Fair Fight (38 page)

‘Mrs Webber?’ she called, and opened the door a little way.

They were still abed, though it was almost nine. Mr Webber’s mouth hung open, the bandage askew upon his swollen face. His battered hands he held to his chest. His breath came as loud as a man gasping for air. Mrs Webber, small as she was, had curled herself about him, her arm hooked over his enormous ribcage. Her face was obscured by his shoulder but I thought, from the stillness of her, that she slept as deeply as he. All this I saw in just a moment, and then I whispered, ‘Leave them,’ and the maid closed the door.

I came up the kitchen stairs just in time to see Granville descending the main staircase, calling for the butler in a furious tone. Immediately I saw what a feast of gossip we had brought that household – both his eyes were blacked and his nose had swollen ridiculously, like the nose of Mr Punch in a puppet show. He held in his hand the purse from which I had liberated ten guineas the day before. I had forgotten all about it, in the anguish of Mr Webber’s defeat.

‘Granville,’ I called out.

‘Not now, Charlotte! We have a thief amongst us.’ His voice was changed, made high and strange by his swollen nose.

The butler, appearing at the drawing room door, now drew himself up very straight and looked grave.

‘A thief, sir?’

‘Granville, you must listen. I took ten guineas from your purse.’

Granville stopped still and turned to face me. ‘May I ask you to repeat yourself?’ he asked, as though he meant to frighten me.

I felt only weary. ‘I believe you heard me. I laid it upon poor Mr Webber’s victory. Now it is lost, along with everything else.’

I had thought he would berate me, but his shoulders slumped and he only sighed and turned to the butler.

‘We will leave immediately. Ready the carriage,’ he said.

I followed him out obediently enough, though I was dreading his company. I did not know that I could bear to be shut up with him for two whole days. The servants, I could see, were watching us from the windows of the house.

I sat opposite him and tried not to look at his bruises. The shame of it all kept us silent; I recalled sitting quietly beside Perry, when we had been punished together by Nurse. The stillness of my body and the movement of the carriage caused all my tender limbs to ache.

Once we were on our way Granville said, ‘I have had them pack us a basket of food. We won’t stop, except to change the horses. You must say, Lottie, if you need to stop the carriage for any other purpose.’

I only looked at him.

‘What,’ he said, ‘will you not speak to me, all the journey?’

‘You have forced me to return with you; will you make me speak? Will you send word to have Mr Webber harmed, if I do not?’

‘You treat me harshly,’ he said.

‘I, treat you!’

‘Why should I not have my wife with me? Even after all.’ He gestured to his grotesque face. ‘Have I not forgiven you your thievery? Have I not done what you asked of me, and seen Mr Webber made safe?’

‘You brought him to danger,’ I said.

Granville sighed. ‘You would not understand, Lottie. It is a matter for men.’

‘It is a matter for morals,’ I said. ‘You would not understand that.’

I would not speak to him further. I spent much of the journey pretending to sleep. When I heard Granville’s breath slow I allowed myself to open my eyes and look at the passing scenery until it grew dark. The carriage rattled on, through the night.

Even after a journey such as that I could not be glad to see The Ridings, rising out of the morning fog like a clumsy sea-monster. All was dreary and we had lost. I followed Granville into the house only because there was nowhere else to go. The servants looked at our bruised countenances quite as avidly as the London maids.

Granville halted in the hall and stared at the bare patches upon the walls.

‘What is the meaning of this? What in God’s name have you done with the portraits?’

‘I ordered them taken down,’ I said.

‘Indeed?’ He glared at me. His eyebrow twitched strangely. After a moment I realised that he was attempting to raise it but was prevented by his bruises.

‘Yes. They are quite safe. If you like them so much, you may put them in your dressing room.’ I went quickly to the stairs, so that he would be forced to speak to my back, or say nothing. He kept his silence.

What relief to get back to my own dressing room, and yet, how queer. It seemed the room of another woman – seemed, perhaps, like the untouched chambers of the house at Queen Square, where everything was arranged according to the needs of a life now passed. I lay on my daybed like a woman in a faint. Nothing mattered. Nothing, except the fate of Mr Webber. I was in a frenzy of guilt that I had abandoned him. I had not left instructions that he was to be given white cullis, I had not bid either of the Webbers farewell. I vowed to myself that the moment they were back, I would find a way to repair my husband’s wrongs. That thought recovered me somewhat, but even so, it was cruel and strange to be returned so, to this penitential drudgery.

Then, a thought, like a gentle tapping at a window pane,
Henry
. The one person who could be relied upon to feel some of my own anguish.

I called for Lucy. Her eyes, usually so dull, regarded me brightly. I could not begin to guess what they were saying downstairs, to see us arrive home so bruised and Granville’s man defeated.

‘Have Henry sent to me at once.’

Lucy bit her lip, and I thought she fought not to smile.

‘I can’t rightly do that, madam – he’s been sent to his ma’s house. He ain’t well.’

‘Not well?’ My disappointment was more bitter than ever I would have thought.

‘No, madam. He came over queer when he heard of Mr Webber’s being defeated.’ She gave me a sideways glance to see how I received this news. She must have seen what she wanted for she continued, ‘Mr Horton sent him home, till he can keep a grip on himself, he said. Like a baby, he was, and him a big boy of fourteen.’

I drew myself up.

‘Henry has shown a loyalty to Mr Dryer’s interests that other members of this household would do well to remember. Would that all of you were so moved by your master’s success or failure. Have Mr Horton send a message to that effect immediately. He’s to tell Henry that we look forward to having him back whenever he feels himself ready and that he shall find his tenderness rewarded, not punished.’

There
, I thought,
now take your sly looks back to the kitchen and tell them all I said so
.

Dear Henry, I had known he would feel it as I did. It did not make me any the less alone, however.

Granville seemed not to know how to occupy himself, now that his boxing scheme was ended. He did not seem angry, any longer, that I had blacked his eyes, quite the contrary. He sought me out and called for wine in the evenings, to please me. He was often near me, enquiring if I might like his company, like a dog seeking a pat. I kept away from him as far as was possible and thought bitterly over all those days I had spent alone, waiting for his notice. I had another reason to find his attentions irksome; I wished for an opportunity of going alone to the gatehouse to pack up any belongings that the Webbers might have left behind. I could not imagine that they would travel back to fetch them, and it gave me good reason to visit them in Bristol and enquire how they did. I would not let Granville follow me to the gatehouse. I might want to sit and remember, I might wish to swing at the leather man.

It was not until perhaps a fortnight after we arrived home, that Granville finally took his gun out to the woods and left me alone. The moment he was gone I hurried upstairs and began to look out a walking gown, but no sooner had I opened the press than I heard the knocker on the front door, and then Mr Bowden’s voice in the hall below.

This was most unwelcome.
Do not ask if I am at home
, I wished, silently.
Go away, go away
. I did not come down. I stood at the top of the stairs and heard his enquiry and Horton’s response. Thankfully, Mr Bowden said he would go out and catch Granville, and had Horton point him the direction.

I went to my window and watched him walk from the yard. I told Lucy that I was going to take a turn about the lawn, and without even changing from my morning gown, only calling for a cloak – I slipped away.

It was glorious to walk down the drive alone. The air upon my face and the sense of solitude chosen quietly lifted my heart.

The key to the front door of the gatehouse was just where it should have been, tucked out of sight upon the lintel. I had never before made use of a key to open the front door of any kind of dwelling. Keys had been things to secure the doors of bedrooms, or music boxes. I felt like a housebreaker, and somehow like a grown woman – or perhaps I felt like a man. How odd to see my own hand turn the key and push open the door. Then I felt strange all over again as I stepped inside.

The chairs and tables were where I was used to seeing them, the stools drawn up to the hearth as had been our habit. These things remained, as of course they must, but the air of the place was changed. It smelt cold and damp, with something of rot, like a country lane turned rancid. Looking about me I saw what else was changed; the whole house was too clean. The hearth was swept, the floor was scrubbed, the curtains arranged and tied. I could see nothing of Mrs Webber’s left at all, nothing that I might take to her. The scullery was tidied. Pans hung neatly, earthenware jars arranged in a line. The larder had a few things left upon its shelves, made into cheesecloth bundles that might have held anything. These, too, were lined up neatly, like a row of cocoons.

The staircase had been polished and smelt of beeswax. I felt a sneaking excitement as I climbed; I had never been up there before. Surely, here was where Mrs Webber’s possessions would be stored. Here, where she had laid her head as I lay in my own bed, feeling my swollen knuckles throb in time with my pulse. I opened the plain wooden door as quietly as if she might be sleeping there still, but the room was empty and so unremarkable as to have been any room, anywhere. The coverlet was smoothed and tucked, the boards swept clean, the ewer emptied and set neatly beside the jug. There was nothing that could be called a personal effect in the whole of the house. Had they come and fetched away their things, and never called to see me, nor sent a word?

I descended the staircase feeling I might weep, as though the days spent there had been taken from me and even my memories spoilt.

I went out into the yard and felt somewhat soothed. Here nothing could much be changed. The leather man hung from his chain just as he always had. The grass around his pole had grown to brush his underside, but he was the same. I had struck at him till I trembled. I had leant against him exhausted and marked him with damp from my brow.

‘We have been abandoned,’ I said to him, and felt surprised to hear my own voice in the quiet.

I pushed him, to make him swing, and heard the creak of the chain. Mrs Webber had never allowed me to strike at him without mufflers on my hands. I wished she had left me those, at least. The chain made such a mournful sound that I steadied him with my hands to stop it. Then I leant forward and put my mouth close to the leather.

‘I shall get some mufflers, from somewhere,’ I whispered, ‘and Henry and I will be back here to see you made use of.’

Then I turned and made to go back inside.

‘Mrs Dryer,’ came a voice.

I started and whirled around as though I expected to be attacked. When I saw it was George Bowden come upon me alone I was almost as flustered as if it had indeed been an assailant. I put my hand to my breast to feel my heart racing as fast as a bird’s.

‘Mrs Dryer, I came to find you.’

He looked queer, his eyes shining as though with fever.

‘Are you ill?’ I asked.

‘No, quite well, quite well, I assure you.’

He came suddenly toward me and took my hand and drew me back into the gatehouse. I let him, and stumbled a little as he pulled me across the step. His other hand found my elbow to steady me, and once we were inside he stepped forward, so that I found myself pressed against him. His eyes searched my own as though trying to read my thoughts. I gazed back at him. His eyes were as wide and as long-lashed as ever, their colour as rich. Did they move me? I could not tell. My thoughts were as hidden from me as they seemed to be from Mr Bowden.

‘What is it, Mr Bowden? Why should you look for me?’ I did not ask him to release me.

His mouth was so close to my own that I could feel his breath upon my face. His perfume was exactly as it always had been. It spoke straight to my memory of his holding me, beside the stream. I had been so hopeful, and hopeless, of all the wrong things.

‘I have always looked for you,’ he said.

I felt, suddenly, how alone we were, how far from any other soul. I felt a thrill much like the one I had felt when Mrs Webber, Henry and I had set off in the dogcart, under cover of darkness.
I am alone, in an isolated place, with a man not my husband. Not a soul knows where I am.

‘Please, you need not compose pleasantries for me.’

‘Does the way I speak displease you? Only tell me what to alter and I will change it.’

He still had one hand upon my elbow; now it moved to my waist. My other hand he held clasped against his chest. His fingers were stroking at my palm. I did not like it, my palm being so scarred. He was breathing heavily; one might almost say, panting. I twisted my hand and wrest it from his grip, pushing at his shoulder with my free hand. I did not push him hard. He released me and stepped back, putting up his hands and running them through his hair.

I walked from him and sat upon a chair, beside the little table.

‘What is it you look for, Mr Bowden?’

He followed me and stood again, very near. Only one step would have him standing over me. I did not look up at him. I found my gaze drawn to the places it should not be; his waistcoat, his trousers, his violinist’s hands.