my cue to enter upon life’s stage.
The spring weather was no help. It made the frustration of being indoors harder to bear for we were confined to the house in Milk Street, forbidden to go out in society until the matter of Hope’s marriage had been settled.
The dancing master’s book afforded me many hours of pleasure, more than the learning of his steps had done, and I kept it well hidden, certain that if Mrs Truegood should see it, it would be forbidden. I did show it to Mercy and Mercy showed it to Hope, who thought it hilarious and insisted on taking it to show Mr Sitton. Very sensibly, he came every morning to our house, I assumed to avoid his disagreeable mother. He would take his hot chocolate with Hope in her bedchamber and be there until the morning was all but gone. Weddings, I was told, take much organising. I was convinced that my delightful book would never be returned and I was wishing I could remember all the images when Hope came to my bedchamber.
She handed me the book with a smile and said, ‘Thank you. Mr Sitton was most amused.’
Sensing that this might be an opportune moment, I asked if the illustrations weren’t a little overstated for surely no man owned a root as enormous as that given to the gentleman on Plate Nine. The illustration showed a man with his breeches undone and his male root hard as a cucumber and he about to thrust it into the female root of a large, naked lady. She was bending over, her bottom as big as a full moon.
‘What is all this nonsense with vegetables?’ asked Hope.
I told her about Mr Smollet and what a small carrot he had. I wanted to tell her about the dancing master and the maid, but I thought it might be too shocking.
‘You have seen a very poor specimen,’ she said. ‘I can assure you Mr Sitton is very well endowed in that department.’
‘You mean you have done this?’ I said, finding the illustration on Plate Twenty that showed to perfection the ecstatic effect the male root had upon the female.
‘And more besides,’ she whispered. ‘You did not suppose that Mr Sitton and me merely enfiler des perles?’ I did not speak French and could only guess at what she meant. She smiled. ‘There now. Do you think me quite without morals?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Though it wouldn’t matter to me if a man had fifteen houses if his asset was as small as Mr Smollet’s. I would never wed him.’
‘Oh, Tully!’ exclaimed Hope. Then, laughing, she said, ‘I am so glad I have a perfect ninny of a stepsister.’
I believed Mrs Truegood would be mortified if she knew the truth of what was going on under her roof. I thought she might not recover from the shock of knowing that Hope was having more than hot chocolate with Mr Sitton and that I was having much more than a bedtime kiss from Mercy.
Mr Crease, the gentleman with the painted eyes who owned the little white dog, was an advisor to Mrs Truegood. She had made a formidable enemy in Mrs Sitton, who had no intention of letting her son marry Hope. ‘Not while there is flesh on my bones,’ she stated in one letter. She had a very strange way of writing and the image left me wondering if anyone, even a dog, would be interested in the flesh on her bones for she looked as if all the marrow of enjoyment had been well and truly sucked out of her.
Mr Crease and his little dog arrived every morning after which footmen and letters went to and fro between Milk Street and Grosvenor Square. Perhaps only Mr Crease’s dog knew that Mrs Sitton was holding the winning card in that mean hand of hers.
One morning, Mr Sitton didn’t call on Hope but instead a letter was delivered by one of Mrs Sitton’s forty-one servants. It said that Mr Sitton had been called away on business. There was no doubt as to the author of the letter: it had been written by the bag of bones that was Mrs Sitton. Hope was heartbroken and said she knew she would never see Mr Sitton again.
On hearing the news, Mr Crease closeted himself with Mrs Truegood, leaving his little dog pining outside the door to her chamber. I couldn’t understand why Mr Crease didn’t let the dog in as his cries were quite heartbreaking. I asked Mercy the name of Mr Crease’s dog.
She looked at me strangely and said, ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I just wondered.’
‘And I wonder where Mr Sitton has gone.’
The significance of Mr Sitton’s sudden absence meant nothing. My question, I thought, did. ‘But what is Mr Crease’s dog called?’ I asked again.
‘His dog was called Shadow because he would whine if he was ever parted from Mr Crease.’
What did Mercy mean by speaking of the dog in the past? Surely she should say his dog is called Shadow? Had he died in the night?
‘Do you think it is odd that Mr Sitton didn’t call before he left town?’
To tell the truth I had not being paying much attention to the daily ups and downs of Hope’s marriage plans.
‘Tell me about Shadow,’ I persisted.
‘He was the most famous little mongrel that ever lived.’ Still that uncomfortable past tense. ‘Mr Crease and Shadow performed all over Europe for emperors, kings and queens. Mr Crease would lay down a pack of cards in a circle round Shadow, each one a letter of the alphabet, then invite someone from the audience to ask a question. The little dog would cock its head as if he was listening and then solemnly put a paw on each card and spell out a word. What he had to say had more wisdom than many men speak in a lifetime. After Shadow’s death, Mr Crease became too despondent for anything but gambling and whoring. Then one night he fell off his horse on Hampstead Heath. By the time he was found the following morning there was nothing the surgeon could do for his crushed leg but saw it off.’
‘But he still has Shadow,’ I said.
‘Don’t be a ninny,’ said Mercy firmly. ‘The dog died ten years ago.’
‘But I see Shadow every day.’
‘Enough of this nonsense,’ said Mercy, more sharply than she had ever spoken to me before. ‘I think you must be seeing ghosts.’
I went to ask Cook if she had seen Mr Crease’s dog.
‘Dog? The only dog I know about is that one up there,’ said Cook, nodding at the spit-roast dog going round and round in his wheel. ‘And it has a foul nature.’
She wasn’t a woman to go over her words and she had no intention of putting any more meat on her answer.
I tried to speak to Hope.
‘Tully,’ she said, ‘what nonsense is this? Mr Crease doesn’t have a dog.’
She was looking so sad that I said, ‘Perhaps it’s best just to get married as I did, without any fuss.’
‘Are you determined to vex me?’
I told her how I had been wed at twelve and to that day had no idea who my husband was.
‘Is
