It could not have been for long, however, for as my eyes fluttered open, I perceived that there was not much more light in the room than there had been when they had fallen shut. Still, there was movement in the bed. Taking a moment to focus my exhausted eyes, rubbing them, looking again, I saw that Clarissa Roundtree sat up in bed, not coughing, or sweating, or talking in some hesitant, delirious manner. No, none of these.
In fact, she was smiling.
“I’m very much better,” said she to me.
The word spread throughout the house. At Clarissa’s assurance that she might spare my attention for a moment or two, I rushed downstairs to set the fire in the kitchen and start it. There I met Annie, who, without much skill, was attempting it herself. As I set things right in the fireplace, I told her, quite excited, of the patient’s sudden improvement.
“Her color is better,” said I. “Her forehead and cheeks were as cool to the touch as yours or mine would be. She has no fever.”
“But it may come back,” objected Annie, quite reasonably.
“Yet it may not,” said I, “for Mr. Donnelly said she must get worse before she could get better. She has passed her crisis.”
“I must tell Lady Fielding.”
And up she went to knock on the door of the master’s bedroom, leaving me striking flint against metal, blowing on the sparks to start a smoldering. By the time I had returned to the room at the top of the stairs, Lady Fielding was there, dressed in her nightgown and wrapper, fussing nicely over the girl. She looked up and smiled at me.
“It was just as Mr. Donnelly said it would be,” said she.
“Why, of course,” said I. “Is he not the best doctor in all London?”
And at that both of us did laugh most heartily, as if I had just told the grandest joke ever.
Indeed it was not long afterward that Clarissa was visited by the best doctor in all London himself. He arrived just as we were finishing a good breakfast of bread and bacon. He listened, quite pleased, at our tale of his patient’s turn for the better, though he declined credit for himself.
“In cases such as these,” said Mr. Donnelly, “the body heals itself. It is the physician’s task to allow it to happen, merely.”
Lady Fielding accompanied him to the sickroom. As the table was cleared and Sir John accepted a second cup of morning tea, he asked Annie rather pointedly if she did not suppose that he was somewhat in need of a good, close shave. Taking the hint, I went to fetch razor, strop, and soap while Annie put the kettle on the fire. It was just coming to a boil when doctor and nurse returned, smiling, to our company.
“It’s as you said,” Mr. Donnelly declared. “The fever is gone. There is some hint of color returned to her cheeks. She does, however, still have a good deal of congestion in her chest that she must be rid of ere we pronounce her well. Is that her broth there steaming on the table, Miss Annie?”
“It is, sir.”
“Well, you might also bring her some bread with it. She’s quite hungry, she says. I daresay she hasn’t eaten a proper meal in some time. If she can take the bread, then give her a bit more with broth in the early afternoon. I’ll come by in the early evening to look at her again. She may even be able to take some meat into her at dinner. We’ll see about that then.”
“And what about the quinine tea, sir?” I asked.
“Continue that, morning and evening. If her fever returns, give her an extra dose. I do not, by the bye, think it will return.”
That said, he pulled on his Navy greatcoat and made ready to go, adding only that we were to keep a check on her and continue to keep the room warm. “It should not be necessary to keep a constant vigil over her.”
And so saying, he left with a polite goodbye to all. Then, as I prepared Sir John for shaving, wetting a towel in hot water and applying it to his face, the women departed as well—Annie to deliver the breakfast tray to the patient above, and Lady Fielding to prepare for her day at the Magdalene Home for Penitent Prostitutes. Thus were Sir John and I left alone. I lathered him well and stropped his new razor, wondering if now might not be a good time to broach to him the matter of Thomas Roundtree. How might I manage it? Then did Sir John himself provide me with an opportunity of sorts.
“Jeremy,” said he, “tell me what you think of this business.”
“Sir?” said I, not quite sure what was meant.
“Oh, this girl who now occupies your bed—the fugitive’s daughter, who is herself a fugitive. What think you of this whole nasty matter?”
“I think a great many things of it, sir,” said I, pulling the razor across his cheek with a first swift stroke. “I think her quick and bright, and she has a winning way about her. I believe that had we left her where she was, sick as she was, she would have perished by now. Perhaps you might go up and visit her, make her acquaintance, and you could judge for yourself.”
He waved the razor away from his face. “Did Kate tell you to say that?” he asked, rather crossly.
“Why, no sir.”
“Well, she has said but little else since the girl arrived here. ‘If you would but meet her, Jack, you would know what a fine girl she is,’ says Kate to me — at least a dozen times. You spoke of her winning way. Well, she has certainly won my dear wife to her cause. Nevertheless, I see little else to do but send her—what is her name?”
“Clarissa.”
“Ah, yes, rather pretentious, bookish sort of name. Indeed, I see naught to do but send Miss Clarissa Roundtree back to Lichfield—when she is well enough to take such a journey, of course.”
“Of course.” I hesitated, the razor poised. “There is a complication to the matter, however —or there may be one —regarding her father.”
“Oh? And what is that?”
And then did I tell Sir John all as I shaved him; he, listening closely, giving no sign to interrupt or cut me off. I told him of the detail of the Scotch plaid waistcoat that Mr. Burnham had mentioned in his description of him he had met at the pawnshop, and how I remembered Roundtree had worn one such on the morning he escaped from me. And further, I told him of my strange meeting with the fugitive the night before, and that he was once again wearing a plaid waistcoat. I told him, as exactly as I could, just what was said between us. Sir John heard me out. By the time I had finished, I had shaved him clean without a nick or a scratch.
He rubbed his face carefully, then nodded in appreciation of my work. “Of course,” said he, “there is more than one Scotch plaid waistcoat in the city of London.”
“Of course,” said I, “yet the other details of Mr. Burnham’s description fitted Roundtree well.”
“Yet these are only suspicions.”
“Only suspicions,” I agreed.
He remained silent for near a minute. Then: “I have a question for you, Jeremy. Kate has said how much this girl loves her father, how tenaciously she defends him. Let us say that your suspicions of him prove out, and let us also say that our worst fears are also realized and George Bradbury has been murdered. Given all that, would you say it was likely that this child, Clarissa, would know anything of it?”
It was a question I had not considered, yet it was one to which I responded confidently and without hesitation.
“I would say, Sir John, that there is not the slightest possibility of it.”
“Hmmm,” said he, as he often did, and scratched his head in thought. He rose from his chair then. “I believe I shall take your advice, lad.”
That puzzled me somewhat. “And what advice was that?”
“I believe I shall go upstairs and make the acquaintance of this Roundtree girl.”
He proceeded in a most deliberate way to the stairway, and in another moment was lost from my sight.
Sir John remained with her far longer than I expected. Annie returned with Clarissa’s breakfast tray, dressed for her daily trip to Mr. Burnham’s reading class. As she pulled on her cape and tied it, she asked me to find a book for her.
“A book?” said I. “Which book?”
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br /> “Any book, so long as it’s not too long and not too hard. I’m past the point where I can learn anything from the primer, and much as I like to jee Shakespeare, readin’ him is quite another matter. Quite difficult he is.”
“I’ll see what I can find for you.”
“Do that,” said she. “It fair puts me out of sorts to see one young as her upstairs readin’ with such ease. I’ve naught against her, mind. It’s just it hurts me to think how long I waited to learn what every child knows.”
“Not every child, Annie— far from it. You’re doing well. Mr. Burnham himself says so.”
“Well, I’ll feel better when I’ve read me a whole book —one like that Tom Jonej she’s readin’, one with a good story.”
“I’ll find something.”
Reassured, she bade me goodbye, jammed on her hat, and left.
Next came Lady Fielding. She tiptoed in, quite surprising me, as I did the washing-up (her usual manner being to move about the house in a great flurry and dash).
Moving up close to me, she whispered, “He’s with her now.”
“Pardon, m’lady?”
“Jack —Sir John —he’s with Clarissa. I kept telling him if he but met the girl, he would understand what an exceptional child she is. Who would have guessed that he would finally pay some attention to what I told him? He so seldom does.”
“Oh, not so,” said I. “He values your counsel in all things.”
“Do you think so, Jeremy?” said she, brightening a bit. “Oh, but he can be so stubborn. Yet, to be sure, he is as good a husband as a woman could want and much better than I deserve.” She sighed, and before I could contradict her in some flattering manner, plunged on: “Be that as may be, I must now leave for the Magdalene Home. I shall try to get away from there a bit earlier than is my usual. I know I always say that, but this time perhaps I shall. Farewell, Jeremy. You heard what Mr. Donnelly said — check in on her from time to time and keep her room warm. Oh, and Jeremy, please do get to those begging letters of mine. Do as many as you can today, will you?”
Then did she grab up her cape and, assuring me she could find a hackney for herself, left the room in a much noisier manner than she had entered it.
At last, near half an hour after he had climbed the stairs, Sir John returned. I looked at him as he entered the kitchen, wondering if it would be proper to ask his opinion of Clarissa Roundtree. As it happened, there was no need to put the question to him.
“A charming young girl,” said he to me, “a singular mixture of intelligence and wit, optimism and bitter experience. And for your information, Jeremy, I’m inclined to agree with your judgment: if her father is involved in something truly villainous, then she knows nothing of it. Either that, or she is a far greater actor than Garrick himself. True, she loves her father, though he may not be worthy of it —but that is no crime in a child, a virtue rather.”
“May I ask, sir, what did you talk of that long while?”
“You may. We spoke of a number of things —my brother, Henry, for one. It seems that you began reading Tom Jonej to her, and she has picked up where you left off. It may prove a bit risky for her —though perhaps not, judging from her experience. She wanted to hear all about Henry—what sort of man he was, what else he had written, all of that. We talked also of her experiences in the parish workhouse.”
“You made it plain, then, that you had learned of her escape?”
“I suppose I did. I asked, and she answered. She has a quick mind. She would have perceived that if I knew she had been an inmate of the workhouse, then I also knew that she had escaped from it—with the help of her father.”
“And what,” I asked, “were her experiences in the workhouse?”
“Hmmm, well, they were sufficiently grim that I am prompted to reconsider my decision to send her back. Reconsider, that is —not yet have I changed my mind about it.”
“I’m sure you will decide what is right, sir.”
“Then you are sure of more than I am.” With a great sigh, he did then turn away and start for the door. “I must get on with my day,” said he. “She should not need as much looking after as earlier, though I must say you have all given her good care. I’ll send for you if I need you, Jeremy.”
He did not have need of me that whole day long. That meant that I was condemned to hours of copying out Lady Fielding’s begging letter to this lord and that earl, and to several duchesses, as well. I made intermittent visits to Clarissa, and each time found her better than when I had looked in on her last. Annie came and prepared the afternoon meal of broth and bread that Mr. Donnelly had ordered for her; I gave to her a copy of the book I had chosen for her from my store above, The Governed^, by Sarah Fielding, the last sister of Henry and half sister to Sir John. She took it gratefully and seemed specially pleased that it was a work by a woman in the Fielding family. And then it was back to the tedious task of copying. Mr. Donnelly looked in on his patient before dinner and was well pleased by her continued recovery; he prescribed meat once a day for her, yet directed that quinine should be continued in a tea twice a day until the supply be exhausted. At day’s end, all I had to show for my labor was twenty-one letters addressed to more or less distinguished personages waiting to be signed by Lady Fielding. I took greater care with the fire that night and slept the better for it.
The next two days looked to be quite as dull as that which preceded them. Yet they were not. There came first an incident which would have later consequences of a positive nature. Let us say that it began in the morning with a visit from Clarissa Roundtree. I was engaged once again in my dull work with pen and ink at the kitchen table. I had, I believe, managed to copy out only four letters when I heard a curious clopping upon the stairs. I frowned at that, for it could only mean that Clarissa was up and about; she and I were alone there in the upper floors. Fixing my face in an expression of stern reproach, I rose to meet her.
At her appearance —her cape tied over a wool nightgown donated her by Annie, shuffling along in a pair of my old shoes — I growled quite gruffly at her.
“You ought not to be out of bed,” said I. “Go back upstairs.”
“Oh, pooh,” said she, “I am well enough to sit. I sit upstairs in that chair by the bed and read. I may as well be down here and have a bit of company. I’m quite starved for conversation.”
“Nevertheless, the doctor — “
“Mr. Donnelly said I could sit. Where I do that should be my choice. Besides, it’s warmer here by the kitchen fire. That should aid my recovery, don’t you think?”
“Well … I’ll bring some coals up to replenish the brazier.”
“Oh, later. Right now, why not make a pot of tea? That, too, would aid my recovery, I’m sure. I’m starved for a cup of tea.”
“I thought you were starved for conversation.”
“All right, then, I starve for conversation, I thirst for tea.”
No doubt it was a bit warmer in the kitchen than it was up above. No doubt, too, she was a bit lonely with only Tom Jones and company to keep her amused. I could understand her wish for a cup of tea. In fact, I wanted one myself.
“Fair enough,” said I, “we’ll share a pot of tea, then up you go to bed.”
“Fair enough indeed,” said she, and gave me the first proper smile I had got from her since she arrived in the kitchen.
She took a seat at the table, and I filled the kettle and put it on the fire. I got down the tea and fed the pot generously. There would be enough for second cups for both of us. Perhaps I, too, was hungry for company.
As we waited for the pot to boil, she inquired what I was doing there at the table, and I explained in some detail, showing her Lady Fielding’s model letter and the copies I had made from it. Then, with the tea brewing, she did ask me to tell her more about what Lady Fielding referred to in her letter simply as the Magdalene Home. At that I hemmed and hawed, unable quite to describe who it was gained from this benefaction without being trapped into a discussio
n of prostitution, which I thought not a proper matter for conversation with one so young as she. I must have dropped a hint or two, however, for as I poured the tea, she looked at me first with a frown, and then a light of sudden understanding came into her eyes.
“Oh,” said she, “you mean it’s a place for whores who wish to go off the game, do you?”
“Well … uh, yes I do. They’re taught trades and found work —decent work.”
“That’s indeed a worthy cause,” said she, with a firm nod of approval. “I’ve known some whores and some of them quite all right, Bessie down the hall for one. But they were all ignorant women who could do naught else to support themselves.” Her face darkened once again with a frown. “I think it’s a terrible thing how women are kept down, given no education —don’t you? Don’t you truly think so?”
“Why, yes, yes I do,” said I, in all honesty.
“If it had not been for my mother teaching me to read and write, I should be as incapable as the rest. She gave me my vocation. I did tell you, did I not, that I shall be an author?”
“Yes, you did mention — “
“Of romances principally, but I shall also write poetry of the sort that — “
Then she herself was interrupted — by a knock upon the door. I leapt to my feet to answer. She responded with a look of startled caution; it seemed she had come to distrust sudden knocks upon the door.
Mr. Fuller was there. He had come to inform me that Sir John wished me to go off to the post office to pick up a letter that had just come in. Taking no notice of our little tea parry, he simply turned, having delivered his message, and marched back down the stairs.
I looked back to Clarissa and saw anxiety, even perhaps dread, writ plain upon her face.
“Would that be a letter from Lichfield?” she asked.
“No, I think not,” said I, hoping to relieve her somewhat. “Sir John is expecting a letter from other parts.” And that, of course, was no lie.
I ran off to fetch my hat and muffler. Returning, I found her changed —sipping her tea, affecting a most casual manner. She glanced up at me and smiled rather loftily, as one might at a departing servant.
Jack, Knave and Fool Page 25
