Slammerkin - Emma Donoghue [89]
'We reached a sort of understanding two years ago come St. John's Day,' he said, 'and to my line of thinking we have that understanding still.' Her mouth opened and shut again. A narrow ray of sunshine hit the wet cobbles of Monnow Street, and Daffy's voice unrolled like a flag. 'I won't be a servant forever. One of these years, I'll be my own man—my own master, I should say—and I'll have a threshold to carry you over.'
She blinked her pale blue eyes at him. He rushed on before she could speak. 'And I tell you, my dearest Gwyn,'—and here he squeezed her hand between his like a leaf—'the present misfortunes of your family make not a whit of a difference to my intentions. It's only a matter of patience.'
She withdrew her hand from his damp embrace. 'Daff,' she said, with a constriction in her throat, 'I'm truly sorry.'
He stared at her.
'It weren't ... quite an understanding that we had, was it? Mean to say, we did talk things through, but to call it an understanding—'
At last it was clear to him why Gwyn was acting so oddly. Oh, the heart this girl had, as sound as an apple! She feared to keep him to his promise, to drag him down with her. As if there was anything in the world he wanted more than to marry her and keep her in comfort. A smile began to spread itself across his cheeks.
'I'm promised to Jennett the Gelder,' she said, dropping her eyes.
Daffy's legs kept moving down the street, like a rooster after its head had been cut off. He watched her, to see why she would say such a thing.
'October, it's to be, after the harvest.'
Finally he was able to speak. 'But our understanding—'
'It were rash of us,' she said, wet-faced.
'Rash?' he repeated, dazed. Then he gathered his forces. 'But you'd wed such a man as Jennett, who cuts the balls off hogs for a living?'
Gwyneth flushed, whether at his coarseness or from shame at her own treachery, he couldn't tell. She spoke even more faintly. 'He's taken my father on as a partner, see.'
Daffy saw.
'Father said he likes you well enough, but we must face facts, see.'
Facts? He had always been the one in charge of facts, before. He'd been the one who taught her how to make a reasoned argument.
'At present you're a servant,' she murmured, 'and a servant can't marry.'
'I have ambitions—' he burst out.
'Hopes,' she said softly.
He turned his scarlet face away from her. All at once he saw himself as others must see him: a man-of-all-work on ten pounds a year, whose wig was a little too small.
At dinner Mrs. Ash contemplated Daffy, who sat studying his plate, his cheeks sunken. So much for the beneficial effects of reading, she thought. All his education didn't bring him the consolation she got from her one Good Book.
Hetta's plump arms were wriggling out of the nurse's grasp. Her mother spoke mildly. 'Sit still by Mrs. Ash now.'
'But I want to go to Mary.'
The Londoner looked up from her plate, all innocent, as if she hadn't been playing wink with the child for the last half an hour.
Acid pooled in Mrs. Ash's stomach as she picked at the salt cod, and reminded herself how much the Joneses needed her. Didn't she possess the wisdom of years, the experience of life, the safeguards of piety—everything this new girl lacked? She stared right through Mary Saunders's neckerchief at the pert small breasts hiding in her stays. They'd never fed a child; never felt the absolute greed of a baby's mouth at the nipple. This girl had never known what it was to be necessary.
Hetta slithered down under the table now. Her blonde head emerged on the other side, gleeful. She sat up on the bench between Mary and Daffy. The man didn't even look up. Children were traitors all, thought Mrs. Ash. They gave you soft Judas kisses on the cheek, but they were always glancing over your shoulder.
'Such nonsense, Hetta,' murmured Mrs. Jones.
'Why do you prefer to sit by Mary?' asked the master disinterestedly, peeling his potato.
The child's smile showed her baby-teeth. 'She smells better.'
'Hetta!' Her mother was on her feet, leaning over to slap the child on