by M. J. Tjia
I try in vain to find out the name of the father of Eleanor’s baby. She becomes white with the effort of holding onto her sobs until she starts to retch. I put my arm around the girl’s heaving shoulders and wait for her to quieten down.
I don’t know Eleanor well enough to speculate on who the man might be. Surely the French music master was the most dangerous of risks to enter the sheltered world of a young lady fresh from boarding school? Has Eleanor any brothers? Brothers who have other young gentlemen to visit? I’m not sure, but from listening to her earlier it’d seemed she was an only child.
A grey wood pigeon wanders before us, pecking for crumbs. Not too much longer another pigeon, with white tufts on its neck, joins its partner.
Unless it was her father. Eleanor’s face rests against her folded arms and I study the barely visible, flaxen down on the curve of the girl’s pink ear. Maybe Eleanor’s own father has left her with child. It’s not unheard of, especially in the back-rooms of brothels.
LI LEEN
In some ways I am like Eleanor. I sometimes think back to my time in Makassar and wonder if that was the happiest period of my life. The earlier years, that is, the years before Tiri came into our lives. When Mother still combed my hair with her tortoise-shell comb and fed me tripang with her sandal-wood chopsticks. Before Tiri’s gaze inched so heavily across my skin that I allowed my hair to fall across my face while I looked to the side, pretending he was not there.
The only respite I had was to work in Tiri’s shop that fronted our living space. Mostly I sat by the cash box, counting the comings and goings, while Tiri’s serving girls assisted the customers. At the back of the shop stood two large aquariums, the water moss-green and cool, in which glistening, tiger-striped gourami bobbed sluggishly waiting for a customer with a yen for fresh fish. A girl from the Dutch governor’s kitchen taught me how to handle and fillet the fish. For this I had a special scaling knife with which I pierced the gill of the flapping fish and waited for the wet shiver of death, a coat of viscous webbing shiny on my fingertips. I then cleaned and scaled the fish, before handing its fleshy carcase over to the customer. When possible, I kept the fish head for Mother to stew in ginger and garlic so that she could offer it to the Chinese gods of her tiny red and gold shrine. We well knew how much the gods delighted in fish head.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Amah Li Leen sets the kitchen table with bread, cold meats and cheese for our midday meal.
She’s testy with Eleanor, who only nibbles on a few berries.
“How can you nourish yourself and your young one if you are not to eat?” she says. “Look at yourself. You are so thin I can almost see through your white skin.” She tuts and scowls at the girl but carefully assembles a neat cheese sandwich with wedges of butter and thin slices of pickle. She then removes the crusts and cuts the sandwich into bite size squares. This she places in front of Eleanor next to a cup of sweet, milky tea. “Eat, eat,” she urges.
She pinches me on the elbow and gestures towards the spread of food on the table. “You eat too. None of this fasting before your big night out at the opera. I did not trudge through the dirt and haggle with those smelly hucksters for you to both starve yourselves.”
We eat obediently as Amah washes the dishes, occasionally popping a morsel of food into her own mouth. When Eleanor is finally finished, having only eaten half her sandwich, Amah sniffs but takes the plate away.
Since there are no books in the house, or musical instruments or even, thankfully, needle-work to be done, I endeavour to engage Eleanor in conversation. We sit upon the sofas in the sitting room and, being curious about how the young woman had fared for her few weeks of solitude in Waterloo, I slowly draw the story from her.
“I did not realise my money would last such a short period.”
“The owner of the boarding house made you leave?”
“Oh, yes,” she says. “As soon as she understood that I could no longer pay her any board she almost pushed me out of the house.” Colour tints her cheeks. “What an abominable woman she was. You know, she made me take my shoes off when I entered the house. And she only allowed us one cup of tea in the morning. She guarded the pot like it was a chest of gold, and I’m sure it was not even tea. I’m sure it was just muddy water from the drains.”
“And then?”
“And then Tilly took me to Mme Silvestre’s.” She thinks for a moment. “It’s strange. It was over a week ago that I was at Silvestre’s but I seem to have learnt a lot since then. I am not sure if that is a good thing or not.”
“But you did not stay there?”
“Oh, no, I could not. It was so warm there and seemed so merry but when that man placed his hand on me and all I could see was his wet mouth…” She shudders.
I grin at her. “Yes, you need to grow a very tough skin for that kind of thing.”
She looks across at me and then lets her gaze fall. “Did you ever work somewhere like Mme Silvestre’s?”
“Yes. I worked there for a short time when I was about your age. There are worse places to work.” I laugh at the horror on Eleanor’s face, although I do feel a tiny, tiny flicker of irritation. “Although I will refrain from telling you the particulars. So tell me, what did you do then, before that ghastly woman, Mrs Sweetapple, sank her claws into you?”
“It was awful. Awful. I found myself near the bridge and it was very dark and I was so frightened I eventually begged a room from an Irish woman. The lodging was no better than a hovel and the room cost two shillings a week, and yet I could not even come up with that. She had me help her launder men’s shirts and breeches for my board but after a few days her niece arrived so she asked me to leave. I would have gone to the workhouse, but I did not even know where it was, and I was too ashamed to ask. So that first night I hid in a stairwell not far from here. Luckily it was not a terribly cold night, but I still did not manage any sleep.”
“I can imagine you didn’t. Your hiding place wasn’t discovered?”
“I was so afraid I would be found. So many men, so many women, passed by. I did not know what would become of me. I hoped that if I was found it would be by a woman, a kind woman who would assist me, but I have learnt that the fairer sex is not always as charitable as I had been brought up to expect. I was sick with worry. I assure you, if I had eaten anything that day, I would have passed it up.” She leans forward and with shaky hands she grips her teacup and has a sip before carefully placing the cup down again on its saucer. “I only had the one gown left by that stage and it was terribly soiled and crushed. And my hands – I had thrown away my gloves by then, they were in such a sorry state I could not bear to keep them. I think that was when I realised there was no going back for me to a normal life.” She gazes down at the palms of her hands, and rubs at them with her lace handkerchief. “My hands were so dirty. I could not wipe the grime away.”
“How did you meet Mrs Sweetapple?”
She hides her face in her hands. “It is so mortifying to have to tell you this part.” She looks up again and there are red smudges around her eyes where her hands have pressed. “I was so hungry. I was more hungry than I have ever felt in my life. At first I asked a coster who looked friendly enough if I could have one of her apples, having no money, but she told me if she was to give me an apple, she would be obliged to give all the vagrants an apple, and then where would her business be? She did not say it nastily, but she was very firm. I was too afraid to ask again after that. Then I noticed a cart of chestnuts. The man was serving an old lady, so I walked past and tried to sift my hand through the nuts,” she makes the motion with her hand. “I tried to take one without being seen but a beastly little girl told the old woman and then the coster looked around at me too. I could have sunk into the ground I was so embarrassed. I just stood there, the chestnut in my hand, unable to explain myself, when Mrs Sweetapple took it from me and told the costermonger that she would buy it for her niece – she was referring to me, you see.”
“How clever of her.”
<
br /> Eleanor nods slowly. “Yes. So when she offered to take me home, and she seemed so kind, of course I went.”
“Of course.”
“Of course,” she repeats. She stares down at her cup of tea, and I let her be.
Amah and I are packing some of my toiletries to take with us for the evening, when Agnes appears at the bedroom door.
“There’s a gentleman here for you, miss.”
“Do you know who it is?” I tuck some stray hairs behind my ear.
The girl shakes her head. “Nah. Never seen ‘im, miss. Looks like a toff though, all straight and proper, ‘e is.”
I follow the girl down the stairs and am surprised to see Dr Blain, attired in evening dress, standing by the hall stand.
“Dr Blain. How do you do?” I’m not entirely able to keep the astonishment from my voice.
“Mrs Chancey.” He takes my hand in his gloved one, drops his hat, and upon gathering it up again, says, “You must find it very strange that I have called upon you, but I have not seen you again at the Lion’s Inn since we visited the fair.”
I smile politely, and assure him I’m delighted to meet him again. Knowing Eleanor to be in the sitting room, I’m unsure as to whether I should invite him in or whether to continue our uneasy conversation in the hallway.
“I see you are going somewhere special tonight,” I venture, gesturing towards his tailcoat.
“Yes, yes,” he says, distracted, picking at the rim of his hat. “I have an engagement to attend with my aunt.” He swallows hard. “The thing is, I was wondering if you have found your cousin yet, Mrs Chancey?”
I’m just about to tell him that I haven’t yet found Eleanor when the girl herself walks out from the sitting room.
“Dr Blain?” she says. Her face is flushed pink as if she has sat by the fire too long.
Blain stares at her, then rushes forward to take her hand in greeting. “You are well.”
“Yes, I am well. Heloise has taken such great care of me.”
He glances back at me. “But how did you find her?” He looks again at Eleanor. “Where were you?”
I stare at the two of them. She was his patient after all. I’m not quite sure what to say so I usher the two of them into the sitting room to give myself some thinking time.
“A kind lady not far from here allowed Eleanor to board with her,” I finally say. “The woman who owns the coffee stall knew I was searching for Eleanor and, having heard of this kind lady taking in a young woman, she thought to tell me of it.” I hold Eleanor’s gaze for a second. “Luckily it was my cousin Eleanor, after all.”
We each take a seat. Blain sits next to me so that he’s facing Eleanor. He stares at her for a few moments before his eyes fall to his hat which is resting in his lap. “And you have been well, madam?” he asks me.
“Yes, thank you. And your work, Dr Blain – has it kept you very busy?”
“Yes, yes it has,” he says, glancing again at Eleanor. “That is to say, no, actually. It has been slow lately. Which is a good thing for my patients as that means cholera is not rife, yet it is not so fortuitous for my livelihood.”
He smiles tremulously at Eleanor and a blush creeps across the skin above his stiff collar and bow-tie. Jesus. He’s besotted with the girl, not stalking her. I press my lips together to stop from grinning. Poor Eleanor, who’s unpicking the lace border of her handkerchief, seems to be oblivious to his attentions.
“Let me arrange for the tea things to be brought in,” I say, standing.
“No, no. Please do not bring them on my account.” Blain also stands. “I really must be going. I have to collect my aunt very soon. I only came to enquire after Miss Carter.” He jerks out a smile at Eleanor then walks from the room.
I follow him into the hallway and he turns to take my hand. “I suppose you will be returning to your own home soon?”
“Yes, I will,” I wonder if Eleanor will be averse to seeing the nice doctor again. “I will provide you with my address.” Oh dear, I’m going to have to find lodging for the girl in Watford now.
“No, that is not necessary. I am afraid this may be the last time we meet under these circumstances.”
“But surely you will visit us again?”
He gives a short shake of his head. “No. No, I don’t think I will. In fact I know I will not.”
“But…” I say, confused. “But you seemed so… glad to see Eleanor again.”
“Mrs Chancey, your cousin came to see me as a patient. I know her predicament.”
“But why didn’t you say earlier? Why didn’t you tell me she had been to see you?”
His eyes drop from mine. “I had to protect her privacy in this matter. The unpleasantness…”
I feel the expression on my face flatten, tightening my mouth and brow, as I realise what he means. “Ah. Therefore, even if you desired to do so, you could not bring yourself to know Eleanor better?” I say.
“No. It would not be right.”
The smile on my face is fixed, as I open the front door. “Well, we must be thankful for the generosity of spirit that allowed you to check on Eleanor’s well-being. You are a true gentleman.”
“Heloise,” calls Eleanor from the bedroom doorway just as we’re leaving for the night.
“Yes, Eleanor?” I look up at the young woman.
“I’ve remembered where I saw Henry – you know, the barman from Silvestre’s.”
“Where, dear?”
“It was on the morning after I slept in the stairwell..” She curls her fingers over the banister. “It was still quite dark and I wandered by the river. I was so sick and dizzy with fatigue, but I’m sure of it. That’s where I saw him. He was standing over a woman who had fallen in the road beside the fishmongers.” She frowns. “No, that’s not right. It was almost as if he had dropped her there. I thought she may have fainted or else maybe she was the worse for wear from gin.”
“And you’re sure it was him?”
She nods, although her eyes are worried. “I think so.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I’m bursting with contentment as I dab scent behind my ears and between my breasts. If I was a cat I’d be purring. How satisfying to be back in my luxurious home in Mayfair. It actually irks me to know I’ll have to return to Waterloo again to organise Eleanor’s affairs. How pretty my boudoir is, with its creamy, thick carpet and the glossy, ornate furniture. The bed, with its canopy of heavily embroidered gold and black velvet and its crisp linen sheets is especially inviting. Everything smells fresh and clean – no musty mattress, no tallow candles. My beauty accoutrements are spread across the surface of the mahogany dressing table – crystal jars containing fragrant ointments and oils that nourish my skin and assist in keeping it fashionably pale and free of freckles; lip salves and fragile bottles of tinted cream to enhance what nature has neglected; and ivory-handled brushes to groom my hair and apply powder to my face and body. I choose a pair of heavy diamond earrings from my jewellery case. As I look around my room I can’t help but think of Eleanor’s last words.
“I have to tell Bill what Eleanor told me of Henry. The timing fits in with when the poor Dutch girl’s body was left by the side of the fishmongers,” I say to Amah. “Can you fetch me paper and pen?”
“No, I cannot, Heloise,” she snaps at me, as she twines my hair into a full, loose braid that tapers down my back. “I need to finish your hair for tonight, and what with that and dressing you, there is no time for letter writing.”
I sigh loudly with frustration. “Alright. I suppose I can let him know in the morning. Hopefully they’ll keep Henry at the station.”
“Did they arrest him?” Amah asks as her nimble fingers pin diamante stars into my hair. Towards the nape of my neck, at the top of the loose braid, she inserts a glittering diamond and pearl comb.
“Yes. At least, I saw Bill and other bobbies taking him off in their buggy,” I murmur, as I trace charcoal across the corners of my eyelids. I turn my face from side to s
ide to admire my handiwork.
“You know, where I come from they say beauty fades with each moment you admire yourself,” says Amah, inspecting me from behind.
I laugh. “What rubbish, Amah. I’m positive you just made that up. And besides, beauty fades each moment anyway. That’s why I need all these unguents,” I say as I rub tinted cream onto my cheek bones.
In the reflection of the mirror I notice Amah shake her head.
“Which of your new gowns will you be wearing tonight?” she asks.
“Bring me the two gowns Worth sent from Paris.”
Amah pauses on the way to my dressing room.“I’m sure I saw Sir Thomas’ friend outside the Waterloo house this morning. It was when I was on my way to the markets.”
“What man?”
“You know – the one with the big ears,” she says, holding her hands up to her ears and flapping them.
“Mr Priestly? No, you couldn’t have.”
“Yes, I am sure it was him. He walked past the house in Frazier Street,” she insists.
I’m puzzled as to why Priestly would be loitering around the house, but lose all thought of him when Amah returns from the other room and drapes a gown of silk taffeta the shade of champagne over a plump armchair. The bodice is cut to reveal the shoulders and fine, intricate lace flows from below the bust-line and around the upper arms. The outer layer of the flowing skirt is neatly parted in the front with a swathe of lace and a run of neat bows. The other gown, made from a burnt red and gold silk brocade, she places on the bed. The fabric is so sumptuous that besides a short train, further lace and furbelows are unnecessary.
I press my hands to my cheeks. “They are simply ravishing. I’m sure I cannot choose.”
“Well, I must say, Worth dresses you well,” says Amah grudgingly, her hands on her hips as she scrutinises the dresses. “He knows what colours suit you too. None of that ghastly purple you favour so much.”
I roll my eyes but refrain from saying anything. “I think I’ll wear this one tonight,” I say, gently rubbing the brocade of the red dress. “If the old hags are going to cut me, I might as well give their husbands and sons something to look at.”
