Another Heartbeat in the House (14 page)

Mr Thackeray would not hear of my making a contribution to the lodging-house fees. In return, I volunteered to take care of Isabella while he sought peace to write in the faded grandeur of the public reading room. The manager of a theatre in Covent Garden had commissioned a comedy, and Mr Thackeray laboured to come up with good lively stuff during those harrowing weeks at Grattan Hill.

In the evening, when Isabella finally dropped into an opium-induced slumber, he and I would take supper together, and afterwards a bumper or two of burgundy. Mr Thackeray (William, for we had begun to Christian-name each other) regaled me with scandalous tales of London society, while I entertained him with accounts of my unorthodox upbringing.

My mother, an opera dancer and singer, was a native of Paris, where I had been born and lived for some years; my father was an artist. His career as a portraitist came to naught, foundering on the inhospitable shores of Miss Pinkerton's academy (he had painted the likeness of that formidable beldame which hung in her study). He spent the final miserable years of his life as a drawing master in that establishment, then – once my education had been secured – made me an orphan by dying of a fit of
delirium tremens
. By then I excelled at the games of chance learned in his studio in Soho, just as I had mastered the pretty tricks passed on to me by the opera girls in Montmartre.

I like to think I supplied William with material; indeed, I know for certain I did. Sadly, the comic play he finally drafted was never produced in Covent Garden or any other theatre.

Meanwhile, Isabella fluctuated between lucidity and insanity. Her mother bestirred herself to bring the occasional plate of food from her adjacent home, but otherwise did nothing but brag and prate incessantly about her own great merits and sacrifices. As for Isabella's sister, Jane: she came once or twice to read aloud some psalms; that's all.

The widow Fagan who presided over this house of misfits was a pretty, lively woman of five-and-thirty, with three equally pretty, lively daughters. These kind-hearted girls adopted Annie as a sister, taking her with them on expeditions to Tivoli Woods and Netley Abbey, and after some days associating with this trio of colleens the child acquired a fetching brogue. She was joyous and free as a bird, and it perplexed her that her mother showed no inclination to explore these new haunts with her. She would return in the evening, chattering ceaselessly about the adventures she had had, while Isabella lay gazing at the ceiling with vacant eyes, emitting an occasional agonized mewl.

As for me, I pondered what might be my next strategy.

I forged an alliance with the good Mrs Fagan, who took it upon herself to become my champion. I had showed her the dresses given me by Mrs O'Dowd, whereupon she had gone into an ecstasy of delight, and spoken of effecting an entrée for me into Corkonian society. The
haut monde
of the city and all the baronetcies beyond, she said, would be enraptured by my grace, charm and wit.

We were sitting one day in a shady niche in what had been the garden of her house. It was quite overgrown now with weeds and grass and creeping vines. Ornate urns and empty stone troughs that had held flowers – spouted fountains, even – were crumbling and coated in mildew, but roses grew rampant still, clambering over the terrace and through the sashless windows; the parterre was fragrant with their scent.

Mrs Fagan was consulting the newspaper, with a view to having me place an advertisement.

‘In the papers, ladies are advertising continually as governesses,' she told me. ‘Look here – “Gentlewoman of agreeable manners, and accustomed to the best society is anxious to secure …” etcetera, etcetera. And many of them specify that they are “English ladies”, for they set great store by all things English here. It is a merit to have dwelt in the city of London; you must turn it to your advantage. I have connections still, you know – I am a woman of property after all, though my income is modest.'

To be sure, Mrs Fagan – when she sallied forth into the public arena – cut a trim figure in her bombazine gown and her straw bonnet with its sober black ribbon. From her outward bearing, no one would have supposed that she pinched and starved at home. She had culled and ripped and snipped every bit of finery she had possessed during her married years to make the most ingenious dresses for her eldest daughter (to whom, it was rumoured, a fortune was to be left by some old aunt), in the hope of attracting a suitor. So Mrs Fagan put forward a good face against fortune, and kept up appearances in the most virtuous manner, though at home in Grattan Hill it was her prerogative to lounge about in a shabby peignoir with her hair in curl papers.

‘Aha!' Mrs Fagan lit upon an announcement from the Cork Society. ‘There is to be a dinner given for the members of the Irish Agricultural Association, followed by a ball in the Imperial Hotel. You must attend!'

It was plain from my face that I was not a-tingle at the notion of a gathering of farmers, all in breeches and gaiters and with leering red faces, shambling around after a guinea dinner and a feed of poitín.

‘Do not disparage it, dear friend,' Mrs Fagan chided me. ‘You think of uncouth peasant farmers, but there are landlords aplenty who will be in attendance, many of whose daughters require an education. My own brother-in-law has a demesne not far from here in the village of Doneraile, which is currently the most fashionable place in North Cork. The line of gentlemen's carriages outside the church on Sundays is said to be a mile long.'

That augured well, for I knew that gentlefolk seldom attended church from religious scruple; the service on a Sunday morning was more often an opportunity for each of the ladies to scrutinize the others' attire, and for the bucks to admire them.

‘Let us think of practicalities,' continued Mrs Fagan. ‘I have no doubt that my sister and brother-in-law will be pleased to escort you: Charlotte will make a splendid chaperone. She is some ten years older than me, and is Viscountess Doneraile.'

‘Your sister is a titled lady?'

‘I am too. Before I married, you would have dropped me a curtsey and addressed me as Your Ladyship. I – who am now known as plain Mrs Sam Fagan – have a fine pedigree, for I am the fifth daughter of an earl.'

‘But surely you retain your rank?'

‘Nobody uses my title except in jest.' Assuming a haughty stance, she twinkled and laughed. ‘Why bother with it? I might as well be the fifth daughter of a sergeant major, or a clergyman, or an articled clerk, for all the bills my title ever paid. Besides, I loved my husband, though he was a ne'er-do-well.'

I thought of Mrs O'Dowd, whose father had been a baron, and of the girls at Miss Pinkerton's academy whose education would count for nothing once they were married, and of all those impoverished Russian princesses whose names appeared in
Galignani's Messenger
, and now, looking at the widow Fagan, I thought of all the daughters of peers who must take second, third, fourth or twentieth place to their younger brothers, and who must – if they were to survive – dream of marrying only for money, and never for love.

‘Now,' Mrs Fagan resumed briskly. ‘The kingfisher blue taffeta is the most becoming of your gowns. Have you jewels to wear?'

I laughed. ‘Not even paste.'

‘No matter. I have an heirloom or two still in my jewel case. I can lend you some pretty pieces – I have a necklace and ear bobs set with turquoises and pearls that would go charmingly with the blue. I must ask you for a deposit; for form's sake, you understand.'

‘I understand, dear Mrs Fagan –'

‘Maria, please! It is time we Christian-named each other.'

‘—my dear
Maria
: but I have no money.'

And then I remembered the watch that Mr O'Dowd had consulted so ostentatiously at the dinner table on my first and only night spent under his roof. I felt neither contrition not compunction for having taken it; my sole regret was that I had not augmented my spoils with the snuffboxes and other gewgaws strewn around that man's drawing room, for he owed me more than a gold timepiece. ‘Wait here,' I told Maria.

I tripped upstairs to fetch it, pausing briefly at Isabella's door when I heard her moan in pain. I was mistaken – it was Jane, her sister, singing a doleful hymn.

I had sewn the watch into the wadding of my bonnet. As I unpicked the stitching to retrieve it, I heard Annie's voice float up from the street below. I looked down to see her and Louisa – Maria's youngest – absorbed in scolding a pair of dollies that they had made out of pegs and shreds of gingham. ‘We'll put the childher to bed with no supper,' said Louisa, ‘and then we'll sit down together and have a bumper of wine.'

I smiled at this scene of tender domesticity, then made my way back to Maria in the garden. She was shooing off a tomcat who had come calling on her pretty tabby.

‘Here,' I said, offering her the watch. ‘Will this do as collateral?'

She took it and looked at it curiously, then held it closer, the better to inspect it. ‘Do you know what you have here?' she asked. ‘It is a Breguet. See here, on either side of the numeral XII, in minute characters, is his signature. You are in luck, my dear, for Breguet is the finest watchmaker in Europe.'

‘Is it worth a deal of money?'

‘It is worth a
great
deal of money. If you take it to the pawnbroker's it should fetch at least £150. How did you come by it?'

‘A gentleman gave it to me.'

Mrs Fagan held my gaze. The imperturbability with which she regarded me moved me to amend my story.

‘I took it from a savage who committed a heinous trespass against my person.'

She leaned forward and took my hand. ‘Then I am more inclined than ever to help you,' she said, with a smile.

DONERAILE! EDIE WAS
intrigued to know that the town she had visited today – which was scarcely more than a village – had once been esteemed the most fashionable place in North Cork. She wished she had swotted up on it before she had left London. Perhaps there was a travel guide or suchlike in the bookcase that could tell her more about the history of the place?

There wasn't; although the copy of William Thackeray's
Irish Sketch-Book
, published by Messrs Chapman & Hall in 1843, told her that his travels had taken him to Cork city and nearby Lismore. There was, however, no mention of Doneraile in the index. Perhaps she would find more in Eliza's records?

A glance at her wristwatch – a girl's Timex that she had had since she was at school – told her it was past ten o'clock. Edie was dog-tired after her long cycle into town and back, and a day spent lugging furniture around. But she was awfully anxious to know, among other things, if Eliza
had
gone to the ball …

Just one more chapter, she promised herself, and then she'd go to bed.

Mr O'Dowd's watch – which was engraved with the motto
Nunc vino pellite curas
(‘Now Drive Away Your Cares with Wine') – fetched more than ten times what poor Brodie might earn in a year.

Amongst the flashy French and plated goods shops that lined the Mall, I found a
Magasin des Modes
, in which establishment I purchased a beaded reticule, a pair of kid gloves, a fringed cashmere shawl, a fan of dyed satinette feathers and a dainty pair of shoes of the same colour with Louis heels.

Mrs Fagan – Maria – helped me dress. The blue taffeta fitted perfectly, demonstrating how tiny Mrs O'Dowd's waist had been before the birth of her two lumpish children, and the pearl-and-turquoise jewels that hung from my ears and coiled serpent-like about my throat enhanced the aquamarine gleam in my eyes. I wore my hair in glossy bandeaux, coiled to show off the pearl clasp at the nape of my neck, and applied the merest touch of lip salve to my mouth.

Before I left the house, I called upon Isabella in her apartment. She shrieked when she saw me, and asked if I was a fairy. I assured her that I was no fairy, but rather her friend, upon which she threw her arms around me and implored me with copious tears not to leave her, for if I did she surely never would see me again. I distracted her with a china doll that I had bought for Annie that morning – a beauty, with a painted face, a dress of sprigged muslin and button boots – then made my escape. As I slipped from the room, I caught William's eyes upon me. I cast him a look over my shoulder which plainly said
Noli me tangere
. I had become inordinately fond of William, but I could not allow any sentimental attachment to him or his family to impede my progress.