Fingersmith by Sarah Waters

short, disbelieving sort of laugh. ‘You are joking,’ she said. ‘You don’t mean, you cannot read? Not really? Not a word, not a letter?’ Her smile became a frown. There was, beside her, a little table with a book upon it. Still half smiling, half frowning, she took the book up and handed it to me. ‘Go on,’ she said kindly. ‘I think you are being modest. Read me any part, I shan’t mind if you stumble.’
    I held the book, saying nothing; but beginning to sweat. I opened it and looked at a page. It was full of a close black print. I tried another. That one was worse. I felt Maud’s gaze, like a flame against my hot face. I felt the silence. My face grew hotter. Take a chance, I thought.
    ‘ Our Father, ’ I tried, ‘ which art in heaven —’
    But then, I forgot the rest. I closed the book, and bit my lip, and looked at the floor. I thought, very bitterly, ‘Well, here will all our scheming end. She won’t want a maid that can’t read her a book, or write fancy letters in a curling hand!’ I lifted my eyes to hers and said,
    ‘I might be taught it, miss. I am that willing. I’m sure I could learn, in half a wink—’
    But she was shaking her head, and the look on her face was something.
    ‘Be taught?’ she said, coming close and gently taking back the book. ‘Oh, no! No, no, I shouldn’t allow it. Not read! Ah, Susan, were you to live in this house, as the niece of my uncle, you should know what that meant. You should know, indeed!’
    She smiled. And while she still held my gaze, still smiling, there came the slow and heavy tolling of the great house-bell, eight times; and then her smile fell.
    ‘Now,’ she said, turning away, ‘I must go to Mr Lilly; and when the clock strikes one I shall be free again.’
    She said that—sounding, I thought, just like a girl in a story. Aren’t there stories, with girls with magic uncles—wizards, beasts, and whatnots? She said,
    ‘Come to me, Susan, at my uncle’s chamber, at one.’
    ‘I will, miss,’ I said.
    She was looking about her, now, in a distracted kind of way. There was a glass above the fire and she went to it, and put her gloved hands to her face, and then to her collar. I watched her lean. Her short gown lifted at the back and showed her calves.
    She caught my eye in the glass. I made another curtsey.
    ‘Shall I go, miss?’ I said.
    She stepped back. ‘Stay,’ she said, waving her hand, ‘and put my rooms in order, will you?’
    She went to the door. At the handle, however, she stopped. She said,
    ‘I hope you will be happy here, Susan.’ Now she was blushing again. My own cheek cooled, when I saw that. ‘I hope your aunt, in London, will not miss you too greatly. It was an aunt, I think, that Mr Rivers mentioned?’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I hope you found Mr Rivers quite well, when you saw him?’
    She let the question fall, like it was nothing to her; and I knew confidence men who did the same, dropping one good shilling among a pile of snide, to make all the coins seem honest. As if she gave a fig, for me and my old aunty!
    I said, ‘He was very well, miss. And sent his compliments.’
    She had opened the door now, and half-hid herself behind it. ‘Did he truly?’ she said.
    ‘Truly, miss.’
    She put her brow against the wood. ‘I think he is kind,’ she said softly.
    I remembered him squatting at the side of that kitchen chair, his hand reaching high beneath the layers of petticoat, saying, You sweet bitch.
    ‘I’m sure he’s very kind, miss,’ I said.
    Then, from somewhere in the house there came the quick, peevish tinkling of a little hand-bell, and, ‘There’s Uncle!’ she cried, gazing over her shoulder. She turned and ran, leaving the door half-closed. I heard the slap of her slippers and the creaking of the stairs as she went down.
    I waited a second, then stepped to the door, put my foot to it, and kicked it shut. I went to the fire and warmed my hands. I do not think I had been quite warm since