The Rise and Fall of Becky Sharp

by Sarra Manning

  In fact, the only time Becky could be persuaded to take a proper break from her vigil was when Rawdon Crawley popped round most evenings to check on his aunt. Rawdon, and only Rawdon, was able to get Becky to eat something, especially if he popped into Nando’s on his way to Primrose Hill for a chicken burger to go. He’d spend an hour with Becky in her room and if one were to listen closely at the door – someone like, say, Briggs – then they’d hear the low murmur of conversation.

  ‘You don’t really mean that, do you?’ the eavesdropper might hear Becky say as they pressed their ear right to the door. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to do that.’

  ‘That’s because you have such low expectations of me,’ Rawdon might reply in a voice that, helpfully, had been trained to carry. ‘But I won’t let you down. Not ever. I promise.’

  There might be a pause, then muffled sounds, and sometimes Becky even laughed, though the poor girl had had precious little to laugh about with her dear friend and mentor so ill. So it was wonderful that by the time Rawdon left Becky’s room each evening, she no longer looked pale and wraith-like from her nursing duties, but positively radiant and glowing.

  ‘Oh … Rawdon offered to pick up Mattie’s prescription,’ Becky explained vaguely when Briggs dared to wonder what they got up to behind closed doors. ‘It took a while for him to persuade me. You know how irresponsible he can be.’

  ‘Probably wants to get his hands on her Tramadol,’ Briggs said archly, expecting Becky to throw in an acid remark of her own, but instead she shot Briggs a reproachful look which made him quake in his loafers.

  ‘Rawdon’s sworn off all that. He’s not even drinking, he promised me,’ Becky said, and though this was surprising news to Briggs, he was beginning to realise that Becky Sharp’s powers of persuasion were not to be underestimated.

  And though everyone expected the worst, the worst never happened. Due to Becky’s tender care and because Dame Matilda had only had a chest infection but had acted like she had pleural pneumonia, she rallied.

  By the time May came into bloom along with the pink blossoms on the trees outside, there really wasn’t that much wrong with Dame Matilda. She was still staying in bed until midday but that was mostly due to her own sloth rather than ill health.

  ‘I was at death’s door,’ Dame Matilda insisted once she was up to receiving visitors again. ‘Darling Becky pulled me back from the brink. I don’t know what I’d have done without her.’

  At all hours of the day, the great and good of London’s thespian community came to call or sent round huge bouquets of flowers and bottles of Matilda’s favourite Ruinart champagne. So, it wasn’t really that much of a surprise when Sir Pitt Crawley himself turned up on the doorstep.

  Although it was quite a surprise that he was in a smart suit and had even been to his barber in Jermyn Street for a shave and a haircut.

  ‘Is Mattie expecting you?’ Becky asked when Firkin silently indicated that there was someone waiting for her in the morning room, and she found Sir Pitt posing by the fireplace, hand on the mantelpiece, his face in profile to show off his left, and best, side. ‘I hope you haven’t come to tap her for a loan and send her into a relapse?’

  ‘My little Becky would never have dared to talk to her Pitt like that when she was at Queen’s Crawley,’ Sir Pitt noted sadly.

  ‘Yes, but we’re not at Queen’s Crawley.’ Becky spread her arms. ‘That’s why the heating’s still on even though it’s May and there’s not a single cobweb or spider to be found.’

  ‘So, you’re not missing us then?’ Pitt flung himself down on to a primrose-yellow sofa so he could put his hand to his forehead as if he were suffering some deep, existential angst. ‘Because I haven’t come to see Mattie. I’ve come to see you. To take you home.’

  Becky pulled a face. It was either that or burst out laughing. ‘Back to muddy Mudbury? No, thank you!’

  ‘Come and sit next to Sir Pitt,’ he cajoled, patting the seat next to him in an inviting manner.

  ‘Again, no thank you.’ Becky took a step back. ‘Was there anything else? Because I’ve got things to do.’

  ‘Where is that soft, yielding creature that I used to know? That I used to hold?’

  ‘You mean, when you used to take advantage of me because I was entirely at your mercy in that wreck of a house in the back of beyond?’ Becky asked sweetly. ‘I think you’ll find that was sexual harassment, actually.’

  ‘Such harsh words for the tender moments we shared,’ Sir Pitt declared in shocked tones and cast another mournful glance at Becky. Then at last he realised that he was on a hiding to nothing, and sat up straight. ‘Rosa’s left me. Run off with her Brazilian masseur and didn’t bother taking the children with her, so you have to come back, Becky. We need you.’

  Becky did burst out laughing then. ‘Rosa ran off with Javier? Good on her! Though, obviously, not from your perspective,’ she added as Pitt glared at her.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘So you can see my predicament.’

  ‘I can, but it’s not my predicament. I’m not coming back to take care of your children,’ Becky scoffed.

  ‘But it’ll be different! You won’t have Rosa interfering and having conniptions each time they eat a chicken nugget or want to watch a cartoon.’ Pitt smiled in what he thought was a winning manner. Becky wasn’t entirely sure but it was almost as if he were fluttering his eyelashes at her. ‘You’ll have sole charge of the children.’

  ‘That’s really not the incentive that you seem to think it is. The answer’s no,’ Becky said firmly and with a grim finality that made Sir Pitt huff like a wolf demanding entry.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Rebecca, I’ll marry you then. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ he added knowingly. ‘Rosa and I were never officially married, you see. Got some tinpot shaman in the Mojave Desert to do the honours, so now I can make an honest woman of my little Becky.’ He stroked a hand down his chest and left it to linger suggestively at his crotch. ‘Little Pitt and little Becky reunited. What fun we shall have.’

  ‘No. No way. Not going to happen.’ Becky was implacable to the demands of both Sir Pitt and Little Pitt.

  He pouted. ‘But I miss you. The children miss you. Even the middle one. Theodor? Thaddeus? What is the little bugger’s name?’

  ‘Thisbe, and it’s still no. It’s always going to be no,’ Becky said.

  ‘But I’ll wash and shave every day; we can have it written into the wedding vows if you like,’ Pitt offered and Becky, though she’d never, ever imagined that he’d propose to her, couldn’t believe that he was being so dogged about them being joined in matrimony.

  ‘Tempting an offer as it is, it’s still no,’ she said a little desperately now, because Sir Pitt just didn’t seem to be getting the message and she’d just heard a noise outside the door – a little gasp, which could only be Briggs.

  A coy look came over Sir Pitt’s distinguished features. ‘Now, I think I know what’s behind all this playing hard to get, not that I don’t enjoy the dance.’ He was definitely fluttering his eyelashes now. ‘I may have led you to believe that I was one step away from abject penury but actually, well, that’s not altogether true. In layman’s terms, I suppose I could be considered quite wealthy.’ He smiled winningly. ‘Wealthy enough to have a new central heating system installed in Queen’s Crawley, if that would seal the deal.’

  ‘Of course you’re wealthy,’ Becky said wearily. ‘You get at least two million quid every time you pop off to Japan to shoot those coffee ads, but I still can’t marry you.’ For the first time, a note of real regret crept into her voice. ‘I’m sorry, but I just can’t.’

  He was back to huffing like a wolf with a house that he had to blow down. ‘Give me one good reason why not.’

  Becky strained her ears. There didn’t seem to be anyone still lingering outside the door but to be on the safe side, she walked over to where Sir Pitt was sitting and leaned over, a hand on either side of his head, which was the closest that he’d ever
get to her breasts again. He closed his eyes in near ecstasy. ‘I can’t marry you,’ she husked, and to Sir Pitt’s horror and the audible delight of the person listening outside the door, she added, ‘because I’m already married.’

  Chapter 17

  Becky left Sir Pitt gobsmacked and stupefied on the sofa so she could waylay Briggs and prevent him from going upstairs.

  ‘Oh my! Quelle scandale!’ he said, his arms wrapped around his tubby body as if he couldn’t quite contain himself. ‘Who knew? How thrilling!’

  Becky grabbed hold of his arm and frogmarched him down the hall and into the kitchen. ‘Not a word of this to anyone,’ she warned. ‘Or you won’t like the consequences.’

  Briggs made a big show of rubbing his arm. ‘So butch,’ he complained. ‘I don’t know why you’re being so mean to me. Though you were much meaner to Sir Pitt.’

  There was no point in trying to talk any sense into Briggs, so with a firm order to get rid of Sir Pitt by any means necessary, Becky made for the stairs. She must see Dame Matilda before Briggs got there first.

  Her steps were heavy as she ascended, as if she were wading through treacle in gumboots. It wasn’t often that Becky felt nervous, but her mouth was dry, all the moisture in her mouth having migrated to her forehead and her upper lip, which were suddenly sweating. Not that there was anything to be nervous about. It was all going to be fine. Better than fine.

  She knocked on Dame Matilda’s door and opened it to find the lady herself sitting up in bed in her favourite pale-blue satin bedjacket, with a welcoming smile on her face. Suddenly Becky wasn’t nervous any more – her friendship with Matilda could survive anything.

  ‘I hear Pitt’s been sniffing about,’ Mattie said brightly. ‘Thank God, you managed to head him off. What did he want anyway?’

  Becky took her time tidying away the pile of newspapers and magazines and a half-eaten box of Fortnum & Mason chocolates, so she could sit down on the bed. ‘You’re going to love this,’ she said confidently. ‘He … well, he asked me to marry him!’

  ‘He did what?’ Dame Matilda threw her head back and let out a peal of delighted laughter. She laughed so long and so hard that the bed shook and tears leaked from her eyes. Becky wondered if she might be having a relapse after all.

  ‘I’m going to get you a glass of water,’ she decided, but Dame Matilda’s hand shot out and gripped her wrist.

  ‘You’ll do no such thing! This is the most hilarious joke I’ve heard in years.’ And she was off again with the shaking and the tears, until finally she subsided with a couple of hiccups and patted Becky’s hand instead of clutching it in a death grip. ‘I hope you let the old goat down gently.’

  Becky took a deep breath. ‘Quite gently.’ She exhaled. ‘You see, I can’t marry him when, well, I’m already married.’

  Dame Matilda widened her eyes and silently ‘oooh’ed. ‘Are you? You kept that quiet, you sneaky little thing. Was it some teenage act of bravado?’

  ‘No, not really. I mean, I’m not really a teenager any more. I’m almost twenty-one.’

  ‘I’m not quite sure I follow you.’ Dame Matilda had become very still, like the Dowager Countess in Lyndon Place before she’d been killed off in her prime. ‘And who exactly is the lucky man?’

  Never before had Becky looked so innocent, so unworldly. ‘Well, it’s Rawdon, of course,’ she said.

  There was a moment of silence that seemed to last for an eternity yet was over far, far too soon as Dame Matilda made a strange, choked sound at the back of her throat. She spluttered for a few seconds – perhaps this time she really was having a relapse. But Becky didn’t offer to fetch a glass of water, instead staring at the dame with the same calm expression on her face.

  ‘Are you pregnant?’ Matilda finally gasped once she’d regained the power of speech. ‘Is that how you trapped him?’

  Becky felt herself go clammy but forced herself to remain poised, to not give her agitation away by so much as a twitch of her fingers. ‘I’m not pregnant …’

  ‘Then why on earth did he marry you?’

  ‘We’re in love,’ Becky persevered, though the word ‘love’ felt strange as she said it. It left a bad taste in her mouth. ‘Just like you wanted.’

  ‘Like I wanted?’ Dame Matilda echoed incredulously. ‘Why would you think this clandestine marriage is what I wanted?’

  Becky patted Matilda’s clawed hand just the once before the other woman yanked it away as if Becky had just given her an electric shock. Becky couldn’t help but sigh. ‘Mattie, I appreciate this might be a surprise, but you were the one who constantly threw Rawdon and I together, and what can I say?’ She shrugged helplessly. ‘Love blossomed.’

  ‘Love blossomed, my arse! You didn’t have to get married after knowing each other all of five minutes. I thought you’d have a fling, a brief affair, and he’d have his heart broken a little, which would be the making of him. Not this!’ The dame’s eyes narrowed. ‘There’s only one reason why you’d want to get married so young, and that’s because you thought you were on to a good thing.’

  ‘You’re being very unfair, Mattie. Is it really so strange that I might want to spend the rest of my life with Rawdon, when he’s funny and handsome and kind and …?’

  ‘Weak and gullible and easily led, and you, Miss Becky Sharp, amusing as you are to have about the place, are cunning, conniving and cruel. I’ll concede that life has made you that way, and I pity you for that, but I know that instead of just breaking his heart a little, you’ll break him. You won’t be able to stop yourself,’ Matilda said and there was real fear in her voice, in the shadowed look in her rheumy blue eyes. Foolish to be fearful, really. Becky had no intention of breaking Rawdon. He’d be no good to her if he was broken.

  ‘I wouldn’t say I was cruel. Was I cruel when I was nursing you around the clock and waiting on you hand and foot?’ Becky reminded her softly. Yes, her reasons for nursing Mattie round the clock might not have been entirely selfless, but she’d really gone above and beyond in her performance as a dutiful, caring companion. ‘Really, I don’t know why you can’t be happy for us.’

  Matilda thumped one of her Pratesi pillows. ‘Because there’s something rotten in the state of Denmark,’ she quoted, though Becky looked at her blankly, because what had Denmark got to do with anything? She’d never got as far as Shakespeare in school. ‘You’re after my money. Of course you are! Why else did you conduct this so-called romance behind my back? Didn’t even ask for my blessing. Oh no! You thought you’d present me with a fait accompli and pass it off as true love. I don’t believe you love anyone but yourself!’ She scooped up a handful of chocolates and threw them at Becky, who didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as blink, even when a violet cream bounced off nose. ‘Get out and don’t come back! And you can tell Rawdon that he’s not getting a single penny out of me. I’m calling my solicitor today to have my will changed.’

  Becky stood up far too slowly for Dame Crawley’s liking. She was still outwardly placid but if Matilda hadn’t turned her face away in a fit of pique, she’d have seen the positively feral glint in Becky’s green eyes.

  ‘Shall we talk about this when you’ve calmed down?’ Becky asked in a soothing, level voice that didn’t waver or indicate how close she was to hitting the dame over her head with a copy of Grazia.

  ‘I WILL NEVER BE CALM ABOUT THIS! GET OUT! GO ON, GET OUT!’ She paused to rally her strength and Becky lingered by the door to see if, this time, please God, she really was going to relapse. A short, sharp, fatal heart attack to put them all out of her misery, but no. ‘BRIGGS!’

  Briggs came bustling in immediately as, of course, he’d been listening at the door. As Becky brushed past him, he was actually rubbing his thighs in glee. ‘Mattie, dear,’ he gasped. ‘The nerve of that girl. I always thought there was something untrustworthy about her.’

  ‘Yes! Yes!’ Dame Matilda agreed, her cheeks stained a mottled purple, her voice thin and reedy. ‘Something about her eyes a
nd the set of her mouth, as if she was secretly laughing at me but I was too much of a silly old woman to see it.’

  ‘You’re not silly or old!’ Briggs cried, though actually the pair of them were both of those things. ‘You’ve gone a strange colour.’

  ‘My pills …’ She clawed at her throat with a crabbed hand as Briggs froze in horror. Then the moment passed and she glared at him. ‘I’m not dying, you silly bugger. I wouldn’t give that girl the satisfaction.’

  That girl was packing her bags. Or rather packing two vintage Louis Vuitton cases that had been shoved in the back of a cupboard, and which Dame Matilda would never miss because she couldn’t even remember buying them, along with the gold cigarette case, hip flask and powder compact that Becky had found in a drawer while the old lady was on her sickbed. It wasn’t as if the dame had ever once offered to pay Becky for the hours and hours that she’d nursed her, so who could blame Becky for taking a few items in lieu? She also packed every last piece of clothing lent to her by her former benefactor, called an Uber to Rawdon’s account and then slipped out of the front door, slamming it so hard behind her that one of the adjacent window boxes came tumbling to the ground in a mess of earth and crushed scarlet geraniums.

  Upstairs, Dame Matilda heard the slam and crash and shuddered.

  ‘Like a ghost walking over my grave,’ she murmured quietly and though he’d said that he’d never trusted her (it seemed the right thing to say), Briggs was already missing Becky Sharp. He’d never been any good at dealing with the more mercurial aspects of Matilda Crawley’s personality.

  ‘Fan letters,’ he said a little desperately, holding out a pile of post he’d been clutching, his excuse for lurking outside the door while the women fought. ‘That will cheer you up.’