Ace, King, Knave

by Maria McCann

  ‘And to think I fancied you biddable.’ Hetty rolls her eyes. ‘Really, Sophy, you might give in this once. I promised your mama we should take you in.’

  ‘Then tell her you’ve done so.’

  ‘Lie to her?’

  ‘Not in so many words, then. Say nothing to bring her here.’

  Hetty looks pained. ‘But Sophy – your mama ―’

  ‘When I begged her help I got none. I don’t want her here now, telling everyone what a tender mother she’s been and how she never would’ve thought it of Edmund.’

  ‘Well – no. But what of that brute of a fellow – suppose he should return?’

  ‘The maids open to nobody without first looking out of the window.’

  ‘They’ll forget.’

  ‘I think not. Fan found him very disagreeable.’ She can only hope Fan has sufficiently impressed his disagreeableness upon stupid Eliza.

  The sight of Hetty seated, her hands folded in her lap, recalls to Sophia her own visits to the sick around Buller. A measureless chasm divides Mrs Edmund Zedland from the girl she then was: so very sure of herself! The people she visited said little except, ‘Yes, Miss,’ and she was satisfied. It never occurred to her that they might have private opinions.

  ‘Sophy? Can you be quite sure, Sophy,’ Hetty touches her arm, recalling her to the present, ‘that Mr Zedland has absconded?’

  ‘He isn’t hiding in the cellar, Hetty, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Indeed I don’t. He kept bad company – he may have come to harm.’

  Despite her bluntness, Hetty’s expression reveals such kind concern that Sophia rises and kisses her on the brow. ‘I believe he meant to go. Beyond that, how should I know? He told me nothing of his life.’

  Her voice trembles on the last few words; Hetty’s touch becomes a squeeze.

  ‘O my dear, don’t give way.’

  ‘I shan’t. But you, Hetty, with your kind husband – you can scarcely imagine my feelings. So little thought of, that I’m not to know whether he’s alive or dead!’

  ‘We shall find him out.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Sophia’s gaze wanders over the Blue Room. Hetty evidently longs to rescue her from this shabby lodging which, strangely, no longer gives her the least pain. The coming struggle with Edmund absorbs most of her mental energy: as long as she can eat and sleep, papers and hangings seem of little importance.

  Hetty clears her throat. ‘If you’re determined not to come to us, will you accept another kind of help? I imagine your affairs are left in some disorder. Letcher says you are to have whatever you ask for.’ She smiles. ‘I mean money, Sophy.’

  ‘He’s too good – you both are. Some money of my own, just for a while, would be of the utmost assistance.’

  Hetty says, ‘Then name the sum, my dear.’

  ‘Perhaps a hundred.’

  ‘Take more. Don’t fear to pinch him, he’s too well padded for that.’

  ‘Then two hundred, if you would be so kind. We may owe something to Mr Moore.’

  ‘Mr Moore?’

  ‘The landlord. It seems this house is rented.’

  ‘Not yours? – no matter, no matter,’ Hetty says, failing to conceal her shock. ‘As long as we’re here, you shan’t sink. But I should sleep more soundly if you came to us.’

  ‘There’s no need, my dear. I know I’m welcome.’

  ‘Indeed you are!’ cries Hetty, embracing her. Sophia breathes Cotterstone face cream: scents of iris and of vanilla. Edmund must have smelt something similar on her own skin when first they bedded together. She wonders if he took pleasure in it. The odours of his bodily life once they came to London, of tobacco and liquor and the perspiration of – of Betsy-Ann Blore, she supposes – were harsh and insistent, repugnant to her nostrils.

  Sophia perfectly understands that Hetty would like to bind her and carry her away, a captive under guard. Today’s call, for instance, is typical, in that her cousin’s carriage drew up without warning: Hetty visits frequently these days and at the oddest hours. She pushes to the limit the relative’s privilege of informality and has taken to speaking on the slightest pretext of encroaching persons, unhealthy fascinations and the bosom of one’s own family as the surest protection against insinuation. At first Sophia understood all these hints as referring to Edmund, until a chance remark from Hetty enlightened her. It can only be that one of the servants has dropped a hint: Sophia suspects Fan, whose features have developed an oblique, closed-off cast. Should Sophia ring the bell while Betsy-Ann is on the premises, the servant to answer is invariably Eliza. She arrives eagerly enough, with popping eyes, as if hoping to find her mistress and the whore tearing at one another, her disappointment so ill concealed at the calm of the Blue Room that Sophia can hardly restrain a giggle as she despatches the girl for refreshments. The tea is brought with a knowing look, and since Betsy-Ann is now openly received by the mistress, a jug of ‘French Cream’ placed beside the milk.

  Fan may, of course, be distracted by her new responsibilities. In the absence of Mrs Launey – Mr Moore has not yet engaged a substitute – she contrives to produce simple dishes, such as she and Eliza might make for themselves: fried beef and cabbage, a bread pudding. Yet this, in itself, cannot explain her awkward manner. Evidently she is pained at recent developments, either at the lack of propriety or because she perceives in Betsy-Ann a dangerous intruder. How can Sophia blame her for sentiments so eminently proper? She does not insist upon Fan’s bringing refreshments to Betsy-Ann, making do instead with the irritating Eliza.

  Though she would willingly wound neither Hetty’s feelings nor Fan’s, they must not be permitted to meddle. Betsy-Ann Blore may have encroached upon her, but Sophia tolerates her visits for good reason. Miss Blore’s knowledge renders her a uniquely valuable witness, one it would be folly not to attach. She has not yet given evidence, but has promised it: should she perform that promise and make a statement to Mr Scrope, she may turn the key of Sophia’s marital prison. For (Sophia actually cried out aloud when first this thought burst upon her) it would appear she is married to a non-existent personage, that is, not married at all: possibly Ned Hartry has no rights upon her person or her property. In order to unmask him she requires the help of Betsy-Ann Blore, whom she is very far from trusting entirely, and whom Hetty must not be allowed to drive away before the delicate negotiations can be concluded. Papa would go crashing in likewise, so for the moment she has told neither of these people of Betsy-Ann’s existence, or that of Mr Ned Hartry. To them the gentleman remains Edmund Zedland, Sophia’s lawful if wilful spouse.

  She starts at finding Hetty speaking to her, asking, ‘Have you thought what you’ll do?’

  ‘Do?’

  ‘If he fails to return. I mean, what will Uncle do? Has he taken advice?’

  ‘I believe the plan is to write to Mr Fielding at Westminster.’

  ‘In your place I should try for a separation.’

  ‘I shall. I shall have to endure Mama’s hysterics, of course. The scandal and so on. She doesn’t have to live with him.’

  Hetty says sadly, ‘Either way, the wife comes off worse.’

  It is galling to realise that even should the marriage be declared void and her fortune wrested from Edmund’s grasp (a circumstance unlikely in itself) he has irrevocably blighted her life. No silly wench seduced on a sofa, no society matron taken in flagrante with the footman has worse marital prospects. Possibly there is a certain justice in that, she thinks with a pang. In the eyes of the world she entered discreetly and soberly into matrimony, but the world’s eyes were deceived: she fell headlong. To break this melancholy train of thought she rises and proposes a replenishment of the tea-table.

  ‘He must be brought to terms,’ Hetty says as Sophia rings for the maid. ‘Everything watertight, or you can never rebuild your establishment. He’ll return, whenever he chooses, and take every stick.’

  ‘That’s what Scrope says. One can be reduced to rags.’


  ‘Well, you shan’t be. Here, Sophy, Letcher and I agree on this absolutely.’ From her purse she counts out banknotes to the value of two hundred pounds and passes them over to Sophia.

  ‘God bless you, Hetty! You and Mr Letcher both.’

  ‘Thank us by keeping it secret, Sophy, or you won’t have it long.’

  But is it legally Edmund’s? This is the Great Question. Sophia supposes he would have preferred to marry under his real name, to make all sure, but having introduced himself as Mr Zedland, he was obliged to go through with the sham. If it now appears that he has no claim upon her fortune, he will surely wish to be rid of her. Should he demand money in return for supporting an annulment, she will gladly compound for whatever she can afford.

  Fan brings tea and bread-and-butter but Hetty, generally so ready to eat upon all occasions, appears lacking in appetite.

  ‘I should be getting back,’ she says after half a cup of tea. ‘Letcher will worry. He wanted to come with me but I said I should be quite safe in the carriage. Some subjects are better discussed without gentlemen present.’

  ‘There can’t be many, Hetty, with such an excellent husband. I’m sincerely grateful for his help, and yours.’

  On the doorstep Hetty turns, holding Sophia by the hands and studying her at arm’s length. ‘This business has had an effect on you,’ she says.

  Sophia shrugs. ‘Of course.’

  ‘But not as much as I feared. I thought you would be quite broken down.’

  ‘I’m comme il faut, just as broken down as I ought to be.’

  The cousins exchange smiles. Hetty says, ‘My love, your courage is admirable but don’t overdo it. Remember our door is always open. O, I nearly forgot! I brought something for you – it’s still in the carriage, I believe ―’

  Her manservant, obedient to his cue, opens the door and brings out a small parcel wrapped in white paper and tied in ribbon.

  ‘I thank you,’ says Sophia, beginning to pick at the ribbon.

  ‘Open it later.’ Hetty lays a gloved hand on hers. The man helps her into the carriage and she is gone, the blinds pulled down against impertinent stares.

  Sophia carries her gift back into the house and sits at a table in the Blue Room. The ribbon does not resist her long and she is able to unfold the paper, which is finely made, without tearing. Inside is a volume, finely bound: The Memoirs of George Psalmanazar.

  Left alone, she takes up the cards once more and shuffles, endeavouring to keep an ace at the top. Easy to understand, the move requires practice to render it invisible: it seems to Sophia that nothing she was ever taught called for such a pitch of concentration. What a paltry schooling hers must have been!

  Sometimes, her attention flagging, she allows herself to dream a little: dressed as a gentleman, she strolls idly between the tables of a gaming club. Beneath a chandelier gleaming with wicked fire she spies Edmund, sly as the wolf in the fable, his mouth slavering as he sizes up some wealthy booby. Sophia steps up to his table, thus cutting out the booby – who, not recognising his saviour, is pettishly offended, but what of that, he must do as he pleases – and asks Edmund would he care to join her in a friendly wager, shall we say two thousand? Edmund shakes her hand. His eyes are fixed upon her so intently that the boat – no, the table – seems to rock as she takes her seat, but she boldly returns his scrutiny and snaps her fingers for fresh cards.

  ‘You remind me cursedly of someone I once knew,’ says Edmund, his tone softening just sufficiently to hint at memories not altogether contemptible. ‘Tell me, were you ever acquainted with a Miss Sophia Buller?’ And then, and then ―

  Beyond that, fancy refuses to carry her. Granted that the Wolf-Husband has failed to recognise her in her male attire – impossible though she knows it to be – how could she engage him in such a conversation? She might, of course, feign dumbness, have herself introduced in a whisper as, ‘A Young Gentleman newly come to Town, a mute, but perfectly understands the rules of play,’ or ‘A Young Gentleman maimed at birth and obliged, ever since, to wear a mask in public so as not to distress the gentle hearts of the Sex,’ or even ‘A Young Gentleman of such delicate make that he might pass for a Lady’ ―

  It is of no use. Notwithstanding that Sophia has read her Shakespeare, a man with whom one has shared a bed is not to be fooled by hats, wigs, breeches or even a mask: her manner of sitting down, the make of her hands, her very breathing would betray her. There will be no handful of trumps laid fanwise on the table, to the universal astonishment of the company; no cry of rage as it dawns upon Edmund that the game is at an end, the Biter Bit, et cetera. Instead, things will be managed dully, according to the law of the land. But O, how she would have relished her triumph!

  47

  Fortunate is in the hold, listening to the groans of the man next to him whose chains have rubbed the skin from his ankles. A man’s strength is of no use, here. Better to have the fine bones of youth. With an effort, he raises his head: a seabird is picking its way along the rows of slaves, hopping from one to the next as if they were stones on a beach. A sunbeam, a good omen, follows wherever it goes, the rest of the hold remaining dark.

  Then he sees that the bird’s beak is stained with blood. He cries out, ‘Turn your heads, turn away from it,’ but his voice is too parched to be heard. He can only only whisper to the man beside him, ‘Look there, look there,’ and the man replies, in English, that he’s a whoreson fool.

  He jerks awake, shivering, a pain in his head and eyes as if the bird has already blinded him. A fearful pain: it recalls the only time he ever joined Dog Eye in drinking punch, when his master woke at noon the following day, calling for more drink, and Fortunate crawled moaning from his truckle bed to fetch it. The stabbing spreads into his shoulders; he wonders if he has injured himself while asleep. He swivels his neck in an attempt to ease it, turning his face this way and that, and as he does so he sees a gleam cross the church wall above his head, a fugitive, quivering light as if reflected from water.

  ‘Is that your notion of a glim?’ hisses a male voice a few feet away. ‘Kill it before I kill you.’

  The light vanishes with a snapping sound.

  Fortunate’s body shrills and jangles with shock; a tiny squeak escapes him, adding to his terror. He crams his hand into his mouth, biting down hard, and to keep from shaking he presses his body into the bank of earth alongside the steps, straining his eyes upwards to the place where he saw the light. All is dark now, and there is no further cursing, but he can feel the vibration of feet passing near him. One man. Two. A confused scuffling: perhaps two more. Something soft is dragged along the grass. He hears a man grunt as it catches, and there is a faint snigger from further off.

  He stays like that for many minutes, his heart painful. Were he a dog, he thinks, his ears would stand so high on his head a woman could sew them together. A clink. A laugh, followed by a growled command to mind what they are about. Everything comes to him with unnatural distinctness: the sea of sound that usually laps this grass island has drained away, meaning it is deep in the night.

  When his heart has gone down a little he raises himself on cramped legs and looks out. Something white is hovering near the newly dug grave: he grimaces in terror, then remembers the dragging noise he heard: someone pulling a cloth. In another moment he sees the cloth partly raised from the ground and a dim streak of light thrown upon it from the other side, forming a screen on which the coat-tails and legs of men appear briefly in silhouette before passing out of the beam. The quivering light, he now realises, was a dark lantern not properly closed.

  ‘Well, lads,’ says one in a hoarse whisper, ‘it seems they left us a present. A mighty queer one.’

  Another man says, ‘Not covered up. I never seen that before.’ They keep their voices low, but the sound carries across the quiet graveyard to Fortunate in his burrow.

  ‘It’s a decoy, I reckon. The right one is underneath.’

  ‘Hop in, then.’

  Suppressed laughter
. There follows a rustling, tussling sound as if someone is fighting a bush. The outline of a broken branch appears, then the screen vanishes as the cloth drops to the ground. He can now make out four men, two facing him across the grave, two standing on the near side.

  ‘Go on, Sam.’

  There is a sound like an axe cleaving wood, followed by a gasp.

  ‘Fuck that for a decoy!’

  ‘I see how it is,’ says the hoarse man. ‘Another crew’s been here, and didn’t fancy the job.’

  ‘No more do I.’

  ‘Here, Sam. Davey.’

  Fortunate’s breathing has slowed, and his shuddering almost ceased: he can hear the pop of lips and faint gasp that tells him they are passing round a bottle. A man laughs. ‘Shiner’s turned Methodist.’

  Someone else says, ‘Not so deep as it looks, I reckon.’

  Does he mean the metal jaw, or the corpse beneath? These men must be enemies of the dead man’s family, or perhaps magicians. Suppose they should perform some ceremony, and walk about the graveyard, and look down these steps?

  He must get out onto the street. No use trying for the main exit, a wooden gate with a small roof over it, since the men are directly in the way. There remains another gate, a smaller one, some way behind him. If he can once get round the angle of the church wall, he will be hidden from them and can take his time seeking it in the darkness, but first he must leave his hiding place. It is a risk: were this daylight, he would be in full view as soon as he came up the steps. He reaches out towards the church wall and finds the scrap of plant-pot that marks his buried store. Never taking his eyes from the men, he gropes in the softened dirt until a finger stubs against a coin. One. Two . . . five.

  He slides the money into his coat pockets where the pistols are, one in each. His fingers are slippery against the mother-of-pearl handles. Were he put to using them, would they work? Dog Eye told him they must be kept dry.