Slammerkin - Emma Donoghue [121]
They raised their glasses.
'To Henrietta Jones,' he declared next, 'the Belle of the West!'
'Why am I a bell?' Hetta demanded, tugging at her father's cuff-ruffle as he drank.
'Because you make so much noise,' suggested Mrs. Ash without looking up from her Bible.
'No, my dear,' he said, lifting her onto his lap, 'it's a different kind of bell, that means beautiful lady.' And indeed as he looked down at her snow-white head, it did seem to him that Hetta was all he could ask for in a daughter. And for some men, that would be enough; some men wouldn't wake up in the middle of the night from dreams of driving in a carriage beside their fine handsome son.
She bounced violently on his knee and started up the old game. 'Fafa, where did your leg go?'
'Did I never tell you?' His eyes widened. 'One night I was fast asleep and a big rat chewed it off.'
'He didn't!' Her voice was delicious with fear.
'He did. Has he never woken you up nibbling your toes?'
'Don't scare the child,' laughed Mrs. Jones, looking up from her work.
On his ninth glass of port, her husband sensed a delightful cloudiness about his head. His throat opened, and words spilled out; he even insisted on wetting Hetta's lips with port, 'to give her a taste for the best.' After his wife had gone off with Mrs. Ash to put the child to bed, Mr. Jones couldn't seem to move from his chair. It was so very comfortable; the liquor had fitted every curve of horsehair to his body. At last only his maid Mary remained by the bottle, her head resting on one fist, listening.
'Oh, indeed, great plans, great plans. In a few years, Mary, I shall buy up a draper's business to combine with ours. The Joneses of Monmouth will be known as the most complete purveyors of sartorial goods west of Bristol.' He relished the genteel ring of the words.
'How many years are a few?' asked Mary.
Mr. Jones shrugged, insouciant. 'Certainly by the time our next boy is born.' He could see the girl come alert at the phrase, but he went on. 'My intelligencers tell me that our trade is likely to have tripled in value by then.'
'Really, sir.'
Did she disbelieve him? There was a dry edge to the girl's answers sometimes. Like her mother Su Rhys before her. What Mr. Jones didn't let himself remember in his wife's presence was that he'd never much liked her best friend. 'Hetta will go to a school for young ladies,' he hurried on, 'and my son will become a gentleman.'
'How can you be sure?' Mary asked.
'I shall send him to the best tutors—'
'No, but,' she hesitated, clearly struggling for tact, 'how do you know you will have another child?'
Mr. Jones beamed down at her. The port was singing in his veins. 'My wife is young yet. God will provide.' He leaned his elbows on the table until his face was a foot from hers. 'He owes me,' he whispered, too loudly.
Mary Saunders leaned back a little.
'Don't you see?' Mr. Jones had never explained his conviction to anyone. He'd tried to tell his wife once, but she covered her ears and called it sacrilegious talk. 'It's a sort of... bargain.'
The girl watched him warily.
'The way I see it, Mary,' he went on, slurring just a little, 'the Maker owes me the price of a leg.'
His grin elicited a tiny one from her.
'It'll be worth it in the end.' He glanced down at the sharp fold of his velvet breeches. 'Every time it aches where there's no flesh to ache, I've reminded myself of that. I shall have a son who'll live to make me proud, with an income to support him in style. He'll grow up to be a lawyer, maybe, or a physician,' he said, his voice booming in the little parlour. 'He'll drive a coach and six, and his footmen will wear livery.