Slammerkin - Emma Donoghue [123]
'And where am I, then?' Her voice was dangerous.
'On the riverbed, I suppose,' he said, disconcerted. Was that right? Was there no kinder way to put it? 'You and your kind form the rock our whole society rests on,' he went on.
One thick eyebrow went up slightly.
'But consider the comforts of your lot, Mary,' he said cheeringly. 'You've no family of your own to provide for, no name to maintain; you're free from all the anxieties of your betters.'
'Are you better than me, then, Mr. Jones?'
Her eyes didn't turn away. He could have slapped her for such cheek, but he wouldn't. Besides, it was a fair question. 'Probably not, Mary,' he admitted, his tongue cleaning the rim of his cup, 'but I have been placed over you.' After a long minute, he added, 'I've no wish to quarrel, especially on your birthday.'
'Nor I, sir.'
'I know you're a good girl, really.'
The smile she gave him was most peculiar.
His head was spinning. He hauled himself up, then. 'Shall I leave the lantern?'
'No need.'
He took it, then, and hopped off to bed, the circles of light lapping the walls. The last he saw of Mary Saunders, she was still by the parlour window, looking out at the waning moon.
The next evening, after supper, Mrs. Jones looked very faint and queasy. She pressed her apron to her mouth.
'Is the beer disagreeing with you again, my dear?' her husband asked.
Mary saw her chance and stood up so fast the table shook. 'I could fetch you some fresh cider, madam,' she said.
Mrs. Jones blinked at her. 'Would you mind, Mary? I do believe it would settle my stomach.'
Halfway down Grinder Street, Mary slowed her pace. It wouldn't do to call attention to herself. She was a respectable maid going on a respectable errand on a fine summer evening. Her chemise was wet with sweat under her arms.
Feet thudded behind her. When she saw who it was she turned her face away and walked faster.
'For mercy's sake,' said Daffy, 'why won't you speak to me?'
'There's nothing to say.'
'Is it because of what we did, in the wood?' His voice was strangled. 'I never meant to take advantage. When I look at Mrs. Jones, and think how disappointed in me she'd be—'
'She knows nothing,' said Mary coldly.
Daffy nodded, very stiff, as if his neck was made of wood. 'Then what is it? Is it London?' His tone turned desperate. 'I might—I would consider coming to the city, you know, but only for a year or two. Only till the first child.'
'Forget it,' she said through closed teeth. 'Forget me.'
'How can I?' he almost roared. 'We sleep in the same house.'
'We wouldn't suit,' she told him, turning to show him her stony face. She would have liked to speak softly to him, but it would only have prolonged his pain. 'I'm not like Gwyn, you know.'
'Is that it?' Daffy asked, his voice harsh with hope. 'Do you not like to take another woman's leavings? Because if that's your fear—'
She shook her head and almost smiled. 'I'm not what you need.'
He opened his mouth to protest.
'Trust me on this,' Mary told him, dead serious. 'You wouldn't want me if you knew me better.' Then she turned on her heel and set off towards the Crow's Nest as fast as she could. She kept one ear out for Daffy's steps behind her, but heard nothing.
Her mind was made up. Mr. Jones's drunken lecture on society had convinced her of something that she'd long suspected. She was never going to get where she wanted by being nothing but a maid. As fast as she might climb that ladder, it would sink into the mud, or somebody one rung up would stamp on her hands. Nor would she be able to make enough money to go back to London in style, except by resuming her old trade. After all, what was the sense in signing yourself over to one master for life, when you could rent yourself out to many? She'd thought she could escape her former self, but she'd been daydreaming. When in doubt, said Doll in her head, stick to what you know.
Cadwaladyr drew the pint of cider himself, tonight. He waited for Mary to