Mr Crease concocted a potion. He tilted my head back and applied droplets to my eyes, and gradually the colour returned to my pupils.
‘Please, sir,’ I said to him, ‘take this curse from me. I don’t want it. Please, I beg of you, for I believe you have the power to do it.’
‘I don’t, Tully.’
‘But these gifts, as you call them, are beyond my control. What if something of this nature should happen when I’m with Avery? He would think me a witch.’
‘I told you long ago that you were no hen-hearted girl. Don’t become one now.’
‘What can I do?’ I said. ‘It’s a curse, not a gift. It belongs to the devil.’ Tears irritated my eyes and I gave way to them.
‘I have been endeavouring,’ said Mr Crease, ‘to teach you how and when to use your second sight. But half the time your mind is elsewhere.
Perhaps, Tully, if you took a little more instruction you would find yourself better prepared for these events. Instead of them ruling you, you might have the wit to be their mistress.’
There was no sentimentality to Mr Crease, no softness in his approach.
I tried to recover myself.
‘What do you intend to do?’ he said. ‘Hide your talents away for the rest of your life, pretend you’re like everyone else? That way, madam, lies Bedlam.’
I took a deep breath. ‘My husband,’ I said, recalling all I had seen, ‘sat with his legs stretched out and his hands stuffed in the pockets of his breeches. A violent-tempered, cruel man. Mr Quibble did most of the talking until the captain fell into a rage.’
‘That is exactly right. Spiggot said that he spoke to you before the service, that he told you, “Marriage is murder.”’
I nodded. ‘I will never be persuaded to go anywhere near him. Can I be unmarried?’ I asked.
‘With difficulty. Your salvation lies in the power that has been given to you.’
‘Salvation from what? From being the captain’s wife? From being a whore?’
‘I have no opinion on the profession. There is joy to be found in our sexual nature and all its manifestations. I have no argument with my conscience, no God to find me wanting. That is the prerogative of mankind – to be cursed with an unforgiving creator.’
He left me and I sat for the rest of the afternoon without moving, my mind oppressed by my thoughts.
Queenie had wanted me to look striking that night and I had a new gown for the occasion. By the time my maid and Signor Florentini had finished with me, it was time to leave. Queenie came to inspect to me.
‘You are a credit to my house, Tully,’ she said. ‘Every eye in the theatre will be not on the players, but on you.’
‘Miss Tully,’ said Signor Florentini in his extraordinary, high-pitched voice, ‘do you not want to see what you look like?’
‘No,’ I said. I couldn’t think about my appearance. Suddenly, I had become aware of the clock ticking away precious hours and, in a matter of days, Avery would be gone. What then? The thought of taking another lover was abhorrent to me. ‘Queenie, what will happen when Avery leaves London?’ I asked.
‘I will find you another gentleman.’
‘And if I don’t want one?’
‘Then, my dear,’ she said, and her voice hardened, ‘there is always your husband, who seems eager to claim you. I need good whores, Tully, not reluctant girls. Now, smile, be enchanting – remember, you represent the fairy house.’
A carriage was waiting outside. Ned Bird, dressed in good clothes, opened the door and helped me in. His instructions were that he was not to leave me. Only when the horse set off did I feel a modicum of the childish thrill that a new adventure brings. I told myself not to think about Avery’s departure, but to concentrate on the moment. If I wanted a reminder of the fate of girls who were not under the roof of a good madam then I only had to glance out of the carriage window. Covent Garden ladies were awake for business, brightly coloured fishes swimming alongside sharks.
The play, for the play was the thing, was a production of Liars and Lovers, which I now see was very apt. Avery greeted me with a bow. He was somewhat surprised to see Ned Bird.
‘Do you need a bodyguard, Tully?’ he asked, lifting my hand to his lips. ‘I promise I won’t kidnap you.’
‘I don’t think I’d mind if you did, sir,’ I said.
‘What is he protecting you from?’
‘Myself.’
He looked so handsome with his clothes on. He wore a dark velvet coat with embroidery on the front, a duck-egg blue waistcoat, and a white stock at his neck. I felt proud to be with him. I knew we made a striking couple by the glances that came our way. My gown was far from being brassy and was more tasteful than many others. Some ladies wore their wigs high and their faces white, but when they smiled their teeth were yellow.
Avery bowed to the many acquaintances who greeted him but never stopped long enough for the inconvenience of introductions. He took me to a box that overlooked the auditorium and seemed designed not so much for one to see the play, but more to see the boxes opposite. Each box gave a miniature performance of its own; the fashionable gentlemen perched and pecked like cockerels, the ladies, painted parrots, fluffed out their feathers in mannered responses. Avery took my hand, squeezed it, and asked if I was comfortable.
‘You look pale,’ he whispered, his lips brushing my neck.
‘I’ve never been to the theatre before,’ I told him.
‘You have already conquered it for you outshine all the fashionable ladies here. Tomorrow they will, no doubt, have their hairdressers copy your style.’
I laughed and, having improved the use of my fan, hid my blushes behind it. Avery sat close by me, his arm resting on the back of my chair. When the play started the lights stayed as bright in the auditorium as they were on stage – in fact, the whole place was so ablaze with candlelight that it was an invitation for the audience to continue talking. The actors were left to battle over the noise of London gossip.
I had been following the performance on stage so it was only at the interval that I realised, to my alarm, that we were being scrutinised by the ladies and gentlemen in the boxes opposite. At that moment, the door to ours burst open without so much as a knock and in came an incoherent drunk. His face was badly scarred by smallpox, his manners were appalling, and the only thing that could be said in his favour was he was exceedingly well dressed.
‘So, this is your betrothed, what?’ he said to Avery.
Avery’s sweet expression changed to one of anger. ‘Frederick,’ said Avery.
Frederick helped himself to a glass of wine.
‘Rather beautiful, by gad. I suppose she doesn’t understand a word of English. I thought she was too grand to come over here and visit us rosbif.’
He laughed at his own joke and, having finished one glass of wine, helped himself to another. ‘’Ave you solved the leetle problem with your forthcoming nuptials?’ he said, enunciating each word with an affected French accent.
Nuptials? I felt as if all the breath had been knocked out of me.
‘The only way to make these frogs understand is to speak slowly,’ continued his lordship.
‘You’re drunk, Frederick,’ said Avery. Everything in him had tightened.
‘I’ll be as drunk as I want. I don’t much care for sobriety, brother. Introduce us.’
The audience had become quieter and I suspected that we were the object of their interest.
‘Frederick, may I introduce Miss Tully Truegood. Tully, my half-brother, Lord Frederick Fitzjohn.’
Lord Fitzjohn bowed unsteadily and would have fallen had the footman not caught him in time. ‘Truegood? Not French then?’
I could see that Avery was on the point of losing his temper and I quickly said, ‘Do you enjoy the theatre, Lord Fitzjohn?’
‘Can’t stand it,’ he said. ‘Makes me legs itch. The only good thing about it is you see who’s here and if there’s any new blood worth a mention. This season the place is full of horse-faced women. Have you noticed? You’re the only beauty in the place, by gad, but, I’ll wager you’re not the bride-to-be.’
The door to our box opened again. I had never imagined that I would be so pleased to see Sir Henry Slater.
‘Fitzjohn,’ said Sir Henry to Lord Fitzjohn. ‘I have been looking for you.’ He took his lordship’s arm. ‘Come now.’
Lord Fitzjohn pulled his arm away. ‘Slater, see what I’ve found: my brother being a naughty boy. Avery, what would the countess’s family say if they knew you were entertaining this gorgeous jade? What whorehouse are you from, you delicious creature?’
I was caught completely off guard. ‘From Queenie Gibbs’ fairy house, sir.’
‘Are you, by gad. Well, brother, when you’ve tired of the trollop…’
This time, it was Ned Bird who came to the rescue and did what Sir Henry had so remarkably failed to do. Lord Frederick Fitzjohn was politely and firmly removed from the box, but the evening was ruined. I felt certain the whole audience had heard our conversation and now knew exactly who I was: a harlot from the whorehouse.