But now . . . they were inside the door of a real pub. And she was openmouthed with amazement. To begin with, there were the loveliest food smells . . . the floor under her little bare feet was clean and polished, not greasy or full of splinters. There was glass in all the windows! The people here were all very much better dressed than Ma and Pa and herself; and as the three of them lingered in the doorway, she felt a rising fear that someone was going to come to send them out with hard words and blows.
But instead, a man dressed like the other people here came forward to greet them. “Ned, Meggie, yer in good time!” he exclaimed, as Mary’s sharp eyes saw money pass covertly from his hands to her Pa’s. But she didn’t get a chance to wonder about that.
“Now, I got us a table over ’ere.” He ushered them to a quiet, dark corner, out of the way, a table pushed up against the wall, near the door where people were coming out with dishes of food and going in with dirty dishes. There were two bench seats, one on either side of it. There was a big plate of food waiting there, and smaller plates to dish it into, and three glasses of beer. Mary’s mouth watered as she smelled fried ’taties and sausage, and she started to climb up onto the bench seat to sit beside her mother.
But the man took her by the shoulders and prevented her. “Not now, Mary, me luv,” he said. She looked at her Ma, who nodded as she shoveled ’taties and sausage into her plate. The man turned her around and gave her a little shove, and she saw he was shoving her at a big, red-faced woman enveloped in a huge white apron. Mary stared. It was the cleanest garment she had ever seen in her life. It was certainly whiter than any snow she had ever seen, at least where she lived, where all snow was gray by the time it fell, gray and dirty from the soot and smuts in the air. “Now you just go along of Rose there, an’ do what she tells ye. We’ll be along when ye’re ready.”
“Do wut ’e says, gurl,” her father told her, mouth full. “Yer gettin’ leg-shackled t’day. Jerry ’ere is goin’ ter Canada, an’ ’e wants a wife ter take wi’ ’im.”
Suddenly it all fell into place, and she got a funny, sort of scared, sort of good feeling in her belly. Mary’s older sister Sally had married a man that Ma and Pa had found for her that was going to Australia, just three years ago. They’d said it was better than going into service—if you weren’t being transported, the land was there for taking, you’d have your own farm before you could blink, and if you didn’t like farming, there were a hundred things a man could make his fortune doing. She didn’t care about a fortune, but going to Canada—that meant always having a full belly, and never being cold in winter, and living in a place where the wind didn’t whistle through cracks in the walls you could stick a finger in.
So Mary didn’t object, she just followed the lady named Rose through the big room, crowded with tables, then up a steep little stair, and from there, into a room like something out of a dream. There were rugs on the floor, and pretty pictures on the walls, three chairs that were all soft and padded, and something bigger than a chair that was just as soft and padded, and a table that had four good legs and wooden chairs around it that matched. And a fireplace, though there wasn’t a fire in it. In the middle of one of the rugs stood a big thing made of tin, full of hot water. Steam rose off it, that was how she knew it was hot. She stared, wondering what it was for.
“Take yer thin’s off, missy, an’ get in there fer yer bath,” said Rose.
Mary obeyed, meekly. She’d had “baths” before, but only rough ones, where Ma would take off her clothes and scrub her under the pump in the yard. Getting into a big tin pan full of hot water was strange, but after a moment, Mary decided she liked it. A lot.
She also liked the soft, sweet-smelling soap that Rose scrubbed her with, and used to wash her hair. She was sorry when the bath was over, and Rose wrapped her in a big piece of cloth and two men came to take the tin pan away.
But then Rose combed out her wet hair and braided it up on the top of her head, like a grown woman, and gave her new clothing to put on, and she nearly burst with pleasure. Stockings! She’d darned plenty, but she’d never had any of her own. Soft drawers with a row of lace on the bottoms! She’d only had drawers but the once, and that was when her skirt was so short it was a scandal, even in the East End. A sleeveless chemise with more lace! Then a real corset to go over the top, like a woman grown, and then two petticoats, not just one like Ma wore, and they were soft, creamy white, and light, not heavy flannel. And then a white blouse with lace at the neck and sleeves and all down the front, and a white skirt with three rows of lace, and a wide, white ribbon sash. And shoes! Beautiful white leather shoes! She’d never had shoes before, and even though they were too big and Rose had to stuff the toes with paper, she couldn’t stop admiring them. And then Rose put a square of lace on the top of her head and pinned it there, pinched her cheeks and told her to bite her lips.
“Yew clean up right pretty,” she said, genially, and handed Mary a bunch of violets with a white ribbon around them. “Now hold onter thet, stay where ye are. I’ll jest be going t’fetch yer Ma and Pa an’ the lad.”
Mary stood as still as she could in the middle of the rug, but standing still didn’t prevent her from looking down at the rows of ruffled lace on the bottom of her white skirt, or marveling at the pink color of her own hands, now completely free of grime. A little giddy giggle escaped her. Sally hadn’t gotten it half so good when she’d got leg-shackled! Just three skirts and waists from the pawnshop, and a few underthings, and she’d been married off in a little street chapel by a street preacher. Not even church, and they were church people. Church gave out better things to the poor than chapel did.
But it wasn’t just Ma and Pa and the man she was going to marry that came up the stairs, it was Ma and Pa and two men. One was the one she recognized, Jerry, who was going to be her husband. The other was an old man, dressed in rusty black with a bit of white at his collar, and carrying a book. That must be the preacher.
He looked at her dubiously. “How old are you, child?” he asked. She started to open her mouth to say she was twelve, but Ma stepped on her foot and Pa said loudly, “She’s fifteen. Jest small fer ’er age. She’ll fatten up right quick i’ Canada, an’ sprout up like a weed.”
Fortunately Ma had stepped on the paper the toe of her shoe had been stuffed with, but Mary took the hint. Don’t speak until you’re told to. So she stood quietly, clutching her flowers. When the preacher asked her if she would take Gerald Baker as her husband, she said yes. When he asked her to repeat the words he told her, she repeated them. It was all over very quickly. Everyone shook hands. Her new husband gave the preacher some money, and she was told to make a mark on a piece of paper, which she did, printing her name carefully and with great effort, and her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth. The preacher gave the paper to her new husband, and just like that, she was a married woman.
“You folks go an’ hev yerself a time,” said Mary’s husband. “We’ll be go board ship now, she’s off fust thing i’ the mornin’ an’ we don’ wanta miss ’er.”
“But what ’bout—” Ma began. “Jerry” laughed.
“I got clothes fer the wee gal, same as I bought the weddin’ dress, an’ it’s all aboard with me bags, in a good stout case,” he said, and patted her shoulder. “Don’ yew worry. I’m doin’ Mary right.”
“Well, all right then,” said Pa. “See, I tol’ yew this’d be Mary’s big chance!” And before Ma could say anything else, he took her elbow and hustled her away down the stairs.
The man looked down at Mary, who was still clutching her violets with both hands. “Yew c’n call me Jerry,” he said. “Or ’usband. Time t’go.”
“Yis, ’usband,” she said meekly, and took the hand he held out to her, even though she was dreadfully disappointed that she wasn’t to get any of those ’taties and sausage. But she was more used to going hungry than not, and maybe there’d be food where they were going.
He led her down the stairs, and then they beg
an a long, long walk, far out of the neighborhoods Mary knew. It had been about teatime when she and Ma and Pa had arrived at the pub, they walked for miles and miles, until the sun had started to really drop, and she and Jerry were still walking. In fact, it was so long she began to wonder; the docks weren’t that far, surely?
But why would he lie about going to the ship?
It was nearly sunset when they finally arrived—but it wasn’t to a dock or a ship. She was so tired that her head drooped, and all she paid attention to was putting one foot in front of the other. Then he suddenly turned to the left, pulling her hand so she would go with him, and she looked up, and saw they were approaching a big house, set off the street a little way, with its own bit of yard around it. It was a nicer house than she had ever seen before, all white. It was set back from the street, and had a set of three white stone steps leading up to the big front door. As he led her up the stairs, she thought about saying something about them supposed to be on a ship right now—then thought better of it. He’d lied, but maybe he’d had his reasons for lying. Like maybe he thought Pa and Ma would drink off all the money they’d been given, and then come looking for more. Which . . . was pretty likely.
And the dress was real. The shoes were real. The money he’d spent to marry her was real. The house he was unlocking right this minute was real. How was this worse than going to Canada?
So she looked up at him just as he got the door open, and asked, voice tremulous with weariness, “Is this yer ’ouse, ’usband?”
He looked down at her, unsmiling. “’Deed ’tis, wife,” he replied. “I mebbe fibbed to yer Pa ’bout Canada so’s ’e’d let us get hitched quick an’ make no fuss. Now we’re gonna go inside an’ ’ave our weddin’ supper.”
Before she could answer—and tell him the truth, that she only knew how to cook a very few things, like a sausage, or a baked ’tatie—he led her by the hand inside, locked the door behind her, and then led her through a dark passage with closed doors on either side of it. He took her all the way to the back of the house. There he opened a door on what proved to be the kitchen with a lovely lit oil lamp in the middle of the table and a red-checked oilcloth on it and not just the bare table. She’d only seen a kitchen but once, when there’d been money for a room in a house with a shared kitchen. This one was nicer, and much cleaner.
“Sit yersel’ down,” he said, gesturing at the little table pushed against the wall, with a chair on each side of it. She was so glad to get off her weary feet she didn’t even ask what he wanted cooked.
But it seemed he didn’t need a cook. He went to a cupboard and took out food; ham, cheese, onions, pickles, bread, butter. She recognized “ham” only because she’d had it a bare couple of times—at Christmas parties for poor children given by whatever parish church they were nearest at the time. And then the slices of it had been so thin you could practically see through them, just one slice per child. As she stared hungrily at the food, out came plates, glasses, and knives and forks, and he laid out the table himself. He cut ham and cheese for her, indicated that she was to help herself from the bread, onions and pickles, and turned back to the cupboard. She stared. Such thick slices! Why . . . he must be rich! No wonder he’d lied to Pa. If Pa knew her new husband was possessed of such a house and such bounty, Pa’d come touch him on a regular basis for certain. Or maybe even try to move the family in! Suddenly she felt rebellious. Why should she share this lovely place and this wonderful food with them? Half the time when there was food in the house, Pa and Ma ate it, or gave some to the boys and let her go hungry. It would be horrid having them here!
When her husband turned around again, after she had taken a little onion and pickles and piled it all on a slice of buttered bread, he had a bottle in his hands. He poured it out into the glasses; it was a beautiful color, a deep red. Gingerly, she tried it, when he gestured to her to drink.
She almost spat it out, but didn’t. So sour, though! At least it wasn’t as bitter as beer. Still . . . whatever it was—wine?—it must be expensive and she shouldn’t waste it by not drinking it. She watched him closely before starting to eat herself. He had piled his bread with ham and cheese and pickle and onion, but instead of picking it up with his hands and cramming it into his mouth like Pa would have done, he cut it into neat bits and ate it with his fork. She did the same so he wouldn’t think badly of her.
They ate and drank together in silence, and when she had finished the glass of liquid, he poured her another. By this time she had gotten somewhat used to the taste, and drank it with a bit more enthusiasm. But when the meal was over and he had put the food in the cupboard and the dishes in the sink and she went to stand, she found herself a bit wobbly and light-headed.
He didn’t seem to notice. Instead he took her by the hand again, and led her up a set of stairs at the end of the kitchen, down another passage, and into a bedroom.
She knew it was a bedroom, because there was a real bed in it. Not just the sort of broken-down thing that the whole family had crowded into to sleep when they had a bed and not the floor—and in winter, piled every scrap of clothing they had on top of themselves to try and keep warm. This was a tall, proud, brass creation, with pillows and blankets and a coverlet, with a rug at the side, and a china thing under it instead of a leaky bucket if you need to “go” in the night. And there was a stand with a pitcher and bowl for washing up, and a big wardrobe, and a chest at the foot of it. And it was all so splendid all she could do was stand on the rug and stare with both hands to her mouth.
“Bedtime,” Jerry said, and she nodded, because this was something she knew about—after all, Ma and Pa just went to it all the time, regardless of whether the kiddies were awake or asleep, so she knew she was going to have to get undressed and into that splendid bed, and he’d put his tackle in her cunny. Then there’d be some heaving and grunting and then she could go to sleep in this beautiful, soft, wonderful bed!
So she began by untying the lovely ribbon sash, and laid it over the chest, then took off her skirt and did the same, unbuttoned the waist and folded it neat and then came the petticoats. She was a little worried about getting the corset off by herself, but it hooked up the front and hadn’t been pulled at all tight, so that was all right.
And then, just as she unfastened the last hook, she heard the door close, and looked up, and realized she was alone.
Well . . . that was odd.
But maybe he didn’t want to undress in front of her? Peculiar, but today had already been full of peculiar things, so she just shrugged, and slipped out of the drawers and stockings and that pretty little chemise, and climbed into bed naked, and waited.
And waited.
And as the last of the blue dusk light faded, and out past the curtains it turned into black night, she fell asleep, still waiting.
* * *
She woke with a start, still in an empty bed.
It was long past when her Ma usually woke her, in the first light of predawn. And the reason she had awakened was because there was someone else in the room.
Not her new husband. This was a wizened little thing in a dark dress with a white apron and cap, who had placed the jug from the washstand on the floor and was filling the jug from a pail of steaming water. The little old lady put the jug back on the washstand and turned, and saw her staring from the bed.
“Breck-fuss i’ kitchen,” the old woman said, abruptly, and turned and left, taking the pail with her.
There was a breakfast? In the kitchen? That she hadn’t cooked? She knuckled both her eyes, expecting all this to be a dream, because surely she, ordinary little Mary O’Brien, hadn’t married a man who had a house, a servant to tend it, and money to eat ham whenever he chose!
But the bedroom was still there. The jug of water steamed enticingly. She got out of bed and had a wash, then peeked in the wardrobe. Sadly, there were no dresses in there; she’d hoped for some, because her sister had gotten three whole new outfits to wear out of her husband, and Jerry was obvio
usly better off.
Well since her husband had managed everything else, perhaps he’d manage some dresses too. Perhaps he’d just been waiting to be married so he could get things to fit her.
Meanwhile she had the clothes she’d been married in, after all, and she was used to wearing the same things all the time, so she put those back on—leaving off the corset this time. She discovered, looking at it, that it couldn’t be pulled any tighter than it was, so there really wasn’t any use in wearing it.
She remembered the way down to the kitchen, so down she went, her new shoes making a satisfying clicking sound with each step she took. When she emerged into the sunny kitchen, the wizened old lady was scrubbing pans and paid no attention to her. But there was a big plate of cooling food on the table, and a cup of tea, so she took her seat and contemplated the bounty.
Eggs, she’d had—she and her brothers and sister had often stolen pigeon eggs in season out of the nests in the roofs of any house they could clamber on without being chased away. So she recognized those. And sausage, bacon, and toast. But not the slices of red things with crisped edges or the odd brown things. And she knew beans, but these beans were swimming in a sort of orange-brown sauce and not boiled up plain. But it was all food, and food was not to be wasted, so she waded into it, prepared to like everything.
The red things were strange, but in the end she decided she liked them. The brown things had a strange texture and an earthy taste she wasn’t sure she liked, but she ate them anyway. But she had never had that much food in one sitting before, and when her plate was empty, she pushed away from the table feeling as if she wanted to sleep again.
The Bartered Brides (Elemental Masters) Page 3