Free Ace, King, Knave by Maria McCann Page B

armpit.
    ‘Don’t,’ Keshlie said.
    ‘I want to know was it the wolf.’
    ‘You’re nasty.’
    Cold spread from Mam’s skin into her hands. Shaking, Betsy-Ann pulled the shift down again to cover everything. What did it matter, after all? Mam was just as dead. She took Keshlie by the hand and set out to walk to Harry’s lodging.
     
    ‘I’d a share in the horse and cart,’ Harry said, standing in the doorway. Betsy-Ann tried to see round him but he shifted to block her view.
    ‘There’s nothing left, Harry! We paid two months in advance, I told you.’
    ‘I know what you told me.’
    Betsy-Ann wondered if he had a woman hidden in his rooms. She said, ‘We was done brown, first on the horse and then on the rent.’
    ‘More fool you.’
    ‘And Mam, what can we do with her? You have to help, she’s your mam same as ours.’
    ‘Never mind her. She’s not eating anything. Your business is how you’re going to feed.’
    ‘I don’t know,’ Betsy-Ann said. ‘How will we?’
    Harry rolled his eyes as if he couldn’t believe she needed telling. ‘Strapping wench like you, Betsy, and new in town? Sovereign a time.’
    ‘Gold!’ Keshlie breathed.
    Betsy-Ann pictured her sister, whose frail limbs and pale, heart-shaped face made her seem younger than her twelve years, standing in line with the whores. The ones in Harry’s street looked ready to do it for a shilling.
    ‘No, no,’ she said to Keshlie. ‘It’s very bad work.’
    Harry sniffed. ‘Wish I could make my way as easy. If you don’t like it, go and dig turnips.’
    ‘Wait,’ Betsy-Ann pleaded. ‘I was thinking. I can be your second, can’t I? John Mucklow’s sister does for him in the ring, I’ll do the same.’
    ‘I don’t want any second. I’m sick of pugilism. Finished with it.’
    She stared at him. ‘How are you living, then?’
    He began to close the door on them. Betsy-Ann flung her weight against the boards, wailing, ‘What about Mam? I don’t know anybody,’ but she was no match for Harry. She heard him drive home the bolt on the other side.
     
    Some friends of his came, when it was dark, and loaded the corpse onto a cart. Keshlie lay face down on the bed, refusing to speak, as Mam was wheeled away.
     
    The night was terrible. Betsy-Ann dreamed she was buried alive, yet at the same time floating in the air, watching from above: she saw Keshlie and Harry stamping down the earth over her. She woke sweating and whimpering with relief, until she remembered they had lost Mam.
    ‘Get up,’ she said to Keshlie as soon as it was light. ‘Let me comb your hair.’
    They put on their best duds, ancient and flittered by the standards of the women prowling the pavements, and went to a street of respectable-looking houses. To face after face she told the story of coming to Romeville and of her mother dying, leaving them to earn their keep.
    Again Betsy sees the servants turning them away, the ones who did it kindly (one woman pressed a coin into her hand) and the ones who tossed their heads and said things like, ‘That’s my eye, Betty Martin!’ before clapping the door to.
    They came to a house where a pretty young maid opened to them. She looked at each and said yes, her mistress might care to take them on: would they wait?
    The maid went inside to enquire. Betsy-Ann winked at Keshlie, who looked as if she might cry. In a few minutes they were taken to a room where a lady, very genteelly dressed, was standing before a fire and gazing down her nose as if she suffered from melancholy. Betsy-Ann never discovered who this lady was; she never saw her again. The lady said she had no need of more servants, but it so happened she had a visitor in the house who might be able to use them. She sent the maid out and in a short time the visitor came into the room. Betsy-Ann could have cried out at the sight of her: she was clad in soft white stuff as if her robe had been cut from a cloud, with sparkling little stars embroidered on it. Pearls