London Lodgings

by Claire Rayner

  But she had to look eventually, and she let her eyes move, painfully and draggingly, till she was staring at the whole scene. Dorcas, lying crossways on the bed with her skirts up around her hips in a ripple of white petticoats, and Frank, his coat and waistcoat on the floor at his feet, kneeling between her parted legs and fiddling with his trouser buttons.

  There was silence and then Dorcas, who had been peering at Tilly between the bars of the foot of the bed with her eyes bright and mocking, said, ‘No need to look like that, Tilly! You’ve lost nothing, take it from me – the man’s too far gone in his cups to be of any use to anyone! This is how they are, Tilly, my little friend. You wore pearls to be wed in, and pearls is tears – which is what comes to all who wed. You might as well be used to it sooner as later.’

  Chapter Two

  BEING MRS FRANCIS QUENTIN was not Tilly discovered, any better than being Miss Matilda Kingsley, though it was sometimes more tedious, if that were possible. In the old days she had at least been able to slip away on her own to hide with a novel and a bag of apples filched from the kitchens to dream the dull hours away and re-emerge composed and better able to deal with Mrs Leander and Dorcas. In the old days when things had gone wrong, Papa had blamed Mamma, shouting at her about domestic disasters and bad dinners, but now he shouted at Tilly, telling her she was a married woman now and must take up her responsibilities. In the old days there had sometimes been outings with other young ladies and visits to other people’s daughters; but now she was Mrs Quentin her calls had to be more formal, and much, much more dull. It was altogether wretched, because of course there was also Frank.

  She did occasionally allow herself to wonder if things would have been different if she hadn’t found him with Dorcas on the afternoon of their wedding day. Would she have enjoyed the excitement of the train journey to Brighton for their honeymoon, happy to be going to her Frank’s arms, instead of spending it in tears, to his embarrassed fury? Would she have shared his bed in their boarding house overlooking the sea with gladness and pleasure instead of lying curled up into as small a ball as she could, terrified of his approach? She still shuddered when the memory of that dreadful week came back to her, as it often did in great waves of unbidden, unwanted images, so vivid that it was like reliving the whole experience. He had been annoyed that first night, she knew, but had tolerated her weeping fearfulness as probably inevitable; she was, after all, a carefully reared young lady, and such persons were expected to find the necessities of the marriage bed distasteful. When, however, her shrinking behaviour continued for the next three nights, despite any amount of cajolery and pleading, his patience had snapped, and he had stamped out of the boarding house in a rage to go to an alehouse in the rougher part of town where he became morose and even more angry on copious draughts of rough brandy.

  That had been the cause of his dreadful behaviour upon his return, she had tried to tell herself ever since. He had insisted on his husbandly rights, hurling himself on to her with the stumbling heaviness of an enamoured bull, forcing her legs apart and his own body into her in a way that had hurt excruciatingly. She had been left bleeding, burning with deep pain yet with her muscles half-numbed, half-leaping with pins and needles, and wept herself to hiccoughing sleep; and he had regarded that as acceptance on her part, and had tried again and again in the succeeding days of their honeymoon, leaving her dull with misery and unable to resist.

  However, it wasn’t just because he had come to her drunk on brandy that she had found those first experiences so dreadful. It was the way, again, that her memory had been triggered. Would it all have been better, she asked herself miserably, if he had been more patient, more loverlike, as he had been in the days of their engagement? Could she have responded more happily if she hadn’t had that vision of Dorcas in her froth of petticoat frills, peering at her between calico-wrapped bed rails, to torment her? Silly questions, all of them, because the truth was as it was; from the start their married life had been a disaster. She hated his touch, hated his brandied breath on her cheeks, hated the taste of his tongue thrust into her mouth, and above all she hated the cruel invasion of her body by his, finding no joy at all, but only pain and shame and blood and disgust in something that had once been so agreeable to imagine and dream over.

  Perhaps if she had tried speak to him of what she had seen in that unused bedroom they might have resolved their differences, but she had not been able to put her hurt into words, and could never say Dorcas’s name to him; and he for his part acted as though nothing untoward had happened. He behaved as though he were the wronged party, deprived of his husbandly rights by a missish wife who should know better, and became permanently changed. The young admirer who had been such a cheerful and attractive fiancé became a morose and sulky husband. The evenings he used to spend laughing and joking with Papa as she and her Mamma sat contentedly watching them had gone for ever. Now Frank sulked in his dressing-room, on the rare occasions, that is, that he was in the house in Brompton Grove. Mostly he went out and that made Papa curse and shout at him, roaring that he saw no reason why the man should treat his house like an hotel; at which Frank would roar back, ‘You know perfectly well I had rather have my own establishment. It’s you who are too mean to pay up as you promised and enable me to take your daughter away from here! It is your own fault if you object to my being here – you know the remedy!’ And out he would go, slamming the door and making Papa even louder and angrier – oh, it was no wonder Mamma never ventured out of her room these days. No wonder that she drank ever more daffy and sometimes sherry wine and became pinker and moister and more glassy-eyed and – well, generally more useless. Tilly had never felt so alone in all her life as she did now she was Mrs Francis Xavier Quentin.

  It was not that she minded Papa’s assumption that she would take over the running of the household now that Mamma was an invalid (which was the polite way everyone spoke of her these days). In fact she would have enjoyed doing so, and often read books on household economy and cookery in order to instruct herself against the day when she would at last be free to run her own home as she would wish. She wanted her own house as much as Frank did, but knew better than to discuss the possibility with either her husband or her father; but she hoped all the same, and planned for it. It would have given her much satisfaction to go to the kitchen and order the dinners, and to check the household books to see that money was being spent economically, but there was no hope that she would ever be able to do that while Mrs Leander held sway.

  It was Mrs Leander who employed the cook and the housemaids, she who gave the orders for dinners and dealt with the tradesmen, she who supervised the cleanliness of the house.

  ‘What else is a housekeeper for?’ she had said firmly on the first and only occasion Tilly tried to involve herself in the running of the house. ‘You go and do your sewing, Madam –’ (and she put an insulting emphasis on the word ‘Madam’ that made Tilly’s cheeks redden)’ – and leave the rest to me.’

  Tilly had tried to explain to Papa that she could not run the house as she wished because of Mrs Leander, but that made him shout again and indeed become quite purple with fury, and she still hadn’t the ability to stand up to him, and doubted she ever would; and so gave up trying. So her days were spent in lonely solitude nodding over the interminable making of lace-trimmed nightgowns and chemises for herself (she already had enough to last her for years) and her evenings in trying not to think about what Frank might be doing.

  For although she found no pleasure in the core of her marriage, she was determined to be happy in every other way if she could. She longed to go about on visits with her handsome young husband and preen under the eyes of the still unmarried girls who were once her friends, and had started out with great hopes of one day being able to do so; but as the weeks pleated into months and Christmas came and went and the year turned into 1856 in a flurry of bitter weather, she was forced to realize that her chances of persuading Frank ever to live the sort of life she wanted wer
e very slender indeed.

  Even when the snow and ice lay thick in the streets of Brompton and veiled the rawness of the many building sites that littered Knightsbridge and the land in between, as London’s suburbs crept ever westwards, Frank went out. He belonged to a club in a small street off Belgrave Square at which he spent much of his time, and Tilly had rapidly learned not to speak of being neglected for its greater attractions. He was very direct with her when she asked him to stay at home in the evenings sometimes to keep her company.

  ‘It’s no use your complaining to me,’ he said, sitting in the small armchair in his dressing-room to which she had followed him when he went up to dress to go out. ‘If there was any pleasure to be found in staying here, you may be assured that stay I would. But I have no wish to sit and watch your Papa get bosky and then go wandering off to the housekeeper’s bed, and –’

  ‘Frank!’ Tilly cried, scandalized, her face scarlet with shame, but he would have none of that.

  ‘Oh, don’t come the milk-and-water missy with me, Madam!’ He bent to pull on his boots, and for a moment she considered kneeling down to help him but then thought better of it. He was much too red-faced and irritable to risk that. ‘Your Papa is a libertine and should be disgusted with himself. He uses that woman shamelessly – do you hear me? Shamelessly. A man may have mistresses and welcome as far as I am concerned –’ He had looked at her sharply for a moment and then let his glance slide away.’ – But he should show some discretion! To use one of his own servants and under his own roof…’ He shook his head in revulsion and got to his feet to start buttoning his shirt and collar before arranging his cravat in careful folds.

  ‘It’s the outside of enough. It disgusts me,’ he went on with a great air of virtue, ‘to have to live in the same house as such a one. Had he kept his word and paid over the sums he promised me on my marriage to you, we’d have a house of our own and you would have less cause to complain.’

  He stopped then and turned and looked down at her as she stood in her usual nervous way just inside the dressing-room door. ‘Oh, Tilly, I am as sorry as I dare say you are that things are not – not all they might be for us.’ He hesitated and waited as though he expected something and she thought briefly of moving forwards and putting her arms about him, and wondered what would happen if she did; but she let her gaze at his face slip away this time, and looked down at her feet instead; and after a moment he went on brusquely, ‘But until we have our own home I see no help for it but to be out and about my own affairs as much as I may be. If you object, then don’t complain to me. Tell your father. Or send him a message via your Mrs Leander.’

  And he shrugged on his coat and pushed out of the room past her and went thumping down the stairs. She stood in the doorway and heard Papa’s voice rumbling as he came out of his study and saw Frank, and heard Frank snap back at him and decided that she would be like Mamma tonight and remain in her room with a megrim. She had no headache yet, but she would be sure to get one if she went downstairs and spent any time with Papa.

  She went to bed at nine o’clock, having by this time a very thorough-going headache indeed, and cried herself to sleep. There didn’t seem anything else she could do.

  By the time the snow and ice at last melted into a muddy spring and the first crocuses were showing in the raw earth that lay around Mr Elgar’s new streets and terraces, it was March, and Tilly had become as accustomed as it was possible to be to life as Mrs Quentin.

  She spent her mornings with her Mamma, who lay most of the time half asleep, or at best muttering to herself. Tilly had long ago given up trying to prevent her from drinking; she became alarmingly distressed if she was forbidden her much-loved daffy and Tilly had not the heart to sit and watch her weep and tear at her hair as she did when it was withheld. All she could do was give her glassfuls with as much water and as little gin as she possibly could, though Henrietta always knew when it had been diluted and fussed dreadfully until her glass had been topped up from the gin bottle. Tilly would then watch her until she fell asleep, which she did fairly soon, to snore stertorously until roused at noon. Then, with gentle insistence, Tilly would make her eat some luncheon, though she rarely took more than a little soup and bread.

  It was pitiful to see her so, but Tilly hardly noticed any more. The once fair and pretty hair had faded to a thin and colourless single layer through which the scalp shone dingily and her skin had taken on the slightly bluish tinge of the habitual gin drinker, but there was no one but Tilly to see it, for no one came near her these days. Austen Kingsley certainly did not, having given up any pretence of being any sort of husband. He spent most of his free time in Mrs Leander’s cosy room below stairs when he was not out and about his own affairs, about which Tilly knew remarkably little, for he was a secretive man and never spoke of his business interests. Mrs Leander didn’t go to Henrietta’s room either, only sending one of the most junior maids to give it a cursory cleaning from time to time, which meant that only Tilly cared at all for Henrietta’s well-being, and she could do little to help her mother apart from allowing her to have her gin.

  She would watch her sleeping and worry about that; should she be stronger with her, tell her she may not have it? Should she fetch the apothecary and see if he could help her to get better? But Tilly shrank from even considering that; Papa had shouted amazingly when she suggested it once before, saying he was not going to be shamed all over the town by gossip about his drunkard wife; that Tilly should be ashamed to suggest such an exposure of her own mother to the calumny and disgust which would surely be theirs if any outsider saw her and discovered how deep her habit ran.

  Tilly had seen at once what he meant, for the apothecary, the only one in Brompton with whom her father had not quarrelled, was famous for being a dreadful gossip. No, it would never do to call in Mr Fildes; so she did nothing. There was nothing she could do. But she felt ashamed of her uselessness.

  The afternoons were not quite so bad; Henrietta was contented enough in the afternoons to sit alone, sleeping lightly from time to time, but mostly with a book on her lap, and Tilly could escape to be alone, which she had actually come to enjoy. It was better to retreat into her daydreams over her sewing than to do anything else, and so she would sit most afternoons until it was time for dinner.

  On the last day of March the weather was seasonably windy and the air had a breath of freshness in it that had warmed Tilly’s feelings a little, and she came back from an afternoon walk with her cheeks tingling and a new sense of hope in her. She did not know why, but it was there, and it felt good. Perhaps it was the way the builders had been so jolly as she had picked her way over the mud-streaked pavements, and had called after her about the good news about the War. Everyone knew that the Crimean adventure was over and done with at last, and the soldiers, such as had survived, could come home again from the horrors of Sebastopol and Balaclava. Perhaps it was that Papa had been unusually quiet this morning at breakfast, and not complained about anything; and even Mrs Leander who had been quiet even when Tilly suggested she send someone up to clean her Mamma’s room thoroughly, for it was showing the signs of winter grime in the thin spring sunshine. Or maybe it was the fact that last night Frank had come to her bed and she had managed to tolerate his attentions without letting him see, as she had so often in the past, how much she disliked them. In fact, she had not disliked them nearly as much as she usually did; it had not hurt and that had helped, and he had not been quite so filled with brandy fumes as he usually was, and that too had been a blessing. Tilly had allowed him to do all he wanted without once crying out, and so she was pleased with herself. All of which added up to a general sense of well-being as agreeable as it was rare.

  She put away her pelisse and bonnet in her room and then looked round her Mamma’s door, as she usually did, to see her sleeping quietly and comfortably and without that deep heavy breathing that was so distressing, and that helped strengthen Tilly’s happy mood and when she went downstairs in search of tea and
some cake, for the wind had sharpened her appetite, she was actually humming under her breath. Life was not so dreadful after all, and soon it would be her birthday and perhaps Frank would take her out for it. It was a possibility and one to look forward to.

  She settled herself in the morning room – she hardly ever used the drawing-room these days, for few people came to call; not surprising as she herself so hated paying formal calls that she never did if she could avoid it, and therefore of course no one called on her – and rang the bell. She would ask little Eliza for tea and settle down to reading a new novel she had borrowed from Mudie’s; that would be a treat on a cheerful day like today.

  The answer to her ring sent all her fragile contentment spinning away in shards. She lifted her head as the door opened and felt her face stiffen with anger and surprise, for it was Dorcas who stood there, looking at her with expressionless eyes.

  Tilly had not seen Dorcas for several weeks. In the early days after her wedding Dorcas had tried to carry on as though nothing had happened, as though she had never been caught in a spare bedroom with her mistress’s bridegroom, but Tilly was having none of that. Frightened of her father and of Mrs Leander she may be, and easily alarmed by Dorcas’s sharp tongue, but she was not going to tolerate any sort of insult from her ever again. To Tilly it was as though Dorcas was invisible; and so it had been all these months. She would pass her in the hall, on the rare occasions she saw her, and ignore her totally. If Dorcas spoke to her, she behaved as though not a sound had entered her ears. It had been a masterly performance and it had worked very well. Long before winter had set in Dorcas had seen that Tilly was not in a forgiving state of mind and had given up. She had disappeared, in fact, from view, and Tilly assumed that she lived the life of a lady of leisure below stairs, with her mother. Certainly she was no longer one of the housemaids. New ones appeared to take over the care of the house and, as far as Tilly was concerned, that had been that regarding Dorcas.