Fingersmith (53 page)

'I'm afraid you're unwell.'

I open my eyes. A man, rather aged. A stranger to me. I let my hand fall.

'Don't be afraid,' he says. Perhaps I look bewildered. 'I didn't mean to surprise you.'

He touches his hat, makes a sort of bow. He might be a friend of my uncle's. His voice is a gentleman's voice, and his collar is white. He smiles, then studies me closer. His face is kind. 'Are you unwell?'

'Will you help me?' I say. He hears my voice and his look changes.

'Of course,' he says. 'What is it? Are you hurt?'

'Not hurt,' I say. 'But I have been made to suffer, dreadfully. I—' I cast a look at the coaches and waggons upon the bridge. 'I'm afraid,' I say, 'of certain people. Will you help me? Oh, I wish you would say you will!'

'I have said it, already. But, this is extraordinary! And you, a lady— Will you come with me? You must tell me all your story; I shall hear it all. Don't try to speak, just yet. Can you rise? I'm afraid you're injured about the feet. Dear, dear! Let me look for a cab. That's right.'

He gives me his arm, and I take it and stand. Relief has made me weak. Thank God!' I say. 'Oh, thank God! But, listen to me.' I grip him harder. 'I have nothing—no money to pay you with—'

'Money?' He puts his hand over mine. 'I should not take it. Don't think of it!'

'—But I have a friend, who I think will help me. If you'll take me to him?'

'Of course, of course. What else? Come, look, here's what we need.' He leans into the road, raises his arm: a cab pulls out of the stream of traffic and halts before us. The gentleman seizes the door and draws it back. The cab is covered, and dark. 'Take care,' he says. 'Can you manage? Take care. The step is rather high.'

'Thank God!' I say again, lifting my foot. He comes behind me as I do it.

That's right,' he says. And then: 'Why look, how prettily you climb!'

I stop, with my foot upon the step. He puts his hand upon my waist. 'Go on,' he says, urging me into the coach.

I step back.

'After all,' I say quickly, 'I think I should walk. Will you tell me the way?'

'The day is too hot to walk. You are too weary. Go on.'

His hand is upon me still. He presses harder. I twist away and we almost struggle.

'Now, then!' he says, smiling.

'I have changed my mind.'

'Come, now.'

'Let go of me.'

'Do you wish to cause a fuss? Come, now. I know a house—'

'A house? Haven't I told you that I want only to see my friend?'

'Well, he'll like you better, I think, when you have washed your hands and changed your stockings and taken a tea. Or else—who knows?—when you have done those things you may find you like
me
better.—Hmm?'

His face is still kind, he still smiles; but he takes my wrist and moves his thumb across it, and tries, again, to hand me into the coach. We struggle properly, now. No-one tries to intervene. From the other vehicles in the road I suppose we are quite hidden. The men and women passing upon the bridge look once, then turn their heads.

There is the driver, however. I call to him. 'Can't you see?' I call. 'There's been a mistake here. This man is insulting me.'—The man lets me go, then. I move further about the coach, still calling up. 'Will you take me? Will you take me, alone? I shall find someone to pay you, I give you my word, when we arrive.'

The driver looks me over blankly as I speak. When he learns I have no money, he turns his head and spits.

'No fare, no passage,' he says.

The man has come close again. 'Come on,' he says—not smiling, now. 'There's no need for this. What are you playing at? It's clear you're in some sort of fix. Shouldn't you like the stockings, the tea?'

But I still call up to the driver. 'Will you tell me, then,' I say, 'which way I must walk? I must reach Holywell Street. Will you tell me, which way I must take, for there?'

He hears the name and snorts—in scorn, or laughter, I cannot tell. But he raises his whip. 'That way,' he says, gesturing over the bridge; 'then westwards, by Fleet Street.'

'Thank you.' I begin to walk. The man reaches for me. 'Let go of me,' I say.

'You don't mean it.'

'Let go!'

I almost shriek it. He falls back. 'Go on, then!' he says. 'You damn little teaser.'

I walk, as quickly as I can. I almost run. But then, after a moment, the cab comes beside me and slows to match my pace. The gentleman looks out. His face has changed again.

'I'm sorry,' he says, coaxingly. 'Come up. I'm sorry. Will you come? I'll take you to your friend, I swear it. Look here. Look here.' He shows me a coin. Til give you this. Come up. You mustn't go to Holywell Street, they are bad men there—not at all like me. Come now, I know you're a lady. Come, I'll be kind…'

So he calls and murmurs, half the length of the bridge; until finally a line of waggons forms behind the crawling cab, and the driver shouts that he must go on. Then the man draws back, puts up his window with a bang; the cab pulls away. I let out my breath. I have begun to shake. I should like to stop, to rest; I dare not, now. I leave the bridge: here the road meets another, more busy than those on the southern shore; but more anonymous too, I think. I am grateful for that, though the crowds—the crowds are terrible. Never mind, never mind, push through them. Go on. Westwards, as the driver directed.

Now the street changes again. It is lined with houses with bulging windows—
shops
, I understand them to be, at last: for there are goods on show, marked up with prices on cards. There are breads, there are medicines. There are gloves. There are shoes and hats.—Oh, for a little money! I think of the coin the gentleman offered, from the window of the coach: should I have seized it, and run? Too late to wonder it now. No matter. Go on. Here is a church, parting the road like the column of a bridge parts water. Which side ought I to take? A woman passes, bare-headed like me: I catch her arm, ask her the way. She points it out and then, like everyone else, stands staring as I take it.

But here is Holywell Street at last!—Only, now I hesitate. How have I imagined it? Not like this, perhaps—not so narrow, so crooked, so dark. The London day is still hot, still bright; in turning into Holywell Street, however,

I seem to step into twilight. But the twilight is good, after all: it hides my face, and robs my gown of its colours. I walk further. The way grows narrower. The ground is dusty, broken, unpaved. There are shops, lit up, on either side of me: some with lines of tattered clothes hung before them, some with broken chairs and empty picture-frames and coloured glasses spilling from them, in heaps; the most, however, selling books. I hesitate again, when I see that. I have not handled a book since I left Briar; and now, to come so suddenly upon them, in such numbers; to see them laid, face-up, like loaves in trays, or piled, haphazardly, in baskets; to see them torn, and foxed, and bleached— marked up
2d., 3d., THIS
BOX 1
s
.—quite unnerves me. I stop, and watch as a man picks idly through a box of coverless volumes and takes one up.
The Mousetrap of Love
.—I know it, I have read that title so many times to my uncle I know it almost by heart!

Then the man lifts his head and finds me watching; and I walk on. More shops, more books, more men; and finally a window, a little brighter than the rest. The display is of prints, hung up on strings. The glass has Mr Hawtrey's name upon it, in letters of flaking gold. I see it, and shake so hard I almost stumble.

Inside, the shop is small and cramped. I have not expected that. The walls are all given over to books and prints, and there are cabinets, besides. Three or four men stand at them, each leafing rapidly and intently through some album or book: they don't look up when the door is opened; but when I take a step and my skirts give a rustle, they all turn their heads, see me, and openly stare. But I am used to stares, by now. At the rear of the shop is a little writing-table, with a youth sitting at it, dressed in a waistcoat and sleeves. He stares, as they do—then, when he sees me advancing, gets up.

'What are you looking for?' he says.

I swallow. My mouth is dry.

I say, quietly, 'I'm looking for Mr Hawtrey. I wish to speak with Mr Hawtrey.'

He hears my voice, and blinks; the customers shift a little, and look me over again. 'Mr Hawtrey,' he says, his tone a little changed. 'Mr Hawtrey doesn't work in the shop. You oughtn't to have come to the shop. Have you got an appointment?'

'Mr Hawtrey knows me,' I say. 'I don't need an appointment.'

He glances at the customers. He says, 'What's your business with him?'

'It's private,' I say. 'Will you take me to him? Will you bring him to me?'

There must be something to my look, however, or my voice. He grows more guarded, steps back.

'I'm not sure, after all, if he's in,' he says. 'Really, you oughtn't to have come to the shop. The shop is for selling books and prints — do you know what kind? Mr Hawtrey's rooms are upstairs.'

There's a door, at his back. 'Will you let me go to him?' I say.

He shakes his head. 'You may send up a card, something like that.'

'I don't have a card,' I say, 'But give me a paper, and I'll write him out my name. He'll come, when he reads it. Will you give me a paper?'

He does not move. He says again, 'I don't believe he's in the house.'

'Then I'll wait, if I must,' I say.

'You cannot wait here!'

'Then I think,' I answer, 'you must have an office, some room like that; and I will wait there.'

He looks again at the customers; picks up a pencil and puts it down.

'If you will?' I say.

He makes a face. Then he finds me a slip of paper and a pen. 'But you shan't,' he says, 'be able to wait, if it turns out he's not in.' I nod. 'Put your name on there,' he says, pointing.

I begin to write. Then I remember what Richard told me once—how the booksellers speak of me, in the shops of London, I am afraid to write,
Maud Lilly
. I am afraid the youth will see. At last—remembering something else — I put this:
Galatea
.

I fold it, and hand it to him. He opens the door, whistles into the passage beyond. He listens, then whistles again.There come footsteps. He leans and murmurs, gestures to me. I wait.

And, as I do, one of the customers closes his album and catches my eye. 'Don't mind him,' he says softly, meaning the youth. 'He supposes you gay, that's all. Anyone can see though, that you're a lady…' He looks me over, then nods to the shelves of books. 'You like them, hmm?' he says, in a differ' ent tone. 'Of course you do. Why shouldn't you?'

I say nothing, do nothing. The youth steps back.

'We're seeing,' he says, 'if he's in.'

There are pictures behind his head, pinned to the wall in wax-paper wrappers: a girl on a swing, showing her legs; a girl in a boat, about to slip; a girl falling, falling from the breaking branch of a tree… I close my eyes. He calls to one of the men: 'Do you wish to buy that book, sir—?'

Presently, however, there come more footsteps, and the door is opened again.

It is Mr Hawtrey.

He looks shorter, and slighter, than I remember him. His coat and trousers are creased. He stands in the passage in some agitation, does not come into the shop—meets my gaze, but does not smile—looks about me, as if to be sure I am alone; then beckons me to him. The youth steps back to let me pass. 'Mr Hawtrey—' I say. He shakes his head, however; waits until the door is closed behind me before he will speak. What he says then—in a whisper so fierce it is almost a hiss—is:

'Good God! Is it you? Have you really come here, to me?'

I say nothing, only stand with my eyes on his. He puts his hand, in distraction, to his head. Then he takes my arm. 'This way,' he says, leading me to a set of stairs. The steps have boxes upon them. 'Be careful. Be careful,' he says, as we climb them. And then, at the top: 'In here.'

There are three rooms, set up for the printing and binding of books. In one, two men work, loading type; another, I think, is Mr Hawtrey's own office. The third is small, and smells strongly of glue. It's in there that he shows me. The tables are piled with papers—loose papers, ragged at the edges: the leaves of unfinished books. The floor is bare and dusty. One wall—the wall to the typesetters' room—has frosted glass panels in it. The men are just visible, bending over their work.

There is a single chair, but he does not ask me to sit. He closes the door and stands before it. He takes out a handkerchief and wipes his face. His face is yellowish-white.

'Good God,' he says again. And then: 'Forgive me. Forgive me. It's only the surprise of the thing.'

He says it, more kindly; and I hear him and half turn away.

'I'm sorry,' I say. My voice is not steady. 'I'm afraid I will weep. I have not come to you to weep.'

'You may weep, if you like!' he says, with a glance at the frosted glass.

But I will not weep. He watches me struggling against my tears for a moment, then shakes his head.

'My dear,' he says gently at last. 'What have you done?'

'Don't ask me.'

'You have run away.'

'From my uncle, yes.'

'From your husband, I think.'

'My husband?' I swallow. 'Do you know, then, of that?'

He shrugs, colours, looks away.

I say, 'You think me wrong. You do not know what I have been made to suffer! Don't worry'—for he has lifted his eyes to glance, again, at the panels of glass—'don't worry, I shan't grow wild. You may think what you like of me, I don't care. But you must help me. Will you?'

'My dear—'

'You will. You must. I have nothing. I need money, a house to stay in. You used to like to say you would make me welcome—'

Despite myself, my voice is rising.

'Be calmer,' he says—lifting his hands as if to soothe me; but not moving from his place at the door. 'Be calmer. You know how queer this will look? Do you? What are my staff to think? A girl comes asking for me urgently, sending up a riddling name…' He laughs, not happily. 'What would my daughters say, my wife?'