whether it was wares, or bloody murder, or the
night-soil cart, or the watch. So many people, all coming and going, all the
time. They did not keep sensible hours, like Christians, but instead came and
went through the day.
The
Bartholomew-baby yelled, suddenly, downstairs, and there was a slam as of a
heavy door and then a thumping of footsteps on the stairs.
"Major
Russell, sir?" Jane Bartholomew's mousy little voice peeped on the
landing. "Major Russell, I have a letter for you, sir. A messenger just
brought it, sir. Could you, please?"
Thomazine leaned
on the windowsill, and said nothing, in a very pointed fashion.
Neither did
Thankful, and she turned round. He'd turned his head a little on the pillow,
and one hand - ink-stained, which reassured her somewhat that his business
affairs were presently, at least, just that - lay limp on his breast, the other
trailing on the boards. He looked like a marble effigy of a knight on a church
memorial, and he was about as likely to wake up as one.
She pulled the
door open, and glared at the little widow. "My husband is sleeping, madam.
He is not to be disturbed."
"I'm
glad," their landlady said, and a nervous little smile came and went about
her lips. "He does work ever so hard. I hope you will- will take care of
him, mistress. I am fond of the major. Could you take the letter, please? It’s
just that if I keep it, Daniel is likely to gnaw on it." She thrust it
into Thomazine's hands - a thin packet, sealed with a blob of expensive
blood-red wax and a signet seal. Her mouth twitched again. "He's teething,
mistress. I daren't leave him with anything ."
And there were still
probably any number of tart retorts to that, but as Thomazine would have been
making them to the back of the widow's sensibly-capped little head as she
scuttled back downstairs to the baby, she did not lower herself to making them.
She set the
letter on the coffer at the end of the bed, where he would be sure to see it
when he woke up.
It would be
dark, soon, and cold. Boots crunched and hissed on the road outside, and she
heard the whimper of a rising wind in the chimney behind the bed-head.
It was not a
night to be alone.
20
It was not a morning to be alone,
either, but she woke up in bed with the rain pelting on the windows and her
husband perched on the end of the bed, humming like an atonal bee, half-dressed
with his letter in his hand.
"Good news?"
she hazarded sleepily, and he wrinkled his nose.
"Not
really, my tibber, but better than no news. It seems the Earl of Birstall is
willing to condescend to receiving our humble company at an informal little
supper this evening."
She stared at
him. "Who, is what?"
"Birstall.
Not ideal, but better than nothing."
"Thankful
-" she was beginning to wonder if she was actually still dreaming,
"Thankful, what on earth are you talking about?"
He grinned, and
tossed her the letter. It still made as little sense to her, but it seemed to
be a genuine letter, although it was signed by someone called Fairmantle, not
Birstall -
"His name is Charles Fairmantle, and he is the Earl of Birstall," Thankful
explained. "And he is an old neighbour at Four Ashes, though not a man I
should care to call an intimate. He is not really a fit person for you to know,
Thomazine, but he is a beginning, and hopefully he will act as an introduction
to slightly more appropriate society."
"What,"
it had all started so well, too. She hadn't seen him look quite so happy in
weeks. Since they'd arrived. And now -"husband, might I enquire, why you
think you have the authority to dictate who I may and may not be acquainted
with? You brought me here -"
" You wanted to come!"
"I wanted
to? I wanted to come and live in a garret upstairs from one of your
cast-off mistresses and eat stale pies for breakfast? I did?"
"Madam,
your temper -"
" My temper," she said, quite calmly. "Mine. You drag me from my family,
to stay in some mouse-haunted attic in a slum, and you accuse me
night-soil cart, or the watch. So many people, all coming and going, all the
time. They did not keep sensible hours, like Christians, but instead came and
went through the day.
The
Bartholomew-baby yelled, suddenly, downstairs, and there was a slam as of a
heavy door and then a thumping of footsteps on the stairs.
"Major
Russell, sir?" Jane Bartholomew's mousy little voice peeped on the
landing. "Major Russell, I have a letter for you, sir. A messenger just
brought it, sir. Could you, please?"
Thomazine leaned
on the windowsill, and said nothing, in a very pointed fashion.
Neither did
Thankful, and she turned round. He'd turned his head a little on the pillow,
and one hand - ink-stained, which reassured her somewhat that his business
affairs were presently, at least, just that - lay limp on his breast, the other
trailing on the boards. He looked like a marble effigy of a knight on a church
memorial, and he was about as likely to wake up as one.
She pulled the
door open, and glared at the little widow. "My husband is sleeping, madam.
He is not to be disturbed."
"I'm
glad," their landlady said, and a nervous little smile came and went about
her lips. "He does work ever so hard. I hope you will- will take care of
him, mistress. I am fond of the major. Could you take the letter, please? It’s
just that if I keep it, Daniel is likely to gnaw on it." She thrust it
into Thomazine's hands - a thin packet, sealed with a blob of expensive
blood-red wax and a signet seal. Her mouth twitched again. "He's teething,
mistress. I daren't leave him with anything ."
And there were still
probably any number of tart retorts to that, but as Thomazine would have been
making them to the back of the widow's sensibly-capped little head as she
scuttled back downstairs to the baby, she did not lower herself to making them.
She set the
letter on the coffer at the end of the bed, where he would be sure to see it
when he woke up.
It would be
dark, soon, and cold. Boots crunched and hissed on the road outside, and she
heard the whimper of a rising wind in the chimney behind the bed-head.
It was not a
night to be alone.
20
It was not a morning to be alone,
either, but she woke up in bed with the rain pelting on the windows and her
husband perched on the end of the bed, humming like an atonal bee, half-dressed
with his letter in his hand.
"Good news?"
she hazarded sleepily, and he wrinkled his nose.
"Not
really, my tibber, but better than no news. It seems the Earl of Birstall is
willing to condescend to receiving our humble company at an informal little
supper this evening."
She stared at
him. "Who, is what?"
"Birstall.
Not ideal, but better than nothing."
"Thankful
-" she was beginning to wonder if she was actually still dreaming,
"Thankful, what on earth are you talking about?"
He grinned, and
tossed her the letter. It still made as little sense to her, but it seemed to
be a genuine letter, although it was signed by someone called Fairmantle, not
Birstall -
"His name is Charles Fairmantle, and he is the Earl of Birstall," Thankful
explained. "And he is an old neighbour at Four Ashes, though not a man I
should care to call an intimate. He is not really a fit person for you to know,
Thomazine, but he is a beginning, and hopefully he will act as an introduction
to slightly more appropriate society."
"What,"
it had all started so well, too. She hadn't seen him look quite so happy in
weeks. Since they'd arrived. And now -"husband, might I enquire, why you
think you have the authority to dictate who I may and may not be acquainted
with? You brought me here -"
" You wanted to come!"
"I wanted
to? I wanted to come and live in a garret upstairs from one of your
cast-off mistresses and eat stale pies for breakfast? I did?"
"Madam,
your temper -"
" My temper," she said, quite calmly. "Mine. You drag me from my family,
to stay in some mouse-haunted attic in a slum, and you accuse me
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