A Dangerous Fortune(31)
Maisie knew she was right, but her soul revolted against it, She was not sure why. It was partly because she was not attracted to Solly. Paradoxically, another reason was that he was so nice. She could not bring herself to manipulate him heartlessly. But worst of all, she felt she would be giving up all hope of real love—a real marriage with a man she really burned for. On the other hand, she had to live somehow, and she was determined not to live like her parents, waiting all week for a pittance on payday and forever at risk of unemployment because of some financial crisis hundreds of miles away.
April said: “What about one of the others? You could have had your pick of them.”
“I liked Hugh, but I offended him.”
“He’s got no money, anyway.”
“Edward’s a pig, Micky frightens me, and Tonio is yours.”
“Solly’s your man, then.”
“I don’t know.”
“I do. If you let him slip through your fingers, you’ll spend the rest of your life walking down Piccadilly and thinking ‘I could be living in that house now.’”
“Yes, I probably will.”
“And if not Solly, who? You could end up with a nasty little middle-aged grocer who keeps you short of money and expects you to launder your own sheets.”
Maisie brooded on that prospect as they came to the western end of Piccadilly and turned north into Mayfair. She probably could make Solly marry her if she put her mind to it. And she would be able to play the part of a grand lady without too much difficulty. Speech was half the battle and she had always been a good mimic. But the thought of trapping kind Solly into a loveless marriage sickened her.
Cutting through a mews, they passed a big livery stable. Maisie felt nostalgic for the circus, and stopped to pet a tall chestnut stallion. The horse immediately nuzzled her hand. A man’s voice said: “Redboy don’t generally allow strangers to touch him.”
Maisie turned around to see a middle-aged man in a black morning coat with a yellow waistcoat. His formal clothes clashed with his weatherbeaten face and uneducated speech, and she guessed he was a former stablehand who had started his own business and done well. She smiled and said: “He’s doesn’t mind me, do you, Redboy?”
“I don’t suppose you could ride him, now, could you?”
“Ride him? Yes, I could ride him, without a saddle, and stand upright on his back, too. Is he yours?”
The man made a small bow and said: “George Sammles, at your service, ladies; proprietor, as it says there.” He pointed to where his name was painted over the door.
Maisie said: “I shouldn’t boast, Mr. Sammles, but I’ve spent the last four years in a circus, so I can probably ride anything you have in your stables.”
“Is that a fact?” he said thoughtfully. “Well, well.”
April put in: “What’s on your mind, Mr. Sammles?”
He hesitated. “This may seem a mite sudden, but I was asking myself whether this lady might be interested in a business proposition.”
Maisie wondered what was coming next. Until this moment she had thought the conversation was no more than idle banter. “Go on.”
April said suggestively: “We’re always interested in business propositions.” But Maisie had a feeling Sammles was not after what April had in mind.
“You see, Redboy’s for sale,” the man began. “But you don’t sell horses by keeping them indoors. Whereas, if you was to ride him around the park for an hour or so, a lady such as yourself, looking, if I may be so bold, as pretty as a pitcher, you’d attract a deal of attention, and chances are that sooner or later someone would ask you how much you wanted for the horse.”
Was there money in this, Maisie wondered? Did it offer her a way of paying the rent without selling her body or her soul? But she did not ask the question that was on her mind. Instead she said: “And then I’d tell the person: ‘Away and see Mr. Sammles in the Curzon Mews, for the nag’s his.’ Is that what you mean?”
“Exackly so, except that, rather than call Redboy a nag, you might term him ‘this magnificent creature,’ or ‘this fine specimen of horseflesh,’ or such.”
“Maybe,” said Maisie, thinking to herself that she would use her own words, not Sammles’s. “Now then, to business.” She could no longer pretend to be casual about the money. “How much would you pay?”
“What do you think it’s worth?”
Maisie picked a ridiculous sum. “A pound a day.”
“Too much,” he said promptly. “I’ll give you half that.”
She could hardly believe her luck. Ten shillings a day was an enormous wage: girls of her age who worked as housemaids were lucky to get a shilling a day. Her heart beat faster. “Done,” she said quickly, afraid he might change his mind. “When do I start?”
“Come tomorrow at half-past ten.”
“I’ll be here.”
They shook hands and the girls moved off. Sammles called after her: “Mind you wear the dress you’ve got on today—it’s fetching.”
“Have no fear,” Maisie said. It was the only one she had. But she did not tell Sammles that.
3
TRAFFIC IN THE PARK
TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES