take off the paper and lard-baste it all over with yolks of eggs beat up with melted butter, sprinkle crumbs of bread over it, in abundance, and finish the fowl to a fine yellow colour. Make a sauce with a bit of butter, one chopped anchovy, a few capers, a little flour, two spoonfuls of broth, nutmeg, pepper and salt; form a liaison like a white sauce and serve it under the fowl.
That evening, Mr Truegood held the last of his parties. He had been drinking his sorrows away most of the afternoon and by the time his gambling companions arrived, whatever rational thoughts his head might have possessed had long been pickled.
He shouted down to the kitchen that I was to serve his guests tonight and, if I didn’t, then the dress, the stockings and the rest of the clothes he had hired for me would be returned to Mrs Phelps’ shop. I knew well that come high tide tomorrow they would be gone anyway. When the bailiffs arrived to take Mr Truegood to the sponging house, at least Mrs Phelps’ clothes would be returned in a better state than I had found them. I had spent a great deal of time cleaning and mending the dress. The lace edging being good for nothing but cobwebs I had carefully removed it and wore the dress plain. The stomacher I laced tight causing my bosom to be pushed up high.
I had never before had to serve my father. It had always been Cook’s job, and mine was to clean up after him. Now I seemed to have inherited both ends of the leaky old donkey. If Cook had been conscious it might have helped, but she was out cold by the fire, a tumbler of gin beside her.
‘Tonight,’ declared Mr Truegood, ‘I will win it all back – every penny.’
‘Perhaps, sir,’ I said, ‘it would be best to leave off the cards.’
‘Who are you to tell me what to do?’
Seeing he was set to gamble away what little was left of nothing, I said no more.
The ragtag members of the Hawks’ Club turned up and sat crouched over their cards with such expression as if their very life would be judged by a winning or losing hand.
‘He is late,’ said a card player.
‘He will be here,’ said my father.
I went to the kitchen for more wine and brought up as well a board of ripe cheese that I had picked two maggots from, and bread on the cusp of turning green. Candles are a luxury that the bankrupt can ill afford and therefore the chamber had more of the dark about it than the light. So dark it was in fact that I did not at first see the newcomer seated at the card table. His clothes showed that he was a dandy and spoke of wealth that shone bauble-bright.
My father had started well and won ten guineas but, being born a fool, was determined to stay true to his origins and with the next hand lost all he had gained.
‘Come, I will play again,’ said my father.
‘With what, sir?’ said the dandy. ‘It appears to me you have nothing left to gamble with.’
‘I have that, sir,’ said Mr Truegood, pointing at me. ‘Thirty guineas is the rate for a virgin and she has never been touched.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Pox free, I promise you.’
‘If she is a virgin that goes without saying,’ said the young rake.
I thought this is how slaves must feel when they are brought to the market. My would-be seducer never once looked in my direction but with a shrug of his shoulders he agreed.
I didn’t want to stay and watch my fate being decided by such a hopeless gambler as Mr Truegood and was edging towards the door when he growled, ‘Stay where you are.’
The other gamblers became quiet when Mr Truegood lost his bet and with it his daughter. He rose, unsteady on his feet, and stood near the fire staring at the coals.
‘Take her,’ he said. ‘But thirty guineas doesn’t include her clothes. I will need twenty-six pounds for them. Are you willing to pay extra?’
‘No,’ said the rake. ‘The bet was Miss Truegood’s virginity, not her clothes.’
‘Leave them upstairs,’ said my father to me.
‘But what am I to wear?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘You won’t be needing them.’
I turned to the rake to see if he had any opinion on my garments. He said nothing.
My father’s friends sat round the gaming table studying their wine glasses as my father rejoined them.
‘Go and change,’ he said. ‘Make haste. I’m sure the young gentleman doesn’t have all night.’
I stayed where I was, aware of the anger that was growing in me, and stared at Mr Truegood. If he wanted his clothes he could have them here and now. I started to undress.
‘What are you doing, girl?’ he said, looking at me in horror as I unlaced my stomacher, took off my dress, my petticoat and my chemise, letting each item fall to the floor. ‘Have you no modesty?’
‘Have you no morals?’ I replied. ‘If you are willing to gamble away my maidenhead, what use, sir, is modesty to me?’
I stood naked apart from my stockings and my shoes. Even in my rage I knew that the small heel gave me height and my anger made me taller than I had ever been before. The young rake was now standing, and I saw a smile cross his face.
One of Mr Truegood’s sea-shanty friends said to the rake, ‘You’re a lucky man – she’s a beauty. I will pay you double – treble – if you will sell her to me.’
‘She is not for sale, sir,’ he replied.
I was furious with my father. I’d had enough of this unbearable man, of his mean, stingy ways, of his neglect.
‘You have treated me, your daughter, as nothing more than a servant,’ I said, picking up the clothes. ‘Here, take the stinking rags.’
I threw them onto the card table, scattering aces and queens.
‘You are no daughter of mine,’ shouted Mr Truegood. ‘You are a bastard. Your mother duped me. When I married her you were already aboard.’
The revelation was a flash of the most brilliant blue ever to have appeared in such an ill-lit room. It liberated me instantly from any obligation to this obnoxious man. I picked up the wine I had brought from the kitchen and went up to Mr Truegood. His face was blotchy, his lips pursed, his glazed eyes near bursting out of his head to see me so brazenly standing there.
I poured the whole bottle over his wig.
He was too drunk to do anything except stare at me, wine dripping off his lips, his chin and down on to his grubby stock. He didn’t resist as I took the house keys from his pocket.
‘You are mad, you will end your days in Bedlam,’ he said.
‘I am mad,’ I said. ‘Mad with rage at you.’
‘What a bottom she has,’ said one of the rum gamblers.
‘And what duddies,’ said his companion. ‘Milksoft sweet they are.’
Ignoring
