Point of Honour (Sarah Tolerance)

by Madeleine E. Robins

“They might starve instead.”

  “If they have had the enterprise to find a keeper once, I don’t doubt they shall find another,” Mrs. Brereton said. “And here is Cole with our dinner, so neither one of us shall starve tonight.”

  Acknowledging to herself that to debate her aunt on female enterprise was useless, Miss Tolerance turned her attention to the dinner laid before her. As they ate, Mrs. Brereton regaled her niece with bits of gossip which had come to her ears in the last few days, and Miss Tolerance obliged with information her aunt might find useful or entertaining—most particularly with word of the gold-shot silk she had heard of that day.

  “Do you know which warehouse it was to go to?” Mrs. Brereton asked.

  “If you like, I can inquire.”

  Mrs. Brereton nodded. “Chloe has been receiving Sir Randal Pre of late, and frequently. He’s not the most pleasant of her visitors, but it is profitable business, and she deserves a reward. A new dress would do nicely.”

  “What about Sir Randal is so difficult that it calls for shot silk?” Miss Tolerance asked.

  Mrs. Brereton raised one expressive eyebrow. “You know I cannot tell you that, Sarah. I sell discretion—”

  “As much as flesh. So I have heard you say before. I was merely curious as to what makes one man an agreeable patron, and another a problem.”

  “Manners and madness, as much as anything else. Gentlemen who go beyond what is permitted—”

  Now Miss Tolerance raised an eyebrow. “Beyond what is permitted? I thought that anything was permitted, so long as your staff was willing.”

  Mrs. Brereton ignored her niece’s satiric tone. “A gentleman who cannot manage his passions when he is in his cups; a gentleman who not only plays at brutality, but indulges his tastes with someone who is reluctant; a gentleman—well, there are tastes to which we do not cater, as you well know.”

  “Goats, I suppose. Or swans?” Miss Tolerance’s tone was deceptively mild. “And where does Sir Randal Pre fit into this moral continuum?”

  Mrs. Brereton refused to be drawn. “Why, my dear, I’ve already said I will not discuss particulars. Even with you, whom I trust implicitly.”

  Miss Tolerance laughed. “Gods, Aunt, don’t trust me, for heaven’s sake. My livelihood depends too much upon learning things which others would keep hidden.”

  “Just so,” Mrs. Brereton agreed mildly. For a time the two women applied themselves to their dinner, going from pork roasted with apples and prunes to a course of savories, and thence to fruit and tea, which they took at table.

  “So, Sarah, how does your business?” Mrs. Brereton asked at length.

  Miss Tolerance sighed. When her aunt asked this question, it was inevitably followed by a predictable set of further questions. “It does well enough, Aunt Thea. Some pay their bills, some don’t, but on the whole I am able to earn my keep, which is all I require.”

  “Have you no aspirations beyond that?” That was question the first.

  “Not really, Aunt. I am not a burden to anyone, I meet my obligations, I have a new dress”—she smoothed her hand over the rosy sarcenet of her skirt—“and new boots. I save against the day when I cannot play these games any longer. What other aspirations need I have?”

  “But surely you work very hard for very little money?” That was question the second.

  “Hard enough, Aunt. But I enjoy it. I was always happy to poke into corners when I was a child; this work suits me.”

  “It’s dangerous, Sarah. And unfeminine. Why won’t you come to work for me?” That was question the third, and the heart of the matter.

  Miss Tolerance looked bland. “Why, Aunt, have you a commission for me? It would be my pleasure to help you.”

  Mrs. Brereton fixed her niece with the same look which she used to put riotous lordlings in their place. “Don’t willfully misunderstand me. Why won’t you work for me, Sarah? You would earn far more money, make connections that would see you through your life, and at the end I could make you a partner in the business. You’d be a great help to me, you know. The running of this establishment is not a simple matter. You would be far more comfortable—and you could even keep the little guest house for your own, if you like, to safeguard your privacy.”

  Miss Tolerance shook her head. “Aunt, your offer is very kind, but I haven’t the temperament to be a whore.”

  “And what temperament is that?” Mrs. Brereton asked coolly.

  Miss Tolerance smiled. “The temperament to be accommodating—or to feign it. I’m far too prickly. I’ve had but one lover, I’m more widow than courtesan, and I’m eight-and-twenty. Surely that’s too old to appeal to most of your clientele.”

  “Lisette and Marianne are almost thirty. Chloe is six-and-twenty. I still entertain a caller or two. You have looks and you have character—”

  “Character? Is that a trait much admired in a courtesan?”

  Mrs. Brereton frowned. “It is in a good establishment, among a decent clientele. There have been inquiries, you know. Your story is not unknown.”

  Miss Tolerance had been engaged in peeling a pear. She gave the work her whole attention for several minutes, as she attempted to master the feelings which rose in her breast. “I am sure my story is not unknown, ma’am. A young woman of good family does not elope from the schoolroom in the middle of the night—and reappear in London almost a dozen years later—without it causing some gossip. But I took a new name and I’ve done what I could to keep the talk quiet—”

  “Did you think it would soften your father’s heart toward you?”

  “Father’s heart? Good God, no!” Miss Tolerance was startled into a laugh. “I hope I am not so foolish or so sentimental! My father made it plain that any affection he had had for me—not much, I think—was lost forever when I eloped. But I had hoped that my mother would suffer no further hurt than she had already. Aunt, this is ground we have trod before. I wish you will not ask me again. I love you, and admire what you have built here, but I’ve no ambition to be any part of it.”

  Mrs. Brereton sipped her tea with a look of one much resigned, and said no more.

  After a time, Miss Tolerance spoke again. “Aunt, do you know a woman named Deb Cunning?”

  Mrs. Brereton began to gesture in the negative, then stopped. “Deb Cunning? I—no, I do remember something. A very pretty girl from the—the country somewhere, just barely a gentleman’s family. Gently reared, too gently to be really successful, those nagging, shabby-genteel scruples can freeze a whore’s best instincts. But she was pretty, very pretty, which served her well enough for a few years. Is she part of some business of yours?”

  “You know I cannot tell you that. Discretion is part of the service I provide, no less than it is for you. I was hoping you could tell me what became of her, though.”

  “Became of her?” Mrs. Brereton laughed. “Sarah, that sour reformer Colquhoun said there are fifty thousand whores in London. Do you expect me to know them all?”

  “I believe he included in that figure the women who only prostituted themselves casually. The figure for professed courtesans must be rather lower. You remember nothing?”

  “I cannot recall—but when I consider it, that surprises me. I always thought Mrs. Cunning would bring herself, or the people around her, to grief.”

  “Really? The woman you describe? A sweet, pretty innocent?”

  “Sarah, you’re no fool. It cannot have escaped your notice that certain naïfs attract disaster as candles attract moths—by their very naivete. I always took Deb Cunning for one of those. What did become of her? Did she learn common sense?”

  Miss Tolerance smiled. “I was hoping you could tell me, Aunt.”

  “Of course you were,” Mrs. Brereton said tartly. “Let me think. The last I recall—she had lost her protector and taken rooms in some dreary suburb. Leyton, Hornsey, something like that.”

  “Richmond?”

  “Perhaps. No, she did live in Richmond, but that was when she was younger, with a we
ll-set-up protector. After they parted, she was kept by a man who moved her north of the city. I think it was Leyton. She had one or two other lovers after that, I think, but I suspect she fell upon the sort of hard times which force one to juggle three or four lovers just to make ends meet—all the while pretending to each that he is the only. I cannot imagine she came to a good end, but if she died spectacularly, I would surely have heard of it.”

  “So the last you know of her, she was in Leyton.”

  “I think so. It was a long time ago, Sarah—you would still be in the cradle.”

  “In the cradle? Really.” Miss Tolerance offered her aunt a slice of pear. “Well, if I discover what became of Mrs. Cunning and I may do it without breaching my client’s privacy, I will certainly share the story with you.”

  “I can ask no more.” Mrs. Brereton dabbed pear juice carefully from the corner of her mouth.

  “Now, Aunt,” Miss Tolerance said, with the air of someone conferring a special treat, “you must tell me what you think of this by-election. Will Montjoy take the seat, do you think?”

  They began to talk of politics, one of Mrs. Brereton’s passions, until they were interrupted by Mrs. Brereton’s dresser, in haste and much distressed.

  “Madam.” Frost’s voice quavered. “Miss Chloe is having a problem with her gentleman.”

  Mrs. Brereton stood at once. “Something that Keefe cannot handle?” Keefe was the chiefest of Mrs. Brereton’s footmen, a massive Irishman with a sweet smile and three years of pugilistic training under the master boxer Cribb. He had been hired specifically to deal with customers unruly or in their cups.

  “Keefe can’t—madam, Sir Randal’s drawn steel—”

  “Pre. I ought to have known. Has he hurt Chloe?”

  Frost shook her head. “Not yet, ma’am.”

  Miss Tolerance had already risen to her feet. “Which room?”

  “Sarah, you can’t—”

  Miss Tolerance paused at the door. “Don’t be stupid, Aunt. Of course I can.”

  Mrs. Brereton’s voice followed her niece out of the room. “But your dress—”

  Frost ran up the stairs, with Miss Tolerance close behind. There was no question as to which room, since half the staff (and their customers) were clustered around the open door. Marianne, a plump woman in daffodil sprigged-muslin, was silently watching the scene in the boudoir beyond, clutching the arm of her client, an elderly dandy in a coat of blue superfine with buttons the size of saucers. Miss Tolerance noted the smallsword that hung from his left hip, pushed past him with a murmured “Your pardon, sir,” and drew the sword in one smooth motion, her back to the room all the while.

  “I say,” the man protested. He was fat, tightly corseted, and his stays creaked in unison with Marianne’s murmured, “Hush!” Despite his protest, his eyes were all for the scene in the room. “What do you—”

  “Your pardon, sir, but I must try to help my friend,” Miss Tolerance murmured. She took the smallsword in her left hand, hidden in the folds of her dress, and turned to survey Chloe’s dilemma.

  The room itself was quiet—all Miss Tolerance heard were Sir Randal Pre’s labored breathing and Chloe’s quieter, shuddering breath, broken once or twice by a sob. Sir Randal stood over the whore with a smallsword in his hand, the forte pressed to her throat edgewise, as if it were a carving knife. He wore no coat, his waistcoat hung open, and his neckcloth lay crumpled on the floor. Chloe sat pressed against the foot of the bed, straining away from the steel at her throat. Her dress was torn off one shoulder, leaving one breast bared; a trickle of blood from a cut on her neck was staining the lace and muslin of her gown, and Sir Randal’s left hand was tangled up in Chloe’s fair hair, holding her head back, forcing her to look up at him.

  Miss Tolerance strove to recall what she knew of Sir Randal Pre: from the West, country-bred, not above thirty. He looked full of himself and full of wine, a bad combination. Mrs. Brereton had hinted that he was difficult, but not how, so she would have to take action and hope, for Chloe’s sake, that it was right.

  She relaxed her posture slightly, cocking her left hip out; she raised one hand to her bodice and pulled it down so that her breasts were more clearly visible; when she spoke, it was in a soft Somerset burr that turned her esses into zees. “What’z zis, then, loove?” She took two steps into the room—not so close as to move Sir Randal into action, but near enough to make herself a part of his tableau.

  Sir Randal looked up from Chloe, surprised. He was panting hard and, Miss Tolerance noted, he was aroused. “The bitch bit me!” he snarled.

  Miss Tolerance smiled. “Did she, loove? There’s some as likes a bite from time to time—don’t you?” She took another step, raised her right hand to her mouth, and mimed nibbling along the length of the finger. Her smile grew broader. Behind her, she heard her aunt’s murmured warning; she clasped the hidden smallsword more tightly in her left hand.

  For a moment Sir Randal was distracted by Miss Tolerance’s question. The sword in his own hand dropped an inch or two away from Chloe’s neck.

  “Or are you the sort as likes to do the biting?” Miss Tolerance asked. She locked eyes with Sir Randal for a moment and took another step forward. “Reckon a gentleman strong as you’d have to be gentle with a girl like me.” She nipped her lower lip between her teeth for the briefest moment, then released it to smile again. “Happen a gentleman would have to show a girl like me how he likes to be bitten. Then there’d be no need of steel.” She ran her fingers along her throat and downward, and stopped with her hand cupped around her own breast, as if offering it to him. “Happen a gentleman has steel enough of his own, see?”

  Sir Randal loosed his hand from Chloe’s hair, and her head fell back against the footboard of the bed. He still held the sword at Chloe’s throat, his hand wobbling up and down. Drunk as a lord, Miss Tolerance thought disgustedly. Stupid, vain, and drunk. She smiled more broadly. There were now only six or seven paces between them.

  “Old Chloe, there, she needs eddicatin’,” Miss Tolerance went on. She kept her voice low and her tone even. “Happen maybe you and me could teach her something. She’s not a bad sort, old Chloe. So if you show me what you like, see, I can tell her—or show her, if that’s to your liking. If you like to watch.” She closed the distance by another step. Sir Randal dropped the blade from Chloe’s throat and turned more toward Miss Tolerance. Behind him, quietly, Chloe began to edge away.

  “What would we teach her?” Sir Randal asked. His voice was hoarse.

  “Whatever you like, sweet.” Miss Tolerance kept the West Country vowels in her diction. “Whatever you desire.” She hit the last word with clownish emphasis; she was only a pace or two away now.

  Behind him, Chloe moaned softly. Her dress was trapped under Sir Randal’s heel. Distracted, he started to turn back to her, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. Miss Tolerance abandoned subtlety.

  “Never mind her!” she said sharply, closed the distance between them with a step, and reached with her right hand to run her fingers along his neck. Sir Randal’s mouth opened wetly.

  Blessing the man who’d taught her, Miss Tolerance brought the sword in her left hand up between them, knocked his sword from his hand, and circled her blade up to rest against his throat; her right hand was tangled in his hair, holding his head still. “Never mind her,” she said again in her own right voice. “You’ve more than enough trouble with me, haven’t you, sir?”

  Without taking her eyes from Sir Randal’s face, Miss Tolerance called back, “Keefe? Would you take custody of Sir Randal, please? I think he’s ready to leave.”

  The footman was at her side at once, locking Sir Randal’s arms behind his back. Another footman gathered up the man’s coat, neckcloth, and smallsword. Miss Tolerance stepped away and bowed to her opponent.

  “In future, sir, if you have a complaint, I suggest you take it up with the management before trying to resolve it yourself.”

  Pre stared at her in befu
ddled stupefaction. Then the fury he had felt at Chloe was back, redoubled. “Whore!” he roared. “Trollop! Harlot! Damned bitch!”

  Miss Tolerance smiled again. “That last, very probably, sir. For the former, you’ll have to look elsewhere. I doubt you’ll be admitted to Mrs. Brereton’s again. Good night, sir.”

  Keefe wrestled Pre out the door, past the few servants, employees, and patrons still clustered there, and toward the stairs. Mrs. Brereton took charge, dispatching them to their duties or their pleasures, then joined Chloe on the rumpled bed, speaking soothingly and dabbing with gauze at the cut on the side of her neck. The woman wept fiercely for a few moments, then less and less. Mrs. Brereton, still with her arm about Chloe’s shoulders, turned to her niece.

  “I understand the imposture as one of my girls, Sarah. But was it necessary to sound so provincial and underbred? As if I would ever have a woman in my establishment with vowels like those!”

  “I was once told that if you could speak to a man in the same accents he heard from his wet-nurse, it unmanned him, made him more susceptible. A nice trick, don’t you think?”

  “When it works,” Mrs. Brereton said grudgingly.

  “And so it did. I never disdain an advantage, Aunt.”

  “And who was the author of this sage advice?”

  “Charles Connell, Aunt. Reaching from the grave to assist me. Chloe, how are you?” Miss Tolerance turned the topic.

  Chloe had begun to hiccup through her tears. “Better now, thank you. It’s really only a scratch. Thank you, Sarah. I truly thought he was going to kill me.”

  Mrs. Brereton shook her head. “Nonsense. You don’t think I would have permitted that? Still, it was very quick-witted of you, Sarah. I’m glad to see your fencing master taught you something.”

  Chloe nodded. “Yes, yes, thank you, Sarah.”

  Miss Tolerance had opened her mouth to respond to her aunt’s jibe, then shut it again firmly. Peace was worth more than a truth her aunt would not listen to.

  “If you don’t mind, Aunt, I think I’ve had enough excitement for one evening. If you can manage without me,” she said dryly, “I am going home, and to bed. Tomorrow I’m for Leyton and my mystery woman.”