Sarah Waters - Fingersmith

the letter, at the S, and the u— 'You open it,' I said. Dainty licked her lips, then took it, slowly turned it, and slowly broke the seal. The room was so quiet, I think I heard the tumbling of the slivers of wax from the paper to the floor. She unfolded the page; then frowned. 'Just words,' she said.

I went to her side. I saw lines of ink— close, small, baffling. The harder I gazed, the more baffling they grew. And though I had got so nervous and afraid— so sure that the letter was meant for me, yet held the key to some awful, secret thing I should far rather never know— still, to have it open before me, not being able to understand what it said, was worse than anything.

'Come on,' I said to Dainty. I got her her bonnet, and found mine. 'Come out to the street, and we'll find someone to read it for us.'

We went the back way. I would not ask anyone I knew— anyone who had cursed me. I wanted a stranger. So we went north— went fast, towards the breweries up by the river.

There was a man there on a corner. He had a tray on a string about his neck, full of nutmeg- gr a t e r s a n d t h i m b l e s . B u t h e w o r e e y e - glasses and had— I d o n ' t k n o w what— an intelligent look.

I said,'He'll do.'

He saw us coming and gave us a nod. 'Want a grater, girls?'

I shook my head. 'Listen here,' I said— or tried to say, for the walk and my own feeling and fear had taken the breath quite from me. I put my hand to my heart. 'Do you read?' I asked him at last.

He said, 'Read?'

'Letters, in ladies' hands? Not books, I mean.'

Then he saw the paper I held, pushed the glasses further up his nose, and tilted his head.

-anyone went

'To be opened,' he read, 'on the eighteenth birthday— ' I shook right through when I heard that. He did not notice. Instead, he straightened his head, and sniffed. 'Not in my line,' he said. 'Not worth my while to stand here and read out letters. That ain't a- going to make the thimbles fly, is it. . .?'

Some people will charge you for taking a punch. I put my shaking hand in my pocket and brought out all it held. Dainty did the same.

'Sevenpence,' I said, when I had put the coins together. He turned them over. 'Are they good?' 'Good enough,' I said.

He sniffed again. All right.' He took them, and hid them. Then he unhooked his glasses from about his ears, and gave them a rub. 'Now then, let's see,' he said. 'You hold it up, though. Looks legal, this does. I been stung by the law, before. I might not want it to come out later, as how I touched it. . .' He put his glasses back on, and got ready to read.

All the words that are there,' I said, as he did. 'Every one. Do you hear?'

He nodded, and began. 'To be opened on the eighteenth birthday of my daughter, Susan Lilly— '

I put the paper down. 'Susan Trinder,' I said. 'Susan Trinder, you mean. You are reading it wrong.'

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'Susan Lilly, it says,' he answered. 'Hold it up, now, and turn it.' 'What's the point,' I said, 'if you ain't going to read what's there . . .?'

But my voice had got thin. There seemed to have come, about my heart, a snake: it was coiling, tight.

'Come on,' he said. His look had changed. 'This is interesting, this is. What is it? A will, is it, or a testament? The last statement— there you are— of Marianne Lilly, made at Lant Street, Southwark, on this day 18th of September 1844, in the presence of Mrs Grace Sucksby, of— ' He stopped. His face had changed again. 'Grace Sucksby?' he said, in a shocked sort of voice. 'What, the murderess? This is stiff stuff, ain't it?'

I did not answer. He looked again at the paper— at the stains.

Perhaps he had supposed them ink, before, or paint. Now he said, 'I don't know as I should ..." Then he must have seen my face. 'All right, all right,' he said. 'Let's see.

What's here?' He drew it closer. 7, Marianne Lilly, of— what is it? Bear House? Briar House?— of Briar House, Buckinghamshire— /, Marianne Lilly, being sound in mind though feeble in body, hereby commit my own infant daughter SUSAN— Now, will you shake it about? That's better— hereby commit— hmm, hmm— to the guardianship of Mrs Grace Sucksby; and desire that she be raised by her in ignorance of her true birth. Which birth is to be made known to her on the day of her eighteenth birthday, 3rd August 1862; on which day I do also desire that there be made over to her one half of my private fortune.

'In exchange for which, Grace Sucksby commits into my care her own dear daughter MAUD— B l e s s m e , i f y ou ain't doing it again! Hold it nice, can't you?— dear daughter MAUD, and does desire that she be raised similarly ignorant of her name and birth, until the aforementioned date; on which date it is my desire that there be made over to her the remainder of my fortune.

'This paper to be a true and legally binding statement of my wishes; a contract between myself and Grace Sucksby, in defiance of my father and brother; which is to be recognised in Law.

'Susan Lilly to know nothing of her unhappy mother, but that she strove to keep her from care.

'Maud Sucksby to be raised a gentlewoman; and to know that her mother loved her, more than her own life.— Well!' He straightened up. 'Now tell me that wasn't worth sevenpence. Papers get hold of it, mind, I should say it w o u l d b e w o r t h a l o t more.— Why, how queer you look! Ain't going to faint, are you?'

I had swayed and clutched at his tray. His graters went sliding. 'Now take care, do!' he said, in a peevish way. 'Here's all my stock, look, going to tumble and get mashed— '

Dainty came and caught me. 'I am sorry,' I said. 'I am sorry.'

All right?' he said, as he put the graters straight.

'Yes.'

'Come as a shock, has it?'

I shook my head— or perhaps I nodded, I don't remember— and

gripped the letter, and stumbled from him. 'Dainty,' I said. 'Dainty— '

She sat me down, against a wall. 'What is it?' she said. 'Oh, Sue, what did it mean?'

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The man still looked. 'I should get her water,' he called.

But I didn't want water, and I wouldn't let Dainty go. I clutched her to me and put my face against her sleeve. I began to shake. I began to shake as a rusted lock must shake, when the tumblers lift against their groaning springs, and the bolt is forced loose and flies. 'My mother— ' I said. I could not finish. It was too much to say— too much, even, to know! My mother, Maud's mother! I could not believe it. I thought of the picture of the handsome lady I had seen in the box at Briar. I thought of the grave that Maud had used to rub and trim. I thought of Maud, and Mrs Sucksby; and then, of Gentleman. Oh, now I see it! he had said. Now I saw it, too. Now I knew what Mrs Sucksby had longed but been afraid to tell me, at the gaol. If you should hear hard things of me— Why had she kept the secret so long? Why had she lied about my mother? My mother was not a murderess, she was a lady. She was a lady with a fortune, that she meant to be split . . .

// you should hear hard things of me, think back—

I thought, and thought; and began to grow sick. I put the letter before my face and groaned. The thimble man still stood a little way off, and watched me; soon other people gathered and stood watching, too. 'Drunk, is she?' I heard someone say. And,

'Got the horrors?' 'Fallen in a fit, has she? Her pal should put a spoon in her mouth, she'll swallow her tongue.' I could not bear the sound of their voices, the feel of their eyes. I reached for Dainty and got to my feet; she put her arm about me and helped me stagger home. She gave me brandy to drink. She sat me at the table. Mrs Sucksby's dress still lay upon it: I took it up and held it in my two fists, and hid my face in its folds; then I gave a cry like a beast, and cast it to the floor. I spread out the letter, and looked again at the lines of ink. SUSAN LILLY ... I groaned again. Then I got to my feet and began to walk.