Slammerkin (31 page)

Her mind raced. Now Cadwaladyr knew that the girl who'd tricked and clapped him was living as a servant in Monmouth, surely he'd choose to speak out and ruin her? Perhaps the Welshman was passing on the story already, entertaining the bumpkins. Word would travel like plague in a primitive crow town like Monmouth, where there was rarely anything to talk about. The Joneses would probably get the news from the milkmonger, first thing in the morning

Damn, damn, damn the man.

She could lose her job, and worse. On the curate's word she could end up in the gaol on the outskirts of town, just for whoring.

If ever there was a time to run away, this was it. She knew she should have left with the first thaw. Now she'd have to pack her bag as soon as she got home, and slip out before morning to take the first cart going to Bristol. Time to start all over again.

Her feet were numb under the muddy hem of her cloak. A reluctance of the bones. Something weighed her legs down like a lead skirt; something quailed in her at the prospect of the journey ahead. Had her vision contracted that much, in the mere two months she'd lived in Monmouth? Had she lost her nerve?

It shocked Mary, what she thought then. What she discovered, as she picked her way across the cobbles by the muddy radiance of the stars, was that she wanted to stay.

Every morning that week Mrs. Jones and Mary embroidered Mrs. Morgan's white velvet slammerkin, while the light was good and their eyes were fresh. The mistress had decided not to put the girl to help Abi with the housework, anymore; Mary's hands were too good to wear out on the back of a scrubbing brush. When the pair of them were working away side by side, hour after hour, Mrs. Jones
had the curious sensation that they were not mistress and maid but equal helpmeets, almost.

Already they had their customary exchanges, their small jokes. 'Wherever did I put that needle, Mary?'

'In the waist of your apron, madam.'

'That's right!' Mrs. Jones plucked it out as if she'd never seen it before. 'What would I do without you, Mary?'

'Sit on a needle, madam.'

She said things to Mary that she'd never have thought suitable if she'd stopped to consider the matter. 'It was our neighbour Sal Belter told me how to get a boy,' she confided one morning.

'Didn't you get him the usual way, then?'

'Oh you cheeky thing.' Mrs. Jones felt herself going pink to the sharp tip of her nose. 'What am I doing, talking of such matters to a green girl?'

Mary kept her head down, making minute, regular stitches.

'I lay on my right side, look you now,' the mistress went on in a murmur, 'and I made Thomas lie on his left, and so the child was begot in the right-hand chamber and was a boy.'

Mary frowned at her sceptically. 'Did you not do that for Hetta, then?'

'Oh, I did indeed. I did it for them all,' Mrs. Jones assured her, 'when I remembered, any rate. Three of the others were boys.' She heard her own voice go bright and thin, like glass. At least I think it was three; one of them, you know, it was too early to tell. The first of our boys lived till he was six,' she added briskly.

'He did?'

'Then he caught a fever in the coal pit.'

'Where's that?' asked Mary after a minute.

'In the forest, beyond the pastures. Maybe I shouldn't have named him Orlando. It was a burdensome name for a wee boy.' Mrs. Jones stared at the point where her needle pierced the deep softness of the velvet. 'But Thomas blamed the bad air in the pit. That's why he never let our Grandison out to work. We'd lost all the
others by then, you understand. Thomas said Grandison would be different,' she said, a little wildly. 'He would learn his lessons and preserve his health and grow up to be a gentleman and a credit to his family.' She was shaking slightly now, like a post in a high wind.

Mary kept on sewing, but looked up at her mistress after every other stitch. She reached out one hand and rested it on Mrs. Jones's skirt.

Mrs. Jones squeezed the girl's slim fingers. She looked at her with brimming eyes, and gave her a twisted smile. 'Don't mind me,' she said under her breath. 'I'm a fond and foolish woman.'

Mary changed the subject now, giving Mrs. Jones a chance to get hold of herself. 'What sort of a man is Daffy's father?' she asked casually.

'Cadwaladyr? Oh, I couldn't say.'

'I thought you knew him?'

'I do, Mary; that's why it's hard to sum him up in a phrase. Poor Joe,' she said with a little sigh. 'He's looking jowlish these days. Never had anyone to look after him, see. He didn't marry till he was past thirty—some woman from beyond Abergavenny, a stranger to us all—and then didn't she die in childbed the very first year! They had to cut the boy out of her, I heard,' she added with horrified relish.

'So Daffy never had a mother?'

Mrs. Jones shook her head. 'He and his father had to knock along together, though I did what I could for the mite, and had him in to play in the shop many a time. I fear that's where he got a taste for the business.'

'Ah,' said the girl. Mrs. Jones could see the rapid intelligence in her dark eyes. 'So when he grew up—'

'He announced he wasn't going to bide alongside his father in any smelly old tavern; he meant to work for Thomas Jones.'

The girl's white teeth flashed in a grin. 'War broke out?'

'You can't imagine! He's a skilful fellow, though, is Daffy; that must be said. He's got a knack with the knife and the needle. Thomas couldn't manage without him.'

Mary worked on beside Mrs. Jones for a minute, her glossy head bent over her sewing. 'Nowadays, though,' she asked, 'has Cadwaladyr any ... do you think he might ever take a second wife?'

'Not at all.' Mrs. Jones was amused at the idea.

'Or would he ever...' The girl blushed faintly. 'You know, go with a bad woman. Like Sally Mole, while she was alive.'

Mrs. Jones gave her maid a stern look. 'Mary, how can you say such a thing of our curate, a man of God!'

'I just wondered,' said the girl a little sulkily.

'You can tell just by looking at Joe Cadwaladyr, the thing's impossible,' said Mrs. Jones, more gently. 'The whiff of loneliness comes off him like ... onion.'

The maid nodded thoughtfully. Then, with one of those swerving changes of subject, she said, 'There's something I must admit to you, madam.'

'What is it?' asked Mrs. Jones, concerned.

'When I came away from London in such a hurry, I left ... something owing.'

'Debts, Mary?' Mrs. Jones's hand froze over the velvet hem.

'Just one,' said the girl rapidly. 'Rent ... In her sickness, you know, my mother couldn't help but run into arrears, and our landlady at Charing Cross...' Her voice trailed off.

'You mean she wouldn't forgive the debt of a dying woman?' asked Mrs. Jones, appalled.

Mary shook her head slowly.

'How much is it, child?'

'Near a pound.' It came out in a whisper. 'I knew it was wicked to rush off without paying, but I couldn't think where else to turn but to you. Only, now the sum is preying on my mind—'

'Of course,' murmured Mrs. Jones.

'—or, I mean to say, on my conscience. I can't rest till I send it back to the landlady.'

What a jewel this girl was, thought the mistress. Just fifteen years old, but the wisdom of twice that.

Mary's voice was faltering. 'So I wondered if you might possibly ... advance it on my wages?'

'Well, now,' dithered Mrs. Jones. 'It's not the usual thing, you know, Mary. Nothing till the end of the year, is the rule. I don't know what Thomas would say.'

The girl nodded miserably.

Delight bubbled up in Mrs. Jones; she knew what she was going to do. She leaned closer and murmured in the girl's ear. 'But I have a little fund for emergencies, look you, and if I advanced you the money out of that, there'd be no need to trouble Thomas with the matter at all, would there?'

A smile flashed, quick as a fish.

'That's what we'll do, then, Mary. You won't need to fret anymore. It'll be our wee secret.'

The girl grabbed Mrs. Jones's fingertips and kissed them. Her mouth was hot and soft as a child's.

This time Mary told the drawer-boy at the Crow's Nest to fetch his master and no dawdling. As soon as Cadwaladyr stepped up to the bar, she moved into the light. Yes, it was true, she thought, examining his tired eyes; apart from her, he probably hadn't touched a woman in twenty years. Which meant that if he had indeed picked up an itch, it was from her, and there was no point bluffing.

'So it's you again,' he said, 'the innocent maiden.' His vowels stretched with contempt.

Mary wet her lips with her tongue and said, in a murmur that was barely audible, 'We both did what we oughtn't, Reverend.'

'I'm only Reverend on Sundays,' he said warningly, drawing his tufted eyebrows together; 'here I'm the Master.'

'Well, any rate,' she said soothingly. 'It's not a bad clap you've got; it's the kind that cures itself pretty fast. So I'll say nothing if you'll swear to the same,' she suggested.

At that the man smiled grimly, and leaned on his fists on the
bar. 'Our cases aren't alike. My parishioners must already know that I'm a man of flesh and blood. Do your masters know you're a whore?'

Mary shut her eyes for a second. The word winded her; it had been so long since she'd even heard it.

His voice came closer; his breath smelled of strong beer. 'Jane Jones, of all the women in the world you might have taken advantage of! How would she like to know what kind of slut she's let into her home?'

Anger came up in Mary's chest like heartburn; if she'd had a knife in her pocket, it would have been in her hand by now. But she opened her eyes and saw how old this man was. How much he needed to punish her: not for the clap, nor the money, but for the night on a stinking mattress in Coleford when she'd played the virgin and fooled him into feeling young and dangerous again. 'Please, sir,' she said with difficulty. 'Please. I need to keep my place.'

He folded his arms more tightly. 'I've thought of a way you could repay me,' he offered.

'Yes?' she asked, curious. Maybe she would get to hold on to the money in her pocket after all.

He nodded towards a little group of drinkers in the darkest corner of the inn. 'There was a traveller asking for a girl, tonight, and I told him there was no one since Sally Mole.'

Mary met his level gaze, waiting for it.

'Sally used to take them to a room over the stable.' He jerked his head. 'The stairs are round the back.'

He just wanted to humiliate her. She should have known.

'A shilling a go to you, the same to me,' he added lightly. 'At that rate it wouldn't take you too many nights to pay off the pound you owe me.'

Mary allowed her lip to curl. She took enormous pleasure in scooping the coins out of her hanging pocket and sliding them across the sticky bar. 'You're too kind, but there's no need. Here's your money, Reverend.'

His eyes went wide with surprise. She picked up her lantern and Mrs. Jones's cider and stalked out.

Daffy was leaning against a post with his hands in his pockets. He watched Mary emerge from the tavern; the door banged shut behind her. Her colour was up; it must have been the heat from the fire.

When she caught sight of him she leapt, and almost spilled the cider. 'My god, man, what are you doing skulking about here?'

'Waiting for you,' he said, slightly offended. 'It's a dark night; I thought you could do with company home.' He took the lantern from her and opened the glass to trim the flame.

'Why, thank you, then,' said Mary, almost meekly. She took his elbow before he offered it, and they set off up Grinder Street.

He tried to think of an interesting topic of conversation to propose, but for once his mind was entirely blank.

'That's not a bad alehouse your father runs,' Mary remarked.

Daffy let out an inarticulate puff of contempt.

'You don't think so?'

When the words came they were like a swarm. 'It's the same as it was in my grandfather's day, and his granda's before him,' he told her. 'The man hasn't expanded, or improved, or so much as whitewashed the place in twenty years!'

'Would you?'

She had a way of cutting to the meat of things that took him aback. He thought for a moment, then said, 'Probably not. Pulling pints is a low business, whitewash it or not.'

'Lower than being a manservant?'

He flashed her a look, but she was only teasing. 'That's my father's argument,' he told her. 'He still thinks I'm going to crawl home in the hopes of someday owning that sodden barn. He says no son and heir of his should follow another man's orders. But what he doesn't see,' Daffy added eagerly, 'is that my aims are high.' The
girl's smile was wide and shiny. He felt tempted to go on. 'I'm more an apprentice to Mr. Jones than a mere servant, you know; I made most of that last pair of stays for the Widow Vaughan myself.'

'Did you really?'

'And I've done a couple of very plain pairs for a Quaker family. Besides, trade will expand with the town, it's sure to. We get more visitors of quality every winter; Monmouth is becoming the regular stopping-place after Bath. I tell you, Mary, one of these years there'll be a sign hung up that says,
Davyd Cadwaladyr, Master Staymaker
!'

She was laughing, a low gurgle in her throat. He flung her arm away from him as if it were a snake. She stopped in her tracks, there, at the corner of Inch Lane.

'Mock all you like,' he said, his voice ragged.

'Oh, Daffy, I wasn't laughing at you,' the girl said, soft and serious. 'Only at your ... passion.'

He shrugged, then folded his arms. 'My future is a matter of some importance to me,' he said stiffly. 'What else should I spend my passion on?'

In the lantern light, her mouth was pursed up like a tight little rosebud. 'On Gwyneth, for instance.'

'Ah. No,' he said, finding it surprisingly easy to bring out the words. 'We're not to marry, after all.'

Mary's eyebrows shot up. 'But the mistress told me you've been walking out for years.'

'Well, my cousin is promised to a pig-gelder now,' he said, 'and there's an end to the matter.' As he said it, he almost believed it.