dipping up and down until I thought I should be sick. He said curtseying came as natural to ladies' maids, as passing wind. He said if I would only get the trick, I should never forget it— and he was right about that, at least, for I can still dip a proper curtsey, even now.— Or could, if I cared to.
Well. When we had finished with the curtseys he had me learn my story. Then, to test 24
me, he made me stand before him and repeat my part, like a girl saying a catechism.
'Now then,' he said. 'What is your name?'
'Ain't it Susan?' I said.
'Ain't it Susan, what?'
Ain't it Susan Trinder?'
Ain't it Susan, sir. You must remember, I shan't be Gentleman to you at Briar. I shall be Mr Richard Rivers. You must call me sir; and you must call Mr Lilly sir; and the lady you must call miss or Miss Lilly or Miss Maud, as she directs you. And we shall all call you Susan.' He frowned. 'But, not Susan Trinder. That may lead them back to Lant Street if things go wrong. We must find you a better second name— '
'Valentine,' I said, straight off. What can I tell you? I was only seventeen. I had a weakness for hearts. Gentleman heard me, and curled his lip.
'Perfect,' he said; '— if we were about to put you on the stage.'
'I know real girls named Valentine!' I said.
'That's true,' said Dainty. 'Floy Valentine, and her two sisters. Lord, I hates those girls, though. You don't want to be named for them, Sue.'
I bit my finger. 'Maybe not.'
'Certainly not,' said Gentleman. A fanciful name might ruin us. This is a life- and-death business. We need a name that will hide you, not bring you to everyone's notice. We n e e d a n a m e ' — h e t h o u g h t i t o v e r — 'an untraceable nam e , y e t o n e w e s h a l l remember . . . Brown? To match your dress? Or— yes, why not? Let's make it, Smith.
Susan Smith.' He smiled. 'You are to be a sort of smith, after all. This sort, I mean.'
He let his hand drop, and turned it, and crooked his middle
finger; and the sign, and the word he meant— fingersmith— being Borough code for thief, we laughed again.
At last he coughed, and wiped his eyes. 'Dear me, what fun,' he said. 'Now, where had we got to? Ah, yes. Tell me again. What is your name?'
I said it, with the sir after.
'Very good. And what is your home?'
'My home is at London, sir,' I said. 'My mother being dead, I live with my old aunty; which is the lady what used to be your nurse when you was a boy, sir.'
He nodded. 'Very good as to detail. Not so good, however, as to style. Come now: I know Mrs Sucksby raised you better than that. You're not selling violets. Say it again.'
I pulled a face; but then said, more carefully,
'The lady that used to be your nurse when you were a boy, sir.'
'Better, better. And what was your situation, before this?'
'With a kind lady, sir, in Mayfair; who, being lately married and about to go to India, will have a native girl to dress her, and so won't need me.'
'Dear me. You are to be pitied, Sue.'
'I believe so, sir.'
'And are you grateful to Miss Lilly, for having you at Briar?'
'Oh, sir! Gratitude ain't in it!'
'Violets again!' He waved his hand. 'Never mind, that will do. But don't hold my gaze so boldly, will you? Look, rather, at my shoe. That's good. Now, tell me this. This is 25
important. What are your duties while attending your new mistress?'
'I must wake her in the mornings,' I said, 'and pour out her tea. I must wash her, and dress her, and brush her hair. I must keep her jewellery neat, and not steal it. I must walk with her when she has a fancy to walk, and sit when she fancies sitting. I must carry her fan for when she grows too hot, her wrap for when she feels nippy, her eau-de-Cologne for if she gets the head-ache, and her salts for when she comes over queer. I must be her chaperon for her drawing- lessons, and not see when she blushes.'
'Splendid! And what is your character?'
'Honest as the day'
'And what is your object, that no-one but we must know?'
'That she will love you, and leave her uncle for your sake. That she will make your fortune; and that you, Mr Rivers, will make mine.'
I took hold of my skirts and showed him one of those smooth curtseys, my eyes all the time on the toe of his boot.
Dainty clapped me. Mrs Sucksby rubbed her hands together and said,
'Three thousand pounds, Sue. Oh, my crikey! Dainty, pass me an infant, I want something to squeeze.'
Gentleman stepped aside and lit a cigarette. 'Not bad,' he said. 'Not bad, at all. A little fining down, I think, is all that's needed now. We shall try again later.'
'Later?' I said. 'Oh, Gentleman, ain't you finished with me yet? If Miss Lilly will have me as her maid for the sake of pleasing you, why should she care how fined down I am?'
'She may not mind,' he answered. 'I think we might put an apron on Charley Wag and send him, for all she will mind or wonder. But it is not only her that you will have to fool. There is the old man, her uncle; and besides him, all his staff.'
I said, 'His staff?' I had not thought of this.
'Of course,' he said. 'Do you think a great house runs itself? First of all there's the steward, Mr Way— '
'Mr Way!' said John with a snort. 'Do they call him Milky?'
'No,' said Gentleman. He turned back to me. 'Mr Way,' he said again. 'I should say he won't trouble you much, though. But there is also Mrs Stiles, the housekeeper— she may study you a little harder, you must be careful with her. And then there is Mr Way's boy Charles, and I suppose one or two girls, for the kitchen work; and one or two parlourmaids; and grooms and stable-boys and gardeners— but you shan't see much of them, don't think of them.'
I looked at him in horror. I said, 'You never said about them before. Mrs Sucksby, did he say about them? Did he say, there will be about a hundred servants, that I shall have to play the maid for?'
Mrs Sucksby had a baby and was rolling it like dough. 'Be fair now, Gentleman,' she said, not looking over. 'You did keep very dark about the servants last night.'