‘You seek an audience?’
With the lightest of gestures she beckons Rockingham over, and he hovers just within the window frame to spy upon her unprepossessing suitor, who now nods vigorously. ‘Yes,’ Mr Hancock calls. ‘That is it. Exactly so. You have hit upon it.’
She twists a strand of hair sorrowfully about her finger, catching Georgie’s smirking eye before continuing, ‘Oh, sir. My prices have risen since I was offered to you for nothing.’
‘What do you ask? I mean only to – only to sit with you.’
‘Are you a rich man, sir?’
Below, he twists the brim of his hat in his hands, and looks bashfully about himself. There are a great many people watching with interest. ‘I presume to say – why, yes – yes, I believe I am.’
‘So money is no object to you? Well, it don’t signify, for money is not what I want.’ She taps her index finger against her bottom lip. ‘Let me see. I want … your mermaid.’ Taking mastery over her amusement, she leans an inch further out from the window. ‘Give me your mermaid and I’ll give you an hour.’
Even from such a distance she sees his face drop.
‘What?’ she asks. ‘You do not think me worth the price?’
Mr Hancock frets below. ‘A sorry specimen of a man,’ whispers the lieutenant, whose fears are now by some measure allayed. ‘Surely you would not let him touch you.’
‘Shh!’ Angelica twitches. To her erstwhile suitor she calls again, ‘Well?’
‘The truth is, madam, I have sold it.’
‘Sold it! Well, that is a tragedy! For, you see, mermaids are my sole currency at this moment, the economy being what it is.’
‘I could offer you a great many other things,’ he blunders. ‘I am perfectly a match for any body else who calls on you.’ At this George snorts, but Mr Hancock, unknowing, adds, ‘I am speculating.’ He puffs up; the vision of his building project shimmers before his eyes.
‘Only a mermaid will do,’ says Angelica, and he regards her with redoubled hesitancy.
‘I think you are playing with me.’
‘Not at all! Ask any body. I am hard to come by.’
She rocks forward, her pale shoulders emerging from the shawl, her hair spilling over the windowsill. They regard one another for some long time.
‘Very well,’ he says. ‘You must excuse me. I have an important errand to run.’ He puts his hat on and hurries away through the crowd, something he seems to be physically unused to, for he moves at a sort of duckling scoot. Angelica is seized by laughter.
‘There!’ she cries, turning back into the room. ‘Does that satisfy you both? I have accepted the overtures of another man –’ she nods at Mrs Frost – ‘but the terms –’ winking at Rockingham – ‘are impossible. So, there you have it! Bring me my wrap, Eliza, I am icing over.’
‘You should not treat him so,’ says Mrs Frost. ‘He is a decent man.’
‘That’s as may be,’ says Angelica, threading her arms into the sleeves held out for her, ‘but I have no use for him. Georgie wishes to become my sole protector, is that not wonderful?’
‘Really?’ Mrs Frost turns to the lieutenant. ‘What are the terms of your agreement?’
‘I have not thought yet,’ he says.
‘Well, you ought to. We can have the lawyer come this very afternoon to draft a contract.’
‘… lawyer?’ he echoes stupidly. ‘I had not … you see, I never did … is it necessary?’
‘Christ, no!’ laughs Angelica. ‘Eliza is taking everything too seriously; that is what she does, you know. I do not need any formal agreement; I know you will take care of me.’ She comes to nestle again beneath his arm.
‘He is either settling money on you or he is not,’ says Mrs Frost. To the lieutenant she says, ‘She will need an annuity; two hundred a year would be a tolerable start – but only a start – and she will want a dressing allowance additional to that sum. You cannot expect her to remain exclusive to you for anything less.’
The young man is beginning to look rather pop-eyed; he seizes Angelica’s hand and clings to it more in terror than affection.
‘Eliza, you are making me out a mercenary!’ says Angelica. ‘I trust him. We love one another. Can he not simply pay for what we need?’
‘Certainly not,’ says Mrs Frost. ‘I am not creeping for his approval every time we want lace for our caps. He has not the first idea how a household is run; why involve him in such female things?’
‘I am still here in the room, you know,’ says the lieutenant. ‘If I had thought this would be so troublesome I would not have suggested it. Here –’ he digs in his pocket – ‘take this for your housekeeping.’ He hands over a fistful of crumpled notes with great carelessness. ‘It makes no odds to me.’ He fishes in the other pocket and comes up with a handful of loose coin. ‘My takings at Almack’s are excellent; if you want more you need merely apply to me.’
‘There!’ says Angelica as Mrs Frost smooths out the notes, which amount to one hundred and seven pounds and a French livre. ‘You see? Why must you make it so unpleasant?’
‘I am being prudent,’ says Mrs Frost, tucking the money away in her pocket.
‘You are making trouble.’
‘If you would credit it, I mean to save us all trouble. None of us may know what lies ahead.’
‘Peculiar, then, that you act as if you do.’
‘And this,’ says the lieutenant, ignoring her, ‘is for you, my sweet.’ He rummages again in his pocket and draws out a black leather box with gold tooling.
‘Georgie!’ coos Angelica. ‘What is it?’
‘Open it.’
The lid slides back on its hinge. Within is a little pin, formed in the shape of Cupid’s dart, and studded all along its length with real diamonds.
‘Oh, George!’
‘For Eros has smote me with his arrow,’ he whispers.
Mrs Frost shudders. ‘Who did you win that from?’ she asks.
But Angelica has flung herself into George’s arms and is kissing him backwards into the bedroom, murmuring, ‘Oh, you are so kind – so good – our first piece of jewellery – my own darling – real diamonds. Not paste, Eliza! Not paste.’
SEVEN
Mr Hancock makes it his business one afternoon to seek out Captain Tysoe Jones. This is very easily done, for when on shore Captain Jones is a regular patron of the Pelican at Wapping, and today is seated –– as has been his habit since he was a young man – in the great bow window overlooking the river. He favours this spot for the fine view it affords of Executioner’s Dock: Captain Jones is partial to all forms of public entertainment, but most especially to the jig that is enacted on this foreshore several times a year at the end of a short rope. The tide is mercifully up when Mr Hancock arrives, so that the gibbet is all but submerged, and only bloated piratical fingertips breach the surface of the water. Captain Jones himself is surrounded by watermen in gaudy green jackets, for those of his family who do not venture upon the sea still heed the call of some lesser water gods, and ply their trade upon the river: when he sees Mr Hancock, he rises in surprise.
‘Oh, you are come back?’ he cries. ‘Come to thank me for that creature I brought you? Aye, I’ll wager your mind’s been changed on the profitability of mermaids since last we met!’
‘Well,’ says Mr Hancock as they depart the tavern and set to strolling along the waterfront, ‘it served me better than expected.’
Winter is drawing in upon them; the water is flint-coloured and so is the sky, and there is a flinty coldness in the air. Captain Jones chortles, and seizes his friend’s shoulder. ‘Did I not tell you? No body speaks of aught else. Everywhere I go – Woolwich to Richmond – every body has seen the thing, and if they have not seen it they affect to have. I brought you a marvel, certainly I did.’
‘Aye.’ Mr Hancock walks a few steps in silence. ‘And now I desire another.’
‘Another mermaid?’ asks Captain Jones in consternation.
‘Th
at’s so.’
‘But you did not want the first one.’
He shrugs.
‘“Tysoe,”’ mimics the captain. ‘“Oh, but what shall I do with this thing? I am no showman, Tysoe!”’
‘I have changed my mind,’ says Mr Hancock firmly. ‘I want one.’
‘Do you apprehend – surely you know that it was a chance in a million that I came upon the last one? I do not expect to see another in this life or the next.’
‘If it can be done once, it can be done again.’
‘No, no. I’ve money enough now to retire, and grow old surrounded by my children.’
‘I do not see them here now,’ says Mr Hancock. ‘Come,’ he adds, knowing indeed how little his friend enjoys staying still: the desire to go forth again is in Captain Jones, he is sure of it. It is merely a matter of steering him towards this discovery. ‘I’ve come by a fine little ship, the Unicorn, all rigged and seaworthy, all set for a new adventure, and who will captain her if you do not?’
‘There are other men.’ Captain Jones picks up his step, and walks fast along the pavement: he is almost tempted. Mr Hancock changes tack.
‘Do you not want to enjoy your final voyage? Your last run was most irregular; you did not even have the parting gift of sailing your own ship back into port. What farewell is that, to your life’s employ?’
His friend grins and turns up his collar against the cold. ‘My wife has designs for our future. We shall buy some land in the countryside, and build a house there to our own liking. A cow or two in the back field, and raspberry canes for the children. And I will take a part in the little ones’ upbringing, and be well acquainted with their characters: a child ought to look upon his father’s face every day, not at several years’ interval.’
But Mr Hancock is not to be dissuaded. ‘There is time for all that once my mermaid is got.’
‘No, no. I cannot do it. I promised I would not go to Macao again. Another two years away, Jonah, surely you appreciate—’
‘Perhaps you need not travel so far abroad,’ Mr Hancock says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It strikes me that you need not go to Macao for a mermaid when there is an abundance of evidence to support their inhabiting our own waters.’
They repair to the edge of the dock and ease themselves down, neither as young as he once was, to dangle their legs over the water as they pack their pipes. Captain Jones twirls the bone-white stem between finger and thumb. ‘So what would you have me do?’ he asks slowly. ‘Gather a crew, and have us sail up and down the coast of England in search of one?’ He snorts at the folly of it, but Mr Hancock does not join him.
‘Not only England; Scotland and Ireland too. As far as Greenland if it pleased you.’ He pauses to assess his friend’s countenance, and continues placatingly, ‘Come, ’tis not so mad a notion. I have after some study compiled a list of all the villages in our isles where mermaids have lately been sighted; all it leaves you to do is travel from one to the next.’ He produces his notes: ‘You see, I have indicated those where mermaids are very regularly said to visit, and even come ashore. I have made it easy for you.’
Captain Jones is shaking his head. ‘No, no. I’ve not travelled those waters since I was a boy.’
‘So find men who are accustomed to them. Greaves has crews who traverse west, and know the North Sea and even the Atlantic, were you forced to go so distant.’ He looks about himself. ‘Walk into any public house in these parts and you will find ten experienced sailors eager for work. Whalers, too. ’
‘So ask one of them.’
Mr Hancock draws deeply on his pipe and the smoke billows about his face. ‘I want you in charge, Tysoe. I know that my request is not usual; I do not trust any other man to do right by me. You know what you are about; you have found me one mermaid, so find me another.’
‘It ain’t so easy as that. You think my head is all full of dreams, but I know when a scheme is worth pursuing, and surely this one is not.’
‘How do you know its worth? I can pay. Three thousand pounds, I could vouch towards this venture.’
‘The Devil and his good wife! Three thousand! What has got into you?’
‘I need it,’ he says stubbornly, and feels a schoolboy scowl touch the muscles of his foolish face.
‘Have you lost your wits?’ says the sea-captain. ‘Does your life so lack meaning – can you find no other way to spend your fortune but on impossible curiosities? I have heard of this before – this is a thing gentlemen do, collectors, who find satisfaction in making perfect wonders their own possessions, and hoarding them away in dusty cabinets. Is this your intention, my friend? Is this how you wear your wealth, in having other men run about the world hunting down your whims?’
‘No!’ Mr Hancock is stung. ‘No, no; I have only practical uses for my money, which is after all what it is made for. I am speculating. I shall be landlord of half of Mary-le-Bone.’
‘Then it is some other sort of madness.’ Captain Jones rubs his jaw. He scrutinises Mr Hancock’s face for a good long time. ‘Well, it cannot be a woman.’
No answer.
‘A woman?’ asks Captain Jones, and his eyes as round as billiard balls. He lands Mr Hancock a clout about the shoulder blade which almost tips him into the water below. ‘Well! I never thought such a thing would pass. And who is this lady? Some comely widow, I am certain; rich on her own account. An exacting woman, for you to go to such lengths, and clever to put you to them. Am I correct?’
‘Exacting.’ Mr Hancock tips his chin into his collar; he does not know what to say. He thinks, I am a rich man. I have a right to rare things.
‘Good man! And what do you get in return, should you acquire the thing she wants?’
Mr Hancock shakes his head. In fact he wants nothing particularly of Mrs Neal, except to have her attention. This neuter life he leads! A man who has no effect on the world, no body to depend on him, waited on by servants and relatives, can he be blamed (he asks himself) if he desires the natural attention of a woman? All across the city, other men sit comfortably in chairs with their pipes, and their ladies at their elbow. Partnership he cannot imagine; to be yoked so equally to a prudent widow or a hard-working old maid does not excite him of late. Mrs Neal is neither prudent nor hard-working; she is something apart.
‘Three thousand pounds towards this venture?’
‘Aye.’
‘That is a great deal of money.’ Captain Jones sighs deeper. ‘But to leave my family, and travel waters I am unfamiliar with … a great hardship for the sake of another man’s whim. And the dangers involved, when I have said I am unwilling to go.’
‘But think of it!’ Mr Hancock is warming to this new scheme. ‘You will never be more than two weeks from home.’
‘Three, more likely. Four, even …’
‘… you will have no responsibilities of trade, no cargo to fret over, no victuals to eke out over months.’ He gestures broadly with his pipe. ‘Think of it as a quest. A novelty. An undertaking never before attempted: to seek out and capture a mermaid!’
Captain Jones looks sideways at his friend. He stretches his boots out over the water, and studies his toes. He draws again on his pipe. ‘I would expect adequate return,’ he says.
‘Name it, name it.’
Behind his eyes, the sea-captain’s thoughts click rapid as a counting-frame. ‘Is this what you want?’ he asks.
‘Truly.’
‘A thousand, then. A thousand and you’ll never afterwards call upon me to sail again.’ Mr Hancock offers him his hand, and Captain Jones seizes it, his grip firm, his palm coarse and cool as raw leather. They shake hands. Then they sit for some long time, staring into the water beneath their hanging feet, which is gelid and glinting. Captain Jones draws on his pipe, and smiles. ‘Here’s a safer wager for you. That the river will freeze again this winter. It runs more sluggish than ever.’ He chuckles. ‘You remember the last time? When we strolled all the way to London Bridge, as if the
river were our own road?’
‘We were young men then.’
‘Such strange magic as is in this world,’ he says. ‘Mermaids out yonder and horses and carriages trundling up and down this very river.’ He shakes his head. ‘Aye, me, what sights I’ve seen.’
We are the lost.
We dart minnow-quick.
Those on the shore see our faces break the waves far away, or see our dark shapes shift and disperse somewhere deep below, and they insist:
Yes, it was more than animate, it was human!
No mistaking it – not some dumb beast – nor ice nor rope nor flotsam. It called to me, they say, it waved an arm, it knew me, before it vanished into that cold void beyond, dived into such endless space as you cannot imagine.
Our breath is the heave and pull of the sea on a black night, which rocks the sparks of moonlight in its ripples. We are foment, white foam spreading and leaping; we dash against the crag and are dispersed. We are the long briny hiss of tide retreating from the land. The pebbles skip when we pass by; the stones roll over. We are the waft and spread and bloom of purple weed. We lie smooth and polished. We tug, tug, haul at strong bodies. At our gentle, endless touch, wood is softened, sharp edges licked smooth, the strongest locks corrode.
EIGHT
November 1785
The winter comes in bitterer every day, but does not trouble Angelica in the least. She is happy and lavish in the arms of her dear George: when Mrs Chappell visits, with her girls all bundled up in swansdown pelisses, she finds them sprawled together on the sopha, a snaggle of limbs, feeding one another tipsy-cake. Polly, Elinor and Kitty cannot tear their eyes away from the spectacle: Mrs Neal in her robe embroidered with palm trees, and Mr – who? – with his banyan embroidered with monkeys, sucking custard from one another’s fingers and chortling. It is obscene: they stare and yet they cannot bear to see. Nobody notices the blood that heats their faces, for the fire is banked up so high that even Mrs Chappell, who certainly has no delicacy left to offend, appears flushed. Groping for Mrs Frost’s arm as she is deposited in the apartment’s largest and ugliest chair, Mrs Chappell exchanges a look with her – or in fact does not, for Mrs Frost mournfully lowers her eyes to mutely avow, ‘’Tis nothing to do with me.’
The Mermaid and Mrs Hancock Page 20