The Sleeping Partner (35 page)

“Ma’am told Miss Fanny I’m to bring that young lady here to you,” she told them. The maid was one of those who preferred to narrate her actions as she performed them.

Lady Brereton looked out at the twilit garden, twisting a kerchief between gloved fingers.

“Clary?”

Evadne Thorpe’s voice was husky and uncertain. She stood in the doorway, poised to run away if her sister should frown. Lady Brereton turned, arms extended to gather Evadne to her; the girl stumbled forward into them, and both began to weep.

Miss Tolerance left the room, closing the door behind her.

She spent nearly an hour downstairs with Mrs. Godwin, who asked, through her daughters, many questions about Miss Tolerance’s profession and its origin. Miss Mary was captivated by the romance of her elopement; Miss Fanny and her mother were more interested in the practical aspects of her work.

“In men’s clothes? Truly? Do you not feel—” Miss Imlay turned to her mother as if she might supply the correct word. “Do you not feel particularly exposed, dressed so?”

“I am quite accustomed to it. When I lived in Belgium and taught fence, it was practical. And safer. Now—my profession sometimes requires me to defend myself, which is far easier to do in breeches and coat than in kid slippers and petticoats.”

Mrs. Godwin nodded slightly, the right corner of her mouth quirking upward. She mumbled something to Fanny.

“How much can you command in payment for your services?” the girl asked. She was apologetic: “My mother asked.”

Miss Tolerance found herself deep in a discussion of fees, expenses, and investment. Mary, evidently finding this uninteresting, picked up a book and began to read. Mrs. Godwin, through Fanny, asked particularly about the treatment Miss Tolerance encountered from men of all classes. The woman’s body was wrecked, but her mind was still sharp and her opinions unaffected.

So immersed in the conversation were they that it was almost a surprise when Evadne Thorpe and Clarissa Brereton appeared at the door. They were hand-in-hand; from the evidence of their eyes there had been many tears. Lady Brereton, shorter than her sister, looked the taller in her protectiveness. For her part Evadne seemed happy to lean against her sister, to enjoy that sororal protection and authority.

“I beg your pardon.” Lady Brereton spoke to Mrs. Godwin. “I have come to thank you with all my heart for your care for my sister—”

Mrs. Godwin said something that was clearly a protest. At the same time Fanny Imlay said “I has been our pleasure to have her here—”

“—and to ask if she may remain with you for a day or so longer,” Lady Brereton continued. “I must talk to my husband and my brothers, although I do not expect any objection to Evie coming to live with me.”

Miss Tolerance thought of her brother, of Lord Lyne, of the attitude of common society to which Miss Thorpe would be subject, and wondered if such a solution would prove wise. She said nothing of it.

“My mother asks me to assure you Miss Thorpe is welcome to stay.” Fanny Imlay’s lips pursed, and Miss Tolerance wondered if the girl liked the idea of another pretty girl permanently resident in the Polygon.

It was time, she thought, to leave.

Before the witness of Mrs. Godwin, Miss Fanny, and Miss Tolerance, Clarissa Brereton embraced her sister, promising to settle the matter of her future as quickly as possible. This time it was Fanny Imlay who escorted Miss Tolerance to the door, with Lady Brereton, handfast with her sister, following after.

In the barouche Lady Brereton gave vent to her feelings in a burst of tears. Miss Tolerance kept quiet, passed her a kerchief when Lady Brereton’s own lacy one became sodden, and waited out the storm. Her demeanor at last became more composed.

“You have some idea of what my sister suffered, and what she believes my father’s part to have been.”

Miss Tolerance nodded. “She told you the whole of it?”

“She did. Now I must think what to do. Remove from my father’s house at once,” Lady Brereton said, as if to herself. “Adam will understand. And tomorrow I will talk to John and Henry, and—” she kept up a quiet monologue which required no response from her listener, until at last the barouche arrived, not at Tarsio’s or in Duke of York Street, but in Manchester Square.

“Is this not right?” Lady Brereton asked when she saw Miss Tolerance’s surprise. “I thought perhaps you would prefer to go home.”

“It is very kind of you indeed,” Miss Tolerance assured her. “I was only surprised that you were aware of my home’s location.”

Lady Brereton waved a gloved hand, making the matter of no importance. “I cannot thank you enough for restoring Evie to me, Miss Tolerance. In a few days will you call on me? I will send a note to let you know where my husband and I are staying.”

Miss Tolerance recognized a dismissal. She thanked her client, bid her good evening, and descended from the carriage.

It had been a day of considerable emotion, even at second hand. Miss Tolerance looked around her carefully before she entered Spanish Place; Worke and Huwe might be in custody, but if either man had another confederate she was in no case to defend herself. But the street, and Manchester Square itself, were empty of all but a few menservants come out to light the lanterns hung by the doorways. She entered the garden from Spanish Place, thence to her cottage, where she stirred her banked fire. She could not raise flame enough to boil water; her arm was by now too painful to permit her to carry and arrange in the fireplace the fuel needed. Which meant, she reflected sourly, that she ought to have someone examine the hurt for her and perhaps change the dressing.

In the kitchen of Mrs. Brereton’s house all was in what appeared to be chaos. Miss Tolerance, who had spent a good number of hours observing Cook’s management, knew the pandemonium was more seeming than actual; that dishes for the lavish buffet Mrs. Brereton made available to her customers would be finished and brought up to the saloon; that pots and pans would be scrubbed and put away; and that the dire threats Cook made upon the life and limbs of her kitchen staff would never be acted upon.

“I’ll have your liver for sausage if you let that sauce burn,” Cook was advising Jess, the scullery girl newly promoted to cook’s assistant. Cook turned—it was astonishing that so vast a woman could move so quickly—and greeted Miss Tolerance, chiding that she looked half-fed and pale. “A cup of soup is what you need, Miss Sarah. And maybe a roll or two?”

“I was hoping to speak with Marianne for a moment,” Miss Tolerance said mildly.

“Well, do you sit then. I’ll send this’n off to find her.” Cook elbowed the new scullery boy, who had just brought in a scuttle of coal for the oven fire. The boy did not quite drop the coal, though it was a near thing. “You, Jeddy, run tell Cole Miss Sarah wants a word with Mrs. Touchwell.”

Jeddy gestured at Miss Tolerance with his chin. “This’n Miss Sarah?” He was a chubby boy, highly freckled, with a droopy eye; his left hand was pebbled with warts. Miss Tolerance nodded in acknowledgment. “Well eno’. Back in a tick.”

Cook shook her head. “That’n’ll take a lick of training up just to understand who’s to be respecked, Miss Sarah. Don’t you mind Jeddy’s way.” She pressed a cup of broth into Miss Tolerance’s hands as Miss Tolerance was assuring her she did not mind the boy in the least.

Jed returned and went out for more wood; shortly Marianne appeared, dressed for the evening and draping an ivory-colored Norwich shawl about her shoulders.

“I was hoping you would have a few moments to dress my arm,” Miss Tolerance said. “If it is inconvenient—”

“As it happens, it is entirely convenient. I’ve an engagement later; the gentleman has the whole evening and means to use it. Let me see.” She asked Cook for some hot water, and took her friend into Cook’s room for a little privacy.

The wound was still angry looking, the flesh above the dressing swollen and red. Miss Tolerance looked away as her friend worked, dabbing carefully at the wound, dusting it with calomel powder and, at last, binding it up again. It was just as well, Miss Tolerance thought, that she had eaten nothing more than broth.

“I suppose I cannot persuade you to lie abed for a few days and give this a chance to heal?” As Marianne finished the question another whore looked in at the door. Mrs. Lisette Lipper, short, plump and usually rather lazy and amiable, was all a-rage. Her dark eyes were wide under scowling brows, and her diction was decidedly less elegant than was required upstairs.

“Mary, Mrs. B’s man was at me just now. I told him I had a man coming and he done this to me!” Lisette extended her arm to display a fierce ring of red flesh. “Twisted it proper, like. Then give me a kiss and said he’d take his due later!”

Marianne and Miss Tolerance exchanged looks.

“It was Mr. Tickenor?” Marianne asked carefully.

“I just said so, didn’t I? You ast—asked—the other day if I’d had any problem with ‘im—him—and I hadn’t, then. But tonight—And I know Annie has too, only she just lifted her skirts and let him take what he wanted.”

“Mrs. B’s rules—” Marianne started.

“I know, but he’s got Mrs. B’s ear, and what was Annie to do? Spit in his eye? Call for Keefe?”

Miss Tolerance was conscious, first, of Marianne’s eye upon her, and second, of her own exhaustion. “Now?”

Marianne was regretful. “I really think so, and Sarah dear, we need you by. I know your aunt has been tetchy of late, but she does set store by what you tell her, and this ain’t going to be a pleasant conversation at all.”

Miss Tolerance nodded. Marianne had finished bandaging her arm. Returning her arm to her sleeve cost her a moment of pain severe enough to fill her mouth with the taste of it. Then she was dressed and buttoned and ready. She took a moment to summon her resolve, then: “Let us go up,” Miss Tolerance said. “We’ll need Harry as well.”

“I’ll fetch him,” Lisette offered, and went ahead.

The four: Marianne, Lisette, Harry and Miss Tolerance, met outside Mrs. Brereton’s sitting room. Harry was dressed for the evening custom in shirt and waistcoat, a kerchief knotted romantically round his throat like a highwayman; he attempted to carry himself bravely, but he could barely raise his eyes from the floor, and rubbed his thumb and forefingers apprehensively.

Miss Tolerance arranged her features as sympathetically as possible. “Come, Harry.” She put her arm through his in a friendly manner. “Mrs. Brereton needs to know what has been happening. Come,” she said again. “I will not let anyone hurt you.”

The boy looked down at her from his spindly height, his lips twisted in a sad smile.

Mrs. Brereton was taking tea with Mr. Tickenor at the small round table near the window. The drapes were drawn, the candles lit, and the chiffonier nearby was piled with evidence of the meal just past. The bawd regarded the group in her doorway with no little amazement.

“Should I say good evening?” Her voice was dry.

“I hope so, aunt.” Miss Tolerance said nothing to Tickenor. At the sight of the older man Harry took a step back, but Miss Tolerance had prepared for his anxiety. She hugged the arm looped in her own closer and led him into the room. On her other side Marianne and Lisette stepped forward.

Tickenor’s face became blank and watchful.

Mrs. Brereton appeared to be in a reasonable state of mind; she saw Harry’s distress at once. “Well, Harry? What’s amiss?”

Harry shook his head; his skin had taken on a mottled, unhealthy color. Miss Tolerance doubted he would say anything unless force to do; it was enough that he was here.

“Two nights ago I found Harry behind my house, ma’am. Weeping. He was afraid he would be beaten and turned off.”

“Turned off?” Mrs. Brereton’s tone made the idea ridiculous. “Good God, boy, unless you have been brawling in the street or stealing the plate, why would you think any such thing? Now and again a patron may become…too enthused, but as for
beating,
this is no birching house. You are not required to cater to such tastes if you dislike it; I only ask you be polite in your refusal. Why would you be turned off? Has someone threatened you? Who?”

Harry shook his head again.

“It was not a patron, aunt.” Miss Tolerance looked deliberately at Tickenor. “Nor is Harry the only one to experience this gentleman’s attentions.”

Mrs. Brereton followed her niece’s gaze and her own expression hardened.

“I know you do not like Mr. Tickenor, Sarah. Perhaps you feel he has cut your expectations in half. But to concoct a tale—”

“Aunt, I am here only because I found Harry weeping behind the outhouse, afraid he would be punished for what he had been forced to, and fearful of what would happen if he spoke up. I think if you talk to Emma or Lisette—” Miss Tolerance turned to nod at Mrs. Lipper—”Or Annie? Yes, Annie, you will find that Mr. Tickenor has been very even handed in their attentions.”

“His attentions. But they know my rules. They would have come to me.”

“They are coming to you now. They might have come earlier, but you have made it plain you do not wish to hear a word against your betrothed. So you have pitched one rule against the other; how were they to know which rule trumps?”

Mrs. Brereton turned from her niece back to Harry. “Tell me what happened, boy.” Her voice was gentler now.

In broken sentences Harry related his story: Tickenor, the closet, the threats and the sex that followed them. Throughout the whole Tickenor looked out the window as if nothing being related was the slightest bit out of the ordinary. Harry finished with, “It’s the truth, ma’am, as God is my witness.”

“Yes, Harry. I’m sure you think it’s so,” Mrs. Brereton said absently. Miss Tolerance had a moment of fear; hearing this, would her aunt still side with Tickenor? “Lisette? You have something to tell me?”

The whore stepped closer to her mistress, her wrist extended. The circle of bruised flesh was still visible. “Not an hour ago Mr. Tickenor tried to have me, too, ma’am. When I told him I wouldn’t—I’ve a caller coming soon, even if I wanted to break your rule, which I do not—he did that, ma’am. Then told me he’d take me later.”

There was silence except for the whickering of the candles near the window.