Slammerkin - Emma Donoghue [122]
Her forehead wrinkled up.
'You know the man. Pott. Post. Mr. Pond? The poet.' His brains were getting fuzzy.
'Pope?'
'That's it, good girl. A little frayed scrap of a man with a hump, no taller than Hetta.'
'Was he?' she asked doubtfully.
'He was,' said Mr. Jones. 'And has that diminished his fame? Not at all.' A vast yawn cracked his face now. 'What about you, my girl, on this festive day of yours?' he asked benevolently, tilting his cup to get the last few drops of liquor.
'Me?'
'What are your own ... aspirations, if you have any?' He bent forward now to look more closely into Mary's pale face. She'd be quite a beauty, it occurred to him, if only she'd smile more often. 'Sixteen is still young, but in time you may hope to marry, raise a family.' He leaned closer. 'Will you set your cap at some strapping Welshman, eh?'
'No.' Her answer was chilly.
He'd already decided he must have been mistaken about her and Daffy; certainly, the way they were skulking from room to room these days suggested that they couldn't stand the sight of each other. 'Still, you never know what might happen,' he said pleasantly. 'I'll tell you a strange story, now, about a gentleman of my acquaintance. On his travels in Africa a few years ago he captured this black, you see, and brought him home to the village of Dolgellau. Didn't he teach the fellow English and Welsh, and call him John Ystunllyn, and the black is said to be able to pronounce his own name as perfect as a Welshman! The fellow's both gardener and steward there now, on a good wage, and courting one of the maids, last I heard.'
The girl looked blankly back at him.
'So you see, Mary, you might think at first that your lot here is a lowly one, but if you bear patiently and do your best, you might rise a degree in the end.'
She shook her head. 'I'll go back to London,' she said flatly.
'In whose service?' he asked.
Mary looked away, and nibbled on her thumb. 'I could be an actress, maybe.'
'An actress?' His mouth began to curl in shock and amusement.
'Or a rich man's wife. Something that lets me wear silk all day. Something to lift me above the mob.'
Her master found that his good humour had evaporated all at once. He sat up straight; his head was vibrating and there was a sour taste in his mouth. 'Girl, your words grieve me.'
Her eyes were as dark as pebbles on the road.
'Did that mother of yours never teach you to mind your station?'
Mary stared back at him. She looked half-witted sometimes.
'All that embroidery has gone to your head, or perhaps this port is too rich for your blood. You make your future sound like a game of dress-up.'
'It won't be a game.'
He tried to infuse kindness into his words. 'You are in service, now, my dear girl. And in some kind of service you will remain, in all likelihood, married or not, one way or another, for the length of your days.'
'Have you not read the letters of Pamela Andrews, then?' Mary asked shrilly. 'She was nothing but a maid, and she got a lord in the end.'
Mr. Jones let out a little puff of laughter. 'Mary, Mary, that was only a story.'
She turned her face away, as if she didn't believe him. Was the girl crying? His voice softened and he reached out and took hold of her sleeve. The warmth of her skin came through the thin cloth. 'My dear, it's like ... a great river.'
When her face came round to meet him it was dry. 'What is?'
'Society.' Mr. Jones tried to catch hold of his train of thought. He'd heard it in a sermon once, from Joe Cadwaladyr most likely. He wished he was sober enough to be sure of getting it right. 'Some float along on the surface, you see. Catching the sunlight, I mean, and spreading themselves, as it were. Others, like my own family, the middle sort,' he went on more fluently, 'begin down in the dark—'
'On Back Lane, you mean?'
He winced. 'Yes, for instance. But through the Divine Plan,'