Pugg's Portmanteau

by DM Bryan

  I turned my head from hers and could not speak. I knew the tales better than anyone, for even my footmen felt free to describe within my hearing their master’s wicked peregrinations.

  “If the legal case for your marriage is unbreakable, you cannot free yourself as I did,” she said. “Your girl will have neither fortune nor a good name to recommend her, while my boy is more fortunate. The boy is heir to my holdings and free from an unworthy father.”

  I found this hard speech indeed and discovered my tongue at last. “A counterfeit marriage, madam, is a matter for rakes in romances, and not a fit stratagem for ladies. What’s more, I would not choose to make my child a bastard.”

  If I hoped to wound my opponent, who still had her hands laid most tenderly upon mine, I failed. She only gazed at me with more compassion than before. “Mr. Hogarth chooses to paint me in a red dress, but I am no harlot,” was all she said. Folding my arm over hers, she led me from the church, my poor girl sticking close by my side and looking up at the lady’s face.

  We talked together for some time, slowly making our way up Deane Street toward my house in King’s Square. In the course of our conversation, Mrs. E— considered my plight from every angle. However, we did not exhaust the topic on that day, and she began to come regularly to call upon me. On days the sun shone, we went out to walk between the parterres of the square, surrounded by the red faces of houses. On wet days, we sat closeted together in the window seat of my parlour, where drops of rain ran in rivulets down fogged glass. My girl hid in the other seat with the vermillion curtain pulled and drew with her finger in the vapours. She made figures and faces, and my new friend exclaimed at the glass full of wet marks. “You must find a drawing master,” she said, “for in time she might learn to paint very prettily.”

  My husband would have been displeased to know that such a person as Mrs. E— called for me, filling my head with her council, but her visits were kept a secret. The villain rarely returned to the house where I dwelt, having used my money to set himself up in one of his own. Nor did he hear tales of me, as I did of him, for I made every servant in my household swear to never divulge my friendship with that lady. Yes, I considered her my friend by then—the “scandalous” Mrs. Mary E—, whose reputation, tattered by the wrong choice of husband, survived because of her wealth and thanks to those few souls who agreed a woman might act in the cause of her own protection.

  Amongst those who took the part of Mrs. E— against the world was the illustrious artist, Mr. William Hogarth. The regard between my friend and the picture maker was an established fact, and neither the artist, nor his wife, seemed to consider that lady’s reputation lost. In return, she showed Mr. Hogarth great condescension and extended to him the pleasure of her patronage. On one notable occasion, she and I ventured out together to see her portrait, still drying at the artist’s home in Leicester Square. We took tea with Mr. Hogarth, and to my delight, the great artist took up a crayon and rendered me in lightning fast, ochre-coloured strokes. He caught me leaning back in a chair, my arms raised as if sleepy, and smiling slightly at something my friend had said. When he was done, and I said the likeness pleased me, she begged Mr. Hogarth to give me the drawing, which he kindly did. From that day hence, the little scrap of paper has been one of my most treasured possessions. Indeed, its memory must have lodged in Mr. Hogarth’s fertile mind, for now he puts it to another use.

  As my attachment to my new friend grew, relations with my husband and my financial affairs worsened. Before long, I began to wish I might follow her lead and declare myself no wife, my husband no true father to my daughter. Alas, I had a marriage contract to show that I was indeed an honest woman, the child my husband’s hostage, and all three of us no better than paupers. I was forced to give up the house in King’s Square and to sell one of the properties in Rutland. I took another house in a less fashionable part of the city and lived there as simply as possible, but to no avail. My husband’s bad reputation and debts followed me like uninvited guests that took the best of everything and left misery behind.

  In every way, I sought to preserve my privacy, keeping my husband and my friend apart, but this hope proved a vain one. Despite the best efforts of everyone at my new address, the two came face to face at last. My husband, arriving unexpectedly at my door, pushed his way into my front hall and made a great show of shock at finding the “notorious” Mrs. E— under what he termed his roof. Having tried and failed to vent his ill-will in childish name-calling, he seized her arm and threatened to turn her unceremoniously into the street. I interceded, demanding he stop the assault at once, but this only turned his attention to me. He shouted and shook me, pushing me hard against the wall. For a moment I lay, winded, while the marks of his fingers mottled my arms beneath the lace sleeves of my gown,

  While he cursed us, I picked myself up and saw that my friend Mary E— had my daughter by the hand. I ran to them, and we three barred ourselves in the parlour, pushing a writing desk in front of the door. On the other side, my husband railed, cursing and calling for me to come out, but after several minutes of this he calmed himself sufficiently to reveal the real cause of his visit. I still had some small sums of money preserved in my own name, and it was for this my husband tracked me down, a hound to my hare.

  Now I knew how to rid myself of him, if only for a short time. I used the writing desk to draft a bill of hand, sending it under the door as a flag of surrender. This capitulation pleased him, and he abandoned his siege of the parlour. Still, my friend and I did not dare come out until my girl, standing at the parlour window, announced that her papa had gone away in a sedan chair, wearing a brocade coat he most certainly had not yet paid for.

  “You will not see him while the money lasts,” said my friend, “but he has discovered you at last, and you will never again be safe in this house. I can think of no better time to put into effect the scheme I have been urging upon you for some time. Quick, while you have some money left.”

  I understood her, and I agreed, but still I was weak and afraid. I clung to my child and wept, but Mary was determined to save me. Calling for my servant, she bid him bring me my cloak, and warm clothes for the girl too. Then she summoned her carriage, which, for fear of signalling her presence to spying eyes, she always commanded to wait some streets further. At her urging, I had prepared a selection of such items I thought necessary to a long voyage, and now my manservant brought this trunk from its hiding place under the eaves of the house. While Mary settled my child and myself in the compartment of her carriage, my man lashed the trunk to the back of the coach, and a moment later, we were gone, leaving not so much as a smudge on a page.

  What happened next I learned only later, in a letter from my lawyer, and it was indeed a lucky chance for me that I did not delay longer. My husband’s pleasure at being again in funds did not last long, for he was almost right away surprised by the appearance of bailiffs eager to drag him to Fleet for his debts. Escaping his captors by violence, he returned on foot to my poor house to bang on the door, demanding protection. A crowd collected, listening to him rave and curse, until someone told him I was fled in a carriage. This new information gave my husband the strength to shatter the lock and force his way into the hall. Then, the crowd drew back into the street to watch the light from his lamp move from room to room. Violent crashes told them he found chairs, which he kicked, and walls, which he pummelled. In this manner, he continued until he startled onlookers by flinging open the door and rushing into the street, his wig knocked sideways and a grimace upon his face. I have no doubt he would have set about the neighbours next, knocking them down where they stood, but at this juncture the bailiffs reappeared. As soon as he saw the light of their links, my husband set off down the street, his pursuers close on his heels.

  By then, I was long gone, riding safely in my friend’s coach to Deptford Reach, where I might secure a passage to Virginia. Upon our arrival, we found an inn where we hid for som
e days until we located a ship named the Primrose that would take us. Meeting the captain in the public room of the inn, I arranged with him to secure my trunk on board. But now my friend took my hands in hers and urged me not to take the child to sea. Rather, I should leave her safe in England. “The child is a girl,” she said, “and we both know how the world exposes us to risks undreamed of by our brothers. If you write your husband that she is in Virginia with you, he will have no cause to suspect I have her in my keeping.”

  I would not hear my friend, even when the captain joined his voice to hers, urging me to consider the difficulties of the voyage and the perils of the crossing. “This is a time of year for extremes of weather in northern latitudes, and I cannot promise a smooth passage,” he told me in his gruff manner, pouring himself another glass of the wine my friend had secured for this comfort. Still, I would not listen. I covered my darling’s ears and shook my head.

  That evening, as we prepared for sleep at the inn, a wind began to suck at the shutters, and by early morning the miserable river flickered with white spume, like pages turned abruptly. I bid my daughter be brave, but she hid under the sheets and wept. “Mama,” she said, worrying the bedclothes between her small fingers, “the Primrose will sink—I know she shall.” When I kissed her brow, her flesh heated my chilled lips. I left her there to sleep as best she could and went with Mary to stand at the end of Middle Water Gate.

  Under the overhang of a chandlers, we stood and stared at the wet timbers of the Primrose. The ship, all straight lines, rode hard in the middle of the Thames. Yesterday, bumboats beetled back and forth, conveying goods and passengers, but today the ship showed only damp boards, tarnished with rain. “She will not sail today,” I told my friend, who had the good sense not to contradict me, but upon our return to the inn, I found a note from the captain waiting for me. The Primrose would indeed depart that day, and a boat would be sent for me at the turning of the tide.

  By now I knew for certain my child was ill. Red and damp and so hot to the touch, she watched me as I secured our few garments in a leather portmanteau. The portmanteau was a gift from Mary, one final act of kindness before she’d gone downstairs to order her carriage, for the tide would turn soon. The last thing I packed was Mr. Hogarth’s sketch, which I placed carefully between my linens. I did not look to see myself laughing. I could not bear to think that, sorrowful as they were, those days were happier than these.

  My daughter saw me fill the leather case, watching with feverish eyes, and when I was done, she asked when we were to leave.

  “Soon,” I said, but my own voice sounded nearly as weak as hers.

  “But,” she said, “Papa is come now.”

  Certain she was worse, I went to her, telling her that papa was miles away in London. She suffered my embrace, complaining that I was wrong and that she could hear his voice. But by then, I could hear him too, barking demands from the parlour below us. I seized my girl and held her for all I was worth, for I had sworn to myself that she would never again be witness to his violence.

  To our rescue came Mary, entering the room with a bundle of clothing in her arms. Quickly, she joined me by the bed, wrapping herself in a manservant’s coarse cloak. Then, with her finger to her lips, she made signs that I should breech myself in the remaining garments. This I did, although the coat brushed the ground and the hat stank of orris root. Shaking with fear, I went creeping down the back stair, not stopping until I stood across the street, the rain dripping off my portmanteau. Mary came after, carrying my daughter under the cloak.

  The plan was risky, and it was our great good fortune the villain remained the whole time in the parlour. Perhaps Mary had arranged for a drink to distract him, and if my husband had been a better man, we should certainly have been caught. On the other hand, if he’d been a better man, we would never have found ourselves sheltering under the overhang of that chandler’s shop, waiting for the Primrose’s bumboat.

  Mary stood beside me with my child’s weight in her arms. Tenderly, she drew back the cloak and kissed the girl’s forehead. Then she said, “The child is burning—you cannot take her to Virginia with you.” I said nothing but watched the beetling shape of the bumboat grow larger in the drizzle. I felt my girl gazing at me from Mary’s arms, but I could not look at my daughter’s flushed cheeks and over-bright eyes. My decision did not come in words; I only watched the sailors make fast the dinghy, and beckon to us. Then, I bent to my portmanteau, and from between the linens, I removed Mr. Hogarth’s drawing. This I placed in in my child’s hands with no other wish than that she be good for Mary—that was all the goodbye I could bear.

  Next came rough hands and wet boards and a splinter I nursed from the bottom of the boat. Sharp strokes conveyed us in violent lurches through the spume of the wind-threshed river. The side of the Primrose rose, tall and timbered, and I was conveyed to the taffrail, hauled in a kind of sling. I felt sailor’s hands touching me through thick canvas, as they banked my ascent like any other cargo. I lay still in my cover, like a side of beef, and came safe to that deck, although they could have dropped me in the Thames, for all I cared.

  No sooner was I unwrapped than I looked across the river. Through the rain, I could see that Mary had commanded her carriage to meet her at Middle Water Gate and that both she and my daughter were safe inside. A hand waved to me—perhaps it belonged to Mary or perhaps to my daughter—I could not tell at that distance, and then all was sailors urging me to go below. Above me, curses and the shapes of men filled the air, the latter swinging in ropes arrayed against the dripping sky—a wet web. On the shore, the carriage lurched into movement, and I cried out, slipping on wet boards. Hands clutched at me, lifting me, transporting me along the silvery timbers, until a passage opened and a ladder appeared, which my feet hardly touched.

  I was brought winded between dryer walls of wood and hatches overhead, open to the dusk. As I caught my breath, a stench caught me back, an acrid reek that watered my eyes. Through tears, I saw a sailor—a boy really, but with a face already lined—come down the ladder. Under his arm he carried my case, and he beckoned me to follow him down a timber-built hallway. Off this narrow passage opened a series of cells, each made of moveable panels that did not reach even so far as the beams of the deck above. Each had a leather-hinged flap of a door, and the boy took me through one of these. He set my portmanteau on a cot with no linen. Then, without even looking at me, he left me alone. This, then, was to be my cabin.

  No one can doubt my state of mind: how I fluctuated between grief for the loss of my child and relief that she was not in that stinking ship with me. Immured in my cabin, I took to my cot, where I lay with my cloak heaped over my head. At last, I fell into a restless sleep, unsettled by events and, soon enough, by the motion of the foul Primrose. When I woke, I could feel the keeling of the ship, but I had no curiosity to see any sight on deck. I rose long enough to use the lidded pot I found under my cot, setting that noisome container in the passage for the crew to empty. I suspected it would wait a long while, but it could do little to further befoul the reeking Primrose. Then, I slept again.

  Sustained by the eatables Mary had secured in my portmanteau, I managed to remain hidden for several days, judging the passage of time by the drowned light appearing above the cabin partitions. Some hours we sailed and some hours we hove to, and from time to time I could hear the rattling splash of the anchor. At last, the pitch of my floor grew steeper, and a hand knocked on the wall of my cabin. An almost inaudible voice informed me that if I would see the last of England I must come now, and this announcement grieved me so that I rose unsteadily and made my way to the ladder.

  Up on deck, I met the same leathery boy, who seemed in wait for me. By this token, I guessed he was the one who’d knocked and who was now, perhaps, my caretaker. I thanked him for his attention, and he looked at me curiously, before pointing out Gravesend slipping away. I stared at the angled roofs of the houses, a row of n
ibs writing in smoke, and I tried to take some comfort in the sight. The wind was stiff, and soon all that joined the Primrose to England was the bilge water wake. Then, there was no more England and nothing to see.

  [

  It did not take long to discover that in joining the Primrose, I had exchanged one bad situation for another. I had left behind the rake I knew, from whom all of London was my hiding place, for a new rogue, with only the Primrose in which to conceal myself. In short, the captain, in whom I placed my securities and my secrets, and who had seemed all kindness when on shore, proved at sea to be a drunk and a cruel master to his small crew of men. He now instructed me to dine with him, which he did not do as a kindness but as a punishment for my having been fool enough to have trusted him. Twice daily, regardless of the seas or my appetite, I was condemned to join him in the great cabin, where I watched him pour himself cupful after cupful of thick wine.

  Nor was any other man on that boat able to protect me, for the captain ruled them all with fear and violence. The first mate, John Jessup, who did most of the work aboard the Primrose, received only curses and grunts as thanks from his captain. Jessup stood always on that part of the quarter deck where I, a woman and a passenger, might not go unless invited, and he did not invite me. He was a capable man, but silent, obedient, and useless.

  It was the leather-faced boy who nominated himself my teacher in the matter of shipboard life. He was motivated, I have no doubt, by the hope of a gift of coin upon our arrival in Virginia, and he made his pecuniary interest clear enough. He had great hopes of me, he said, for I was not like other passengers the Primrose had carried. They came with trunks full of planting implements and household goods, and seemed to know all about soils and tobacco crops. They had no use for him, but I, on the other hand, couldn’t tell my ass from my elbow, he said, begging my pardon. I did not grant it him, but he took no notice of my coldness, issuing scraps of conversation whenever he could escape the knife-sharp gaze of the first mate.