Sedition (4 page)

Cantabile was beside himself. “The girl has no authority. The pianoforte’s not hers to sell! If you lay a finger on it, I’ll have you for theft.”

“The best pianoforte for your concert; the best husbands for your daughters; the best treatment for my mother. Is that not fair?” Annie asked, the quill held out.

“I’d rather just pay.” Drigg tried not to hear the increasing violence of Cantabile’s threats.

“That’s the bargain. Take it or leave it.” Annie laid the quill down.

“Well, I’m—”

“You’ll not have it! You won’t!” Cantabile’s hammer whistled past Drigg’s nose.

Drigg suddenly hated him. “We’ll have it,” he said to Annie. “We’ll damned well have it on any terms.”

“You won’t,” shouted Cantabile. “This pianoforte goes nowhere.”

Annie locked eyes with her father. His were burning. Hers were cool. “My father speaks ill of the king,” she said, enunciating each word carefully.

“What?” said Drigg. “Everybody speaks ill of—”

Annie interrupted. “My father has French pamphlets. Here in London there are groups of foreigners who are no friends to England—”

“Be quiet!” shouted Cantabile. “I’m not French. I’ve no sympathy with the chicanery going on over the sea.”

Annie leaned forward and whispered into Drigg’s ear. She straightened up. Her father opened his mouth and closed it. “The pianoforte goes with you,” Annie said to Drigg.

“Shall we say next week for delivery?” Drigg crammed his hat on. He had heard not a word of Annie’s whisper, if, indeed, she had whispered anything. He wanted only to get out.

“Certainly,” Annie said.

“I’ll pay a lump sum.” Drigg seized the quill and scribbled an amount onto his banknote, then, for want of more paper, turned the note over and scribbled down Frogmorton’s Manchester Square address, glad not to be writing his own. He did not want Cantabile turning up outside the Drigg establishment. He blotted the ink firmly and made for the door. With his hand already on the door handle, a noise caused him to turn. Cantabile had his mouth open. For a moment, Drigg wondered whether the man was having some kind of seizure. Cantabile was laughing. Drigg shook his fist. Cantabile held up his hands in mock surrender. “I won’t have my pianoforte played badly at your concert. You do need a teacher.”

“We’ve been through that.”

“Not Annie. Forget her. You need a true master. I know just the man.”

The door was already open. Escape! Drigg tossed caution to the wind. “I accept your offer, Mr. Cantabile. We’ll pay your man so long as he produces the desired result. Now, if our business is concluded, I really must go. Good day to you both.” He threw the door wide and was assaulted by the scrum of the street and a chorus of “Watcha, Frenchie! Fuzzy-wig! Fuzzy-wig!” He walked fast, without looking back. Thank God that was over.

The second Drigg closed the door of the workshop, Cantabile slapped Annie hard across the cheek. “What did you whisper to that man?” Annie said nothing. Cantabile slapped her again. “Blackmail is not pretty in a woman.” He spun away from her, opened the lid of the pianoforte, and blew gently over the keys. He closed the lid. He would not look at it again.

Grabbing a bottle from one shelf and a dirty glass from another, he poured wine and set the bottle on the desk with a thump. “I’m going to send them Claude Belladroit as teacher,” he threw out. Annie slipped Drigg’s note into her apron pocket. “I’ll write to him today. He appreciates beautiful girls,
fully appreciates
them”—Cantabile’s lip curled—“and even ugly girls if they’re rich.” He gulped his wine. “Do you know, I believe I might persuade him it’s time he settled down with a wife. Why shouldn’t he marry one of these concert puffballs, then leave her when the money runs out?” He drank some more. “Wait! Why doesn’t Claude seduce them all while he’s about it? That would be a pleasant task for him, and the girls’ ruin would be some revenge for my pianoforte.” He finished his wine and crunched the glass until it splintered, a favorite trick. “Claude Belladroit with those girls. Dream about that, Annie.” He laughed as he headed for the stairs, but Annie knew he would sob for his darling pianoforte tonight. Once in her own bed, she did not dream about the girls: she thought about them, wide awake, and did not close her eyes until dawn.

THREE

The girls were taking tea at Stratton Street, Everina Drigg their giggling hostess. The room was opulent: maroon velvet, lime-green silk, pink brocade, two sofas plump as the girls sitting in them, and half a dozen squat plaster chickens (why chickens, Agnes Drigg had thought many times, I mean, why
chickens
) among other geegaws, none of which had any connection to one another or anything else imaginable. Small tables with barley twist legs were scattered about; a rectangular walnut desk lurked in a corner. The decor was both designed and not designed. Agnes had drunk three glasses of brandy before she greeted the decorator with “color, happy to pay”—not at all what she meant to say, but this often happened to Agnes and it was, nevertheless, an accurate précis of her husband’s instructions. The decorator, anxious for his fee, complied. Two weeks later, the full horror was exposed. Tobias Drigg said “Excellent job, Mr. G.” Agnes Drigg said “So homely” and fled to the comforting stink of her father’s eel stall and the three-legged stool she had sat on as a child. She never felt at home in her own house again.

The girls had been singing, and when they sang, the pleasure in their eyes, the stretching of their necks, and the rise and fall of silk-covered breasts softened their defects. This softening was particularly necessary for Everina, whose teeth had been expensively and unsubtly replaced when her real ones became painful and discolored. But Everina was not alone in needing help. No amount of ribbon or skill could fatten Marianne’s disappointing hair, and although it would probably do no good, Harriet Frogmorton, who, by age, came between the Drigg sisters, was right to clip her nose with a clothespin every night since its roundness spoiled an otherwise lively face atop a neat body. Of the other two girls, Georgiana Brass’s defects were difficult to pinpoint—since she had given up eating, it was difficult to see much of her at all—and Alathea Sawneyford was, as Mrs. Frogmorton and Mrs. Drigg often remarked, purely and simply an astonishment. It was hard to pick out a single extraordinary characteristic. Her dark hair was remarkable only because it was cut short and her skin, compared to Harriet’s and Georgiana’s, was sallow. Yet one thing was certain: men saw Alathea and wanted her, as men eating eggs want salt. In the eyes of Mrs. Frogmorton and Mrs. Drigg, this was a defect nothing could soften.

“The tea is ready, Alathea. Come and sit with us.” Harriet aimed her remark straight at Everina, who was being particularly slow with the kettle. Alathea left the harpsichord from which she had been accompanying the singing and settled herself on a chair.

“For goodness’ sake, Everina! You don’t even make tea properly. Look at it. Slop water!” Marianne sniped at her sister.

“That’s all tea is, expensive slop water.” Everina was quite unabashed. “You said so yourself when Mama told us how much it cost.”

“At least I manage to pour properly. Look at the mess you’ve made.” Marianne pointed at extensive puddles and drips.

“What does it matter?” Everina tossed back. “We don’t have to clear it up.”

“Oh, be quiet, both of you,” said Harriet, her patience giving out. “Are you going to give us some of this tea? I don’t care if it’s slop water.”

Everina distributed dripping saucers. As soon as she’d drunk her tea, Harriet felt better. She turned to Georgiana Brass, sitting next to her on a sofa. “I’ve bought a shade I think suits me.”

Along with her nose, Harriet had recently begun to worry about her lips. She found them too thin and was a keen experimenter with lip color, sometimes to comical effect that she was not above acknowledging. She had at her feet a basket filled with powder and paste as entertainment after the music until the carriage should call to take her home. “I know it’s bright, but lips should be bright.” She put down her cup, picked a pot from her basket, smoothed on some of its garish contents, made a large
O
, and laughed at her reflection.

Sulky Marianne was quick with her opinion. “You look like a doll. Lips should be natural.” Marianne disapproved of Harriet’s new interest although she herself used rouge every day, Everina, with sisterly slyness, assuring her that whatever their mother’s warnings, the look was sophisticated.

Georgiana Brass dipped her little finger into the pot Harriet held out. Unsure what to do with the paste, she wiped it over the palm of her hand. Rouge would have improved Georgiana. In repose she comprised only a wave of corn-colored hair and a pair of empty eyes. There were bones inside her clothes, and little else. When the girls were together, she always chose to be near Harriet because Harriet’s stance on everything, from allocating singing parts to cutting fingernails, was reassuringly practical. Harriet, who was sometimes impatient with Georgiana’s inability to decide even the best way out of a door, nevertheless always made room for her, for which Georgiana was grateful.

Everina called for more tea. “Bring cake too, Sam,” she said to the mulatto waiting-boy. “The vanilla one with the cherries.” The boy vanished and came back laden.

“Look,” Harriet said. She twitched up her skirt and nudged Georgiana. She had been waiting for the right moment to show off a pair of new shoes. To Harriet’s disappointment, Georgiana appeared not to hear. Georgiana saw only the cake and heard only the imploring of her stomach. She could attend to nothing else. Food was the enemy. She must not give in. No cake. No cake. She could not remember why she had given up eating or when. She knew only that she must not start again because if she did, she would solidify into a person and she had no idea what kind of person she could possibly be. She waved away the plate Sam offered and he took it to Alathea, who plucked out a cherry, held it between two fingers, and licked it.

When Alathea’s tongue was out, it mesmerized. In terms of years, it was still a novice. In terms of imagination and experiment, it was quite advanced. Before the age of thirteen she had worked out that the tongue, the physical tongue, that is, not the wordy tongue, was a woman’s unsuspected weapon, attracting and repelling, drawing in and excluding, and all without even touching an opponent—Alathea classified most people as opponents. Servants like Sam were dull experimental subjects, though. Not like the hangman, the thought of whom made her smile. Her living flesh must have contrasted warmly with the dead.

Harriet could wait no longer. She took off a shoe and thrust it into Georgiana’s hand. “See, Georgiana! Straight from the foot of a noble Frenchie. Aren’t they fancy.”

Georgiana forced her attention onto the shoe. A small garden scene had been painted on the heel. “How do you know they came from someone noble?”

“It was picked up at the guillotine, silly. There’s lots of shoes like this to be had from France right now. Father gets them, though he tells Mother they were made in London. You know how she is about foreign things.”

“Can you walk in them?”

“Why on earth would I want to do that?” Harriet slipped the shoe back on. “They’re for parties.”

“Let me see.” Marianne peered over. “Is that blood on the toe?”

Harriet whipped the shoe back off. “Oh,” she said, nonplussed.

They all inspected the stain.

“Blood, for certain,” said Everina.

“It’ll wash out,” said Harriet uncertainly.

Alathea reached for the shoe and sniffed it. “A young girl’s blood,” she said. The girls shivered. True or fabricated or somewhere in between, Alathea’s tales added spice to otherwise dull days. She never spoke about herself. They were never invited to her house. All they knew for certain was that under that dark halo of hair, Alathea could seem saintly and demonic at the same time.

“Take the tea away, Sam,” Harriet ordered the boy. “Go on! Quick!” She never worried about assuming command, even in somebody else’s house.

The boy collected the tray and slunk out, casting a last glance at Alathea. She blinked at him. For a second he was in heaven.

“Now, Alathea,” Harriet said. “Go on. Tell us about the girl.”

Alathea picked up a dropped crumb. Catching Georgiana’s eye, she crushed it between her teeth. “A girl like you, Georgiana. I expect she was stripped to her petticoat before she faced the guillotine.”

“Honestly, Alathea,” said Harriet, uncomfortably. “Do you have to?”

“She’d have been wearing her best petticoat,” Alathea said, her face completely straight. “Remember I told you of the dead girl I passed in the City the other day? She was in her petticoat. It’s obviously the fashionable thing to wear for death.” It was a lie. The dead girl had been fully dressed.

“It’s unseemly, you wandering about the City alone,” said Marianne. “Our mother would never allow it.”

“I don’t have a mother.”

Marianne reddened. How stupid to present Alathea with an opportunity to remind them. “Father, then,” she said.

“What had happened to that poor girl?” Harriet frowned at Marianne, who mouthed “Well, it
is
unseemly.”

Alathea waited until all eyes were focused on her again. “Her story’s clear enough,” she said, sidestepping Harriet’s last question.

“Is it?” said Everina with a shudder. “Most stories don’t end with a hanging.”

“A garroting,” corrected Alathea. “That was the end she chose, and who can blame her?” Alathea drew her knees under her. “Her story’s sadder than the guillotine girl’s. She was an only daughter, much beloved of her parents. They lived—her parents still live—in a big house in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Her name was Raphaella and the house was full of people and music and everybody was happy. It could have lasted forever, except that a man came, a musician. He played many instruments, but when he touched a keyboard, everybody wanted to listen. And he was beautiful to look at—young and strong, with the kind of body you see in books on anatomy.”

“You’ve seen books on anatomy?” Harriet, startled, could not help herself.