by Jan Needle
“Don’t call me that,” he said. “Deb, my name is Will. You cannot call me sir.”
Then she moved on to the bed beside him, by his plucking at her fingers, and they rolled together among the softness of the downy coverings, and he slipped into her and they held each other hard but gently until he ceased to throb. For a moment it was wonderful for Deb, a comfort and sensation she had never known the like of, then she thought of what was happening in her life, and she thought that she might get with child and what would happen then, and she, briefly, thought of home. Then she looked down Will’s slight body, the curving of his back, and smelled the sweet smell of his neck and musty hair and it began another, double ache, of gladness and regret. The young man, she noted with an affection almost motherly, was asleep.
But Will was not, just drowning in sensations and confusions of his own. Mainly was the continued sense of awe, the happiness of being with this maid like this, the sense of lightness that was spiritual and physical as well, the sense of unexpected purity. Will knew whores, they’d been a presence in ships and streets and taverns in his life, and he’d known what sailors did with them. Whatever it was meant to feel or be like, in his imaginings, it was not like this, there was not a remote conjunction. Opening his eyes, he was overwhelmed anew by the tenderness she aroused in him, the love with which he beheld her face. Her eyes, to him, were grave and clear and honest, her face a model of perfection, her body beautiful in a most astonishing way, as if it spoke to him, existing for him only. And then she kissed him on the mouth, and very soon they were making love more slowly, but with very little movement, as though their bodies breathed together, they were one. When he spent this time, Will made a low crying sound, as if he were distressed, and Deb’s eyes, afterwards, were filled with tears.
When they talked, she told him all the truth about what had happened at the magistrate’s, including how she had watched Dennett killed and how she’d revelled in the fact. He had come to help the master rape her, that was her certainty, he had brought a rope to tie her up if necessary, and a cloth to gag her with, and he would provide the strength to hold her down. Then, afterwards — had Milady not come in to kill her first — he would have torn her gums bare as per contract, then let her meet her fate. Will could believe Wimbarton would rather have had her as a replacement than have stuck with his blighted wife (although he found it hard to bear the thought, and hugged her tighter underneath the sheets), and told her she was mad to harbour guilt about the mountebank and his fate, which he deserved most richly. He soothed her fears as best he could about Wimbarton finding her. What was the point, now his quack-surgeon was dead; who else would try the operation? And in any way, would Mistress Wimbarton let her near the house again? Never in this world.
He would prevent it, was what he wanted to say, he would look after her. But cold fingers of reality kept worming through his guts, and he was an honest man, and intended that he always would be. Sir A, he said, knew all her troubles, and would treat her like a seeker after sanctuary, one of his household. Deb’s own fingers of misery moved within her then, and she cried out silently, “But I’m a whore, I am just a whore, and no one will protect me because I am not worth it.” This time the tears did spill from her eyes.
I will never leave you, thought Will, I will protect you always; but he said: “Sir Arthur is a good man, Deb, why are you weeping? He will keep you from all harm, I’m sure of it.”
“But I han’t even told him all the truth,” sobbed Deb. “I said the roof fell in, which is true, but I han’t said that a musket brought it down, or that Milady was going to kill me or that Dennett’s shot to death, or that the master aimed to fuck me. Oh sir, oh Will, I would have let him, and become his doxy too if it would ha’ saved my teeth! Oh sir, I am a liar, I’m a liar!”
This stabbed him with a vicious pain, although he knew she must have done, she would have done, she had no choice, but there was a small mad fear that she might, somehow, not have minded. This horrified him also, the fact he’d harboured such a venal thought, so he forced himself to say it did not matter, why should it matter that she’d not disclosed the details? It was not a question for an answer, but Deb treated it as such.
“Because it is a piece,” she said, voice low and not quite steady. “I’ve stole from him, and now I’ve lied to him, and all the time I’m just a little slut that run away from home and family and has become a whore. Oh sir. Do you think I could tell him in the morning? Do you think that you might be in the room, or tell him I have got to say something? Or something of the sort, sir? Please?”
But I won’t be there, he thought. Then: she must stop saying “sir,” she is my lover. Oh Christ, is there no end to pain?
“But Deb, it is impossible. I am not your… it is not my place to say such things to Sir Arthur Fisher. You tell him, do; he will not mind. Or tell Mrs Houghton, it is an understanding woman. In any way, by this morning I will be gone. Sam Holt and me. We have a duty to perform. And please; don’t call me sir.”
Deb had rolled away, was propped up on one elbow, her clear brown eyes regarding him. Will felt he could detect contempt, indeed he was ashamed. But maybe he was wrong, for Deb smiled at him, and reached her free hand out to touch his cheek.
“Duty,” she said. “You men and duty. I sometimes wish that I’d been born a man. Oh well, as you say, he is a good man, and I suppose the details are no great moment to him. A rat shot down is still just one rat less, however much I found it shocking. Dennett deserved it, that is one thing. And I’ve seen worse at home!”
He was tired. There was no denying it, an ache was growing behind his eyes. Her breasts were soft and wonderful, and he touched one, but she merely smiled more broad, and covered them. She leaned across and kissed his cheek and patted him as if she were older than he was, and much wiser, then slipped out of the bed despite he tried to stop her when he realised. Leaning across, all glorious dark hair and injured beauty, naked, she was more like a dream than real, and he let his hand drop down on to the coverings.
“But you must not go,” he said. “Please stay.”
“And who will do explaining in the morn? A doxy in a master’s bed, an empty one, the master gone! Sir, don’t look so cut, I’m jesting, but it is the truth. Forgive me, I mean… Will.”
She bent to pick her nightgown off the floor, and wriggled into it as lithe as any snake. It startled Will to see it happen, it was the first time in his life. One moment this warm thing that was somehow his, it filled his eyes and made him fearful with regret that it was parting, and then, as if instantaneously, it was gone. He remembered the breasts, the pale brown nipples, the mass of jet black curls that marked her Venus mound, but abruptly and irrevocably, they were no longer his, or concrete. Deb’s face reappeared, and there was no alteration in the way she gazed at him, but William was bereft, forlorn.
“I will be back, Deb,” he said. “Not long away, I promise you. And then we’ll… we will…”
She did not wait to hear him end the sentence, if he ever could. The women’s quarters, as quick as legs could carry her. Perhaps the scullery to seek out vinegar, but in any case a very thorough wash. Deb tried to keep the good parts in her mind, and true it was he was a very lovely man. When he returned, who knew? There were worse ways to conduct a life.
TWENTY-TWO
Even in the morning, even in the lashing rain as they picked slowly down the London road, William could not clear his mind of Deb and what they’d done together. At first it was a warm euphoria; he awoke to it, snug in the bed they’d made love in, regretful only that she was not there still. He lay on his back, aware of noises in the house and rain upon the window glass, and touched himself, and felt sensations, and re-envisioned things. For the moment, all seemed marvellous, except perhaps the rain. He saw himself riding off with Sam, and doing things vaguely heroic, then coming back to Deb. Then what? Well, going back to bed with her. Then what? He tried to claw back to euphoric memories.
The rain was terrib
le, it had set in with a vengeance, as if it had been away too long but now was back for good. It was not so heavy as insistent, driven by a one-reef wind from the south-west, the progeny of clouds low and dark and dense. Sam and Will got kitted in the house, with footmen helping them lugubriously, then completed their protection in the stables, with tarpaulin capes and three-cornered hats that would gutter excess water well off their necks on to their backs and shoulders. It was a point that they should not look like shipping men, or Customs officers, which filled both with some unease because they were not actors. “All I know’s the sea,” said Sam. “It was my father who could wear a wig as if he meant it. What shall we do if someone talks of business? Play deaf-mutes?”
The farewells were not aided by it, either. Sir A had tried for false brightness in the house, but outside the stable he ignored the umbrella Tony brought for him, and let his own wig saturate, the powder running down his face and neck. He clasped both firmly by the hand for just an instant, wishing them God-speed, then bade them turn away, and quickly. But when they reached the first bend in the way and Sam glanced backwards, he was still standing there, although Tony had managed to put the umbrella above his head. By the time they reached the gatehouse, where a keeper with a firearm acknowledged them through the open window, Will had water trickling down his neck and felt one foot was getting soggy. Yet thoughts of Deborah still kept him warm…
For the first part of the journey they said little. They knew they had to work out a strategy, but they’d agreed the first thing was to get along the road. In normal conditions they might have come to Peters-field in half a day or so, but progress in this murk and wet was going to be painful. There was not much traffic, but in almost every dip there was a quagmire, and in almost every quag there was a wagon or a cart or coach, either bogged down singly or in contention with another one, or two, or three, or four. Sometimes they could ease their way by going off the road, but more usually the fields were bogs, or the roadside densely wooded. And almost every hamlet was a bottleneck.
Why Petersfield, in any way? They were not going to the Bentley house, because one never knew who servants might be attached to, but they saw it as a point of no return, from where they could strike for the Hampshire coast or the West Sussex one, whichever they decided on. It was the point, also, where goods were gathered in — “free trade” as well as more legitimate — for despatch to London up the high road. A busy town, where William should not be recognised, except by extreme ill-luck. That was in both their minds. In the event, they guessed they’d find somewhere not far away, a country inn not on the beaten track, to do their planning in.
From time to time, when the road was good enough, they would fall in side by side and try some conversation, just to pass the time. Sam marvelled that people should choose a life ashore, when going was so much easier in a boat in general terms, and the food and drink went with you. He by now was wet from neck to navel-hole, as he put it, and cold as charity. On board, unless there was some emergency, he could have gone below at some set point, and took a glass or so.
It was just chatter, and Will paid little heed to it. As they moved further off from Langham Lodge the memories of the physical delight did fade under the onslaught of the dedicated rain, but his mind gnawed and worried at the larger elements of his time with Deb. The feelings that seemed to fill his stomach — yes, he found them physical, quite definite — were not for denying any more. Delight remembered, loss, pain, fear for the present and the future; it was a jumble and a whirl. And what was she? Some little maiden they had rescued from a mountebank, a traveller, a runaway, a whore. Before God, how could he think he loved her — or whatever it was that burned inside his head? He had seen her naked, kissed her, done the thing with her. And she had said, she had acknowledged, she would have gladly gone to Wimbarton, to be his mistress, just to save her teeth. Which thought was followed on the instant, and drowned out, by shame he’d let it form.
“Sam,” he said, in the third hour of their way. “Do you believe in love?”
He supposed that Sam would roar, or curl his lip, which — with eyes averted — he took care he would not see. But Sam did not answer for a while, squelching on beside him with his shoulders hunched, head bowed. Will wondered if he should repeat the words, or some words like it, or let it fade into the mist with gratitude. Then came an answer, but without contempt.
“Ah,” said Sam. “So that’s it then. La belle Deb’s got her teeth in you that deep, has she? Forgive me, Deb,” he added, to the air, “for mentioning a painful subject like your teeth. Well, what d’you mean, by love?”
Great help, thought Will. So fine, that gets me off those horns. Why should Sam know, in any way? I guess he’s near as green as me, although he’s not so virginal. I will speak no more.
“Well, I don’t know,” he said. “That is the problem, isn’t it? Last night I… when we found her there at Sir Arthur’s house. Well, I knew I’d be relieved, well, both of us. The poor girl’s suffering… But…”
“Aye, you looked relieved,” said Sam sardonically. “You dug your heels in that poor horse the way I thought he’d stand you on your head. I don’t know how you kept yourself from blurting out to Sir A, neither, but he saw through you soon enough.”
“Nay! He thought ’twas you!” said Will. “I did not show myself at all!”
“He was playing with you, of course he knew, you fool. I’m surprised you did not ask him where she slept. I would have done.”
A glow of pride swept over Will at this. He had not needed to. He licked rain off his lips, uncomfortable. And what if Deb had not found him out? Appalling thought.
“So,” he said, after a brief, stiff pause. “You think it only lust, do you? Not serious emotion? Or a worthy one?”
“Hah! Three questions all in one! You should not link ‘lust’ with ‘only’ in the first place, whatever I think, though — what’s wrong with good old lust? And is it serious? Oh well, it can be, believe me. And what’s more worthy than to do the act by which we’re made? You sound like some old knock-kneed vicar, or a puritan. It may be lust, I suppose, but only time will tell. You’ve not done anything to test it yet, have you?”
Will did not reply to that, and his silence must have pricked Sam’s conscience.
“You’re serious,” he said, after a little while. “But Will, you cannot really think you love the maid, surely? She is one of Dr Marigold’s! And yes, if you want me to answer, I do believe in love. I think maybe, once, I was almost touched by it. And I have seen it, certainly. I’ve seen maids torn to bits and men made fools by it. That’s why people marry, isn’t it, to avoid the traps and pitfalls? With love we’d all be destitute.”
A cloud swept down low then, and for a while the dogged horses stumbled on, heads bowed, while Sam and William hunched into their cloaks to try and guide them through the most unpleasant bits. The traps and pitfalls, Sam had said. Will’s mother and his father had wed like every other pair he knew, for family, land, inheritance. It had not occurred to think of them and love.
When the squall had eased, Sam reined in and turned his horse so that he could face him. His hat was like a triple waterfall, his face pale and streaming, the tip of his nose bone-white and pinched.
“Look, love is not for us,” he told Will, seriously. “Maybe it is lust, and it’s run you mad, or maybe it’s lack of sleep or something simpler than that. We’re under orders, man, we’re always under orders. Sent here, sent there, sent one day to our deaths. Look at us now. If we don’t drown on horseback we’ll get shot, how can you think of love? Think of the maiden, if you love her — and have pity!”
Will tried to smile, appreciating that Sam was lapsing into jest only to soften it. As he picked past, he tried to joke himself.
“At least she’s poor,” he said. “If a maid depended on me for wealth and luxury, it would be terrible. She’s used to poverty.”
“Aye, but it’s us who are dependent,” replied Sam, following. “I don’t wa
nt poverty, friend, I’ve had my fill of it. It is us who must find rich ones, and damn quick. Do you want Slack Dickie lording you around? You do not! Do you want to spend your life with sixpenny harlots, with or without the scars and bruises? Indeed you don’t! There are two ways in the world for us, boy — rich wives or prizes. Deb’s breasts are passing beautiful, but you could suck ’em till the cows came home if you had money in your pocket. I do believe in love, and you ain’t got it, it’s not for you, you can’t afford it, do you catch the way I’m drifting? When we get back to Sir A’s, for God’s sake slip her five shillings for a shag. You’ll be amazed how quickly you forget her, then, or at least get over thoughts of love. I tell you — if you’re that besotted, go up to a sovereign, or a guinea, that will clear your mind. Rich wives do it just as well for nothing, and they bring their father’s wealth into the bargain! The ugly ones are the most generous of all I’m told, and you can always blow the light out first, or close your eyes! For God’s sake, Will, it is not sensible. She’s a whore.”
Ahead of them, a small house was emerging from the sweeping mist, with a stream of smoke blowing almost horizontal from its stack. Will nodded dumbly when Sam indicated they might stop and sup, assuming it was some kind of tavern, glad that this conversation should lapse. It had a walled yard, with men to take and feed the horses and get them in the dry and warm, and soon they were inside, beside a good wood fire, being divested of their outer clothes and never mind the splashing on the flags. Hot gin was brought, and towels, and the smell of roasting meat was strong, and for a while their talk was all domestic. That Sam pitied him for Deb was not in doubt, and he said no more that might upset him. Will brooded though, and sometimes had a flash of memory and delight. He supposed his friend was right, in all the details; he was a second son, no expectations, and Deb was a… a victim of ill circumstance. He thought maybe he ought to welcome the fact a gentleman like Wimbarton could want her for her beauty, that she carried in her loveliness the seeds of an advancement. But it made him rather sick, was all. Sam, after some tries, insisted they must talk about their mission, and as they supped they did. But oh, Will thought from time to time, such pain, such joy, such misery.
