Suki, p.5
Suki, page 5
‘Give him to me quick!’ Suki said, running to take him. ‘Oh my poor lamb! Did I keep ’ee waitin’?’ And she unlaced her bodice and let him suck where she stood.
Bessie had walked up the hill so quickly she was quite out of breath. ‘I best get back,’ she puffed. ‘They don’ know I’m gone.’
‘I’m uncommon grateful to ’ee,’ Suki said, gazing down at her infant. ‘I meant what I said about the fires, don’ forget.’
But Bessie was already tumbling downhill, holding up her skirts so that she could run more easily. It wasn’t in her timid nature to take risks and the sooner she was back the better.
Suki strolled out of the churchyard, carrying the baby very carefully so as not to disturb him. The world was suddenly an easier, happier place now that they were together again. The funeral was over. The mist had cleared. The sun was warm. The sky a lovely summer blue above her head. She pulled the gate ajar and sidled through into the meadow, where she sat with her back against the trunk of an old beech tree and her feet cushioned on mosses and gave herself over to the delights of suckling and to the gradual return of her natural optimism. Problems could be solved, no matter how difficult.
Below her, between the horseshoe curves of the river, the city of Bath lay in its cradled hollow. The great abbey looked so small from this distance that it was as though she could pick it up and hold it in the palm of her hand, and, around it, the little houses of the old town huddled together in topsy-turvy proximity, blackened and stumpy and decidedly old-fashioned. But there was no doubt at all that Mr Wood’s fine new houses were absolutely splendid, so tall and straight and well designed, their stone walls the colour of pale honey in the milky sunlight. The long lines of the parades looked very fine, and so did the symmetry of the new Queen’s Square, and further up the hillside, she could see workmen preparing the ground for the very latest splendour, the new Circus, which Cook said would be the wonder of the age.
There’d be work in this city for years to come and plenty of rich pickings. And in the meantime, all she had to do was to keep her job with the Bradburys, feed this pretty baby and watch him grow. Sooner or later his dadda would come back to Bath again and he’d know what was to be done. Dearest Jack. He was so clever and so handsome. Oh she couldn’t wait to see him again!
Her mind drifted back to the pleasures of the previous summer when he’d courted her so ardently and pleasured her with such passion. They’d always met in the Spring Gardens among the trees and flowers and the gravel walks, like lovers in a play, and she’d always been so happy to see him. Oh, so happy. It made her heart lift just to remember it. She hadn’t thought to ask him anything, not where he lived, or where he’d come from, or where he was going, not even his full name. Once, she remembered, she’d asked him what he’d been christened, but he’d flown into such a terrible rage she’d dropped the subject immediately. So Captain Jack had had to suffice. Not that she minded. It sounded so romantic, and it was just the right name for him, with his fine dark eyes and that sun-browned skin and that swaggering military bearing. But knowing so little about him wasn’t going to help her now, when she needed to find him. And she did need to find him. She realised that. He was the only person she could confide in. The one person who would know what was to be done.
‘He must be back soon,’ she said to the baby. ‘He should have been here long since.’ But if he had been in town he’d have come and found us. He knows where we are, when all’s said an’ done, for wasn’t he the one who’d told her to find work with the Bradburys should she ever need another job, although he hadn’t known then what work it would turn out to be.
The long wait suddenly seemed intolerable. There was nothing to be gained by being patient — even if she could. No, what was needed was a thorough search. She would visit all their old haunts, starting this morning, and ask after him. Somebody was bound to know if he was back. He had friends all over town. I’ll send him a message or write him a billet and then he’ll come to us. Bound to. She looked down at the baby, happy with her decision. ‘He’ll want to see you, won’t he my ’andsome,’ she said. ‘You might be William now, but your dadda’s your dadda for all that.’ And she was touched when the baby stopped sucking to smile at her.
At that moment, she became aware of a movement on the road below her and lifted her head to see what it was. There was a cart rattling along the Twerton Road and it was pulled by a bay mare that she recognised at once. Farmer Lambton’s. What a piece of luck! Now she could get a lift to the city, instead of trudging all the way home with the baby on her back. Better still, she could send a message to her mother to alert her to what had happened so that she wouldn’t come blundering into town and say the wrong thing.
She stood up at once and called down the hill as loudly as she could, her voice echoing across the empty fields. ‘Farmer Lambton! Farmer Lambton! You going in to Bath?’
The farmer looked up, recognised her and reined in the mare to wait for her, sitting very still in the cart, patient and stolid as always. He never seems to change, Suki thought, as she scrambled down the steep hillside towards him. Her father and mother had worked on his farm ever since she could remember, and now her brothers were working there too. When they’d all been little, they’d played in his yard and helped his wife to feed the chickens and gather up the eggs, and he’d always been the same even then, a tall, thick-set, quiet presence, as slow and dependable as the soil itself, and, now she came to think about it, very much the same colour.
‘Thank ’ee kindly,’ she said, as she reached the side of the cart.
Farmer Lambton hauled her up on to the seat beside him, and clicked the mare into motion again, without comment and without greeting. The cart was full of strawberries and raspberries, packed close together in long straw punnets, buttressed by thick bundles of leaves. Their scent filled the air with sweetness. But they’d travelled more than a hundred yards before he spoke, and then it was with the laconic brevity she’d come to expect.
‘Looks like you,’ he said, nodding at the baby. ‘Has your eyes.’
The words gave Suki such a surprise that she could feel her jaw falling. Until that moment she hadn’t given a thought to the baby’s appearance. He looked like a baby, that was all, with a dear little round face and an upper lip like a pink M and a snub nose and big dark eyes. If he really did look like her, the lie would be out, and no mistake. She leaned over him, examining his face intently. No, she thought, he en’t like me. My eyes are blue and his are a-goin’ to be brown like his father. But then another thought struck her. She could hardly send an explanation home to her mother now that Farmer Lambton had recognised this baby as hers. He would know she was lying and that would cause no end of trouble.
By this time, they’d reached the south gate, and she could see that the day’s activities had well and truly begun. There were scores of sedan chairs about, on offer and in use, and the carriages were out too, being galloped along the narrow alleys at such precipitate speed that it was a wonder their wealthy occupants weren’t tipped into the road. So naturally the beggars were on the streets too, clustered at every corner, displaying their deformities and demanding charity with their usual hideous boldness. There were three huddled inside the south gate itself, giving off their particular noxious air, a powerful combination of advanced decay and stale shit. It drowned out the smell of the strawberries and alarmed Suki so much that she covered the baby’s nose with her hand for fear of him taking infection.
Fanner Lambton coaxed his bay mare through the heave and clamour of the throng, talking to her gently. ‘Walk on my beauty. That’s the way.’ It was a necessary encouragement, for the noise was ear-numbing. All along Stall Street, sellers shrieked their wares, for pies sweating in the basket, and fish already stinking in the warmth of the sun, for eggs and bread and vegetables coated with the dust of traffic. At every turn there was an argument, ostlers raking their poor horses with vicious curry combs in a vain attempt to improve their tattered coats and increase trade, bearers vitriolic in their competition for custom, ballad-sellers dangling their wares so close to the eyes of the passers-by that it was impossible to see beyond their grubby song sheets, quacks offering to cure anyone of any illness they could imagine, by one short draught from a poisonous-looking bottle that was thrust into every hand. And above it all the bells of the abbey clanged yet another welcome to yet another newly arrived, newly rich nonentity. After the peace of the churchyard it made Suki’s head spin.
At the corner of Cheap Street, two gangly young men were posting a notice for the theatre, flicking paste to right and left like spittle. ‘Tonight at seven,’ it said. ‘The comedy of The Fair Clorinda. We promise you an unforgettable spectacle which you will miss at your peril.’
‘Mrs Lambton has a mind to go to the theatre,’ the farmer observed as they turned the comer. ‘Would she like to see this comedy, think ’ee?’
‘She’d be bound to,’ Suki told him, ‘if ’tis the same company as were here last summer, they’re uncommon entertaining. We went to every play.’ And she remembered how much the Captain loved the theatre and how at home he was there, calling out to the players from his seat in the stalls, with his friends around him. That’s where I’ll start, she thought. ‘’Tis on my way. ’Twouldn’t take but a minute.
No sooner thought than acted upon. ‘Could you set me down here, Mr Lambton, if you please,’ she said. ‘I can take a short cut through Orchard Street, an’ save a bit of time.’
He reined in the mare. ‘I will tell your family I saw you,’ he said. ‘Have you any message for me to bear home to them?’
She was already on the pavement, tying her shawl to keep the baby firmly on her back. ‘None save my love,’ she said. ‘Which, pray tell ’em, I send a-plenty. I will visit as soon as I can.’ And sped away.
Orchard Street was empty except for a skinny cat slinking apprehensively towards the alley. But the stage door had been left open and, as there was no porter to guard it, there was nothing to stop her from stepping into the hall. Once inside, she realised that the actors were all too busy to notice her, but she took a seat in the stalls and decided to wait anyway. They were bound to take a rest sooner or later.
Three of them were swearing a canopied throne into position in the centre of the narrow stage, and two more, stripped to shirt and petticoats, were rehearsing a love scene, with a good deal of extravagant gesture and intermittent abuse. The actor was a handsome fellow even with his hair plastered to his skull with sweat, but the actress was fat and forty, and in the filtered daylight Suki could see that her face was pitted with scars, her teeth broken and discoloured. Beside the wings, an un-swaddled baby slept in a pile of dusty costumes and beside it an absorbed toddler was peeing into an upturned helmet. Two other scruffy children played tag between the busy legs and trailing finery of their elders. There was a lilt to the activity here, a sense of enjoyment even amidst the effort on that crowded platform. Suki felt at home among them, and hopeful. Surely these people would help her if they could.
‘Fairest Clorinda!’ the actor intoned, singing the words and striking a noble pose. ‘Queen of all Queens, from Africa’s… S’blood, Charlie, I can’t say this!’
‘Teeming shore,’ a voice prompted from the wings. ‘Yes you can. Africa’s teeming shore.’
The actor sighed. ‘Do breathe in another direction, darling,’ he said to his leading lady, ‘or I may suffocate.’
‘Rain kisses on my burning lips,’ the actress intoned, not in the least put out by such rudeness. ‘With fire of passion set my heart aflame!’
‘This canopy is too low,’ one of the scene shifters observed. ‘’Twill hide the helmet, sure as fate.’
‘Try the helmet, Claude,’ said the voice in the wings. Suki looked up at once, remembering what the toddler had been doing as she entered the hall. But the leading actor was already lowering the helmet on to his head, and showering his face and shoulders in the process. ‘Beelzebub and all the bleeding devils!’ he roared, as the company applauded and shrieked delight all round him.
‘I must say, Mr Clements,’ the leading lady remarked mildly, ‘there will be scant cause to comment upon such a small matter as my breath, when our patrons find themselves downwind of your pate.’
I’d better not laugh, Suki thought, although the temptation was very strong indeed. She looked away quickly from the uproar on stage, turning her head towards the only other person who was sitting in the stalls. And found herself gazing straight into the big bold eyes of Miss Ariadne Bradbury.
For a split second they stared at one another, both equally surprised. Then Suki recovered, and changed her expression rapidly to one of innocent and acceptable enquiry. But in that second she’d noticed a great many interesting things; that Miss Ariadne was embarrassed and annoyed to be seen in such a place; that she was wearing her new Leghorn bonnet; and that she wasn’t laughing at the predicament of the unfortunate Claude, but was watching him out of the corner of her eye with concern and cow-eyed affection. Then she too recovered and assumed a different expression, lifting her head and pouting with the drawling indifference that Suki had seen so often and so irritatingly at South Parade.
‘La! Suki Brown!’ she said, pretending to yawn. ‘Who sent you here to spy upon me so? Mamma, of course! You need not tell me.’
Suki looked down, and said nothing. How annoying and embarrassing this was! Why couldn’t the silly girl just go away and pretend they hadn’t seen one another. Now she would have to escort her home and forego the chance to ask about the Captain. And just when the rehearsal had come to a halt and an opportunity was about to present itself.
Miss Ariadne was speaking again. ‘’Tis too bad,’ she complained. ‘Am I not to be allowed to take a simple stroll to buy two little tickets for this evening’s performance without being harried from pillar to post like some common criminal? ’Tis a pitiful thing not to be trusted by one’s own mamma.’ She had forced tears from her eyes and was pouting pathetically.
Suki felt prevailed upon to say something to explain her presence. ‘The streets of Bath arn’t no fit place for an unaccompanied young lady,’ she tried, secretly uncomfortable because she sounded smug. But Ariadne seemed to approve.
‘How foolish!’ she said, half smiling. ‘Why ’tis hardly more than two steps across the street. Were you sent after to protect me or to spy upon me?’
‘You got a careful mother, Miss Ariadne,’ Suki said, because it was the only answer she could think of.
Claude had taken himself off for a wash. ‘Very well,’ Ariadne decided graciously. ‘We will walk home together. Then I shall be chaperoned and my foolish mamma will have no possible reason to complain. Come along.’ And she straightened her pelisse, relieved the strings of her bonnet, and set off for the door. It was infuriating but there was nothing Suki could do but obey her.
They followed the curve of Orchard Street, crossed the new neat cobblestones of Pierrepont Street and strolled on to the pavements in front of South Parade. Apart from a two-horse chaise that had just arrived at the far end of the terrace and the gentleman in the brown bob wig who was negotiating the price of a very damp chair at the other, the place was deserted. Now Suki had another anxiety to confront. If Lady Bradbury were to glance out of her window, she could hardly fail to notice them and, if she saw the baby, there would be serious trouble. For the second time that morning she found herself wishing speed on her companion.
Most of the first-floor windows were wide open and she could see heavy wigs and powdered heads bobbing between the curtains, like huge untidy flowers. If only everybody wasn’t so quizzy here in Bath. If only Miss Ariadne would walk a little quicker. Three more steps and they could be through the door and home and dry.
‘Dear child!’ Lady Bradbury’s voice said, acidly sweet and directly above their heads. ‘There you are. I was growing concerned about you. You must come up at once, must you not, and tell me where you have been gadding.’
Ariadne assumed her dutiful daughter expression and smiled obediently up at her mother. ‘Yes, Mamma!’ she said, demurely.
Go in! Suki thought, silently urging her young mistress forward. Make haste. Before she sees me too.
But it was too late. Hermione had leaned out of the window to get a better view. ‘Whom do you have with you, sweet child?’ she asked, and her voice was as sharp as her face. ‘How now? I do believe ’tis one of the servants. Ah! I see! I will send for you presently, Suki.’
Suki grimaced as she followed Ariadne into the house, and wondered how long ‘presently’ was likely to be.
She was soon to discover. She’d barely settled William back in his cradle before Jessup arrived in the nursery to summon her to the boudoir.
‘Adjust your cap,’ he commanded. ‘Milady is seriously displeased.’
Suki shifted her cap — marginally — and jutted her chin. If I’m for it, she thought, I must take it, but I shall give as good as I get.
Chapter 4
Sir George and Lady Bradbury were engaged to dine with the formidable Lady Fosdyke at three that afternoon, so naturally Lady Bradbury had commanded the friseur to attend her at noon. She was aware that a good head cannot be rushed and hers had to be the best at the table on such a prestigious occasion. No matter how many household problems she might have to contend with, it was imperative that her social life should continue smoothly and in its customary style.
So she sat before her dressing table mirror, en deshabille in her shift and her frilled dressing gown, and watched intently as the hairdresser transformed her front hair into the required confection, curling it with hot tongs, padding each curl with black wool, stiffening each ascending layer with strong pins and a larding of pomade, made according to her own particular specification of the best hog’s fat, heavily perfumed. His working sketch lay on the table before her, so that she could check it at every stage, holding it firmly in place with a dictatorial finger, ready to correct the least deviation. Appearances were so critical. Her jewels were chosen, her rouge pot primed, her patch box full of new velvet patches, her servant, Hepzibah, ready to dress her and standing obediently at her elbow as was proper, her dinner gown laid out upon the bed with a new pair of neat-skin slippers set side by side beneath the hem, their toes pointing right and left, like a fashionable lady in a faint. It was her third new gown of the season and quite the most elaborate and anyone with half an eye could see how expensive it was. For, as she knew so well, the value of ones gown was so important.
