Ace, King, Knave

by Maria McCann

  ‘I am sorry,’ he says, humiliated that in his hurry and confusion he forgot the recipe. To her this space behind the bar is home, easy and familiar. To him it is rows of casks and bottles covered in strange markings, hard to remember even without men betting on the outcome.

  ‘I thought you was in service?’ She looks now as if she repents of hiring him. At the thought of being thrown onto the streets, tears prick his eyes.

  ‘All right,’ she says, more gently. ‘You shall have law.’ She hands him a glass of Bristol Milk. He sips, a mouthful of sadness: it takes him back to Dog Eye’s lodgings, before the marriage. That time will never come again, he thinks, and then: No, I will find him.

  ‘You know it, eh? Was you ever on a Bristol slaver?’

  If the woman but knew what she is asking! He arrived in Annapolis so stupefied, he would scarcely have noticed had he stepped in a fire: how should he concern himself with the name of a port in England? He says, ‘I knew no English then.’

  ‘Nor much now,’ she answers pertly, as if expecting him to laugh. ‘Well, Mr Lucky, I shall have to drill you. We’ll start with gin and the rest can come after. And you needn’t fill the jugs so full – see here.’ She takes one and shows how far the drink should come up the sides.

  Some bucks enter, already swaggering drunk. One calls for kill-priest and gages, and Mrs Harbottle serves him. She waits until the men are settled and drinking toasts – To Mother Hartry and her chicks! To the best cunt in Christendom! – before telling Fortunate, ‘I won’t put you on tonight. You’re not up to the game.’

  He is indignant. ‘I can learn, Madam! It’s when the men lay wagers ―’

  ‘Don’t get your back up. Who are you, Tender Parnell?’

  ‘Who is that, please?’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Tender Parnell, that broke her finger in a posset drink!’

  ‘I never heard of this lady.’

  ‘She’s nothing, she’s – O, never mind! The thing is, you mustn’t mind their sport. You can go now.’

  ‘I must leave?’

  ‘I’m giving you time off, simpkin. Stay in the chamber, go out, whatever you please. Tomorrow you start in earnest.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And wash your hands and face before you come down, and comb that wool of yours. You’ll feel a sight better for it, and Lord knows I shall.’

  *

  After these few hours, who knows when he will next be free to walk about? There is always the chance of finding his master, even in an hour.

  Once outside, he studies the front of the tavern so as to know it again. Its sign shows an important-looking metal tube floating amid moon and stars, with faded gilt lettering underneath.

  ‘Prithee, friend,’ he hails a man on the other side of the way, ‘what is this?’

  ‘The Spyglass.’ The fellow clears his throat, about to say something more, but Fortunate thanks him and hurries away, not wishing to be delayed by questions about what brings him here or where he was born. His purpose is to walk as far as possible and he is on the watch for details that might guide him back to the inn: a humped railing like the top of a bridge, a shutter hanging loose from one hinge.

  The Spyglass has not a good situation: the further he travels, the more prosperous the houses. A very little distance and they have gardens in front, with railings to keep out such as himself – but then he remembers he is no longer a beggar, and has a bed to go to.

  No shoes, however. He looks down at his feet, the toes caked with greyish dirt. There is nothing disgraceful, at home, in going barefoot. Nobody, not the most important man of the village, would think of desiring such foolish things as wigs and shoes, yet Fortunate has learnt to be ashamed without them. Even his feet have made peace with the things: since he took off that last torturing pair his flesh feels exposed.

  If he were to go home now, would his little sister know him? Has his voice become foreign? He turns over the old words in his head, not daring to say them aloud. They seem thin and flat, the strength gone out of them. They have been pushed aside, crowded out by words unworthy of attention: kill-priest, gage, nantz. Tender Parnell.

  Does he see Dog Eye that day? His feelings, as well as his thoughts, are so stirred, perplexed and muddied afterwards that he cannot be sure.

  He is pushing along on his miserable feet that can never be contented, either in shoes or out of them, and looking for a place, not too dusty, where he may sit and rest. At length he comes upon a disused horse trough, drained of its water by a spreading crack along the bottom. It stands where a lane branches off towards some fields, and here he seats himself, swinging his legs in the air.

  The bushes along the lane have been cut back, perhaps to discourage robbers. In the distance he can make out what must be another inn, and in front of it, despite the time of year, men playing bowls. Comfortable men: men not obliged to work, who can afford the time to stand in a garden throwing a wooden ball. Men with warm coats and well-broken-in shoes. Blissful men!

  Though the lane is deserted – he supposes not many people wish to go that way – a carriage is rattling along the main road in the direction of the Spyglass. It pulls up just past the entry to the lane. The coachman glances at Fortunate, half-lying in the trough, and looks away again as if the sight pains him.

  The blind is lowered. ‘Go back, Tufts!’ a man cries. ‘That’s the place the gentleman said. Turn off there.’

  ‘He did indeed, Sir. But it’s out of our road.’

  The master groans. ‘Why the Deuce didn’t you say so before?’

  ‘Begging your pardon, Sir, I wasn’t aware, not precisely.’

  ‘Not precisely! You’ve lost us again, you boneheaded booby!’

  The driver mutters under his breath. Fortunate thinks it would give the man great pleasure to lose carriage, master and all.

  ‘Is there no fingerpost?’ a voice enquires from within.

  ‘Not unless you consider a drunken blackbird as one,’ the man replies drily, ‘which for my part I don’t.’

  ‘A drunken blackbird!’

  The carriage tilts as both occupants press to the window. Fortunate can see only the near one, a jolly fat fellow with a double chin, but he is caught by the sound of the other voice, which resembles Dog Eye’s. The fat man cries out, ‘As I live and breathe, sitting in a trough in the middle of nowhere!’

  ‘What, sousing himself in this weather!’ comes the voice from within.

  The first man shakes his head. ‘No water in it. I say, fellow,’ he calls down from the window, ‘you’ve been going it, haven’t you?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘He doesn’t understand me, you see,’ says the man.

  ‘He’s drunk the trough dry at any rate,’ comes the other voice, sounding so like Dog Eye that Fortunate must see for himself. He scrabbles out of the trough onto the verge of the road, but can see only the first man and beside him, a dark shape.

  ‘It’s Titus, Sir!’ he calls. ‘Your servant, Titus!’

  ‘Titus,’ says the fat man, raising an eyebrow as if surprised he has a name at all. ‘Had you a servant of that name?’

  Fortunate strains his ears but catches nothing of the reply. A gloved hand is put out of the carriage window. ‘Here, my fine fellow, and my advice gratis – leave off idleness.’

  A penny drops onto the verge. It is followed by a gold coin that soars, spinning, out of the window and into the trough. The fat man turns to his unseen companion.

  ‘My word, you’re free with it!’

  ‘O, blackbirds are luck,’ murmurs the other.

  ‘The gentleman is kind,’ Fortunate cries. ‘May I thank him?’

  ‘He’s heard your thanks,’ says the man, waving him away. ‘Tufts, take us along the lane and ask at the inn.’

  Fortunate stands as if in submission, watching the carriage pull round so that the unseen man is now on the near side. As the vehicle approaches he springs forward and runs along next to it, panting through the window, ‘Don’t l
eave me – take me with you ―’

  The man has moved back from the window and is trying to close the blind, his long fingers groping for the tassel. Fortunate reaches upwards but the hand is snatched away.

  ‘I beg of you!’ Fortunate wails.

  The coachman’s whip comes down on his arm and he flinches away. The blind snaps shut. He is left hugging himself where the lash caught him as the carriage rolls on towards the inn.

  In tears, he collapses onto the verge. The penny, worn so thin as to be almost invisible between the blades of grass, lies near his ankle. That is a beggar’s portion. No man in his wits ever gave so much as a guinea to an unknown beggar. The man who did, knew him: that man was Dog Eye.

  Having settled it in his mind, he at once begins to doubt. A gentleman may do anything for a frolic, may give a beggar his estate, should he choose. This man spoke like his master, had hands something like his. That is all.

  Yet this man, though not willing to bring him into the carriage, evidently wished to be kind to him in some way. He folds his fingers round the guinea. Perhaps Dog Eye (if the man was indeed Dog Eye) could not speak freely. Suppose they were to meet alone! Then he might embrace Fortunate as a brother.

  If he is Dog Eye.

  Fortunate gets to his feet. He has no wish to walk any further; he will return to the Spyglass and lie down, and rub his stinging arm. After a while he glances back at the carriage. It has stopped at the inn, taking directions; he watches as it once more turns round and comes back towards him. There is a moment of wild, throbbing hope: they have repented, they will stop and take him up, carry him away. He stands clasping his hands in supplication. As the carriage comes nearer, Tufts whips up the horses. They pass at a gallop, but not so fast that Fortunate cannot see the master laughing.

  *

  ‘My friend’s brought you something,’ says Mrs Harbottle. ‘Upstairs.’

  He hardly cares what her friend has brought, but murmurs his thanks. In his chamber he finds a couple of shirts, stockings, breeches. Beside the folded garments lie a wooden comb, a clothes brush and a pair of shoes, dull and scuffed from long wearing.

  Someone has left a jug of water on the windowsill. He smooths some over his head and tries to dress his hair, but the teeth of the comb are too tightly packed: they splinter and break off.

  Perhaps she will send him to the barber.

  He lies down on the bed, pushing his face into the bolster that smells of other people’s skin.

  What a fool he must have looked, standing there with hands clasped. How that man laughed! The scene plays over and over in his mind like the song of a spiteful bird.

  After a while he is woken by Mrs Harbottle, who has entered the chamber without knocking. Afraid he must appear disrespectful, Fortunate scrambles to his feet still half asleep.

  She stands with her back to the window, eyeing him. ‘The stockings look well. Is that the shirt?’

  He nods.

  ‘You take it very coolly, I declare! I’m sure if anyone found me in clothes I should be cock-a-hoop.’

  He says, ‘I thank you, Madam,’ even though the shirt is tucked in tightly to disguise how he swims in it. Does he owe her anything? She has taken away his old shoes, with their fine-cut buckles: worth as much, probably, as all this lot together.

  ‘Madam, will you give me some butter?’

  She blinks at him. ‘Butter?’

  ‘For my skin.’

  ‘Butter, in this house, is for Christians to eat. If you must grease yourself, there’s the dripping pot.’ She touches his head. ‘Have you combed your hair?’

  ‘I was not able.’ He can hardly tell her why, or where he has slept these past few days. ‘A barber ―’

  ‘Aye, and then a tailor, and then a man to carry you on his back,’ she retorts, but it seems she is not really angry, only fond of this sharp way of speaking, since she then says, ‘If you pay him yourself, I’ll fetch Toby to you.’

  Fortunate bows his head in agreement.

  ‘You didn’t stay out long,’ the woman says. He wishes she would go.

  ‘I should like to visit my friend Mr Hartry, if I can find his house.’

  ‘You can visit the devil provided you’re back in good time. Once Clem’s locked up and gone to bed ―’ she shrugs.

  Fortunate has his own ideas as to Clem’s unwillingness to get out of bed but he repeats, ‘In good time.’

  ‘Tell your Mr Hearty to come here and bring his friends.’

  When she’s gone he lies down again, drawing up his knees to his chest. She must have got a good price for his buckles. She has gained by him already, or she would hardly let him out in the new clothes: suppose he were to run off? But no, she has put a string around the leg of her blackbird and is sure of him.

  He stares hungrily at the hearth. Last night he was a guest: he had a fire and when he went downstairs there was some coal left in the scuttle. Now coal and scuttle have disappeared.

  Fortunate does not care for these people, though Mrs Harbottle seems an easier mistress than the Pinched Wife, more in the style of a maid or a cook, perhaps. The Wife lived locked up in herself, barely moving except for that one time she lashed out. Compared with her, there is something free, almost mannish, about Mrs Harbottle. If she loses her temper, he’ll know about it. But she seems good-natured, on the whole, and he’d sooner have a beating than the cold spite of Mrs Dog Eye.

  But the carriage, the carriage! It was out of its way and will never come back: if he stays, he must not expect to see his master again.

  Towards the inn. They were to ask directions at the inn.

  He must be quick. In no time he is on his feet, his coat buttoned, the pistols carefully wrapped and smuggled into his pocket.

  *

  As Sophia picks her way over the wet pavements she has the curious impression of observing her own progress: in her mind’s eye a tiny female, an anonymous and inconspicuous ant, moves at a determined pace through the seething ant-hill that is London.

  The chair-men agreed to take her as far as Hyde Park ‘and then see how matters stand’. They were as good as their word, but at Hyde Park matters stood quite still, as did the men, saying they must have a damper. She rather feared they might urinate in her presence but the damper proved to be bread and meat, followed by a pull at a flask. After this she thought they would continue, but the front man then shook his head and said that to go on directly was more than flesh and blood could support. At first she thought he was angling for more pay, and showed him a coin, but he shook his head. She bade the men farewell and climbed down, whereupon a youth leaped into the chair she had just vacated. The chair-man’s ‘If you please, Sir,’ was followed by ‘We ain’t for hire,’ and finally, as Sophia moved off in search of a fresh team, by an exasperated, ‘Then sit there and rot, you ―’, followed by a perfect deluge of foul language which nobody except herself appeared to notice, let alone resent.

  Evidently demand for chairs outstrips supply. Having been elbowed aside a few times by other pedestrians – both men and women abominably rude – she has no option but to continue on foot. So off she trots, this determined little ant woman of Sophia’s imagination, taking care to keep to the centre of the pavement for fear of jostlings or worse.

  She is dressed, as far as possible, according to Betsy-Ann Blore’s instructions: ‘None of your ruffles. Plain, serviceable stuffs.’ That the advice was sound she has no doubt. To a certain cast of mind, any elegant female constitutes a walking provocation. There are circumstances, however, in which simplicity proves more difficult of attainment than the most artificial contrivance. Such is the case here, for Sophia’s delight lies all in delicate shades, in silvery greys, pinks and creams. Her search eventually produced a gown made up at Buller, for the purposes of visiting the afflicted: it is simple enough in style, though anyone who felt it between finger and thumb would know it at once for silk. Over this she wears a dark pelisse borrowed, without permission, from Fan, but her shoes have no such p
rotection and are already soaked, since, without the maid’s help, she was unable to find her pattens.

  An intrigue, she thinks as she hurries along, Fan’s hood pulled over her hair and a veil flapping across her face. The veil is especially trying, adding as it does an additional layer of darkness to the gloomy, slippery pavements. At least the drizzle has stopped. She stepped into her chair disagreeably damp but emerged into a drier, colder air.

  St Mary le Strand is the appointed meeting place, chosen by Betsy-Ann for ease of identification, and because ‘they meet there in the evenings, Madam, so you could go in, should anyone trouble you’. As it turns out, the protection of St Mary’s congregation is not required. Thanks to her dull garments and rapid walk, she reaches the Strand with no more nuisance than an occasional lip-smacking noise out of the darkness. Once in the Strand it is a simple matter to find St Mary’s and there is Betsy-Ann by the gate, her hand raised in greeting.

  ‘Bitter cold,’ she calls as Sophia crosses the road.

  Sophia supposes it is, though her journey has left her short of breath and with a sticky back.

  When Betsy-Ann extends an arm Sophia hesitates, not wishing to be so intimately coupled. Is that not what the unfortunate women do, stroll arm in arm? From inside the church she can hear what sounds like a psalm: she pictures rows of worshippers, decent people with orderly lives, safely stored in pews.

  ‘It’s not far.’ Betsy-Ann again extends her arm. ‘Come on, link me.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘O, don’t then! If you’d rather be pushed over.’

  ‘Pushed? Why should anyone do that?’

  ‘Did you never fall over as a little girl?’

  ‘Naturally I ―’

  ‘And didn’t your mama ever say to you, Watch out, Missy, or you’ll show your money? Well, that’s what the bloods want. To see your money.’

  ‘Mama would never have said anything so vulgar.’ On reflection, however, Sophia takes her companion’s arm.

  *

  ‘Cosgrove’s? Where is that, if you please?’