They are small, and in gloves will seem smaller; and then will resemble my own.
This must be done. This should have been done, before. Richard is coming, and I am overtaken by a sense of duties unmet: a panicking sense that hours, days— dark, 164
devious fish of time— have slithered by, uncaptured. I pass a fretful night. Then, when we rise and she comes to dress me, I pluck at the frill on the sleeve of her gown.
'Have you no other gown,' I say, 'than this plain brown thing you always wear?'
She says she has not. I take, from my press, a velvet gown, and have her try it. She bares her arms unwillingly, steps out of her skirt and turns, in a kind of modesty, away from my eyes. The gown is narrow. I tug at the hooks. I settle the folds of cloth about her hips, then go to my box for a brooch— that brooch of brilliants— and pin it carefully over her heart.
Then I stand her before the glass.
Margaret comes, and takes her for me.
I have grown used to her, to the life, the warmth, the particularity of her; she has become, not the gullible girl of a villainous plot— not Suky Tawdry— but a girl with a history, with hates and likings. Now all at once I see how near to me in face and figure she'll come, and I understand, as if for the first time, what it is that Richard and I mean to do. I place my face against the post of my bed and watch her, gazing at herself in a rising satisfaction, turning a little to the left, a little to the right, brushing the creases from her skirt, settling her flesh more comfortably into the seams of the gown. 'If my aunty could see me!' she says, growing pink; and I think, then, of who might be waiting for her, in that dark thieves' den in London: the aunt, the mother or grandmother. I think how restless she must be, as she counts off the lengthening days that keep her little fin- gersmith on perilous business, far from home. I imagine her, as she waits, taking out some small thing of Sue's— some sash, some necklace, some bracelet of gaudy charms— and turning it, over and over, in her hands . . .
She will turn it for ever, though she does not know it yet. Nor does Sue suppose that the last time she kissed her aunt's hard cheek was the last of all her life.
I think of that; and I am gripped with what I take to be pity. It is hard, painful, surprising: I feel it, and am afraid. Afraid of what my future may cost me. Afraid of that future itself, and of the unfamiliar, ungovernable emotions with which it might be filled.
She does not know it. He must not know it, either. He comes that afternoon— comes, as he used to come, in the days of Agnes: takes my hand, holds my gaze with his, bends to kiss my knuckles. 'Miss Lilly/ he says, in a tone of caress. He is dressed darkly, neatly; yet carries his daring, his confidence, close and gaudy about him, like swirls of colour or perfume. I feel the heat of his mouth, even through my gloves. Then he turns to Sue, and she makes a curtsey. The stiff-bodiced dress is not made for curtseying in, however: the dip is a jagged one, the fringes upon her skirt tumble together and seem to shake. Her colour rises. I see him smile as he notes it.
But I see, too, that he marks the gown, and perhaps also the whiteness of her fingers.
'I should have supposed her a lady, I'm sure,' he says, to me. He moves to her side.
There, he seems tall, and darker than ever, like a bear; and she seems slight. He takes her hand, his fingers moving about hers: they seem large, also— his thumb extends almost to the bone of her wrist. He says, 'I hope you are proving a good girl for your mistress, Sue.'
She gazes at the floor. 'I hope I am, too, sir.' I take a step. 'She is a very good girl,' I 165
say. 'A very good girl, indeed.'
But the words are hasty, imperfect. He catches my eye, draws back his thumb. 'Of course,' he says smoothly, 'she could not help but be good. No girl could help it, Miss Lilly, with you for her example.'
'You are too kind,' I say.
'No gentleman could but be, I think, with you to be kind to.' He keeps his gaze on mine. He has picked me out, found sympathies in me, means to pluck me from the heart of Briar, unscratched; and I would not be myself, niece to my uncle, if I could meet the look he shows me now without feeling the stir of some excitement, dark and awful, in my own breast. But I feel it too hard, and grow almost queasy. I smile; but the smile stretches tight. Sue tilts her head. Does she suppose me smiling at my own love? The thought makes the smile tighter still, I begin to feel it as an ache about my throat. I avoid her eye, and his. He goes, but makes her step to him and they stand a moment, murmuring at the door. He gives her a coin— I see the yellow gleam of it— he puts it into
her hand, closes her fingers about it with his own. His nail shows brown against the fresh pink of her palm. She falls in another awkward curtsey.
Now my smile is fixed like the grimace on the face of a corpse. When she turns back, I cannot look at her. I go to my dressing- room and close the door, lie face down upon my bed, and am seized and shaken by laughter— a terrible laughter, it courses silently through me, like filthy water— I shudder, and shudder, and finally am still.
'How do you find your new girl, Miss Lilly?' he asks me at dinner, his eyes upon his plate. He is carefully parting meat from the spine of a fish— the bone so pale and so fine it is almost translucent, the meat in a thickening coating of butter and sauce. Our food comes cold to the table in winter. In summer it comes too warm.
I say, 'Very— biddable, Mr Rivers.'
'You think she will suit?'
'I think so, yes.'
'You won't have cause to complain, of my recommendation?'
'No.'
'Well, I am relieved to hear it.'
He will always say too much, for the sport of the thing. My uncle is watching. 'What's this?' he says now.
I wipe my mouth. 'My new maid, Uncle,' I answer. 'Miss Smith, who replaces Miss Fee. You've seen her, often.'
'Heard her, more like, kicking the soles of her boots against my library door. What of her?'
'She came to me on Mr Rivers's word. He found her in London, in need of a place; and was so kind as to remember me.'
My uncle moves his tongue. 'Was he?' he says slowly. He looks from me to Richard, from Richard back to me, his chin a little raised, as if sensing dark currents. 'Miss Smith, you say?'
'Miss Smith,' I repeat steadily, 'who replaces Miss Fee.' I neaten my knife and fork.
'Miss Fee, the papist.'
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'The papist! Ha!' He returns excitedly to his own meat. 'Now, Rivers,' he says as he does it.
'Sir?'
'I defy you— positively defy you, sir!— to name me any institution so nurturing of the atrocious acts of lechery as the Catholic Church of Rome
He does not look at me again until supper is ended. Then has me read for an hour from an antique text, The Nunns' Complaint Against the Fryars.
Richard sits and hears me, perfectly still. But when I have finished and rise to leave, he rises also: 'Let me,' he says. We walk together the little way to the door. My uncle does not lift his head, but keeps his gaze on his own smudged hands. He has a little pearl- handled knife, its ancient blade sharpened almost to a crescent, with which he is paring the skin from an apple— one of the small, dry, bitter apples that grow in the Briar orchard.
Richard checks to see that his gaze is turned, then looks at me frankly. His tone he keeps polite, however. 'I must ask you,' he says, 'if you wish to continue with your drawing- lessons, now that I'm returned? I hope you do.' He waits. I do not answer.
'Shall I come, as usual, tomorrow?' He waits again. He has his hand upon the door and has drawn it back— not far enough, though, to let me step about it; nor does he pull it further when he sees me wishing to pass. Instead, his look grows puzzled. 'You mustn't be modest,' he says. He means, You mustn't be weak. 'You are not, are you?'
I shake my head.
'Good, then. I shall come, at the usual time. You must show me the work you've done while I've been away. I should say a little more labour and— well, who knows? We might be ready to surprise your uncle with the fruits of your instruction. What do you think? Shall we give it another two weeks? Two weeks or, at the most, three?'
Again, I feel the nerve and daring of him, feel my own blood rise to meet it. But there c o m e s , b e n e a t h o r b e y o n d i t , a s i n k i n g , a fluttering— a v a g u e a n d n a m e l e s s movement— a sort of panic. He waits for my reply, and the fluttering grows wilder.
We have plotted so carefully. We have committed, already, one dreadful deed, and set in train another. I know all that must be done now. I know I must seem to love him, let him appear to win me, then confess his winning to Sue. How easy it should be! How I have longed for it! How hard I have gazed at the walls of my uncle's estate, wishing they might part and release me! But now that the day of our escape is close, I hesitate; and am afraid to say why. I gaze again at my uncle's hands, the pearl, the apple giving up its skin to the knife.
'Let us say, three weeks— perhaps longer,' I say finally. 'Perhaps longer, should I feel I need it.'
A look of irritation or anger disturbs the surface of his face; but when he speaks, he makes his voice soft. 'You are modest. Your talent is better than that. Three weeks will do it, I assure you.'