She sees us and nods.
'You know what to do?' Mr Hawtrey says to her. She nods again. He gives her money, wrapped in the paper on which he has written. 'Here is the lady, look. Her name is Mrs Rivers. You are to be kind to her. Have you some shawl?'
She has a plaid wool wrap, which she puts about me, to cover up my head. The wool is hot against my cheek. The day is still warm, though it is almost twilight. The sun has gone from the sky. I have been three hours from Lant Street.
At the door to the cab, I turn. I take Mr Hawtrey's hand.
'You will come,' I say, 'tomorrow?'
'Of course.'
'You won't talk of this, to anyone? You'll remember the danger I spoke of?'
He nods. 'Go on,' he says quietly. 'This woman will care for you now, better than I.' •
'Thank you, Mr Hawtrey!'
He hands me into the cab— hesitates, before lifting my fingers to his mouth. The woman comes next. He closes the door at her back, then moves off, out of the path of the turning wheel. I lean to the glass and see him take out his handkerchief, wipe his face and neck; then we turn, pull out of the alley, and he is gone. We drive away from Holywell Street— n o r t h w a r d s , s o f a r a s I c a n t e l l ; f o r I k n o w — I a m a l m o s t certain— that we do not cross the river.
We go very fitfully, however. The traffic is thick. I keep with my face at the window at first, watching the crowds upon the streets, the shops. Then I think, Suppose I see Richard?— and I fall back against the leather seat and study the streets from there.
Only after some time of this do I look again at the woman. She has her hands in her lap: they are gloveless, and coarse. She catches my eye.
'All right, dearie?' she says, not smiling. Her voice is rough as her fingers.
Do I begin, then, to feel wary? I am not sure. I think, After all, Mr Hawtrey had not the time to be careful, in his finding of a woman. What matter if she's not kind, so long as she's honest? I look more closely at her. Her skirt is a rusty black. Her shoes are the colour and texture of roasted meat. She sits placidly, not speaking, while the 248
cab shudders and jolts.
'Must we go far?' I ask her at last.
'Not too far, dearie.'
Her voice is still rough, her face without expression. I say, fretfully, 'Do you call me that? I wish you wouldn't.'
She shrugs. The gesture is so bold and yet so careless, I think I do then grow uneasy. I put my face again to the window, to try to draw in air. The air will not come. Where is Holywell Street, I think, from here?
'I don't like this,' I say, turning back to the woman. 'May we not walk?'
'Walk, in them slippers?' She snorts. She looks out. 'Here's
Camden Town,' she says. 'We've a fair way, yet. Sit back and be good.'
'Will you talk to me, so?' I say again. 'I am not a child.'
And again, she shrugs. We drive on, more smoothly. We drive for perhaps, half an hour, up a rising road. The day is darker now. I am tenser. We have left the lights and shops, and are in some street— some street of plain buildings. We turn a corner, and the buildings grow plainer still. Presently we draw up before a great, grey house.
There is a lamp, at the foot of its steps. A girl in a ragged apron is reaching with a taper to light it. The glass of its shade is cracked. The street is perfectly silent.
'What's this?' I say to the woman, when the coach has stopped and I understand it will not go on.
'Here's your house,' she says.
'The hotel?'
'Hotel?' She smiles. 'You may call it that.' She reaches for the latch on the door. I put my hand on her wrist.
'Wait,' I say— feeling real fear now, at last. 'What do you mean? Where has Mr Hawtrey directed you to?'
'Why, to here!'
'And what is here?'
'It's a house, ain't it? What is it to you, what sort? You shall get your supper all the same.— You might leave off gripping me, mind!'
'Not until you tell me where I am.'
She tries to pull her hand away, but I will not let her. Finally, she sucks her teeth.
'House for ladies,' she says, 'like you.'
'Like me?'
'Like you. Poor ladies, widow ladies— wicked ladies, I shouldn't wonder.— There!'
I have thrust her wrist aside.
'I don't believe you,' I say. 'I am meant to come to an hotel. Mr Hawtrey paid you for that— '
'Paid me to bring you here, and then to leave you. Most particular. If you don't like it— ' She reaches into her pocket. 'Why, here's his very hand.'
She has brought out a piece of paper. It is the paper that Mr Hawtrey put about the coin. It has the name of the house upon it__
A home, he calls it, for destitute gentlewomen. For a moment I gaze at the words in a 249
sort of disbelief: as if my gazing at them will change them, change their meaning or shape. Then I look at the woman. 'This is a mistake,' I say. 'He didn't mean this. He has misunderstood, or you have. You must take me back__'
'I'm to bring you, and leave you, most particular,' she says stubbornly again. '"Poor lady, weak in her head, needs taking to a charity place." There's charity, ain't it?'
She nods again to the house. I do not answer. I am remembering Mr Hawtrey's look— his words, the odd tone of his voice. I think, / must go back! I must go back to Holywell Street!— and yet, even as I think it, I know, with a dreadful chill contraction of my heart, what I will find there if I do: the shop, the men, the youth; and Mr Hawtrey gone, to his own home— his home, which might be anywhere in the city, anywhere at all... And after that, the street— the street in darkness.— How shall I manage it? How shall I live a night, in London, on my own?
I begin to shake. 'What am I to do?' I say.
'What, but go over,' says the woman, nodding again to the house. The girl with the taper is gone, and the lamp burns feebly. The windows are shuttered, the glass above them black, as if the rooms are filled with darkness. The door is high— divided in two, like the great front door at Briar. I see it, and am gripped by panic.
'I cannot,' I say. 'I cannot!'
Again the woman sucks her teeth. 'Better that than the road— ain't it? It's one or the other. I am paid to bring you here and leave you, that's all. Go on out, now, and let me get home.'
'I cannot,' I say again. I grab at her sleeve. 'You must take me, somewhere else.'
'Must I?' She laughs— does not shake me off, however. Instead, her look changes.
'Well, I will,' she says; 'if you'll pay me.'
'Pay you? I have nothing to pay you with!'
She laughs again. 'No money?' she says. And a dress like that?'
She looks at my skirt.
'Oh, God,' I say, plucking at it in desperation. 'I would give you the gown, if I might!'
'Would you?'
'Take the shawl!'
'The shawl's my own!' She snorts. She still looks at my skirt. Then she tilts her head.
'What you got,' she says more quietly, 'underneath?'
I shudder. Then slowly, shrinkingly, I draw up my hem, show her my petticoats— two petticoats there are, one white and one crimson. She sees them, and nods.
'They'll do. Silk, are they? They'll do.'
'What, both?' I say. 'Will you take both?'
'There's the driver needs his fare, ain't there?' she answers. 'You must pay me, once for myself; and once for him.'
I hesitate— but what can I do? I lift my skirt higher, find out the strings at my waist and pull them loose; then, modestly as I can, draw the petticoats down. She does not look away. She takes them from me and tucks them swiftly under her coat.
'What the gentleman don't know, eh?' she says, with a chuckle; as if we are close conspirators now. She rubs her hands. 'Where to, then? Eh? Where must I tell the driver?'
250
She has opened the window, to call. I sit with my arms about myself, feeling the prickle of the fabric of my gown against my bare thighs. I think I would colour, I think I would weep, if I had life enough.