A Place Called Freedom - Ken Follett [53]
Alicia said: “Well, Lizzie, do you like the house?”
“I adore it!”
“Then you shall have it.”
Lizzie beamed and Jay squeezed her arm.
Lizzie’s mother said: “Sir George is so kind, I don’t know how to thank him.”
“Thank my mother,” Jay said. “She’s the one who’s made him behave decently.”
Alicia gave him a reproving look, but Lizzie could tell she did not really mind. She and Jay were very fond of one another, it was obvious. Lizzie felt a pang of jealousy, and told herself it was silly: anyone would be fond of Jay.
They left the room. The caretaker was hovering outside. Jay said to him: “I’ll see the owner’s attorney tomorrow and have the lease drawn up.”
“Very good, sir.”
As they went down the stairs, Lizzie remembered something. “Oh, I must show you this!” she said to Jay. She had picked up a handbill in the street and saved it for him. She took it from her pocket and gave it to him to read. It read:
AT THE SIGN OF THE PELICAN
NEAR SHAD-WELL
GENTLEMEN AND GAMESTERS TAKE NOTE
A GENERAL DAY OF SPORT
A MAD BULL TO BE LET LOOSE WITH FIREWORKS ALL
OVER HIM, AND DOGS AFTER HIM
A MATCH FOUGHT OUT BETWEEN TWO COCKS
OF WESTMINSTER,
AND TWO OF EAST CHEAP, FOR FIVE POUNDS
A GENERAL COMBAT WITH CUDGELS BETWEEN SEVEN
WOMEN
AND
A FIST FIGHT—FOR TWENTY POUNDS!
REES PREECE, THE WELSH MOUNTAIN
VERSUS
MACK MCASH, THE KILLER COLLIER
SATURDAY NEXT
BEGINNING AT THREE A CLOCK
“What do you think?” she said impatiently. “It must be Malachi McAsh from Heugh, mustn’t it?”
“So that’s what’s become of him,” said Jay. “He’s a prizefighter. He was better off working in my father’s coal pit.”
“I’ve never seen a prizefight,” Lizzie said wistfully.
Jay laughed. “I should think not! It’s no place for a lady.”
“Nor is a coal mine, but you took me there.”
“So I did, and you nearly got killed in an explosion.”
“I thought you’d jump at the chance of taking me on another adventure.”
Her mother overheard and said: “What’s this? What adventure?”
“I want Jay to take me to a prizefight,” Lizzie said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said her mother.
Lizzie was disappointed. Jay’s daring seemed to have deserted him momentarily. However, she would not let that stand in her way. If he would not take her she would go alone.
Lizzie adjusted her wig and hat and looked in the mirror. A young man looked back at her. The secret lay in the light smear of chimney soot that darkened her cheeks, her throat, her chin and her upper lip, mimicking the look of a man who had shaved.
The body was easy. A heavy waistcoat flattened her bosom, the tail of her coat concealed the rounded curves of her womanly bottom, and knee boots covered her calves. The hat and wig of male pattern completed the illusion.
She opened her bedroom door. She and her mother were staying in a small house in the grounds of Sir George’s mansion in Grosvenor Square. Mother was taking an afternoon nap. Lizzie listened for footsteps, in case any of Sir George’s servants were about the house, but she heard nothing. She ran light-footed down the stairs and slipped out the door into the lane at the back of the property.
It was a cold, sunny day at the end of winter. When she reached the street she reminded herself to walk like a man, taking up a lot of space, swinging her arms and putting on a swagger, as if she owned the pavement and were ready to jostle anyone who disputed her claim.
She could not swagger all the way to Shadwell, which was across town on the east side of London. She waved down a sedan chair, remembering to hold her arm up in command instead of fluttering her hand beseechingly like a woman. As the chair men stopped and set down the conveyance she cleared her throat, spat in the gutter and said in a deep croak: “Take me to the Pelican tavern, and look sharp about it.”
They carried her farther east than she had ever been in London, through streets of ever smaller and meaner houses, to a neighborhood of damp lanes and mud beaches, unsteady wharves and ramshackle