‘Well, there’s the moon, Emma Lyon.’ Jane pointed to the sky. ‘You may whistle for it if you like.’
‘What about singin’ to it?’
‘Sing?’
‘Like we do in the house, when we’re working.’ Emma took off her cloak and laid it on the ground in front of them. Her hat followed that, and the long auburn tresses of which she was so proud tumbled down to frame her face. ‘See, we can stand here and chant – perhaps that Granger air we both know – an’ those going by may tip a coin into my cloak as payment. When we’ve got enough, we can get ourselves something to eat and drink.’
‘It’ll never work!’
‘If jugglers can drop their beanbags and still get paid, so can we, even if we drop a note or two. You’ve got a better voice than me, so you take the lead part and I’ll do the reprises.’
What came out of Jane Powell’s mouth when she started singing was so far from the real item that Emma burst out laughing. Out of key, weak and tuneless, it would have driven people away if she had been loud enough. She began to sing herself, loudly, and with a faux assurance that covered the feeling of butterflies churning in her stomach. Slowly, as Jane gained confidence, her voice grew in strength until she was singing with enough gusto to allow Emma to drop to a softer tone.
They had plenty to compete with – the roars from the boxing booth at their back, the shouts of a crowd at pleasure, as well as the odd drunken yell ‘to put a boot up the cat’s arse’ – but one or two people stopped to listen. Those accompanied by wives or sweethearts were swiftly dragged away, for the trilling girls were not very good – so it was more their youth and looks that attracted. The rougher element, on hearing a song of soft love and sweet muses, didn’t linger either, though one or two, more from habit than generosity, threw a few coins into Emma’s cloak.
They were left, as an audience, with young, unattached men, none of whom seemed to have the courage to approach too closely, nor the means to reward them for their efforts. But one duo did, though they waited till the end of the song to applaud and throw a sixpence. The one who tossed the coin was tall and thin, with sharp, unbecoming features, thick lips under a nose that seemed too big, and an eager look that rendered him unattractive. He was well dressed in a buff coat of good quality, white breeches and stockings that looked to be silk.
The other, in a plain black coat, was of medium height, round of face and fair skinned. He had a sullen air, though this might have been attributable in some measure to the tricorn hat pulled down low over his forehead. They listened to another song, made payment of a second sixpence, applauded again, then approached the performers, the tall thin fellow well to the fore. ‘Bravely done, girls,’ he cried.
‘Bravely?’ Emma demanded, stretching to her full height.
He smiled. ‘If you listen carefully, and put aside the noise of the crowd, you will realise that the nightingales have fled the contest. You have, my beauties, triumphed over nature.’
He had a good voice, even and deep, so the insincerity in his eyes did little to diminish the compliment. Jane had stepped back slightly, so that her friend’s greater substance shielded her.
‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am James Perry, and this is my very good friend Owen Dunn.’ The smaller man gave a grunt, as his friend continued, ‘We are both of the opinion that we enjoyed your concert immensely.’
‘The word “bravely” sits ill with that, Mr Perry,’ Emma replied, thrilled at her own boldness.
‘There are those who might flatter you, Miss …?’
‘Lyon,’ Emma exclaimed, confidently. ‘And this is Miss Jane Powell.’
That produced another bow, and Jane took a tight grip on Emma’s arm. Perry looked down at the few coins in the cloak. ‘I fear you’ll never make your fortune as a fairground chanteuse, Miss Lyon, though you’d be amazed at what you might achieve with a trifling amount of tuition, especially at your tender age.’ He gazed into the huge green eyes. ‘Indeed, you have the necessary presence to overcome any flaw in performance.’
Emma bobbed a curtsy, then cursed herself for doing something so childish. ‘I thank you kindly Mr Perry. But you mistake our purpose. We are naught but a pair of housemaids.’
He interrupted her, and again the expression in his eyes was at odds with what he said. ‘Why, you amaze me. Such beauty in a mere domestic servant is rare.’
‘Jane and I were only singing to acquire the means to buy some food, and perhaps a drink.’
‘Then I’d be very obliged if you and Miss Powell would allow Mr Dunn and me the honour of providing for you.’
Emma ignored the hearty tug from Jane, which Perry noticed. ‘Why we’d be delighted, sir,’ she said.
‘If you were to state a preference. Miss Lyon, I’m sure I could take you to the very spot that sells whatever you fancy. There’s a stall I spied selling hot rum mixed with cinnamon.’
‘Lemonade will suffice, sir.’ Emma looked down, in a way that obliged Perry to scoop up the coins swiftly, along with her hat and cloak, all of which he handed over.
‘What are you about?’ Jane demanded, in a whisper. All the time Perry had been talking, Dunn hadn’t taken his eyes off her, as though they had decided before they had approached who would take whom. ‘What do we want with a couple of old goats like ’em?’
‘They’re never more than twenty years,’ Emma hissed. ‘Why spend what we’ve earned, Jane, when we can get a pair of willing gents to lay it out for us?’
Perry helped her put her cloak back round her shoulders, but made a sudden gesture when she made to replace her hat. ‘Please, Miss Lyon, do not deprive me of the sight of those engaging tresses.’
That was when Dunn spoke, requesting archly that Jane, too, remove her hat so that he could gaze upon her locks. When Jane refused, Emma reached out and did it for her.
‘Will you take my arm. Miss Lyon?’
‘I think not, Mr Perry,’ Emma replied. ‘That would not be proper. If you and Mr Dunn walk ahead, we will be following a few steps behind you.’
‘I would prefer that we reverse the arrangement,’ Perry replied.
‘As you wish, sir,’ Emma responded, moving off with Jane in tow. As soon as they were moving she called out over her shoulder. ‘You don’t seem the type for such a place, sir.’
‘That one so young should be so discerning is singular, but good entertainment is not easy to find.’
‘And this place obliges?’
‘Why, I doubt my parents would approve, but we cannot always obey our elders and seek pleasure at the same time.’
‘D’ye hear that, Emma?’ said Jane, softly. ‘“My parents”. He’s not for the likes of us. He’s probably got housemaids of his own.’
Emma whispered. ‘I daresay. And so will the other one. They’re just a couple of rakes out seeking a good time.’
‘Well, they can good time it elsewhere,’ Jane retorted.
‘If you turn left at the next corner, ladies,’ said Dunn, ‘you will come to a lemonade stall.’
Again it was Emma who responded. ‘I see it, Mr Dunn.’
The quartet drew close, joining those queuing to be served. That was the moment when Perry and Dunn chose to move forward, trying gently to separate the girls. Emma knew what they were about, as did Jane, but was less alarmed by their attentions. Servants like her were expected to be grateful for being taken up by men of quality.
She could see in Perry’s eyes that he was enjoying the thrill of the chase. She, in turn, liked the pursuit; a notion that was clearly alien to her companion, considering the way that Jane elbowed Dunn so that she could stay attached to Emma. There was satisfaction in knowing what the men were thinking. Perry and Dunn saw two young serving girls, wenches bent on adventure, who had had the good fortune to run into two lads who could provide it. Both would be certain their luck was in, assume that Emma and Jane were easy game. Perry was more forthright than Dunn, but in some way his quiet expectation of compliance was more revealing. At leas
t he felt he had to try to seduce them, employing wit, flattery and refreshment. Dunn had made up his mind that if they were that sort, in this place, warbling badly to get a few pence, then the results for the night were a foregone conclusion. Emma was struck by another thought: she hadn’t the faintest idea how she knew all this, but she did.
‘I confess I’m faint with hunger,’ she said, trying as hard as she could to sound ladylike.
‘Then let us proceed to the roasting pit, where they are turning fresh pork,’ said Perry, a leering note in his voice. ‘Nothing like a bit of pork to set you up for the night.’
‘Why that’s the truth, Mr Perry,’ Emma said, her huge eyes full of innocence. ‘I’m truly fond of hot pork.’
‘James, if you please,’ he responded, with something akin to a whoop.
The girls went ahead again, Jane whispering in something close to panic, her arm looped round Emma’s.
‘Never fear, Jane,’ Emma murmured. ‘These two Jimkins think they’ve landed sweet. Next thing, after we eat, will be an invite of some sort that will get us away from the crowds.’
‘Then what are we to do?’
Emma laughed, one of those pealing chuckles that had filled the Budd house earlier that day. She heard the two men behind her join in with their own ribald mirth, could almost see them nudging each other in mutual anticipation. ‘Leave that to me. Let’s just get them to feed us first.’
The heat from the pit brought an added glow to their cheeks. Perry’s handkerchief was needed to stem the juices from the pork slices that ran down Emma’s chin. It was a fine cambric square, of a quality that she had only ever felt on an ironing board.
‘Please keep it, Miss Lyon,’ Perry said. ‘It is a trifle compared to your beauty, and the promise of your company.’
Looking up at him, in the stronger light from the lanterns that hung under the spit-roaster’s awning, she tried to make out his age. Twenty had been her guess, though the puffiness she had taken earlier for a sign of youthfulness looked more likely due to over-indulgence.
‘How often do you come here?’ she asked.
‘Why, this is but my second visit,’ he replied as though suddenly afraid that the image he was presenting would fall apart with the truth. The truth that he and his friend came here often, hunting, no doubt, for fresh conquests. Emma knew he was lying. The raised voice had been to alert Dunn.
‘What a memory you have, James Perry,’ she said, with deliberate coquetry, ‘to know Southwark Fields so well after only two visits. I swear I could never find a lemonade stall as quick as you, nor a roasting pit.’
The grin stayed fixed, but the jaw clenched, as though he was struggling to contain such a sally from someone so much his inferior. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Dunn leaning close to Jane. From the stiff way she was holding herself, he was making improper suggestions.
‘In truth, I don’t really care for this place,’ Perry said. Emma pouted, enjoying the swift way he responded. ‘Saving for your presence, of course. I much prefer the town, St James’s and Covent Garden.’
‘I ain’t never been to such.’
‘Have you not?’ he cried, as though such ignorance was fatal. ‘Then I see it as my duty to take you there.’
‘Would you?’
He bent over, took her hand and lifted it to his lips. ‘It would be my pleasure. And since I have a small set of rooms there, I can provide you with something a touch more refined than the provender you’ve consumed in this place.’
‘What about my friend?’ Emma asked, with a note of alarm.
‘She may come too. I’m sure my good friend Dunn will pay her all the attention she requires.’
‘Is it not a long way off?’
‘Not in a hack, which I can easily call upon once we’re on the north bank of London Bridge.’
Emma’s voice became positively childish. ‘I don’t know, sir. We would be much troubled to get home.’
‘It is to visit a place you’ve never seen. Did you not come here for that very purpose?’ She smiled, bowed her head and nodded. ‘Look upon it as an addition to the night’s pleasure. And as to getting you home, what fellow with any claim to be a gentleman would not oblige you in that?’
‘If we’re late …’
‘You will not be late,’ he said, in a voice much more firm.
‘How I long for adventure, Mr Perry.’ She pouted. ‘Life can be so dull below stairs.’
‘The man who keeps you to that station must be blind.’
That husky compliment produced a full flutter of the eyelashes. ‘You flatter too outrageously, sir.’
‘I assure you I do not.’
Perry held her gaze for a second, then called to his friend, who was still having trouble with Jane. ‘Dunn. I have engaged to take Miss Lyon to Covent Garden.’
The look that earned Perry was singular, half envious, half triumphant. Perry continued, his voice now sounding hard. ‘Of course, you and Miss Powell must accompany us, if only for the sake of propriety.’
Jane shook her head violently, which made Dunn frown. Emma whispered reassuringly to Perry. ‘Let me talk to her. She is a nervous creature, and no doubt feels unsafe.’
‘What nonsense,’ Perry scoffed.
‘Truly,’ Emma said, again looking up into his eyes, her own wide and trusting, ‘what could we possibly have to fear from two kind gents like you?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘But I fear to try and persuade her with both of you close by. Your friend Mr Dunn, while I’m sure he’s a gent too, has not your way of easing people.’
‘Miss Powell will find him as kind and generous as you will find me.’
‘That is what I intend to tell her, sir.’ She spun away before he could respond, going towards Jane and Owen Dunn. ‘If you were to wait on the bridge, Mr Dunn, with Mr Perry, I will undertake to fetch Jane to you.’
‘On the bridge?’ Dunn demanded, as Perry came to join them.
‘In the very middle.’
‘How long?’ asked Perry, in a firm confident voice.
Emma touched the back of his hand, happy to see the way his eyes reacted. ‘Minutes, no more.’
Dunn was unconvinced, but Perry gave him a look that bespoke certainty. He bent over, took Emma’s hand, raised it to his lips once more and, very elegantly, kissed it. Emma watched them as they strode away.
Perry tried not to look too cocksure, but his gait gave him away. Jane, on the other hand, was glaring at her. ‘I don’t care what you do, Emma Lyon, but I ain’t going no place with that worm.’
‘And neither am I with the other,’ Emma replied, her eyes still fixed on their retreating backs.
‘Then how in hell’s name are we to get back to the house, with them in the middle of the bridge?’
Emma held out the hand that Perry hadn’t kissed, showing the money they had gained from their singing. ‘Bridges go over water, an’ water goes under them.’
They started to sing their song as soon as the wherry came into the arc of the great lanterns that lined London Bridge. Expertly, the boatman took them right through the middle channel, where there were no shops to impede the view. And, since the river was high, they were no more than thirty feet from the two swains awaiting them. The singing made both look over to where Jane and Emma sat in the thwarts, waving gaily and blowing kisses. They shot under the arch, and as they came out on the other side, it was gratifying to see Perry and Dunn had crossed over too. That was when Perry, clearly laughing, blew them a kiss of his own.
‘Perhaps,’ Emma said, ‘he wasn’t so bad after all.’
‘Stuff,’ snapped Jane Powell, as she made a rude gesture with her fingers, aimed at Dunn.
The boatman dropped them off at the Blackfriars steps, moaning that sixpence was stretching it for such a journey, and prattling on about the mouths he had to feed. Both girls were in high spirits, and laughed in his face. The streets were quieter now, which had them trying fruitlessly to guess the time.
They were very late, in danger of being locked out if Tooley or one of his boys had set the latch.
With much mutual shushing, they crept down the steps to the basement door, Emma silently lifting the latch and pulling a gap as the hinges creaked slightly. They were inside, the warmth of the kitchen a great relief. Both let out a deep sigh, which turned to a frightened start when Tooley said, ‘Had a good night out have we?’
Tooley might have kept quiet, but the price of that silence would be too high for both girls. He never stated what it was, but the look in his eye and the increase in his familiarity left neither Emma nor Jane in any doubt that he would soon be creeping about their attic bedroom. It was Cath Lane who rescued them, once she had made them admit the nature of the hold Tooley exercised over them.
‘Well, it will never do just to walk out, an’ even worse if that sod lets on to Dr Budd about your shenanigans.’
‘Tooley’s getting right bold,’ said Emma.
‘You leave him to me. If’n he don’t behave he’ll be singing like a cathedral boy with his stones in a jar on my mantle.’
It was the housekeeper’s idea that they leave one at a time, replaced by new housemaids so that the master wouldn’t pay too much heed. What she said to Tooley they never found out, but it worked since he began to avoid rather than annoy them. Jane departed first, electing to go off with a touring band of players rather than stay in service. The truth never dawned on her or Emma that Cath Lane hadn’t acted towards them out of pure kindness: she had her own interests at heart. What would it profit the housekeeper if the master or mistress found out that the girls she had chosen were a flighty pair inclined to night-time excursions?
‘I fancy goin’ to be an actress,’ said Emma dreamily, ‘like Jane has.’
‘Actress!’ Cath Lane spat. ‘I don’t call it that, fetchin’ an carryin’ for all and sundry for nowt but half the food you need to sustain you. If she ever gets on the boards it will be to sweep them. Travelling players? Vagabonds and thieves, I say. You can put the notion out of your head. I had word from your ma, and where you are goin’ is already decided. Let me tell you it’s better than what Jane Powell has managed.’
On a Making Tide Page 14
