Slammerkin - Emma Donoghue [46]
The ostrich feather bobbed, high above her. Mary had put such a feather against her throat once, in a milliner's; its touch made her shiver all over. She stared up now at the Lady Subscriber who sat wiping a tear from her eye with a square of lace. Her skirt filled up the pew like a bank of snow. Every line, every button, every shadow was beautiful. Mary spoke aloud inside her head: That's what I choose. That's who I'll be. Everything you have will someday be mine, I swear it.
Meanwhile, it occurred to her, life was much too short to while away on her knees. She pressed down on her hands and lifted herself to a sitting position. Her knees throbbed with pain and relief. She was the only upright body among the Magdalens; she registered the shock all round her, the eyes skidding sideways. She felt like the Queen, and smiled to herself.
Her eye caught that of Matron Butler, in the aisle, who made an unmistakable though tiny gesture with her finger: On your knees. Mary considered the matter, then let her eyes unfocus as if she hadn't seen the Matron. She sat back against the bench, luxuriating in the support of the firm mahogany. The prayer book slid down into the curve of her skirt. They'd be letting off fireworks at Tower Hill in a couple of hours, bright enough to splash against the scrubbed windows of the Magdalen.
'Why such indecent haste?' Sitting in her wainscoted office, Matron Butler was an owl staring at its prey.
'My health is quite restored. I think I've stayed here long enough, madam. And the offer is such a good one—' Mary's voice was jerky. She used to be a better liar than this. Overhead she could hear the dull thumps of the other girls going to bed with the remains of their bread and butter.
The Matron let out a long sigh, and for a moment Mary was somehow sorry for what she had to say. Then the Matron folded her long arms like barricades on the desk. 'If you are indeed so fortunate as to have a place with a dressmaker in Monmouth, far from the wickedness of this city,' she said, 'then I see no reason to dissuade you. It only remains for me to inspect the letter.'
Mary wet her lips. 'The letter?'
The Matron held out her hand for it. 'The letter, Saunders, in which your late mother's friend makes this generous and, if I may say so, extraordinary offer. The letter,' she went on acidly, 'that reached you without passing under the eyes of myself, the Assisting Matrons, or the Porter.'
Mary stared at the panelling; ugly wood, for all its expense. 'There wasn't—there's no need for a letter.'
Matron Butler's arms folded back into place. 'Indeed?'
'Mrs. Jane Jones, as I said, she was so devoted to my—my poor departed mother,' Mary stumbled on, 'she always said, she always used to promise, she'd take me on any time if I wanted to leave London.'
'Take on a girl who must own herself to be fouled?' The Matron said the word as if she could taste it.
Mary was surprised to feel herself blush like a coal. 'She said she would. Mrs. Jones, I mean. She always said she would, whatever happened, for my mother's sake.'
Matron Butler made Mary wait while she straightened her linen apron. 'If this woman Jones is still living,' she said thoughtfully, 'and if she still resides in Monmouth, and if her family happens to be in need of a maidservant—what persuades you that her husband would be willing to let into his house, among his children, a known prostitute?'
Mary couldn't remember why she had ever had even a half-liking for this bitter old sow. She had run out of answers, now she bit on her bottom lip till it hurt. She heard a clatter upstairs. Hunger was a stone in her stomach. And then she looked up into the Matron's grey eyes. Words floated out of her mouth. 'You have to let me go.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'I've a right to my liberty,' said Mary softly. 'I remember it from the rules; I was listening, all those times. No one is kept here against her will. It's not a prison; it