The Sleeping Partner

by Madeleine E. Robins

  When the carriage arrived in Pitfield Street Miss Tolerance stepped down, ready to take her inquiry where she could. It was a sullen, dreary neighborhood; to her left a crowd of grimy, tired men waited on the step of a gin-shop; there was not enough room for them all inside. Before her she saw a second-hand clothes shop and a pie cook and a cobbler. Most of the other buildings were blank-faced tenements. A ruddy, elderly woman in several layers of ragged clothing scurried by. From the corner of her eye Miss Tolerance saw a movement; almost without thought she seized the gnarled paw which had fastened itself around her reticule.

  “Let go,” Miss Tolerance said firmly.

  The old woman’s eyes rolled, showing a dramatic amount of white. Her face was weathered, the nose heavily veined. “What, miss? Don’ ‘urt me, miss, leggo, do!”

  “Certainly, as soon as you let go of my bag.” Miss Tolerance tightened her grip on the crone’s wrist.

  “I dunno whotcher talkin’ about,” the old woman whined. “You come up and grab me on the street, an—” she tugged again on Miss Tolerance’s reticule. Her brazenness was impressive. “Leggo! I wan’t doing noffin!”

  A small crowd was gathering. Miss Tolerance took a step away from the old woman, holding her wrist at arm’s length so that the woman’s grasp on the small reticule, hanging from its sash at Miss Tolerance’s waist, was revealed to the crowd.

  “Giver up, ‘Ettie,” a man in a butcher’s apron said. “The mort ain’t stupid.” He turned back toward the gin shop. The crowd dispersed, until only a pair of crossing-sweeps were left. With an expression of disgust the old woman released the reticule and pulled her hand out of Miss Tolerance’s grasp. She stood for a moment, rubbing her wrist and glaring.

  “If you would like to earn some money honestly, tell me where the alms house is.” Miss Tolerance was mild.

  “‘Ow much money?”

  “As much as the question is worth. Or I could ask one of these gentlemen—” Miss Tolerance waved her hand at the sweeps who were watching impassively.

  “Dahn the street, cross at corner, that big red ‘ouse.” The old woman pointed one impossibly crooked finger at the alms house; her other hand, palm up, she extended under Miss Tolerance’s nose. Her odor was not pleasant. Miss Tolerance put two coppers in the hand; the old woman scuttled off with her prize while the sweeps looked on.

  “Good as a pantomime, ‘Ettie is,” one boy said to his mate.

  “Or a ‘anging,” his friend agreed. The boys walked away, and Miss Tolerance followed Hettie’s direction to the brick house on the far corner of the street. It was a cheerless structure, one meant to have a shop on the ground floor and rooms above. A window intended to display the shop’s wares had been papered over to provide some privacy within; the only other sign of the place’s mission was a small wooden plaque on which was written: Squale House for the Relief of the Poor. Who was Squale? Miss Tolerance wondered. She knocked upon the door and waited.

  When after several minutes no one had answered, Miss Tolerance tried the door, which opened to her touch. She stepped into a hallway with a series of doors on either side. Candles burned in sconces along the length; generations-worth of greasy soot stained the walls above them. A little girl of perhaps ten years skipped up to Miss Tolerance and examined her frankly.

  “You ain’t come for bread, ‘ave you? You don’t look like you come for bread.”

  Miss Tolerance agreed that she had not.

  “You come for work?” The girl looked doubtful.

  Miss Tolerance smiled. “Is this your job? To interview visitors?”

  “I ‘elp Mr. Thorpe and Mr. Parkin,” the child said proudly. Her dress, while old and twice turned, was clean and neatly mended, and her face had been washed within recent memory. “I’m their ‘ssistant, Mr. Thorpe says so.” Mr. Thorpe was clearly a favorite.

  “And you are surely a good one. I have come to speak to Mr. Thorpe, in fact.”

  The child looked distressed. “Oh, no, miss. You can’t. ‘E ain’t awailable.”

  “Gone home, has he?”

  “No, miss. ‘E’s up t’stairs ‘elpin’ Matron pick nits.”

  “Oh.” Miss Tolerance tried to imagine a son of Lord Lyne delousing the poor. “Do you think when he is done you might ask if he will speak to me? I am Miss Tolerance.”

  The child giggled. “I’ll tell ‘im.” She dashed up the hall; the soles of her boots, displayed as she ran, were more hole than leather.

  A few minutes later the girl appeared at the top of the stairs, pointed at Miss Tolerance, and skipped away again. A young man started down the stairs toward Miss Tolerance. He wore a leather apron over waistcoat and shirtsleeves, and carried a toddler in a grubby shift. His likeness to Evadne Thorpe was in his rounded chin and eyes, although his hair was not golden but a sober brown, and his complexion was pale rather than rosy. As they reached the ground floor the toddler in his arms reached up to grab his nose, so that his words were much compressed.

  “How may I help you?”

  “Mr. John Thorpe?” He nodded. “May I have a few minutes of speech with you, sir? ‘Tis regarding Miss Nottingale.”

  Thorpe absently pulled the child’s hand from his nose. “Miss Nottingale? My sister’s governess?”

  “Yes, sir. I need to find her. Lady Brereton suggested you would know where she would be.”

  “Would I? Excuse my manners, Miss Tolerance; please come.” Thorpe turned, shifted the child to his other arm, and led the way down the hall. There was a murmur of voices from rooms on either side of the hallway; from one Miss Tolerance heard a woman’s voice reciting the alphabet and a man’s voice offering correction. Mr. Thorpe entered a large, whitewashed room that held several tables flanked by benches. He put the child on a table and casually kept a hand upon her to keep her from escaping. “May I ask what need you and my sister have of Miss Nottingale? Stay here, Lucy, your mother will be down in a moment,” he added to the toddler.

  “Mam! Wan Mam!” The child began to whimper. Unflustered, Thorpe took out his pocket watch and held it before her until she left off crying with a hiccup and reached for the watch.

  “You have much to do. I shall not keep you long, sir. Lady Brereton has retained me to find your sister—”

  “To find Evadne? Do you think there is a chance of it?”

  Miss Tolerance did not intend to explain herself to yet another member of this family. “‘I hope there is, sir. Lady Brereton thought you might know Miss Nottingale’s family—a brother in eastern London?”

  “He is the vicar of Saint Hester’s in Bethnal Green.” Thorpe said. “But Miss Nottingale had nothing to do with—”

  “Of course not. But she might know, without being aware of it, some clue which will help me find Miss Thorpe. Did you ever hear your sister speak of a young man, sir?”

  The child Lucy stood on the table and grabbed a handful of Mr. Thorpe’s neckcloth, crushing the plain-tied knot and leaving a smudge on the cambric. Frowning, Thorpe pushed the child’s hand away.

  “Stop, Lucy. I beg your pardon, Miss Tolerance.” He turned away and called out the open door. “Matron? Is Mrs. Petty done yet?”

  Another man appeared in the door. He was considerably older than Thorpe, but had a youthful aspect with a high, intelligent brow, a sparse combing of brown hair, a long nose and a small, well-shaped mouth. “Matron sent me to tell you she is finished combing out Mrs. Petty’s hair and is rinsing it. And to fetch this lady away—” the man reached for the toddler. “Come along, Lucy. You will like to see your mother, eh?”

  “Thank you, Godwin. Tell Matron to give them something to eat, will you?” Thorpe turned back to his visitor. “I beg your pardon. May I ask a question? Does my father know of this?” He scratched his head, then dropped his hand as if he had been burnt. “Dear me. Lucy’s mother—drunk and lousy. It has been an exciting afternoon.”

  Miss Tolerance was not certain whether to laugh or commiserate. “Your father knows that I am working for Lady Brer
eton. I cannot tell you that he approves.”

  Mr. Thorpe looked unhappy. “He and my sister had quarreled; I hope he has regretted his temper. You asked if Evie had an attachment to any young man? None that she ever told me of. My sister was—is—not lightminded. I do not mean she is above fun, but I should have said she was…virtuous. That sounds priggish, I suppose. I sound like a prelate when I should sound like a brother. But to run away, even if our father had been unkind to her, does not seem at all her sort of behavior. What will our father do if you find her?”

  “He has not offered to do anything. Depending upon her circumstances and the circumstance of the man who—Lady Brereton and her husband have promised to make provision for her.” It felt curious to Miss Tolerance to speak of her brother so, to imagine him giving aid to some other Fallen girl.

  Thorpe nodded as if to himself. “That is for the best. I wish I could give you more help, Miss Tolerance. My sister never spoke of any man to me.”

  “And you never saw any callers?”

  Mr. Thorpe shook his head. “Since I left the Navy I am barely suffered to visit in my father’s house; he hoped I would be another Nelson and I disappointed him. Bad enough that I wished to take orders, but I made matters worse by joining a Dissenting church.” He smiled sadly. “I was not in a position to see if anyone was dangling after Evie. But that is not what you came to learn.”

  “I think you have told me what I needed, Mr. Thorpe. Saint Hester’s in Bethnal Green.”

  “Yes. Nottingale is a good fellow, and kindly does not disapprove of me too much. If Miss Nottingale is not with him he will certainly know—” Thorpe was interrupted by a sudden scream of Cockney outrage from the floor above them.

  “You are busy, sir,” Miss Tolerance said. “I shall let you return to your work.”

  “And I you, Miss Tolerance.” Thorpe bowed. “I shall pray for your success. And if you find my sister, tell her she may always come to me.”

  Miss Tolerance curtsied. “I will, Mr. Thorpe. Good bye.”

  The street outside Squale House was odorous and cold; the sun had dropped below the houses, dusk was drawing in, and the men outside the gin shop were beginning to be merry and racketing. Miss Tolerance had to walk a good way along Old Street, conscious all the time of her vulnerability, alone, unarmed, in women’s dress. At last she found a hackney carriage and directed it to Manchester Square. When the carriage arrived there she descended, paid the driver, and unlocked the ivied gate into Mrs. Brereton’s garden. A bowl of soup, she thought, and some bread. And then the chance to make some notes.

  Marianne Touchwell was standing at her door.

  “To what do I owe the honor? Have you no assignations this evening?” Miss Tolerance asked.

  “I have, and so have you, if you’ve forgotten.” Mrs. Touchwell wore the preferred working dress of Mrs. Brereton’s whores, a simple gown of pale muslin. She had come out without a shawl, and had her arms crossed against the chill. “You are supposed to dine with your aunt tonight. I do not suppose you will ever hear the end of it unless you do so.”

  “Good lord, you’re right. But my dear Marianne, how long have you been waiting here?”

  “Only a moment or so; Keefe said he’d heard a carriage stop in the lane, and I hurried over, hoping it was you.”

  Miss Tolerance had a sense of crisis narrowly averted. “If you will tell my aunt I expect to be with her in a quarter hour? I must change, and—”

  “You are not late yet. Let me come do your hair while you dress. I wanted a word.”

  Miss Tolerance unlocked the door to her cottage and the two women went inside. What followed was a sort of contained whirlwind: Marianne stirred up the fire and put the kettle on for wash water while Miss Tolerance shed her walking dress and took out her dress and slippers for the evening. She washed quickly, grateful for the comfort of warm water, dressed, then sat as Marianne brushed her heavy dark hair.

  “What did you wish to talk with me about?”

  Marianne parted the hair over Miss Tolerance’s ear and brushed the front down over her eyes. “Your aunt, of course.”

  Miss Tolerance, hidden behind a veil of hair, felt uneasy. “Is something amiss?”

  “You know nothing been quite right with her since she was ill last winter.”

  “She has been more irritable—”

  “And mistrustful. Perhaps that’s because she’s not used to sharing authority in the house; perhaps ‘tis my fault in some way.” Marianne teased a knot from a lock of hair. “There’s none but you and I—and Frost—that would notice the change. At least until this last month or so, and Mr. Gerard Tickenor.”

  “Mr. Tickenor?” Miss Tolerance recalled. “She introduced me to him the other evening. Are you saying he has become close enough to my aunt to notice a change in her?”

  “No, no, you misunderstand. I mean that in the last month he’s suddenly had the run of the house. It’s not like Mrs. B. to have favorites.”

  Miss Tolerance considered. “He was one of her earliest protectors. He loaned her a good deal of money to start this house—”

  “So he did. And she repaid it. He’s come now and then over the years, at least as long as I’ve been with your aunt. But in the last month he has been here more nights than not. Your aunt don’t generally receive that often—”

  “And only among a chosen few, I know. Clearly Mr. Tickenor is one of those.”

  “Yes, but—Sarah, there’s something odd afoot. I heard her telling him—you know how close she holds information, it took her falling sick for her to trust me to order the candles and vinegar—”

  “What was my aunt telling Mr. Tickenor?”

  Marianne gathered Miss Tolerance’s back hair high on her crown, twisted it into a long coil, and secured it with pins. “She was telling him what the house makes on a fair night, against the costs of the business. She said he could look at her ledgers if he did not believe her.”

  “Look in her ledgers?” Miss Tolerance parted the hair over her face to regard her friend. Mrs. Brereton kept her ledgers as close as another woman might have kept her virgin daughters. Only in the last year, and after considerable urging by Miss Tolerance, had Marianne been permitted to view them—”and you’d have thought she was admitting me to the Queen’s jewelry cupboard!” she had observed at the time.

  “Could it be that she and Mr. Tickenor propose to do some sort of business together?”

  “It could.” Marianne parted the front hair into half a dozen locks and began to twist them away from Miss Tolerance’s face. She secured each with a pin. “But what would that business be? And there is the matter of how she behaves with the man—have you seen her with him?”

  “She seemed fond of him. I assumed it was because they were old friends.”

  “They are. But you know Mrs. B’s never been the sort to drape herself about a man, even in the way of business. Even with history between them. This is more, Sarah. I don’t know what to make of it. Now—” she twisted the last lock of hair and fixed it in place, then stepped around to view the effect from the front. “This is Mrs. B’s s house. She’s never made no representations to me that I’d have any part of it—at any time. I don’t say any of this to protect a stake of my own, for I haven’t one. But if I, or the other whores here, must be on the lookout for new employ—”

  Miss Tolerance stared at her friend. “You think my aunt means to close the house?”

  “Or sell it to Tickenor.” Marianne nodded. She leaned forward, adjusted the placement of a pin and nodded in satisfaction. “Or give it to him. I don’t know, Sarah. And it is not for me to ask.”

  “No.” Miss Tolerance sighed. “It appears it is for me to ask. Aunt Thea has always wanted me to succeed her here, despite my dislike of the idea. I had as well tell you I expect her to laugh at the notion of her giving up the house.”

  “We just need to know what’s what. Thank you, Sarah.”

  Miss Tolerance looked in the mirror. “At least you have
rendered me presentable. ‘Tis always easier to speak to my aunt when she approves of my dress.” She locked her cottage and followed Marianne back to the brothel. Mrs. Touchwell left her for the salon, where she expected to find a patron waiting. Miss Tolerance went upstairs.

  “Aunt Thea?”

  Mrs. Brereton was seated at her writing table with stationery spread before her. She looked up and smiled at her niece. “You look very handsome tonight. Have I seen that dress before?”

  “Many times, Aunt. Perhaps it is the shawl that is new to you?” Miss Tolerance extended an arm draped with fine merino dyed a warm, dark green. Mrs. Brereton examined the fabric closely.

  “Very handsome. You should wear green more often, Sarah. And it is not even eight yet! I have lost my wager.”

  “Wager, ma’am?”

  “I thought you would forget our engagement for dinner.”

  Miss Tolerance decided not to gratify her aunt with the intelligence that she had had to be reminded of the appointment. She took a seat by her aunt’s table. “Am I so unreliable?”

  “Oh, I suppose not, child. Now, let me put my letters away.” Mrs. Brereton gathered the papers into a neat stack, but not before her niece caught sight of one which opened with the salutation My dearest Gerard. Mr. Tickenor’s name. Marianne’s fears seemed suddenly more reasonable.

  Mrs. Brereton sent to tell Cook that she was ready to dine.

  “Sit down and tell me what you are working at now, Sarah.”

  Miss Tolerance smiled. “You know I cannot do that, aunt.”

  “I do not mean tell me details. Tell me in the vaguest possible way. Entertain me. Are you still seeking your runaway?”

  “I am. The matter would be rendered much easier if anyone could tell me the name of the man she eloped with. In my experience it is far easier to find a man than a woman in this city; men rarely scruple to hide their tracks, nor do they change their habits. A man who bought his snuff at Freybourg and Treyer is likely to continue to do so, and may be seen there and followed. A young lady has fewer habits—”