kind to him in some way. He folds his fingers round the guinea. Perhaps Dog Eye (if the man was indeed Dog Eye) could not speak freely. Suppose they were to meet alone! Then he might embrace Fortunate as a brother.

If he is Dog Eye.

Fortunate gets to his feet. He has no wish to walk any further; he will return to the Spyglass and lie down, and rub his stinging arm. After a while he glances back at the carriage. It has stopped at the inn, taking directions; he watches as it once more turns round and comes back towards him. There is a moment of wild, throbbing hope: they have repented, they will stop and take him up, carry him away. He stands clasping his hands in supplication. As the carriage comes nearer, Tufts whips up the horses. They pass at a gallop, but not so fast that Fortunate cannot see the master laughing.

*

‘My friend’s brought you something,’ says Mrs Harbottle. ‘Upstairs.’

He hardly cares what her friend has brought, but murmurs his thanks. In his chamber he finds a couple of shirts, stockings, breeches. Beside the folded garments lie a wooden comb, a clothes brush and a pair of shoes, dull and scuffed from long wearing.

Someone has left a jug of water on the windowsill. He smooths some over his head and tries to dress his hair, but the teeth of the comb are too tightly packed: they splinter and break off.

Perhaps she will send him to the barber.

He lies down on the bed, pushing his face into the bolster that smells of other people’s skin.

What a fool he must have looked, standing there with hands clasped. How that man laughed! The scene plays over and over in his mind like the song of a spiteful bird.

After a while he is woken by Mrs Harbottle, who has entered the chamber without knocking. Afraid he must appear disrespectful, Fortunate scrambles to his feet still half asleep.

She stands with her back to the window, eyeing him. ‘The stockings look well. Is that the shirt?’

He nods.

‘You take it very coolly, I declare! I’m sure if anyone found
me
in clothes I should be cock-a-hoop.’

He says, ‘I thank you, Madam,’ even though the shirt is tucked in tightly to disguise how he swims in it. Does he owe her anything? She has taken away his old shoes, with their fine-cut buckles: worth as much, probably, as all this lot together.

‘Madam, will you give me some butter?’

She blinks at him. ‘Butter?’

‘For my skin.’

‘Butter, in this house, is for Christians to eat. If you must grease yourself, there’s the dripping pot.’ She touches his head. ‘Have you combed your hair?’

‘I was not able.’ He can hardly tell her why, or where he has slept these past few days. ‘A barber ―’

‘Aye, and then a tailor, and then a man to carry you on his back,’ she retorts, but it seems she is not really angry, only fond of this sharp way of speaking, since she then says, ‘If you pay him yourself, I’ll fetch Toby to you.’

Fortunate bows his head in agreement.

‘You didn’t stay out long,’ the woman says. He wishes she would go.

‘I should like to visit my friend Mr Hartry, if I can find his house.’

‘You can visit the devil provided you’re back in good time. Once Clem’s locked up and gone to bed ―’ she shrugs.

Fortunate has his own ideas as to Clem’s unwillingness to get out of bed but he repeats, ‘In good time.’

‘Tell your Mr Hearty to come here and bring his friends.’

When she’s gone he lies down again, drawing up his knees to his chest. She must have got a good price for his buckles. She has gained by him already, or she would hardly let him out in the new clothes: suppose he were to run off? But no, she has put a string around the leg of her blackbird and is sure of him.

He stares hungrily at the hearth. Last night he was a guest: he had a fire and when he went downstairs there was some coal left in the scuttle. Now coal and scuttle have disappeared.

Fortunate does not care for these people, though Mrs Harbottle seems an easier mistress than the Pinched Wife, more in the style of a maid or a cook, perhaps. The Wife lived locked up in herself, barely moving except for that one time she lashed out. Compared with her, there is something free, almost mannish, about Mrs Harbottle. If
she
loses her temper, he’ll know about it. But she seems good-natured, on the whole, and he’d sooner have a beating than the cold spite of Mrs Dog Eye.

But the carriage, the carriage! It was out of its way and will never come back: if he stays, he must not expect to see his master again.

Towards the inn. They were to ask directions at the inn.

He must be quick. In no time he is on his feet, his coat buttoned, the pistols carefully wrapped and smuggled into his pocket.

*

As Sophia picks her way over the wet pavements she has the curious impression of observing her own progress: in her mind’s eye a tiny female, an anonymous and inconspicuous ant, moves at a determined pace through the seething ant-hill that is London.

The chair-men agreed to take her as far as Hyde Park ‘and then see how matters stand’. They were as good as their word, but at Hyde Park matters stood quite still, as did the men, saying they must have a
damper.
She rather feared they might urinate in her presence but the
damper
proved to be bread and meat, followed by a pull at a flask. After this she thought they would continue, but the front man then shook his head and said that to go on directly was more than flesh and blood could support. At first she thought he was angling for more pay, and showed him a coin, but he shook his head. She bade the men farewell and climbed down, whereupon a youth leaped into the chair she had just vacated. The chair-man’s ‘If you please, Sir,’ was followed by ‘We ain’t for hire,’ and finally, as Sophia moved off in search of a fresh team, by an exasperated, ‘Then sit there and rot, you ―’, followed by a perfect deluge of foul language which nobody except herself appeared to notice, let alone resent.

Evidently demand for chairs outstrips supply. Having been elbowed aside a few times by other pedestrians – both men and women abominably rude – she has no option but to continue on foot. So off she trots, this determined little ant woman of Sophia’s imagination, taking care to keep to the centre of the pavement for fear of jostlings or worse.

She is dressed, as far as possible, according to Betsy-Ann Blore’s instructions: ‘None of your ruffles. Plain, serviceable stuffs.’ That the advice was sound she has no doubt. To a certain cast of mind, any elegant female constitutes a walking provocation. There are circumstances, however, in which simplicity proves more difficult of attainment than the most artificial contrivance. Such is the case here, for Sophia’s delight lies all in delicate shades, in silvery greys, pinks and creams. Her search eventually produced a gown made up at Buller, for the purposes of visiting the afflicted: it is simple enough in style, though anyone who felt it between finger and thumb would know it at once for silk. Over this she wears a dark pelisse borrowed, without permission, from Fan, but her shoes have no such protection and are already soaked, since, without the maid’s help, she was unable to find her pattens.

An intrigue
, she thinks as she hurries along, Fan’s hood pulled over her hair and a veil flapping across her face. The veil is especially trying, adding as it does an additional layer of darkness to the gloomy, slippery pavements. At least the drizzle has stopped. She stepped into her chair disagreeably damp but emerged into a drier, colder air.

St Mary le Strand is the appointed meeting place, chosen by Betsy-Ann for ease of identification, and because ‘they meet there in the evenings, Madam, so you could go in, should anyone trouble you’. As it turns out, the protection of St Mary’s congregation is not required. Thanks to her dull garments and rapid walk, she reaches the Strand with no more nuisance than an occasional lip-smacking noise out of the darkness. Once in the Strand it is a simple matter to find St Mary’s and there is Betsy-Ann by the gate, her hand raised in greeting.

‘Bitter cold,’ she calls as Sophia crosses the road.

Sophia supposes it is, though her journey has left her short of breath and with a sticky back.

When Betsy-Ann extends an arm Sophia hesitates, not wishing to be so intimately coupled. Is that not what the unfortunate women do, stroll arm in arm? From inside the church she can hear what sounds like a psalm: she pictures rows of worshippers, decent people with orderly lives, safely stored in pews.

‘It’s not far.’ Betsy-Ann again extends her arm. ‘Come on, link me.’

‘What for?’

‘O, don’t then! If you’d rather be pushed over.’

‘Pushed? Why should anyone do that?’

‘Did you never fall over as a little girl?’

‘Naturally I ―’

‘And didn’t your mama ever say to you,
Watch out, Missy, or you’ll show your money
? Well, that’s what the bloods want. To see your money.’

‘Mama would never have said anything so vulgar.’ On reflection, however, Sophia takes her companion’s arm.

*

‘Cosgrove’s? Where is that, if you please?’

The boy, thin and drooping like a plant starved of water, only shrugs. Another boy, of a livelier make, says, ‘I’ll fetch the master to you, Sir,’ and goes out. His companion continues to sweep up, so cack-handedly that Fortunate itches to seize the broom and do the job himself.

The landlord, when he arrives, seems of a different race to the drooping boy: a tall, shiny red-faced man packed with fat. Once more Fortunate explains his errand.

‘Somewhere near the Oxford Road, I believe,’ the man says, eyeing his shabby clothes. ‘I was never there myself. Are you of the household?’

‘Not now, Sir.’

‘Hoping to get back into service?’

He nods. ‘To find the Oxford Road, Sir?’

‘Know the Spyglass Inn? Yes? Past there, then keep to the road until you reach a church. Then ask again.’

As he goes to the door, the sickly boy says to the other one, ‘Queer do, leaving him behind like that,’ as if Fortunate cannot hear it.

Coming up to the Spyglass sinks his spirits a little: he has spent a deal of time only to return to the same place. However, the landlord thought that by walking briskly he might arrive at the Oxford Road within an hour. It seems Cosgrove’s is a place known far and wide, even to people who have never seen it. Once arrived at the Oxford Road, he is sure to find it out.

The church is only a couple of miles. After that, on the advice of a beggar-woman, he branches off towards the south, onto a road where the houses soon become more frequent and, after a while, more elegant also. The road is better kept, making for easier walking, and when he first sees a number of spires in the distance his mood soars in sympathy. He lengthens his stride and picks up his pace.

It is not one but two hours before he arrives at the square where the great building is, to stand wet and hungry and contemplate his own foolishness. He pictured himself in a street, touching Dog Eye’s sleeve, but at Cosgrove’s nobody arrives at the door on foot. The entrance is fenced off from the square, the space inside the palings guarded by liveried servants. Guests are borne inside in sedan chairs, invisible until they appear at the windows.

Fortunate clenches his fists.

He has no alternative but to wait, perhaps wait so long that he loses his bed at the Spyglass and still does not find Dog Eye. Glancing around the square, he tries to judge how safe it is. The people seem peaceable for the most part but incoherent shouts warn him of the presence of roughs who will grow more boisterous as the hours pass. On his way here, he was rushed by such a man and knocked against a wall: it was a marvel that the pistols did not go off. The man stole nothing from him and Fortunate can only assume the brute took a dislike to his complexion. It has happened before.

Inside Cosgrove’s, manservants are going about with tapers, bringing the chandeliers into bloom. The great room is finer even than Mr Watson’s apartments in Maryland. Fortunate tries not to think about how warm it must be within.

More and more lights appear in the windows, as if to imitate day, and Fortunate notices people pushing forward to the palings. He has missed his chance. All the places along the front are already taken and he is not tall enough to look over their heads; he could stand further off in the square, but that would not help him.

Cosgrove’s occupies one entire side of the square. At the right of it lies the entrance to a narrow street, now sunk in shadow, but Fortunate knows it is there, having entered the square from that side. The street bridges the gap between Cosgrove’s and another terrace, forming a right angle with the club, the two terraces, between them, making up half the square. This second line of houses has a garden at one end, forming a squarish gap between the two terraces, and in that garden stands a tree.