Elijah’s Mermaid by Essie Fox Read Free Book Online

thrusting out her chopping knife, its blade glinting red in the light of the fire as it pointed towards Louisa’s face. ‘You know the rules as well as me. No more of this dirty, grubby talk . . . not when we’ve got Miss Pearl around. Mrs Hibbert doesn’t like it.’
    ‘Just saying . . . what I’ve heard from the horse’s mouth.’
    ‘From Madam?’ Cook enquired, less certain now, every tendon strained in her scrawny jaw.
    ‘No . . . you noodle, Mr Mary Ann . . . the queen who
really
rules this house.’
    ‘Tip Thomas, that posturing mandrake! She should flog him . . . and you as well!’
    ‘Well, that could be Madame H’s forte. The Cheyne WalkMistress of Flagellation, though what a queer breed of man it is who likes the flick of the governess’s stick. Oh well,’ Louisa gave her lazy smile, ‘there’s one thing I’ve learned . . . it takes all sorts.’
    ‘It certainly does. And
your
sort should learn to shut her mouth or else get it filled with a knuckle pie and . . .’
    I didn’t linger to hear any more, and really that was just as well because Mrs Hibbert was up in my room, already waiting to dress my hair. But Louisa’s words, that mention of Tip, still rang in my mind when, an hour or so later, I stood below the mermaid walls, where a table was littered with all that remained of Cook’s spiced beef, and béchamel fowl, and lobster salads, and turkey poulets, and the air was wreathed in the serpents of lust puffed out from the mouths that sucked cigars – through which fug I trembled as I walked, my crown of silk flowers and silver shells tinkling like fairy bells. I took a deep breath to steady myself when I read from the big leather Book of Events – which Mrs Hibbert placed in my hands, always opened at the appropriate page –
That night of my birth, of my finding, many wonders and marvels were seen
. . .
    In truth, I know every word by heart, so often have I spoken them since Mrs Hibbert first taught me to read when I was only four years old, when, if I ever grew tired or distracted, and especially if I lifted my hands and tried to raise the hems of her veils to see what face might be concealed, she would tap at my hand and reprimand, ‘Curiosity killed the cat! Get on with your studies and always remember this, ma chère. To be pretty is never enough. We must strive to be extraordinaire! Only then can we hope to escape our fate.’
    Well, whatever my fate might happen to be, tonight I was not extraordinaire. I stumbled too often over the words. All the time I was fretting and wondering,
Why do these men come to look at me . . . to hear the story of my birth? Can it be true, what Louisa says?
    I began to feel faint and very hot, and then Mrs Hibbert wasat my side, leading me out, into the hall and up through the warren of service stairs until I was back in my crow’s-nest room.
    I like my room. I feel safe up here. The walls are a trellis of rosebuds. I have a purple velvet chair in which I can sit to read or sew. I have a desk and shelves of books, and my closet spills over with lace and silks, with cashmere and mousseline de laine. My bed is something fit for a queen, being made of brass and very ornate, and that is where I obediently lay while Mrs Hibbert said her goodnight, setting my crown back on its hook before stroking my forehead and kissing my cheek, a caress always married with the scent of aniseed, or cloves or mint, and the smell of the gentlemen’s cigars, and something less pleasant – I don’t know what – infused in the brush of those chiffon veils. She gives me a spoonful of ‘Murgatroyde’s Mixture’. A sweet and syrupy tincture it is. She calls it
Mother’s Blessing. Something to help our Pearl sleep tight, undisturbed by the house’s ‘goings on
’.
    But these days it seems to have little effect, even though I strive to make the pretence, whispering my sleepy goodnight, yawning and fluttering my eyes – and the moment Mrs Hibbert has gone I reach