Captain Jones rubs the back of his neck. ‘I did not think of that.’
Exasperation fizzes. ‘Tysoe, Tysoe! A year and a half you have had to think on it! You abandon these knotty points to me, as you always have.’ The tap of Sukie biting her nail recalls to him that she and the maid still linger. Mr Hancock does not mind discussing business in front of Bridget, who has neither the reason nor the interest to note it, but as for Sukie … ‘Out, girls,’ he says, setting the mermaid down gently on the desk.
‘But may we not—’
‘This is talk for men. You’ve your own duties to see to, have you not? Go, go.’ He ushers them out protesting anon; after bolting the door he turns back to Captain Jones. ‘Why would you think this a cargo I would be glad to receive? I have no expertise—’
‘What expertise?’ Captain Jones says sharply. ‘There is no expert in the world on this topic. It is a genuine mermaid, it’ll want no extra work on your behalf. Only a fool could lose money on a mermaid.’ He rakes his fingers through his hair. ‘Only a fool could be angry to get one!’
‘But what am I to do with it?’
‘Why, exhibit it!’
‘I am not a showman,’ says Mr Hancock primly. ‘I shall notify the Royal Society. This must be an important development for science, and I am not a scientific man either.’
Captain Jones waves his hand in disgust. ‘And then how will you recoup your costs? Listen, ’tis common sense. Find a coffee-house, charge a shilling per view, and say three hundred view it in a day – I am being conservative – why that is ninety pounds in a week.’ Seeing Mr Hancock shake his head, he hastens on. ‘You might tour the country with it. Take it to fairs. The provinces’ appetite for such things has never been quenched.’
‘Ninety a week, though?’ wonders Mr Hancock. He rents out each of the houses on Hancock Row – his modest empire of six dwellings on Butt Lane – for thirty-five shillings a month and thinks himself rich.
‘Four thousand a year. Again, I am being conservative.’
This figure takes his breath away. That such an insignificant thing might hold such riches. ‘And ’tis mine?’ he croaks. He looks at the mermaid where it lies, tiny and frail; reaches to pick it up; mistrusts his hands and retreats once more.
‘’Tis yours. Not your partners’, not your investors’. Only yours.’ He has nobody to consult with. His partner, Greaves, with whom he shares offices and sometimes ventures, has taken the Lorenzo to what now designs itself the United States. There is old business to salvage there, new opportunities to seize, but Mr Hancock himself has no stomach for the America trade. Since the war such defection feels personal, and painful, and so his business with Greaves diverges evermore. Even if he were here, what could his advice be?
Hester, then. What will she say to his acquiring such a freak? ‘The Hancocks have never run a circus,’ her voice intrudes as if she were there at her elbow. ‘We are reputable merchants of the finest wares; we do not deal in novelties. You will make us a laughing-stock.’ Mr Hancock stares at it.
‘What did you spend on the damn thing?’ he asks at length.
‘Twelve hundred. Now, now, do not look so – it was cheap at the price.’
‘And you sold the ship for …?’
‘Six thousand.’ To his credit Captain Jones betrays some fear. ‘I had no choice! As God is my witness, you would have approved had you been there.’
Mr Hancock feels numbed, as if ice-water filled his veins. ‘The Calliope was worth eight thousand,’ he says softly, ‘with her new mainmast.’
The captain hangs his head. ‘I know it. She was a fine girl; I was sorry to part with her.’
Mr Hancock puts his hand to his face. ‘So why did you?’
The captain takes a bill from his breast pocket and smooths it out carefully, holding it up to the light, his eyes conciliatory. ‘There’s a strongbox for you with four thousand eight hundred in’t, all accounted for after I paid off the crew. I am an honest man.’ He raises a hand to halt Mr Hancock’s indrawn breath, and continues with insistent cheer, ‘That will reimburse all your partners’ investments on this voyage. You’ll not lose face.’
‘But you have lost me two thousand, and another two thousand in goods as ought to have come back with you. And you have lost me my ship.’
‘Hancock, I swear. The mermaid … ’tis not a bag of magic beans, you know. There is real worth in this venture, if you will only take a chance on it.’
Mr Hancock sighs. ‘I do not like chance. I try to be a steady man.’
‘Well, ’tis out of your hands now.’ Mr Hancock could strike him, the man is so provoking in his optimism as he declares, ‘Providence has taken your ship, and given you a mermaid instead.’
‘You did that.’ He rises. ‘Time you took your leave, I think.’ He unbolts the door and passes ahead of his friend into the hall, where he finds the girls engaged in a level of industry unlike them even in broad daylight, and certainly at such an hour: Bridget dusts the banister with vigour and Sukie counts and re-counts the candles in their sconces.
‘Come, Hancock,’ Captain Jones pursues undeterred. ‘Why not try it? Just for some little time? Recoup the cost of the ship – recoup it double – and then sell the little wretch on. It won’t take no time.’
‘Will you stay to eat?’ pipes Sukie, making up for her earlier dumbness. ‘Or sleep here tonight? I can have a bed made up.’ The guest bed is always made up, as she well knows: it only wants for Bridget to sprinkle the stale sheets with lavender water.
‘No, thank you. I am anxious to return to my wife.’ Captain Jones’s smile is fond and sad. ‘I have not seen the smallest of my children since it was five weeks old, and now I hear he is a hearty little fellow, and can kick a ball, and count to eighteen. I shall push on to Woolwich tonight if it makes no odds to you.’ His hand is on the latch; he steps out into the night. ‘Now, Hancock, think about what I have said.’
Mr Hancock turns his face away. ‘Aye,’ he mumbles, ‘I’ll think on it.’
‘We must celebrate this!’ Jones grins confidingly. ‘I’ve a mind to show my face in London again. All through this voyage I was sustained by the memory of a happy few hours I spent at a bathhouse on Long Acre. Is not a bagnio the perfect place to celebrate a mermaid?’
‘Hush you, there are girls indoors.’
‘Goodnight, sir. Goodnight!’
Mr Hancock locks the door carefully. In the counting-house he finds Sukie and Bridget squashed into his great chair at the desk, resting their chins on their arms as they stare at the mermaid. Bridget is yawning mightily, but Sukie’s frown is alert.
‘Begone,’ he says. ‘You are about my feet too much. ’Tis time you were a-bed.’
‘What is a bagnio?’ asks Sukie, stretching her legs out before her.
‘A place where gentlemen go to get cupped.’ He shepherds them away from the desk. ‘And bled, and bathed – and suchlike. Healthful.’
‘I see.’ She is taking the snuffer to the candles while Bridget extinguishes those in the hall. He, nightlight in hand, bolts the shutters. ‘And the mermaid,’ she continues, ‘will it make our fortune?’
‘We do make our own fortunes.’
‘The sea-captain said a great deal of money.’
‘Well, what does it signify? You are just a little girl of this house; if you are keeping the bills in order and timely it is of no importance to you how much or little else there is in the pot.’
‘Mother says ’tis a dreadful discourtesy to keep women out of the accounts. For if they are to be ruined they’ve a right to know about it.’
‘Nobody is to be ruined,’ he grunts. ‘And you are to tell your mother nothing of this.’
‘It is all of our concern. My papa’s investment—’
‘His investment is safe; if it is not he may take it up with me himself. Now I’ll hear no more of it.’
She turns as she stands at the very last candle, half her face lit up and her hair floating in illuminated wisps. Her eyes flick to the dark desk where the mermaid’s crooked fingers are silhouetted. ‘And do we just leave it in here all night?’