by Dray Wray
‘Now ask to borrow his sight.’
Not wishing to incur Mr Crease’s wrath, I knelt, and, taking the dear creature in my arms, whispered, ‘May I borrow your eyes when Captain Spiggot comes to call?’
At twelve o’clock on the dot, Mr Crease stopped and called Shadow to him.
‘I wish you would leave him here,’ I said.
‘I think he will be of more use to you in the parlour,’ said Mr Crease, then added that he was going to lock me in the long gallery for my safety.
I sat down to wait, and in no small part to dream about my first night out with Avery. I had never been to the theatre – what an interior life I had led. I must have fallen asleep for I dreamed I was downstairs in the parlour. There was no colour to this dream. Two gentlemen were sat before me. One I recognised as Mr Quibble. He was dressed in a new suit of clothes, dark, with silver buckles on his shoes. It was not a comforting sight and his presence confirmed Queenie’s suspicions of his purpose for visiting us in Milk Street. The other gentleman had a scar that ran down his right cheek from his eyelid in such a manner that the lid was pulled into a slant, giving his expression a permanent sneer. He sat with his riding boots stretched out before him, his hands stuffed nonchalantly into the pockets of his breeches. Mr Quibble took the lead, his tongue flicking back and forth, though I could hear not a word he or anyone said and could only guess what they were by the gestures they used.
This was the strangest of dreams for it had a logical order to it which none of my dreams ever possessed. I was able to study the young man with the scar and, as I did, from the folds of his red coat a boy emerged. His face, though unblemished, was already etched with the same cruelty that disfigured his older self even more than his scar. This boy appeared to be made of flame rather than flesh. Seeing Shadow, a look of glee spread across his features and he rushed at the dog, and must have pulled him by the tail for my vision abruptly shuddered. Perhaps it was that the young man caught a glimmer of the child he once was for something sparked his fury. I was quite unprepared for what happened next. His foot came towards me, the boy pulled a knife, and boy and dog found ourselves thrown across the chamber, the boy becoming dust, I descending into a sticky blankness that seemed to have glued my eyes shut.
Far off I could hear Mercy talking to me but still I could not open them. I woke to find her kneeling beside me, Mr Crease behind her.
‘What is wrong with her?’ Mercy’s voice was trembling.
‘Tully,’ said Mr Crease. ‘Tully, can you see me?’
I forced my eyes open and Mercy gasped.
Of course I could see him. I sat up, puzzled at their concern.
‘Has the captain gone?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Crease.
‘I’ve been asleep,’ I said. ‘I had the strangest of dreams.’
‘Can you see us clearly?’ he asked.
‘Look at her eyes,’ said Mercy. ‘I think you’re working her too hard, Mr Crease.’
‘What did my husband say?’ I asked.
‘Little of importance,’ said Mr Crease.
Mercy took me to my chamber and I fell asleep again for my eyes felt better closed than open.
When I woke, Mr Crease and Queenie were looking down at me.
‘Oh Lord,’ said Queenie.
‘They will recover,’ said Mr Crease.
‘Before Mr Fitzjohn arrives?’ asked Queenie.
‘What’s wrong?’ I said, and went to the mirror.
I looked as if I were dead. My pupils were white, all colour drained from them.
‘What did you see, Tully?’ ask Mr Crease.
‘I dreamed that Mr Quibble came with the young gentleman and out of the folds of that gentleman’s coat appeared a boy.’
‘There was no boy,’ said Queenie.
She sounded relieved and I would have been content to leave it there but Mr Crease said, ‘Describe the young gentleman.’
‘He had a scar down the side of his face. He stood up when he saw his younger self and kicked me – I mean Shadow – into darkness.’
Queenie looked frightened. ‘Damn you, Crease. What black arts are you teaching?’
She made to leave but Mr Crease took hold of her arm.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Tell her what Spiggot looked like.’
As Queenie described Captain Spiggot to me – the riding boots and the red coat – I caught sight of my ghost eyes in the mirror. My soul shook. The burden of my gift truly horrified me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mr Crease concocted a potion. He tilted my head back and applied droplets to my eyes, and gradually the colour returned to my pupils.
‘Please, sir,’ I said to him, ‘take this curse from me. I don’t want it. Please, I beg of you, for I believe you have the power to do it.’
‘I don’t, Tully.’
‘But these gifts, as you call them, are beyond my control. What if something of this nature should happen when I’m with Avery? He would think me a witch.’
‘I told you long ago that you were no hen-hearted girl. Don’t become one now.’
‘What can I do?’ I said. ‘It’s a curse, not a gift. It belongs to the devil.’ Tears irritated my eyes and I gave way to them.
‘I have been endeavouring,’ said Mr Crease, ‘to teach you how and when to use your second sight. But half the time your mind is elsewhere.
Perhaps, Tully, if you took a little more instruction you would find yourself better prepared for these events. Instead of them ruling you, you might have the wit to be their mistress.’
There was no sentimentality to Mr Crease, no softness in his approach.
I tried to recover myself.
‘What do you intend to do?’ he said. ‘Hide your talents away for the rest of your life, pretend you’re like everyone else? That way, madam, lies Bedlam.’
I took a deep breath. ‘My husband,’ I said, recalling all I had seen, ‘sat with his legs stretched out and his hands stuffed in the pockets of his breeches. A violent-tempered, cruel man. Mr Quibble did most of the talking until the captain fell into a rage.’
‘That is exactly right. Spiggot said that he spoke to you before the service, that he told you, “Marriage is murder.”’
I nodded. ‘I will never be persuaded to go anywhere near him. Can I be unmarried?’ I asked.
‘With difficulty. Your salvation lies in the power that has been given to you.’
‘Salvation from what? From being the captain’s wife? From being a whore?’
‘I have no opinion on the profession. There is joy to be found in our sexual nature and all its manifestations. I have no argument with my conscience, no God to find me wanting. That is the prerogative of mankind – to be cursed with an unforgiving creator.’
He left me and I sat for the rest of the afternoon without moving, my mind oppressed by my thoughts.
Queenie had wanted me to look striking that night and I had a new gown for the occasion. By the time my maid and Signor Florentini had finished with me, it was time to leave. Queenie came to inspect to me.
‘You are a credit to my house, Tully,’ she said. ‘Every eye in the theatre will be not on the players, but on you.’
‘Miss Tully,’ said Signor Florentini in his extraordinary, high-pitched voice, ‘do you not want to see what you look like?’
‘No,’ I said. I couldn’t think about my appearance. Suddenly, I had become aware of the clock ticking away precious hours and, in a matter of days, Avery would be gone. What then? The thought of taking another lover was abhorrent to me. ‘Queenie, what will happen when Avery leaves London?’ I asked.
‘I will find you another gentleman.’
‘And if I don’t want one?’
‘Then, my dear,’ she said, and her voice hardened, ‘there is always your husband, who seems eager to claim you. I need good whores, Tully, not reluctant girls. Now, smile, be enchanting – remember, you represent the fairy house.’
A carriage was waiting outside.
Ned Bird, dressed in good clothes, opened the door and helped me in. His instructions were that he was not to leave me. Only when the horse set off did I feel a modicum of the childish thrill that a new adventure brings. I told myself not to think about Avery’s departure, but to concentrate on the moment. If I wanted a reminder of the fate of girls who were not under the roof of a good madam then I only had to glance out of the carriage window. Covent Garden ladies were awake for business, brightly coloured fishes swimming alongside sharks.
The play, for the play was the thing, was a production of Liars and Lovers, which I now see was very apt. Avery greeted me with a bow. He was somewhat surprised to see Ned Bird.
‘Do you need a bodyguard, Tully?’ he asked, lifting my hand to his lips. ‘I promise I won’t kidnap you.’
‘I don’t think I’d mind if you did, sir,’ I said.
‘What is he protecting you from?’
‘Myself.’
He looked so handsome with his clothes on. He wore a dark velvet coat with embroidery on the front, a duck-egg blue waistcoat, and a white stock at his neck. I felt proud to be with him. I knew we made a striking couple by the glances that came our way. My gown was far from being brassy and was more tasteful than many others. Some ladies wore their wigs high and their faces white, but when they smiled their teeth were yellow.
Avery bowed to the many acquaintances who greeted him but never stopped long enough for the inconvenience of introductions. He took me to a box that overlooked the auditorium and seemed designed not so much for one to see the play, but more to see the boxes opposite. Each box gave a miniature performance of its own; the fashionable gentlemen perched and pecked like cockerels, the ladies, painted parrots, fluffed out their feathers in mannered responses. Avery took my hand, squeezed it, and asked if I was comfortable.
‘You look pale,’ he whispered, his lips brushing my neck.
‘I’ve never been to the theatre before,’ I told him.
‘You have already conquered it for you outshine all the fashionable ladies here. Tomorrow they will, no doubt, have their hairdressers copy your style.’
I laughed and, having improved the use of my fan, hid my blushes behind it. Avery sat close by me, his arm resting on the back of my chair. When the play started the lights stayed as bright in the auditorium as they were on stage – in fact, the whole place was so ablaze with candlelight that it was an invitation for the audience to continue talking. The actors were left to battle over the noise of London gossip.
I had been following the performance on stage so it was only at the interval that I realised, to my alarm, that we were being scrutinised by the ladies and gentlemen in the boxes opposite. At that moment, the door to ours burst open without so much as a knock and in came an incoherent drunk. His face was badly scarred by smallpox, his manners were appalling, and the only thing that could be said in his favour was he was exceedingly well dressed.
‘So, this is your betrothed, what?’ he said to Avery.
Avery’s sweet expression changed to one of anger. ‘Frederick,’ said Avery.
Frederick helped himself to a glass of wine.
‘Rather beautiful, by gad. I suppose she doesn’t understand a word of English. I thought she was too grand to come over here and visit us rosbif.’
He laughed at his own joke and, having finished one glass of wine, helped himself to another. ‘’Ave you solved the leetle problem with your forthcoming nuptials?’ he said, enunciating each word with an affected French accent.
Nuptials? I felt as if all the breath had been knocked out of me.
‘The only way to make these frogs understand is to speak slowly,’ continued his lordship.
‘You’re drunk, Frederick,’ said Avery. Everything in him had tightened.
‘I’ll be as drunk as I want. I don’t much care for sobriety, brother. Introduce us.’
The audience had become quieter and I suspected that we were the object of their interest.
‘Frederick, may I introduce Miss Tully Truegood. Tully, my half-brother, Lord Frederick Fitzjohn.’
Lord Fitzjohn bowed unsteadily and would have fallen had the footman not caught him in time. ‘Truegood? Not French then?’
I could see that Avery was on the point of losing his temper and I quickly said, ‘Do you enjoy the theatre, Lord Fitzjohn?’
‘Can’t stand it,’ he said. ‘Makes me legs itch. The only good thing about it is you see who’s here and if there’s any new blood worth a mention. This season the place is full of horse-faced women. Have you noticed? You’re the only beauty in the place, by gad, but, I’ll wager you’re not the bride-to-be.’
The door to our box opened again. I had never imagined that I would be so pleased to see Sir Henry Slater.
‘Fitzjohn,’ said Sir Henry to Lord Fitzjohn. ‘I have been looking for you.’ He took his lordship’s arm. ‘Come now.’
Lord Fitzjohn pulled his arm away. ‘Slater, see what I’ve found: my brother being a naughty boy. Avery, what would the countess’s family say if they knew you were entertaining this gorgeous jade? What whorehouse are you from, you delicious creature?’
I was caught completely off guard. ‘From Queenie Gibbs’ fairy house, sir.’
‘Are you, by gad. Well, brother, when you’ve tired of the trollop…’
This time, it was Ned Bird who came to the rescue and did what Sir Henry had so remarkably failed to do. Lord Frederick Fitzjohn was politely and firmly removed from the box, but the evening was ruined. I felt certain the whole audience had heard our conversation and now knew exactly who I was: a harlot from the whorehouse.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I tried to pay attention to the play but all I could think was that Hope was right – I should have kept my heart locked up. Avery was engaged to be married and I felt as if all of me had come to a stop. There was a heaviness to my heart that I could not repress. As I watched the players, each actor seemed to be mocking me with his lines. I bit the inside of my cheek and tried to recover myself.
Avery no longer rested his arm on my chair, but sat upright and stiff. I didn’t want to be in the theatre, not with every eye in the audience gazing in our direction.
I stood and, hoping my voice didn’t give away my anxieties, said, ‘Please excuse me, sir, I need some fresh air.’
Before he could answer, I left the box, followed by Ned Bird. ‘Are you unwell, Miss Tully?’ he said.
‘No. I want to go home now.’
Avery came down the stairs after me and we stood awkwardly together on the steps of the theatre while Ned hurried off to find the carriage.
‘I sincerely apologise,’ said Avery. ‘Frederick had no right to talk to you like that. He is an unmitigated fool.’
‘It is of no consequence,’ I replied. Then, unable to keep my jealousy in check, it bolted towards the precipice. ‘Why did you not tell me you were betrothed?’
‘It is my business and doesn’t concern you. I will be gone soon enough and – ’
I didn’t let him finish. ‘Do you love her, this countess?’
‘No gentleman marries for love.’
‘Then why marry at all?’ I asked.
‘Frederick has near ruined our family. I want my father’s name to be restored to its rightful place.’
‘I take it the countess is rich?’
‘Yes, very.’
‘And you’re not?’
‘Madam, I have yet to make my fortune, but the countess’s dowry will enable me to rebuild my family’s estate.’
It was the first time he had spoken to me with such a cold edge to his voice.
‘I have no name of any value,’ I said, ‘so I cannot comment, though it seems to me that your business is all about property. And if a wife is of no more value to her husband than a sideboard, I think I would prefer to be a whore. At least there’s some honesty in it.’
‘Tully, let’s not argue – I will be leaving in a few days. My anger is with the situation I find myself in, it has
nothing to do with you. Will you not at least see the play out?’
Great was my anxiety to be gone and preferably never see him again.
‘No,’ I said.
Oh, how I hate tears, especially ones that are gaining the better of me, and I dispute anyone who says that they make a girl look interesting or pretty.
‘Please dry your eyes,’ he said, ‘and return with me to the box.’
I curtsied, and without another word went out to the carriage. Ned helped me in and we set off, a footman walking behind us and a lamp boy in front. I didn’t look back.
By the time we reached the fairy house, I just wanted the solitude of my own chamber.
‘Tully,’ called Queenie, as I ran up the stairs. ‘What is the meaning of this? Where is Mr Fitzjohn?’
I didn’t reply and nearly fell over Mercy as she came out of her chamber.
‘What brings you back so soon?’ she said. She looked over my shoulder. ‘Alone?’
The tears that I thought I had mastered overcame me at last. ‘I never want to see him again,’ I sobbed.
Mercy hurried me into her chamber. ‘What happened? Did he hurt you?’
‘Yes, he broke my heart. He is to marry a countess and his wretched brother called me a whore. All those grand ladies and gentlemen heard him.’
‘I doubt that.’ She wrapped me in her arms and I clung to her. ‘Tully, you really must try not to fall in love so readily. Hush now,’ she said, and kissed me tenderly.
‘It was simple when I loved you. I wish we could be like that again.’
‘Would you mind telling me what happened, Tully?’ Queenie came into the chamber, her voice a sharpened knife. ‘For there must be some reasonable explanation for your behaviour.’
I told her, and even as I said the words they seemed feeble.
‘Let me be sure that I heard this correctly: you were insulted by Mr Fitzjohn’s brother who called you a whore?’
‘Yes, madam.’
‘You found out that Mr Fitzjohn is engaged to be married?’
‘Yes, and…’
‘And instead of holding your head up high and showing London society the calibre of Queenie Gibbs’ gals, you ran away. Who are you, pray tell me, to judge a gentleman who is paying handsomely for your services? Of course Avery Fitzjohn is engaged, you foolish, foolish – ’ she slapped me across the face ‘ – numbskull!’