by Maria McCann
The boy, thin and drooping like a plant starved of water, only shrugs. Another boy, of a livelier make, says, ‘I’ll fetch the master to you, Sir,’ and goes out. His companion continues to sweep up, so cack-handedly that Fortunate itches to seize the broom and do the job himself.
The landlord, when he arrives, seems of a different race to the drooping boy: a tall, shiny red-faced man packed with fat. Once more Fortunate explains his errand.
‘Somewhere near the Oxford Road, I believe,’ the man says, eyeing his shabby clothes. ‘I was never there myself. Are you of the household?’
‘Not now, Sir.’
‘Hoping to get back into service?’
He nods. ‘To find the Oxford Road, Sir?’
‘Know the Spyglass Inn? Yes? Past there, then keep to the road until you reach a church. Then ask again.’
As he goes to the door, the sickly boy says to the other one, ‘Queer do, leaving him behind like that,’ as if Fortunate cannot hear it.
Coming up to the Spyglass sinks his spirits a little: he has spent a deal of time only to return to the same place. However, the landlord thought that by walking briskly he might arrive at the Oxford Road within an hour. It seems Cosgrove’s is a place known far and wide, even to people who have never seen it. Once arrived at the Oxford Road, he is sure to find it out.
The church is only a couple of miles. After that, on the advice of a beggar-woman, he branches off towards the south, onto a road where the houses soon become more frequent and, after a while, more elegant also. The road is better kept, making for easier walking, and when he first sees a number of spires in the distance his mood soars in sympathy. He lengthens his stride and picks up his pace.
It is not one but two hours before he arrives at the square where the great building is, to stand wet and hungry and contemplate his own foolishness. He pictured himself in a street, touching Dog Eye’s sleeve, but at Cosgrove’s nobody arrives at the door on foot. The entrance is fenced off from the square, the space inside the palings guarded by liveried servants. Guests are borne inside in sedan chairs, invisible until they appear at the windows.
Fortunate clenches his fists.
He has no alternative but to wait, perhaps wait so long that he loses his bed at the Spyglass and still does not find Dog Eye. Glancing around the square, he tries to judge how safe it is. The people seem peaceable for the most part but incoherent shouts warn him of the presence of roughs who will grow more boisterous as the hours pass. On his way here, he was rushed by such a man and knocked against a wall: it was a marvel that the pistols did not go off. The man stole nothing from him and Fortunate can only assume the brute took a dislike to his complexion. It has happened before.
Inside Cosgrove’s, manservants are going about with tapers, bringing the chandeliers into bloom. The great room is finer even than Mr Watson’s apartments in Maryland. Fortunate tries not to think about how warm it must be within.
More and more lights appear in the windows, as if to imitate day, and Fortunate notices people pushing forward to the palings. He has missed his chance. All the places along the front are already taken and he is not tall enough to look over their heads; he could stand further off in the square, but that would not help him.
Cosgrove’s occupies one entire side of the square. At the right of it lies the entrance to a narrow street, now sunk in shadow, but Fortunate knows it is there, having entered the square from that side. The street bridges the gap between Cosgrove’s and another terrace, forming a right angle with the club, the two terraces, between them, making up half the square. This second line of houses has a garden at one end, forming a squarish gap between the two terraces, and in that garden stands a tree.
Fortunate studies the tree with interest. Though its trunk is concealed behind a wall, the branches spread wide onto the square and must surely offer a view of the lighted windows. Better still, it is one of those prickly trees that keep their leaves. If he slips away now, between the houses, and finds a way into the garden, he can get into the tree and sit concealed until Dog Eye appears.
He has taken only a few steps in that direction when he is pulled up short by the sight of a tall, shabby-looking woman who seems familiar. Has he seen her before? Perhaps she has been sent by the Wife. He hurries away from her, towards the road.
It is not until he has dropped down inside the garden wall that he remembers she used to visit the house. He was wise to avoid her. The maids said she was a spy and a person of no reputation.
*
Despite having formed no clear notion of Cosgrove’s, Sophia is astonished by her first view of it: upon turning a corner she is confronted by a façade so commanding she cannot help but be impressed. The women approach in silence, Sophia admiring, though much against her will, the marriage of comfort, convenience and taste here represented. Nothing is left to be guessed at: the immense and speckless ground-floor windows – their panes must be polished every day – are left unshuttered, blazing into the dusk in such a way as to make a public stage of the interior. She gazes, ravished, upon the papered walls of the great salon (gold and green, one of her favourite combinations), its vast and lofty ceiling, its stucco frieze and its profusion of exquisite chandeliers. Not even the Assembly Rooms at Bath, until now her notion of a splendid gathering place, come anywhere near it.
Against this magnificent set the actors strut about, very much at their ease. The company is of a distinguished sort: gentlemen, naturally, but there is also perceptible an inner circle whose superlative tailoring marks them out as nobility. Some sit at cards or dice, while others look on, promenade about the room or engage in conversation. In all this, even from such a distance, Sophia perceives that grace of manner that distinguishes those of noble birth. She sees it in their very beckonings to the liveried manservants. The whole presents a delicious spectacle at which there is no shortage of lookers-on, frankly agape – as well they might be. For many of these people, spying into Cosgrove’s is no doubt a regular entertainment.
‘Are ladies ever admitted?’
When no answer comes she glances round to find her companion staring at the passers-by.
‘Betsy-Ann? Are ladies ever admitted?’
Betsy-Ann turns towards her. ‘No. Fairly knocks you back, eh? Cosgrove can keep watch on three games at once.’
‘He must be a mathematical prodigy,’ says Sophia, not entirely convinced.
‘And rich.’ Betsy-Ann whistles. ‘He could buy half the gents in there. With their own gold.’
‘You’re acquainted with him?’
‘Lord, no! It’s the common talk, everyone knows Cosgrove, only,’ a half-smile, ‘I thought you might not. They say his manners are vulgar. Much he cares, I’m sure!’
‘I suppose he’s one of the marvels of the Age,’ Sophia sniffs. She is examining the people within, as well as she can when they keep shifting about. Such company must play very deep: deeper, perhaps, than even Edmund would dare. ‘What makes you think my husband might be here?’
‘Seen him. Step away a minute – this way.’
A clutch of females is approaching, some of them linking arms. There is a trailing, languishing quality to their gait which Sophia notices even before she observes the familiar twitched-up gowns.
‘Surely you can’t think they’d mistake me for a rival?’
‘They’re in liquor,’ says Betsy-Ann with a little air of patience. The women pass through the square and out again, doing no more than glance at the gamblers. They do well, thinks Sophia, not to attempt men ensnared by such potent distractions.
‘They’ll be back later,’ Betsy-Ann says, ‘when it’s played out.’
‘Is that very late?’
‘Could be morning.’
‘I can’t stay until then!’
‘No need. He generally comes to the window after a bit, to take the air.’
‘Won’t he recognise me?’
Betsy-Ann laughs. ‘In the dark, with a veil? And what if he did? I know who’d be more frightened.’
Evidently Edmund has never hit Betsy-Ann Blore. ‘He’ll neither see you nor hurt you. But keep an eye out for foysters – nothing they like better than to find everyone staring, nobody with a mind to his purse – no, don’t feel for it, you daisy!’
Stamping her feet to warm them, Sophia studies the knots of people engaged in spying on Cosgrove’s, to see if anyone is standing suspiciously close. Each group is lit along one edge, their faces gilded by the blazing windows of the club, their backs lost to view. She notices with concern an elderly man leaning on a stick, perilously close to some wizened children who are just of a height to slip their hands into his pockets. There is also a sprinkling of discreetly clad individuals, perhaps small traders taking the air before bedtime. She wonders if they envy the pleasures of their betters.
‘Mister Stick there,’ whispers Betsy-Ann. ‘He’s an old hand. Empty your pocket as soon as cough.’
‘But he looks so respectable.’
‘Good foysters can afford good togs.’
The square is starting to fill with loiterers. Hucksters thread their way among them, offering gin and evil-smelling meat pies. From time to time chairs arrive, bearing their occupants through the lower orders and inside the doors of the club. As each one passes under the lintel, Sophia wonders if Edmund is within and her heart beats a little faster at being so close to him, unseen.
Betsy-Ann makes a hissing sound. ‘Sweet Christ!’
‘What?’ Again Sophia surveys the company within the gaming-house. ‘Is he there?’
‘Listen to me and don’t look round.’ Betsy-Ann’s voice has sunk to an urgent whisper. ‘We’re being watched. Hold still and look through the windows like you’re doing.’
‘Who is it? Edmund?’
Betsy-Ann’s only answer is to pull the hood of her cloak as far forward as it will go.
‘Shall we go away?’
‘Let me think,’ her companion mutters. ‘Hold still, God damn you ―’
But Sophia has already turned. She moves back smartly to her previous position, having glimpsed nothing – unless it was the hem of a coat, the back of a leg, vanishing into a group of people. More than that, she is unable to distinguish. Those in the square are now so numerous that they might be referred to as a crowd, and her eyes, from having stared for so long at the lit windows, are ill adapted to shade.
‘Can’t you tell me what it is?’
There is a pause before Betsy-Ann whispers, ‘We have to toddle. Watch where I go, count twenty and follow. If you lose me, or see me in company, go home directly.’ Her hood still tight around her face, she moves off, as if for a stroll, towards one of the roads leading out of the square.
Despite her best efforts, Sophia loses sight of her almost at once. Turning back to Cosgrove’s, she perceives a male figure, not behind the great windows but standing at a smaller, though equally bright, aperture on the first floor. He appears to be waiting while one of the liveried servants attempts to raise the sash. Agitated, she squints through her veil, trying at one and the same time to pick out Betsy-Ann and study the fellow at the window.
The sash is up ―
Yes.
How handsome he is, in a coat of dark blue. How he must relish his privileged position, looking down upon all these gapers! Vice triumphing over virtue? Hardly. Some of those below are plainly marked with ignorance, cruelty and vice: made privy to the detestable fraud of her marriage, they might well side with the gentleman, considering him a species of Marital Highwayman and a regular blade.
Yet there must also be among the onlookers some honest citizens. What do they make of Edmund? It is hard to know what she herself makes of him; hard, through the gauze of the veil, even to distinguish his expression, but she thinks she can detect an amused air, as if Edmund is saying to himself, ‘Well, my good people, there you are in the cold and here am I among India carpets, chandeliers and champagne. I suppose you’ll own that I’ve bested you?’
But you shan’t best everybody. She steps forward, intending to find Betsy-Ann, when she is seized by the wrist.
Whirling around, she finds herself confronted by Harry Blore.
She has always imagined that if seized by a bully she would cry in a ringing voice, ‘How dare you, Sir! Release me directly!’ Now the moment is come, and Sophia surrounded by persons unknown, courage fails her and it is Blore who speaks.
‘Shape yourself.’
That is all: just those two words. He pushes her in the direction of Cosgrove’s, marching her at such a pace that she has to trot to keep up, turning her face aside from the foul odour he exudes. When she trips on the cobbles, about to tumble headlong, he grasps her arm so that she merely sinks to her knees. But the rescue comes at a price: a hideous wrenching at her shoulderblade, so painful that it forces a cry.
‘Get up, you bitch,’ he says, jiggling her sore arm and piercing her shoulder with white-hot skewers.
Despite the menace, his voice is flat and business-like: she is an object to him, a means. Trembling, she scrambles to her feet, seeking an indignant countenance among the onlookers. She meets only averted eyes, blank stares or (most terrible of all) amusement. No rescue will come from these people. Like a tethered lamb she walks alongside her captor towards the great windows.
At first she thinks Edmund has recognised them, since he seems to be looking in their direction. Then she realises he has merely observed the stir caused by their pushing forward; from where he stands, even Blore’s conspicuous stature would scarcely be noticeable and besides, Edmund is looking from a brilliantly lighted room onto darkness. In a moment he glances away again. Seen closer to, he appears not amused but abstracted: a man above common care.
Blore halts, breathing brandy into Sophia’s face. ‘Now. See what I have here?’
She looks down, since that seems to be his meaning, and perceives a metallic gleam.
‘Know what that is?’ Her throat dry, Sophia nods, though in truth she is not sure. ‘Now, should you take a fancy to cry out, or run off, or queer my pitch any way whatsoever, you shall have a taste.’
He takes hold of her torn shoulder for emphasis, causing her to gasp. Suppose he should wrench at her? Would she be able to suppress a scream?
‘Pray Sir,’ she manages to whisper. ‘My arm. Don’t pull on it, I beg of you, or I may cry out unawares.’
‘Then you’ll nab it unawares.’
She has to grit her teeth against the pain, but it is only a few more steps before he stops and flings up his massive head.
‘Hartry!’ he bellows.
This one word apparently suffices for Edmund to recognise the speaker. He makes as if to move back from the window, then halts.
‘Now, Ned, don’t be shy! Here’s your Mrs Sophy,’ Blore tugs at her hood and veil, ‘a-keeping me company!’
With the raising of the veil, Sophia observes a fleeting expression cross Edmund’s face: horror, at once masked by his customary sang-froid. He has not yet found them in the crowd, as evidenced by the turnings of his head, but he knows and dreads that voice.
Blore chuckles to himself. Sophia realises what she might have realised before, had she been less terrified: the man is intoxicated. It occurs to her that he may sway, clutch at her torn muscle and force from her the shriek that will end her life. Or does he intend to murder her in any case, as a proxy for Edmund?
‘I’ve been looking for you, Ned!’ Blore is bawling. ‘Come down and talk, man to man.’
At last Edmund seems to distinguish Harry Blore’s height and bulk. She wonders what he makes of the spectacle of Blore and herself together, and how he imagines they have come there.
Whatever his conclusions, he evidently decides to brazen things out. He makes a show of flicking some dust from his sleeve before calling in a languid, mocking tone, ‘I wish you joy of the lady,’ a sentiment which is greeted with a huzzah from some person behind her and hisses from others.
‘What, Ned! Your own dear lady wife?’ The emphasis with which Blore speaks these last w
ords renders them obscene. ‘Don’t be shabby, man. Be a sportsman, come down.’
Edmund looks as if he could be so much a sportsman as to tear Blore in pieces, had he only the strength. Somebody in the crowd screams, ‘Go to your wife, you dunghill!’ and is answered by a voice further back:
‘He ain’t dunghill, he’s game – come down, mate!’
There are inarticulate cries, jeers, whistles. A shrill female urges Sophia to go into Cosgrove’s and fetch out the erring spouse. The cry is taken up by other women in the crowd. Edmund steps back from the window and bangs down the sash.
‘Don’t you stir a finger,’ growls Blore.
Sophia can hear a braying voice, further back, referring to her as the whore. She is filled with an unspeakable nausea, as if her body were corrupting from the inside out. Once before, as a girl, she experienced such a sensation: it was the prelude to a faint. Will she faint now? Not even Blore can prevent it: but how appalling to be unconscious and in the power of such a man! And where is Betsy-Ann? Where the square is not illuminated by the blazing windows of Cosgrove’s, its shade is impenetrable: Betsy-Ann might be twenty feet away or scurrying through the night streets, leaving Sophia to fend for herself.
Sophia’s terror is absolute. Has she been decoyed here by Betsy-Ann, in order to serve Harry? Is she nothing but a flat, as these people say, a decoy with which brother and sister hope to ensnare Edmund?
On the ground floor of Cosgrove’s, gentlemen have come to the window and are shading their eyes against the lighted glass. Outside, knots of onlookers are being swallowed up into the larger crowd, swelling it by the minute: there is shoving, boorish laughter, an atmosphere of excited anticipation. Once more it is borne in upon Sophia how alone she is. Among gentlemen she might appeal to bystanders for protection, but what help can she expect here? Blore is one of their own.
Insufferably arrogant and blind, to ignore the advice of Mama, and of Hetty. With sickening horror she sees it all: she has allowed Betsy-Ann to insinuate herself – abject folly! – and this is her reward, and who knows how it will end?
