Читать книгу An Almond for a Parrot: the gripping and decadent historical page turner - Wray Delaney, Wray Delaney - Страница 11

Chapter Five

The general view of stepmothers is that they are cruel, with only one intention: to promote their children over and above their husbands’ hated offspring. This turned out to be far from true in my case. If it wasn’t for the arrival of my stepmother I dread to think what would have become of me.

When on the day of the marriage I fell down the stairs and passed out, it seemed to be for only a matter of moments.

I couldn’t have been more mistaken, for I woke to find myself neatly tucked up in bed on soft pillows that I never knew we owned, in a room with furniture I had never seen before. I couldn’t think how I came to be there in a fine cotton nightgown with lace at its edges. Such wanton luxury made me wonder if I had died and was in heaven, for there seemed no other rational explanation for these radical changes. Alas, that lofty thought lasted less than a minute. There was a clatter outside, the door flew open and there was Cook, carrying a tray.

‘So your ladyship is awake at last,’ she said, coming in with all the grace of an overfed turkey.

‘Where am I?’ I asked.

‘Where you have been since the day you were born – in your father’s house in Milk Street.’

Unless my eyes were playing tricks with me, I would swear that Cook looked cleaner. She was wearing a white linen apron and there wasn’t the usual smell of rancid fat about her.

I was muddled and was on the point of questioning her when the strikingly elegant woman who I remembered seeing in the hall came into the room.

‘That will be all, Martha,’ she said, dismissing Cook.

Martha. It was shocking to learn that Cook had a name, for as long as I had known her, she had been just plain Cook.

Cook dropped a curtsey, which my father had never had the luxury of receiving, and left as a gentleman in a purple velvet coat with a sprig of lavender in his lapel entered the chamber.

‘This is Doctor Ross, Miss Truegood,’ said the elegant lady. ‘It is due to his good care that you are still with us.’

Doctor Ross had a face that could reassure the dying that they had a lifetime to live. He smiled, gently took hold of my wrist and leaned towards me, his breath smelled vaguely of mint. He looked into my eyes, felt my forehead and pronounced that the fever had passed and I would live.

Had the world fallen on its head and got up the wrong way? This was all a fuss about nothing. Before I could be stopped I climbed out of bed only to realise my mistake for my legs were not quite as determined as my will to stand upright.

The doctor smiled again, caught hold of me and helped me back into bed.

‘You are lucky that nothing was broken,’ said the elegant lady, who I assumed must be the new Mrs Truegood.

‘Why should anything be broken?’ I asked.

‘Because you fell down the stairs and had a fit.’

‘Then I must have ruined your wedding breakfast. I am so sorry, madam. It has never happened before and it will never happen again.’

She laughed. ‘We all hope it will never happen again, my dear. But far from ruining the wedding feast you saved us from eating a rotten fowl that no amount of butter in the world could disguise as being edible. If you had to choose a day to have a fit, why, you couldn’t have chosen a better.’

None of this made any sense at all.

‘How long have I been here?’ I asked.

‘Ten very worrisome days.’

‘What was my ailment?’

‘A brain fever,’ replied Dr Ross.

Mrs Truegood propped me up on the pillows and, as foolish as it was, I burst into tears, for never could I remember such care being taken of me, even if anyone had thought I might need it.

She leaned forward and said softly, ‘Things will change for the better, Tully. I may call you Tully?’

Muddled was altogether too gentle a word to describe my feelings at that moment. I was completely befuddled. All that had been before was swept away. Was it possible that this was the new order of things?

Dr Ross’s prescription was bed rest. I lay half sleeping and half dreaming of the gentleman’s visit and my mind having nothing else to occupy it I began to wonder what lay in a grown man’s breeches and how that joined together with my small mound. In fact, I could hardly think of anything else. The memory of the way his fingers had touched my skin sent a delicious tingle right through me. I tried to think what a plug tail might look like when it belonged to a man and such was my imagination that I found my body would readily ignite and I had no idea how to put out such a persistent flame. I grew fearful that I might still indeed have a fever.

The only release from these worrying thoughts was the company of my two new stepsisters who took it in turns to keep me entertained, and I began looking forward to their daily visits.

Never had two sisters been more different in character and looks. Though they claimed to be around my age, they were much more sophisticated and worldly than I. Hope had eyes that giggled into life and the most infectious laugh. She knew just how to dress her curvaceous figure to the best effect, wearing her corset tight so that her breasts sat engagingly high and, surrounded by Belgian lace, were shown off to their best advantage. A dainty dish that I thought a fine gentleman might relish. She had the skin of a fresh peach and only on close inspection could you see that her face was painted and any blemish hidden behind moon and star-shaped beauty spots.

She would come after breakfast and tell me the changes that had been brought about while I had been lost in the world of sleep. At first I thought there could be no other reason for her visits but to find entertainment in my ignorance, for she knew so much of the world and the ways of society. She read to me from newspaper gossip columns about balls and assemblies, Ranelagh Gardens and the opera. But once she realised I knew nothing about such things she settled for more domestic topics.

‘Queenie has had the blue room papered with birds of the wildest imaginings.’

‘Queenie?’ I said. ‘Who is she?’

‘Oh, I mean Mama – it’s our affectionate name for her,’ said Hope. ‘All the old drapes are taken down.’

‘Did Cook do that?’ I asked.

‘Cook!’ The very idea made her burst into fits of laughter. ‘Can you see her balancing on a ladder? No – fortunately, our servants came with us. My dear, what a state the whole house was in. I do believe Mama has taken Mr Truegood by the ankles and shaken him into action.’

The idea that anyone – let alone a woman – might have that power was an intoxicating thought.

‘Mama insists that Martha’s time could be better spent than seated beside the fire turning the spit. Yesterday a wheel and pulley was put up and a turnspit dog purchased just for that purpose.’

‘Oh my word,’ I said, ‘what magic.’

‘No,’ said Hope, ‘it’s what all sensible kitchens have.’

It took me a little while to trust Hope. I waited, wondering if she would turn on me once finding a weakness, and use it for cat and mouse games. In that I did her much wrong, for I can honestly say that Hope hasn’t a mean bone in her body.

I once asked her if there was anyone she didn’t like, and she said, ‘Tully, if you don’t like someone, stand out of their way and let them pass.’

Hope had wisdom and, as I discovered later, was furiously loyal. She never wasted her words on false promises, but I did not know that when she told me that the dressmaker was to call. I could hardly believe it for I had only ever worn second-hand clothes that Cook bought for me in Long Lane market. I had mended my stockings and my shift so many times that they were only good for rags. The very notion of having a dress made for me was too giddying for words. After all, clothes cost money – and that was one thing my father was loath to part with when it came to me.

‘Then, when you are completely recovered, you will come out with us in the carriage,’ Hope continued. ‘The doctor said that it was the lack of fresh air that brought on your fit.’

I secretly thought it had a lot more to do with the gentleman visitor.

Mercy, unlike Hope, had a boyish figure and was taller than her sister. She could not be described as beautiful, more handsome, her face had an altogether sterner profile and at first I thought that perhaps she hadn’t taken to me, or saw me as a foolish, fluff-headed girl. She never said as much as Hope and sat quietly studying me. But by degrees I began to realise that Mercy’s soul ran deep and when she spoke it was very rarely of ribbons and tittle-tattle. She would read to me, and that’s what I looked forward to the most, for the story she read was about a woman who against the odds survived on her wit and a knowledge of just what took a gentleman’s fancy. I couldn’t imagine that the gentleman visitor would have left Moll in the blue chamber.

By late April, spring had taken hold; birdsong filled the morning and a golden light the afternoon. The dressmaker had indeed come and, under Hope’s guidance, I was fitted with new bodices and petticoats and a round gown. It had sleeves of about three-quarter length with lace flounces at their ends, the fabric stiff and embroidered with small flowers. My bosom sat high, pushed up by the tightness of the stomacher, and Hope made sure that the kerchief designed to go round my neck for decency showed as much of my assets as modesty would allow.

The first time I wore my new gown, Hope dressed me. I still felt surprisingly weak, but was pleased finally to be in an upright position, helped in no small part by the tightness of the bodice and the stiffness of the petticoats and fabric. At least it anchored me to the ground. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as Hope pinned up my hair under a lace cap.

It was that afternoon that Mrs Truegood asked to see me in her chamber. The fact that the house now had servants and that doors were opened and closed and visitors ushered in and out without fuss made me feel vulnerable. I had little confidence that my new clothes would save me. Perhaps they were no more than wrapping paper for a parcel, a sweetener before being sent to another house.

I found my stepmother sitting at her dressing table and was much taken with the alteration of the room, for although the skirting was still blue, the walls had undergone a transformation and were filled with birds of paradise sitting on impossibly thin branches of trees. Above the windows, which before had only had the luxury of shutters, there was now a confectionery of fabric. The furniture was no longer oppressive but light and spindly, crafted no doubt by fairies. Before I could think of the right words to describe how pleasant the room now seemed, Mrs Truegood told me to stand in the light. My fears returned.

‘Please, madam, don’t send me away,’ I said. I felt tears pricking my eyes.

‘Why would I do that?’ she asked.

It was only then that I realised there was another person in the chamber, a sombre-looking gentleman, all in black, wearing a full-bottom wig. His face resembled a pig’s bladder, inflated and ill defined. Only his nose stood out, heavy and bloated with wine. The tip of his pink tongue flicked across his lips as he studied me.

‘This, Mr Quibble,’ said Mrs Truegood, ‘is Miss Truegood, my stepdaughter.’

‘Are you sure, madam, that this is the girl – there has been no mistake?’

‘Quite sure, sir.’

‘What is her age?’

‘She has sixteen summers, sir.’

‘Why does the gentleman ask about me?’ I whispered to Mrs Truegood.

Mr Quibble cleared his throat. ‘I am a lawyer representing a gentleman of means who has asked me to make enquiries about Miss Truegood’s eligibility.’

My heart took a leap. The fates must be on my side. They must be, for they had brought forth the gentleman from the blue chamber. Who else could possibly have any interest in me? I blushed to remember that he had seen me in my birthday suit and hoped that he had not told Mr Quibble about our indecent meeting. The lawyer walked round me then went to the far side of the chamber and squinted at me as I had seen my father do in front of a painting.

‘Can you dance?’ he asked.

‘No, sir.’

‘Have you had any education in etiquette at all?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Can you read and write?’

‘A little, sir. Not much.’

He thought for a long while and then said, ‘Hmm. She has an interesting face,’ as if this wasn’t quite what he was searching for. ‘Pretty it is not.’

‘I agree,’ said Mrs Truegood. ‘But I believe she may have something more than just the passing cloud of youth. I think she may have beauty. As I am sure you are aware, Mr Quibble, I have only recently married and I find my husband has somewhat neglected his daughter.’

‘So she has no education?’

‘A little.’

These two seemed to be playing a game of tennis and I the ball. Mr Quibble’s tongue flicked across his top lip again.

Mr Quibble stood and, by the buttoning of his coat, disciplined his ungainly shape.

‘In her present state,’ he said, ‘she is far from suitable and needs to be brought on quite considerably.’

‘It can be done, Mr Quibble,’ said my stepmother. ‘She is a bright girl and has a compliant nature.’

He gave a quick bow and left.

Mrs Truegood took my hands and pulled me down beside her.

‘Tully,’ she said, ‘on the day of the wedding, a gentleman called at the house. Do you remember?’

How did she know about the gentleman? Did I say something unguarded in my fever?

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I remember but I don’t know who he was. He didn’t leave a name.’

‘Did anything happen, Tully, when he was here?’

‘No, nothing,’ I lied, not knowing the lanes and alleys by which such a lie is lost. I feared I had given myself away for my cheeks had gone to fire.

‘Come now,’ said Mrs Truegood. ‘Did he make any proposals to you? He took no advantage of finding you here alone?’

My silence was an insufficient answer.

‘Tully, I am asking if you are still a virgin.’