“I shall. Sir John.”
“Good lad.” He held the sealed letter out to me.
And yet I hesitated as I took it. “There is but one thing,” said L
“Oh?”
“I have been scrubbing stairs up above and am not dressed proper for a visit to the Lord Chief Justice — that is, since I may have to wait for him.”
“I do not quite understand.”
“The Lord Chief Justice’s butler will not admit me unless I am dressed in my best.”
“Oh, he will not, will he? Well …” In this, he sounded an aggressive note. Then, after a pause, he ended in a more conciliatory manner. “Indeed, hmmm, perhaps then you had better change your clothes. Though, I confess I do not like the idea of butlers dictating dress. I do not like the idea of butlers at all. But do be quick about it. I should like this settled as swiftly as possible.”
With the best of intentions, I set out a short time later for the residence of William Murray, Earl of Mansfield, the Lord Chief Justice of the King’s Bench in Bloomsbury Square.
To my own mind, I looked quite the young gentleman as I turned down New Broad Court. A sudden spurt of growth in the spring had made necessary a new suit of clothes. My Lady Fielding bought quite as wisely and generously for me as she had for her son, Tom, mixing ready-made with cast-offs of good quality — even more generous, indeed, for she had purchased two pairs of ready-made breeches for me, the second of darker and more durable stuff that I might have them for quotidian wear. But as with Tom before me, my great prize was my coat — bottle-green it was, with white trim, and as the seller declared, “Barely worn by him for who it was bespoke.” Who would not feel a proper London gallant in such a coat?
I had chosen this route in particular, intending to see one on whom I had lately come to dote. I knew her by her Christian name only, and that, she said, was Mariah. I doubt she knew my name at all, though I had given it her. Yet she met so many men each day, talked with them all, had more intimate congress with some — how could she be expected to remember one who would offer her neither money nor clever chit-chat in the mode of the day, but only dumb adulation and tongue-tied fascination?
It was no more than two weeks ago that I first noticed her. I had stared across a narrow street at her, quite taken by her dark beauty — yet not by that alone, for I was struck direct by the notion that I had seen her before. Oh, I might have done, of course. London was then near as large as it is today, a city of a million or so inhabitants. I knew her to be a girl of the streets, from the way she stood and sought to capture the attention of men passing by. It seemed such as she were without number on this side of the Thames, and most of them right here in and around Covent Garden. Yet the sense of recognition I felt came not, I was sure, from some passing glimpse. No, I felt as if I knew her, in a manner of speaking, from a time much earlier. What was it? When was it?
She was often in New Broad Court, and sometimes nearby in Drury Lane. I had ventured to speak to her once or twice — no, indeed it was thrice. The first time I asked her name, and she gave it readily enough. Yet when I thanked her and walked on, unable to think of another word to say, she called after me, not so much in anger as in annoyance. Hearing her name had done nothing to stir my memory. On the second occasion, I addressed her by name, told her my own, and asked in a great stammer if, perchance, I had known her from some earlier occasion. She answered right saucy that she was aware of no such occasion but that she was easily known and that such would cost me a shilling only. That stopped me short. I blurted that I had not so much, which was a lie, wished her a good day, and all but ran away.
The third occasion had been only a day past. I sought her out because I had at last had some clue of that earlier meeting, hardly more than the passing glimpse I had previously dismissed. It had come to me as in a dream, a reverie of entertainments past in Covent Garden. I would ask her but one question, and then I could be certain. Yet when I sought the opportunity and approached her at her usual place, she recognized me at a distance from my earlier attempts to converse and turned away most petulant. She walked swiftly up Drury Lane as I followed in pursuit. Then she came to a fellow of about my size, though a bit my senior in years. Whispering to him, she turned back and pointed in my direction, and then she hurried on. He, however, came straight at me, blocking my way on the walk. He accused me of “bovvering the young lady” and advised me to “shove my trunk” in the opposite direction. In order to assist me, he grabbed at my shoulders and would have pushed me back, had I allowed it. But with a swift movement of my own, I broke his hold on my shoulders with my forearms, and in the bargain, threw him off balance. He staggered back a few paces. We stood there so, each taking the measure of the other, and I looking beyond him in vain for Mariah; she had disappeared in the crowd of pedestrians on Drury Lane, or perhaps ducked into a shop along the way. Passers-by had halted, sensing the sort of acrimony in the air that might lead to pugilistic diversion. We left them unsatisfied. I must have relaxed perceptibly in disappointment when I found that Mariah was no longer in sight, because for whatever reason he turned round of a sudden and walked away. I did the same, ignoring the groans of the bystanders at their lost entertainment. Sir John had laid upon me a strict injunction against tussling in the streets, and quite right was he to do so. It would not be proper for one under his protection to disturb the peace in so blatant a manner.
And so, as I left Bow Street for Bloomsbury Square late in the afternoon in question, it is true I chose a path that might lead me near Mariah. But I had determined only to look upon her as I passed and had accordingly chosen the side of the street opposite the one on which it was her custom to take her place. She had offended me with her pettishness — running away, as she had, then siccing that bully-boy on to me. Who was he? What was he to her? If Mariah had no desire to speak to me, then I certainly had none to speak with her. Yet one last look might confirm the memory I had of a Sunday afternoon two years past, of a troupe of tumblers, a girl younger than myself, more agile and graceful than all the rest. Was it she? How was I to know if I could not view her one more time? Mariah was nowhere to be seen.
But indeed she saw me.
As I walked down one side the street scanning the other I felt a hand at my sleeve and a sudden tug. I looked round sharp, ready to defend myself and found her half hidden in a doorway.
“Mariah!” said I.
“You!” said she, quite simultaneous.
Then nothing for a moment as we regarded one another in surprise.
“You look ver’ gran’ today,” said she.
She spoke with uncertainty, in such a way as to suggest that she spoke another language better than English. That, too, agreed with my memory.
“These are my good clothes,” said I, “indeed they are my best.” Then I added, hoping basely to impress her: “I am on my way to Bloomsbury Square to deliver a letter to the Lord Chief Justice of the King’s Bench/’
“You work for him?”
“No, Sir John Fielding is my master. He is Magistrate of the Bow Street Court.”
“Ah, I have heard of him. He is a big man, yes? He send everyone to Newgate.”