For there weren’t the things to notice, at Briar, that there were at home. You watched, instead, things like that: the rising of smoke, the passing of clouds in the sky. Each day we walked to the river, to see how it had lifted or dropped. ‘In the autumn, it floods,’ Maud said, ‘and all the rushes are drowned. I don’t care for that. And some nights a white mist comes creeping from the water, almost to the walls of my uncle’s house . . .’ She shivered. She always said, my uncle’s, she never said my. The ground was crisp, and when it gave beneath our boots she said: ‘How brittle the grass is! I think the river will freeze. I think it is freezing already. Do you see how it struggles? It wants to flow, but the cold will still it. Do you see, Sue? Here, among the rushes?’
She gazed, and frowned. I watched the movement of her face. And I said—as I had said about the soup: ‘It’s only water, miss.’
‘Only water?’
‘Brown water.’
She blinked.
‘You are cold,’ I said then. ‘Come back, to the house. We’ve been out too long.’ I put her arm about mine. I did it, not thinking; and her arm stayed stiff. But then, the next day—or perhaps, the day after that—she took my arm again, and was not so stiff; and after that, I suppose we joined arms naturally . . . I don’t know. It was only later that I wondered about it and tried to look back. But by then I could only see that there was once a time when we had walked apart; and then a time when we walked together.
She was just a girl, after all; for all that they called her a lady. She was just a girl that had never known fun. One day I was tidying one of her drawers and found a deck of cards in it. She said she thought they must have been her mother’s. She knew the suits, but that was all—she called the jacks, cavaliers! —so I taught her one or two soft Borough games—All-fours, and Put. We played for matches and spills, at first; then we found, in another drawer, a box of little counters, made of mother-of-pearl and shaped like fish and diamonds and crescent moons; and after that, we played for them. The mother-of-pearl was very sweet and cool on the hand.—My hand, I mean; for Maud of course still wore her gloves. And when she put down a card she put it down neatly, making the edges and corners match with the ones below. After a while I began to do that, too.
While we played, we talked. She liked to hear me talk of London. ‘Is it truly so large?’ she’d say. ‘And there are theatres? And what they call, fashion-houses? ’
‘And eating-houses. And every kind of shop. And parks, miss.’
‘Parks, like my uncle’s?’
‘A little like,’ I’d say. ‘But filled with people, of course.—Are you low, miss, or high?’
‘I am high.’ She set down a card. ‘—Quite filled, would you say?’
‘I am higher. There. Three fish, to your two.’
‘How well you play!—Quite filled, you say, with people?’
‘Of course. But dark. Will you cut?’
‘Dark? Are you sure? I thought London was said to be bright. With great lamps fired—I believe—with gas?’
‘Great lamps, like diamonds!’ I said. ‘In the theatres and halls. You may dance there, miss, right through the night—’
‘Dance, Sue?’
‘Dance, miss.’ Her face had changed. I put the cards down. ‘You like to dance, of course?’
‘I—’ She coloured, and lowered her gaze. ‘I was never taught it. Do you think,’ she said, looking up, ‘I might be a lady, in London—that is,’ she added quickly, ‘if I were ever to go there.—Do you think I might be a lady in London, and yet not dance?’
She passed her hand across her lip, rather nervously. I said, ‘You might, I suppose. Shouldn’t you like to learn, though? You could find a dancing-master.’
‘Could I?’ She looked doubtful, then shook her head. ‘I am not sure . . .’
I guessed what she was thinking. She was thinking of Gentleman, and what he might say when he found out she couldn’t dance. She was thinking of all the girls he might be meeting in London, who could.
I watched her fret for a minute or two. Then, ‘Look here,’ I said, getting up. ‘It is easy, look—’
And I showed her a couple of steps, to a couple of dances. Then I made her rise and try them with me. She stood in my arms like wood, and gazed, in a frightened sort of way, at her feet. Her slippers caught on the Turkey carpet. So then I put the carpet back; and then she moved more easily. I showed her a jig, and then a polka. I said, ‘There. Now we’re flying, ain’t we?’ She gripped my gown until I thought it should tear. ‘This way,’ I said. ‘Now, this. I am the gentleman, remember. Of course, it will go much better, with a real gent—’
Then she stumbled again, and we flew apart and fell into separate chairs. She put her hands to her side. Her breath came in catches. Her colour was higher than ever. Her cheek was damp. Her skirt stuck out like a little Dutch girl’s on a plate.
She caught my eye, and smiled; though she still looked frightened.
‘I shall dance,’ she said, ‘in London. Shan’t I, Sue?’
‘You shall,’ I said. And at that moment, I believed it. I made her rise and dance again. It was only afterwards, when we had stopped and she had grown cool, and stood before the fire to warm up her cold hands—it was only then that I remembered that, of course, she never would.
For, though I knew her fate—though I knew it so well, I was helping to make it!—perhaps I knew it rather in the way you might know the fate of a person in a story or a play. Her world was so queer, so quiet and shut-up, it made the proper world—the ordinary, double-dealing world, where I had sat over a pig’s head supper and a glass of flip while Mrs Sucksby and John Vroom laughed to think what I would do with my share of Gentleman’s stolen fortune—it made that world seem harder than ever, but so far off, the hardness meant nothing. At first I would say to myself, ‘When Gentleman comes I’ll do this’; or, ‘Once he gets her in the madhouse, I’ll do that.’ But I’d say it, then look at her; and she was so simple and so good, the thought would vanish, I would end up combing her hair or straightening the sash on her gown. It wasn’t that I was sorry—or not much, not then. It was just I suppose that we were put together for so many hours at a time; and it was nicer to be kind to her and not think too hard about what lay before her, than to dwell on it and feel cruel.
Of course, it was different for her. She was looking forwards. She liked to talk; but more often she liked to be silent, and think. I would see her face change, then. I would lie at her side at night, and feel the turning, turning of her thoughts—feel her grow warm, perhaps blush in the dark; and then I knew she was thinking of Gentleman, working out how soon he’d come, wondering if he was thinking of her.—I could have told her, he was. But she never spoke of him, she never said his name. She only asked, once or twice, after my old aunty, that was supposed to be his nurse; and I wished she wouldn’t, for when I spoke of her I thought of Mrs Sucksby; and that made me home-sick.
And then there came the morning when we learned he was coming back. It was an ordinary morning, except that Maud had woken and rubbed her face, and winced.—Perhaps that was what they call, a premonition. I only thought that later, though. At the time, I saw her chafing her cheek and said, ‘What’s the matter?’
She moved her tongue. ‘I have a tooth, I think,’ she said, ‘with a point that cuts me.’
‘Let me see,’ I said.
I took her to the window and she stood with her face in my hands and let me feel about her gum. I found the pointed tooth almost at once.
‘Well, that is sharper—’ I began.
‘Than a serpent’s tooth, Sue?’ she said.
‘Than a needle, I was going to say, miss,’ I answered. I went to her sewing-box and brought out a thimble. A silver thimble, to match the flying scissors.
Maud stroked her jaw. ‘Do you know anyone who was bitten by a snake, Sue?’ she asked me.
What could you say? Her mind ran to things like that. Perhaps it was the country living. I said I didn’t. She looke
d at me, then opened her mouth again and I put the thimble on my finger and rubbed at the pointed tooth until the point was taken off. I had seen Mrs Sucksby do it many times, with infants.—Of course, infants rather wriggle about. Maud stood very still, her pink lips parted, her face put back, her eyes at first closed then open and gazing at me, her cheek with a flush upon it. Her throat lifted and sank, as she swallowed. My hand grew wet, from the damp of her breaths. I rubbed, then felt with my thumb. She swallowed again. Her eyelids fluttered, and she caught my eye.
And, as she did, there came a knock upon the door; and we both jumped. I stepped away. It was one of the parlourmaids. She had a letter on a tray. ‘For Miss Maud,’ she said, with a curtsey. I looked at the hand, and knew at once that it must be Gentleman’s. My heart gave a dip. So did Maud’s, I think.
‘Bring it here, will you?’ she said. And then: ‘Will you pass me my shawl, also?’ The flush had gone from her face, though her cheek was still red where I had pressed it. When I put the shawl across her shoulders, I felt her trembling.
I watched her then, seeming not to, as I moved about her rooms, taking up books and cushions, putting away the thimble and closing her box. I saw her turn the letter and fumble with it—of course, she could not tear the paper, with her gloves on. So then she sneaked a look at me, and then she lowered her hands and—still trembling, but making a show of carelessness, that was meant to say it was nothing to her, yet showed that it was everything—she unbuttoned one glove and put her finger to the seal, then drew the letter from the envelope and held it in her naked hand and read it.
Then she let out her breath in a single great sigh. I picked up a cushion and hit the dust from it.
‘Good news, miss, is it?’ I said; since I thought I ought to.
She hesitated. Then: ‘Very good,’ she answered, ‘—for my uncle, I mean. It is from Mr Rivers, in London; and what do you think?’ She smiled. ‘He is coming back to Briar, tomorrow!’
The smile stayed on her lips all day, like paint; and in the afternoon, when she came from her uncle, she wouldn’t sit sewing, or go for a walk, would not even play at cards, but paced about the room, and sometimes stood before the glass, smoothing her brows, touching her plump mouth—hardly speaking to me, hardly seeing me at all.
I got the cards out anyway, and played by myself. I thought of Gentleman, laying out the kings and queens in the Lant Street kitchen while he told us all his plot. Then I thought of Dainty. Her mother—that had ended up drowned—had been able to tell fortunes from a pack of cards. I had seen her do it, many times.
I looked at Maud, standing dreaming at the mirror. I said,
‘Should you like to know your future, miss? Did you know that you can read it, from how the cards fall?’
That made her turn from looking at her own face, to look at mine. She said after a moment,
‘I thought it was only gipsy women could do that.’
‘Well, but don’t tell Margaret or Mrs Stiles,’ I said. ‘My grandmother, you know, was a gipsy-princess.’
And after all, my granny might have been a gipsy-princess, for all I knew of it. I put the cards together again, and held them to her. She hesitated, then came and sat beside me, spreading her great skirt flat, saying, ‘What must I do?’
I said she must sit with her eyes closed for a minute, and think of the subjects that were nearest her heart; which she did. Then I said she must take the cards and hold them, then set out the first seven of them, face down—which is what I thought I remembered Dainty’s mother doing; or it might have been nine cards. Anyway, Maud set down seven.
I looked her in the eye and said, ‘Now, do you really want to know your fortune?’
She said, ‘Sue, you are frightening me!’
I said again, ‘Do you really want to know it? What the cards teach you, you must obey. It is very bad luck to ask the cards to show you one path, then choose another. Do you promise to be bound by the fortune you find here?’
‘I do,’ she answered quietly.
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Here is your life, laid all before us. Let us see the first part of it. These cards show your Past.’
I turned over the first two cards. They were the Queen of Hearts, followed by the Three of Spades. I remember them because of course, while she had been sitting with her eyes tight shut, I had sprung the pack; as anyone would have I think, being in my place then.
I studied them and said, ‘Hmm. These are sad cards. Here is a kind and handsome lady, look; and here a parting, and the beginning of strife.’
She stared, then put her hand to her throat. ‘Go on,’ she said. Her face was pale now.
‘Let us look,’ I said, ‘at the next three cards. They show your Present.’
I turned them over with a flourish.
‘The King of Diamonds,’ I said. ‘A stern old gentleman. The Five of Clubs: a parched mouth. The Cavalier of Spades—’
I took my time. She leaned towards me.
‘What’s he?’ she said. ‘The Cavalier?’
I said he was a young man on horseback, with good in his heart; and she looked at me in such an astonished believing sort of way, I was almost sorry. She said, in a low voice, ‘Now I am afraid! Don’t turn over the next cards.’
I said, ‘Miss, I must. Or all your luck will leave you. Look here. These show your Future.’
I turned the first. The Six of Spades.
‘A journey!’ I said. ‘Perhaps, a trip with Mr Lilly? Or perhaps, a journey of the heart . . .’
She didn’t answer, only sat gazing at the cards I had turned up. Then: ‘Show the last one,’ she said in a whisper. I showed it. She saw it first.
‘Queen of Diamonds,’ she said, with a sudden frown. ‘Who’s she?’
I did not know. I had meant to turn up the Two of Hearts, for lovers; but after all, must have muddled the deck.
‘The Queen of Diamonds,’ I said at last. ‘Great wealth, I think.’
‘Great wealth?’ She leaned away from me and looked about her, at the faded carpet and the black oak walls. I took the cards and shuffled them. She brushed at her skirt and rose. ‘I don’t believe,’ she said, ‘that your grandmother really was a gipsy. You are too fair in the face. I don’t believe it. And I don’t like your fortune-telling. It’s a game for servants.’
She stepped away from me, and stood again before the glass; and though I thought she would turn and say something kinder, she didn’t. But as she went, she moved a chair: and then I saw the Two of Hearts. It had fallen on the floor—she had had her slipper on it, and her heel had creased the pips.
The crease was a deep one. I always knew that card, after that, in the games we played, in the weeks that followed.
That afternoon, however, she made me put the cards away, saying the sight of them made her giddy; and that night she was fretful. She got into bed, but had me pour her out a little cup of water; and as I stood undressing I saw her take up a bottle and slip three drops from it into the cup. It was sleeping-draught. That was the first time I saw her take it. It made her yawn. When I woke next day, though, she was already awake, lying with a strand of her hair pulled to her mouth, and gazing at the figures in the canopy over the bed.
‘Brush my hair hard,’ she said to me, as she stood for me to dress her. ‘Brush it hard and make it shine. Oh, how horrid and white my cheek is! Pinch it, Sue.’ She put my fingers to her face, and pressed them. ‘Pinch my cheek, don’t mind if you bruise it. I’d rather a blue cheek than a horrid white one!’
Her eyes were dark, perhaps from the sleeping-drops. Her brow was creased. It troubled me to hear her talk of bruises. I said,
‘Stand still, or I shan’t be able to dress you at all.—That’s better. Now, which gown will you have?’
‘The grey?’
‘The grey’s too soft on the eye. Let’s say, the blue . . .’
The blue brought out the fairness of her hair. She stood before the glass and watched as I buttoned it tight. Her face grew smoother, the hig
her I went. Then she looked at me. She looked at my brown stuff dress. She said,
‘Your dress is rather plain, Sue—isn’t it? I think you ought to change it.’
I said, ‘Change it? This is all I have.’
‘All you have? Good gracious. I am weary of it already. What were you used to wearing for Lady Alice, who was so nice? Did she never pass any of her own dresses on to you?’
I felt—and I think I was right in feeling it—that Gentleman had let me down a bit here, sending me off to Briar with just the one good gown. I said,
‘Well, the fact is, miss, Lady Alice was kind as an angel; but she was also rather near. She kept my frocks back, to take to India for her girl there.’
Maud blinked her dark eyes and looked sorry. She said,
‘Is that how ladies treat their maids, in London?’
‘Only the near ones, miss,’ I answered.
Then she said, ‘Well, I have nothing to be near for, here. You must and shall have another gown, to spend your mornings in. And perhaps another besides that, for you to change into when—Well, say we ever had a visitor?’
She hid her face behind the door of her press. She said,
‘Now, I believe we are of a similar size. Here are two or three dresses, look, that I never wear and shan’t miss. You like your skirts long, I see. My uncle does not care to see me in a long skirt, he believes long skirts unhealthy. But he shan’t mind, of course, about you. You need only let down this hem a little here. You can do that, of course?’
Well, I was certainly used to taking stitches out; and I could sew a straight seam when I needed to. I said, ‘Thank you, miss.’ She held a dress before me. It was a queer thing of orange velvet, with fringes and a wide skirt. It looked like it had been blown together by a strong wind in a ladies’ tailor’s. She studied me, and then said,
‘Oh, try it, Susan, do! Look, I shall help you.’ She came close, and began to undress me. ‘See, I can do it, quite as well as you. Now I am your maid, and you are the mistress!’