by Jane Ashford
Five
In the office they shared, William Conolly watched his colleague Bexley take off his coat and fold it carefully. He traded it for quite a different sort of garment from a portmanteau beside his desk. Though this new garment was still a coat, Conolly supposed, it was a shabby, threadbare example of the species, long and bulky and the color of mud. John buttoned it up so that it hid his good shirt. The cloth cap he pulled out next was equally disreputable. He’d already pulled off his top boots and donned ancient buckskin breeches instead of pantaloons; now he slid his feet into a pair of scuffed clogs. “Is it really necessary to dress like a beggar?” Conolly wondered.
“I’d make nothing as a beggar in a coat as fine as this,” John replied.
“You call that fine!”
“It isn’t hanging in strips from my shoulders,” said John. “I have shoes. And no deformities or scars. Far too ‘prosperous’ for a beggar. On the other hand, I don’t appear worth the effort of robbing. That’s the point. That, and the people I want to speak to can’t be seen with a ‘toff.’”
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Conolly asked.
“We need better information about the countries in the East.”
“We do.” Conolly watched, fascinated, as Bexley took a jar out of the portmanteau and unscrewed the lid. It appeared to contain dust. His enterprising colleague used a bit of it to smudge his face. He had clearly thought this through down to the last detail. “You really think you can find out anything useful?” he asked.
“Only one way to find out.”
“I’m not sure.” Conolly eyed the disreputable figure that had recently been his neatly dressed officemate. “Can you really trust this interpreter fellow?”
“Bù hăo.”
“What?”
“That means ‘no good,’” John informed him. “I can’t trust him completely. But I’ve given him the impression that I know more Chinese than I actually do, which should keep him at least a bit honest. Along with the payments I make to him, of course.”
“Say something else,” said Conolly.
“Nĭ hăo,” said John.
“What’s that?”
“How are you?”
“It sounds…do you sort of…sing it?”
John nodded. “The tones are as important as the words. Get the intonation wrong, and you’ll be saying something completely different, as I learned to my cost a time or two in China.”
“Where you took the time to learn some of the language. Unlike any of the others.”
John shrugged. He wasn’t ready to tell Conolly all his reasons for tonight’s foray. The government did need a better information network, and he did believe this was a way to improve it. But he had other motives as well. He intended to show his superiors that he possessed the intelligence, the initiative, and above all, the ability to get results that could take the place of aristocratic connections in the hierarchy of the Foreign Office.
“Did you find this interpreter through Rolfe?”
“Hĕn hăo.” At Conolly’s raised eyebrows, he translated. “Very good.” The captain of the Lyra knew all manner of seafarers and had given him some contacts to pursue. John made a quick bobbing bow.
“You’re a marvel, Bexley.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at you. When you put on that gear, you stand differently, your face is…you look like another person entirely.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Still, venturing into the slums… I suppose I’m to rally the troops if you don’t show up tomorrow.”
“I’ll be here,” John replied. But the truth was, he’d confided in Conolly for this reason exactly. Someone had to know where he’d gone.
John slipped out of the mostly empty Foreign Office building. He paused to make certain his coin was well secured and that the pistol in the deep pocket of his coat was easily accessible. Then he made his way carefully through dark streets.
London’s Limehouse slums were full of sailors from across the world. Hired in their native waters for their knowledge of local currents and hazards in port, they were set down in London when the voyage ended, abandoned until they could sign on with another ship. They needed money, and many of them were willing to tell whatever they knew in exchange for small sums.
Over the years, some of these sailors had settled and opened grogshops or doss-houses or brothels to cater to this continually shifting population. They gathered news from the tide of men who washed through their establishments, and they might be persuaded to pass it along to John for a price. Only once they met and trusted him, however. Such men had an aversion to writing things down—those who could write. Notes could go astray. Throats were slit for less.
As arranged, John met his translator at a tavern called the Red Dragon at the edge of the district. He had discovered Henry Tsing, son of a Chinese sailor and a Limehouse whore, through an acquaintance of an acquaintance of Rolfe’s. Henry had learned Chinese dialects as a potboy in a grogshop, and John judged him suitable as a general ear to the ground around Limehouse. “Shen may have something,” he said when John appeared.
John nodded. “Hĕn hăo.” And they set off.
Midway through the evening, it began to rain, turning the filth and litter in the narrow streets to a disgusting mush. John turned up his collar further and kept going. The hope for useful information just barely kept his spirits from sinking in the endless succession of dark, dirty holes, where men clutched their rotgut liquor or opium pipes in a desperate quest for solace.
The circuit Henry led him through took longer than John had expected. They couldn’t hurry from place to place without drawing unwanted attention. Their progress had to appear dawdling and random. He’d planned to return to the office and change his clothing before going home, but by the end of the night, he was worn out. As he left Henry at the edge of a less disreputable district, John told himself that everyone would be asleep and he trudged homeward.
Well after midnight, he crept through the alley behind the house and let himself in the back entrance. Shedding the filthy clogs and shapeless hat, he was filled with gratitude for this warm and peaceful refuge. How many men had he seen tonight who would never know such a haven? He dropped the ancient coat and stripped off mud-spattered stockings. He’d come down very early tomorrow and gather them up before they were noticed.
Barefoot, he crept through the house and up the stairs. At the door of his bedchamber, he nearly jumped out of his skin when candlelight fell over him as Mary opened her door. “John?” she said.
She stood in the opening, the small flame throwing golden light over her thin nightdress, her dark hair tumbled about her shoulders. Even bone-tired and dispirited and cold, he was stirred to his depths by the sight.
“I was worried.”
“I told you I’d be out late tonight,” he said.
“Yes, but…where are your clothes? Why are you wearing…?”
“I…was caught in the rain. I left my wet things downstairs.” He would have to go back down as soon as he placated her, John thought, and hide his disguise. The scent of violets drifted around him. There could be no greater contrast with the places he’d passed through tonight. He ached to touch her, to feel her softness and warmth, but the sights he’d seen tonight had left him feeling soiled within and without.
“You went to a reception?” Mary said.
She was looking at his mud-spattered buckskins, obviously inappropriate for a Foreign Office gathering. He’d implied, without actually saying, that such was his destination. Her face showed bewilderment and hurt. John shook his head. “It was something else.”
“What?”
“It’s confidential. I can’t talk about it.” This wasn’t absolutely true, but he didn’t want to talk to her about the dark things that went on in other parts of their city. To link Mary, even in
thought, to that bleak world of men bereft of home and family, of no women except whores… He shook his head.
“You don’t trust me?” Mary said. The candle wavered in her hand.
“I do. But much of my work simply can’t be discussed. That is its nature.”
“Work…in the middle of the night. Half-naked.”
That final word seemed to echo on the narrow landing. John became acutely aware of his bare feet and legs, his shirt hanging open. It would take less than a moment to shed the rest. The bone-deep chill of his long trek evaporated in a surge of heat, a wave of arousal. He had to have her. He couldn’t wait an instant longer.
“You have dust on your face,” Mary said. She touched his cheek, her fingertips light as a butterfly on his skin, then she looked at the smudge left on her fingers.
Though that gentle touch enflamed him almost beyond bearing, John’s hands fell to his sides and curled into fists. He’d been splashed with all manner of filth tonight. He’d held dirty glasses of rotgut that he had to pretend to drink. He’d been pawed by a drunken lightskirt and forced to endure one mucky kiss before he could be rid of her. A gin-crazed lascar had spit on his sleeve. He wasn’t fit for his marriage bed, no matter how he ached for it. “I’m exhausted, Mary,” he said. “I must get some sleep.”
Mary’s face fell. She turned away. John’s hand came up of its own accord and reached for her. He forced it down, remorseful yet resolute. Mary’s realm was this gracious house, this serene square, in the safe, respectable district he’d chosen for her. Mary was clean crisp linens, the scent of violets and baking bread, warmth and laughter. She must never be touched by London’s black underside, the remnants of which spattered him now. He waited for her to close her bedroom door, then he waited another few minutes before retrieving the sodden clothes from the scullery.
* * *
Mary didn’t see John the following morning. He was up and out earlier than ever, before even Mrs. Tanner could glimpse him. And oddly, when she inquired about his wet clothing to send to the laundress, none could be found. Whatever he’d been doing—certainly not a Foreign Office reception—he’d removed all signs of it. Just as he’d refused to tell her anything.
Sitting at the breakfast table, she broke a piece of toast into smaller and smaller pieces as she went over last night’s encounter in her mind. She couldn’t see how the work he’d described to her over dinner could ever require creeping around barely dressed in the night. But where had he been then? What were the secrets she couldn’t be allowed to know?
She crushed the last bit of toast to crumbs. He’d been here for weeks on his own, after they’d parted in anger in Somerset. Had he found someone…? The thought made her feel sick. But she couldn’t believe he’d be so clumsy and…blatant about it. And… Mary frowned. His look and manner had pointed to something more mysterious, and more sinister, than an affair.
Mary’s cheeks burned with humiliation. She’d stood before him in nothing but her nightdress, offering…everything. He must have seen that in her face. How could he not? She’d longed to throw her arms around him, lose herself in the kind of kiss that had begun to tantalize her imagination in the dark hours. He’d been so alluring, half-dressed in the candlelight, his bare throat rising from the open shirt. When she closed her eyes—and even when she didn’t—she could see him there, barelegged, primal. But he’d turned away.
Mary left her uneaten breakfast and went to sit in the front parlor. A bit of sewing unheeded in her lap, she watched rain run down the windows. The season was turning. Leaves had fallen in the square, and the garden looked much less enticing with bare branches tossing in the autumn wind. The flowers had withered; puddles dotted the gravel paths. It seemed a mirror of her marriage—waning. At one moment they had seemed about to come together, and the next they swung far apart. What should she do? Would she ever truly come to know this stranger who was also her husband of almost three years? What if she didn’t?
When she’d agreed to marry, she saw now, she hadn’t expected a great deal. An amiable companion, a settled home, her parents’ approval for her obedience. She could hardly comprehend that Mary now. Why had she asked so little of life? Why hadn’t she known, felt, that there could be so much more? The Mary she’d become since then yearned for…things she could scarcely define. A fervent, vibrant, passionate existence. If she couldn’t have that, her heart would break. All would be empty and bleak and…
“Stop this at once,” Mary said aloud. She swallowed the threat of tears. John was her husband. He would be here every day for…forever. She would figure something out. Even the old Mary hadn’t been a moper. She would not sit here feeling sorry for herself. There were plenty of tasks waiting to be done. She put aside the sewing, stood, and shook out her skirts.
In the kitchen, she found Kate and Mrs. Tanner sitting at the large wooden table near the warmth of the stove. The cook was peeling apples from a bowl. Arthur was set up in the corner blacking a pair of John’s shoes. None of them rose when Mary appeared. The women’s expressions, each line of their bodies, declared that she was no duchess. Well, she wasn’t. But she was the mistress of this house and not the least bit intimidated. It was time to have a frank talk with her staff.
“You said you wanted a pie,” Mrs. Tanner remarked, making a small gesture with her paring knife. “But I told you I bain’t much of a hand with pastry.”
“I am,” Mary responded. “I’ll make it.” She enjoyed baking. Beyond the tactile pleasure of it and the delectable results, it had been one skill her mother praised in her.
“I’m mortal fond of pie,” put in Arthur, licking his lips.
“You’re mortal fond of food,” replied Kate. “It’s a wonder you’re not fat as a flawn.”
“He needs feeding up,” said Mrs. Tanner. “I swear they must have starved the lad in Somerset.”
Mary sat at the table, ignoring the women’s surprised looks as well as Arthur’s soulful acceptance of the cook’s sympathy. “You and Kate are related,” she said to her.
“She’s my mam,” said Kate.
“For my sins,” murmured Mrs. Tanner.
Mary nodded. Since drawing the two women, she’d found the words for this necessary conversation. “This is a small household and will remain so. No peers of the realm, no large staff with specializations. I don’t plan to hire anyone else for now. If you wish to remain here, you’ll have to turn your hands to many different tasks.”
Mrs. Tanner stiffened with apprehension. Kate merely sulked.
“If you find that prospect too unpleasant…”
“No, ma’am,” the cook interrupted.
Mary looked at Kate. “You will have to take more care serving dinner.”
Arthur hooted, and Kate shot him a glare.
“Particularly because we are planning to have a guest,” Mary continued. John’s colleague couldn’t be subjected to thumping crockery and falling knives.
“She will,” said Mrs. Tanner. “I’ll see to it.”
The maid tossed her head. “I’m no footman to be hauling trays. As soon as may be, I’m going to marry a man who’ll keep me. Owner of an inn maybe.”
“Who’d marry you?” Arthur wondered. “Anyhow, you’d be serving at all kinds of tables at an inn.”
“He’d hire people to do that,” Kate replied.
“The wife of an innkeeper either cooks in the kitchen or serves at the bar,” her mother declared. “Haven’t you seen as much yourself?”
“A shop then,” Kate said.
“What, a grocer or a notions store?” Mrs. Tanner wrinkled her nose. “You’d be serving at a counter there. You have to work, my girl. You may as well accept it.”
“Too lazy,” said Arthur, who had abandoned the shoes in his interest in the conversation.
Kate turned on him. “Be quiet, you wretched boy! I don’t mind working. Nobody understands
that. It’s the kind of work.”
“What sort do you like?” Mary asked, genuinely interested.
“The stillroom,” was the prompt reply. “I like concocting things. Her Grace showed me how to make a lovely hand lotion and an herbal mixture to clear out phlegm.”
“There’s no place for a stillroom in a small house like this,” said Mrs. Tanner.
“Don’t I know it.” At her mother’s glare, Kate subsided. “I’ll do better with the serving,” she muttered.
Satisfied for now, Mary let it drop and went to the pantry to get the ingredients for a piecrust. “What happened to the dog?” she asked Arthur as she cut in shortening and mixed.
Arthur’s rag stopped moving again. “We took him back to the market square. There weren’t many people about, so Mr. Bexley said I was to wait a while so’s I could ask about an owner.”
“Talking of lazy,” Kate accused, pointing at the shoes.
Arthur went back to rubbing at the leather. “I didn’t want to be left alone with that great brute. But Mr. Bexley gave him his orders and he lay down like a lamb.” The boy’s tone was admiring. “Finally a feller came along and said it was his dog and what was I doing with him.”
Mary sent up a small prayer of thanks. She’d dreaded hearing that the animal was in need of a home. “And what did you say?” she wondered, rolling out her dough on a slab of marble she had purchased for the purpose.
Arthur assumed a look of pious virtue. “Said I’d found him wandering and was afeered he was lost.”
Kate snorted.
“So you returned him?” Mary said.
Arthur nodded. “The fella was that glad. He gave me a sixpence.”
When Mary looked at him, he grinned. There was no need to point out the irony of being rewarded for shooting a dog. Obviously, he was well aware.
* * *
The lingering awkwardness between the Bexleys had somewhat dissipated that evening when Mary learned that William Conolly had accepted their dinner invitation. “Shall we invite your brother George as well?” she asked her husband. “I’ve only just remembered that he’s stationed in London.”