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Chapter Twelve

If I possessed any skill with a pencil I would draw you a picture of the mansion in Lincoln’s Inn Square but instead you will have to content yourself with my words and, there being more words than colours to be found in a paintbox, I have riches indeed to play with.

It was a grand house with tall windows on the ground and first floors. Two columns framed the portico and another two embraced the front door, over which was set a half-moon fanlight. If you believe as I do that houses have their own personalities then this one by design stood alone, independent of its neighbours which looked on decidedly envious. If that didn’t mark it out as different, its gated drive did, as did the lights that shone from every window.

‘My lady,’ said Mercy, taking my hand and leading me into a marbled hall.

It was layered with plaster dust. A small forest of ladders leaned against the walls and the rolling staircase was swathed in dust sheets. Even the chandelier had a huge fabric bag covering it and the whole place smelled of paint. I wasn’t sure if the interior was being put together or pulled down for everything was in such a pickle.

‘Who lives here?’ I asked, pulling back, not knowing where Mercy had brought me.

‘I do,’ said Mercy.

I was completely flummoxed.

From upstairs appeared a footman. It was impossible to tell whether his wig was powdered or thick with dust.

‘What will they think of me?’ I asked, as he came down towards us. ‘I am stark naked under your coat.’

‘You look beautiful. And it matters little what anyone thinks – there is no need for modesty here.’

I longed to ask her what she meant but Mercy left me after the footman had shown me to a drawing room that opened on to a fanfare of well-proportioned rooms. Like the hall they were mainly covered in dust sheets, and a scaffolding of wood rose to a platform near the ceiling which was half painted. I craned my neck to look up and realised that in part it depicted deliciously wanton women, their lovers still only in sketch form, winged creatures who possessed majestic machinery larger by far than those to be found in the dancing master’s book. The whole thing spoke of yearning and the want of satisfaction.

I was so taken up with all that I’d seen that it was several minutes before I caught sight of myself reflected back at me. In the mirror that hung over the fireplace was a most indecent young lady. Quickly, I buttoned up Mercy’s coat so that at least I appeared to possess a modicum of propriety. I had wiped the dust off the mirror and was making a hopeless attempt to coax my hair into better shape when I saw her.

‘Feathers and dust!’ I said aloud.

The sight of her sent a shiver through me. Pretty Poppet looked anything but pretty.

‘What are you doing here? Who let you in?’ I said, sure she shouldn’t be there.

Before Pretty Poppet could reply, Mrs Truegood entered the room. She was dressed in a low-cut gown and I was astonished to see her so little concerned with modesty. On her cheek she wore a crescent moon and a star was painted above her eyebrow. The effect of her paint and patches – in fact the effect of her whole bearing – had more to do with Lady Midnight than the respectable merchant’s wife she had been in Milk Street. I dreaded to think what had befallen my stepmother in such a short space of time that she was now living in this derelict house.

She ignored Pretty Poppet and, disregarding my appearance, pulled a dust sheet off a chaise longue and said, ‘Come, Tully, sit down, my dear.’

Why did no one ever speak to the girl?

‘First,’ said Mrs Truegood, ‘I must humbly ask your pardon for the deception, though I assure you I had sincerely hoped to find you a husband before a morsel of the truth escaped.’

I couldn’t think of what to say. I feared that Mercy’s coat would fall open and, ignoring my stepmother’s request, I stayed with my hand resting on the mantelpiece, desperate to be touching something solid. The scenery of my life seemed to be changing fast and so far it had proven to be but an ill-conceived picture on a painted cloth.

‘I should introduce myself. My name is Queenie Gibbs. Your father owed me a great deal of money and I knew I was never to see a ha’penny of it, so I conceived the idea that he would repay me in another way. Mr Sitton had set his sights on marrying Hope, but the obstacle to the match was his mother. If my plan was going to work we needed respectability – hence I went through with a sham marriage.’

Pretty Poppet had perched herself next to Queenie on the chaise longue.

‘He isn’t my father,’ I said. ‘Just as you aren’t my stepmother. I expect you are going to tell me that Mercy and Hope aren’t your daughters.’

‘No, they’re not. I must appear most cruel. Forgive me. My plan may well have worked if it hadn’t been for Mrs Sitton. I had underestimated a mother’s desire to protect her child.’ Pretty Poppet moved closer to Mrs Gibbs, who rang a little bell on the side table and a man dressed all in grey entered. ‘Refreshments,’ she said.

I wasn’t sure if she was addressing the man, Pretty Poppet or me. I was very hungry and quite thirsty.

‘Yes, please,’ I said.

Queenie Gibbs leaned back. ‘When I think about it, my dear, the whole plan was a failure before it even had a chance to be my greatest success. Mr Truegood, never a quiet drunk, blurted out my intentions to one of his scurvy friends who, for a good sum, soothed those burning ears of Mrs Sitton with the truth. She had her son bundled off against his will on a ship for America, thereby securing the family’s mean little name and considerable fortune.’ She sighed. ‘When Crease’s dog answered my question and spelled out the words “AT SEA”, I knew I’d failed.’

‘It is a terrible pity for Mr Sitton. I am sure the water will not agree with him one jot,’ I said, still trying to adjust my picture of my stepmother to fit this woman, Queenie Gibbs.

‘It’s by the by. Tully, believe me when I say I truly wanted to do right by you and I would have stayed to find you a suitable match. But when I learned from Hope that you had been married at twelve and that the marriage held fast, I lost all patience with Mr Truegood – even more so when he refused point-blank to tell me the name of your mysterious husband, or the reason he had married you off at such an unnecessarily young age.’

‘A debt,’ I said. ‘It could only have been in want of money.’

‘Indubitably. Thank God those marriages have been abolished. They have ruined many a family.’

‘I don’t want to go back to Milk Street,’ I said. ‘Could I stay here?’

Mrs Gibbs stood and walked to the window. ‘In all honesty this is not the place for you.’

‘Why not? I could be a maid.’

‘Do you know how much a maid earns?’ she said. ‘Five pounds a year.’

To me that seemed a fortune. What I could do with five pounds a year.

‘I would be happy with that,’ I said. ‘I could help you run the house.’

Mrs Gibbs laughed. ‘Who do you think owns this house?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I own this house. And it is in the process of being made into one of the finest brothels the metropolis has to offer.’

I stumbled over the thought.

‘I will explain. I grew up in poverty in Covent Garden. A flower girl, I climbed up society’s rickety ladder – man by man. In other words, I made my money as a prostitute. I also happen to have a mind for business and I was determined never to go back to where I came from. This, my dear, is a house of pleasure. I do not need more servants, I need experienced ladies of easy virtue, exotic birds to delight rich gentlemen.’

‘I could learn to be an exotic bird.’

‘No!’ said Pretty Poppet.

Queenie surely must have heard her but she didn’t look round.

‘How much do you think Mercy and Hope earn?’ she asked

As I’d assumed they were ladies, I hadn’t thought for a moment that they earned a penny, and, blushing, I said so.

Mrs Gibbs’s answer stunned me.