The Sleeping Partner (12 page)

“I think you have told me what I needed, Mr. Thorpe. Saint Hester’s in Bethnal Green.”

“Yes. Nottingale is a good fellow, and kindly does not disapprove of me too much. If Miss Nottingale is not with him he will certainly know—” Thorpe was interrupted by a sudden scream of Cockney outrage from the floor above them.

“You are busy, sir,” Miss Tolerance said. “I shall let you return to your work.”

“And I you, Miss Tolerance.” Thorpe bowed. “I shall pray for your success. And if you find my sister, tell her she may always come to me.”

Miss Tolerance curtsied. “I will, Mr. Thorpe. Good bye.”

The street outside Squale House was odorous and cold; the sun had dropped below the houses, dusk was drawing in, and the men outside the gin shop were beginning to be merry and racketing. Miss Tolerance had to walk a good way along Old Street, conscious all the time of her vulnerability, alone, unarmed, in women’s dress. At last she found a hackney carriage and directed it to Manchester Square. When the carriage arrived there she descended, paid the driver, and unlocked the ivied gate into Mrs. Brereton’s garden. A bowl of soup, she thought, and some bread. And then the chance to make some notes.

Marianne Touchwell was standing at her door.

“To what do I owe the honor? Have you no assignations this evening?” Miss Tolerance asked.

“I have, and so have you, if you’ve forgotten.” Mrs. Touchwell wore the preferred working dress of Mrs. Brereton’s whores, a simple gown of pale muslin. She had come out without a shawl, and had her arms crossed against the chill. “You are supposed to dine with your aunt tonight. I do not suppose you will ever hear the end of it unless you do so.”

“Good lord, you’re right. But my dear Marianne, how long have you been waiting here?”

“Only a moment or so; Keefe said he’d heard a carriage stop in the lane, and I hurried over, hoping it was you.”

Miss Tolerance had a sense of crisis narrowly averted. “If you will tell my aunt I expect to be with her in a quarter hour? I must change, and—”

“You are not late yet. Let me come do your hair while you dress. I wanted a word.”

Miss Tolerance unlocked the door to her cottage and the two women went inside. What followed was a sort of contained whirlwind: Marianne stirred up the fire and put the kettle on for wash water while Miss Tolerance shed her walking dress and took out her dress and slippers for the evening. She washed quickly, grateful for the comfort of warm water, dressed, then sat as Marianne brushed her heavy dark hair.

“What did you wish to talk with me about?”

Marianne parted the hair over Miss Tolerance’s ear and brushed the front down over her eyes. “Your aunt, of course.”

Miss Tolerance, hidden behind a veil of hair, felt uneasy. “Is something amiss?”

“You know nothing been quite right with her since she was ill last winter.”

“She has been more irritable—”

“And mistrustful. Perhaps that’s because she’s not used to sharing authority in the house; perhaps ‘tis my fault in some way.” Marianne teased a knot from a lock of hair. “There’s none but you and I—and Frost—that would notice the change. At least until this last month or so, and Mr. Gerard Tickenor.”

“Mr. Tickenor?” Miss Tolerance recalled. “She introduced me to him the other evening. Are you saying he has become close enough to my aunt to notice a change in her?”

“No, no, you misunderstand. I mean that in the last month he’s suddenly had the run of the house. It’s not like Mrs. B. to have favorites.”

Miss Tolerance considered. “He was one of her earliest protectors. He loaned her a good deal of money to start this house—”

“So he did. And she repaid it. He’s come now and then over the years, at least as long as I’ve been with your aunt. But in the last month he has been here more nights than not. Your aunt don’t generally receive that often—”

“And only among a chosen few, I know. Clearly Mr. Tickenor is one of those.”

“Yes, but—Sarah, there’s something odd afoot. I heard her telling him—you know how close she holds information, it took her falling sick for her to trust me to order the candles and vinegar—”

“What was my aunt telling Mr. Tickenor?”

Marianne gathered Miss Tolerance’s back hair high on her crown, twisted it into a long coil, and secured it with pins. “She was telling him what the house makes on a fair night, against the costs of the business. She said he could look at her ledgers if he did not believe her.”

“
Look in her ledgers?
” Miss Tolerance parted the hair over her face to regard her friend. Mrs. Brereton kept her ledgers as close as another woman might have kept her virgin daughters. Only in the last year, and after considerable urging by Miss Tolerance, had Marianne been permitted to view them—”and you’d have thought she was admitting me to the Queen’s jewelry cupboard!” she had observed at the time.

“Could it be that she and Mr. Tickenor propose to do some sort of business together?”

“It could.” Marianne parted the front hair into half a dozen locks and began to twist them away from Miss Tolerance’s face. She secured each with a pin. “But what would that business be? And there is the matter of how she behaves with the man—have you seen her with him?”

“She seemed fond of him. I assumed it was because they were old friends.”

“They are. But you know Mrs. B’s never been the sort to drape herself about a man, even in the way of business. Even with history between them. This is more, Sarah. I don’t know what to make of it. Now—” she twisted the last lock of hair and fixed it in place, then stepped around to view the effect from the front. “This is Mrs. B’s s house. She’s never made no representations to me that I’d have any part of it—at any time. I don’t say any of this to protect a stake of my own, for I haven’t one. But if I, or the other whores here, must be on the lookout for new employ—”

Miss Tolerance stared at her friend. “You think my aunt means to close the house?”

“Or sell it to Tickenor.” Marianne nodded. She leaned forward, adjusted the placement of a pin and nodded in satisfaction. “Or
give
it to him. I don’t know, Sarah. And it is not for me to ask.”

“No.” Miss Tolerance sighed. “It appears it is for me to ask. Aunt Thea has always wanted me to succeed her here, despite my dislike of the idea. I had as well tell you I expect her to laugh at the notion of her giving up the house.”

“We just need to know what’s what. Thank you, Sarah.”

Miss Tolerance looked in the mirror. “At least you have rendered me presentable. ‘Tis always easier to speak to my aunt when she approves of my dress.” She locked her cottage and followed Marianne back to the brothel. Mrs. Touchwell left her for the salon, where she expected to find a patron waiting. Miss Tolerance went upstairs.

“Aunt Thea?”

Mrs. Brereton was seated at her writing table with stationery spread before her. She looked up and smiled at her niece. “You look very handsome tonight. Have I seen that dress before?”

“Many times, Aunt. Perhaps it is the shawl that is new to you?” Miss Tolerance extended an arm draped with fine merino dyed a warm, dark green. Mrs. Brereton examined the fabric closely.

“Very handsome. You should wear green more often, Sarah. And it is not even eight yet! I have lost my wager.”

“Wager, ma’am?”

“I thought you would forget our engagement for dinner.”

Miss Tolerance decided not to gratify her aunt with the intelligence that she had had to be reminded of the appointment. She took a seat by her aunt’s table. “Am I so unreliable?”

“Oh, I suppose not, child. Now, let me put my letters away.” Mrs. Brereton gathered the papers into a neat stack, but not before her niece caught sight of one which opened with the salutation
My dearest Gerard
. Mr. Tickenor’s name. Marianne’s fears seemed suddenly more reasonable.

Mrs. Brereton sent to tell Cook that she was ready to dine.

“Sit down and tell me what you are working at now, Sarah.”

Miss Tolerance smiled. “You know I cannot do that, aunt.”

“I do not mean tell me details. Tell me in the vaguest possible way. Entertain me. Are you still seeking your runaway?”

“I am. The matter would be rendered much easier if anyone could tell me the name of the man she eloped with. In my experience it is far easier to find a man than a woman in this city; men rarely scruple to hide their tracks, nor do they change their habits. A man who bought his snuff at Freybourg and Treyer is likely to continue to do so, and may be seen there and followed. A young lady has fewer habits—”

“Find out where she buys her hats!”

“Can you imagine a young, wellborn girl, recently Fallen and well aware of the censure she must encounter, exposing herself to contempt for the sake of a hat? And it is likely Miss—this girl and her suitor have very little money. Would not the sort of man who would seduce a young woman from her family be the sort of man who will save his money for snuff and riding boots for himself?”

“You’re very harsh toward men, Sarah. Do you, of all people, imagine that a Fallen Woman has no part in her own ruin?”

Before Miss Tolerance could frame an answer their dinner arrived, borne in on trays by Frost and Keefe. The table was laid, Miss Tolerance exclaimed over the array of food sent up for them, and she and her aunt started their meal with a dish of hake. Keefe poured wine and withdrew; Frost, whose jealousy of Miss Tolerance was an open secret, left them with a sour look. As they finished the fish and started upon beef
en croute,
the conversation went to politics.

“You have met the Prince of Wales, Sarah. Will he make a creditable Regent?”

“From the little I have seen of him, I think he is likely to do better than his brothers might. Given how hard he has worked on the establishment of military schools, I hope he will at least have some concern for the men fighting on land and sea.”

Mrs. Brereton took leave to doubt. “Why should he?”

“If he does not, we will run out of men to do the fighting!”

“Then we had all best practice our French,” Mrs. Brereton said. “What sort of care do these fighting men require? Feather pillows and beef filet?” She served herself from a dish of pigeons.

“At least to have their pensions paid, and medicine when it is needful,” Miss Tolerance said. “I met a Walcheren man today who could only sit in the corner by the fire, weak as a cat and shivering for lack of Peruvian bark. It is scandalous.”

“I suppose so.” Mrs. Brereton appeared unmoved. “I do hope the Prince will not forget his friends among the Whig party. Will you have a squab, my dear?”

Miss Tolerance took a little from the proffered dish. A new subject occurred to her. “You can not imagine who I met today, Aunt Thea.”

“You credit me with very little imagination. Was it the Emperor of Russia strolling along Bond Street on the lookout for a new pair of gloves?”

“Not so exalted, but no less surprising. I met my brother Adam.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Brereton seemed unimpressed. “Is he in town?”

“It may make very little difference to you, but recall that I have not seen him in a dozen years.

“Is he much changed?”

Miss Tolerance considered. “In some ways, not at all.” She remembered Sir Adam’s willingness to lay off as much of Lyne’s anger upon her as he might. “In other ways, considerably.” He had, after all, taken his wife’s part and sworn to protect Evadne Thorpe, should she be recovered. “I think he is more likely than my father to forgive my sins.”

“You mean he actually spoke to you?”

“Yes, aunt. We talked for a little time. He was…startled to find me alive and in London. Did you know he is married?”

“Of course. Six or seven years ago, before your father died. Just because the family cast me out is no reason for me to be ignorant of what became of them. Did you
not
know?”

“I had no idea of it. I met his wife as well.”

“Did you?” Now Mrs. Brereton was impressed. She pushed away her dish. “You must tell me everything, my dear. What is the girl like? How did it come about? Did your brother introduce you to her?”

Miss Tolerance realized that she was upon uncertain ground. What could she tell her aunt without breaking confidence?

“Your brother let you speak to her? What is she like?” Mrs. Brereton repeated.

“She is pretty—”

“Dark or fair?”

“Fair, with light hair and brown eyes, a few inches shorter than I, and a little plumper.”

“And her clothes?”

Miss Tolerance laughed. “I promise you, aunt, I was so surprised to learn of our relation that I noticed little about her dress except that it was ladylike and well made. If we meet again, shall I make a closer note of what she wears?”

Mrs. Brereton nodded. “I hope you will. But you say—does the girl know who you are?”

Miss Tolerance shook her head. “No. We met by coincidence, not design.” That was close enough to the truth.

“Will you tell her?”

“No, aunt. I have promised my brother that she shall not know of it.”

“As easy as that? You might have lorded it over him a little before you gave way, Sarah!” Mrs. Brereton’s eyes lit with amused malice.

“I’ve no doubt Adam was thoroughly overset, and I will not deny that the idea occurred to me. But no.” She shook her head again. “‘Tis not fair to punish my sister-at-law for the sins of my own family.”

Mrs. Brereton took a seat and regarded her niece with disappointment. “You are far too ready to sacrifice my amusement to this girl’s comfort.”

“Would you force a gently-reared female to acknowledge her brother’s Fallen sister?”

Mrs. Brereton shook her head in disgust. “Does your brother know what you do to keep yourself?”

“I told him. I think he was surprised. He had been imagining me dead or working in a brothel on the Continent all these years.”

“And his wife? Shall she hire you to find out about your brother’s mistresses?”

“I do not think he has any, Aunt Thea.” Miss Tolerance regarded her aunt with surprise; Mrs. Brereton was rarely coarse. “He dotes upon his wife. In any case, if Lady Brereton wished to hire me for such a task I should not know what to do. I did not tell tales on Adam when we were children; I should not like to begin now.”