Jane and the Sins of Society

by Sarah Waldock

  “Thank you, for that, Jane-girl,” said Caleb, softly.

  “I love him dearly,” said Jane. “He is happy as our son, and I do not want anything to disturb that.”

  “I understand,” said Caleb. “If he is not happy, but knows nothing against Ginger, then we might take the child, and provide enough instruction in gentility and fair speech to then consider the sort of boarding school which takes illegitimate children.”

  “An excellent suggestion,” said Jane, nodding. “Are those our intrepid racers?”

  “No, just Mr. Grey,” said Caleb. “I’m going to have a word with Montgomery’s man.”

  He slid soundlessly up into the carriage where the servant was sitting, waiting; and showed the man his occurrence book.

  “Gawd!” said the valet. “Whaddya want with me, squire? I thought you was a gent.” His previously cultivated accent slipped rather.

  “I am a gentleman,” said Caleb. “Bow Street employs me as a consultant with regards to crimes amongst the gentry. And we can do this the easy way where I have an informal word with you, or I can get one of my more formal colleagues to take you in. Your choice.”

  “Not much of one, is it? Especially as I ain’t done nothing’,” said the valet.

  “Well, this is what I want to determine,” said Caleb. “Name?”

  “Matthew Coxsedge,” said the man.

  “Very well, Coxsedge,” said Caleb. “Now, bear in mind, I’m willing to suppose that whoever damaged that Draisine didn’t know that it might be enough to risk life and limb; that it might have been a prank; or that it might have been because of the way betting went. In the light of my suppositions, is there anything you would care to tell me?”

  Coxsedge shrugged.

  “I know full well how dangerous it can be coming off one of them things; haven’t I physicked my master often enough? If you’re asking if I did it, the answer is a resounding ‘no’, Sir Caleb. I have a good position and I ain’t about to lose it. Did I bet on Mr. Grey? Yes, I did. But I wouldn’t need no sabotage of Mr. Montgomery’s hobby horse to win, because metal wheels is better, stand to reason. And you think so too.”

  “I do,” said Caleb. “And it’s no crime to bet against your master, though I’ll not tell him you did so; he might wax wrathful.”

  Coxsedge gave a half-hearted laugh.

  “Aye, he would,” he agreed. “Thank ‘ee for that, Sir Caleb. If you are asking if Mr. Christopher might of done it, well, I couldn’t answer that. I don’t say as he might not do such a thing, being just a schoolboy, and that jealous of Mr. Montgomery’s time, but I ain’t seen him do it, and I ain’t had no clue that he might of done it.”

  “A fair answer. Jealous of Montgomery’s time? He seemed most angry about his brother and to dislike him.” Caleb liked the way Coxsedge handled himself; he was nervous, but his willingness to look directly at Caleb, looking away with a frown only to think suggested honesty. Caleb could read a man well, something he had learned in the army, and he believed this one.

  Coxsedge shrugged.

  “Well, that’s the way it come out, ain’t it? He used to follow Mr. Montgomery round like a tantony pig, but he ain’t going to do that now he’s almost a young gentleman, is he? So he acts like he don’t like Mr. Montgomery above half to blow off his feelings about wanting more attention. See, if Mr. Montgomery weren’t mucking about with this dratted pedestrian machine, he might be teaching the young shaver to drive better. Or he might not, but the way Mr. Christopher sees it is that the Draisine is taking his brother away, Gawdstruth, I didn’t mean to make you think that was a good reason to break the ruddy thing”

  “It is a good reason to break the ruddy thing, and a better reason than if he wanted his brother dead so he could inherit, which could be an interpretation without so lucid a depiction of the young shaver’s wild jealousy,” said Caleb. “And as well, if he did damage it, for him to take it out on a soulless machine than on a young lady if Mr. Montgomery starts courting. Or a young gentleman,” he added, as Coxsedge looked shifty.

  “I didden say nuffink,” said Coxsedge, losing all semblance of learned speech.

  “No, you didn’t, and it’s none of my business in any case,” said Caleb. “Right; when you stow that contraption tonight, you have a good look around and see if someone hasn’t left a metal-saw or a fine file around somewhere, and if they have, you turn them over to me, see? And rather than poke into your household, I’ll leave you to ask any other servants if they’ve seen anything.”

  Coxsedge looked relieved.

  “I can do that, sir,” he said. “Thanks for not pokin’ in, Mr. Montgomery wouldn’t like it, straight up he wouldn’t.”

  Caleb sighed.

  “I ought to question the cub,” he said.

  “Please, sir, I can put a question, casual like, about whether he done it for a lark,” Coxsedge said.

  Caleb considered; then nodded.

  “Very well, I’ll leave you to be my deputy in that, and if you think he’s not being straight with you, then I can question him myself. I think your master has got his machine back on the road, judging by the cheers outside; are you going to cheer him on?”

  Coxsedge gave a rueful grin.

  “It hardly seems honest when I’ve bet against him, but he’d be monstrous hurt if I did not.”

  “Aye, lad, that’s what I thought,” said Caleb, getting out of the carriage. He went to relay to Jane what Coxsedge had said, as private in a crowd as anywhere.

  Jane listened seriously.

  “And if, as I believe you surmised, he is Mr. Montgomery’s lover, he would not wish to harm him without good reason.”

  “Now how the devil did you know I thought that, Jane-girl? I never said anything about it.”

  “You didn’t say anything about it quite loudly, my love,” said Jane.

  Chapter 8

  The Draisine race was won, by some notable margin, by Mr. Grey, to Mr. Montgomery’s chagrin. The two young men shook hands, and returned their respective pedestrian curricles to their carriages. It was notable that the largely metal Draisine was swung up more easily than the wooden one.

  “And that’s why it won; it’s lighter and yet just as strong and resilient,” said Caleb. “And what’s more, I’m going to have mine made by a carriage maker, and have the hub run with Vaughan’s patent ball bearings in for a smoother ride, and a better speed coasting.”

  “How does that work?” asked Jane.

  “Well, you know a simple wheel has axle-grease to allow it to turn on the hub?” said Caleb.

  “Yes,” Jane nodded.

  “Well, a ball bearing is a cylinder between the hub and the axle, or what passes for an axle in a Draisine, which has metal balls in it, which are also greased. Now you think about if you tried to rub two bits of wood, say, together, and how hard it would be to shift them. Easier if you put grease between them. But suppose you had Simon’s marbles between them...”

  “Ah, I understand,” said Jane. “Much freer-running.”

  “Yes, and when they first started putting bearings in carriage wheels, it was said that one horse could then do the work that would strain two horses without bearings. And ball bearings are the best sort of all, and they were invented about twenty-five or thirty years ago, and Robert Vaughan took out a patent, and I only know that because I was involved in a case where someone sold sub-standard bearings claiming they were Vaughan’s patent, and it killed someone when they shattered.”

  “My goodness! You must certainly get good ones then,” said Jane. “They took a long time to get up to speed; that would mean you could do so with less effort and more quickly?”

  “Exactly,” said Caleb, “and that means I wouldn’t be exhausted to start off either in a race or when chasing a crook.”

  “It seems a good idea; why have others not done so?” asked Jane.

  “They might well have done; what you have to realise, Jane-girl, is that a Draisine is not like a carriage of a particular
type, which is, by and large, made to a similar design, as you may see in Felton’s treatise on carriages. A Draisine is made by a blacksmith, a carriage-maker or even a carpenter with knowledge of wheel-wrighting. I’ve seen one as simple as a straight piece of wood with the wheels depended from triangles and the front wheel turned because the turning mechanism is another straight piece of wood held with a simple wooden pintle. The steering handle was wood too, and looked most unwieldy. Grey’s Draisine, as well as being metal, is a more sophisticated piece of machinery overall than Montgomery’s, which is not unlike the one I tried out at Sir Nathanial’s, and even so is more sophisticated than some early ones. Ball bearings as part of the turning element of the steering handle might not be a bad idea as well.”

  “I agree; if you can turn the wheel more easily, you can swerve out of trouble better,” said Jane. “However, if you manage a greater speed, remember it will be harder to stop.”

  “I may ask to have a drag-shoe fitted to the front wheel, that I can release to arrest its movement,” said Caleb. “That would make it a great deal safer. And I’ll have the seat on a ruddy leafspring as well; I don’t want my manhood bounced out of shape.”

  “Nor do I,” said Jane. “Ah, but my dear, you are approaching this as a man looking for a vehicle, not as a boy looking for a thrill.”

  “Too right,” said Caleb.

  “The saw was prigged from an ironmonger’s shop,” said Ginger. “The cove as runs it uses it to trim fings to size. Railings and the like.” The child was sitting on the floor, petting Nat, who was making happy snoring noises, which Jane thought too like a cat’s purr not to wonder about the unfortunate animal’s upbringing. However, Nat was happy enough, so maybe it was best not to worry.

  “Makes sense,” said Caleb. “Did he give you that shiner?”

  The child put a cautious hand up to the bruised eye.

  “Nah, sir, that were the cove who were lurking arahnd Mr. Montgomery’s ken, when they got back. He weren’t pleased above half when Mr. Montgomery got out as chipper as ‘e might be for ‘avin’ lost, and told the fart-catcher to stow his hobby-horse.”

  “I wager he didn’t call it a hobby-horse, though,” said Caleb. “What did you do to annoy this onlooker?”

  “’E calls it a ‘Dray-zeen’,” said the child, in a fairly good mimicry of Montgomery’s cultured tones. “And I asked the feller what was ‘angin’ arahnd if he was new in the neighbourhood and if so, I could find any shop for him if he dropped me a groat. And he back’anded me.” There was a sniff which Caleb thought was of pain.

  “What a nasty fellow,” said Caleb. “What did he look like?”

  “Well, ‘e was dressed like a fart-catcher, but if you ask me ‘e looked more like a bully-ruffian from a bawdy-house, a Captain Hackum for Miss Laycock as you might say.”

  “Well, I expect respectable people aren’t averse to having footmen or valets who can take care of themselves,” said Caleb. “My man is very good with his fambles in a tight spot. A lot of people hire on retired pugilists.”

  Ginger considered for a moment, then the effulgent locks were shaken, positively.

  “Nah, ‘e weren’t no retired pugilist, milord, ‘e ‘adn’t got the ears for it, no more the nose, so ‘e was either so good ‘e wouldn’t ‘ave to be nobody’s servant, or ‘e weren’t good enough that nobody would take ‘im on as protection.”

  “That makes sense, well thought out,” said Caleb. “So was he swarthy or pale? Blond or dark?”

  “’E was wearin’ a wig, so I couldn’ see ‘is ‘air,” said Ginger. “Mind, ‘is stubble was dark, so chances are, ‘e’s dark too outside o’ a wig. And ‘e’s more swart than pale. Tall, but not like you. Beefy, but ‘e ‘as a beer gut. Any good?”

  “Very well done,” said Caleb.

  “I follered ‘im.”

  “You did? Were you seen?”

  “Nah, but I lost ‘im in traffic off of Cheapside.”

  “Ah well,” said Caleb. “If you see him again, you let me know. Here, that’s worth a hind coach wheel,” he added, handing over a crown.

  “I like being an informant,” said Ginger, with a grin.

  Jane looked up from the letter she was reading.

  “This is a letter from Simon, which is a more grown-up version of the name ‘Simmy’, and is what he likes to be called now,” she said to Ginger. “He tells me you have ‘no adequate sort of parent,’ and I wondered what he means by that.”

  “Oh, I have a Da, but he were took up by the pressgang. ‘E ain’t any loss to me and I don’t suppose ‘e’s any gain to the Royal Navy neither. ‘E might be dead for all I know; if ‘e weren’t killed by Frenchies, ‘e’ll of irritated someone wiv a cat o’ nine tails.”

  Apparently Ginger had no particular affection for this errant parent.

  Jane smiled.

  “Simon also asked me to tell you that he thinks you would be a bene sister and would easily learn to be a swell mort.”

  “’E told you I was a girl?” Ginger gasped.

  “No; I told him I had met a girl he once knew, and I asked him about you. I knew you were a girl when I first met you,” said Jane.

  “Swelp me! What give me away?” demanded Ginger.

  “The way you moved; your slender hands; the fact that you wear bulky clothes, and most particularly the way you giggled,” said Jane. “The question is, would you like my husband and me to adopt you? There would be hard work in learning to speak like a lady, and behave as one, but Simon has learned to be a gentleman, and his opinion of you is high.”

  “Cuh!” said Ginger. “Well, see, on the one hand, it’s a full belly all the time, on the other, what sort of cage would I find myself in, ‘aving to be a lidy?”

  “A good question,” said Jane. “And I don’t deny that there are restrictions and a slavery to convention, in public at least, to which a lady is subjected. Simon says that he has seen you pick up a guitar and pick out a tune by ear, but I would expect you to learn to play the pianoforte from music as well. I would not stop you from strumming by ear as an amusement and an inducement to learn to play better,” she added, having seen the covert looks the young girl had been casting at Jane’s own pianoforte. “And if you wanted to, I would also be happy for you to help us out by pretending to be a street child.”

  “You’d let me cut loose and do that?”

  “Simon makes a very convincing kinchin zad at times, when we need him to. He goes out with a crutch, and looks a most disreputable object. At home and at his lessons, he is the perfect gentleman.”

  Ginger made a face.

  “I ain’t looking forward to lessons,” she said.

  Jane smiled.

  “And I thought you’d enjoy reading novels,” she said.

  Ginger brightened.

  “You’d let me read novels?”

  “I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t; I do.”

  “I’m scared of being confined.”

  “Of course you are. But you need to also consider that if I am noticing that you are a girl, the older you get, the more likely it is that some lewd fellow will also notice. And then, before you know where you are, you’ll find yourself in the slavery of prostitution.”

  Ginger nodded.

  “Missus, you’re dead to rights! An’ when you puts it that way, there ain’t no contest, is there?”

  “Well, I don’t think so, but we wouldn’t adopt you without you making the choice for yourself.”

  “Missus! That’s bene of you!”

  “I won’t make anyone do something against their will,” said Jane. “Now, if you go through the concealed door I will show you, there is a jug and ewer, for washing the hands after using the bramah closet. You are, of course welcome to use the closet for the purpose for which it is intended as well, but whether you do or not, I want your hands clean and properly dried on the towel there. And then you may play upon the pianoforte until we eat, which will be in about an hour. What is your real name?”

&nbs
p; “Cissy,” said Ginger.

  “Cecily is the full name of that,” said Jane.

  “Yerse, in the parish book it’s Cecily Jane Davison,” said Ginger, disappearing into the bramah closet.

  Some time passed, and there was the sound of the water flushing, and presently she emerged.

  “That’s a bene contraption,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Jane. “It is also possible for someone lurking in there to hear everything that goes on in this room, or the book room the other side. It’s why we had the closet put in there in the first place; when I first lived here, there were deep alcoves in each room. I first met Caleb, and incidentally, Simmy, after my first husband was murdered, and although I did not like Frank very much, I wanted to find his murderer. Having the ability to have a witness to conversations, hidden in a concealed closet, seemed like a good idea.”

  “Cuh!” said Ginger. “I gets what you means, missus, I don’t like my da much, but if he was murdered, rather than getting killed in a regular sort of way, I’d want to know who done it, and avenge him.”

  “Exactly,” said Jane. She took the little girl’s hands and examined them.

  They were clean enough to pass muster, and the tide mark at the wrist might be ignored for now.

  “Very well, Cecily, I will adjust the piano stool for your height, and you may play,” said Jane. It was a tussle with herself to let this disreputable child loose on her beautiful grand piano, but one had to begin trusting somewhere, and if the child thumped on it, then she might be banned from any but the nursery upright pianoforte until she had learned better.

  Ginger sat down at the pianoforte, and Jane was startled to hear a popular air played with verve and fair accuracy, and with improvised chords. The child did not abuse the keyboard, and Jane heaved a sigh of relief.

  After dinner, which they ate at an early hour, Jane bathed Cecily, and put her to bed in the room Dorothy had occupied. The child had done well in noticing this beefy footman, but if the fellow was more sinister than young Cecily seemed to think, then it was probably as well to get her off the street as soon as possible. They could disguise her better for another time.