Slammerkin (39 page)

Mary tried to summon up a shocked expression. All she managed was a grimace, guilt written on her skin.

Mr. Jones took in a noisy breath. 'Go about your business, fellow.'

'My shillings be as good as yourn, an't they?'

'Be off or I'll fetch the constable,' barked Mr. Jones with a cold wheeze of breath, hoisting his crutch and waving it at the fellow.

Mary watched the cully's mud-marked breeches lumber round the side of the building. There she stood beside her master, all her muscles locked. Eventually he lowered his crutch. If he'd been going to beat her with it, she thought, he'd have started by now.

Like a pair of genteel strangers, each of them waited for the other to speak. Mary tried to think of a convincing explanation, but her mind was moving like treacle. Her body thought faster. She fell on her knees before Mr. Jones and felt a sharp pebble enter her shin. Flinging her arms around her master's hips, she pressed her head against him. Sudden tears soaked into the thinned velvet of his breeches. The mannish smell of him filled her nostrils.

Mary didn't know it before, but she was in fact sorry. Strangely sorry for all she was and ever would be, for all she'd done and left undone and never would do. For the way she'd been given a second chance at ordinary life and had crushed it underfoot. What was it she needed from this man? Punishment or forgiveness, hard words or a soft hand on her cap? Complicity, above all.

He didn't say a word.

Her hot face nuzzled into Mr. Jones's buttoned flap.
Any sign of life in the basement?
as Doll used to chuckle. Heavy hands landed on her shoulders and tried to push her back, but she clung on. Far above her she heard the clearing of his throat. She lifted her chin and pressed harder against the velvet with her eyes, her nose, her wet cheeks.

Ah. Ahah! All wasn't lost. She mouthed encouragement into the stirring cloth. Her master attempted to back away, and almost lost his balance, but Mary moved with him and held him fast, gripping his nervous buttocks through the brocade of his coat. She could feel where his left leg ended, the neat fold buttoned up behind. He staggered, almost toppled, but she clung on.

'If you please, sir,' she whispered without looking up, as a sort of incantation. Words were a risk; they might win her a crack across the eyes with a crutch, and lose her the only place she had in the world. 'Please, sir, I'm good, sir,' Mary repeated like a child. She hardly knew what she was saying. 'Please, sir, for free, whatever you like, if you please, sir.'

The creature curled up in her master's breeches heard that, woke fully and stretched. Mary's lips reached for it through the hot fabric. All she heard from above was a guttural kind of sound. Her knees were starting to ache so badly she could think of little else. If she let go, Mr. Jones might still back away, yet if she stayed on her knees they'd surely put down roots into the mud. There was no use waiting for a word; whatever the man did, he wouldn't be able to give his yes to it.

Mary staggered to her feet. She didn't attempt to meet Mr. Jones's eyes. Instead she turned to the wall, planted her feet securely, hoisted her skirts as high as they'd go, and waited.

Over the long moments that followed, the absurdity of the scene did strike her. She imagined her white buttocks gleaming through the night like the missing moon. Damp air invaded her; all her muscles contracted. Her steel hoops weighed heavy on her wrists. Her stockings, laden with mud, were beginning to slip below her
knees. Maybe not the most appetising sight for a man in two minds. She'd gladly have wriggled, or murmured something lewd, if she'd had any confidence it would improve her chances. Instead she rested her cheek against the cool brick and shut her eyes. She stood there for longer than seemed possible. Perhaps Mr. Jones was lifting his crutch to deliver one mighty blow. Or else he might be turning to go home, to hurl her possessions out of the window into a puddle in the yard. How long was she going to stand there before admitting that her time was up?

Behind her, the light crash of the crutches. Her head whipped round to see if the man had fallen, but he was right behind her.

What Mr. Jones told himself was that he was going to pull down the girl's skirts and cover her shame. Any minute now all this would be over. He was not such a weak sinner as to be overpowered by mere nakedness.

He wouldn't so much as touch her white skin. He'd keep his breeches done up. He wouldn't push his shaking fingers into her; he wouldn't find her wet fire. He was not a man who'd let the basest part of himself rear up in a dark alley. He wouldn't take his own maidservant against a dirty wall. He'd have nothing to do with such foul delight. He wouldn't feel the O of her terrible muscle lock around him as she drew him into the hot black cave at the heart of the night.

Thank the Maker for his infinite mercy,
as Matron Butler used to say, thought Mary. Only the bricks of the wall could see her dirty smile. Mr. Jones held her by the stays; the whalebone creaked as he lunged back and forwards. His heat within her filled her up. She squeezed as tight as she could. If she made it very good for him, would that save her? Might this wild card pay off?

He was hurrying now, no trace of the gentleman about him.

Did the Joneses do this every night, after tying on their linen caps, she wondered, or hardly once a year? Was it a long struggle with his wife, she being no novelty, or a shortcut to pleasure, since
she had to know by now what would work for her husband? Did he move in his wife just the same way as he moved in her maid? Mary thought about this very same piece of flesh entering the privates of her mistress, and a profound shiver ran through her.

Mr. Jones would stagger home tonight still sticky from Mary. He'd stain the marriage bed with their servant's uncouth juices. Would Mrs. Jones emerge from sleep, and recognise that scent? Would the smell of rutting make her want some for herself? Would she spread her sleepy legs and spur her husband on, no matter if he said he was worn out? Would the thought of Mary, her tight-laced flesh bruised against the rough wall of the Crow's Nest, make the man rise again? Would he spend his very last drop in his wife tonight? Would he plant the maid's seed inside the body of the mistress, smearing their juices, mingling their scents together?

Mary stood stock still and a lightning went through her, forking and slicing, every toe, every fingernail, every hair on her head. What in all the seven hells—

Afterwards she gripped the bricks for fear of falling. The world seemed to spin, and nothing was what it had been before.

A little later, she was dimly aware that Mr. Jones had slid out, flooding down her leg. 'Thank you, sir,' said Mary mechanically, dropping her skirts.

She left him with his head against the wall.

Mr. Jones had finally lost his balance. His one leg wobbled; his crutches had fallen in the caked mud. Such a weakness that had come over him; the girl had drained him dry.

He'd never done it standing up before. He'd never done it anywhere but in his bed. He'd never touched a woman who wasn't his wife. Not since the death of his last son had he known such grief.

At breakfast, Mary kept her face blank. No one would know, to look at this girl in her starched neckerchief, that anything had ever
happened to her. Her mind ticked like a watch as she made her calculations. She watched Mr. Jones's hands on his knife and spoon, and remembered how his fingers had closed on the hard sides of her stays. All her triumph and excitement had given way to shame. Neither met the other's eyes. Mary nibbled her toast and tried to remember to breathe. She considered what hold this man had over her, and she over him.

Maybe he'd send his wife an anonymous letter, Seven-Dials style:
Yore mades a hor. You ony have to look at her.
But Mary was quite prepared to burst into tears and confess that the master had been forcing her since the very first night she came to this house. Would that save her? Who would Mrs. Jones believe? Would she trust her beloved Su's daughter over her husband? Maybe she would side with him anyway, not much caring about a dalliance with a servant: men would be men, after all.

Mary could only hope that inside her master, guilt, confusion, and lust had stirred up such a thick soup that he'd say and do nothing at all.

At mid-morning she was embroidering alone in the shop. She had a question about the colour of a thread, and she couldn't find the mistress anywhere, so finally she went upstairs and knocked on the Jones's chamber door.

A sound from behind the wood; like a bird in a trap. Mary knocked again, then pushed the door open.

Mrs. Jones was alone, crouching on the floor. Sweat patched her face. Mary shut the door and leaned against it. Her mistress looked up and made an attempt to speak. Had she found out, was that it? Did she know what her husband and Mary Saunders had done last night? Could she smell betrayal on the air, and was it breaking her heart?

'Are you ill?'

No words.

'Mistress! Shall I fetch Mrs. Ash?'

A violent shake of the head. And then the older woman's face seemed to crack like a bowl, and tears leaked out of every line.

Mary knelt beside her mistress, holding her up. She tried to pull her towards the bed, but Mrs. Jones clung to the ground, her petticoats weighing like tents. 'Blood.' The mistress's narrow wet mouth formed the word again. 'Blood in the pot.'

'Perhaps it's only a little,' said Mary doubtfully, and she reached under Mrs. Jones's skirts to pull the pot out.

Dark blood ran along the floorboards, pooled in a knot of wood. In the overflowing pot, something that wasn't blood. Mary pressed her mistress's face to her own shoulder, not so much to comfort as to blind her. Mrs. Jones began to shake now, her shudderings made no noise.

Oh Christ, had Mary somehow brought this on? Was this the Maker's wrath? But if so, the wrong woman was being punished. In her mind, Mary was back in Ma Slattery's cellar, with Doll gripping her wrists, and the red worm in the basin. At least she'd been glad to be rid of it. But to Mrs. Jones the same swimming shape was more precious than all the gold in creation. Mary crushed the weeping face harder against her collarbone.

Words came up, muffled; she released the woman. All that's over now,' said Mrs. Jones.

'No,' said Mary, and again, faster, 'no. You've time yet, surely.'

'I am forty-three years old,' said Mrs. Jones, her voice flat and formal. 'I have no son to give my husband.' Then she got to her feet with one sickening lurch and picked up the chamber pot.

Mary took it from her, as on any other day; she had to pull a little to make Mrs. Jones's hands release it. She covered it with a cloth. 'I'll come back up with water,' she said. 'For the floor.'

'Very good.'

'Will you go to bed now, madam?'

Mrs. Jones was still hunched over. She wiped her face on her sleeve. 'No, Mary, there's work to be done.'

They turned away from each other, as if embarrassed.

At the door, the girl was stopped by a word.

'Mary?'

She turned her head.

'I'm glad you were here.'

Guilt like a splinter in her heart. The girl's vision blurred with tears. 'Yes.'

'Oh, and Mary. No one needs to know.'

She nodded once, slowly.

As she went downstairs with a cloth over the pot, she felt a curious sensation like fetters around her ankles. She passed Mrs. Ash on the stairs, and had to hold the pot high and casually, as if it contained the usual leavings.

The weather turned cold again in the last week of May, as if the year were reversing itself.

Stiff-faced, Daffy made a note of this unseasonable weather in the back of his coverless
Curiosities of Monmouthshire,
and never looked up from the page if he could help it. Abi wore two extra shawls she'd borrowed from Mary, and huddled into herself. To Mrs. Ash, watching from her upstairs window as she stuffed paper into the cracked frame, the occasional soft flakes of snow seemed another of the plagues sent down to warn sinners. Waste; milk spilling across the landscape.

Mary remembered a big storm from her first winter on the streets, the elms broken down in Hyde Park, the drifts that blotted out doors and windows, that family that starved to death on Bedford Street before they were dug out. And the smell of chestnuts, hot in her hands, as she and Doll thudded along the frozen banks of the Thames.

These days her master and she looked anywhere but at each other. He hadn't told yet, she was sure of that, but it could mean he was busy preparing his story. The mistress would surely have noticed
something was wrong with him except that she herself was a walking ghost. It felt to Mary as if winter were knotting itself around them all again, and wouldn't be shaken off.

On the last evening in May, when Mr. Jones had gone out to his tradesmen's club, Hetta begged for the Queen story. 'But that's a winter tale, my love,' said her mother mechanically.

'It's cold enough for winter, Muda,' objected Hetta, squatting by the fire.

So Mrs. Jones shut her prickling eyes and conjured up the details. 'The Queen of Scots wore a black velvet dress,' she recited as if from her own memory, 'all buttoned up with jet acorns, set with pearl.'

Darning beside her, Mary nodded with professional appreciation.

'Her veil was long,' Mrs. Jones told her listeners, 'and lace-edged like a bride's.' It soothed her to think of it, she found.

'White?' asked the child, from Mrs. Ash's bony knee.

'What else would a bride wear?' Mrs. Jones smiled at her daughter. 'Her shoes were of black Spanish leather, her stockings were clocked with silver, and her garters were green silk.'

'How do you know?' asked Daffy suddenly.

Mrs. Jones stared at her manservant.

'I mean to say,' he explained in some confusion, 'how could—how was it possible for—for anyone to see her garters?'

A snigger from Mary. Mrs. Ash made a choking sound. 'Shouldn't the fellow sit in the kitchen?'

'He means no harm,' said Mrs. Jones.

'Such a question to ask!' hissed the nurse.