by Maria McCann
How can the dim creature peering out of the looking-glass be worthy of Mr Zedland, whose very voice makes Sophia squirm with unspeakable sensations, as though a child were already kicking in her belly? His eyes, deep and dark (their whites so clear as to be tinged with blue), are the bewitching orbs with which she forlornly compares her own, and sees how very unenslaving they are. Yesterday, when he proposed taking her out in the boat and Papa consented, Sophia actually shook to think of the coming tête-à-tête and when her suitor pulled away, marooning poor Rixam, her mouth grew dry. After this initial wickedness, however, Zedland acted quite correctly. He spoke of his own love for Sophia and his wish that his domestic arrangements might please her; yet he smiled on her so long, gazing into her all the while, that she was persuaded he had fathomed her entire secret, penetrated right to her soul and seen his image enshrined there, with herself thrown at his feet.
It is of course natural and proper for a young lady to feel love for her intended. But what is love? Sophia thinks, in those fleeting moments when she is able to think at all. Is this what is meant – this cruelty? For as they sat, seemingly balanced, in the boat, each reflecting the other, she knew that they were not balanced at all, that Zedland’s strength rendered her powerless, that he could make her do anything, and that if he did not understand this now, he very soon would. Again she examines her person in the mirror. How calm and controlled that reflected image! How dignified!
*
My Dear Sophia,
I trust this finds you and your esteemed parents well. For my part, I am fully recovered from the chill of which I told you, free of bottles and boluses and master of my own time. The last of the papers being now come from Essex, I propose to bring them with me on my next visit to Buller. That is, on the sixteenth or seventeenth of this month.
How it grieves me that my beloved parents cannot share our joy on that day which is to witness our entry together into perfect happiness! For perfect, my Sophia, I am convinced it must be. Where two persons, as well matched as we, are surrounded by universal goodwill and cemented by mutual tenderness, happiness must be the inevitable outcome. For proof of that you need look no further than your own dear father and mother, whom I may soon address, with the warmest affection, as my own.
I must now come to something less agreeable. I trust you will not be too disappointed when I tell you that my agent has not purchased the silks, &c., as agreed. There were none of the best quality to be had at the price we had allowed, London being so very expensive just now. On consideration it appears to me that you might buy as good at Bath, where you may consult your own choice entirely and have them made up while we are there
Sophia clutches the letter, almost crumpling it.
‘What is it, darling?’ Her mother’s gentle voice invites confidences. ‘He hasn’t taken a turn for the worse, I hope?’
‘No, no, Mama, he’s quite well now, but the most provoking news! He’s neglected to act for us – he says I can buy the stuffs in Bath and have them run up on the spot.’
‘He has a great deal of business to attend to,’ is Mrs Buller’s comment. ‘Still, you must have your trousseau.’
‘You didn’t wish him to buy the stuffs,’ Sophia admits with shame.
‘No, indeed. We should never have consented, only he made such a point of the superior choice and quality. I must say,’ Mama sniffs, ‘we were very open-handed with him. Enough, I would’ve thought, even for London prices.’
This is Sophia’s first disagreement with Mr Zedland (although the man himself does not know it yet) and her courage fails her at once. ‘Perhaps it won’t matter so much, in the end? What do you think, Mama – could the things be made at Bath?’
But Mama says, ‘Of all men, he ought to understand. His own tailoring is so very elegant, and everyone knows how much time that takes. I shall write to him.’
‘Oh, Mama, you won’t quarrel with him, will you?’
‘Don’t you know me better than that, child? Let me see the letter.’
Though the greater part of the contents remain unread, Sophia hands it over without hesitation. Mr Zedland never descends to ‘warm expressions’; his communications might be read by the Archbishop of Canterbury himself.
‘He hasn’t bought the mare either,’ her mother murmurs. ‘Quite right, since it appears she was lame – but to fancy you can be married out of a mantua-maker’s! No, no, that must all be finished with before your honeymoon.’ Mama folds the letter up briskly and hands it back to Sophia. ‘You shall see what I write.’
Sophia hugs her – ‘Thank you, darling Mama!’ – before going off to read the remainder of her letter in private.
It is partly her own reaction that she wishes to hide, since she finds his letters strangely disappointing. Could it be their very correctness which is so lacking in charm? Uniformly polite, they breathe chaste love and dutiful affection, when what she craves is some hint that he thinks of their approaching wedding as she does, with mingled desire and terror. Sophia reflects bleakly that the coming ordeal may be all her own, men’s lives and bodies (her mother has explained) being differently constructed from those of women, so that the act which bathes a husband in voluptuous sensations may pain his wife, though as Mama said, ‘it will soon pass off’. (Sophia turned scarlet on being told this; it was the fault of the words voluptuous sensations, which themselves brought about curious stirrings she would be puzzled to describe to Mama.) It seems that Nature has allotted Mr Zedland the lion’s share of happiness in the marital embrace: should he not be correspondingly more eager to lay claim to it than his yearning, yet shrinking, bride?
Sophia has more cause to shrink than most. Since childhood she has been troubled by a ‘little weakness’, as Mama insists upon calling it; according to Mama, such weaknesses are not uncommon in the gentle sex and Mr Zedland, as a loving husband, will soon accommodate himself to a flaw which can in no way be traced to any vice. It is plain, however, that Mama is not quite so easy on this head as she wishes to appear, since a few months ago she wrote to a celebrated physician residing at Bath. Dr Brunt’s reply, when it came, was encouraging: though one could not undertake with absolute confidence to cure the condition, patients often responded well to simple, practical measures and those who did not, even those of Sophia’s age, might still grow out of it. He wrote that he had a particular interest in such cases, and it had long been his opinion that parents should endeavour to treat their afflicted children with tenderness, striving to discover and remove any little sorrow or suffering that might weigh upon their spirits. It was imperative that no beatings or other punishments should be used or even threatened, and that all should be done to foster a romping, carefree disposition. Such a course of action, faithfully adhered to, not infrequently brought about everything that was desired; patience was essential, however, as several weeks might pass before any improvement could be detected. Marriage itself, if happy, might well effect such a change, but it was (he had underlined the words) desirable for the happiness of all parties that the utmost frankness should be employed towards the bridegroom.
The good doctor added that he must not be understood to be accusing either Papa or Mama. It sometimes happened that cheerful young people, guided by the most loving parents, were afflicted by reason of an innate weakness in the body. For these, also, treatment might do much. He respectfully submitted details of a regimen which, if scrupulously followed, would reduce the symptoms or even do away with them altogether.
Sophia assured Mama that she had no secret sorrows and that nothing distressed her save the condition itself. They therefore pinned their hopes on Dr Brunt’s regimen. At table Sophia takes as little salt, or salted food, as may be; she shuns dishes swimming in any kind of sauce or gravy, takes no liquid after eight o’clock, and is careful to visit the necessary house frequently before retiring to bed. She has made considerable progress this way, and hopes she may make more.
In her chamber she unfolds the letter and reads:
The little mare I told you of has had a fall and now limps intolerably. Paterson tells me she will hardly recover within a month. It is a pity, as I am persuaded you would have taken to her, but since I had not closed the bargain when she fell I have instead purchased a hunter, a real beauty. I am now seeking another mount for you; Paterson knows of a quiet grey
Sophia sighs. She understands that female happiness depends upon attracting a protector who takes just such pains as these to secure her comfort. And yet . . . an ardent billet-doux, a forbidden familiarity, would comfort her more than any amount of such household stuff. What is more, she finds it difficult to reconcile Zedland’s glamorous person and intimate, teasing manner with his prosaic outpourings on paper. Her parents, however, seem quite satisfied. Possibly she is the only person to perceive him thus – and this because of what older people call ‘youth and innocence’. Perhaps, after all, these different aspects of Mr Zedland are perfectly reconcilable, and the mixture a proven recipe for married bliss?
In the meantime she has domestic concerns of her own. She rings the bell and asks the servant to send Titus to her, to see if he has made any progress in curbing his defective speech.
4
Betsy-Ann, says Sam Shiner, ‘talks like a sheep’.
She knows what he means. She burrs instead of chopping her words short, the way folk do here. And why should she? She once learned to read – learned some of the letters, at any rate – and she reckons that when the letter R was made, it was made to be used. When she first took up with Sam he sometimes mocked her way of speaking. When she protested, he said it was nothing more than merriment, no harm done, but the Corinthian never used to mock her for it and that was another difference between the two men.
These days she’s given up most of her country words, though she can’t take the taste of them out of her mouth. She’s up to every lay in Romeville – the Deuce himself couldn’t fool Betsy-Ann Shiner – but she still talks like a sheep.
Let Sam laugh, he doesn’t know everything. Look at the way he talks about the Corinthian, with his, ‘Hartry taught her everything she knows,’ when all the time it was the other way round. As far as that goes, she made Ned Hartry. She can’t play the public tables, but she was brought up to the cards and it was to Hartry, the Corinthian, that she gave up her secrets.
All but one or two: she always keeps something back for herself. Once a man’s drained you dry he starts looking round for a full hogshead, and that’s when you start missing that little bit you should’ve kept back. Is Sam looking round, then? He’s been going out a lot, lately, and not giving her straight answers.
Fine thing that’d be, when she’s only just got used to him. She didn’t take to Sam at all, at first, on account of how he came by her. Not that she could stand off from him, O no! Those first few weeks she was constantly put in mind of the old song:
Sometime I am a butcher bold
And then I feel fat ware, Sir.
And if the flank be fleshed well I take no farther care, Sir,
But in I thrust my slaughtering-knife Up to the haft with speed, Sir
― and didn’t he just! Another woman might’ve been put to the squeal but Betsy-Ann wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
That apart, he’s not so bad. She goes by his name, as if they were legally spliced. The Corinthian never laughed at her speech but he never called her Mrs Hartry, either. For all that, she sees him in her dream. It’s always the same dream. He sits down to the card table with Sam and winks at her, and this time he sweeps the board.
*
‘Ever seen books like these?’ She fans the strange playing-cards under Sam’s nose.
He grunts. ‘Shams?’
‘No.’ She upends them, turning the soldiers to ladies. ‘That’s all the trick there is.’
Sam laughs. ‘Well, if there’s another, you’re the mort to find it out.’
‘Am I?’ she says. ‘Seems to me there’s a lot I don’t find out.’
He’s been back a day now and still not told her where he went. Something bad is coming: Betsy-Ann can feel it.
‘I’ve made bubble and squeak,’ she says.
Sam clicks his tongue. ‘Curse me, I forgot.’ He goes to the door and bellows, ‘Liz!’
Elizabeth Jane Williams, a creeping crone who occupies a cupboard on the ground floor, is heard wheezing her way upstairs. She haunts the staircase in the hope of errands and obliges everybody in the building, though being such a tortoise, she can never earn much by it. The nearest gin shop is two doors away, which makes her just tolerable for deliveries.
‘Get us some lightning. A quart of the Royal Cream,’ Sam tells her, handing over an empty jug.
When Liz is gone, Betsy-Ann says, ‘Royal Cream? Flush, aren’t we?’
‘You needn’t have any.’ He avoids her eyes; he’s working up to something. ‘Harry said he might step over.’
And there it is, the bad thing. She knows now where he’s been, and what he’s been doing, this last fortnight. She thought as much: there’s a dirty smell on him.
‘You saw Harry today?’
‘Any reason I shouldn’t?’
‘Course not. Only I never thought you was fond.’
Betsy-Ann herself isn’t fond, though she was born Betsy-Ann Blore and Harry Blore is her own blood brother.
‘I ran into him up by the Haymarket. He was ―’
Betsy-Ann turns on him, jabbing her finger towards her face. ‘Them’s my eyes, Samuel Shiner! You’ve been out with him, haven’t you? After we agreed ―’
‘Blunt’s blunt.’ Sam’s talking seriously now, no longer fencing with her. ‘Somebody has to bring it in.’
Since he doesn’t like to be reminded, she forces herself not to look at his maimed hand as she says, ‘Don’t I make enough for us? We got two chambers here, a snug little ken ―’
‘I’m not being kept by a mort.’
‘That shows your manly spirit, Sammy. But what about me? I won’t know where – what you’ve been touching.’
‘It’s trade!’
‘Coming from them into our bed.’ For the life of her she can’t stop her voice quivering; it’s a relief when she hears Liz toiling up the stairs. Betsy-Ann watches Sam take the jug and pay her off, then listens to the old woman creeping down again before repeating, ‘Coming from them into our bed, Sam! Turns me funny just to think of it.’
She sets out cups but he does not pour the drink. Instead he says, ‘Think what? That I’m kissing them – squeezing their bubbies? Eh? You got a mind like a midden!’
It does look that way, Betsy-Ann has to admit. She tries another tack. ‘Tell us one thing, though, Sam. How was it? Was you boozed up?’
‘What d’you think, we’d do it cold?’
‘They talk about Tom Ball – eh?’
‘One thing, you said.’
‘Tom Ball. The Flash Kiddey.’
He clicks his tongue. ‘Who’s Tom Ball, in the name of Christ?’
‘You’ve got his situation, you might say.’
She takes the gin from him and pours, humming one of her tunes. There’s no end to them, and she knows words to every one. She hands Sam a cupful and watches him swallow.
‘Well,’ he says at last. ‘What manner of cove was he?’
‘Dimber – a regular heart-breaker. And knew it. Anyway, they was lying up, two days’ drinking time on account of the moon, then suddenly there’s cloud, so it’s off we go, drunk as kings. They’ve just got a large on the cart and they’re going for another, right next door it is, so they chuck the soil from the second grave into the first. Then they get the signal, Davey’s spied the patrol, so they toddle quick. They’re away and sitting on the cart and Pete Hindmarsh – you met Pete?’
Sam nods.
‘Pete says, “Where’s the kiddey?”’
She pauses.
‘Get on with it, girl. Where was he?’
‘Where d’you think!’ she spits. ‘They’d buried him.’
�
�Never!’ He flaps his hand at her. ‘Who told you ―’
‘Harry. Harry told me.’ She watches that sink in. ‘He was lying drunk in there and they covered him over.’
‘So – what then?’
‘Well.’ Betsy-Ann shrugs. ‘They couldn’t hang about.’
‘Didn’t they go back?’
‘Couldn’t, could they? Not once the patrol was there. You should hear Harry tell it, he laughs fit to choke.’
Sam downs the last of his cup without looking at her.
She says, ‘And you’ll trust Harry after that?’
‘I never trusted Harry.’
She pours him another flash, and one for herself. After a while he’s looking more cheerful so they go into the next room, leaving the bubble and squeak for later, and lie down together on the bed. When Blore arrives to discuss business, he has to hammer to make himself heard and Betsy-Ann goes to the door with her stays unlaced and her hair hanging down.
Ask anyone who knows him to describe Harry Blore and one of the first words out of his mouth will be ‘heavy’. Betsy-Ann is a tall, strong woman; Blore is a tall, strong, thickset man, sallow and with a pungent stale smell about him. Some say it comes of his trade, some that it’s his by nature. There’s also a whiff of the bare-knuckle fighter he once was: the solidity of a man not easily put down, the ferocious gaze, the broken nose that gives him his blunted profile.
Acting the quality again, thinks Betsy-Ann, eyeing his shabby laced coat. She smiles, gestures to him to come in and pushes the gin towards him. Blore ignores the cup set ready and helps himself from the lip of the jug.
He looks her up and down. ‘You’ll wear the cove flat at this rate. Tell him I’m here.’
‘Thought you’d come to see your beloved sis.’ Pulling a face once she has turned her back, Betsy-Ann goes out of the room. In the bedchamber, Sam is wriggling into his breeches.
‘No need to break your neck,’ she whispers. ‘And not a word of what I said.’
