A Dangerous Undertaking. Mary Nichols
that’s a turn up for the books,’ Nellie said. ‘What are you going to do now?’
Margaret looked from her to her uncle, who did not deign to answer for several seconds.
‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t know. Ain’t you got anyone else you can go to?’
‘No, or I would, believe me.’
‘Where’s your father?’
‘He died in India. I was born out there in 1727, but the climate did not suit my mother and, when my father died, she brought me back to England. I was only a baby then; I do not remember him.’
‘Nineteen years old,’ he murmured. ‘Felicity took her time about producing, considering she left here in ’15.’
‘My parents were married two years before I was born, no more.’
‘Hmm,’ he mused. ‘Fancy that little chit managing on her own all that time. What did she do? For a living, I mean.’
‘She was a mantua-maker, and a very good one.’
‘Is that so? Hardly the occupation of a lady of breeding.’
‘Perhaps she had little choice,’ Margaret snapped in defence of her beloved mother, though she had no idea what had happened in the past. If Great-Uncle Henry was a sample of her family, then she did not blame her mother for never mentioning them.
‘And you expect me to welcome you with open arms?’ her uncle asked.
Nellie giggled. ‘Why not? You do everyone else…’
‘Shut up, you witless cow,’ he said to her, then to Margaret, ‘You’d do better turning right round and going back where you came from.’
‘I can’t. I’ve no money.’
‘Neither have I and that’s a fact.’ He sighed. ‘You’d better stay, I suppose. Just until we can think of something else. Nellie, my dear, show her where she can sleep and tell Mistress Clark there’ll be one more for dinner.’
The house, neglected as it was now, had once been very fine, Margaret decided as she followed Nellie up the carved oak staircase and along a wide landing. The people who had built it must have been quite wealthy and had some standing in the community; the building materials would have had to be transported some distance because, apart from willows and a few aspen, there were no trees locally. The proportions of the house were on a grand scale too; lofty ceilings and long windows with leaded panes. Some of the doors along the landing were standing open and revealed large rooms full of worn furniture which had once been good.
One room was obviously in use. It was even more untidy than the rest of the house—the bed was unmade and garments were scattered all over the bed and the floor. Margaret could not help noticing that there was a man’s night shirt and hose as well as women’s clothes. She averted her gaze hurriedly; so Nellie was her great-uncle’s wife! She was younger than Margaret herself and she was certainly not a lady of breeding. But who was she to criticise? Margaret asked herself as she followed her hostess into a bedroom at the far end of the corridor.
‘You won’t be disturbed here,’ Nellie said. ‘I hope you’re not used to being waited on, because there aren’t any servants except Mistress Clark, and she don’t sleep in.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘She don’t approve of Henry’s goings-on, as she calls them, but she stays on account of she knew the old master.’
‘My mother’s father?’
‘Yes; I suppose it would have been Henry’s brother. He was a few years older than Henry. Before that, of course, there was your great-grandfather. Henry don’t talk about them.’
‘Is there no one else in the family?’
‘Not that I know of, but then I ain’t known Henry that long.’ She paused, looking round the room. ‘It’s a bit dusty. It ain’t one of the rooms we use often.’
‘Do you entertain much, Mistress Capitain?’ Margaret asked, going over to the wash-stand and noticing the scum on the top of the water in the jug.
Nellie threw back her head and laughed. ‘Bless you, I ain’t Henry’s wife.’
Margaret was shocked to the core. She was not blind to some of the things that went on in the less salubrious parts of London; she knew men took mistresses and some wives took lovers, but she had never expected to find it happening in her own family, nor in the family home away from the capital. She sat down heavily on the bed, sending up a cloud of dust.
‘Don’t look so stricken,’ Nellie said. ‘Henry and me, well, we’re just good friends. I came down here ’cos I needed to get away for a bit, understand?’
Margaret didn’t and she said so.
‘Never mind,’ the girl said, and laughed again. ‘You’re like a fish out of water, here, ain’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d find somewhere else to go, if I were you.’ It was said almost kindly. ‘Later on, or mayhap tomorrow, there’s a whole lot more coming.’
‘More like you?’ It was out before Margaret could stop it.
‘Yes, only worse. Men and women—they’re coming to gamble and… Well, you know.’
Margaret shuddered. Her mother could not possibly have known it would be like this when she’d told her to come here. Now where was she to go? For a fleeting moment she thought of Charles Mellison and his friend, Lord Pargeter, looking for a wife who would be prepared to live in this outlandish place. She had heard that fen people were all slightly mad, and she was beginning to believe it. What could she do? She lifted her chin. ‘Perhaps you should be the one to leave,’ she said. ‘After all, you have no ties here… .’
It was a silly thing to say and she realised it as soon as Nellie began to laugh. She was still laughing as she went back downstairs, leaving Margaret alone in the grubby bedroom.
It was a corner room, having windows on two sides which would have made it a pleasant bedchamber if it had been clean. It had a bed, a dressing-table and a cupboard, standing on a carpet so faded as to be colourless. She did not unpack, but went to the window and looked out on a landscape so bleak that she didn’t know how anyone could like it. She saw nothing but acres and acres of flat land, some of it meadow, some of it ploughed, intersected by dykes, whose banks were higher than the surrounding land. From the other window the view was of water, with clumps of frost-blackened sedge and reeds. A rowing-boat rocked on its moorings beside the landing-stage. Overhead, in the great bowl of the sky, a heron flew. But her mother had loved her childhood here and had spoken of the special magic of the fen country—its glorious sunsets and red dawns, its plentiful wildlife, fish and fowl, its close-knit communities and hardy, superstitious people. What she had never told Margaret was why she had left and why she had never been back. As she stood at the window, a little of the atmosphere communicated itself to her and for the first time she began to understand.
But that did not mean she wanted to stay. Her uncle evidently did not want her and she was certainly not impressed with him, but what else was there for her to do? She had no money to return to London. Suddenly she found herself thinking again of Charles Mellison, who had suggested she should marry, and his long-legged, handsome companion, who was looking for a wife. She did not want either of them to be given the opportunity of crowing over her. She smiled and turned from the window; she would just have to make the best of the situation. Straightening her shoulders, she returned downstairs and made her way to the kitchen, intending to ask for mops and buckets to clean her room.
MISTRESS CLARK was thin and dark, reminding Margaret of a scavenging crow as she darted about the kitchen picking up utensils and bowls. She was muttering to herself,