by Maria McCann
There are grunts and soft, ugly sounds like blows being struck. The sliver of light from the shuttered lantern picks out something shining that moves up and down. Fortunate’s eyes are clearing now, and he can make out the men themselves, bending, growing upright.
They are digging.
Magicians or not, they are about to commit a terrible crime. He must not be present. Now is the moment, while their ears and eyes are occupied.
As he rises the blood surges in his own ears so that he is half deaf. If they should look this way! Clinging to the stones, he moves silently round the angle of the church and half-collapses against the wall, trembling, while he looks for his way out of the churchyard.
The gate is a few yards off, next to a yew. Fortunate can just distinguish the tree, a thickening mass in the darkness, and beside it a paler patch: the gable wall of the house opposite. He pads across to the gate, feels for the top spikes, and eases it open without any creak or squeak.
He has used this gate before. It is one of a pair, facing each other across a metal pen: the gates are so devised that any stray animal attempting to enter the churchyard would find itself trapped. Fortunate pushes it open, enters the pen and softly releases the gate, taking care to make no noise. He is about to pass through the second gate when a man’s voice whispers, ‘Davey?’
Fortunate turns and flees the pen, back to the side of the church. Behind him he hears the gate crash. The far gate opens and closes, then the one nearest him. The man has entered the churchyard.
‘Who’s there?’
The man waits. Fortunate holds his breath: it seems the slamming of the gates drowned out his footsteps over the grass and back to the church wall, so that the man cannot yet place him. If he should come in search, moving away from the pen, Fortunate can perhaps dodge past him in the dark and get through it unhindered. But now the man whistles long and low.
It will be a hunt.
Where to go? If he makes for the trees, twigs will crack underfoot. He is conscious of a sweating coldness about his head and neck. Then he sees a faint gleam reflected from a gravestone at the side of the church. Someone is coming that way. If he doesn’t move now, he’ll be trapped between the two of them.
He remembers the bent railings where he first found his way in. They lie somewhere along the darkest side, away from the men. Willing all his strength into his trembling legs, he breaks from the wall and runs for it, tripping on stone ledges, staggering on the uneven ground.
‘Ware hawk!’ someone shouts. ‘There he goes!’
He is through the bushes and at the wall. This is the wrong place: the railings here are sound, the bent ones further off. Sobbing with terror, he tears through brambles, their thorns lashing his face as he feels for the rail. The man with the lantern comes round the side of the church, making straight for him.
At last he finds the place and tries to squeeze himself through. The pistol in his right pocket catches on the railing and holds him there; he wails with terror but at last falls headlong on the pavement, a tearing pain in his side where the metal crushed into him. He scrabbles upright and runs on, expecting to be pulled down. There comes a roar. When he looks back, the man with the lantern is at the railing, too big to get through. Fortunate sees the great furnace mouth and cruel eyes of the Spirit. At the same time, a gate clangs: the other man, the unseen one, is out now and on the street, but some distance away. Fortunate pushes himself on, on, until rounding a corner he comes to an alleyway. The nearest door opens to him: saved by the carelessness of a servant. He drags himself through and fumbles for the bolt, scraping his fingers. At last his hand falls on it and drives it home.
At first he can see nothing, owing to a flaring and flashing inside his eyelids. When his eyes clear, he finds himself in a yard of some kind, even darker than the churchyard and with a stale, sourish smell. From the roadway comes the pounding of feet, the gasping of his pursuers. With the desperate effort of one whose life hangs on it, Fortunate pinches his lips together and stills his breathing. The suppressed breath beats inside his skull and the darkness swarms, blinding him afresh as he takes the defender from his pocket. It is loaded: his fingers slip on the metal as he releases the catch. The pursuers have stopped near the entrance to the alley; he pictures them looking round, seeing lanes, gates, doors on every side where he might have let himself in. So close, so close, surely they can smell him out.
‘That was no trap.’
‘Best make him easy, I say.’
There is a moment during which he hears nothing, a silence thick with terror. Are they creeping down the alley, closing in? Then he hears them walking away, moving slowly. One of them says, ‘I had a bad feeling about this job,’ and that is the last of them apart from their retreating footsteps.
He expels the breath he has been holding and is about to put away the pistol in his pocket when he realises he is squeezing the trigger. So the thing was damp, as he feared. He sinks forward, thinking he will vomit, but nothing comes into his mouth; instead, his knees give way and he drops on all fours. With immense effort he turns and wedges himself into the corner, his back propped against the wall. After many jerks and starts when he thinks he hears them pushing open the yard door, he loses consciousness.
*
My darling girl,
You cannot imagine my distress upon learning from Hetty that Edmund is still not returned. Papa swears he will see him gibbeted. Mr Fielding has suggested a suitable person to assist us; we are to come to London in order to meet with him.
As you see, all is in motion, but why, Sophy, why do you not write? Hetty has hinted that perhaps I was insufficiently sympathetic on an earlier occasion. Try if you can, my love, to understand my position. Young wives frequently (I would say, invariably) find themselves disappointed in some respect: a respectable female is so innocent, and her hopes correspondingly high. I was sure Edmund must fall short of expectation, not because I believed him to be a bad fellow but because I perceived how very tenderly you were attached to him; if I may be pardoned for saying so, you were in a fair way to becoming a idolater. Papa, of course, thought you as rational as ever, but your mama, though she said nothing, saw it all. It is the usual way with us women: if we can but find a man half worthy, our love has always an admixture of worship in it, and who is to say it should be otherwise? If the marriage is a happy one, such wifely worship contributes not a little to our happiness. But if we find our idol has feet of clay, what then?
Our son-in-law is a careless fellow, I said to myself when you wrote of his behaviour. Poor Sophy will have her work cut out. Later it was: Edmund is not quite the gentleman we thought him, our daughter must take care. I had no inkling, however, of the reality of the situation.
What can I say to that, Mama, except: Why did you not know it? I informed you in the plainest possible language.
I am quite at a loss how to broach my next subject, yet I must. Pray bear with me and remember I am dependent upon Hetty for intelligence. I will state the case plainly: you are said to receive into your house a degraded creature known to Edmund. I should scorn such a report from anyone else but coming from Hetty, as it does, I dare not set it aside. Is it true? My dearest girl, what can you be thinking?
O Hetty, you traitor! Is this how you keep them from the door? Presumably you had already written when you gave your promise, but could you not have warned me?
No matter how charitable your motive, such a person can never be fit society for you. And what of her motives? Who is to say she is not in communication with Edmund? Can you not see how, in all these ways, her acquaintance must inevitably compromise you? At present, you cannot afford the least breath of scandal. This consideration should outweigh all others, and I sincerely trust the person will speedily begin to find you not at home.
We intend to be with you shortly. I hope you will not be hasty, Sophy, or too implacable in your resentment. If we can induce Edmund to return, that will be a start, and perhaps you may yet make the best of it: a wife deprived of her husba
nd’s countenance and support can hope for little happiness in life. If Edmund cannot be found, or cannot be prevailed upon to return, we shall bring you home to dear old Buller, where you will be looked after as befits the daughter of a gentleman, but this can never be my fondest hope. I had rather see you reconciled with Edmund and the mother of a thriving brood.
Papa this morning sent 200L to Mr Letcher. You may therefore keep the money Hetty lent you and trouble yourself no more about it.
My dear child, I pray the Lord may guide you and keep you safe from all harm. I could wish a better man had offered for you, but it is of no use to think about that now. Until I can be by your side, believe me your most loving
Mama
How wise she is after the event, Sophia thinks, flicking the letter aside. The 200L is more of a comfort than anything else Mama is likely to offer.
Libertine thoughts, again. What of them? A deserted wife not intending to go through the world as a victim must develop a species of double nature, both masculine and feminine, and even bring herself, at times, to think brutally. If only she had a brother who would carry some of the burden for her! The protection of a brother must be a comfort indeed. But her brother might have been as complacent as Mama, as fond of prosing after the event: in short, intolerable.
She goes to the window. This morning, which dawned in a sparkle of frozen fog, continues bitter. Eliza the Incompetent is in this as in everything, and cannot for the life of her build a brisk fire. For the sake of warmth Sophia would condescend to manage the fire herself, though she has never become accustomed to the use of coal. What would she not give for some sweet-smelling logs, instead of this foul smoke and gritty dust! Coal seems determined not to take unless a maid kneels in the grate, working the bellows. But then, she is probably being supplied with the poorest quality: a cheat, like everything else in the house.
What, what, what is she to do? Mama’s letter on the table has the ominous quality of a memento mori. Rescue means an end to these miseries, yes, but also the start of fresh ones: growing old with Papa and Mama, listening to stale chit-chat about the villagers, the servants’ illnesses, what is to be done about the mould in the stable and perhaps, once in a while, a visit from James Samuels and his wife from Little Buller, eager to boast of their son’s travels in Italy. Damn that blameless young man, double damn him. She has no desire to listen to his adventures and exclaim over his prospects while sitting in the Yellow Room embroidering a pincushion.
Or to marry again, a sorry provincial woman with a dribbling bladder, a reduced fortune and a scandalous past: what husband worth marrying would stoop to that? Only an idiot would propose because she can make small talk, and holds her shoulders well. Or perhaps some ancient debauchee, now past performance ―
There is a knock at the door. ‘Miss Blore, Madam.’
‘Show her in.’ Sophia flips Mama’s letter into the fire, where it produces a brilliant though brief flare. How brightly the light must have danced in Edmund’s study while he was disposing of his past life.
Betsy-Ann Blore is pink-cheeked from the cold, the first time Sophia has seen her look anything but sallow. Now, why is she here? What has she to say for herself? Sophia muses, for though she will not be dictated to by either Hetty or Mama, she has enough sense to weigh their warnings.
The first thing out of Betsy-Ann’s mouth is: ‘Lord, Mrs Zedland, what a shabby fire!’ Without further ado she seizes the scuttle and pours fresh coal into the grate, then pushes and prods with the poker and finally, as her pièce de résistance, applies herself to the bellows until the flames fairly shoot up the chimney.
‘Now you may warm yourself,’ puffs Betsy-Ann, as if the house were hers. Hetty is right: the woman encroaches. Sophia says coolly, ‘Pray be seated, Betsy-Ann. Have you brought news?’
‘Of Ned? No. Are you expecting any?’
‘I hardly know what to expect.’
‘Nor me, to be sure.’ Betsy-Ann Blore tips her head towards the fire. ‘I love to see flames,’ she confides. ‘I can watch a fire an hour together.’
‘Indeed? But that isn’t why you came to see me, I’m sure.’
‘Well, no. The thing is, I’ve given some thought to what a body might call your situation.’
Despite her irritation, Sophia cannot help laughing at this turn of phrase. ‘Yes, a body might call it that.’
‘And there’s no one can help you like I can.’
With a certain dryness, Sophia replies, ‘I believe you’ve said so before.’
Betsy-Ann seems not to notice her tone. ‘Listen. I can undo Ned Hartry.’ She is quite breathy with excitement. Sophia, who has not seen her in this mood before, reminds herself of the need for discretion.
‘I’ve a trick,’ Betsy-Ann explains. ‘Worth a fortune to a man in Ned’s line.’
‘I take it you mean a card trick.’
‘He asked me many a time,’ she is positively exultant now, ‘but I never told him. I didn’t choose that he should have it.’
What an extraordinary world is hers, thinks Sophia. A woman permits a man the last freedom, submits to be passed to another fellow, but denies him a card trick! If that is indeed how things stand.
‘You didn’t choose? Why not?’
‘To keep something for myself.’ The exuberance has vanished as rapidly as it came. ‘And I couldn’t give it to a Hartry.’
‘Why not, when you were such good friends?’ Sophia is proud of that phrase. Good friends: no accusation in it, even from the lips of a wife. Well, perhaps just a little.
‘It wasn’t a thing I thought to give to anybody. Mam left it me, you might say. But I might’ve let him have it, if not for his ma. There’s gaming at her house, see. I couldn’t stand for Kitty to get it – I’d have to cut her throat.’
Sophia recoils. ‘I know you dislike her, because she ―’
‘Split me and Ned?’ Betsy-Ann snaps her fingers in dismissal. ‘That’s nothing, Madam. Kitty Hartry killed my sister.’
‘O, no. That I refuse to believe ―’
‘Not believe it!’ Betsy-Ann swells like a toad. She is about to plunge into details when Sophia cries out, ‘No! I beg of you ―’
She covers her eyes, overwhelmed. She must not – she cannot ―
‘What is it?’ Betsy-Ann asks, seemingly astonished.
‘I can’t listen to it. Don’t you understand? She’s my mother-in-law. My family.’
There is a silence. She thinks she hears a faint hem of astonishment: such vaporings, at something so obvious! It is, of course, not the bare fact of the alliance that thus seizes upon Sophia. She grasped its implications from the first, the degradation and disgust that must attend such a connection. Anything that reminds her of that letter is at once pushed from her mind, so acute is the mental suffering it produces, but to find oneself intimately connected with murder, a crime abhorred by the meanest and most brutal of human beings, is to enter a still deeper gallery of Hell. The very thought of it paralyses. She uncovers her eyes but only to sit motionless, unable to speak.
Betsy-Ann Blore, when she comes into focus, has a sullen offended look about her. ‘Very well, you needn’t hear,’ she says, gathering herself together as if to leave. Sophia realises she is about to lose her witness. With an effort, she reaches out to place a hand on the woman’s sleeve.
‘Don’t go. I was – shocked, that’s all.’
‘Then you’ll hear me out?’
‘Yes, if I’m able. Did you give evidence against her?’
Betsy-Ann bites her lip. Naturally she did not. Once more Sophia has failed to grasp how things stand in that other, subterranean world. She is to Betsy-Ann Blore as Mama is to herself: three-quarters blind. In her most encouraging voice she says, ‘Will you tell me what happened?’
‘It was Kitty made me a whore, Madam. Before that I barely knew the meaning of the word.’
‘You were respectably raised?’
‘Not like you, like gentry. But fair people and travelling peop
le are strict about sweethearts. I never had one, I wasn’t allowed.’
‘Were your people gypsies?’
‘No, but we was often alongside of them. We worked where we could find it – fairs, farms.’
‘You and your sister?’
‘Four of us. Me, Ma, Keshlie and Harry – you’ve seen him. He was first to come to Romeville.’
‘Romeville?’
‘This city, Madam. The rest of us followed on, but Mam wasn’t long for this world. She died soon after we arrived.’
‘So you were dependent upon your brother.’
Betsy-Ann snorts. ‘That’s a good one. Keshlie and me was nabbed by Kitty Hartry.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t quite – surely you don’t mean she snatched you from the pavement?’
‘We was engaged as servants. Once you’re in the house, and the door locked ―’ Betsy-Ann gives an expressive shrug.
‘But that’s trepanning! She could be hanged!’
‘Happens all the time. Ever notice a kind of creeping female, hanging round the coaching inns?’
‘I can’t say I have.’
‘You will, now I’ve told you. They watch for country wenches. It’s all, Lord, sweetheart, all alone in this terrible city? Until the poor bitch is terrified. Then it’s, I can offer you a respectable place and a bed. There’s a bed, all right.’ Betsy-Ann rises and gives a vicious poke at the fire, sending sparks roaring. There is an actual, corporeal pain in the region of Sophia’s heart, a tearing pity at this picture of innocence ensnared.
‘Why are these people tolerated? Does nobody take them before the justice?’
‘Who’s to do it, Madam? Before the girl arrives at the place, there’s no proof. Once she’s there, nobody interferes.’
‘And this is done by women!’ Sophia murmurs. ‘But aren’t there enough unfortunates in town to stock any number of – houses?’
‘And many that’d be glad of it,’ is Betsy-Ann’s chilling reply. ‘There’s worse places than Kitty Hartry’s.’
‘What need, then, to trepan the innocent? When there are already so many engaged in the trade?’