Listen to the Moon (14 page)

Mrs. Gilchrist’s perfectly arched brows went up, and her lips twitched. “And you finally decided to return it?”

Sukey’s awkwardness faded into annoyance. “I’m sorry, ma’am. It slipped my mind.”

Mrs. Gilchrist looked at the hairpin. “You keep it. I probably wouldn’t wear it again anyway.”

Sukey’s jaw dropped. “I don’t have
lice
.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” Mrs. Gilchrist said hastily. “I didn’t mean to suggest any such thing.”

“Of course you didn’t.” No, she hadn’t meant to
suggest
it, but she’d been thinking it. Probably wouldn’t borrow a hairpin from her own sister, that’s how particular she was.

The girl waited with an air of faint puzzlement as to why Sukey was still there.

Sukey shifted nervesomely. “Could I ask you for some advice? About clothes?”

Mrs. Gilchrist’s face lit up. “Please do!” Something about her big dark eyes and the shape of her mouth made her forever look as if she might start crying. But if she cried about fashion, they’d be tears of joy.

“I got married.”

“Oh, yes, I heard the banns. I wish you joy! You married Mr. Dymond’s valet, didn’t you? Who hates puns on his name and is very good with stains?”

Sukey smiled fondly. “That’s him.”

“It’s splendid being married, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sukey said at once, determined Mrs. Gilchrist should have no inkling of her doubts on the subject. “And there’s to be a servants’ ball for the New Year. I want to look my best. I have a few crowns, and I hoped maybe you’d seen something, at the pawnshop or somewhere.” She took off her pelisse. “Something to spruce up this old gown a bit.”

Mrs. Gilchrist looked critically at the plain serge. It wasn’t even clean, not really. Sukey hoped very much that no coal dust was actually visible. Then she looked at Sukey’s face. “You’re very pretty. I’ve always thought so.”

That was a pleasant surprise. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“We’re about of a size. Well, you’re a little taller, but that’s all right. I’ll dress you if you like.”

Sukey’s jaw dropped. She was sorry for every uncharitable thought she’d ever had about Mrs. Gilchrist. “Would you really?”

The girl smiled broadly, just such zeal in her eye as Bonaparte must have when he looked at the map of Europe:
You won’t even recognize yourself by the time I’m through.
“Come upstairs and let me see what I have in my workbox.”

There were three gowns in the bottom of Mrs. Gilchrist’s workbox, neatly folded and waiting for a glorious resurrection. The girl held each one up against Sukey, eyes narrowed, and Sukey forgot how to breathe.

“This one,” Mrs. Gilchrist said, nodding to herself. Sukey was glad to have the momentous decision taken out of her hands. “It brings out your eyes, and I don’t think it looks
too
outdated. I copied it from the September 1810
Ackermann’s Repository.
”

The chosen gown, of soft ice-blue worsted wool, was cut
very
low. Sukey had taken it for an underdress, as there wasn’t even a seam at the waist; darts gathered it under the bosom—in other words, scant inches from the neckline. “Your mum let you wear that?”

“Oh, there’s a chemisette for underneath.” The girl waggled her eyebrows. “But I promise it’s still very daring. Watch the pins don’t come out if you dance in it.” She rubbed at a crease in the wool, mouth twisting. “Don’t worry, I’ll get that out before Friday.”

“I’m not worrying,” Sukey said, more understandingly than she might have before her marriage. She was beginning to think it a heavy burden, to see only the smudges and not the silver. “It’s beautiful.”

She crossed town to Mrs. Pengilly’s next, to see how she was getting on. To her surprise, as she climbed the stairs she heard John’s voice from within. But why was she surprised? True to his promise, he’d found a new attic lodger before taking up work at the vicarage.

Her first instinct, strangely, was to sneak off. But she rapped on the door.

John opened it, of course. He smiled broadly when he saw her, deepening the grooves that laughter had cut in his face. “Come. We were just having a glass of cherry bounce.” His flushed face told her he’d already had a glass or two. His voice, raised so Mrs. Pengilly could hear, thrummed through her.

It wasn’t
un
splendid, being married.

Harry Pengilly junior poured festive red brandy into a delicate glass and handed it to her.

“Ooh.” She breathed in deep. “Smells like summer.”

“Smells like Christmas,” Harry Pengilly boomed.

It tasted like both, shot through with cherries and cinnamon. Warmth spread through her like sunshine and a crackling wood fire. “Have you still got any of the cherries? Those are my favorite part.”

“A girl after my own heart.” Mr. Pengilly passed her a bowl of brandy-soaked cherries. She dropped two in her mouth, moaning as the taste spread across her tongue.

John watched her, amber eyes bright, and Sukey wanted to taste cherry bounce in his mouth too. Last Boxing Day—she remembered it with a wince. She’d had some of Mr. Pengilly’s cherry bounce, but she hadn’t enjoyed a drop, for Mrs. Humphrey had given her a single penny for her Christmas box along with a lecture on why she didn’t deserve more.

Every year Mrs. Humphrey had fed her carp-pie with her coin, and every year Sukey had let it ruin her holiday. She’d got Christmas boxes from the boarders, from Mrs. Pengilly and Mrs. Dymond, and yet that penny had sat like a stone in her pocket, sucking up her joy.

“So,” Mrs. Pengilly said with a grin. “How’s married life treating you, girl?”

Why not make the old woman happy? Sukey put her arms around John’s neck and hopped up, aiming for his mouth. He caught her instinctively, as she knew he would, holding her steady against him with her toes off the ground. She pressed her mouth to his, and he kissed her back with fervor, until she grew too heavy and he had to set her down. “Oh, tol-lol,” Sukey said, draining her glass.

Mrs. Pengilly cackled and her son whistled, and John flushed and beamed at her. “I bought us a bottle of brandy.” He pointed at a green glass bottle on the table, corked and sealed with red wax.

Sukey wouldn’t have expected her upstanding husband to buy smuggled spirits, but Harry Pengilly in a selling mood was hard to resist. “Shall we save it for ourselves, or go snacks with the others?” Her instinct was to hoard it, sharing a glass before bed all through Christmas and making love in a warm, tipsy haze. But she found she liked the idea of sharing even better, hosting a late-night party in the kitchen and staying up late, laughing and talking with their new friends. High life belowstairs, indeed!

His mouth curved mischievously. “I thought you might like to give it to Mrs. Humphrey as a Christmas gift.”

Sukey made a startled noise. He’d bought a whole bottle of brandy just so she could lord it over her former mistress? Oh, but she wanted to do it!

Mrs. Pengilly burst out laughing. “A fine idea! Did you know she’s gone through three maidservants in the last month? The new one’s a proper toady. Don’t trust her as far as I could throw her, myself.”

“That’s no matter, Mum,” Mr. Pengilly said. “I told her not to come round anymore. I think Mr. Toogood has the right of it. It’s high time I found you a nice girl to live in.”

“Pooh, it’s a waste of money. I do well enough on my own.”

While the Pengillys argued among themselves, Sukey whispered, “Thank you.”

“I generally strive to avoid pettiness, but a little gloating now and then is good for the spleen.” He handed her the bottle.

She flushed, grateful all over again that he had taken her side so easily. “I didn’t mean that. Thanks for talking to Mr. Pengilly about his mother.”

His fingers lingered on hers. “Of course. I know you’re fond of her. By the by, I believe the Dymonds mean to leave for Spain in a few days, should you desire to wish them a safe voyage.”

“Do you want to come with me?” She remembered he’d been puzzled she considered Mrs. Dymond a friend of sorts. But he’d been with Mr. Dymond so long.

He hesitated, then shook his head. “I’m foxed, and I’d only distract from his packing. I’ll give him good wishes in church tomorrow.”

So they left Mrs. Pengilly’s together, but he went north towards the vicarage while she held the smooth curve of her brandy bottle in her hands and crossed the street.

She nearly went round the back by force of habit—but she tripped right up to Mrs. Humphrey’s front door and boldly seized the knocker.

Miss Starling answered the door. “Sukey!”

The boarders were collected round the fire in the front parlor. “Where’s the spinet?” she asked, startled.

Miss Starling sighed. “Mrs. Humphrey sold it. It’s all right, I still have my guitar.”

Sukey was struck, as she never quite had been before, by how bare the room was—not only because the wallpaper was ancient and peeling, but because there was not a single attempt at decoration of any kind.

Like my mother’s room,
she thought, unsettled.

Today it looked cheerful enough, bedecked with greenery she was sure the boarders themselves had gathered and hung, but there were no pictures on the wall, not even an old fashion plate put up with tacks. The mantel piled with pine boughs was ordinarily quite empty.

Sukey had never thought much of it. Empty shelves and tables were easy to clean, and she wasn’t expected to fuss about with oil and wax for the furniture. But it struck her how much more like a home it might appear, with only a few minutes and a penny here and there.

She supposed it didn’t matter much to the boarders. They had their own rooms, and gussied them up to their hearts’ content. Only she and Mrs. Humphrey had spent their lives keeping everything that mattered locked where no one could see it.

“Come, come.” Miss Starling took her arm. “Happy Christmas! We’ve missed you on our musical evenings. Sing us a good Robin Hood song.”

Sukey had meant to give the brandy to Mrs. Humphrey privately, ever so sweetly, with a poisoned barb or two about making up for any little thing she might have wasted. She’d wanted to rub Mrs. Humphrey’s nose in how well she’d done since she left, make her old mistress have to be grateful to
her
. But if she did that, the bottle would go in the locked cabinet and be stretched out over the next two years.

She held out the bottle. “Happy Christmas! Shall we open it?”

“Oh, we couldn’t,” Miss Starling said. “That’s yours.”

“I brought it for you ladies.” Sukey grinned at her. “I’ve come up in the world, you know.”

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Iphigenia Lemmon called. “Shall I fetch glasses?”

They looked at each other, thinking of going down to the kitchen to ask Mrs. Humphrey for the use of glasses. Sukey remembered now that breaking one of the set while washing it had been the pretext for omitting a Christmas box altogether on her first Christmas at the boarding house.

Getting the sack here was the best thing that had ever happened to her. Why hadn’t she left on her own? Why had it been so easy to stay?

“We shall drink from the bottle,” Miss Starling proposed to a chorus of agreement.

“Songs I don’t mind, ladies, but shouting—” Mrs. Humphrey froze in the doorway of the room. “Sukey.”

“Ma’am.” Sukey bobbed a curtsey from habit.

Mrs. Humphrey drew herself up. “If you need to speak with me, you may come round to the back door.”

Sukey drew herself up too. It was small and mean, but she hated her old mistress. She hoped her new toady of a maid was stealing.

“She came to see us,” Miss Lemmon said. “She’s going to sing to us about Robin Hood.”

“Happy Christmas, ma’am.” Sukey gave her a defiant smile. “Have a glass of brandy at my expense, if you like.”

Mrs. Humphrey looked at Miss Lemmon, industriously opening with the bottle with a corkscrew she had produced from somewhere about her person. “I don’t drink smuggled brandy,” she said abruptly, “and neither should you. It’s unpatriotic. What would Lord Wellington say?” She went out and slammed the door.

Sukey felt ashamed—of the smuggled brandy and her own unkindness.

Miss Lemmon passed her the open bottle. “Never mind her,” she whispered. “What difference does it make?”

Sukey took a swig. None. It made none at all.

* * *

After leaving the Pengillys’, John had meant to buy a secondhand book at Foley’s Folios, but as the proprietor was a mummer and had closed up shop for the day, he had spent a leisurely afternoon by the kitchen fire with one of Mr. Summers’s histories. He could wish for more stimulating reading matter, but it was nice to have nothing to do.

Even if he had secretly hoped, as he had the Saturday before, that he and his wife might contrive to share more than a few moments of conversation. But no, this was her chance to get away from him.

“Johnny?”

There she was now, in the doorway of the kitchen. He smiled at her. “Mrs. Toogood.”

A few steps into the kitchen made it obvious she was quite drunk. “Mr. Dymond hopes you’ll send over your recipe for curing headaches.” She spoke very loudly. John hoped the vicar couldn’t hear.

“My father swore me to secrecy when he taught me that recipe, I’m afraid. Mr. Dymond celebrated the birth of our Lord rather heavily, I take it?”

“Hadn’t even shaved,” she confirmed, and laughed at his wince. “He and my poor mistress both were in a bad way. I left them to it pretty quick. I’d have felt sorry for them, only Mrs. Dymond said it was justice for how happy they’d been last night.”

She smiled at him, evidently well pleased with him and the world in general. “Wake me up when it’s time for my bath, will you?” And she was off again, leaving him to his dull history.

A half-holiday ought to leave one feeling rested, but when Sunday dawned, John only felt discontented and unready to begin another week. A morning spent in church made things worse. This was the first time regular church attendance had been positively required of John by an employer, and today he resented it, as nearly another half-holiday stolen from him. On returning to the vicarage, he was obliged to give himself a stern talking-to before he could go briskly about his duties.