Lady Susan Plays the Game (24 page)

‘Miss Vernon seems not to be there after all,' Frederica heard Mrs Dick say. ‘But she can't be out. Shall you wait?'

‘Of course,' said Sir James irritably. ‘But where is she?'

The drawing-room door closed and Frederica heard no more. She had to take this chance.

She crossed the landing and fled down the back stairs, passing the servants in the parlour. The mulled wine had done its work and, if they heard her footsteps, they took no notice – not even the more genteel upper housemaid whom Madam Dacre especially trusted and hoped one day would replace Annie Dick. Anyway, said the maid later when questioned, the place was not supposed to be a prison. How should she and Mrs Dick be expected to look after the misses every moment of the day? The conversation caused Madam Dacre to revise her opinion of the maid.

Frederica had no idea where she was going, she hardly knew what she was doing. She knew only that she had to flee.

It was only four in the afternoon but gloomy and almost dark. She had never before been out alone in London and had little sense of the size of the city or which parts were safe – if any were for a young girl.

She walked hurriedly down past a lit draper's shop on Wigmore Street, then turned into darker Marylebone Lane where forbidding houses loomed behind large, imposing doors. She must be near Henrietta Street but there was no point going there now and she could not at all remember where Mrs Johnson's Edward Street was in relation to Madam Dacre's. In any case how could she be sure that Mrs Johnson would receive, let alone welcome her?

Then she went cold as she remembered that Mrs Johnson had mentioned Sir James to her when she had visited. She thought of Clarissa and all the people unexpectedly ranged against her – perhaps Mrs Johnson was in league with Sir James – and, even, her mother. Her terror grew.

She saw lights ahead and moved quickly towards them. The area was vaguely familiar from her recent walk with Mrs Johnson. It must be Oxford Street. By now tears were starting in her eyes. She brushed her hand against them and went on.

Could she somehow get back to Someyton? There must be a public coach. But even in her distraught state she knew this was no option. She and her mother had travelled for two days when they'd first come from home to London; in any case, who except Nanny was left for her in Norfolk? And Nanny was poor and dependent on her sharp-faced and sharper-tongued niece. She would take her in, of course, but would be frightened both of the niece and even more of Lady Susan. She always had been. Frederica had no idea where Miss Davidson or Mrs Baines had gone. Even if she had, she knew neither would provide a haven.

While these and other ideas flitted through her mind, none sticking, none clear, she presented an expression of such anxious innocence to passers-by that many gave her a second glance. Suddenly she pulled herself into the moment, aware that she was attracting attention whenever the carriage lights shone too brightly on her face. She must become less conspicuous.

She turned down Blenheim Street and ran past houses, some with lit windows, some tall, dark and menacing with their blind eyes. She branched, left, right, then left again, still in some panic that she might be followed. She must go where no one could find her. It was best not to look behind.

Although she was running or walking fast so that her face was flushed and her hood sometimes slipped from her head, she was aware of feeling chilled under her cloak. The air was damp and clung to her ankles and to the wisps of hair that drooped over her face.

She came down Titchborne Street, past the tin manufacturers. It was darker now and the road narrower. Everything frightened her. She tried to think as she sped along. It would be better in the morning; then she could plan something – as yet she had no idea what. But she had to get through the night first. She would be hungry. She'd better buy a pasty or cake if she came to any more shops or road sellers – that is, if she dared spend her money and dared ask for anything. She was not sure what things cost in London. She had often been to Mrs Seymour's village shop in Biddeysett and her father had made her write down what she spent in her pocket book. London was quite different.

Perhaps she should just go without food and find a place to hide at once. She had no idea how to take a bed for the night in a hotel, nor did she have any idea where one was and what it would cost. She could not enter a tavern, she was aware of that. Should she keep her
few shillings for a hackney coach? She had never been in one but she knew this is what poor people did. The ideas jostled with each other in her mind. Despite her terror she went on feeling hungry.

Now she found herself in a wide street, part of which was brightly lit. She saw a sign in large black letters, the Haymarket. There were a lot of ladies standing round. They didn't seem to notice the cold since they wore dresses that hugged and squeezed their bodies, but no cloaks. Their faces looked strange in the torchlight, sly, insinuating, the features exaggerated, as if they were paintings not people. Some even had loose hair.

Passers-by, especially men, stopped by them and stood swinging their canes. A few stared at Frederica fully in the face, so that she blushed to the roots of her hair. Tears were starting again and she knew they would draw even more attention to her if she couldn't staunch them. She pulled her cloak more tightly round her. Her shoes felt thin; they were all wrong for these wet streets. They were already dirty. Perhaps she would be so bedraggled that no one would allow her into their shop even to buy a pie and no hackney coachman would take her.

At last she had an idea. She would go hungry but she would look for a church and just stay there in one of the boxed pews until morning. She would keep her head down so that if anyone came in they would think she was praying. But then her imagination jumped ahead. How would she know if someone entered the church behind and moved up the aisle towards where she was lying? The vision was so real she felt the footsteps and gave a little scream.

If only she could ask someone what to do. But the men she passed were so bold and contemptuous and there were very few women about except the cold ones with the flimsy dresses and plumped breasts. And these refused to look at her when she tried to catch their attention. They seemed not to want to be disturbed. She held her money close. If she lost it she would have no means of eating or sleeping anywhere ever again. She began to tremble at the idea. Her hands grew clammy. Despite the cold night she could feel the chill turning to sweat between her legs.

In the gloom she could see her way solely by the flaring carriage lamps. She had no idea where she was going but she knew she must not stop in this strange place. The stares
were even bolder now, despite her muffled appearance. One man brushed against her, then seeing her timid look, raised his hat, and moved away.

Then she was conscious of another. This one again pushed against her. She rushed on, pulling at the hood of her cloak to hide her face as much as possible. Her flimsy shoes were soaking and heavy and, as she tried to hurry, she slipped. When she steadied herself her dark hair fell out of her hood.

The person who had jostled her drew away but almost at once her arm was grasped firmly from behind.

‘What is a little miss like you doing out alone?' said a deep voice close to her ear.

She tried to pull her arm from his clutch but he held firm. She caught a glimpse of a tall, older man. He swung round to look at her, a slightly mocking expression on his face.

She yanked at her arm. ‘Let me go,' she cried.

‘Now now. Where are you off to in such a hurry? There's no need to be afraid'.

‘Leave me alone. Oh please, sir, leave me alone.' She was sobbing now. But his grip remained firm and he was pushing her along as if he'd taken control of her steps. She tried to stifle her sobs. ‘Please, please sir, let me go.'

As suddenly as he'd grabbed her arm he now dropped it. ‘Of course, of course,' he said.

Both of them stopped. She looked at him through her tears.

‘I merely inquired where you might be going?' he said more gently.

She began to stammer in reply, ‘I d-d-don't …' then hesitated. ‘Oh please, sir, it is none of your business, I must go.'

‘Nothing stops you, my dear.' He paused and looked straight into her face. She tensed. ‘But you know what I think. I think you are a runaway, from your family, your school perhaps, going to meet a lover.'

She was vexed despite her fear and she flushed. ‘No, no, really. I m-m-ust, I really must …'

‘Must what?'

‘I must go.'

‘Indeed so.' He was laughing at her now. ‘Yes, dear girl, you must go, but you don't know where you are going. Or is Harry or Frank or Johnny waiting for you round the next corner?'

‘No, no one,' she began to sob again, ‘it's not like that.'

‘Come,' he went on, ‘you're cold. There's a tavern near the theatre. Let me get you something warming and then you can think what to do. You're not dressed for roaming the streets. Your feet must be soaking.'

All the novels she'd read told her now to run and run and not stop. Strange men were always the danger, always the threat. Often they merged into each other – you could never tell – perhaps this was Sir James in disguise, or his agent.

Yet there was something about the man, the way he spoke of a ‘warming' drink, something which, against all her proper reasoning, she found comforting. She was tired, confused, miserable, cold and hungry. So for a moment she forgot how many shapes the villain took.

Before her thoughts clarified, the stranger caught her wavering and propelled her forward. She found herself walking with him, his hand once again firmly on her arm guiding her towards a tavern.

At the entrance she was overcome by the dank smell of bodies coming deep from within. Then, as they crossed the threshold together, she grew alert: she was going into the dangerous place, against which any number of novels and romances had warned her. She pulled back. ‘No no,' she pleaded as if to the crowd surrounding her, but her words were drowned by the general noise.

Only the man guiding her heard her. ‘Don't be a silly girl,' he said abruptly. ‘You need something inside you and a place to get warm. You're cold and tired.'

Pushing his way through the standing people he found them both a wooden bench against the distant wall. A boy was sitting on a stool opposite the bench, looking sadly into his tankard. The stranger gave him money and said a few words she couldn't catch, then the boy went off, returning soon with a flagon of wine and some wooden mugs which he placed on a stool. He gave something to the older man, possibly his change.

‘Sit,' said the stranger as if Frederica were a family pointer. ‘Sit and stop trembling. There's nothing to be so frightened about now.'

‘Please, sir, let me go,' she replied in her faint voice; then she made a slight attempt to get up.

‘Of course, of course,' he said again less roughly. ‘But drink this first, then tell me your name.'

He had his back to her as he poured them both out some wine, then turned with the mug to Frederica.

‘I don't know,' she whispered, her eyes filling with tears again.

‘Don't know your name?' said the man smiling, catching the glance of the boy, who grinned.

‘I mean I d-d-don't—' She stopped.

‘Drink up, it will warm you.'

She sipped from the mug, spilling a little since the edge was thicker and coarser than she was used to. The liquid looked dark red in the dim light. It tasted sweet, a bit rough and strange. She had had wine with her father and recently with Lady Susan, usually with dessert, but this was different, a bit like the posset that Nanny had sometimes brought her at bedtime when she couldn't sleep. Yet there was a bitterness below the thick sweetness. She sipped again, then drank more deeply.

She felt soothed, yet still wary, and she clutched her purse tightly. The tears were drying on her face in the fusty air.

She saw the boy looking at her in a way she didn't like and started to move a little.

‘That's better,' said the man.

Looks were exchanged which Frederica felt, but only vaguely. The boy seemed to be leering as he got up to fetch more drink. Two giggling young women with scarlet lips took his place and seemed to know the man she was with since they pushed their faces close to him. Frederica's fear surged up within her but she couldn't hold on to it. It slithered through her mind.

Another mug was put before her. She was even more thirsty now though sleepy. It was the noise, the fetid warmth, everything together that was making her drowsy. Always she was
aware of the man close to her. His face smiling, sneering, threatening, soothing, changing from one instant to the next. At one moment it seemed safe like her dear papa's, at another like the slack face of the hated Sir James.

As she sank further into a state that seemed like sleep and yet was somehow different, she knew nothing else except that she wanted her papa and Nanny and the dappled pony and all the life she'd left. She wanted them with such intensity that her desire blacked out the world as her purse slipped from her hand.

When in the evening Madam Dacre returned to her school from a very pleasant stay with an old friend on the Weald of Kent, she was informed by a flustered Annie Dick that Miss Vernon had disappeared at the very moment that a young gentleman had come calling for her. The disappearance was not Annie's fault for she had kept a close eye on the girl and, if a miss wanted to escape and throw herself into the streets, there was nothing any of them could do about it. The caller was a fine gentleman. How could they have known he would have this effect on miss? For if it wasn't him that had set her a-running, then what was it? Till then miss had been as quiet as a mouse, with her nose in a book.

Madam Dacre gave her housekeeper a contemptuous look but, aware of her own remissness, repressed the words she was about to speak. Instead she remarked that they had better start looking for Miss Vernon. But, first, the household should be lined up for questioning. One of them might know something about the girl or have an idea whether she had friends in the neighbourhood. Miss Vernon had little spare money – Madam Dacre knew that for certain – but it remained possible that she'd bribed a servant or under-teacher to help her escape.