The Imaginary Gentleman (6 page)

Laura tried again. “He is a bold boy, an impudent boy, not afraid of his betters.”

“That be Sassy Tom!” The girl reached for the coin, even as some doubt clouded her eyes again.

Laura held the coin from her reach.

“Where does Tom live?”

“You'll not hurt him?”

“Of course I won't hurt him, child. What a thought!” To what evils had the child been exposed in her short life to make her so suspicious? thought Laura. She said, “Where does he live?”

The girl looked from the coin to Laura's face, and behind her to the door of her hut.

Laura opened her purse and produced another penny.

“You won't tell 'twas me as told thee?”

“Never.”

“He lives there.” Her little finger wavered as she pointed to a shack, put together from the salvaged remains of shipwrecks, a few doors further into the lane. Laura lowered her hand; the child seized the coins and ran back inside the hut, slamming the flimsy door.

In the increasing rain, Laura picked her way across the cobbles, slippery with rain and refuse. Fumbling in her pocket for her handkerchief, she held it to her nose, inhaling its scent in an attempt to combat the fetid odours of the place. She stood before the door, of
crooked driftwood planks. She hesitated only a moment; then raised her hand and knocked.

The door opened a crack, and Laura saw part of a face, topped with tangled hair.

“What do you want with us?” It was a woman's voice, slurred and rough. “Leave us alone!” she hissed, through broken teeth.

“I can help you,” said Laura, “and I believe your son can help me.”

“He's helped you a deal too much. Leave him be.”

“How has he helped me?”

“I don't take to fancy tricks. You done wrong by my boy.”

“I have done nothing to the child. I only wish to ask him what he saw, and whom he saw, five days ago.”

“Ma!” Laura heard, but could not make out the rest of the words. The woman turned and looked over her shoulder. “Stay quiet, Tom. Ya ma'll deal with this.”

There was a shuffling sound, of something dragged across the floor.

“No, Tom!” The harridan turned and Laura took the opportunity to step past her into the dankness of the room. She could see nothing at first but, as her eyes adjusted, she looked around and still could not see him. Then she heard a mumble, almost at her feet. She looked down and sharply drew breath. The urchin, agile and impudent—who had called out to her so saucily a few days before—was dragging himself across the floor, with one leg splinted in rough boards. His once lively face was a lump of bruises, and his right eye closed with swollen flesh.

“What has happened, you poor child?”

She made out his mumbled “Don' let them hurt me, miss.”

“Of course not, Tom. I will fetch my brother who is a ship's captain, as you know, and he will report this matter to the constable.”

The harridan laughed, a horrible empty sound. “Only leave us alone,” she said.

Laura moved to go to the child but winced in the sudden vice of the mother's grubby hand on her arm. “So this was the reason for the little girl's fear of me!” she thought.

The boy mumbled something and now she caught his meaning.

“I know nuffin'.”

Laura tried to wrench her arm free but it was held tight. “Tom, I can help you. Who has done this evil deed?”

His one good eye looked up at her fearfully.

Laura said to the woman, “I shall send the surgeon to attend him.”

“We don't need no surgeon. The bonesetter's already been and left her fee. I'll have to raise it the only way us poor women can.” She leered unpleasantly. “And me a respectable woman. I were married to me old man, not like some along here.”

“Let me help you. You will pay nothing. These bonesetters have no proper training in setting a leg straight.”

For the first time, Laura caught a glimpse of the woman's maternal anxiety; saw that she hesitated, torn between the hope of good care for the child, and an irrational anger … or fear. Laura took out her purse.

The woman slowly nodded.

Laura turned and bent down the better to see Tom's face. “Tell me, child, that windy day, near the Assembly Rooms, you saw me watching the storm come in.” He stared up at her with one wild eye.

“Tell me—the gentleman to whom I spoke—where did he go after he entered the stable yard of the Lion?”

“There weren't no gen'leman.”

“What!” cried Laura.

“You was alone. There never was no gen'leman.”

“Enough!” screeched the mother. “You've had your fill of our troubles now.”

Laura was holding the coins from her purse in her hand, and felt them snatched away. She was roughly pushed out into the lane, into the rising gale.

The harpy cried, over the howling of the wind, “The whole town knows thee for barmy!”

She slammed the door.

Laura stood a moment, in the pouring rain, confused by too many feelings. To be insulted again, and by such a low slattern, outraged her. Yet that sensation was overpowered by the horror of everything she had heard and seen. It was ridiculous for that dreadful woman to imagine that a lady such as herself had a hand in so horrible a deed. She became aware of the rain penetrating her cloak, and looked along the lane darkened by the ever-massing clouds. Doors that were open a crack began to close.

Laura ran as quickly as she might and, above the moan of the wind, heard another sound, a pebble falling. Spinning to look behind her, she almost slipped to the ground. A small smooth stone had landed on the cobbles. Laura looked around, saw no one, and raced along the lane. With relief she turned into the bottom of Broad Street but another stone, the length of her thumb, landed a yard or two ahead of her.

Laura saw that the sea was boiling up even within the harbour, then a third stone was whipped up from the beach, carried on the powerful wind and flung at a cottage ahead of her. It banged against the closed shutters and slid onto the ground. Grateful for her sturdy boots, she hurried up Broad Street towards the inn, her head down against the rain and wind. She gasped as a stone struck her back. Two doors from the inn, she saw Edward coming towards her, his stick skidding on the wet road. He almost fell and she caught his arm, pulling him up. His stick fell on the ground, and, as she bent to retrieve it, a stone struck her cheek. Together, they fled the stoning of the sea until they gained, at last, the door of the inn.

 

At the entrance to their rooms, in the lantern light of the passage, they discovered Sarah waiting, twisting her hands in anxiety. She followed them as they went into the sitting room.

When Elspeth saw Laura bruised, yet safe, her terror for her sister's life was overcome by anger. “How could you have done such a wild thing as to go out in this storm?”

Ignoring her, Laura spoke to Edward. “I discovered that boy—he has been cruelly beaten.”

Elspeth moaned aloud. “You visited the lowest part of the town! You called at so evil a place?”

“Elspeth, that
evil place
is home to some hundred or more wretches. They needs must go there daily.”

“My sister need not! I do not recognise you, Laura—you seem crazed to me.”

Laura held in her anger, while Sarah helped her to remove her sodden cloak and bonnet. The girl took the captain's cloak and hat and took the wet clothes from the room.

“Will you only listen to me, Edward?” said Laura, unbuttoning her coat.

Her sister turned away in disgust, but Edward seemed ready to hear her. Laura gave him a brief summary of her horrible and puzzling discoveries, while he looked at her with growing impatience. At the end of her recital, there was a moment's silence.

“Your sister is right, Laura. These doings can be nothing to you.”

Laura turned, her wet skirts clinging to her, and went off to her room. Edward sank heavily into a chair.

“I am happy to see you take a firm stand, Edward,” said Elspeth, picking out a sweetmeat from a dainty box beside her.

Edward looked at her, a frown creasing his high forehead. Her marriage had altered her beyond belief, he thought. Where was that strong affection she always showed to Laura in earlier days? He had feared a different outcome from her marriage—that disappointment and tedium would sour her charm. But no, she had refined her manner, while hardening her heart. He pitied her second husband, for there would no doubt be one as soon as she was out of mourning.

“How gloomy you look!” said Elspeth. “You used not to be so readily cast down.” If only Charlotte had not abandoned him, she thought, Laura would now be passing most of her time at Edward's house.

Edward sighed. “It seems so hard on Laura.”

“We women, you know, must take what comes our way. We are condemned if we pursue what we desire. Laura knew this. Yet pursue she did, and others judge her for it.” Elspeth took a bite of her sweet.

“I am sorry for her,” said Edward.

“I would more easily sympathise if her conduct did not reflect upon her family.”

“Where is your heart, Elspeth?”

This provoked the tearful response that he knew it must, and would do nothing for her.

 

Sarah followed Laura to her room, helping her into a nightgown and placing a warmed brick in her bed. Laura watched as the girl knelt to build up the fire; then heard a sniff.

“What is it, Sarah?”

The girl did not turn, only said, “Oh, miss … you give us such a fright!”

“I am very sorry for it. But, Sarah, I do not regret going out.” The girl turned to her in surprise. Laura continued, “I have discovered a terrible crime has been committed. An innocent young boy has been unjustly beaten.”

“That need not concern you, miss. Such folk don' know how to live respectable.”

“No one has taught them how to conduct themselves, Sarah. They are not to be blamed.”

“The half-witted boy from the stable followed you to the alley, then came and told the captain.” Sarah rose from the fireplace and handed Laura a cup of hot chocolate. “Them places is full of danger. I thought I'd never see you more.” Sarah burst into a flood of tears.

Laura patted Sarah's shoulder, sparing what little comfort she had left within.

She dined alone in her bed; then sent for her brother. She noticed at once his sense of unease, an awkwardness that had never been between them before. She patted the bed beside her, but he drew up a chair.

Laura said, “Edward, please speak to the parish constable and alert him to this attack.”

A twinge of impatience crossed his face. “The last thing I wish is to involve more of the townsfolk here in our business.”

“What harm can it do to tell him what you have heard?” She looked at him as he hesitated.

“I will think about this.”

“Nay, Edward, pray do it. Also, I wish a surgeon to attend Tom. His leg is splinted with some old boards tied on with filthy rags! I doubt it is even straight.”

“The boy's fate is not connected to yours, Laura.”

“You used not to care so little for the powerless in our world!”

This hit home, as she knew it would. He sighed. “Do not think that I care not—but what can one do? These people live with a lack of regard for standards that are unquestioned in your world, Sister.”

“I will find a way to aid this child, whether you help me or no.”

“Very well, then. Let me think it over. Good night, Laura.” He bent down, kissed her cheek and turned to the door.

To his broad back she said, “Do not take Elspeth's part against me!”

He turned around. “There is no question of taking parts. We are all as one.”

“You heard her, Edward. I acted in desperation, not madness!”

“Our sister delights in dramatic language, as you know. She will be calmer in the morning.” He stood again by the bed.

“Edward, you never doubted my judgement as you do now.”

He gave a half-laugh, affectionate and comforting, or so he hoped.

“Of course I do not think of you as Elspeth spoke. How could you think this?” He patted her shoulder, in unconscious imitation of her own action with her maid. “Elspeth spoke in anger. Yet, I cannot lie to you, Laura; I do doubt your judgement just now.”

She felt more than shock, for a lonely desolate feeling filled her. If she lost his trust, then that particular friendship she had long had with him was gone with it.

“Edward …” She could not speak, her throat filled with tears. He kissed her cheek with a kindness she could hardly bear. Briskly, he said, “This is a momentary difficulty and will pass when we leave this
place and immerse ourselves in the comfortable and familiar world of Oakmont.”

He rose and smiled, adopting an air of forced jauntiness that only emphasised her aloneness.

“Try to sleep, my dear Laura. You will feel very differently tomorrow.”

He left the room.

Aching in her limbs as much as her heart, Laura crept down under the covers. Moments later, she heard the door being opened with exaggerated care, and the hissing of Elspeth's silk gown as it slipped across the floor.

“Darling Laura!” she whispered. Laura kept her eyes closed, breathing quietly and slowly.

Laura listened as her sister tiptoed out and let out her breath in relief as the door closed. She started up at the sound of the key turning in the lock.

C
APTAIN
M
ORRISON SAT BY THE
fire, thinking over his promise to aid young Tom. To involve the parish constable was out of the question, he thought. What could he gain by involving others, spreading knowledge of the whole affair? The brutal treatment of such a boy—plainly a stranger to respectable conduct—could have no connection with a lady such as Laura. He stared into the flames. Never could he have predicted such irregular behaviour in his sister.

“It was a mistake to come to this small place,” said Elspeth. “It is so dull just now.”

“What!” he said. “How does the season influence matters?”

“If there were visitors of my own standing, I may have been able to rally myself, and Laura would not have gone out alone.”

“You stayed indoors because the society out of doors did not tempt you?”

“I did have a cold, Edward. I don't ask for so much—a private party, an elegant little dinner—suitable entertainments for a lady in my situation. My health collapses when my spirits fall.”

“Let us be thankful you are faced by no greater trials, then.”

Elspeth did not reply.

Edward thought of Tom again—he would consult a medical man to assist the boy as an act of charity. Before dinner, Edward sent his servant to find the surgeon, requesting that they meet as early as may be.

 

Before breakfast the next day, the captain met the local surgeon, Mr. Deare, in a small sitting room on the ground floor of the inn. He saw at once that here was a practical man, on whom he could rely to deal with the facts unadorned with superfluous niceties. Wasting no time, Edward told a simplified tale of events concerning the lad.

“A lady of my acquaintance encountered a young fisher-lad in the course of her walks. His name in the town, it appears, is ‘Sassy Tom'.”

The surgeon laughed, saying, “Did he convince the lady that she must rescue him from some disaster?”

“Why, yes!” said Edward. “She became so concerned for the boy that she went into Fish Alley to find him.”

The surgeon shook his head. “That part of the town is no place for a lady.”

“The lady has passed her life almost entirely in country villages, where the cottagers regard her with great respect.”

Surgeon Deare shook his head and tutted. “Some of the fisher folk are a different case altogether.”

“Indeed. She discovered that the young lad has been most severely beaten.”

Edward saw how Deare all but groaned as he said, “'Tis not the first time that young Tom's impudence earned him a thrashing.”

“But his leg was broken and one eye all but put out.”

“That seems severe, sir. What story did he give the lady of the attack?”

“She heard nothing that made any sense.”

“She'd hear nothing but a pack of lies from that quarter. No doubt there was some ploy to get the lady to empty her purse,” said the surgeon.

“Indeed.”

“She'll not see the money again, sir. I imagine it's already gone on gin.”

“The lady is concerned only that the boy's livelihood is ruined,” said Edward.

“Until Tom learns to guard his tongue, he will always run into strife,” said the surgeon.

“Is it too much to ask, sir, that you set the boy's leg properly, and clean his eye?”

“It is not my usual practice to attend upon a resident in Fish Alley, but if it would put a lady's mind at rest …”

“I will, of course, compensate you for this inconvenience,” said the captain.

“Please assure the lady that I will do what I can. Do you wish to receive a report on the case?”

“I do not like to waste your time, but reassurance of Tom's condition would be agreeable, I imagine.”

Mr. Deare accepted the captain's direction and a generous fee in advance. He donned his cape, saying, “I must away, sir, for I am on foot. The road is impassable to horses at the moment.”

“I noticed stones flying about in the storm last night.”

“On rare occasions, the wind swings violently about, and pieces of shale and small stones are thrown up into the town. The street will soon be cleared.”

 

In the first light that penetrated the gap between the heavy bed-curtains, Laura had awoken. For a moment she lay still, her eyes half open, and her life seemed as it had always been. It was the memory of a sound that returned to her, before its meaning—the grating of the key. She had been a prisoner while she passed the night in deep, dreamless sleep. Laura leapt out of bed and ran across the cold floor in bare feet. The handle turned in her grasp but the door did not budge. It was still locked.

There was no bell to the servants' quarters in her room, so she knocked, but there came no answer. She knocked louder, calling Sarah's name, then Elspeth's, to no avail. Laura wondered where her brother could be, for he was an early riser. His room was independent of theirs, opening directly onto the passage outside, so that he would not hear her unless he came into the sitting room. Elspeth's room was further into their apartments and she never rose so early as this. Laura realised that, until someone was up and about in the sitting room, she could go nowhere. She placed her hands against the door, leant her head there and felt the utmost rage at her sister's temerity, wondering if her brother knew that she was imprisoned.

As she leant on the door, Laura became aware of the sound of activity in the street. Shivering now, she donned the warm wrap that lay across the chair and went to the window, whence she could see over the wall of the courtyard and into the street. Keeping back from view, she looked down at the people picking up the stones from the road. There were so many small sea pebbles, flung up even to the
front of the inn, that the street was impassable, for horses would slip upon them. She could not help feeling a certain satisfaction that her brother's plan of leaving very early was foiled.

Amongst the workers, Laura recognised a little girl in a grubby frock as the one she had seen in the alley; she was putting the little stones one by one into a basket. A baby crawled over to her and began to lift out the pebbles, licking them, then throwing them about, until the other child—she must have been all of four years—slapped him. He began to howl and the little girl, his sister no doubt, hoisted him up out of the way and dumped him on the pavement, where he sat unheeded. Another child took the opportunity to snatch a handful of stones from her basket, but the little vixen flew at him with her finger nails and he dropped them back. When her basket was full, she was given a coin by a workman who tumbled her stones into his barrow. She turned at once and began collecting again.

There was no sign of Tom's mother. Laura wondered if she was down on the shore where the harvest should be rich after the storm. Poor as the fisher-woman was, she could not afford to sacrifice her share of the pickings. Perhaps Tom, too, was a prisoner, cowering alone and wounded in that dark cell of a room.

A man emerged from the door of the inn below, and, forgetting to conceal herself, Laura leant a little forward to catch a better view. A burst of laughter reached her and she saw a couple of urchins pointing up at her. Dropping the curtain she had pulled back, she hastily withdrew from the window.

Laura decided to fill the interval before Sarah came to her by writing up the events of the day before in her journal. She unlocked her little cedar-wood desk, and drew out the book.

After she had set down the humiliations of the day, Laura began to ponder the difficult situation she faced with her sister. She was now
Elspeth's prisoner, to be kept under lock and key, a lunatic who might go nowhere. This would be bitter enough in itself without all that her sister owed her. For Elspeth had been, in effect, raised by Laura, herself a child of eight years when their mother died. Laura had stood in the place of mother to Elspeth, bestowing all the frustrated affection of a motherless child upon her infant sister.

Within a few days of their mother's death, their father's sister had come to keep house at the parsonage. Their father, punctilious enough in discharging the responsibilities of his parish, had never involved himself much with his children. Now, in grief, he separated himself still more from them. Aunt Morrison had briskly rearranged the household responsibilities, and baby Elspeth's physical care was passed to a nurse. Yet she remained Laura's lot to amuse and comfort.

Elspeth was my charge, my pleasure, my doll, thought Laura. She was swept into a hidden, scarcely visited place in her memories. Inwardly, she crouched again in the scented darkness of her mother's closet, her face against the silkiness of her mother's best gown, little Elspeth tightly enclosed in her arms: rocking, rocking, rocking …

A knock and the sound of the key in the lock brought her into the present. Hastily, she locked her journal in her desk.

Sarah was come at last, with a jug of hot water.

Laura washed and dressed for travel, preparing to make Elspeth regret her action of the previous evening.

She entered the dining parlour, to find her brother awaiting her.

“Laura, I have appointed a surgeon to take over Tom's case,” he said.

“Thank you, Edward. What says he of Tom's story?”

“He seems an honest man and promises to do what he can for the boy.”

“And the attackers go free?”

“Mr. Deare believes there is small chance of discovering the truth in the case, and he is a local man.”

With this, Laura had to be satisfied.

The servant opened the door to admit Elspeth, and Laura gave her a cold look.

Elspeth motioned for the servant to leave them. “Laura, my darling! I have scarcely slept all night. Can you forgive me?” She stood by Laura's chair, draping her arm across her sister's shoulders.

“Do you think I am so easily put off, Elspeth?”

“Of course, you are cross. I knew it would be so.” Elspeth took Laura's hands and raised one to her cheek.

Laura pulled her hands away. “How do you dare to treat me so ill, Elspeth?”

Elspeth dabbed at her eyes with her lace handkerchief. “I had to keep those evil creatures away from my sister, who is too kind to them!”

“I cannot forgive you, Elspeth.”

Elspeth turned up her pretty little hands and looked helpless. “What can I say but that I am sorry?”

Edward interrupted. “Enough, Laura! Can you not forgive your sister, after the anxiety to which she was subjected?”

Laura felt chilled to the bone. Her voice a low whisper, she said, “You knew!”

He nodded.

“And you did not release me.”

“To what end?”

He has clearly no trust left in me at all, she thought.

“Do not make so much of it, Laura. Come, let us eat,” said Edward. “The road is cleared, and the carriage awaits us.”

 

The ladies were veiled as their party went along the stone passageway towards the stairs. This brought them past the Gurdons' rooms, where, by chance, Mr. Gurdon stood looking back into his open doorway, so that he did not observe them at first. They saw that Mrs. Gurdon was being assisted to leave the room by her grandsons. She made very slow progress and, as she was dressed in a loose morning gown and a shawl, it appeared that she was merely coming out into the passageway for a few moments of fresh air.

Laura raised her veil and saw at once that the old lady recognised her, moving her lips as if trying to speak. Mr. Gurdon looked over his
shoulder and saw Laura; his brows drew together, the corners of his mouth turned down in a scowl of disapprobation. He moved to block her view of his wife, but Laura briefly saw that the expression in her eyes was one of compassion.

Elspeth sniffed. “Pray do not dawdle, my dear,” she said loudly. “There is no one here of whom we need take account.”

“Mrs. Gurdon,” cried Laura. “I must speak with you.” She felt a hand firmly grasping her arm and saw that her sister's footman had done it.

“How dare you! Leave go of me,” she said. On a signal from the captain, his own servant took Laura's other arm and she was propelled away, looking over her shoulder at the old lady, seeing pity in those faded eyes.

Unable to speak for outrage, Laura was hustled down the stone stairway, across the courtyard to the street door. There, Elspeth reached up and pulled down her sister's veil. The servants let go of her arms and Elspeth took hold instead as they left the inn. Through the carriage window, Laura looked out to see various bystanders staring at her, with covert sneers and even a little laughter. She was thankful for her veil, which meant she needed give no thought to disguising her feelings. These outrages to her dignity brought on emotions strong enough to overwhelm her—a sense of injustice and shame.

Edward stood beside the coach, sternly surveying the street until, one by one, the folk standing about looked at their feet and doffed their caps. He gave the street a sweeping glare of contempt and allowed his valet to assist him into the carriage. The footman jumped up behind and Edward banged the roof with his stick. “Drive on!” he called, and the carriage moved off. The captain, facing backwards as they travelled, was afforded a good view of the idlers in the road, shuffling with the disappointment of being robbed of their amusement.

The carriage began to climb up out of the town.

“That I should suffer such degradation!” began Elspeth.

“
Your
degradation!” cried Laura. “I have been submitted to
indignity that would outrage all decent-feeling people. You have instructed menservants to constrain and bully me down those stairs.”

“You were determined to continue …”

“I may never have the chance to speak to her again.”

“That would be as well. Meanwhile, I will keep you to some semblance of delicate behaviour,” said Elspeth.