The Sleeping Partner

by Madeleine E. Robins

  Evadne Thorpe nodded slowly. “I hope He talks,” she said at last. “I hope He does.”

  Godwin disagreed gently. “For your sake, and for that of your sister and brothers, I hope he does not, Miss Thorpe. As for your father,” his chin came up combatively. “I might speak to him of the wisdom of providing for you—”

  A guttural noise interrupted him. Mrs. Godwin, despite the paralysis of half her face, wore an expression of disagreement so eloquent it stopped her husband from saying further.

  Evadne, too, appeared appalled. “I do not want his assistance. I do not want anything from him, ever.” Her voice was shrill, her hands fisted in her lap. She stared unseeing at some vivid tableau in her imagination.

  “Miss Thorpe. Evadne.” Miss Tolerance spoke sharply. “No one will force you to take anything from your father.” She made her voice quiet, almost singsong, as if she were telling a story to a frightened child.

  She turned to Godwin. “Your kindness is undeniable, sir, but what would be served by attempting to secure Lord Lyne’s help? I know Miss Thorpe’s sister means to stand by her, as your friend Mr. Thorpe surely does. She need not ask her father for anything.”

  “But surely the man should be made aware—”

  Again Mrs. Godwin gave a rumble of dissent.

  “My dear, I mean only that he should have the opportunity to repent, to make apology. But as you feel so strongly, and Miss Thorpe as well, I will of course refrain.”

  Evadne Thorpe nodded. “I thank you for your concern. I know you mean kindly. But I am not able—I shall never be able—to forgive my father, no matter how he repent.”

  Godwin nodded, rising laboriously from his knees, to stand with his hands clasped behind his back. “All shall be as you wish. I hope you know that you are welcome to stay here as long as you wish it.”

  The atmosphere of revulsion, shock, and anxiety which had filled the room had begun to lighten. Evadne Thorpe, drained and weary, smiled at Godwin, then at his wife. Miss Tolerance thought it was time for her to leave.

  “I have given you a great deal to think about, Miss Thorpe. I hope you will do what makes you most easy in your mind now: work, or a rest—”

  “I agree. This has been a tiring interview for you, my dear. Would you not like to go sit with the girls and read?” Mr. Godwin had slipped back into his role as protector. Evadne Thorpe nodded. He escorted her, as carefully as if the girl had been a beldame, out of the room. A few moments later he returned.

  “You will watch over her mood, sir?” Miss Tolerance asked. “I regret that I have raised some very powerful feelings in her.”

  “She is not as contained as she was,” Godwin agreed. “That may be for the best. But we will watch her carefully.” Mrs. Godwin, who had watched the scene unfolding before her implacably, nodded and added something Miss Tolerance could not make out. She looked inquiringly at Mr. Godwin; his mouth twitched into a small smile.

  “My wife is of a fierce temper; we do not approve of public execution, but I think she would make an exception in the case of Mr. Huwe.”

  Mrs. Godwin gave a grunt of laughter. Her husband patted her hand. “I hope that, when this whole matter has been successfully arranged, you will come again to talk with us, Miss Tolerance.”

  Before she could say yes or no, Mary Godwin had appeared in the door.

  “Papa, Fanny asks if you will come look at her fair copy.”

  Miss Tolerance rose. “Please go, Mr. Godwin. I take my leave of you, with thanks.” She curtseyed to Mrs. Godwin, then to her husband.

  Godwin bowed. “Mary, will you show our guest out? Good afternoon, Miss Tolerance. And good luck.”

  Mary Godwin took Miss Tolerance’s hand in her own small one and led her from the room.

  “Mamma likes you,” she said seriously. “I hope you will come again.”

  “I will,” Miss Tolerance promised with equal seriousness.

  “Mamma was a very important writer before I was born,” the girl continued. “Before her stroke. My birth was the great disaster of her life.” She said this as if it were the most unremarkable sentiment imaginable.

  “She gained you, which I am certain she does not regret.”

  The girl was not convinced. “Her work was important. We try to help her continue, but it is hard. Her eloquence was so deranged by the stroke. Even when we attempt to write down her words, the result is not what she wishes. My Papa is devoted to her. Her infirmity has been very hard upon him.”

  Miss Tolerance wondered how often these sentiments had been repeated in the girl’s hearing.

  “Hard upon you all,” she suggested. “You and Miss Imlay as well.”

  “Fanny is a poet,” Mary said, as if that explained the matter.

  “Yours is a very literary family, then. Are you a writer?”

  “I?” The girl looked surprised. “I write little stories, not essays or poems. Not like Mamma or Fanny.”

  “Writing stories is a gift,” Miss Tolerance suggested. They had reached the door.

  “I suppose it is. Please visit Mamma,” the girl urged again. “It would make her very happy.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The disclosures she must now make were of such delicacy that a meeting with Lady Brereton at Lord Lyne’s house seemed ill-advised. Even a meeting in the Ladies’ Salon at Tarsio’s felt unwarrantedly public. Thus at Henry Street, Miss Tolerance ignored the raised eyebrow her appearance occasioned—the black silk sling seemed to worry the porter considerably—and arranged with Steen to have one of the withdrawing rooms on the second floor held for her. When she gained the Ladies’ Salon she wrote to Clarissa Brereton.

  I have news, but of such nature that I will ask you to meet me here at Tarsio’s club, where I may arrange for us to be private. I will be here all this afternoon and into the early evening. If a meeting today is not possible, please send a note to me appointing a time more convenient.

  A runner was dispatched to Duke of York Street with the note and stern instruction to give it to no one but Lady Brereton herself. Now Miss Tolerance, hungry and worn from the emotion of the interview in Somers Town, called for wine and cake. Despite the warmth of the day a fire had been lit in the Ladies’ Salon. That, and the Jerez wine, combined to somnolent effect. When Miss Tolerance was wakened from her doze by Corton, the footman, she was at first unsure of where and when she found herself. The afternoon was advanced, the Salon had filled up with female members recuperating from shopping expeditions, and Corton wore an expression of concern.

  “You’ve a visitor, Miss. Steen says you’ll likely want her shown to one of the little rooms?”

  Miss Tolerance agreed, dispatched Corton to escort her visitor to the second floor, and collected herself to meet her. She found the lady waiting in the hall outside the withdrawing room, wringing her hands and examining a still life which featured two apples, a tankard, and a very dead pheasant.

  “Lady Brereton?”

  The sight of her agent’s injury appeared to overset all other of Lady Brereton’s concerns. “My dear Miss Tolerance, is this the indisposition you wrote me of? You are hurt!”

  It took Miss Tolerance a moment to recall that she had mentioned the first injury she had taken in the course of Lady Brereton’s business. “That was something else, ma’am. As for this? A slight disagreement with one of the players in your sister’s tale. I will tell you about it in course.” To forestall oppressive concern Miss Tolerance held the door for her client. “Will you walk in?”

  The withdrawing room was a small square; there was no fire lit, and a window was open to admit a breeze and the honeyed afternoon light. Rosebuds on Lady Brereton’s straw bonnet stirred slightly. She wore a white muslin dress and dull pink spencer embroidered with more rosebuds. The effect was feminine, perhaps a touch frivolous. The lady’s face, however, was drawn and anxious. She took a seat. “What have you to tell me?” She knit her gloved fingers together in her lap, clearly braced for the worst.

  “Le
t me set your mind a little at ease, ma’am. My first and best news is that your sister is alive and safe.”

  Lady Brereton sank back into her chair, as if relief had deprived her of all strength. She bit her lip and her eyes closed prayerfully.

  “Miss Thorpe’s situation for now is a good one—she is with respectable people who are happy to have her, and who concern themselves with her welfare. They are known to your brother—”

  Lady Brereton’s eyes snapped open. “To Henry? I am fond of my brother, Miss Tolerance, but I am fully aware of how irregular most of his acquaintance—” she seemed in danger of relapse into her former anxiety.

  “You mistake me, ma’am. The acquaintance is Mr. John Thorpe’s.”

  Miss Tolerance was not prepared to meet outrage. “John? John knows where Evie is? How long has he known? Why did he not tell me?” Lady Brereton’s softly rounded chin took on an ugly, stark edge. Miss Tolerance would not in that moment have wished to be John Thorpe. “When I have been beside myself with worry? Why did he not bring her directly to me?”

  Miss Tolerance raised a hand to stop the flow of words. “It is only a day ago that your brother would have heard from her. I assure you Mr. Thorpe has good reason for his reticence: your sister did not authorize him to tell you—”

  “Not tell me? Evie did not want him to tell me?” Lady Brereton’s wrathful expression gave way now to hurt and bewilderment. Miss Tolerance was aware of her own impatience and bit it back: Lady Brereton had no idea yet how her sister had been used.

  “The situation is not a simple one. I hope you withhold your judgment about your brother’s behavior and your sister’s until you have heard the whole of the tale.”

  Lady Brereton’s eyes glittered, but she squared her shoulders and nodded. “Of course. But where is she, if she will not come home? Is she—was she—” her pause was eloquent of questions she feared to ask. “What happened to her? Where has she been? Is she well?”

  “The details are hers to share with you, ma’am. I will say that she met with very cruel treatment. The worst you can imagine will not be far off.” Miss Tolerance paused meaningly. “You must be prepared to find she is no longer the girl you remember. She was a captive until a day ago, but as to who held her and how, that story is Miss Thorpe’s to tell. If you are willing to see her—”

  “Willing? Of course I am. But why will she not come home?”

  Miss Tolerance regarded her client, her sister-at-law, and reminded herself that, for all the soft femininity of her appearance and the girlish flute of her voice, she had seen Lady Brereton face down her father’s rage without blinking. Evadne Thorpe would need that sister to help her.

  “Miss Thorpe believes she will not be safe in your father’s house.”

  The effect of this statement on Lady Brereton was striking; all softness fled. She sat rigid, staring at Miss Tolerance. At last, “Is it my brother Henry she fears?”

  Miss Tolerance would not be drawn. “Truly, ma’am, it is not my story to tell. I can bring you to her this evening, or in the morning, if you prefer it.”

  “Let me go to her now.” Lady Brereton took up her reticule and made to rise. “I cannot know how to help her until I do.” She looked around her as if to defy an imagined watcher. “I know Evie fears our father’s temper, Miss Tolerance, but I am certain that when she is returned to him he will forgive her at once and—”

  Again Miss Tolerance stopped her. “Ma’am, only let your sister tell her story.”

  Lady Brereton had come to Tarsio’s in her own barouche. Miss Tolerance felt a shock of recognition on seeing the livery the driver wore: it was unchanged from her father’s time. She gave the driver the Godwins’ direction and sat back. She was not often afforded the opportunity to ride in a clean, well-kept, well-sprung vehicle; given the various hurts which she had lately suffered, she appreciated the small luxury particularly. She and Lady Brereton did not speak much as they rode; Lady Brereton was lost in her own thoughts. It was left to Miss Tolerance to wonder how the rest of the family, including Sir Adam Brereton, would greet the news of Evadne’s discovery and the story of her captivity.

  At Number 29 the Godwins’ door was opened by the child in the blue-striped gown, who greeted Miss Tolerance as a friend of the household, but frankly stared at Lady Brereton’s superior finery. They were ushered into the hallway, where the earlier smell of baking had given way to that of roasting meat. The girl left them to inquire if “that young lady” would see them; when she returned a few moments later she led them, not into the sitting room where Mrs. Godwin held court, but up the stairs to a pleasant room with sofa and chairs upholstered in old fashioned fabric. The room faced the rear of the house and a pretty, small garden. The sun was low enough in the sky that the lamps had been lit.

  “Ma’am told Miss Fanny I’m to bring that young lady here to you,” she told them. The maid was one of those who preferred to narrate her actions as she performed them.

  Lady Brereton looked out at the twilit garden, twisting a kerchief between gloved fingers.

  “Clary?”

  Evadne Thorpe’s voice was husky and uncertain. She stood in the doorway, poised to run away if her sister should frown. Lady Brereton turned, arms extended to gather Evadne to her; the girl stumbled forward into them, and both began to weep.

  Miss Tolerance left the room, closing the door behind her.

  She spent nearly an hour downstairs with Mrs. Godwin, who asked, through her daughters, many questions about Miss Tolerance’s profession and its origin. Miss Mary was captivated by the romance of her elopement; Miss Fanny and her mother were more interested in the practical aspects of her work.

  “In men’s clothes? Truly? Do you not feel—” Miss Imlay turned to her mother as if she might supply the correct word. “Do you not feel particularly exposed, dressed so?”

  “I am quite accustomed to it. When I lived in Belgium and taught fence, it was practical. And safer. Now—my profession sometimes requires me to defend myself, which is far easier to do in breeches and coat than in kid slippers and petticoats.”

  Mrs. Godwin nodded slightly, the right corner of her mouth quirking upward. She mumbled something to Fanny.

  “How much can you command in payment for your services?” the girl asked. She was apologetic: “My mother asked.”

  Miss Tolerance found herself deep in a discussion of fees, expenses, and investment. Mary, evidently finding this uninteresting, picked up a book and began to read. Mrs. Godwin, through Fanny, asked particularly about the treatment Miss Tolerance encountered from men of all classes. The woman’s body was wrecked, but her mind was still sharp and her opinions unaffected.

  So immersed in the conversation were they that it was almost a surprise when Evadne Thorpe and Clarissa Brereton appeared at the door. They were hand-in-hand; from the evidence of their eyes there had been many tears. Lady Brereton, shorter than her sister, looked the taller in her protectiveness. For her part Evadne seemed happy to lean against her sister, to enjoy that sororal protection and authority.

  “I beg your pardon.” Lady Brereton spoke to Mrs. Godwin. “I have come to thank you with all my heart for your care for my sister—”

  Mrs. Godwin said something that was clearly a protest. At the same time Fanny Imlay said “I has been our pleasure to have her here—”

  “—and to ask if she may remain with you for a day or so longer,” Lady Brereton continued. “I must talk to my husband and my brothers, although I do not expect any objection to Evie coming to live with me.”

  Miss Tolerance thought of her brother, of Lord Lyne, of the attitude of common society to which Miss Thorpe would be subject, and wondered if such a solution would prove wise. She said nothing of it.

  “My mother asks me to assure you Miss Thorpe is welcome to stay.” Fanny Imlay’s lips pursed, and Miss Tolerance wondered if the girl liked the idea of another pretty girl permanently resident in the Polygon.

  It was time, she thought, to leave.

/>   Before the witness of Mrs. Godwin, Miss Fanny, and Miss Tolerance, Clarissa Brereton embraced her sister, promising to settle the matter of her future as quickly as possible. This time it was Fanny Imlay who escorted Miss Tolerance to the door, with Lady Brereton, handfast with her sister, following after.

  In the barouche Lady Brereton gave vent to her feelings in a burst of tears. Miss Tolerance kept quiet, passed her a kerchief when Lady Brereton’s own lacy one became sodden, and waited out the storm. Her demeanor at last became more composed.

  “You have some idea of what my sister suffered, and what she believes my father’s part to have been.”

  Miss Tolerance nodded. “She told you the whole of it?”

  “She did. Now I must think what to do. Remove from my father’s house at once,” Lady Brereton said, as if to herself. “Adam will understand. And tomorrow I will talk to John and Henry, and—” she kept up a quiet monologue which required no response from her listener, until at last the barouche arrived, not at Tarsio’s or in Duke of York Street, but in Manchester Square.

  “Is this not right?” Lady Brereton asked when she saw Miss Tolerance’s surprise. “I thought perhaps you would prefer to go home.”

  “It is very kind of you indeed,” Miss Tolerance assured her. “I was only surprised that you were aware of my home’s location.”

  Lady Brereton waved a gloved hand, making the matter of no importance. “I cannot thank you enough for restoring Evie to me, Miss Tolerance. In a few days will you call on me? I will send a note to let you know where my husband and I are staying.”

  Miss Tolerance recognized a dismissal. She thanked her client, bid her good evening, and descended from the carriage.

  It had been a day of considerable emotion, even at second hand. Miss Tolerance looked around her carefully before she entered Spanish Place; Worke and Huwe might be in custody, but if either man had another confederate she was in no case to defend herself. But the street, and Manchester Square itself, were empty of all but a few menservants come out to light the lanterns hung by the doorways. She entered the garden from Spanish Place, thence to her cottage, where she stirred her banked fire. She could not raise flame enough to boil water; her arm was by now too painful to permit her to carry and arrange in the fireplace the fuel needed. Which meant, she reflected sourly, that she ought to have someone examine the hurt for her and perhaps change the dressing.