Point of Honour (Sarah Tolerance) Read online

  Mrs. Brereton nodded absently to her niece and returned her attention to Chloe’s wound; a damaged worker would not draw in custom.

  At the door to the room, Miss Tolerance returned the smallsword to the fat gentleman. “Thank you, sir. I apologize for the imposition, but the need was—”

  The fat man, red-faced and creaking still, kept his arm about Marianne’s shoulders, but his admiration was all for Miss Tolerance. “Not at all. A pleasure—no, a privilege to have been of assistance.”

  “That was finely done, Miss Sarah,” Marianne said firmly. She looked sidewise at her elderly beau, obviously amused at his outbreak of hero worship. “Chloe might have died but for you.”

  “Nonsense. You heard Mrs. Brereton. She would not have permitted any harm to come to Chloe. I simply moved matters along a bit.”

  “But are you new, my dear?” the fat man asked. His gaze had drifted past Miss Tolerance’s face and settled predictably upon her décolleté. God preserve me, Miss Tolerance thought.

  “I’m only a visitor, sir, as you yourself are.” Let him make what he would of that. Miss Tolerance bade him and Marianne good evening, then stopped in her aunt’s parlor to gather her hat and cloak. Matt Etan was waiting for her.

  “Nicely done, Sarey!” he said, grinning. “You were the perfect Covent Garden strumpet. Is that what you think of us all?” He followed her down the hall to the back stairs.

  Miss Tolerance shook her head tiredly. “Not in the least. But I did not think Sir Randal would respond to anything but the broadest impersonation of a slut. So I played a Covent Garden strumpet. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “Damme, yes, it was magnificent. Of course, when Chloe remembers that you called her old Chloe not once but several times, she’ll forget her gratitude and want your head.”

  “Fine, she is welcome to it. But first I want some sleep. Unless you’re planning to follow me over to the little house, say good night now.”

  “I’ve a guest coming shortly, else I’d walk you safe to your door as a gentleman ought. Good night, Sarah.”

  Her response was lost in the night air in the garden. Miss Tolerance crossed the shadowy darkness, following the flagstone path beneath her slippers by feel rather than sight, and was glad to reach her little house. Once inside, she pulled off the rose-colored dress, took up the ewer of water that stood near the fire, and washed herself all over, briskly, as if she could scrub away the imposture as well as the dirt of the day. Finally, wrapped in her dressing gown, she sat on the settle before the fire and dozed off, dreaming, as she often did, of her ruin.

  Three

  Early in her career, Miss Tolerance had discovered the difficulties attending travel for a young woman of independent mind and investigative turn. She kept no maid to lend her countenance on her rambles about the city—such a thing would have been absurd—and she had not the funds to maintain her own carriage, nor even a horse and groom. Hired carriages and hackneys she resorted to rather more often than she liked; they were expensive, frequently ill-kept and foul-smelling, and by their nature required the inclusion of other persons in business meant to be confined strictly to herself. Often she hired a hack and rode by herself, but this caused its own problems. A respectable young woman riding unaccompanied through the streets or parks was subject to the grossest sort of insult—such solo rides were the favored way for the better class of courtesan to attract custom. Thus, Miss Tolerance often found it convenient to affect man’s dress when she had a need to travel beyond walking distance. This was not a wholly satisfactory solution, as even in breeches and coat, her femininity could be discerned by the observant. Still, it had been her experience that most people in London were too bound in their own lives to notice much about her. Where the eye saw breeches and top boots, the mind of London’s citizenry thought man and troubled her not. For those who looked further, the sight of the sword at her hip and a crop in her hand tended to dissuade all but the most vulgar from an approach. If she did not relish the occasional comment, she had long ago accepted that her status made remarks inevitable.

  The sun sparkled in the garden that morning, having somehow outrun the perpetual coal haze of London, but no breeze moved the trees. It looked to be hot and humid. Miss Tolerance had, the night before, asked Keefe to arrange for the hire of a hack. As she was tying her neckcloth, Keefe announced that the horse had been brought round and was waiting in the mews. She coiled her braided hair on top of her head, pinned it rigorously there, took up her hat and the Gunnard greatcoat, and made her way back to the stables, where Mrs. Brereton’s groom was holding an even-tempered gray. With thanks, Miss Tolerance mounted the hack and turned it toward Leyton. This early the streets were busy with tradesmen and merchants; a miscellany of small, dirty boys swept the mud and dung from the crossings, teased the flower girls, and chased each other under the wheels of the traffic. Miss Tolerance enjoyed riding through the city at this hour. Polite society was, most of it, still at home in bed, and the people she encountered went about their business as she went about hers.

  She knew several public houses in Leyton, and headed first to the Silent Man. She had great faith in the tavern as a source of useful neighborhood information. Unfortunately, she arrived early enough so that the regular tapster was still abed. Miss Tolerance ordered a pot of coffee and a bread roll and sat in a corner under a window to break her fast. When she had dispatched the coffee, she cast about for a paper to read, but found none. After an hour, the tapster was still asleep. She paid her shot, told the girl who took the coins that she would return, and made her way to the Queen’s Arms, several streets away. There the barman poured coffee for her and, at her invitation, for himself as well.

  “Retired ladies?” he asked, in response to her query. “Ladies of a certain sort, you mean to say?” He made a point of looking Miss Tolerance up and down; she did not flinch. “There used to be a regular nest of ‘em, Walthamstow way. Every lordling with two farthings settled his mistress out there, away from the noise of London—and the shops, too. Not many of ’em stayed, though. Too quiet for them, after the years of excitement.”

  Miss Tolerance nodded sympathetically. “This would be a retired woman,” she said. “Her name was Mrs. Cunning.”

  The barman shook his head. “You’d know the way of that, miss. Woman takes one name for her … well, her business, then goes back to her family name when she retires. Or takes Smith, or Brown, something unremarkable, like.”

  Miss Tolerance, who had not been born to the name she used, nodded. “Is there anywhere that such a … nest … of retired ladies might be settled?” she asked.

  The barman shook his head. “The ones I know of, the older ones, tend to keep to themselves, miss. The younger ones that’re still in keeping, they like to live close to each other, share the gossip, like. The old ones has mostly a powerful hankering after respectability, if you know what I mean. Most of ’em pretends as if they’d never heard of the others. You might talk to a couple of the younger ones hereabout. They’re fine for gossip, I imagine.”

  He offered, once Miss Tolerance had slid a few shillings across his polished oak bar, the name and direction of several of the “younger ones.” He and Miss Tolerance parted on an exchange of mutual cordialities, and he returned to polishing his taps.

  It took Miss Tolerance some time to locate the first of the addresses to which the barman had directed her. She found, at last, a cottage somewhat larger than her own house, set close among other houses on a pretty road. When she knocked at the door, a girl in a cap and apron answered. She was pretty until she smiled and displayed several teeth missing or darkened with decay, and her accent marked her for a Kentish farm girl. Still, she was well trained enough to make no comment at the strange figure Miss Tolerance presented; she took Miss Tolerance’s card in to her mistress directly.

  A moment later she was back. “Ma’am says she’ll see you, Miss. May I take your hat?” She showed Miss Tolerance down a dark hallway into a pretty, fussy room a
t the back of the house, where a woman some years older than Miss Tolerance was drinking chocolate and leafing through an old number of the Belle Assemblée. She was plump and agreeable-looking, with short, curling hair a nearly natural shade of yellow, and rosy cheeks that owed considerable to art rather than nature.

  “Mrs. Cockbun? I am Sarah Tolerance.”

  “Why, yes.” Mrs. Cockbun had a high voice, pinched, affected vowels, and a slight lisp. “Did dear Wolfie send you?”

  Miss Tolerance paused to think. Who was Wolfie? Presumably Mrs. Cockbun’s patron, but beyond that? He might be Wolvingham, or Henry Wolfe, or any one of the Woolfe family, or anyone else, for that matter. Clearly she could not claim that Wolfie had sent her. “It’s kind of you to see me, ma’am. Actually, I’ve come to ask a favor of you.”

  Mrs. Cockbun tittered. It was an annoying sound. “Oh, don’t call me ma’am, my dear! We’re nearly of an age, I might be your sister.” She looked meaningfully at Miss Tolerance’s breeches and riding coat, as if to remind Miss Tolerance that they were both of the sorority of the Fallen, just in case her visitor planned to give herself any airs.

  “Mrs. Cockbun, then. I was told you might know of a lady who lives, or lived, in this neighborhood. Of course, she came here some years ago, and you are probably too young to recall her … .” Miss Tolerance let the implied compliment sink in and was pleased to see Mrs. Cockbun dimple up, her suspicions allayed for the moment.

  “Well, my dear, you never know what I might know. People tell me things, you know, dear. I’m told I have a sympathetic manner.”

  Miss Tolerance smiled sympathetically herself. Mrs. Cockbun rang for more chocolate. “You’ll take a cup, won’t you? How lovely! It isn’t often I have morning visitors; Wolfie comes rather less than he used to, you know, what with the property to manage and his family responsibilities.” Miss Tolerance detested chocolate; she took the cup from her hostess and smiled. “Now, my dear, who is it you’re seeking?”

  “A lady by the name of Deborah Cunning, ma—Mrs. Cockbun. I’m told that she retired to this area some years ago.” It occurred to Miss Tolerance that she had not provided herself with a story of why she was seeking Mrs. Cunning. Fortunately, Mrs. Cockbun did not seem concerned to protect another woman’s privacy.

  “Cunning? Well, of course, my dear, she’s never using that name in retirement, is she? Hmmmm. When would she have come here?”

  Miss Tolerance felt again the irritation of an artisan who has not the proper tools to complete her work. “I cannot say for certain, ma—Mrs. Cockbun. Only that it would have been a least ten years ago, perhaps as many as twenty.”

  “Ah, well, you see, I was a child then! I hadn’t even made my Wolfie’s acquaintance, and was living in the city.”

  Miss Tolerance asked if perhaps Mrs. Cunning might have been in the neighborhood when her hostess arrived there. Mrs. Cockbun was unhelpful.

  “You see, dearie, once a woman loses the protection of a gentleman, she tends to live retired, like, and keep to herself. Perhaps that old woman down by the river would know.”

  “Old woman?”

  Mrs. Cockbun sniffed. Beside her, a dog, which Miss Tolerance had previously mistaken for a beribboned pillow, stirred and sneezed.

  “Bless you, Pierrot!” She pronounced the name Pee-rote. “Oh, yes, Mrs. James or Johnson or Williams, something like that. Lives in a cottage down by the river. Poor as a church mouse, as I understand, without a farthing to bless herself with. If she’s still alive. She’s terribly old and feeble, my dear.” She smoothed the silk of her dress again, quite content with her own relative youth and energy. “Now, tell me, my dear, why are you looking for this Mrs. Cunning? What call has a girl your—our age to be searching out an old whore?”

  Miss Tolerance looked at the cup in her hands with studied intensity. “She is my aunt, ma’am—Mrs. Cockbun. I find myself … as you see me, ma’am. Cast out by my family and seeking the only relative who will not turn me from her door. I am in hopes she will counsel me on what to do, since—” Miss Tolerance could be pardonably proud of the manufactured choke in her voice. Miss Cockbun nodded sympathetically; the lappets of her lace cap bobbed.

  “You see, I knew there was a story to it. A proper lady of your age would be long married and running after a brood of dear little children. You are a pretty thing, dearie, if you didn’t do yourself up in breeches like that. If you’re looking for advice on finding a protector, I could give it to you as easy as your auntie.” The courtesan smiled. Was she imagining Miss Tolerance as her first whore, the foundation of a modest house of joy?

  Miss Tolerance gave no sign of her distaste for this idea. “You’re very kind, ma‘am,” she said. “Perhaps another time I will come and ask your advice. But now—I really feel my place is with my aunt, ma’am. Perhaps she needs me.”

  Mrs. Cockbun’s smile faded. “Well, I made the offer,” she said.

  “Indeed, ma’am, you did.” Miss Tolerance took up her hat. “I will inquire of the elderly woman by the river, ma’am. And I thank you so very much for your help and your hospitality.”

  “Oh, must you go?” Mrs. Cockbun grasped Miss Tolerance’s arm to stop her; her grip was surprisingly strong. For a moment Miss Tolerance wondered if she actually meant to keep her there, if there was a confederate waiting to bind her and press her into one of the lowest sort of stews. But no; another look at Mrs. Cockbun and Miss Tolerance saw writ plainly on her face the woman’s terror of another day spent waiting for her protector, without the benefit of resources, imagination, or industry to enliven the wait. “Have another cup of chocolate,” Mrs. Cockbun urged.

  Miss Tolerance patted the hand that grasped her arm as if to remind the older woman that it was there. The hand released, and Miss Tolerance stepped away, taking up her hat and seating it firmly upon her head.

  “I must not take up more of your time, ma’am. But I thank you again—and give you good morning.” She bowed-curtseys go ill with breeches and a riding coat—and made for the door. Mrs. Cockbun fed a biscuit to her dog disconsolately.

  “The old lady by the river” was not a useful address, but Miss Tolerance had in her mind the sort of establishment which might be kept by an impecunious retired courtesan. She turned her hired hack toward the River Lea and rode along its length, surveying the cottages there. From the stench that rose up from that side of the road, it was clear that the sewers and drains of Leyton emptied into the Lea; in the late morning sun, the stench was appalling. The houses across the road were, in the main, nicely kept up, with flowers or blooming trees framing them. Those on the river side were more tumbledown, as if their owners could not be bothered in making the exterior of the house give the lie to the turmoil of the interior. Clearly the differences of class and money were at work in which side of the road one might occupy.

  For no reason clearly defined except that it seemed the right sort of place, Miss Tolerance stopped her hack in front of a tiny, painfully well-kept cottage at the farthest reach of the town on the river side. The building had been whitewashed sometime in the past, although close inspection suggested that the whitewash had not been applied in a year or more; there were banks of small pink flowers around the door, and a bell of polished brass hung by the door. As she stepped closer, the smell of the river in the heat grew stronger. Miss Tolerance’s stomach rebelled when she thought of living in such a dwelling.

  She tapped the bell very gently. A sweet note rang out. After a few moments, a face peered out at her from the window, and then the door was opened. The woman who stood there barely came up to Miss Tolerance’s breast, a tiny, wizened creature whose monkeyish face was surrounded by a frilled lace cap tied beneath her chin. Her clothes, Miss Tolerance noted, were like the house: neatly cared for but showing signs of age and a stringent budget. If this lady was Mrs. Cunning, she thought, it should be an easy thing to exchange five hundred pounds for the fan—but this lady looked too aged to have been anyone’s mistress in the last ten years, or even
twenty.

  “Yes?” The woman raised her eyebrows inquiringly but reserved her smile.

  “Good afternoon, ma‘am. I am sorry to disturb you, but I am looking for …” Miss Tolerance paused. She could hardly say “a friend” or “my aunt,” if this woman was the person she sought, but if the woman now went by some name other than Cunning, she did not want to annoy her by using her nom d’amour. She would have to chance it, she thought. “I am looking for Mrs. Cunning.”

  “Are you, then?” The old woman cocked her head to one side and looked Miss Tolerance in the eye. As if satisfied with what she saw, she opened the door wider. “Well, you had best come in.” The woman stood aside and Miss Tolerance entered the house, ducking her head to pass beneath the low-set lintel. Her hostess led her from a dark, close hallway into a tiny, cramped sitting room that faced onto the street. The room’s only light came from the sunshine which poured in through the window, softened by dusty gauze drapes. The furniture was dark and shabby-looking, and most surfaces were covered by bundles of papers tied with ribbon, bowls of dried flowers, sturdy candles studded with dried flowers, or large dozing cats. The room was stifling and smelled of lavender, cat, and the barely masked stench of the river. Miss Tolerance was hard-pressed not to sneeze.

  “What is your business with Mrs. Cunning?” the old woman asked. She sounded genuinely curious, without judgment.

  “I’ve been sent to find her on a matter of business.”

  The old woman leaned forward and took Miss Tolerance’s hand in one of hers; it was cold and papery to the touch. “My dear,” she noted, very kindly, as if striving to avoid offending her guest. “My dear, young ladies do not ride about in breeches on matters of business.”

  Miss Tolerance blinked. What was she to say to this? “Perhaps young ladies do not, ma’am,” she agreed at last, laying slight emphasis on ladies. “But I do. And I have been asked to seek out Mrs. Cunning.”