Free Ace, King, Knave by Maria McCann

law.’
    ‘I’m glad to hear it.’
    ‘But surely you could employ an agent? It must give a bad impression, if you appear unable to afford one.’
    ‘Have you ever dunned for debt?’
    ‘No, but ―’
    ‘In that case, you’ll oblige me by not meddling.’
    Sophia bites back an angry reply. It strikes her that Edmund is looking seedy. There are mauve shadows beneath his eyes and even a suspicion of beard on his cheeks.
    ‘You seem a little unwell,’ she ventures.
    ‘True, I’m not plump currant.’
    ‘Plump currant’ is one of his inelegant expressions. With her husband’s permission, Sophia often corrects these; it is a lady’s prerogative and duty to soften down a husband’s bearishness and polish his manners but at present she is not in a polishing mood.
    ‘I hope you’re not sickening for something, Edmund.’
    ‘It’s only lack of sleep. Killerton invited me to a game.’ But you cannot play, thinks Sophia. You came to bed very late. And you stank of tobacco and brandy, so it’s small wonder you’re not . . . plump currant. ‘We indulged somewhat unwisely, I confess. You may now spare me the sermon.’
    Has he lost money? Is that what has brought on this ill temper? She cannot ask him and instead attempts a joke: ‘Some wives might have suspected you with a lady.’
    He studies her and grins. ‘You mean you did suspect me. After what you put me through, can you honestly think I’d have strength in reserve for another woman?’
    Sophia feels the shock through every fibre of her frame.
    ‘You’re speaking to your wife , Edmund. Do you imagine I’m accustomed to comparing men or calculating their . . . abilities?’
    For an instant she glimpses the cold expression that has frightened her in the past, but when he speaks it is with amusement. ‘It was but a rally, my dear. The wife’s part is to laugh and let the poor fool fancy himself a wit.’ He takes her hand. ‘Come, shall we talk like practical people? Your easiest way to discourage these prowling wolves is to reinstate Titus. Never mind his English. What matters is that you are seen to be accompanied.’
    ‘Perhaps,’ she murmurs, reluctant to give way. Edmund smiles: what a smile! One would think she had just righted every wrong he had ever undergone. Emboldened, Sophia continues: ‘And you, Edmund? You won’t continue with business every day that we’re here?’
    ‘I expect to bring matters to a prompt conclusion. Does that content you?’
    ‘Yes, if you will walk out with me afterwards,’ she says humbly. She rings the bell for the maid to take away the tea things.
    ‘Mind you tell her about that damn chimney,’ says Edmund, rising and leaving the room.
    The maid is slow in arriving. Sophia sits drumming her fingers, then leaps up, seizes the Bath Chronicle from the table and holds it in front of the flames to encourage them upwards. Smoke at last begins to flow up the chimney instead of out into the room, but no sooner has the fire started to draw in earnest than the paper ‘catches’ and she is forced to let it go.

12
    As the weather grows colder, Sam Shiner comes home more and more drunk. Betsy-Ann knows how that song goes: lying about in Harry’s lodging with the rest of the crew, soaking up nantz. Not that she grudges him a drop or two; even Harry can’t do it without. Once they’re past caring it’s off to the crib, dig up the merchandise, cart it to where it’s needed. Harry insists on payment in darby, no promises or notes of hand, they’re fly to all that, and then with each man’s share burning holes in his pocket it’s lush, lush, lush, anything to forget. Sam’s rarely in a condition to fetch himself home. Betsy-Ann goes to sleep without him, but she keeps a candle burning, just in case, and gets up if she hears his key. As she helps him peel off that terrible coat of his, she’s hit by the nantz. He sucks on that bloody nantz like a kid on a titty: it’s on his breath, it’s the glaze over his