Slammerkin - Emma Donoghue [63]
'Monmouth,' bawled John Niblett.
Thank the Mighty Master for that much. At last Mary could get out of this chamberpot of a wagon in which she had spent the longest week of her life. She pressed her cheek to the window, and something fell inside her.
Monmouth? This wasn't a city, nothing like a city. It was barely a town. What had she done?
The Welshman was holding out his hand for his writing things now. As she scribbled her mother's name at the bottom, Mary suddenly registered the fact that he was getting down here too. Pox on the man; could he be a local? Of all the stinking towns on the fringes of England, did he have to come from this one?
She should have thought of that before bedding him. She should have paid more attention. She would just have to hope that his house was far out in the country and that their paths never crossed again.
Mary handed the man his box and averted her eyes.
Downstream of the bridge, trees rose from several muddy islands in the river. Crows were gathering at the tips of the highest branches. One let out an imperative cry and set off for the next tree, flapping heavily, its feathers set apart like blunt fingers. Restlessness infected another, then another. Shapes Mary had taken for leaves came to life and flew in circles. Soon they were all whirring from tree to tree, like needles darning the torn sky.
The wagon creaked across the bridge. At first glance, Mary took in a few pitiful rows of houses; a single spire. This was all there was to Monmouth, clearly. She'd come all this way to end up in a crow town, where there were more birds than people.
PART TWO
Monmouth
CHAPTER FOUR
The Whole Duty of Woman
'SEE THE mark of her tears here.' Mrs. Jones passed the letter to her husband.
He held it towards the candlelight for a moment, then handed it back and edged around the bed.
'To think of Su Rhys's little child grown up into such a tall, handsome girl, and her not here to see it.' A sigh whistled in the little gap between Mrs. Jones's front teeth. 'There was no lingering, though, thanks be to the Maker. The girl told me the fever took dear Su off quick as lime in the end.'
Mr. Jones nodded soberly, sat down, and hoisted his leg to remove his single red-heeled shoe.
'Listen, Thomas, there's one part that wrings my heart.' She read through the letter in a rapid mutter. 'The larning she has from the charity school is reading, writing, sowing ... can cut out a fine shirt and hem cuffs and set her hand to all maner of plain work ... my poor Mary will make a good sarvant being quick and industrous of a humbel disposition without gall or guil.'
'What's heart-wringing about all that?' he asked, pulling his night-shirt on over his head.
'I'm coming to it.' Mrs. Jones leaned closer to the narrow candle. 'If you, old frend, perform so Christian an act as to take my poor motherless dauter into your servise, I have no apprehension that she will do anything to forfet yor trust, and yor reward will be in heaven.' Her voice grew muffled. 'Pray dear Jane let my spirit rest easy, knowing my onlie girl is safe in your hands.' She brushed her knuckles against one eye.
'Come to bed now, my dear,' he said, arching his tired back.
'Aye, presently. You know, the girl's not got a penny. She hadn't eaten since Cheltenham! I told her to order chops at the Robin Hood and say the Joneses would be good for it.'
He nodded again, fitting his nightcap over his stubbled scalp.
His wife held the letter stiff, poring over the uneven lines. 'Yor obedient sarvant and eternal frend Mrs. Susan Saunders, Rhys as was,' she murmured. Then she folded