The Sleeping Partner Read online

  “There was no other reason?”

  Miss Tolerance was suddenly uneasy. She kept her tone light. “Other reason? Only that I know you to be a sensible man who would not be overcome by a woman arriving bloodied on his doorstep.”

  “I see.” Sir Walter pressed his lips together. “I had hoped—”

  “Hoped?”

  “I had hoped it was because you believed I had some sympathy, some feeling for you which would have made it my pleasure to help you.”

  “I did rely on your friendship, and trespass horridly upon it” She tilted her glass a little to see a line of ruby wine paint the side of it.

  Sir Walter put his own glass down with the air of a man resolved. “I have too great a regard for your perceptiveness—I thought perhaps you were aware of my regard for you. That perhaps it was that regard, or reciprocal feeling, which made you come here.”

  It was out in the open, then. Miss Tolerance found that her breath was short; there was an electric sensation in her stomach. Panic. This friendship, upon which she relied, which was safe and neat, a harmless pleasure, was suddenly and without warning in jeopardy.

  “Sir Walter, I—”

  “Please do not feel obligated to reply. It was an idle question.” His expression gave the lie to that. “You are a clever woman, I suspect you divined my feelings for you. With those feelings I have gained a fairly comprehensive notion of your character. I understand why such a declaration must be difficult for you to hear.”

  I am Fallen, what character have I? Miss Tolerance pressed her lips together, waiting for a blow. But Sir Walter’s answer to that unspoken question was not what she expected.

  “I do not believe you would be lastingly happy now in anything less than a sanctioned connection. I have not spoken because I believed you would find many objections to marriage—particularly to marriage with me.”

  “Particularly with you? Do you believe me to be so…so insensible of your worth?”

  “There have been moments recently when I did not think so. But I do not think you would permit mere love to rule you.”

  “Mere love?” she echoed. “What does rule me, then?”

  “Work. ‘Tis what would make me an inapt suitor in your eyes. You would feel—with a little justice, I suppose—that a person in the business of inquiry should not be closely allied to a magistrate; that such an alliance would undermine your ability to do your work, and might cast a shadow of impropriety over my own.”

  Miss Tolerance regarded her friend with astonishment. “I cannot dispute that.” This is a very strange wooing. Was it a wooing? It appeared to be something else, but she could not say just what. The lightheadedness which she had felt minutes before was ebbing; she was aware of a sense of disappointment.

  “You have told me you devised your career as a way of avoiding the most obvious pitfall of your situation: dependence upon a man, or men, for your livelihood. But can you tell me frankly that that is all it is to you now?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You like the work that you do. It might have seemed a poor substitute for your marriage to Charles Connell—”

  Miss Tolerance closed her eyes. “There was no marriage.”

  “Only in the most finicking legal sense—”

  “Finicking!” Now it was her turn to laugh, but it was not a happy laugh.

  “Cleaving to him only, until death parted you. It was not the sort of marriage you were raised to expect, but I doubt that any man so fortunate as to gain your affection would refine upon that.”

  “This is enlightening. Pray continue, Sir Walter.” Miss Tolerance had set her glass aside. Her hands were clenched; she could feel the arcs of her fingernails pressing into her palms.

  “You created an employment for yourself that not only affords you a livelihood but gives you scope to exercise your talents in a way that the mere running of a household—unless it were, perhaps, a ducal property with a small city of servants and dependents—would not. You do it very well, and that competence gives you pleasure, as it should. And you think marriage would require that you cease this work that gives you pleasure.”

  “Would it not? So I am trapped, then. Unable to give up my work, and unable to marry.”

  “I do not believe so, but it is of your feelings I am speaking, not my own.”

  The lightheadedness returned. “Perhaps we should not speak of this, Sir Walter. I do not wish to cause you hurt or disappointment—”

  “Your honor has always been one of your most striking characteristics, but perhaps you are less concerned with my feelings than your own.”

  “My own?”

  “You do not wish to be guilty of hurting me.”

  Miss Tolerance glared at Sir Walter.

  At last he drawled, ”You see why I would not make you an offer, despite my feelings.”

  Miss Tolerance gaped at him. She was breathing fast, almost panting, and felt close to tears. And then, startlingly, she began to laugh. “Yes. Yes, I understand your restraint.”

  Mandif watched her sympathetically.

  “Forgive me,” she said at last. “Please. The last thing I mean to do is to cast any doubt upon your feelings or the honor you—the honor it appears you are not doing me—”

  Mandif smiled slightly.

  “But Sir Walter, if you believe me so unlikely to respond to a discussion of this sort, may I ask why you raised the subject at all?”

  Sir Walter leaned forward and carefully took Miss Tolerance’s hand in his own, waiting to see if she would withdraw it. His expression was politely direct. Only in the closeness of his gaze did she see vulnerability. I must be careful, Miss Tolerance thought.

  “I wished to make you understand my sentiments. Perhaps you share them in some degree, perhaps you do not. In either case, I do not want to spend the rest of my life wondering what might have been had I spoken.”

  Miss Tolerance closed her eyes. She sought words, but sought as well to know her own feelings. He had been candid with her; she could in honor offer him no less candor.

  “Sir Walter, your kindness—”

  “Not kindness,” he snapped. “Anything but that. You may regard yourself as an object of pity or scorn but I do not. I am not King Cophetua seeking to elevate a beggar maid, and I will thank you not to speak in those terms.”

  “I am sorry. I am honored beyond saying by your feelings and their thoughtful expression. As to my own feelings—” she opened her eyes to meet his gaze. “I do not know. Were I different—were I not Fallen—I could be ruled entirely by my heart. But I am what I am, and the subject is…muddied. All that I can tell you now is that I do not fully know my heart or my mind. I am sorry.”

  “It is better than I had hoped for.” The magistrate released her hand, but he smiled.

  “May we continue as friends?” she asked.

  “So long as you do not feel yourself oppressed by the sentiments I—yes, I hope always to be your friend. And who knows, perhaps some day you will sort out what is in your heart and your mind, to our mutual benefit. Until that time, there is always the theatre. Comedy, I think, would be restorative. Mrs. Jordan is playing—”

  As easily as that, Sir Walter turned the topic to other things. They chatted inconsequentially for a few minutes longer. Miss Tolerance was conscious of a loose, dizzy sense of relief and excitation, and yet nothing seemed to have changed between them.

  When she left, Miss Tolerance sat in the carriage Michael had secured for her, her thoughts as disordered as her mood.

  The next day, Sunday, Miss Tolerance took herself to church with various of Mrs. Brereton’s whores and the maid who provided them consequence, and prayed for her sins, for understanding, and for friendship. Returned home, she made herself as busy as possible with accounts, a book, some mending. It would have been a relief to do fencing drills, but neither her head nor her arm were sufficiently recovered to permit it. When at last she took herself to her bed, that usually commodious berth felt, tonight, bot
h cold and narrow.

  Monday morning bought a note from Lady Brereton.

  May I ask you to call today when it is convenient? I do not wish to be behind hand in settling with you for your help, and there are some matters I would like to discuss with you. Sir Adam and I have returned to my brother’s house, and you may find me there.

  CB

  Miss Tolerance noted the friendly tone of the letter—most of her clients did not concern themselves with her convenience or with punctuality of payment—and took a little pleasure in the fact that this woman was, all unknowing, related to her. Adam had done well for himself. She returned a message offering to call on Lady Brereton at one that afternoon, and began to dress.

  Except for the hatchment over the door and mourning bands on the sleeves of the servants, there was nothing in the Lyne house to suggest the upheaval the household had undergone. Wheeler greeted her and brought her upstairs to the same sitting room where Evadne Thorpe had sat a few days earlier. He announced her and left.

  Lady Brereton wore mourning; the black gave her an unflattering pallor. She rose from one of the flowered sofas, embroidery forgotten at her side, exchanged a curtsy with Miss Tolerance, and offered her a seat.

  “I think we should start again,” Lady Brereton said. While Miss Tolerance watched her, bewildered, she rose and closed the door. When she returned she stopped directly before Miss Tolerance, offered her hand, and said, “How do you do. I am Clarissa Brereton. I believe you are my sister-at-law?”

  A little numbly, Miss Tolerance took Lady Brereton’s offered hand in her own. She had given her word she would not unveil herself, but certainly neither she nor Sir Adam had envisioned this. “How?” she asked. “How did you know?”

  Lady Brereton smiled. “There’s not much of a look between you, is there? You take after your grandmother, though. There’s a very good portrait of her at Briarton. And there are certain mannerisms—you share an expression with Adam when you’re impatient.” She sat beside Miss Tolerance.

  “Do I?” What was she to say? “Did you know of our relation before you hired me?”

  “No. I learned of you from a friend. I confess I thought that your history might give you particular sympathy for my sister. It was not until a few days ago that I began to suspect the relation. Adam and your father never mentioned you, you see. But there was your room, full of a girl’s things. Your father never thought to throw them away, and Mrs. Cropsey—well, Mrs. Cropsey is very fond of you and would not part with anything without direct orders. It was she who explained what had happened to you, after considerable persuasion. You father had insisted your name not be mentioned—so very Gothick!”

  Miss Tolerance smiled. “You must have ingratiated yourself with Mrs. Cropsey indeed, if she would go against my father.”

  “By then your father was dead, and I don’t think Mrs. Cropsey takes Adam’s orders so seriously. As she has said several times, always in a mutter when she thinks I cannot hear her, she knew him when he was in skirts and curls.” Lady Brereton’s imitation of the Briarton housekeeper delighted Miss Tolerance.

  “So you knew the Breretons’ dreadful secret before you came to London? Your family does not know, I take it.”

  “No. I would never have told them; it was enough that they knew about your aunt. How could they not, when she kept her name?” Lady Brereton’s voice was cooler: a sister-at-law who had given up the world for love was one thing; a relative who had not only given up the world but had embraced venery to the extent of brothel-keeping was clearly another.

  “I am surprised they let you know of her. I neither approve nor disapprove of my aunt’s profession, as she has made it plain it is not my business to do either. But she gave me a home, and affection, when I needed both sorely.”

  “She did not ask you to—never encouraged you to—”

  “To follow in her gilded footsteps? To become a whore?” Miss Tolerance was amused. “She has, in fact, often. It puzzles her that I will not; I suppose she really is deficient in some moral sense—but she has never let my refusal come between us.”

  Lady Brereton appeared to consider. “She is broadminded?” she suggested.

  Miss Tolerance laughed. “By her lights, I believe she is.”

  The subject of their relation having been exhausted for the moment, there were only two other topics Miss Tolerance could think of, and only one which did not involve the presentation of her bill.

  “How does your sister do?”

  Lady Brereton’s eyes filled with unhappiness. “She returned to the Godwins; she seems comfortable there, and they say they are happy to have her there. Miss Tolerance, I tell you frankly, I cannot understand how to help her. She is fearful one moment, enraged the next, not at that man Huwe but at our father. Not that she has not cause, but—I wish I understood how to help her.”

  Miss Tolerance shook her own head. “I wish I had some comfort to give her, or you. My experience is similar to hers in only a few details: elopement and disinheritance are nothing to what she has suffered, and the only balm I can suggest is time.”

  A cloud swept across the sun, leaving the room suddenly dim. “That man ruined her. Unfit her to be a wife, unfit her to—” She stopped and stared at Miss Tolerance. “You are Fallen, but you are not ruined. Not that way. How is that?”

  “I had love,” Miss Tolerance said simply. “However irregular it was. Connell was a good man and I loved him. Even so, had I anticipated how hard our life would be, how much I gave up with that impetuous choice, I do not know what I would have done.” She gave a thought to Sir Walter. “But I had love, and your sister did not.”

  Half an hour later Miss Tolerance took her leave. Her reticule was heavy: Lady Brereton had paid in full the reckoning for her work and expenses. She made her way down the stairs, was shown out by Pinney, and on the steps found herself face to face with her brother.

  Sir Adam’s face reddened. “Why are you here?”

  “Your wife invited me, Adam.”

  He took her elbow and all but dragged her down the street, muttering “Sir Adam. Someone might hear. Clary might hear.”

  “She knows, Adam.” Miss Tolerance regarded her brother with a look mingling sympathy and exasperation. “Apparently we share expressions. And she says I look very much like Grandmother Anna’s portrait.”

  Astonishment appeared to make her brother unsteady on his feet. Now it was Miss Tolerance who took his elbow and urged him forward. “Let us take a little air before you faint.” She waited until they had settled into a leisurely stroll of the perimeter of St. James’s Square before she said, “I like your wife very much. She is neither as fragile as you believe, nor as easily shocked. She has a good deal of strength—how else could she have stood up to her father when all you men—yes, her brothers as well—cowered before him?”

  Mention of Lyne took away Sir Adam’s pleasure in hearing his wife praised. “My God, Sally. None of us imagined he was—how could Lyne—” Sir Adam broke off as if no word to describe his father-at-law’s doing was sufficient.

  “How should you have imagined it?” Miss Tolerance was sympathetic, to a point. “Your father-at-law seemed a prime example of a man of his age and station. Who would have guessed he would make our father seem like a paragon of compassion? No, no, I do not mean to pick a fight, Adam. Truly, I do not. I still have a wicked tongue after all these years, and far too little excuse to mend it.”

  Sir Adam looked sidewise at his sister. “Sally? Sally, I hope you don’t think to make this reunion an excuse to—”

  “To settle myself upon you? No, Adam. Emphatically, I do not. I am happy to have had a chance to mend fences with you, a little, but I am under no illusions about returning to the family. I would ask a favor, though.”

  “A favor?” Caution warred with relief in Sir Adam’s voice.

  “Will you tell Mrs. Cropsey, and Nurse, and the people in Briarton, that they will not be turned out if I come to visit? Nurse must be quite stricken in year
s; I should like to go pay my respects to her some day.”

  “Is that all? Good God, Sally, of course. I never thought of it. But is there nothing else? Your things from Briarton? I could send them; that place you live is so barren.”

  “My books and dolls from the schoolroom? No, thank you.”

  “But that place. You are comfortable there? You have friends?”

  Miss Tolerance thought of Marianne, of her aunt, of Harry and Cook and the other denizens of Mrs. Brereton’s house. She thought of Sir Walter. “I have friends. I want for nothing, Adam. Truly. And you have my word: I will not force my way into your family. It is enough that you and I can speak together civilly; I never expected such a thing. Of course, “Miss Tolerance’s mouth quirked in a smile. “I could introduce you to our aunt.”

  A look of horror passed briefly over her brother’s face, followed at once by a crooked, sheepish smile. “You’re funning me.”

  “I am.” A grin played on Miss Tolerance’s lips. “You make it very easy. And you are still my brother, and still require taking down a peg.”

  They had reached the corner of King Street. Miss Tolerance extended her hand as if to shake his, but Sir Adam only stood, looking at her bemusedly. At last, Miss Tolerance reached out to pat him lightly on the shoulder. “I do like your wife very much, Sir Adam. I wish you both very happy.”

  She curtseyed and, while her brother stared after her, walked briskly down King Street.

  — — —

  A Note on History, Faux and Real

  This is not only a mystery but an alternate history: George III was succeeded by his son George, first as Regent (in 1811) and then as King (in 1820) and at no time did Queen Charlotte reign as Regent. Within that greater alternaty (to coin a term) I have tried to keep things as accurate to history and the period as possible. The plot to destroy Napoleon’s newly-rebuilt fleet is historical, and made sense on paper, but the Navy consistently disregarded the advice of doctors (and military men with a familiarity with England’s history—a hundred years earlier there had been a similar attempt at invasion, with a similar ending) who counseled against the expedition. To make matters worse, the invading fleet sailed with barely a day’s worth of cinchona bark for its forces. Eight thousand men died from a mixed bag of malaria, dysentery and typhoid, and another twenty thousand survived, but were invalided out of the armed forces. Afterward it was said you could recognize a veteran of the campaign by the red waistcoats they wore—with a small pocket to carry a personal supply of Peruvian bark.