Ace, King, Knave (2 page)

From one of the ropes attached to the ceiling hangs a deep basket. She winds it down and inspects the contents: small bottles of gin, intended for display on the upper layer of her cart. She beds down the strange deck among the gin bottles, perhaps as a tribute to their shared power of illusion, and takes up another from a nearby shelf: the Tarocco.

3

‘Peter is party to a plan,’ Sophia says. Titus looks blankly at her; she points at her mouth and then at his to indicate that he should repeat her words. ‘Peter is party to a plan.’

‘Feeter iss farty to a flan.’

‘Party.’

‘Farty.’

Were this an English boy, she would suspect him of vulgar insolence as well as the coarsest possible language, but his eyes, that seem to be all pupil, show only perplexity and distress.

Is it possible that he is deaf? If so, it must be a very particular kind of deafness. He pronounces
m
and
n
without difficulty, so why should he not distinguish between
f
and
p
?

‘Titus, listen!’ She tugs on his ear. ‘P-p-p-p-p-p-p! Party!’

‘F-f-f-f-f-f ―’

‘Stop!’ Sophia cries. If they are all so difficult to school, she wonders that the
ton
should find them desirable as servants. Apart, of course, from the saving in wages; but persons of quality need hardly fret about that.

The boy’s mouth is trembling.

‘We’ll try again another day,’ she tells him, ringing the bell for the housekeeper. ‘Wait here.’

Mrs Hooton appears and makes a point of not looking at Titus.

‘Mrs Hooton, kindly take Titus to your room and keep him with you an hour or two, conversing with him as you carry out your work. Pray correct his pronunciation.’ Mrs Hooton nods with no great show of enthusiasm. ‘Titus, go with Mrs Hooton, listen carefully to her and endeavour to reproduce the sounds of a native English speaker.’

Panic flares in his face: he has not understood.

‘Go with Mrs Hooton,’ she repeats, betrayed into gesturing like a fishwife. ‘Go away.’

When they have left the room Sophia flings herself down in a chair. How can she rid herself of the boy without offending Zedland? Titus is intolerable; he will bring her into ridicule wherever she goes. What is she to do?

She could leave him at home, of course, but how can he be made a contented servant, when he cannot be fitted into the servants’ world? If his age is what Zedland says it is, he will never be tall and substantial enough for a footman, even supposing one could find just such another and make up a matching pair. It is a great pity: two coal-black men in cream-coloured livery would look exceedingly well. But (
revenons à nos moutons
) there is nothing to be done with this particular black. Even in the stables he would be the butt of the other lads. Sophia has never witnessed the cruelties that underlings inflict upon one another but she is aware that they take place. Papa was right on this occasion, as on so many others: when he offered to decline Zedland’s gift on her behalf, she should have agreed.

Perhaps when they are married her husband will come to understand that Titus is unsuitable. With this thought comes an inner prompting to rise and examine herself in the glass. Sophia could not explain the origin of this impulse, which is as irresistible as it is trivial. Though not vain, she now carries out such inspections several times a day, a habit which took hold around the time when Mr Zedland first began to pay court.

This morning she perceives a young lady of the middle height, narrow-laced and graceful in her posture. She is thankful that from her earliest years she was trained to carry herself well. The restrictions she found so unbearable as a child have become second nature and whenever she sees some bumpkin girl waddling along, jaw poked out in front, back humped and elbows thrusting, Sophia is filled with an agreeable sense of superiority. A gentlewoman’s very shoulders convey composure, the essence of breeding. Such an elegant female can take comfort in the knowledge that, while not listed among the first in Beauty’s golden book, she is of goodly report in that of Beauty’s sister, Grace. As for her natural advantages, she has fair ringlets, a white skin, blue eyes. She is not pockmarked or coarse-featured and is neither fat nor thin. On the debit side, it must be admitted that a gentleman once described her, when he thought she could not overhear, as a ‘blank’. Nobody has ever written sonnets to her features, which are so mild as to border upon dullness. Sophia, who can bear witness to the power of bewitching eyes, knows that she cannot pretend to such attractions.

She reads aloud with pleasing expression, has a good French accent, sings in tune, plays the harpsichord, can make correct sketches in pencil, is in health, is kind to the poor and considerate towards the servants. She is considered a satisfactory young woman by those judges whose opinions count for most, namely those who know her well. She is her parents’ sole heir, with a modest fortune of her own and more to follow on that terrible day when Papa and Mama are no more. She takes no pleasure in anticipating this future wealth; on the contrary, she tries to forget that such a day must come.

In short, her character is virtuous and refined, her father’s offer honest and plain, her person elegant. All this shall be Mr Zedland’s portion.

What will he lay down to match it?

Here Sophia’s breast begins to rise and fall, her blood to beat up into those blank cheeks.

She has heard the term
worship
used to describe some preference of man for woman, or woman for man, but always in such a way as to imply that the tenderness thus referred to was a frivolous, perhaps immoral, connection. Now, however, she herself has arrived at a condition for which there can be no other expression. Zedland’s manners, so different from those of her rustic neighbours, seem the attributes of a god. It is true that his skin is a little brown, but an olive complexion has a charm of its own, and as for his hands – so long and fine – Sophia would be surprised if any gentleman in the whole of her native county could match them. The truth of the matter is that Zedland is Sophia’s maiden passion, the only man whose flesh has ever spoken to hers. It murmurs and wheedles all the time she is with him, until she scarcely knows how to breathe.

Her one instinctive defence has been to conceal her fevered condition both from him and from her parents, who believe hers to be a union recommended by reason. Since childhood she has been accustomed to their ‘Sophy is rational’ – high praise for a girl – and could not bear them to witness her infatuated.

How can the dim creature peering out of the looking-glass be worthy of
Mr Zedland
, whose very voice makes Sophia squirm with unspeakable sensations, as though a child were already kicking in her belly? His eyes, deep and dark (their whites so clear as to be tinged with blue), are the bewitching orbs with which she forlornly compares her own, and sees how very unenslaving they are. Yesterday, when he proposed taking her out in the boat and Papa consented, Sophia actually shook to think of the coming
tête-à-tête
and when her suitor pulled away, marooning poor Rixam, her mouth grew dry. After this initial wickedness, however, Zedland acted quite correctly. He spoke of his own love for Sophia and his wish that his domestic arrangements might please her; yet he smiled on her so long, gazing into her all the while, that she was persuaded he had fathomed her entire secret, penetrated right to her soul and seen his image enshrined there, with herself thrown at his feet.

It is of course natural and proper for a young lady to feel love for her intended. But what is love? Sophia thinks, in those fleeting moments when she is able to think at all. Is this what is meant – this
cruelty
? For as they sat, seemingly balanced, in the boat, each reflecting the other, she knew that they were not balanced at all, that Zedland’s strength rendered her powerless, that he could make her do anything, and that if he did not understand this now, he very soon would. Again she examines her person in the mirror. How calm and controlled that reflected image! How dignified!

*

My Dear Sophia,

I trust this finds you and your esteemed parents well. For my part, I am fully recovered from the chill of which I told you, free of bottles and boluses and master of my own time. The last of the papers being now come from Essex, I propose to bring them with me on my next visit to Buller. That is, on the sixteenth or seventeenth of this month.

How it grieves me that my beloved parents cannot share our joy on that day which is to witness our entry together into perfect happiness! For perfect, my Sophia, I am convinced it must be. Where two persons, as well matched as we, are surrounded by universal goodwill and cemented by mutual tenderness, happiness must be the inevitable outcome. For proof of that you need look no further than your own dear father and mother, whom I may soon address, with the warmest affection, as my own.

I must now come to something less agreeable. I trust you will not be too disappointed when I tell you that my agent has not purchased the silks, &c., as agreed. There were none of the best quality to be had at the price we had allowed, London being so very expensive just now. On consideration it appears to me that you might buy as good at Bath, where you may consult your own choice entirely and have them made up while we are there

Sophia clutches the letter, almost crumpling it.

‘What is it, darling?’ Her mother’s gentle voice invites confidences. ‘He hasn’t taken a turn for the worse, I hope?’

‘No, no, Mama, he’s quite well now, but the most provoking news! He’s neglected to act for us – he says I can buy the stuffs in Bath and have them run up on the spot.’

‘He has a great deal of business to attend to,’ is Mrs Buller’s comment. ‘Still, you must have your trousseau.’

‘You didn’t wish him to buy the stuffs,’ Sophia admits with shame.

‘No, indeed. We should never have consented, only he made such a point of the superior choice and quality. I must say,’ Mama sniffs, ‘we were very open-handed with him. Enough, I would’ve thought, even for London prices.’

This is Sophia’s first disagreement with Mr Zedland (although the man himself does not know it yet) and her courage fails her at once. ‘Perhaps it won’t matter so much, in the end? What do you think, Mama – could the things be made at Bath?’

But Mama says, ‘Of all men, he
ought
to understand. His own tailoring is so very elegant, and everyone knows how much time that takes. I shall write to him.’

‘Oh, Mama, you won’t quarrel with him, will you?’

‘Don’t you know me better than that, child? Let me see the letter.’

Though the greater part of the contents remain unread, Sophia hands it over without hesitation. Mr Zedland never descends to ‘warm expressions’; his communications might be read by the Archbishop of Canterbury himself.

‘He hasn’t bought the mare either,’ her mother murmurs. ‘Quite right, since it appears she was lame – but to fancy you can be married out of a mantua-maker’s! No, no, that must all be finished with before your honeymoon.’ Mama folds the letter up briskly and hands it back to Sophia. ‘You shall see what I write.’

Sophia hugs her – ‘Thank you, darling Mama!’ – before going off to read the remainder of her letter in private.

It is partly her own reaction that she wishes to hide, since she finds his letters strangely disappointing. Could it be their very correctness which is so lacking in charm? Uniformly polite, they breathe chaste love and dutiful affection, when what she craves is some hint that he thinks of their approaching wedding as she does, with mingled desire and terror. Sophia reflects bleakly that the coming ordeal may be all her own, men’s lives and bodies (her mother has explained) being differently constructed from those of women, so that the act which bathes a husband in voluptuous sensations may pain his wife, though as Mama said, ‘it will soon pass off’. (Sophia turned scarlet on being told this; it was the fault of the words
voluptuous sensations
, which themselves brought about curious stirrings she would be puzzled to describe to Mama.) It seems that Nature has allotted Mr Zedland the lion’s share of happiness in the marital embrace: should he not be correspondingly more eager to lay claim to it than his yearning, yet shrinking, bride?

Sophia has more cause to shrink than most. Since childhood she has been troubled by a ‘little weakness’, as Mama insists upon calling it; according to Mama, such weaknesses are not uncommon in the gentle sex and Mr Zedland, as a loving husband, will soon accommodate himself to a flaw which can in no way be traced to any vice. It is plain, however, that Mama is not quite so easy on this head as she wishes to appear, since a few months ago she wrote to a celebrated physician residing at Bath. Dr Brunt’s reply, when it came, was encouraging: though one could not undertake with absolute confidence to cure the condition, patients often responded well to simple, practical measures and those who did not, even those of Sophia’s age, might still grow out of it. He wrote that he had a particular interest in such cases, and it had long been his opinion that parents should endeavour to treat their afflicted children with tenderness, striving to discover and remove any little sorrow or suffering that might weigh upon their spirits. It was imperative that no beatings or other punishments should be used or even threatened, and that all should be done to foster a romping, carefree disposition. Such a course of action, faithfully adhered to, not infrequently brought about everything that was desired; patience was essential, however, as several weeks might pass before any improvement could be detected. Marriage itself, if happy, might well effect such a change, but it was (he had underlined the words)
desirable for the happiness of all parties that the utmost frankness should be employed towards the bridegroom.

The good doctor added that he must not be understood to be accusing either Papa or Mama. It sometimes happened that cheerful young people, guided by the most loving parents, were afflicted by reason of an innate weakness in the body. For these, also, treatment might do much. He respectfully submitted details of a regimen which, if scrupulously followed, would reduce the symptoms or even do away with them altogether.