Pugg's Portmanteau

by DM Bryan

  “To Meg?”

  “It was only the Astbury sprigged pot. It is not a fashionable piece, and she seemed to receive it with pleasure.”

  “But had we nothing better?”

  “A great deal better, but nothing I judged she would accept.”

  “Has she bowls to drink from? She cannot be elegant without bowls.”

  Sarah says nothing, and then: “I had thought you might like to choose the bowls.” It is not exactly a lie—the idea is a good one, irrespective of when it occurred to her.

  Lady Barbara frowns. “You choose,” says she. “I can see I underestimate the intricacies of the situation.”

  Now the invalid rotates stiffly in an effort to pull her shawl more closely about her. Sarah reaches forward to assist with the fringed edges but finds her hands pushed away.

  “What concerns me,” says Lady Barbara, losing the corner of her shawl, “is that we inconvenience Meg with a luxury as costly as tea. But I am certain you thought of that.”

  Sarah had not. On Lady Barbara’s cheeks, two circles of red stand out like thumbprints.

  “I will give her some bohea from the caddy,” Sarah says at last. “Enough to provide a little pleasure from time to time.”

  “The Congou will make many more cups,” says Lady Barbara, “if she is thrifty.”

  “The Congou then,” says Sarah. “A twist in paper.”

  Sarah puts a hand over her stays and presses. The boning flexes, and between the stiffened sections she feels her own curving ribs. Sarah experiences daily improvements in her own health, the emergency of Barbara’s illness a cool compress to her feverish excitement. Or perhaps it is only a change in the direction of the wind that eases her headache and sharpens her appetite. Sarah says, “The doctor promises to bleed you as soon as we reach town.”

  “Are we to go so soon?” says Barbara.

  “Very soon,” says Sarah.

  e

  The day they depart comes bright and clear. It is harder to leave Batheaston with pale green foam bursting from every stick and tree. Streaks of blue overhead. On the stone of the front step, Sarah finds the curving, silver penmanship of snails. She has intended to walk in the garden one last time before the coach comes, but she finds herself again standing at the gate, unwilling to enter. To distract herself, she turns to the road and watches for the feather of dust announcing Mrs. Riggs’ borrowed chariot. In her mind’s eye the coach becomes a nib and the road a line in a letter. Dear Brother, I regret to inform you that I cannot leave Batheaston, for I find I am not a woman at all but a taproot. Great damage might be done if I am forced from the soil. Perhaps another season might see me safely transplanted, but on this day, I fear, I cannot be removed.

  Her letter done, she notes no dust rising and hopes the coach lies tipped in a ditch, its axle snapped like a stalk. But in this, as in all things, she knows herself destined to be disappointed. After the days of rainy weather, only soft, moist roads run up the steep hillside to the farm. The coach comes upon her suddenly, with no dust, and only a damp rattle to announce its arrival. A moment later, the Batheaston courtyard fills with the reek of horses. Up on his box, the coachman tips his hat. Sarah reenters the house.

  Inside, Barbara sits at the foot of the stairs, under the palm-worn newel post. She has been dressed since daybreak, and Meg leans down to wrap her in blankets against the mild dangers of the day. Beside them, a pair of trunks, a large basket containing items needful for the journey. Everything else will go by ox cart to the new house. Now, Sarah mounts the stairs and takes from an empty room the leather portmanteau containing her drawings.

  Lady Barbara watches as Sarah descends, case in hand, but says nothing and struggles to her feet. Upright, she sways, her boneless dress flapping, for she can no longer bear the discomfort of female buttressing. Flushed and guilty, Sarah comes forward to take her arm, while Meg gathers the bag of necessaries and the leather portmanteau.

  Unexpectedly, a small figure comes in from outside. Sarah stops, the girl’s name on her lips, but before she can speak, Tidy catches her eyes, and then curtsies, exactly as taught.

  “No more school,” says Sarah, for the girls cannot come so far as Bath for lessons. She has repeatedly informed the girls of the fact.

  “Not here for school,” says Tidy. “I’m come to assist Meg. She promised a tuppence if I’m more help than hindrance.”

  Meg’s raucous laugh surprises Sarah, but Tidy, eager to prove her worth, begins to tug at one of the trunks. Lighter than it appears, the trunk comes forward rather suddenly, and she stumbles toward Sarah, leaving behind a long scratch in the floorboard. Sarah looks at the floorboard showing a white steak of bare wood. Her eyes travel to the newel post, palm-worn and finger-stained. She glances through the open front door for a final time, and there is the coachman to hand them to their seats.

  Sarah attends to Lady Barbara, helping her into the chariot’s forward-facing bench. The coachman assists, and Sarah feels herself lifted, then deposited, half on the leather and half on Barbara’s skirts. She shifts and tugs and settles what seems like yards of fabric before both she and Barbara are comfortably seated, side-by-side. Sarah leans out the open door, finding Meg standing on the threshold of the farmhouse. Beside her, Tidy imitates the older woman’s posture, arms crossed and feet apart.

  “Tidy,” Sarah calls, and the girl steps forward. But Sarah has nothing more in her mouth except for the root of her tongue. She stares at the child, unable to look at the grey gables. The empty windows.

  Lady Barbara speaks from her other side, her voice lost in the creaking of coach-wood. Sarah turns, catching at the words. “The key,” says Barbara more distinctly.

  Detaching the key from the enamelled equipage at her waist, Sarah leans down and beckons Meg forward. Meg takes the key with care, attaching it to the plainer device around her own thicker waist. With a self-conscious gesture she smooths the iron against the fullness of her bottle-green skirts, and then looks seriously up at Sarah. Sarah nods.

  The sun has risen fully, burning off the last of the fog. Those plants closest to the house show points of pink and blue, white and violet. Sarah leans across Lady Barbara to open the louvered window. Now she can see all of her garden, sparkling with green sunlight. The coachman closes the other door, and the vehicle dips and quivers as he loads the trunks. Then, as the man takes his seat, the giant wheels roll to and fro in the gravel, the horses stepping like dancers. Sarah turns back to the window on the house side. Meg and Tidy wait by the door.

  Too soon, says Sarah to Meg. Call me back.

  Meg waves from the doorstep.

  Tidy daubs her nose with her apron, and with a start Sarah realizes the child is weeping. A voice, Sarah’s own, says, “is that a clean apron, Tidy? Where is your handkerchief?” but of course Tidy cannot hear her from inside the vehicle. Sarah wills Meg to place a hand on Tidy’s shoulders, but Meg reads lips, not minds. She keeps her red-knuckled hands folded over her skirts, the key dangling beside them.

  Sarah turns to Barbara. “Will you wave goodbye?” she asks, leaning back in the seat they share. Barbara shakes her head and knocks with surprising firmness on the wooden wall of the coach.

  They roll through the yard, saluted by roses with their chins held high, by jonquils with leaves gleaming like muskets, and by drooping woodbines at the gate.

  Sarah reaches over and snaps shut the louvers.

  Chapter 10

  The History of Glossolalia:

  Or, Virtues Various.

  The Tale of the Breeched Girl

  & the Laundress’ Tale.

  London, 1746.

  Glossolalia, whose history this is, sometimes eased those episodes of sadness to which she was given with excursions that put her in mind of her former life as a pirate captain. Ladies such as herself—solitary women of mature years, under the necessity of a respectable reputation—
had little occasion for heroism, but on the night in question, she longed to take to the water, even if it was only the Thames. She had, on short acquaintance, joined a party determined to visit the gardens of Vaux-Hall, which lay across that sedate river, but no sooner had she set foot in the waterman’s boat than Glossolalia knew that she had mistaken her companions. They were silly and giddy, clutching each other in the bottom of the boat. In short, Glossolalia’s new associates quickly grew tedious to her, and as soon as she set foot on the Southwark stair, she determined to set out alone and damn respectability.

  The theatrical illumination of the Vaux-Hall oil lamps, a distracting, yellow-green spell, gave Glossolalia her chance, and she slipped away unremarked. Her slippered feet crunched knowingly upon the gravel path. At first, she hurried, glancing over her shoulder lest someone observe her flight, but seeing she was not hailed and bid to return, Glossolalia came to a halt and stood for moment to breathe in the moist, warm air.

  The garden stretched about her, its central grove of lime and elm branching upwards into a verdant ceiling. At the heart of this fine clearing, an elegant edifice of wood and stone supported an orchestra on its second story, and the whole of the garden sounded with a pretty air played on stringed instruments. Around three sides of the grove ran the low colonnade that formed alcoves for fashionable parties, but Glossolalia instead stood upon one of the gravelled alleys that led deep into Vaux-Hall gardens. These pleasant paths ran to and fro in the leafy maze, everywhere doubling back, so that strollers might surprise themselves under green linden trees.

  For perhaps half an hour, Glossolalia walked along grey-pebbled lanes, enjoying the forest cool. Wherever she could, she avoided meeting anyone, but as she went deeper into the gardens, she was overtaken by a pair of young women. The girls swished past in a rustle of skirts, their arms linked and their heads together. In a silk mantua, the first was as pink and white as an apple blossom, while the other wore a blue-trimmed hat upon her high hair. As they passed Glossolalia, they begin to sing a popular air, commencing with more vigour than art, and turning their heads to look behind, where two fellows trailed after.

  The girls sang, “Think how hard my condition and pity my case.”

  “I pity you, pretty misses,” called out the first fellow in his sober blue coat, brushing past Glossolalia without a sideways glance.

  “Think how hard my condition,” said his friend, who was less sober.

  The women giggled and fanned fans. Reaching a break in the row of trees, they turned, and both parties went down a passage where Glossolalia could see the screening bulk of bushes and not much more.

  “The Dark Walk,” said Glossolalia, for what took place in that part of the gardens was well-enough known to all. “I am fortunate not to have taken that path in error.”

  But the lady was entirely mistaken. The Dark Walk lay, in truth, already beneath her leather slippers. Innocently, Glossolalia continued with her stroll, but she soon began to perceive several new sets of figures approaching. As they drew closer, she saw a stout, short man accompanied by a fat-bellied pug dog. Both man and dog puffed as they came upon her, but the man found sufficient breath to call lustily behind him. “Pugg,” he cried, waving a walking stick, “pick up your feet, you handsome fellow. Come along smartly.” For a moment, Glossolalia thought she recognized the red-faced fellow, but he passed by her so brusquely she did not think he could be the person she remembered.

  And already her attention was turning to a rather more splendid sight—a courting couple in all their finery. First came the gentleman, a locust-waisted beau with a flaring coat-skirt. He held tightly to the arm of his lady, her court skirts wide as a butterfly’s wings. These exalted figures passed in a wash of orange scent that lingered, and behind them scuttled their drab chaperon, beetling her brow.

  With their passage Glossolalia found herself well and truly alone. The gravelled walkway continued before her, with stone urns appearing at intervals, like so many divisions on a draftsman’s rule. In places, trees parted like bed-curtains, revealing a blue-black sky and stars brighter than those in London. Night had come on, and only faint strains of music reminded her of the other inhabitants of the garden still circulating under gilding lamplight. Soon, she came to a forking of paths, and she took one but had gone down it only a score of steps before she decided against it. The gloomy, glaucous light gave her a chill sensation. A break in the distant music of the grove left, in its absence, a silence as deep as a hole. She did not understand how she could have so quickly and so completely put herself beyond the comforting circulation of other persons. The pirate captain she had once been seemed very far from her now—a thought that did not much improve that lady’s happiness.

  With a shiver Glossolalia returned to the crossroad, and took the other path, which she liked no better than the first but which soon widened a little, causing her to take heart. In this new direction, Glossolalia travelled briskly, one ear cocked for the resumption of the garden’s orchestra, or even the laughter of some couple, intent on amorous discourse. It was with relief then that she turned a corner of the pathway and beheld, some distance away, a further widening of the gravel into a little square.

  Glossolalia had already taken a few steps toward the square—which was bordered by a high boxwood hedge—when she noticed, hanging above that leafy barrier, a soft smudge—no more than a fingerprint on the night. She squinted and took it to be one of the stone busts that trim Vaux-Hall’s greenery. Stepping lightly, the lady made her way forward, but as she drew closer, the stone head surprised her by moving.

  Vexed, Glossolalia stopped, but the statue had already seen her, swivelling in her direction. Next, it revealed itself to be a speaking sort of statue, crying out in an odd, braying voice: “Now gentlemen, hold off. Here comes a lady.” It gave an affected laugh, before clapping on a three-cornered hat.

  Glossolalia did not know what to make of this apparition and stood amazed.

  Then, another voice, a bass to the head’s counter-tenor, said, “Nay, bitch—there’s no one.”

  “Really,” said the head, “I do see a lady.”

  “Pull the other,” said the bodiless bass voice.

  Said the head, “She’s coming this way.”

  The bass voice sighed audibly. “Have a look, will you?” it said. “See if anyone’s coming.”

  “Look yourself,” said a third voice. “I’m nobody’s footman.”

  Astonished, Glossolalia took the simple expedient of stepping off the gravelled path and into the garden. So thick was the undergrowth in this part of Vaux-Hall, she at once found herself immersed in a tangle of branch and bush. As quick as she could, she put the slender trunk of an elm between herself and the loquacious stone head.

  “She’s just now stepped behind a tree,” said the same head.

  Said the bass voice, “No doubt she’s got urgent business there. Now, sweetheart, why don’t you sit yourself down on that bench, and keep me company?”

  “I’m happy enough standing, thank you. You see, I’ve rather a large party with me, and they’re not far away. They’ll be here immediately.”

  “Sit down, sweetheart.”

  “I don’t want to sit down.” The voice was rising in pitch, and Glossolalia was now certain it belonged to a young woman, regardless of the hat.

  “That’s a shame, that is.” It was the third voice speaking, an oily baritone.

  “Here now, I’ll sit beside you.” The bass voice again.

  “I like your stockings.” The oily baritone.

  “Don’t touch me.” The statue, still valiantly attempting to disguise her sex.

  Behind the elm, Glossolalia reunited with her pirate captain. At once, she began groping in the underbrush until she found a dead branch, both thick and stout. Stripping off the twigs and leaves, she clasped the branch firmly, and swung it to and fro to feel its weight. Satisfied with her improv
ised cudgel, she stepped out from the underbrush and crunched her way up the path, pushing up her fine lace ruffles. By the time she turned the boxwood corner and entered the square, Glossolalia’s blood was thoroughly up. She had not time to tie up her gown so that she might not stumble and go down in a ballooning of skirts, but she swept them aside with her hand as she strode.

  The night had darkened so completely that she could not at first see the three figures clustered around the little bench, but as she came on she heard a slap and a rip, and she made out a slight figure tussling with two much larger assailants. Glossolalia hefted her stick, but instead of applying it to the backs of the attackers, she took the thick end in her hand and leaned upon it. Then, in a tremulous but carrying voice, she cried out: “Oh, naughty girl. Are you bothering the young men again?”

  She was a pirate captain still, but pirates employ subterfuge as surely as they use violence.

  At the sound of her voice, the two villains stepped apart, releasing the young woman, who slipped off the bench and spilled onto the gravel.

  “On your feet, foolish child,” said Glossolalia, stepping forward, leaning hard on her improvised cane. Reaching the young woman, she poked with her stick, finding the breeches untorn, the face unmarked, but the girl herself stunned and slow to respond.

  The men—for whatever their station in life, the avenging Glossolalia refused to think of such persons as gentlemen—had gone no further than the edge of the square. Now they watched Glossolalia uncertainly.

  “Has she harmed you at all, my dear sirs?” cried that lady. “It is a shock to find her once again with her breeches down—she knows full well that passing on her distemper will never rid her of it, no matter what that quack doctor says.” And the lady peered at each man in turn, seeking for a face beneath the shadow of a hat. But the two were already stepping back, moving away from the two women. Then, Glossolalia said, “Indeed, get you gone, sirs. Her father and brothers come up close behind me, and will want to know your names.” And as if on cue, high notes of laughter floated across the garden—the distant sound of merriment. Hearing the sound, the men turned tail and began to make off in the opposite direction, and a moment later, only the fall of stones on the pathway told where they had gone.