by Dray Wray
I stood naked apart from my stockings and my shoes. Even in my rage I knew that the small heel gave me height and my anger made me taller than I had ever been before. The young rake was now standing, and I saw a smile cross his face.
One of Mr Truegood’s sea-shanty friends said to the rake, ‘You’re a lucky man – she’s a beauty. I will pay you double – treble – if you will sell her to me.’
‘She is not for sale, sir,’ he replied.
I was furious with my father. I’d had enough of this unbearable man, of his mean, stingy ways, of his neglect.
‘You have treated me, your daughter, as nothing more than a servant,’ I said, picking up the clothes. ‘Here, take the stinking rags.’
I threw them onto the card table, scattering aces and queens.
‘You are no daughter of mine,’ shouted Mr Truegood. ‘You are a bastard. Your mother duped me. When I married her you were already aboard.’
The revelation was a flash of the most brilliant blue ever to have appeared in such an ill-lit room. It liberated me instantly from any obligation to this obnoxious man. I picked up the wine I had brought from the kitchen and went up to Mr Truegood. His face was blotchy, his lips pursed, his glazed eyes near bursting out of his head to see me so brazenly standing there.
I poured the whole bottle over his wig.
He was too drunk to do anything except stare at me, wine dripping off his lips, his chin and down on to his grubby stock. He didn’t resist as I took the house keys from his pocket.
‘You are mad, you will end your days in Bedlam,’ he said.
‘I am mad,’ I said. ‘Mad with rage at you.’
‘What a bottom she has,’ said one of the rum gamblers.
‘And what duddies,’ said his companion. ‘Milksoft sweet they are.’
Ignoring them, I went up to the rake.
‘You can’t go out like that, girl,’ Mr Truegood managed to mutter. ‘You’re not decent.’
I turned back to him and spat in his face.
‘I would call you a dog but that is an insult to a noble creature. You, sir, are nothing but a turd in the gutter of humanity.’
And with that I left the room. At the front door the stranger gave me his coat and I put it on. And so I finally left the house in Milk Street as near naked as when I had first entered it.
My fury was such that I hadn’t taken in the young man. It was only when we were in the carriage that he burst out laughing. It was a laugh that could belong to no one other than Mercy.
‘Did you really not recognise me?’ she said.
I was still so red-raw with rage that I couldn’t quite believe it was she. I looked her in the eyes. There was no mistaking my Mercy.
‘You were spectacular,’ she said.
‘Why didn’t you take me with you when you left? Why did you leave me in that house to rot? Not one letter, not one word – nothing!’ For the first time tears welled in my eyes. ‘Let me out of this carriage,’ I demanded and tried to push her away. ‘Tell the coachman to stop.’
As I put my hand on the carriage door she pulled me towards her. Stronger than me by far, she held me tight. There was no doubting she made a very fine gentleman, but I was too furious to be still and did my best to free myself, to little effect.
‘If you had any care of me,’ I said, fighting back molten tears that burned my cheeks, ‘you wouldn’t have deserted me.’
‘Come,’ Mercy said softly, stroking my face. ‘Let us not argue. At least I rescued you. Or rather you rescued yourself – I merely opened the door and lent you my coat.’
Her very touch awoke all desire. Anger, passion, all is one and all have much the same effect. Mercy kissed me. Her kisses turned my anger into an ache.
‘I won you, remember,’ she said, laughing.
Her hand slipped inside the coat and down to the place she knew well. At that moment I cared little if the whole world saw us. Mercy lay me down on the velvet seat of the coach and I gave in to desire.
She kissed my neck and my breasts and said, as she parted my legs, ‘I am very pleased that I’ve won such a beauty.’
‘So so am I,’ I said as her tongue found its way into my purse.
With the rock of the carriage and Mercy’s lips upon me I all too soon reached that most wonderful of sensations.
A sprinkle of silver fluttered across my eyes and, unable to help myself, I arched my back and cried out, ‘Thank God that shit is not my father.’
Chapter Twelve
If I possessed any skill with a pencil I would draw you a picture of the mansion in Lincoln’s Inn Square but instead you will have to content yourself with my words and, there being more words than colours to be found in a paintbox, I have riches indeed to play with.
It was a grand house with tall windows on the ground and first floors. Two columns framed the portico and another two embraced the front door, over which was set a half-moon fanlight. If you believe as I do that houses have their own personalities then this one by design stood alone, independent of its neighbours which looked on decidedly envious. If that didn’t mark it out as different, its gated drive did, as did the lights that shone from every window.
‘My lady,’ said Mercy, taking my hand and leading me into a marbled hall.
It was layered with plaster dust. A small forest of ladders leaned against the walls and the rolling staircase was swathed in dust sheets. Even the chandelier had a huge fabric bag covering it and the whole place smelled of paint. I wasn’t sure if the interior was being put together or pulled down for everything was in such a pickle.
‘Who lives here?’ I asked, pulling back, not knowing where Mercy had brought me.
‘I do,’ said Mercy.
I was completely flummoxed.
From upstairs appeared a footman. It was impossible to tell whether his wig was powdered or thick with dust.
‘What will they think of me?’ I asked, as he came down towards us. ‘I am stark naked under your coat.’
‘You look beautiful. And it matters little what anyone thinks – there is no need for modesty here.’
I longed to ask her what she meant but Mercy left me after the footman had shown me to a drawing room that opened on to a fanfare of well-proportioned rooms. Like the hall they were mainly covered in dust sheets, and a scaffolding of wood rose to a platform near the ceiling which was half painted. I craned my neck to look up and realised that in part it depicted deliciously wanton women, their lovers still only in sketch form, winged creatures who possessed majestic machinery larger by far than those to be found in the dancing master’s book. The whole thing spoke of yearning and the want of satisfaction.
I was so taken up with all that I’d seen that it was several minutes before I caught sight of myself reflected back at me. In the mirror that hung over the fireplace was a most indecent young lady. Quickly, I buttoned up Mercy’s coat so that at least I appeared to possess a modicum of propriety. I had wiped the dust off the mirror and was making a hopeless attempt to coax my hair into better shape when I saw her.
‘Feathers and dust!’ I said aloud.
The sight of her sent a shiver through me. Pretty Poppet looked anything but pretty.
‘What are you doing here? Who let you in?’ I said, sure she shouldn’t be there.
Before Pretty Poppet could reply, Mrs Truegood entered the room. She was dressed in a low-cut gown and I was astonished to see her so little concerned with modesty. On her cheek she wore a crescent moon and a star was painted above her eyebrow. The effect of her paint and patches – in fact the effect of her whole bearing – had more to do with Lady Midnight than the respectable merchant’s wife she had been in Milk Street. I dreaded to think what had befallen my stepmother in such a short space of time that she was now living in this derelict house.
She ignored Pretty Poppet and, disregarding my appearance, pulled a dust sheet off a chaise longue and said, ‘Come, Tully, sit down, my dear.’
Why did no one ever speak to the girl?
‘First,’ said Mrs Truegood, ‘I must humbly ask your pardon for the deception, though I assure you I had sincerely hoped to find you a husband before a morsel of the truth escaped.’
I couldn’t think of what to say. I feared that Mercy’s coat would fall open and, ignoring my stepmother’s request, I stayed with my hand resting on the mantelpiece, desperate to be touching something solid. The scenery of my life seemed to be changing fast and so far it had proven to be but an ill-conceived picture on a painted cloth.
‘I should introduce myself. My name is Queenie Gibbs. Your father owed me a great deal of money and I knew I was never to see a ha’penny of it, so I conceived the idea that he would repay me in another way. Mr Sitton had set his sights on marrying Hope, but the obstacle to the match was his mother. If my plan was going to work we needed respectability – hence I went through with a sham marriage.’
Pretty Poppet had perched herself next to Queenie on the chaise longue.
‘He isn’t my father,’ I said. ‘Just as you aren’t my stepmother. I expect you are going to tell me that Mercy and Hope aren’t your daughters.’
‘No, they’re not. I must appear most cruel. Forgive me. My plan may well have worked if it hadn’t been for Mrs Sitton. I had underestimated a mother’s desire to protect her child.’ Pretty Poppet moved closer to Mrs Gibbs, who rang a little bell on the side table and a man dressed all in grey entered. ‘Refreshments,’ she said.
I wasn’t sure if she was addressing the man, Pretty Poppet or me. I was very hungry and quite thirsty.
‘Yes, please,’ I said.
Queenie Gibbs leaned back. ‘When I think about it, my dear, the whole plan was a failure before it even had a chance to be my greatest success. Mr Truegood, never a quiet drunk, blurted out my intentions to one of his scurvy friends who, for a good sum, soothed those burning ears of Mrs Sitton with the truth. She had her son bundled off against his will on a ship for America, thereby securing the family’s mean little name and considerable fortune.’ She sighed. ‘When Crease’s dog answered my question and spelled out the words “AT SEA”, I knew I’d failed.’
‘It is a terrible pity for Mr Sitton. I am sure the water will not agree with him one jot,’ I said, still trying to adjust my picture of my stepmother to fit this woman, Queenie Gibbs.
‘It’s by the by. Tully, believe me when I say I truly wanted to do right by you and I would have stayed to find you a suitable match. But when I learned from Hope that you had been married at twelve and that the marriage held fast, I lost all patience with Mr Truegood – even more so when he refused point-blank to tell me the name of your mysterious husband, or the reason he had married you off at such an unnecessarily young age.’
‘A debt,’ I said. ‘It could only have been in want of money.’
‘Indubitably. Thank God those marriages have been abolished. They have ruined many a family.’
‘I don’t want to go back to Milk Street,’ I said. ‘Could I stay here?’
Mrs Gibbs stood and walked to the window. ‘In all honesty this is not the place for you.’
‘Why not? I could be a maid.’
‘Do you know how much a maid earns?’ she said. ‘Five pounds a year.’
To me that seemed a fortune. What I could do with five pounds a year.
‘I would be happy with that,’ I said. ‘I could help you run the house.’
Mrs Gibbs laughed. ‘Who do you think owns this house?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I own this house. And it is in the process of being made into one of the finest brothels the metropolis has to offer.’
I stumbled over the thought.
‘I will explain. I grew up in poverty in Covent Garden. A flower girl, I climbed up society’s rickety ladder – man by man. In other words, I made my money as a prostitute. I also happen to have a mind for business and I was determined never to go back to where I came from. This, my dear, is a house of pleasure. I do not need more servants, I need experienced ladies of easy virtue, exotic birds to delight rich gentlemen.’
‘I could learn to be an exotic bird.’
‘No!’ said Pretty Poppet.
Queenie surely must have heard her but she didn’t look round.
‘How much do you think Mercy and Hope earn?’ she asked
As I’d assumed they were ladies, I hadn’t thought for a moment that they earned a penny, and, blushing, I said so.
Mrs Gibbs’s answer stunned me.
‘Mercy earns six hundred pounds a year, Hope, about four hundred. Without, that is, all the little gifts – the jewels, the clothes.’
It was incredible. Mrs Gibbs was talking of unimaginable sums. It had never occurred to me that a woman could earn so much.
‘Did Mr Sitton know all this?’ I said, sounding as pious as the parson on Sundays.
She laughed. ‘Yes, Tully. He had been Hope’s particular for a long time – and he loved her.’
There was a knock at the door. I rather hoped this was the refreshments, for I needed longer to convince Queenie that I was in earnest when I said I wanted to learn to be a lady of pleasure.
It was Mr Crease who came in, his peg leg thudding on the floor and, without a ‘Would you mind?’ or a ‘May I?’, he dragged a dust sheet off a spindly chair and sat down. He seemed to glance at Pretty Poppet.
‘I always said you were no hen-hearted girl,’ said Mr Crease to me. ‘Mercy told me. I should think the Hawks’ tongues were lolling at the sight of you in all your glory.’ He stopped and studied me. ‘Is Shadow with me?’
I couldn’t see the dog and said so. The door opened again and in came the man, who I now realised was the butler, carrying a tray of sweetmeats and a bottle of champagne. Shadow was behind him. He ran to his master, wagging his tail. The butler nearly dropped the champagne when he saw the little white dog.
Mrs Gibbs said sharply, ‘That will be all, Mr Pouch.’
‘Ads bleed,’ said Mr Crease. ‘How do you do it, Tully?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I honestly don’t know.’
‘Have you brought back any other spirits?’ Mr Crease asked.
I didn’t want to tell him about the grandfather clock. Why I could see my father as a small boy was a puzzle, so I shook my head.
‘I think you have, Tully,’ said Mr Crease, and he looked again at Pretty Poppet.
‘Crease,’ said Mrs Gibbs, ‘I’m not sure about this.’
‘I am,’ said Crease. ‘Queenie, imagine what a spirit-seer could bring to my performance.’
‘Am I a spirit-seer?’ I asked. ‘But can’t everyone see them?’
Mr Crease ignored my question. ‘Is there anything about Queenie?’
‘No, Crease,’ said Mrs Gibbs, seemingly unaware that Pretty Poppet was standing next to her, resting her head on her shoulder.
This, then, was the crossroads. I closed my eyes and waited. I opened them only when Queenie let out a terrified cry. Everything was the same except that Queenie was death-white and even Mr Crease seemed to have lost his tongue. They were both staring at Pretty Poppet.
‘Shall I sit on your lap, sir?’ she said to Mr Crease. ‘Shall l wriggle your fancy? I jiggle it well.’
‘Oh, Poppet! Poppet, my darling little girl,’ said Queenie, a sob in her voice. ‘Stop, don’t say that. I can’t bear it.’ She stretched out her hands to the girl. ‘I wish I could have saved you.’
‘Mother,’ said Pretty Poppet, ‘don’t rattle your bones. I’m long gone.’
She walked to the door and disappeared.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Gibbs,’ I said. Queenie had tears in her eyes. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
Mr Crease said quietly, ‘Tully, what you do is extraordinary: you bring back the dead to the living. Queenie, we have to keep her here – for her own safety if nothing else.’
Queenie looked at me and beyond me with such longing, then reluctantly said, ‘Welcome to the fairy house, Tully.’
Chapter
Thirteen
Of Candied Sugar
Candies are different sugar works which are served to garnish dessert fancies; they are of many different kinds, made with any sort of fruit, though all are made much alike.
This is the age of deception, of wigs, paints and patches, where all that nature has generously given mankind is no more than a base canvas in need of enhancement. Most of us hide behind the painted visage, very few are seen for who we really are. This, sir, is my naked account. I stand before you as I am. Have a little more patience, for you are about to make your entrance on this stage to play a greater part than ever I would have supposed. I will try not to trip over myself in my haste to give you your overture, for first I must set the scene. You met me when the curtain had already risen and the show begun. You never knew what went on backstage to make it appear seamless, even magical. Let me tell you of my transformation; it was not as simple as it appeared.
I had imagined that Mercy would share my bed again now that we were once more under the same roof. Every night I waited, she didn’t come and I didn’t understand why not. She wasn’t unkind, never said she no longer wanted me, but there was an aloofness about her that hadn’t been there when we were in Milk Street.
‘Will I see you tonight?’ I asked her on one occasion.
‘No, I am otherwise engaged,’ she said, and kissed me.
In her wig and her fine suit of clothes, she looked the perfect young dandy. I longed for it to be as it once had been between us. Her distance upset me more than I had words to say. I felt my position at the fairy house was no more secure than a child’s loose tooth hanging in her gum. This was a whole new world to me and if I was flummoxed by Mercy then I was even more confused as to where I stood in relation to Queenie. As a stepmother she had been kind and solicitous in her care of me but here in the fairy house she, like Mercy, was preoccupied. I thought I knew the reason for the change in Queenie, if not in Mercy. It was on account of the appearance of Pretty Poppet.
I asked her who Mr Quibble was, and if it was he who had spent all that money on my lessons.