The Sleeping Partner (40 page)

Authors: Madeleine E. Robins

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Mystery & Crime

BOOK: The Sleeping Partner

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“I am surprised they let you know of her. I neither approve nor disapprove of my aunt’s profession, as she has made it plain it is not my business to do either. But she gave me a home, and affection, when I needed both sorely.”

“She did not ask you to—never encouraged you to—”

“To follow in her gilded footsteps? To become a whore?” Miss Tolerance was amused. “She has, in fact, often. It puzzles her that I will not; I suppose she really is deficient in some moral sense—but she has never let my refusal come between us.”

Lady Brereton appeared to consider. “She is broadminded?” she suggested.

Miss Tolerance laughed. “By her lights, I believe she is.”

The subject of their relation having been exhausted for the moment, there were only two other topics Miss Tolerance could think of, and only one which did not involve the presentation of her bill.

“How does your sister do?”

Lady Brereton’s eyes filled with unhappiness. “She returned to the Godwins; she seems comfortable there, and they say they are happy to have her there. Miss Tolerance, I tell you frankly, I cannot understand how to help her. She is fearful one moment, enraged the next, not at that man Huwe but at our father. Not that she has not cause, but—I wish I understood how to help her.”

Miss Tolerance shook her own head. “
I
wish I had some comfort to give her, or you. My experience is similar to hers in only a few details: elopement and disinheritance are nothing to what she has suffered, and the only balm I can suggest is time.”

A cloud swept across the sun, leaving the room suddenly dim. “That man ruined her. Unfit her to be a wife, unfit her to—” She stopped and stared at Miss Tolerance. “You are Fallen, but you are not ruined. Not that way. How is that?”

“I had love,” Miss Tolerance said simply. “However irregular it was. Connell was a good man and I loved him. Even so, had I anticipated how hard our life would be, how much I gave up with that impetuous choice, I do not know what I would have done.” She gave a thought to Sir Walter. “But I had love, and your sister did not.”

Half an hour later Miss Tolerance took her leave. Her reticule was heavy: Lady Brereton had paid in full the reckoning for her work and expenses. She made her way down the stairs, was shown out by Pinney, and on the steps found herself face to face with her brother.

Sir Adam’s face reddened. “Why are you here?”

“Your wife invited me, Adam.”

He took her elbow and all but dragged her down the street, muttering “
Sir
Adam. Someone might hear.
Clary
might hear.”

“She knows, Adam.” Miss Tolerance regarded her brother with a look mingling sympathy and exasperation. “Apparently we share expressions. And she says I look very much like Grandmother Anna’s portrait.”

Astonishment appeared to make her brother unsteady on his feet. Now it was Miss Tolerance who took his elbow and urged him forward. “Let us take a little air before you faint.” She waited until they had settled into a leisurely stroll of the perimeter of St. James’s Square before she said, “I like your wife very much. She is neither as fragile as you believe, nor as easily shocked. She has a good deal of strength—how else could she have stood up to her father when all you men—yes, her brothers as well—cowered before him?”

Mention of Lyne took away Sir Adam’s pleasure in hearing his wife praised. “My God, Sally. None of us imagined he was—how could Lyne—” Sir Adam broke off as if no word to describe his father-at-law’s doing was sufficient.

“How
should
you have imagined it?” Miss Tolerance was sympathetic, to a point. “Your father-at-law seemed a prime example of a man of his age and station. Who would have guessed he would make our father seem like a paragon of compassion? No, no, I do not mean to pick a fight, Adam. Truly, I do not. I still have a wicked tongue after all these years, and far too little excuse to mend it.”

Sir Adam looked sidewise at his sister. “Sally? Sally, I hope you don’t think to make this reunion an excuse to—”

“To settle myself upon you? No, Adam. Emphatically, I do not. I am happy to have had a chance to mend fences with you, a little, but I am under no illusions about returning to the family. I would ask a favor, though.”

“A favor?” Caution warred with relief in Sir Adam’s voice.

“Will you tell Mrs. Cropsey, and Nurse, and the people in Briarton, that they will not be turned out if I come to visit? Nurse must be quite stricken in years; I should like to go pay my respects to her some day.”

“Is that all? Good God, Sally, of course. I never thought of it. But is there nothing else? Your things from Briarton? I could send them; that place you live is so barren.”

“My books and dolls from the schoolroom? No, thank you.”

“But that place. You are comfortable there? You have friends?”

Miss Tolerance thought of Marianne, of her aunt, of Harry and Cook and the other denizens of Mrs. Brereton’s house. She thought of Sir Walter. “I have friends. I want for nothing, Adam. Truly. And you have my word: I will not force my way into your family. It is enough that you and I can speak together civilly; I never expected such a thing. Of course, “Miss Tolerance’s mouth quirked in a smile. “I
could
introduce you to our aunt.”

A look of horror passed briefly over her brother’s face, followed at once by a crooked, sheepish smile. “You’re funning me.”

“I am.” A grin played on Miss Tolerance’s lips. “You make it very easy. And you are still my brother, and still require taking down a peg.”

They had reached the corner of King Street. Miss Tolerance extended her hand as if to shake his, but Sir Adam only stood, looking at her bemusedly. At last, Miss Tolerance reached out to pat him lightly on the shoulder. “I do like your wife very much, Sir Adam. I wish you both very happy.”

She curtseyed and, while her brother stared after her, walked briskly down King Street.

— — —

A Note on History, Faux and Real

This is not only a mystery but an alternate history: George III was succeeded by his son George, first as Regent (in 1811) and then as King (in 1820) and at no time did Queen Charlotte reign as Regent. Within that greater alternaty (to coin a term) I have tried to keep things as accurate to history and the period as possible. The plot to destroy Napoleon’s newly-rebuilt fleet is historical, and made sense on paper, but the Navy consistently disregarded the advice of doctors (and military men with a familiarity with England’s history—a hundred years earlier there had been a similar attempt at invasion, with a similar ending) who counseled against the expedition. To make matters worse, the invading fleet sailed with barely a day’s worth of cinchona bark for its forces. Eight thousand men died from a mixed bag of malaria, dysentery and typhoid, and another twenty thousand survived, but were invalided out of the armed forces. Afterward it was said you could recognize a veteran of the campaign by the red waistcoats they wore—with a small pocket to carry a personal supply of Peruvian bark.

I first read of the Walcheren invasion in a review of Fiametta Rocco’s wonderful book
The Miraculous Fever Tree,
a history of malaria and quinine. While I’ve found no evidence of war-profiteering such as Lord Lyne and Abner Huwe indulge in, it’s not outside the range of possibility. The Walcheren invasion remains a startling example of what happens when politics and hubris intersect.

In creating John Thorpe’s Squale House I anticipated the beginning of the Settlement Movement by about fifty years. In 1811 there were poorhouses and almshouses (the former were often used as reformatories or homes for indigent women and children; the latter often housed the elderly) but nothing quite like the settlement house, where life-skills and education were offered to the poor. Still, I suspect that William Godwin, had he known of such a place, would have been delighted to volunteer there. Mary Wollstonecraft, essayist and novelist, died 1797 after the birth of her daughter Mary (who went on to elope with Percy Bysshe Shelley and to write
Frankenstein
). Somehow the notion of Miss Tolerance meeting both Mrs. Godwin and the young Mary Shelley would not leave me alone.

I am delighted to have found a new home for Miss Tolerance at Plus One Press, thanks to my editor, Jacqueline Smay, Nic Grabien (publisher) and Deborah Grabien (resident Goddess and fellow Plus One author) for their help, encouragement, and enthusiasm. I send my thanks to Patrick Nielsen Hayden, Anna Genoese, and Melissa Anne Singer for their encouragement in the initial phase of Miss Tolerance’s career at Forge Books; even though we parted ways, I don’t forget. My thanks also to my agent, Shawna McCarthy.

As always, Miss Tolerance and I are indebted to M. Lucie Chin, Richard Rizk, J. David Brimmer, and TJ Glenn for teaching me what I know of the art of the short sword (and the fisticuff). Any trouble Miss Tolerance gets into is her fault and mine; my teachers are all deadly grace and pointed wit. I owe a similar debt to my writers’ workshops, and to Ben Yalow, Sara Mueller, Ellen Klages, and Eve Sweetser, all of whom wrestled with the manuscript like the angels they are, and helped me make the story a book.

Writing is an isolated business, and there aren’t enough Thank Yous in the world for my friends in real life and online, for help, support, enthusiasm, and reeling things back into focus when I got distracted. I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Miss Tolerance’s own friends, who have waited patiently to see what happened next.

Finally: my love and love again to Danny, Julie, and Becca, because family, wherever you find it, is where the heart is.

About Madeleine E. Robins

Writing gives Madeleine Robins the chance to focus on many of her ruling passions: cities, history, swordplay, the history of disease, and the future of mankind–with a side order of historical costuming and infrastructure (urban plumbing is far more interesting than you’d think).

Born in New York City, the Author has been, in no particular order, a nanny, a teacher, an actor and stage-combatant, an administrator, a comic book editor, a baker, typist-clerk for Thos. Cook’s Houses of Parliament office, a repairer-of-hurt-books, an editorial consultant, and a writer. She holds a degree in Theatre Studies from Connecticut College, and attended the Clarion Science Fiction Workshop in 1981. She is a founding member of the BookViewCafe, where most of her short fiction is available for free!

A lifelong and passionate fan of cities and all things urban, Madeleine Robins now lives in San Francisco with her family, dog, and one hegemonic lemon tree.

Visit her website at
www.madeleinerobins.com

Books by Madeleine E. Robins

The Sarah Tolerance Mysteries

Point of Honor

Petty Treason

The Sleeping Partner

Other Novels

Althea

My Dear Jenny

The Heiress Companion

Lady John

The Spanish Marriage