Pugg's Portmanteau

by DM Bryan

  For her part, Glossolalia lingered over the print in which the Harlot’s son sits alone beneath his mother’s coffin. “This picture holds a message for me also,” she said. “I could do more to assist others. I have dwelt too long on my own sorrows.” And then she smiled, for she had made a resolution in her own heart.

  “Thank you for entertaining us so well with your tale,” said Morris, “and as for Mr. Hogarth, why he must be the finest artist in all the world. I should like to meet him one day.”

  Mrs. Betty’s family took great pleasure in seeing their guests so entertained by the very things that brought them so much joy. As for Glossolalia and Morris, their taste for adventure, slaked by experience and by Mrs. Betty’s tale, left them content to end their own in the parlour of that happy house—at least, until curiosity pricked them again.

  Chapter 11

  Curiosity now prompted us to walk on; the nearer we came to the house, the greater we found the profusion of flowers which ornamented every field.

  Sarah Scott’s A Description of Millenium Hall.

  Bath, 1762.

  From the back bedroom of Edgar’s Buildings on Bath’s George Street, Sarah can see how the whole of her new garden fits into a single pane of window glass. She has lied by the most recent post, telling brother William this plot is a hundred feet long. She told him the area is not so large as to entail expense but big enough to bring her pleasure. Now, looking down from above, she knows the opposite is true. Enriched town soil is expensive, producing only sad roses, haunted by weedy convolvulus. One day, perhaps, she will learn to love this patch of soil, but at present the length of red-brown clay leaves her as dissatisfied as the other aspects of her life in Bath. Every day, their new home uncrates itself around Lady Barbara and herself, items appearing as needed—a chair to drop into, a bed for sinking down upon. A cup for tea, the saucer sliding into place, just in time for the clink. Even so, each object arrives precisely placed and subtly wrong, as if drawn from the wrong angle. And then there is this garden. Through the window, Sarah takes one more look at the meagre, townish stretch of clay that is hers to tend. How she misses the man More, who digs and plants and spreads the cow shit for brother William now.

  In her pocket she has a letter from Mr. Newbery, who is publishing the novel she wrote in hope of saving Batheaston—too late now. Any money earned must pay for the expenses incurred in the move. Mr. Newbery writes to say the process of printing Millenium Hall is well underway, and the book will be ready soon. He expects the work to be well received and has prepared it for the public with diligence. The finished volume, he tells her, will contain a fine frontispiece, and he has sent her a proof of the print. Two gentlemen stand in graceful attitudes along an avenue of oaks. In the distance, stands that honest and entirely imaginary edifice, Millenium Hall. Sarah will approve his choice of frontispiece—Mr. Newbery is certain of that.

  Sarah wonders what right John Newbery, for all his goodness, has to be so sure of her opinion. In fact, he has a knack for misinterpreting her sentiments. The very words she commits to ink seem to slide about on the page while in the post-carriage to London. By the time Mr. Newbery opens her letters they have achieved a new form. He challenges her prefaces and her conceits, remarking they are too delicate for a reading public. He says delicate, but he means obscure—Sarah knows this. Lady Barbara’s view is that Mr. Newberry knows his business as well as any man alive. Mr. Newbery, says Lady Barbara, is all kindness and strategy.

  Sarah, who would rather Millenium Hall not sell at all than have it sell through stratagem, says only: “My dear, we two speak of nothing but Mr. John Newbery or the doctor. As we are resourceful women, do you not think we can light upon some other topic than the opinions of men, no matter how well founded?” And what did she and Barbara speak of next? Sarah cannot remember. Brother William most likely. Or the excessive speed of Mrs. Rigg’s coachman.

  The move to Bath has vastly improved Lady Barbara’s health. The doctor still comes, bringing with him his clysters and his purgatives, his bleeding cups and his bottled tinctures, but his conversation is jovial, general—he takes tea with them both. Sarah Scott writes letters to sister Elizabeth, describing the improvements in her friend’s health. She shapes the words in shining ink, and they dry into truth. She writes, Lady Barbara now sits with the window open. Across George Street, new buildings go up, and she follows each erection with careful attention. She rallies—she recovers. Believe me Ever most affectl y Y rs. Your most affectionate Sister and Obedient Serv t. Every Y rs.. S.S.

  The import of her own words is clear enough to Sarah: if she is to go to London to see Mr. Hogarth, the time is now, and her most recent letter to her sister communicates her desire to visit. Elizabeth, who encourages her, replies to say that Hill Street, as always, is at Sarah’s disposal. Edward Montagu is at Sandleford Priory, which is his usual habit at this time of year, but she, Elizabeth, will remain in town to greet her sister. As for Sarah’s intention to hire a post-chaise or, heavens above, go by public conveyance, she must promise that she will undertake to do neither. One of Edward’s agents is to be carried from Bristol to London on some matter of business, and if Sarah does not mind the man’s company, he has agreed to break his journey in Bath so that she might have the convenience of the Montagu coach.

  And so, Sarah will at last make her trip London. She will carry the leather portmanteau containing her drawings and little else, for she keeps a gown and other necessaries at Hill Street. And if the age of the garment means she will not be of the latest fashion, she doubts the few visits she intends to pay will demand anything a la mode. As for Montagu’s man—a former Turkey merchant by Elizabeth’s account—Sarah is not opposed to a fabulous tale or two to accompany the rolling changes beyond the coach window. She hopes he might amuse her with stories of Adrianople and the court of the Sultan. Such a romantic locale, dignified by proximity to Homer and Virgil, must hold at least one or two anecdotes suitable for her ears.

  Perhaps she will find some inspiration there. Recently, her pen holds her close to home—Vauxhall, Clerkenwell. Her tales nestle like Chinese boxes, but each grows smaller and more noisesome than the one before, and Sarah would rather sink her fingers knuckle deep in good loam.

  Through the back window of Edgar’s Buildings, Sarah casts one last disgusted look at the sterile plot that is now hers. Then, she leaves the bedroom and goes into the front parlour, where she finds Lady Barbara, keeping her vigil at the window. On the polished table lie Sarah’s pens, her inks, her little knife for trimming each nib. A brass candlestick with a tallow candle, neatly snuffed and trimmed. A pile of books. Pages in Sarah’s own handwriting.

  Sarah crosses to the table, and at her approach, Lady Barbara looks up. She presses her fingers together and says, “I am tired of the street, and I hate to be idle—will you read to me?”

  Sarah is glad of the suggestion, taking her seat at the table with no small measure of relief. She and Barbara have not been so companionable as late—Barbara’s illness and their removal from Batheaston have interrupted all comfortable routines. The doctor forbids Barbara to sew, lest it tire her head, and the new girl makes a stingy fire and is late with their meals. Sarah misses Meg but does not say so. Neither does she speak of the garden, and Barbara has not mentioned the trip to London. It is as if they have decided all this between them—but they have not.

  “What were we reading last?” says Sarah, a little shocked that she cannot remember.

  Barbara says, “I would like to hear something new – perhaps from the manuscript you have been working on?”

  “Certainly,” says Sarah, taking her eyeglasses from her pocket. Barbara knows every page of Millenium Hall, having reviewed each word. On occasion, she has had to put its own author straight on some event of forgotten significance. Sarah rifles the pile before her and finds the pages she is looking for—if Barbara wishes something new from her pen, she shall have it. Adj
usting her eyeglasses on her nose, Sarah reads: “Do you know the horse-ferry that runs between Lambeth and Westminster?”

  “A horse-ferry?” says Barbara, immediately. “Is that not a rather low subject for your pen?”

  “Mr. Newbery tells me Mr. Oliver Goldsmith has written a sentimental novel that combines both the high and the low, and that it is a work of genius—Mr. Newbery’s nephew intends to bring it out very soon.”

  “Mr. Newbery says this of Mr. Goldsmith? I must confess, I am a little surprised.”

  “Nevertheless, he has given me an idea for a satire on a romance of my own—Mr. Goldsmith, that is. Not Mr. Newbery.”

  “A satire?” says Barbara. “Surely you are mistaken.”

  “I do not know how I might be mistaken about the product of my own pen. You must give me fair hearing,” says Sarah, rattling her pages.

  Barbara inclines her head, indicating that Sarah might resume.

  “Do you know the horse-ferry—”

  “Yes yes,” says Barbara, turning toward the window.

  Sarah skips ahead. “Then know this,” she reads, “The person who runs it is a kind of pyrate queen, ropey-faced and tidal as the river. I once heard of a couple who wished to cross the Thames from Southwark to London. How they found themselves in Lambeth without proper conveyance is nobody’s business but their own, but without a boat, the muddy Thames might as well be as wide at the Atlantic. As soon as the couple entered the ferrywoman’s ramshackle hut, they made their requirements known. At first, she greeted them in a friendly manner, but as soon as she discovered they had no horse, her warmth receded and left a stony shore behind. “No horse?” she said, opening her eyes as wide as they would go—which was still a kind of smoke-stung squint. “This is a horse-ferry I run here.”

  “It is no matter, madam,” said the gentleman. “Our money is good.”

  “It’s not the health of your coin that concerns me,” said the river dame, “but rather how I will tally the accounts. See, there’s one price for a man and a horse, and another for a horse and a chaise. That includes the man, you see. And, then, there’s a price for a coach and two horses, which includes the driver and all the fine folk that ride inside. Now, you seem like gentlepeople, and no sooner did I clap eyes on you than I told myself you was the coach-and-two-horses kind. But now I hear you have no horses at all.”

  Sarah looks up, but Barbara only stares out the window, and so she continues: “Alas,” said the gentlewoman, “our coach met with a terrible accident and is upturned in the road, one wheel broken. Worse, both horses have run away.”

  The Ferry-keeper came closer and looked at the lady’s face with some care. “No,” she said, “that’s Vaux-Hall dirt, that is, and a bit of grass is lodged behind your ear. It wasn’t the road what tumbled you. I can’t be fooled so easily as that.”

  “Nay,” said the gentleman, “you mistake our condition—”

  Now Lady Barbara is twisting her fingers in her lap. The motion is a discouraging one, and Sarah stumbles in her reading. She takes a breath and begins again: “Nay,” said the gentleman, “you mistake our condition. We met with highwaymen and were robbed of everything but the fee for the ferry. We had to flee for our very lives through field and byre—the grass behind the lady’s ear is proof.”

  “Oh no,” said the river-woman, shaking her head, “there’s no highwayman this side of the Thames—at least, there is, but I happen to know he’s drinking tonight at the King’s Head. Him and all his gang.”

  “Are you in jest?” said the gentlewoman, who had seen Mr. Gay’s The Beggar’s Opera more than once.

  Now Lady Barbara sighs, audibly and purposefully. Sarah stops reading.

  “Is that the end?” says Barbara. “Are you finished? That seems a very unsatisfying conclusion.”

  “I am convinced,” says Sarah, “that my narrative is not to your taste.”

  “Not entirely,” says Barbara, with admirable evasion. Then, she looks directly at Sarah. “Does your female person have a name? You continually call her ‘the lady’ or ‘the gentlewoman.’ Without some particular designation, she seems the merest stick.”

  “She is called Glossolalia,” says Sarah, and then: “No, wait—that is not her name.”

  “Your audience thanks you. Glossolalia—what a mouthful.”

  Sarah stares at her friend. Barbara’s face is pale. Her hair parts severely beneath her lace cap. Her eyes shine as though lit with a taper. She is, Sarah notes, very angry.

  “The dialogue seems a satire on travel,” says Barbara. “A warning against, perhaps. But, I wonder how it ends. Which is the sign of a clever author, is it not? That we cannot guess the ending.”

  Sarah folds her pages in two. “I should not have read this aloud,” she says. “It is not the comic tale I intended.”

  “A comic tale?” says Barbara. “It has not had that effect on me.”

  “Your strength returns,” says Sarah. “And I am glad.”

  And Sarah is glad. She counts too much on Lady Barbara’s patient counsel. Barbara cannot always be Sarah’s conscience and must sometimes be allowed to be bad-tempered on her own account. Just as Sarah must be allowed to box back.

  “I shall need my strength,” says Barbara. “I only hope it lasts.”

  “You cannot alter my decision, dear,” says Sarah. “I am quite decided to go.”

  “Then I must be content,” says Barbara, sounding anything but. She turns back to the window, as though to a better friend.

  Sarah leans back in her chair and shuts her eyes. The arrangements have been made. Tomorrow, early in the morning, the coach with its Montagu markings will stop in George Street. At that hour, light will enter the Edgar-Row kitchen in ashen flakes. In the road, wagons and other conveyances will pass with a knocking of hooves and a sticking of wheels. With a key of bright iron, she will seal Barbara into the Bath house, with only the half-trained girl for company. An invalid’s cruel entombment, but then long partnerships are built on confinement—one heart locked within another. For this, she has given up Batheaston.

  No, it is as Barbara says—they must both be content. Nothing will prevent Sarah leaving for London tomorrow, carrying only her leather portmanteau. In the meanwhile, she is not fit company for anyone. Rising, she leaves Lady Barbara in full possession of the parlour.

  e

  She and Edward Montagu’s Turkey merchant, Sarah Scott considers, might as well be made of different substances. She, plants stalks, bruised, aged into an essence both delicate and subtly spoilt. He, wires, levers, gears. She glances at him in the jolting carriage, trying to take the measure of him and to shame him into looking away. Finding he will allow her to do neither, she turns to stare though the louvered window, taking refuge in the sight of the town. Block after block of terraced row houses, yellowed and chambered as sponges. What was Elizabeth thinking in imagining such a man to be a fitting companion for a long carriage ride?

  Almost certainly Montagu himself had suggested the arrangement, thinking more of convenience than of propriety, but Elizabeth had surely agreed, recommending it to Sarah as suitable in every respect. Sarah thinks of the woman her sister has become, with coal dust on her silk shoes, the plans for new colliery outbuildings under her fingers. She walks beside Montagu and his engineers, her wide hem sweeping the dirt.

  Now, Sarah holds a folded note, passed from Elizabeth through the conduit of this man across from her. She opens it again and rereads. This time it is more of her sister’s business—the particulars of some minor alterations Elizabeth is having made to Sarah’s unfashionable Hill Street gowns. Sarah will not, thanks to Elizabeth, be allowed to make a countrified figure after all. The Turkey merchant watches her as she makes much of Elizabeth’s few lines. He is well dressed and yet not a gentleman. He is, perhaps, not even entirely English. Thinks Sarah Scott.

  What is her evidence for
such unchristian speculation? Upon her entry to the carriage he met her eye. He grinned at her. His address was improper … jocular. And avuncular, even though he is very much younger than she. He’d patronized her. “Here you are,” he said, pulling her into the carriage, laughing when she collapsed inwards, giving way under pressure like the rotten spot on a marrow. “All right there?” he asked, pulling her from the floor. An unpleasantly forthright concern for her person, and yet she cannot fault his kindness. She cannot rightly think what she faults.

  Now, they have ridden for some minutes in silence, carriage-jostled, knee-to-knee like wrestlers taking stock of one another. Their acquaintance suffers an embarrassing adolescence. How to behave, she wonders. How to make the correct address, employing which forms? What tone of voice? Who should begin?

  Can he really be a Turkey merchant? He seems too young to have voyaged so far.

  Sarah Scott recalls that she is a woman of character, not without resources, equal to all social difficulties, even those without precedent. She unfolds the folded note, and pretends to read something of importance written therein, although Elizabeth has included nothing beyond the disposition of the green silk and the yellow. Sarah concludes this dumbshow and looks up, finally speaking. She says, “I understand my brother Montagu recommends you unreservedly as a person of honour. You are, my sister writes, entrusted with matters of great importance to himself.” Also, gifted with the burden of his awkward, ugly sister-in-law, she does not say.

  The Turkey merchant bows.

  Sarah coughs slightly and regrets the mannerism as fussy. She coughs again. “I am afraid my sister has not chosen to convenience me with your name.”

  “Mr. Achmet-Beg,” says the Turkey merchant, bowing again.

  “Indeed,” says Sarah, for he is, as she feared, more Turkey than merchant. She can think of nothing that might safely cushion this severest jolt. They sit in silence.