Fingersmith by Sarah Waters Read Free Book Online Page B

lady’s linen should be pressed and folded; and that, I should say, took about another hour.
    Then Gentleman sent me upstairs, to put on the dress that Phil had got for me. It was a plain brown dress, more or less the colour of my hair; and the walls of our kitchen being also brown, when I came downstairs again I could hardly be seen. I should have rathered a blue gown, or a violet one; but Gentleman said it was the perfect dress for a sneak or for a servant—and so all the more perfect for me, who was going to Briar to be both.
    We laughed at that; and then, when I had walked about the room to grow used to the skirt (which was narrow), and to let Dainty see where the cut was too large and needed stitching, he had me stand and try a curtsey. This was harder than it sounds. Say what you like about the kind of life I was used to, it was a life without masters: I had never curtseyed before to anyone. Now Gentleman had me dipping up and down until I thought I should be sick. He said curtseying came as natural to ladies’ maids, as passing wind. He said if I would only get the trick, I should never forget it—and he was right about that, at least, for I can still dip a proper curtsey, even now.—Or could, if I cared to.
    Well. When we had finished with the curtseys he had me learn my story. Then, to test me, he made me stand before him and repeat my part, like a girl saying a catechism.
    ‘Now then,’ he said. ‘What is your name?’
    ‘Ain’t it Susan?’ I said.
    ‘Ain’t it Susan, what?’
    ‘Ain’t it Susan Trinder?’
    ‘Ain’t it Susan, sir. You must remember, I shan’t be Gentleman to you at Briar. I shall be Mr Richard Rivers. You must call me sir; and you must call Mr Lilly sir; and the lady you must call miss or Miss Lilly or Miss Maud, as she directs you. And we shall all call you Susan.’ He frowned. ‘But, not Susan Trinder. That may lead them back to Lant Street if things go wrong. We must find you a better second name—’
    ‘Valentine,’ I said, straight off. What can I tell you? I was only seventeen. I had a weakness for hearts. Gentleman heard me, and curled his lip.
    ‘Perfect,’ he said; ‘—if we were about to put you on the stage.’
    ‘I know real girls named Valentine!’ I said.
    ‘That’s true,’ said Dainty. ‘Floy Valentine, and her two sisters. Lord, I hates those girls though. You don’t want to be named for them, Sue.’
    I bit my finger. ‘Maybe not.’
    ‘Certainly not,’ said Gentleman. ‘A fanciful name might ruin us. This is a life-and-death business. We need a name that will hide you, not bring you to everyone’s notice. We need a name’—he thought it over—‘an untraceable name, yet one we shall remember . . . Brown? To match your dress? Or—yes, why not? Let’s make it, Smith. Susan Smith.’ He smiled. ‘You are to be a sort of smith, after all. This sort, I mean.’
    He let his hand drop, and turned it, and crooked his middle finger; and the sign, and the word he meant— fingersmith —being Borough code for thief, we laughed again.
    At last he coughed, and wiped his eyes. ‘Dear me, what fun,’ he said. ‘Now, where had we got to? Ah, yes. Tell me again. What is your name?’
    I said it, with the sir after.
    ‘Very good. And what is your home?’
    ‘My home is at London, sir,’ I said. ‘My mother being dead, I live with my old aunty; which is the lady what used to be your nurse when you was a boy, sir.’
    He nodded. ‘Very good as to detail. Not so good, however, as to style. Come now: I know Mrs Sucksby raised you better than that. You’re not selling violets. Say it again.’
    I pulled a face; but then said, more carefully,
    ‘The lady that used to be your nurse when you were a boy, sir.’
    ‘Better, better. And what was your situation, before this?’
    ‘With a kind lady, sir, in Mayfair; who, being lately married and about to go to India, will have a native girl to dress her, and so won’t need me.’
    ‘Dear me. You are to