The Trespass: A Novel

by Barbara Ewing

  ‘Should we charge the fare to your father perhaps?’

  He leaned forward, placing her own hand under her breast. ‘No!’ said Harriet sharply. ‘I will bring the money and the signed papers back to you, or send them with a servant.’

  ‘This cabin, which you will not be sharing, will cost forty-one guineas.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Harriet.

  ‘You do understand you must furnish it yourself?’

  ‘Of course I understand that. We have already sent one of our family across the world and we understand how it is. My father will assist me in every way.’

  ‘Of course. We would very much like to see him here.’

  ‘I will tell him that,’ she said and the gentlemen looked positively chirpy.

  She had to wait while papers were gathered, notes were made, pleasantries were exchanged. Behind her veil she watched the frock-coated men, saw how they mentioned her father importantly to one another several times. Her heart was beating very fast, faster than perhaps it should, she felt so strange, but somehow she could not bring herself to sit down again. So she stood there still, as they bustled about her.

  She had to find forty-one guineas and much more beside.

  As she came out into the Strand a thin, watery sun was trying to shine and she stopped for a moment on the pavement, steadying herself. Could she truly have had a vision of Mary? It felt as if she was near. The cabman was leaning against his vehicle in amongst all the loud, unruly passing traffic, and he was whistling, but such was the roar of the noise that she could not pick up the tune. He saw Harriet, gave a cheery wave, helped her into the cab. She told him to take her to Bryanston Square, and then changed her mind suddenly.

  ‘Where is the Ballet?’ she asked the driver.

  ‘Why, Her Majesty’s Theatre, ma’am, of course.’

  ‘I wish to go there.’

  ‘The Haymarket.’ He nodded, enclosed her in, jumped up to the top of his vehicle, flicked at the horse; the cab with its whistling driver trotted its way through the carriages and the carts and the people. Inside the cab, suddenly alone at last, Harriet crumpled. What am I thinking of? The Haymarket is where the street women go. And if I see him all I would do would be to ask for the other brother, the one whose eyes seem to smile. But what would I say? However do I ask for a loan of forty-one guineas? And I will need more money than that. How will I get to Gravesend with whatever luggage I can arrange? I have no furniture for a cabin. The servants will be watching me always. Am I mad? It is impossible! O Mary, Mary, my beloved sister, are you really somewhere near? Have I gone mad?

  Almost, she wept.

  But then the same distorted vision of Sir Charles Cooper came into her mind and she did not.

  The cab stopped outside Her Majesty’s Theatre and Harriet stepped out. But the theatre was closed of course: there would be a performance in the evening. In amongst the traffic, people crowded the street talking and smiling and arguing; there were ladies resting their gloved hands on the arms of gentlemen, businessmen with top hats and bundles of papers, young lads hurrying and scurrying, darting through the traffic, laughing and cursing; the ladies of the street were perhaps not yet parading. By the front of the theatre a small dirty boy was waiting with his broom to sweep a path for the ladies and gentlemen: Harriet was near enough to see mud and filth all over his face and clothes, grey-yellow stuff running from his nose, his eyes flicking anxiously from face to face, ready to dash into the roadway. No sign of course of Lord Ralph Kingdom, let alone the grey eyes of Sir Benjamin, what am I thinking of? She leant against the side of the hansom cab and closed her eyes. Almost at once the whistling driver was beside her.

  ‘You all right, ma’am? Shall I take you now to Bryanston Square?’

  She had no strength left, she felt it draining from her as he began to help her back into the cab.

  ‘I don’t know what to do.’ He heard her, felt her falter on the carriage step.

  ‘Can I help you, ma’am? Anything I can do?’

  ‘I – I think – I am so sorry, I need some water.’

  ‘Here, I’ll take you in the theatre.’

  ‘Into the theatre?’ Harriet’s voice was faint and confused.

  ‘My sister’s the one what makes the tea for the girls and that. Hey!’ and he called one of the skylarking lads, tossed him a coin together with some dire threats about holding the horse and somehow quite gently led Harriet through the stage door and down into the basement. She wasn’t quite sure what happened then, but later she found she was in an old chair with her hat on her lap and holding a mug of tea given to her by a woman who did indeed look like the cab driver. She remembered the pot of tea Seamus had made for her so proudly in the old falling-down barn full of pigs and people, and how she had refused it.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said to the cab driver’s sister. ‘My name is Harriet.’

  ‘I’m Phyllis,’ said the woman, ‘and me brother is Cecil but he’s gone to check his horse. You had a little faint.’

  ‘Did I?’ She looked around, confused, at the armchairs and the fire, not sure why she was here.

  ‘Only a couple of minutes. You ain’t missed much of the world I shouldn’t think, not in a couple of minutes,’ and Phyllis was rewarded by a brief flash of one of Harriet’s rare smiles. ‘There, the tea’s made you much better, sailed all the way from China just to warm your heart on a nasty London day. My girls won’t dance without it.’

  ‘Could I…’ She looked about her, deeply embarrassed. Ladies were never caught like this, it was one of the things she had been taught at the finishing school.

  ‘There, behind the curtain.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The skirts and the petticoats were gathered and held as she crouched down to the bucket.

  Cecil clomped down the stairs again, they knew it was him by the whistling. Harriet was back in the armchair. ‘There you are, ma’am. Right as rain now, I shouldn’t wonder. If you stop long enough you could see Giselle!’

  Then Harriet remembered why she had come to the Haymarket: she got up at once, her hat fell to the floor, she stooped, confused again, to pick it up; how terrible if Lord Kingdom found her here. ‘I am so sorry, I must go, I have many things to do. Thank you so much for your kindness,’ and she had gone up the stairs, Cecil whistling after her.

  ‘Piccadilly,’ she said to him.

  In Piccadilly she bought stout shoes, a warm shawl, underwear and a sunhat, about which the gentleman assisting her made a small joke about hope springing eternal. All the clothes she signed, as she and Mary had always done, to her father, even as he gasped and moaned inside her head.

  ‘Oxford Street,’ she said to Cecil, and she tapped on the roof of the cab as she had seen Mary and her father do, to get him to stop outside Mary’s favourite bookshop, Dawson’s Book Emporium. And Cecil smiled to himself, to see where she had stopped. He was glad she was going there, Symond Dawson would be the man to help her, and he whistled his tuneless song. As Harriet pushed the door she was at once assailed by the smell Mary had so often and so lovingly recalled: the smell of books. All around her, on shelves, in piles, in boxes, on tables, books stood. The bookseller, a man from somewhere in the north of England, came forward at once when he saw her, for all the world as if he had been expecting her.

  ‘Come in, Mary’s sister, I’m right glad to see you. Tha sister was a right bonny lass,’ he said. ‘I shall miss her. I believe she saw life in smiling terms.’

  It was such a strange, and such a loving description of Mary, the first real words that anybody had said to her about her sister, that Harriet lifted her veil at once.

  ‘She did,’ she said. And she repeated his odd words: in smiling terms. He saw, before she was almost aware of them, the tears that suddenly streamed down Harriet’s face.

  ‘Nay, lass, nay,’ he said. And he helped her to a chair in a small room at the back of the shop.

  ‘I cannot—’ the words came out like great, choking cries, ‘I do not know how to live
without her.’ She did not even crumple in the chair, she just stared at the bookseller helplessly as the tears fell down.

  ‘Nay, lass,’ he said again, and she saw that he too was making her tea. ‘Just wait a minute now.’ He walked over to the door of the shop and flipped over a notice that said, in beautiful copperplate handwriting: DAWSON’S BOOK EMPORIUM CLOSED FOR FIVE MINUTES, and pulled down a blind.

  ‘Now,’ he said, as he poured the tea, stirred in sugar. ‘I think tha must weep as often as tha can, to help the pain of it. But after that tha must take her with thee.’

  Harriet was so surprised she actually stopped crying. He handed her the tea.

  Thinking of it long afterwards she never knew if he did know she had planned to go away, or if they were talking at cross-purposes, for all he repeated was, ‘Tha must take her with thee, wherever tha goes. Talk to her if it helps. But most of all, take her smiling terms with thee.’ And after a while he said into the almost companionable silence, ‘And her books of course.’

  Again she looked at him most curiously. ‘I came to ask you if I could sell you her books. I need some money very quickly.’

  She was so grateful for the way he asked no questions. ‘There’s nae money in books. And I think you should keep her books.’ He pronounced them boooks, which seemed to give them even more weight and value. ‘I’ll take them of course if tha must sell them, but – have tha no jewellery? Had Mary no jewellery?’

  She thought quickly. Her father gave her expensive jewellery every year: she knew it was expensive. He often told her so. ‘Yes, I have jewellery. I should have thought of that.’ Of course. She did not need to borrow money. She could sell all her jewellery. Mary had said: if anything happens to me, take all the jewellery. It is in the second drawer. She had forgotten. My brain isn’t working. How could I have forgotten something so important? ‘But – I do not know how to sell it. It has to be at once.’

  She understood he was pondering on this as, observing that her tears had stopped, he went across to raise the blind and flip the notice over again so that it read: WELCOME TO DAWSON’S BOOK EMPORIUM.

  ‘It’s an odd business, selling jewellery. There are right rogues about.’ He picked up a book absent-mindedly. ‘Along Oxford Street, by Bond Street, there’s a man called Sandford. I’ll go and have a word with him this evening. You go tomorrow and tell him I sent thee. And bring me any books tha can do without.’

  The door of the shop opened. Harriet quickly put down her cup, pulled her veil over her face as Mr Dawson went to meet the customer, but little notice was taken of her as she came out into the shop: they were discussing the man Darwin.

  ‘Take her with thee, lass,’ murmured the bookseller nevertheless as she passed.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Dawson,’ said Harriet and through the veil, just for a second, the smile flashed and was gone again.

  It was then that the customer recognised her.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Cooper,’ he said, and his grey eyes observed her gravely.

  She was thrown, felt as if she had conjured him. She was unable to speak, gave him her gloved hand and for just a moment they stood there, among the books.

  ‘I am so very sorry,’ he said. ‘I understand that you loved your sister very much.’

  She bowed her head so that he would not see tears.

  And then Sir Benjamin Kingdom said gently, ‘Is there anything at all that I could do for you?’

  Harriet kept her head bowed. What could she tell him, of her life? She looked up at him and shook her head without speaking. I can sell the jewellery and pay for my passage.

  He spoke again. ‘Will you be – all right?’

  It was the strangest question.

  I can sell the jewellery and pay for my passage. She answered him truthfully. ‘I think – I will be all right,’ she said quietly. Only then did he let go of her hand.

  She looked just once more at his face: she had for a brief moment the most extraordinary feeling, like an odd recognition, something important about him that she could not quite catch. And then it was gone.

  Harriet bowed to the gentlemen and left the bookshop.

  The amiable driver waited still as dusk fell over London and the first lights came on all over the city. Cecil, seeing her, climbed down to light his cab lamp. Harriet watched him for a moment. I can sell my jewellery. I will have money.

  ‘Cecil,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He was pulling at the wick, trimming it with his fingers.

  ‘I need you to help me,’ she said shyly. ‘I will pay you of course.’

  He waited till he had lighted the lamp at last and then turned towards her. ‘On with it, Miss Harriet Cooper,’ he said. ‘I’ll be pleased to be of assistance, payment or no payment,’ and she did not notice that he knew her name.

  Sometime later Cecil drew up, whistling still, at the house in Bryanston Square.

  The front door flew open as the cab stopped outside. Peters and Lucy, both looking deeply relieved after her long absence (yet who could complain of the mistress going off with Lady Kingdom of all people), came quickly down the steps to help her out of the coach, to carry her parcels. (‘A sunbonnet!’ Lucy confided later in the kitchen. ‘Death makes people mad.’)

  ‘Please pay the driver,’ said Harriet and she inclined her head upwards towards Cecil very briefly and then passed into the hall and was overpowered by the smell of meat cooking, and the drains. Behind her Peters was already quizzing the driver about the details of her journey.

  She had her dinner in her room with Quintus. She did not want food, her stomach rebelled against food, her heart beat too fast for food, but she knew she must become very strong very quickly. She cut the beef into very small pieces, tried to chew them without being sick. Lucy watched her and Quintus watched her until Harriet could bear it no longer: she pushed the plate away and Quintus barked joyfully at the remains. She could not bear Lucy to brush her hair but she accepted help undressing and putting on a nightdress and a shawl. Again Lucy saw the thin frame, the useless corset. Harriet sat in a chair beside the small fire in her room. Quintus sat beside her. Her legs were weak with exhaustion but there was much more to do. She tried to make her legs and arms less tense. Then there was a tap at her door.

  Her younger brother Walter stood there looking embarrassed to see his sister in her night attire. He lingered in the doorway even though Lucy held the door open for him. He pulled at his rather wispy moustache. ‘You are better now, Harry, are you?’ He’d called her Harry since she was born, but only when their father was not present of course.

  She thought about what he could possibly mean: you are better now, are you? Remembered just for a moment Benjamin Kingdom’s different question: will you be all right?

  ‘Yes, Walter, thank you.’

  ‘Richard will not be home until late and I am going out,’ he said. ‘Just for dinner, and to visit a few friends quietly.’ Harriet expected he was still going to play cards for money even though he wore a black band on his sleeve. And she wondered what was all the cooking for, when nobody ate it?

  ‘Is there anything…?’ Walter floundered.

  ‘Thank you, Walter. I shall go to bed soon.’

  But he could not quite leave. ‘Peters said you have been out.’

  No doubt Peters had. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  She got up from the chair, moved towards him, Quintus followed joyfully. ‘I went out with Lady Kingdom. I visited some shops in Piccadilly.’

  ‘Ah.’ That was the kind of answer that made him feel secure. Shopping, Lady Kingdom. Good.

  ‘Harry,’ he said in a rush suddenly, and the words tumbled out like a prepared speech, ‘Harry, why not write your journal again, you know, TO THE DEAR READERS OF MY JOURNAL, like you used to. It – it would be good for you. Look, look, I’ve got you a notebook.’ He stood there in the doorway, holding out a book for her. His sister did not answer. ‘Would it be good for you?’ he added uncertainly.
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  ‘I will try, Walter, if you would like me to, when I am feeling – more like writing.’ And she took the notebook from his outstretched hand, turned it over and over, saw its pale cover. ‘Thank you, Walter,’ she said.

  ‘I always liked them, Harry, your journals. I wanted to encourage you. It would be something for you to do.’

  ‘Thank you, Walter. It is very kind of you to think of it.’ And she repeated the word: thank you.

  Another pause. She wondered what he thought about Mary, whether he had wept, although men did not weep.

  ‘Have you had a good day, Walter?’ How odd it was: they both stood there, embarrassed, yet trying. She thought of the easy manner her cousin Edward had with his sisters.

  ‘Yes, yes. Thank you. Well then…’ And he prepared to take his leave.

  ‘Walter.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Thank you for the notebook.’

  ‘I am glad you like it. I am really glad, Harry. I liked your journals.’

  ‘Walter.’

  He turned back yet again. ‘Yes, Harry?’

  ‘Could you – would you be so kind as to inform Peters that – that it is good for me to go and look in the clothes emporiums. That I will be going again tomorrow.’

  ‘Well of course. Yes.’

  She was aware that Lucy was listening but it could not be helped. ‘He seemed to think – that he had some sort of right to keep me here. I think only you or Richard have that right.’

  Walter’s immature face took on immediate understanding. Servants must know their place. He would see to it.

  ‘Of course, Harry. You are quite right. Of course you may go tomorrow. I will tell Peters that I allow it.’

  ‘Thank you, Walter.’

  ‘Goodnight then, Harry.’

  ‘Goodnight, Walter.’ She saw he was relieved to be gone.

  ‘Now, Lucy,’ said Harriet, ‘now I would like to be by myself.’

  ‘There is nothing else, miss?’ Lucy wished she could tell Harriet how glad she was that she hadn’t run away; how much she hated Peters, how he told her she must report everything and how she did not; how he spied on the servants also. But she had to keep this position One word from Peters and she would be gone, she knew that. She wished that she could say that she guessed about Sir Charles. (But of course she would never say that.)