Slammerkin - Emma Donoghue [86]
Mary could tell if a visiting patron was true quality by the fact that they managed to follow her through the narrow hall without giving any hint that they had noticed her existence. The effect was quite crushing; at least in the old days, cullies had looked her in the face. True ladies and gentlemen, it seemed, had eyes only for their own images in the glossy looking-glass.
The patron Mrs. Jones was most proud of was Mrs. Morgan, wife to the Honourable Member. 'Why, the Morgans of Tredegar have always sat in Parliament for Monmouth,' the mistress told Mary, marvelling at the girl's ignorance. Flat-faced Mrs. Morgan wore a black fur cape in all seasons and was carried everywhere in a sedan chair, preceded by a large Frenchman called Georges who held her purse and ushered loiterers off the street in front of her with sweeps of his great ivory fan.
The day Mrs. Morgan brought in her youngest daughter for a fitting, Mrs. Jones turned remarkably silly, Mary thought. And I believe this will be Miss Anna's very first season?' The dressmaker was practically squeaking as she knelt down, brushing the dirty snow from the girl's boots.
A stately inclination of the head from the mother.
'Well, now. An open half-skirt over a petticoat quilted in this rose satin would, dare I suggest, be perfect for one of the many London routs or balls to which I must imagine Miss Anna has been invited.'
Mary bit her lip, embarrassed for her mistress. Mrs. Morgan rubbed the satin between two fingers as if feeling for a flaw in the weave.
The mistress turned to Mary and smiled with her lips closed over the gap in her teeth. 'Our new maid has come to us all the way from the capital, have you not, Mary?'
'Yes, madam,' muttered Mary. It galled her to be shown off like a new bolt of paduasoy.
'I do not go there myself, you know, madam, owing to family obligations,' said Mrs. Jones, turning back to the Honourable Member's wife, 'but I have my intelligencers! Oh, yes, Mary tells us of all the wonders of London city.'
'What wonders?' piped the girl with the long neck who was holding a spotted bodice up against herself; it was much too pretty for her.
All eyes turned on Mary. She briefly examined her memories. She couldn't decide which to drag out for Miss Anna Morgan, whose eyes were as blue as cheese. Mobs ripping doors off their hinges? That maid who had jumped out of the blazing window in Cheapside? Doll, frozen in the alley, white as whalebone?
'There are fireworks, didn't you tell us once, Mary?' prompted her mistress with an edge of desperation.
Mrs. and Miss Morgan stared.
'Yes, madam,' admitted Mary grudgingly. 'Several times a year.'
'As if the stars have plummeted down for the convenience of the beau monde!' carolled Mrs. Jones. And might I venture to suggest perhaps that Miss Anna might wear a cape of this green palatine to Vauxhall Gardens?'
'Ranelagh,' Mrs. Morgan corrected her, bringing a handful of the palatine close to her narrow eyes, then letting it down again. 'We don't frequent Vauxhall.'
'Of course,' murmured the dressmaker.
Not that poor Mrs. Jones would know the difference, thought Mary, remembering Vauxhall at midnight, dew on the grass where she earned her fare home.
'We don't see you at church, Mrs. Jones,' commented the Honourable Member's wife, breaking in on Mary's memories.
'No, madam.' Mrs. Jones hesitated. 'My husband's health, you understand...'
'Does not stop him from hopping along Wye Street as fast as any man.' The woman's voice was like sand.
'No, madam,' murmured Mrs. Jones.
Any minute now her ladyship