Point of Honour (6 page)

For no reason clearly defined except that it seemed the right sort of place, Miss Tolerance stopped her hack in front of a tiny, painfully well-kept cottage at the farthest reach of the town on the river side. The building had been whitewashed sometime in the past, although close inspection suggested that the whitewash had not been applied in a year or more; there were banks of small pink flowers around the door, and a bell of polished brass hung by the door. As she stepped closer, the smell of the river in the heat grew stronger. Miss Tolerance’s stomach rebelled when she thought of living in such a dwelling.

She tapped the bell very gently. A sweet note rang out. After a few moments, a face peered out at her from the window, and then the door was opened. The woman who stood there barely came up to Miss Tolerance’s breast, a tiny, wizened creature whose monkeyish face was surrounded by a frilled lace cap tied beneath her chin. Her clothes, Miss Tolerance noted, were like the house: neatly cared for but showing signs of age and a stringent budget. If this lady was Mrs. Cunning, she thought, it should be an easy thing to exchange five hundred pounds for the fan—but this lady looked too aged to have been anyone’s mistress in the last ten years, or even twenty.

“Yes?” The woman raised her eyebrows inquiringly but reserved her smile.

“Good afternoon, ma‘am. I am sorry to disturb you, but I am looking for …” Miss Tolerance paused. She could hardly say “a friend” or “my aunt,” if this woman was the person she sought, but if the woman now went by some name other than Cunning, she did not want to annoy her by using her
nom d’amour.
She would have to chance it, she thought. “I am looking for Mrs. Cunning.”

“Are you, then?” The old woman cocked her head to one side and looked Miss Tolerance in the eye. As if satisfied with what she saw, she opened the door wider. “Well, you had best come in.” The woman stood aside and Miss Tolerance entered the house, ducking her head to pass beneath the low-set lintel. Her hostess led her from a dark, close hallway into a tiny, cramped sitting room that faced onto the street. The room’s only light came from the sunshine which poured in through the window, softened by dusty gauze drapes. The furniture was dark and shabby-looking, and most surfaces were covered by bundles of papers tied with ribbon, bowls of dried flowers, sturdy candles studded with dried flowers, or large dozing cats. The room was stifling and smelled of lavender, cat, and the barely masked stench of the river. Miss Tolerance was hard-pressed not to sneeze.

“What is your business with Mrs. Cunning?” the old woman asked. She sounded genuinely curious, without judgment.

“I’ve been sent to find her on a matter of business.”

The old woman leaned forward and took Miss Tolerance’s hand in one of hers; it was cold and papery to the touch. “My dear,” she noted, very kindly, as if striving to avoid offending her guest. “My dear, young ladies do not ride about in breeches on matters of business.”

Miss Tolerance blinked. What was she to say to this? “Perhaps young ladies do not, ma’am,” she agreed at last, laying slight emphasis on
ladies.
“But I do. And I have been asked to seek out Mrs. Cunning.”

The old woman took up a decanter and poured some thick, syrupy stuff, so dark it was almost black, into two highly polished wineglasses. She handed one to Miss Tolerance. “Please take a little of my cordial, my dear. I make it myself, and it’s a specific against the summer fever. We see a great deal of it, living here by the river.”

Mute, Miss Tolerance took the wine. It tasted of plums.

“I blame the Queen for it,” the woman said. “And those stupid men in Parliament who gave her guardianship over the poor mad King. It would have been far more suitable to have one of the Princes as regent. When I was a girl, young women did not ride about in breeches and the world was a better place for it. Ever since the Queen became Regent, people have come to believe a woman may be licensed to do anything. Even a girl who’s ruined ought to have some standards, to my way of thinking.” She paused and looked kindly at her guest. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I’m old, and shall speak my mind. You would be happier with a husband and a clutch of children, I don’t doubt, instead of riding about the countryside in that style.”

“Perhaps you’re right, ma’am,” Miss Tolerance said slowly. “But that was not one of the choices open to me, and I preferred this to my other alternatives.”

“To be a whore?” The old woman smiled charmingly. “Nothing so wrong with that, my dear. Earned my keep that way for a score of years, and kept myself in a feminine way. If you’ll forgive my saying so,” she added kindly.

“Oh, certainly, ma‘am,” Miss Tolerance said. The room was very hot, and the smell of cat, river, and lavender seemed to increase with each passing moment. “Might I know, ma’am, to whom I have the pleasure of speaking?”

The old woman giggled. “Mrs. Smith, dear. You’ll find we’re all Mrs. Smith when we reach a certain age. Most of us that survive, anyway. Mrs. Charlotte Smith. And your name?”

Miss Tolerance told her. Mrs. Smith giggled again. “Tolerance? What was you thinking, dear, to take a name like that? As well to name yourself Dishrag or Wholesome!” She shook her head in dismay. “Tolerance!”

“Tolerance, ma’am. Don’t you think it suits me?”

Mrs. Smith
tsked
mildly. “Gracious, perhaps it does. Well, my dear, who was it you said you was looking for?”

“Mrs. Deborah Cunning, ma’am.”

The old woman’s eyes narrowed for a moment, reflectively. Then she smiled, nodding her head. Curls of white hair had been stuck to her withered cheeks with pomade or perspiration, making her look rather like a painted doll.

“Deborah Cunning. Gracious, I haven’t heard that name in a brace of years. A pretty girl, but didn’t wear well, that one. When she quit the game, I thought she’d go back to the village she come from, but it seems she didn’t manage her money well—so few do, dear—and couldn’t afford to set herself up in comfort. She did very nice embroidery, though. Perhaps one of the milliners or dressmakers on Bond Street would know of her?”

“But not as Mrs. Cunning, ma’am?” Miss Tolerance prompted.

Mrs. Smith laughed. “Oh, dear me, no. Not as Mrs. Cunning. Let me see, did she style herself as Smith or Jones?” She reflected, and Miss Tolerance took another sip of the syrupy wine. It left a musty taste in her mouth. “Carter, I think. Or Cook. Cook. Mrs. Deborah Cook. Took to wearing black, as though she were in mourning for her last keeper, though given how he left her situated, he must have been a monstrous unpleasant man. Well, they all are, soon or late. Monstrous
and
unpleasant!” She laughed again, a coarse, knowing sound that came oddly from her monkeyish face. “Oh, now I’ve shocked you. Well, I know more of the matter than you do, dear, I’m sure. Think your man wasn’t unpleasant, don’t you?”

Miss Tolerance shook her head. “Nor monstrous, ma’am.” The smells of the room were combining with the wine to make her feel queasy. She found she was jiggling the handle of her riding crop nervously and put the thing aside.

Mrs. Smith snorted. “Then you didn’t have him long, did you? What, did he seduce you and run away?”

This was treading close to territory Miss Tolerance preferred not to discuss. “Perhaps it was I seduced him, ma’am,” she said lightly. “I
am
the sort of woman who rides about in breeches, after all.”

Rather than be offended, Mrs. Smith cackled. “Well, you’re not mawkish, I’ll give you that. Now, have you the information you came for, Miss Wholesome-Tolerance? I hope you will not think me rude if I cut your visit short, but I’m an old woman and my cordial makes me a bit drowsy. Come, I’ll see you out.”

But Miss Tolerance was on her feet, assuring her hostess that there was no need for her to rise. She thanked the old woman and made for the door, almost knocking over a deep bowl filled with dried lavender, verbena, and other tiny white flowers in her haste to leave. Outside, she stood blinking in the doorway for a moment, breathing deeply of the fresher air. Her horse was patiently cropping the heads from the flowers by the gate, and she led the gray to the end of the street before mounting, hoping to settle her stomach. Then she rode back to the Queen’s Arms and bespoke two baskets, each containing a ham, a wheel of cheese, and a bottle of wine, to be sent to Mrs. Cockbun and Mrs. Smith, with her compliments. Lord Trux would stand the bill; information, as she had told him, always had a price.

I
t was midafternoon when Miss Tolerance arrived back in Manchester Square. She returned the horse to Mrs. Brereton’s groom and went at once to her cottage to wash away the dust of the road, and to change into a walking dress and half-boots. With the idea of stopping into some of the shops in Bond Street, she inquired in the House if any of the ladies there had need of ribbons, gloves, or other necessities. Chloe not only declared a pressing need for a new handkerchief, but proposed that they go together. This had not been Miss Tolerance’s intention, since the harlot would bring not only herself but, in keeping with Mrs. Brereton’s immutable rule, a maid as chaperone, but she could not escape from the excursion without awkwardness, particularly when Chloe was still regarding her in the light of hero for her rescue of the night before.

“I had wanted to tell you again how very grateful I am—” Chloe began when they were out-of-doors and walking toward Bond Street.

“There’s really no need. Mrs. Brereton was right; she would never have allowed you to come to harm under her roof. I grant it was unpleasant—”

Chloe gave a hard little laugh. She was slight, with very large, nearsighted brown eyes and soft curling yellow hair, which made her look quite defenseless. That look, Miss Tolerance believed, was one of her stocks in trade, and the reason why men such as Sir Randal Pre preferred Chloe’s company to that of others in Mrs. Brereton’s employ.

“He would have killed me,” she said with breathless certainty.

Miss Tolerance shook her head. “Not then,” she said. “Not when he thought he had the power. His sort don’t kill until they think they’re losing their power.”

“Well, if you don’t want my thanks …” Chloe pursed her mouth unpleasantly.

“It was a pleasure to help you and my aunt,” Miss Tolerance said lightly. “Now, is there a particular shop you wanted to visit?”

Chloe, it seemed, was unbiased. She liked all the shops, and liked to linger, touching the fabrics and having sharp little discussions of price with the assistants. She bought nothing, but seemed ready at any moment to buy a great deal, so she was assiduously attended to in each store. If the modistes and their assistants knew that Chloe was a member of Mrs. Brereton’s establishment, they gave no sign, nor did they indicate any distaste for her custom. The other patrons of the stores, in blissful ignorance of the figures of sin who moved among them, did not withdraw, either; so all parties were happy. It was, Miss Tolerance reflected, as close as she could come to reclaiming her own birthright and status.

It was difficult to ask questions with Chloe at her side and other customers vying for the attention of the attendants. Still, in a quiet moment a murmured question, always accompanied with a coin, could be answered before Chloe began another query about the price of jaconet muslin. At the first three shops, the assistants reluctantly confirmed that they had no knowledge of an embroiderer named Mrs. Cook or Carter. At the fourth, the description was recognized, but the young woman could not supply her direction. Miss Tolerance quietly passed along her card, and several more coins, in the hope that Mrs. Carter-Cook’s address could be discovered and a note sent to apprise her of it. She bought a pair of gloves, too, and a matching yellow ribbon, hoping that would dispose the shop’s owner kindly toward the shopgirl.

Miss Tolerance and Chloe, with the maid, Annie, trailing just behind, returned to their stroll along Bond Street. Chloe insisted on reviewing Miss Tolerance’s purchases, and informed her she could have gotten the same gloves cheaper elsewhere.

“Then why shop on Bond Street?” Miss Tolerance asked mildly.

“You find out what’s the mode on Bond Street, then buy it cheaper somewhere else. Your aunt taught me that.” Chloe looked mildly surprised that Mrs. Brereton had not imparted similar wisdom to her niece—in fact she had, but Miss Tolerance was not about to explain the reasons for that day’s purchases. She was distracted from any response by the sight of Lord Trux, walking up the street with the air of a beau of fashion who need not discuss anything with the great world. He was, as he had been the day she met him at Tarsio’s, expensively dressed in a coat of fine wool, green this time, with biscuit-colored breeches and handsomely polished boots, yet the result was not elegance but strain. Trux seemed happily unaware of how poorly his clothes became him; just as well for a man who clearly gave his tailor full rein to indulge in the excesses of fashion as they occurred.

Miss Tolerance watched the man’s face, looking for a clue. If they met, should she acknowledge the acquaintance or not? Trux solved the problem for her by changing his direction quite suddenly, waiting while a ragged, nimble boy swept the street before he crossed it. Following his course, Miss Tolerance’s eye was drawn to a knot of men on the far side of Bond Street. She stopped, on the pretext of examining the contents of her pocketbook, to see who her client was meeting. There was nothing about the men themselves that attracted her eye; from their dress, they were all well-to-do, but not members of the Dandy set. The oldest one, indeed, wore the skirted coat of the last century and affected an ebony stick upon which he leaned lightly. What drew Miss Tolerance’s particular attention was the sense of confrontation emanating from the group. Even from across the street it was plain that the brown-haired man in the brown coat and Hessian boots was in a rage, and that rage was focused entirely upon the taller man in dark blue. If the object of this fury returned the feeling, he gave no sign of it; his expression was bland, only one raised eyebrow suggesting he might dislike taking part in such a scene. Miss Tolerance was seized with a fit of curiosity and taking Chloe’s arm, urged her across the street to examine half-boots in a window there.