The Mermaid and Mrs Hancock

by Imogen Hermes Gowar

  Countess Bel raises an eyebrow. ‘I hope he receives it soon, for your sake.’

  ‘I would take him if he had no income at all,’ says Angelica stoutly. ‘You do not know what it is like. You cannot imagine – that is the problem – nobody can. It is a very rare thing we have together. We are matched as souls, as Beatrice and Dante, Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Iseult …’ Her reading is slender; here she falters. ‘I could have no other, whatever situation we were thrown into.’

  ‘And him? Does he have any other?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Well, you must make quite sure; he is not bound to you. It is different for men.’

  ‘Not for him,’ Angelica says with resolution. ‘I forgive you your incredulity, for very few people are fortunate enough to understand what Georgie and I share.’

  In Berkeley Square, Angelica puffs up the white muslin spilling over the lapels of her redingote, and despite the cold lets her cape hang open. She has fastened Rockingham’s diamond dart at her throat, and likes to be sure it is seen. Bel, taking her arm as they stroll, persists. ‘Has he settled something on you yet?’

  ‘Everybody is always asking! That is what he has gone away for. ‘’Tis a shame he was obliged to leave when the town is so lively. Perhaps you recall, Bel, what a nuisance it is to be in demand, and of course the minute I am left unprotected for one second the whole world descends – they would have me if they could.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Bel’s forbearance is one of her greatest strengths. Whatever she thinks, she does not betray it as Angelica goes on. ‘There is a gentleman – the mermaid man, do you remember him? – he has visited me once, and insists he will come again this afternoon.’

  Her friend frowns. ‘You do not let him touch you, do you?’

  ‘By no means! And he would never try.’ A few days have passed, but she remains no less perplexed by the manner in which her interview with Mr Hancock ended. The money he offered would have improved her situation, and yet she had refused it without thought. If she had done so out of loyalty to Rockingham she would be congratulating herself on her own virtue: in fact, she having rejected it for her own sake, and for Mr Hancock’s, she feels a certain guilty flutter. She has stooped to conversation with a man whose station is so different from her lover’s, who is sympathetic to concerns he cannot conceive of; who compels her to remember the particular facts of her history that were better forgotten. She would like to have been born full-formed and pristine from sea-foam. To have strode such treacherous and demeaning paths to become Angelica Neal is displeasing to her. ‘He knows about Georgie,’ she says appeasingly, and steers them towards the confectioner’s window.

  ‘As long as he is content with a friendship,’ Bel pursues. ‘He did not seem to me the sort of man who understood such codes.’

  Angelica gurgles with amusement. ‘If he ever gets any sort of look in his eye,’ she says, ‘I lean right in close, like so, and tell him, “I want a mermaid.” I let my breath touch his cheek and I say, “Where is my mermaid, Mr Hancock?” The poor fool has only sent a boat out to find one for me.’ This scene is purely imagined, but it is well to have a response prepared for every possibility. In the face of her friend’s silence, she babbles in haste, ‘Come, now, Bel, there is hardly a Christian wife who has not been driven to much worse at least once in her life, and really you see it is out of loyalty to Georgie, for if I cared only for security I would leave him.’ She leads her friend into the fragrant shop, assuring her, ‘In every other particular we are as faithful to one another as a pair of turtle doves.’ Her eye is already straying to the tower of millefruits on the counter, and her steps follow it forthwith. To the starched apron behind the counter, she says, ‘Half a pound of those, if you please. Charge it to Rockingham’s account.’

  The woman has begun to scoop the biscuits into a sheet of folded tissue paper, but she stops when she hears this. ‘No, ma’am,’ she says. ‘We give him no credit here.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘No credit. We require cash on this account.’

  Angelica draws herself up to her full height. ‘I suppose,’ she says acidly, ‘you do not know who I am.’

  The woman regards her with cool pale eyes. ‘Oh, I know who you are, madam. ’Tis only that your keeper’s name is no good here. He’s a bill a foot long to settle up.’

  ‘For pity’s sake, it is only cakes,’ snaps Angelica. ‘The miserliness of tradespeople! It is quite astonishing, do you not agree, Bel?’ Those others in the shop – respectable ladies – turn to peer discreetly at the set-to, and less discreetly as it goes on.

  ‘Cakes,’ says the server sternly, ‘that have gone unpaid for since November. Not to mention three jars of peaches in syrup, thirty-nine jellies – and their glasses, not a one returned – one fancy Savoy biscuit measuring three feet high, seven cases of macaroons, and gills of fancy liqueur numbering –’ she pauses to draw breath – ‘thirteen in total. The entire sum owing is fifteen pounds and eight shillings.’

  ‘Is that all! For fifteen pounds you subject me to this?’

  ‘If I allowed every body to dodge their bill in such a way, where would I be?’

  Angelica sighs. ‘Clearly there has been some oversight, and more likely on your part than his. Very well, then, put it in my name. I shall have my woman settle it up.’

  The woman shakes her head. ‘If he cannot pay his bills, I deduce he cannot pay yours. Or have you income from other pockets too?’

  ‘How dare you!’

  Bel touches her arm, her face downturned. ‘Hush, Jellie,’ she whispers into her stock.

  ‘Certainly not! Did you mark what she said?’ Angelica’s voice is high and shrill, and resonates through every cloche and tile. The company of sweet-eaters is beyond concealing its interest; gentlemen and women sit rapt. ‘How dare you, madam!’ Angelica repeats.

  ‘If you do not have the coin,’ says the woman, ‘I cannot help you.’ She places her hand on the half-filled tissue, and the paper crunches.

  Angelica’s pockets contain a notebook with ivory leaves; a miniature deck of cards; a tin in which to collect errant pins; a small mirror in a case; a portrait miniature of dear Georgie; a length of red ribbon and a bottle of rouge. They do not, however, contain so much as a single dusty ha’penny. She has got so out of the habit of keeping money about her that she has almost forgotten its physical form: it merely drops from her lips as a casual flow of promises. ‘Why do you expect anybody to carry cash?’ she demands. ‘That is very revealing of your class.’

  ‘I have it,’ says Mrs Fortescue.

  ‘Oh, Bel, no—’

  ‘Comes to two shillings,’ says the woman.

  ‘For the biscuits?’ asks Bel softly, opening her purse. ‘No, no, I shall pay the balance.’ She darts before Angelica to lay the coin on the counter. Angelica’s ears look as if they have taken a dab of cochineal themselves, they are so unnaturally scarlet; a film of liquid wavers across her eyes as she watches the sugared parcel tied off with a length of red string. Then Mrs Fortescue presses it into her hands. ‘A gift,’ she says.

  ‘It must be a mistake,’ whispers Angelica as they leave at pace. ‘Surely a mistake,’ but she finds her hands are quivering and her brow cold with sweat. She remembers her wretchedness after the duke’s death was reported in the papers and his credit useless in shops, the bitterness in the back of her throat and the fluttering of her heart as if her terror had become trapped in her bosom like a bird in a chimney flue. She remembers also – an accident, she does not mean to recall it – once being small for her age, and walking the high street of the town where she was born with the buildings tall about her; the counter of the butcher’s shop, when she entered it, came to the height of her nose. The smell of blood and rancid fat.

  Got any bones?

  What’s that, little miss?

  Bones, for the pot. Just bones. Any ones’ll do.

  You Morgan’s girl, ain’t you? So your daddy’s not come home.


  He’s making our fortune.

  Oh, aye? And how will I make mine, if I give away all my scraps? Not good business.

  I don’t want much.

  What have you got? Not a coin on you? Now surely you have something you’d be willing to trade? No? A girl’s always got something.

  And the world heaves.

  ‘Easy, dear, easy now.’ Mrs Fortescue has her arm around Angelica’s shoulders, murmuring in her ear as if she were a frightened horse. ‘Take a moment; take a breath or two.’

  She gasps in air; feels better for it. She keeps her chin down for the street is busy and she is afraid to be recognised while in such distress. Presently she composes herself.

  ‘Shall we go home?’ asks Mrs Fortescue. ‘My house is not far.’

  ‘No, no. This need not spoil the day.’ She attempts a little laugh, which Mrs Fortescue pretends to find convincing. ‘’Tis one uppity shopkeeper, that is all. Let us go on.’

  ‘But perhaps—’

  ‘Deduce nothing from this!’ Angelica blots her forehead with her handkerchief. ‘Stay out with me, Bel; I never see you now-a-days. Take me to your favourite jeweller’s. I want something pretty to wear for Mr Hancock – diamonds, I think, and solely for my own satisfaction. He won’t know them from paste.’

  ‘Perhaps it were better if you hired a piece,’ Bel soothes her. ‘Or I shall lend you something of mine.’

  ‘No! I do not hire diamonds! I do not borrow them. As if I were some cit’s wife allowed to her one masque of the season! Come, Bel, I wish to buy something lovely – Rockingham is good for it.’

  But each shop they go in they meet the same response; a discreet shake of the head, a draper running his finger down his ledger and saying sadly, ‘Madam, it is out of my hands.’ Rockingham’s name is not good in one single establishment along the length of Bond Street.

  ‘I do not know what has happened,’ Angelica says, quite numb with the shock of it, once they are back in the sealed cabin of her new carriage. ‘Sincerely I do not. Perhaps somebody has a vendetta against him?’

  ‘Somebody has simply tired of paying his bills,’ says Mrs Fortescue. ‘If they ever did.’

  ‘Oh no, that can’t be so. He has an allowance, you know. That is what we live on.’

  ‘An allowance! Which comes to no more than – what? A boy like that? – five hundred a year, I’d wager, and you have a bill for a hundred at the jeweller’s alone. See sense, Jellie. He has no means to pay anybody off.’

  ‘Christ.’ Angelica puts her head in her hands. ‘No, no. He has the means. He has kept me most comfortable – I have nothing to fear in the world.’

  Mrs Fortescue raps on the roof of the carriage and leans out. ‘Twice around the park,’ she calls to the groom. She closes the window tight and takes Angelica’s hand. ‘My dear, those are exactly the sort of things they say.’

  ‘Not Georgie. You patronise me, Bel – no, ’tis true. Do you believe you are the only one who has a good keeper? I am at least as loved as you are, at least.’

  There is a great deal of gentleness in Bel’s brown eyes. ‘Very well. Yes. He is a young man who has got into some financial trouble – who has not? This can be resolved.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘That’s his trouble, not yours.’

  Angelica dabs at her eyes. ‘Oh, where is your feminine liberty now? I must simply resign my fate into his hands?’

  ‘I believe you did that the moment you took his word as sole assurance that you need not protect your own interests. Jellie, Jellie, do not cry any more. I did not mean to upset you. But if you have made yourself a chattel, his spending is hardly your responsibility. Nobody blames the coach-and-four if a gentleman cannot keep up his payments on them.’

  Angelica gasps. ‘The carriage,’ she whispers with awful urgency. ‘This very carriage we now ride in! Hush, do not let our driver hear a word of this or else he will eject us onto the pavement, for I fear his wages cannot be paid.’

  ‘Oh, now, Jellie, you do not know it is so bad,’ says Mrs Fortescue. ‘And besides, no hireling would throw you over so abruptly – they know a little discretion.’

  ‘Hush, hush! Lower your voice, Bel.’ Angelica is hugging herself with worry. ‘As for discretion, they don’t trouble themselves with it once the money is gone. You saw how loudly that woman denounced me in the shop. It will be the same all over. I know how it is –’ she digs her fingers into her upper arms so tightly the knuckles whiten – ‘they positively triumph at one’s misfortune.’ Mrs Fortescue pats and shushes her, but she frets on, and groans, ‘Oh, this is grave! This is very, very grave!’ For the full awfulness of the situation is creeping chill into her bones; here she is alone with his debts, and no word of when he will return. ‘He cannot have expected this.’ She looks appealingly at Bel.

  Her friend hesitates. ‘No, dear, no, he cannot.’

  ‘Oh, if I could only speak to him! I would be so much easier if I only knew his plan. If he had left me more cash!’

  ‘I can give you—’

  ‘No!’ Her poor cheeks flame scarlet. ‘I have too many gowns; I will have Eliza pawn something for the time being.’ If he were with her he would reproach her for her lack of faith. Oh, but she has been so faithful! She permitted herself for once to believe his every word! Is this where it leads one? She feels Bel’s hand on her back.

  ‘Do not think the worst. When he comes back …’

  Angelica’s handkerchief is soaked through; she fishes for another and here is Bel’s pressed into her hand, embroidered with her husband’s crest. She blinks, and blinks again as the tears waver across her vision, gazing upon the lovely coronet, the unfamiliar letters. Then she screws it into her hot fist and hies it to the floor. ‘Foolish me,’ she says, ‘making such a meal of this. Why, all I need to do is write and acquaint him with my situation. He will be mortified to hear of it. I am as faithful a mate to him as he is to me – we are matched souls.’

  ‘But in the meantime, if you need help …’

  Angelica has now entirely left off crying. ‘If you really mean to help me, you will leave off your naysaying,’ she snaps. ‘You have not uttered one encouraging thing throughout this entire sorry episode; you assume the worst of him at every turn.’

  ‘I meant only to be prudent; you would not be the first lady to have her trust abused—’

  ‘You see? You cannot simply be glad for me, not for one second.’

  A certain tightness goes out of Bel’s figure; her shoulders droop, and although the slump in her mien is barely detectable, slump she most certainly does. ‘All the years of our friendship,’ she says in a little voice. ‘I rejoice at your rejoicing; when you weep, I weep with you.’

  ‘Then why are you so at odds with me now? Rejoice! Rejoice for me! I am the best I ever have been!’

  They complete their journey in silence, and at Mrs Fortescue’s house Angelica will extend only the most muttered and insincere of fare-you-wells. If she had guessed that this would be the last ride of its sort – that they will not meet again under such circumstances – would she have discovered more warmth for her old friend? But she does not watch Mrs Fortescue go, and rides home without a backward glance.

  SIXTEEN

  Meanwhile, Mrs Chappell has rushed to the house at Portland Square, where Polly has been vanished more than twelve hours: the Christmas greenery and stars still adorn every surface, but the doors to even the smallest cupboard are all flung open, and there are men searching the attics and knocking at the walls in search of secret compartments. Mrs Chappell is crumpled and irritated and over-hot after her one-mile voyage across the city, for she hates to be harried about. She takes one look at the uproar and hurries Elinor into the library for a private interview and a glass of watered spirit. Even that closet is decked with branches of yew and mistletoe, most pathetic in light of the aborted festivities, which only heightens Elinor’s state of panic.

  ‘I helped Pol choose her stays,’ she now sobs, ‘and s
he said, “Nell, how many pairs of stockings are you taking? Well, I had best take double what you do, for I mean to dance all night.” She packed twelve new pairs of stockings, madam, and they are all in our trunk still.’

  ‘As if that signified,’ snorts Mrs Chappell.

  ‘She brought all three volumes of Evelina,’ insists Elinor, who is struggling with the peculiar sensation that she cannot get enough air into her lungs. ‘Nobody who means to leave on the first day takes all three volumes.’

  ‘Stop crying,’ says Mrs Chappell. ‘You do yourself no favours.’

  ‘But I knew nothing of it!’ Elinor wails.

  ‘I believe you,’ says Mrs Chappell, a magical incantation guaranteed to start any tongue flapping. ‘But you must be sure and tell me all you know. You were the last to see her.’

  ‘I and all the gentlemen,’ Elinor persists. ‘All the gentlemen. We were in company from seven o’clock until she disappeared.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘I’ve told you.’

  ‘Tell me again.’

  Elinor wrings her hands. ‘It was about ten,’ she says, and sets about pacing up and down the little room as if she must chase from one recollection to the next, ‘or half after, or eleven, perhaps. And we had dined, and took a drink, and to be sure you remember what a fine clear night it was, though very cold –’ and here she hesitates, doubts herself, stumbles onward more shrilly – ‘at least it was fine here, I do not suppose the weather is much different in St James’s, although I have heard before of showers in Whitechapel when it was quite dry in Threadneedle Street, so who can truly—’

  Mrs Chappell clicks her fingers. ‘Blathering, Nell. Pray, back to your story.’

  ‘The men will attest that the weather was just as I recall. And they said, “Why do we not go out onto the terrace and look upon the garden?”’