by Jean Plaidy
Jin lifted a lazy eyelid and surveyed James. It was the first time she had glanced in his direction. There was something fiery and passionate about the gipsy, stormy and fascinating. James stared at her; Margery flushed a dirty pink; her jowls quivered. She looked very old, thought Carolan.
Esther said: “I saw her; she was coming down the stairs and the kitchen door was open. I saw her pass along the upper floor. Her dress was shimmering blue. She looked…”
“I know.” said Margery curtly, ‘like one of them angels you’re always praying to!”
Esther blushed and cast down her head.
“Here, Poll, you go and get me that bottle out of me cupboard,” said Margery.
“Go on. Don’t gape. Look sharp.”
“Tell us about her dress,” said Carolan to Esther.
“It was blue, and there was some silver about it, and she had silver slippers. She looked like a fairy … she is so small.”
“A sickly fairy!” said Margery, still angry.
“And next to him at the table was that Miss Charters. A big, bold girl, she is, and looking for a husband, if you’ll be asking me. There she was, right next to him, and you could see how he would have been the one she would have chosen if it wasn’t for the fact that he had a wife already.”
“Perhaps they’ll get rid of her,” said Poll, dribbling in sudden excitement.
“Perhaps …”
She came to the table and laid the bottle of gin beside Margery’s plate.
Margery caught her by her ear.
“Look here, girl! Don’t you run away with the idea that because you commit murders, other people do. Decent folk don’t, I tell you. There’s something bad about people as takes life, and I always have said it.”
Poll’s lips began to quiver. Her mind was unhinged by the murder of her baby. Carolan had seen her in her bed, holding a roll of dirty towelling against her breast, crooning over it. She had seen her in the light of morning, holding the towelling against her, asleep, with a smile of content about her face; she was dreaming of course that it was her baby she held; she could not go to sleep at night until she had assured herself that her baby was not dead and that she held it in her arms. Poor Poll, she talked incessantly of murder; during the day she tried to pretend that it was a natural thing … people did it as easily as they laughed or sang. It was the only way she could console herself.
Carolan had deftly worked a piece of flannel into the shape of a doll. She had sewn buttons on it for eyes, and had drawn on it a nose and mouth with a piece of charcoal. It had been touching to see the way the girl seized it. She took it to bed every night. How cruel of Margery to speak in that way to the girl. But Margery was put out because Jin was still regarding James from under those heavy lids of hers.
Carolan longed for the comparative peace of the bedroom, with Jin lying on her back, her hair a black cloud on her pillow, and Poll cuddling her doll and thinking it was her baby; and Esther, having said her prayers of thanksgiving, lying sleeping in her bed, while Margery and James groaned and giggled, and sighed and chuckled together in Margery’s creaking bed.
Now here in the kitchen the atmosphere had become sultry with the rumble of coming storm. Margery’s big brown eyes, usually soft with reminiscence, were hard in her red face; she kept looking at the whip over the chimney-piece and she lifted her head proudly, flaunting her freedom.
“Here!” she said.
“Let’s have a drop of gin. There’s no kick in this grog. Now gin’s the stuff. Why, back home you can get rolling blind for twopence. Bring up your glasses.”
“Not for me,” said Esther.
“Oh, not for you, eh? Too good, are you! But not too good to thieve from the lady you works for. I’ll have to keep my eye on you, me lady. You takes from one, you takes from the other.”
Carolan said: “Give me your glass, Esther.” She took it, flashed a warning glance at Esther, smiled at Margery.
“There!” said Margery.
“Drink that up, you sly little cat! And don’t think you deceive me for a minute with your praying to God.”
Carolan wanted to comfort Margery, poor Margery to whom youth meant a good deal because love went with it.
Esther took the glass with trembling fingers. Her nerve had been broken in Newgate; temporarily she was lulled into a certain security, but she could be jerked out of it in a second. Here in the Masterman kitchen she could do the work allotted to her, the convict garb did not hurt her because she was meek of heart and she was innocent; she took on a good deal of Carolan’s work, and enjoyed doing it, for she felt she owed to Carolan a debt which she would never, never repay as long as she lived. She said her prayers each night, before she slept the sleep of a quiet conscience. But embedded in her mind was the memory of the agony she had endured in Newgate, when those women surrounded her, stripped her of her clothes, and did to her what she preferred to forget and never could as long as she lived. Sometimes she would awake in the night, screaming, because she had dreamed that that ring of hideously cruel faces was closing in on her. Then Carolan, strangely gentle, unlike herself, would lean over to her bed, take her hand, waken her.
“It’s all right, Esther. It’s all right. You’re not there now. You’re here … It’s all right here, Esther.” What she owed Carolan she could never repay, and what joy it was to do the hardest tasks for her! In it was the glory of the hair-shirt, of the stony pilgrimage, of hardship and suffering. And now, with Margery’s hard eyes on her, saying “Drink that up!” she caught again that spirit of Newgate, the tyranny of the strong over the weak, the hatred of the impious for the pious. And Carolan, her protector, was urging her with her eyes to sip, to feign to drink. Carolan, her eyes alert, Carolan grown wiser, sensing danger.
“You too, me love!” Margery’s eyes caressed the face of the girl beside her. It was pleasant to turn back to memory. Might be me own young daughter, thought Margery. Like her to be! We’d get on. Only, if she was my daughter I wouldn’t have had her so haughty. Fun it would have been to listen to a daughter’s romances, rather than suffer the uncertain glory of romancing oneself.
“Fill up,” said Carolan.
“Come, Jin! Come on. Poll! Come on, James,” cried Margery. The bottle was empty before she had done. She lay lolling back in her chair.
Carolan twirled the gin in her glass. The effect of it was strange. It made her want to cry, cry for Haredon and its comforts, cry for Everard. For Marcus? She was not sure which. The lamp flickered up suddenly. The oil was running low. Jin folded her hands on the table and glanced at James; James fidgeted and started to talk to Margery, who laughed heartily over nothing and pathetically tried to reassure herself that that slut, Jin, wasn’t there. Poll was crying softly for her baby. Esther had drunk too much gin; it gave her a look of fever; Carolan thought her very beautiful tonight.
Margery said suddenly: “Shut up, snivelling. Poll! Why, what Mr. Masterman would say if he was to come down here I couldn’t think. And what of her bath? Good gracious me, look at the time. She’ll retire at eleven, if the others don’t. Doctor Martin’s orders if you please. And a hot bath she wants, before getting to bed. It’s a wonder to me she don’t catch her death. Jin! What are you thinking of? Get up, you lazy slut! Get her cans of hot water. There’ll be trouble in a minute. Why, it only wants five minutes to eleven!”
Jin drained her glass. From under her sullen brows she watched Margery. She was a little afraid of her. Jin’s stay in prison and again on board the prison ship had taught her the folly of flouting authority. Margery had not used the whip yet, but she might for some offences. Jin did not like the thought of the whip. She had often shuddered at the sight of the triangle in the yard. She had seen one of the men convicts whipped; she had run away, but she had heard the sound of the whip swishing through the air, and the sickening thud of its fall; she had heard the agonized screaming of male voices. No, no. There was not one of them in the basement kitchen who would dare to flout authority completely.
Jin stood up. She clutched the table. She swayed. Margery was beside her, gripping her shoulders, breathing gin fumes over her dark face.
“Ye’re drunk, me lady! Drunk!” She caught the girl’s ear and pinched it hard. She laughed almost with relief. If Jin was drunk, that would account for her boldness. Drink and love! she reasoned. If you were under the influence of either you couldn’t be taken too much to task for what you did. She pushed Jin back into her chair.
Carolan said: “Shall I take up the cans of hot water?”
Margery nodded, and fell into the chair next to James.
“Let me do it,” said Esther.
“They are heavy, Carolan. And you know how you hate carrying things!”
“No!” said Carolan.
“You have had too much gin. I can see you have, Esther, so it is no use saying you have not!”
“Ha ha!” cried Margery.
“These praying people! Just show them a gin bottle, and they are as bad as the rest. Look sharp with the cans, me Jove. I don’t want complaints.”
A queer excitement filled Carolan. She had seized on the opportunity of getting upstairs. She wanted to be caught up in the excitement of the party. She longed to go to a party, to wear a beautiful dress. But first of all it would be necessary to have a bath. She grimaced at her hands; they were grimy and beneath the nails were black rims that it was impossible to eliminate.
She filled the cans. Esther came to her.
“Are you sure, Carolan?”
“Oh, go to bed, Esther! I am absolutely sure.”
When she carried the cans through the kitchen, Jin and Esther and Poll had already gone into the bedroom. Cautiously, for the cans were heavy, Carolan mounted the back staircase.
On the first floor of the house was the suite occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Masterman. She had seen it once when she went to help Jin clean up. This was the first time she had been allowed to roam about the house by herself, for newly acquired convicts were rarely allowed upstairs alone. It was the unwritten law of the establishment, and was a sensible enough rule, she had to remind herself. A Sydney servant would very likely be a desperate creature. She smiled, thinking of Mr. Masterman. She supposed he had a dossier of them all. They would all be neatly labelled; for example, “Carolan Haredon, thief.
Outside the suite of rooms she paused. Mrs. Masterman’s room was at the end of the corridor, and between it and Mr. Masterman’s there was a smaller room where they made their toilets. The house had been planned with care. There were doors connecting the two larger rooms with the toilet-room, and that itself had yet another, opening on to the corridor. Mr. Masterman had planned the house, Margery said. One had to admire his methods.
Carolan set down the cans outside the door of this toilet-room, and knocked. There was no answer, so she went in. It was a fairly large room, for all the rooms in the house were large. There was a hip-bath in the corner, and a long mirror. There were several cupboards. On a table near the mirror were cosmetics and bottles of perfume. It was pleasant merely to be in such a place.
But she must not stand about, letting the water get cold, or she would not be allowed to come up here again. She went across to Mrs. Masterman’s door, and knocked.
She heard a sigh, then a very weary voice said: “Come in.”
Mrs. Masterman was in bed. The blue frock lay on the floor, and beside it the silver slippers. Mrs. Masterman’s thin fair hair was spread out on the pillows. She looked very tired.
She said, without turning her head: “Oh, is it my bath? I’m too tired now …”
“I will take the water away,” said Carolan.
The sound of her voice, cultured, unlike the husky tones of Jin, made Mrs. Masterman turn her head slowly.
“Oh…” she said.
“Oh…” And then: Take my frock and put it away, will you? It goes in the cupboard in the toilet room’ Weary eyes watched the yellow-clad figure walk across the room and stoop to pick up the dress.
“Have I seen you before?” asked Mrs. Masterman.
“I do not know,” said Carolan.
“I have seen you.”
It was not like a conversation between mistress and convict servant. It was like one lady paying a call on another.
“I think I should have remembered if I had,” said Mrs. Masterman.
“Give me one of those pills on the table, will you? A glass of water is what I have with the pill.”
Carolan was aware of Lucille Masterman’s very white hands lying on the counterpane.
Thank you. I have very bad health.”
“I am sorry,” said Carolan.
“Sometimes I scarcely sleep a wink all night.”
That must be very unpleasant.”
“It is. Thank you. Doctor Martin says these pills are wonderful.”
“I trust you find them effective?”
“I do. Although of course one gets accustomed to taking anything. Good night. Hang the dress up in the cupboard, please.”
“I will,” said Carolan.
“Good night.”
Lucille called her back when she reached the door.
“Lock it, please. And when you have locked it, will you push the key under the door?”
“Yes,” said Carolan, and went out and did so. It was rather an extraordinary experience. She felt intoxicated with success. It was the gin perhaps: it was such heady stuff. It made her excited because for the first time since she had been thrust into Newgate someone had treated her as she used to be treated in the Haredon days; and this the mistress of the house!
She opened a cupboard door. It was filled with dresses. Velvets and brocades, soft wools and silks. She rubbed her hands over some of them, and shuddered at the rasping sound they made as they caught in her rough skin. It was like a protest.
She held the blue and silver dress against her, and looked at herself in the long mirror. Carolan Haredon of Haredon! All that suffering, all that misery, had scarcely changed her at all. To wear that dress … only for an instant! To recapture the joy of going to one’s first ball!
Colour burned in her face. She tiptoed over to the door of Mr. Masterman’s room. Very cautiously she tried it. It was locked. This was safe. Mrs. Masterman was in bed. Mr. Masterman was still with some of his guests. It would only take ten minutes. Ten minutes of joy, and no fear of discovery… or very little, and she was reckless … reckless for the feel of warm water on her body and the caress of silk against her skin. She went to the hip-bath; she would be quick. She slipped off her clothes. She turned to the mirror so that she could see herself, tall and shapely, youthful, graceful. What joy it was to be free of the convict garb!
She scrubbed herself gleefully. She kept her eyes on the two doors. She could not help it, but the fear of discovery gave her an added sense of excitement.
When she stood before the mirror, clean, she felt she had washed off all the grime of Newgate and the prison ship. Perhaps some other time, when the coast was clear, she would bring the cans of water for Mrs. Masterman and use them herself.
Now just a glimpse of herself in the blue frock, and then back to the yellow.
She took it up; she slipped it over her head. She had forgotten that Mrs. Masterman was a smaller woman than she was. She struggled, and as she stood there, the frock over her head, she heard a footstep quite close. She was not sure which room it came from, Mr. Masterman’s or his wife’s. Panic seized her, she struggled. She must get into her yellow frock quickly; she was sobered suddenly; she realized what discovery would mean. Punishment… and what was punishment for a convict servant? The whip? She began to shiver, and as she stood there, with the dress half over her head, the door opened. Frantically she pulled at the dress; it fell about her bare feet, and through the mirror, for she dared not face him, she saw Mr. Masterman standing in the doorway of his room. He stood very still, like a great idol carved out of stone, awful, terrible.
He said: “What is this?” And his voice was harsh. It had a trace
of the London streets in it; a hint of studied culture.
She had no words; she was dumb with terror. She could only think of the sound the whip made as it descended through the air.
“Who are you?” he demanded, and took a step towards her.
“I
don’t recognize you.”
Still she could not speak. Her mouth was dry, her throat parched.
She noted clearly the fairness of the hair about his face; the pale skin beneath it; the eyes that were grey-green like the sea on dreary days. Now those cold eyes had seen the garments lying by the hip-bath, had taken in the significance of it all.
“You’re from the kitchen,” he said.
“Yes.” Now her voice had come back she felt better. To hear it gave her courage; she felt herself once more. If she were going to be punished, she would accept punishment, and she would not let him see how frightened she was.
“And why did you do this?” he asked.
She answered simply: “She did not want her bath. I did. She told me to put that dress away; I wanted to see myself in it, so I … put it on.”
“You are a pert young woman,” he said.
“And very disrespectful.”
“You asked me,” she flashed, ‘and I answered.”
His eyes went over her, slowly, from her flushed face and tousled hair to her bare feet. It was the coldness of him that exasperated her, that aroused her fury; and when that was aroused, she could never give a thought to the consequences. A lump was in her throat; she was choking with anger and self-pity.
“I suppose you will have me whipped for this,” she said.
“I don’t care!”
“Oh? You do not mind the lash? You have experienced it? No? Is it not rather rash then to speak so lightly of it? Perhaps when you know something of it you will not be so contemptuous!”
“It is well for you to be so calm. You have not been dragged away from your home. You have not seen your father murdered, nor your mother die of neglect and cruelty. You have not lain in stinking Newgate and nearly died on a foul prison ship! You have not been taken into … into someone’s house as a slave…”